“THAT horse,” said George Rapp, slapping the colt on the flank, “is as
good a horse as you can get for the money in ten counties, and you
won't find anybody that will offer what I do in trade for your old one.
Nowhere.”
“You'd say that anyway, George Rapp,” said Mrs. Potter. “You ain't here
to run down what you want to sell. Seems to me the colt acts skittish.”
“What you said you wanted was a young horse,” said Rapp with a shrug. “I
don't know what you want. You want a young horse, and this is young, and
you don't want a skittish horse, and all young horses are more or less
that way.”
“What I want is a young, strong horse--” Mrs. Potter began.
“You've told me that a million times and two, and if you tell me it
again I'll know it by heart well enough to sing it,” said Rapp. “There
he stands, just like you say--a young, strong horse.”
“A skittish animal like this colt ain't fit for a woman to drive,” said
Mrs. Potter.
“And you ought to have a driver to drive him, as you said about ten
thousand times before,” said Rapp with good-natured tolerance, “but
Peter Lane ain't come up to town yet, if that's what you're working
round to.”
“Oh, get along with you!” said Mrs. Potter. “I got a hired man now.”
“Well, you meant Peter, didn't you? Why don't you come right out and say
so? But I guess you won't get Peter to drive this colt for a while yet.”
“He ain't sick?”
“No. Nor he ain't dead. But as near as I can make out Peter is goin' to
jail.”
Mrs. Potter turned sharply and George Rapp grinned. He could not help
it, she showed such consternation.
“Peter--in--jail?” she cried.
“Well, not yet,” said Rapp, chuckling at her amazement. “They 're
out hunting him now. The dogs of the law is on his trail. That feller
Briggles I told you of got his head broke by a tramp Peter took into my
boat, and he's real sore, both in head and feelings. Last night him and
a sort of posse went down to get the whole crowd, but Peter had skipped
out with the kid.”
“Good for Peter! Good for Peter!” exclaimed Mrs. Potter. “I never looked
for so much spunk. It was his boy as much as anybody's, wasn't it?”
“Looks so to me,” said Rapp, “but this here United States of Riverbank
County seems to think different. Maybe Peter ain't been washin' the
boy's face regular, three times a day. Anyhow, Briggles got a court
order for the boy and he's goin' to jug Peter.”
“You talk so much nonsense, I don't know what to believe,” complained
the widow.
“Anything I say is apt to be more or less nonsense, except when I'm
talkin' horse,” said Rapp, “but this ain't. Briggles and the dep'ty
sheriff is out now, swearin' to bring Peter in by the seat of his pants
or any way they can get him.”
“Well, if Peter Lane had a wife to look after him and tell him how-so
once in a while, he wouldn't get into trouble like this,” said Mrs.
Potter, with aggravation. “He's enough to drive a body crazy.”
George Rapp's eyes twinkled. “The next time I see Peter I'll
say, 'Peter, I been tryin' to sell a colt to Mrs. Potter since
Lord-knows-when, and she's holdin' off until she gets a husband to tend
the colt. I don't want to hurry you none,' I'll say to him, 'but when
you get done servin' them ten years in the pen'tentiary, just fix it up
for me. I'd like to sell this colt before he dies of old age.”
“You think you 're smart, George Rapp,” said Mrs. Potter, reddening,
“but when you talk like that, when I've heard Peter Lane say, a dozen
times, that you're the best friend he's got in the world, it's time
somebody took hold for him. I wouldn't buy a horse off you, not if it
was the only one in the world!”
George Rapp patted the colt on the neck and ran his hand down the sleek
shoulder.
“Now, Mrs. Potter,” he said, “you know better than that. I'm just as
much Peter's friend as anybody is. I'll bail him out if he gets in jail,
and I'll pay his fine, if there is one. But don't you worry. Peter
ain't a fool. By this time Peter and that boy is in Burlington. Peter's
safe--”
It seemed as if Rapp's cheerful prediction had been fulfilled, for, as
he spoke, horses' hoofs clattered on the plank incline that led into
the stable. Rapp led the colt out of the way as the two-horse rig,
containing the Reverend Rasmer Briggles and the deputy sheriff, reached
the main floor. It was evident they had not found Peter.
“Wild goose hunt this time, George,” said the deputy as he jumped from
the carriage.
“That so?” said Rapp, walking around the team. “Got the team pretty hot
for such cold weather, didn't you?”
“We drove like blazes,” said the deputy, “but I didn't get heated much.
Colder than th' dickens. H'ar you, Mrs. Potter? George robbin' you
again?”
Mr. Briggles was climbing from the carriage slowly. He was bundled in
a heavy ulster with a wide collar that turned up over his ears. He wore
ear-mufflers, and a scarf was tied over his cap and under his chin.
On his hands were thick, fur-lined mittens, and his trouser legs were
buckled into high arctics. Over his nose and across one cheek a strip
of adhesive plaster showed where Booge had “hit the old kazoozer and
scratched him on the nose,” as he had sung.
Mr. Briggles was not in a good temper. Under his arrangement with his
society this had been an unprofitable week, for he had not “rescued” a
single child (at twenty dollars per child). He slowly untied his scarf,
removed his ear-tabs and unbuttoned his ulster. He affected ministerial
garb under his outer roughness; it had a good effect on certain old
ladies as he sat in their parlors coaxing money from them (forty per
cent, commission on all collected), and his face had what George Rapp
called “that solemncholy sneaker” look. You expected him to put
his finger-tips together and look at the ceiling. There are but few
Briggleses left to prey on the gullibly charitable to-day, and thank
God for that. Their day is over. Most of them are in stock-selling games
now.
“We were on sheriff's business to-day, Brother Rapp,” said Briggles,
when he had opened his coat. “You can charge the rig to the county.”
“How about that, Joe?” Rapp asked the deputy.
“What's the diff.?” asked Joe carelessly. “The county can stand it.”
He had entered the office, where Rapp always kept his barrel-stove red
hot, and was kicking his toes against the foot-rail of the stove.
“Want the team again to-morrow?” asked Rapp.
“I want it to-morrow,” said Joe. “I got to go to Sweetland to put an
attachment on to a feller's hogs. I don't know what your friend Briggles
wants.”
“I want you to help me find this boy, Brother--” Briggles began, but the
deputy merely turned his back to the stove and looked at him over one
shoulder.
“Oh, shut up!” he said. “I ain't your brother.”
“What's the matter with you, Joe?” asked Rapp. “You act sore.”
“Sore nothin'! I'm sick at my stummik. You'd be if you had to drive a
pole-cat around the county all day.”
“Now, Brother Venby,” said Mr. Briggles pleadingly, “you misunderstood
me entirely. If you will let me explain--”
“You go and explain to your grandmother,” said Joe roughly. “You can't
explain to me. If I didn't have on my dep'ty sheriff badge, I'd come out
there and do some explainin' with a wagon spoke on my own account. Say,
George, did this feller get a rig from you once to take a young girl
that he brought down from Derlingport, to a 'good home'? Nice little
girl, wasn't she? Where d'you suppose he took her? Mrs. Crink's! Say,
come in here a minute.”
Rapp went into the office and Joe closed the door. A hostler led the
team to the rear of the stable, and Mr. Briggles, as if feeling a
protective influence in the presence of Mrs. Potter, moved nearer to
her. He pushed back his cap and wiped his forehead.
“In this charity work we meet the opposition of all rough characters,
Madame,” he began suavely, but she interrupted him.
“You 're the man that's pestering Peter Lane, ain't you?” she asked.
“Only within the law, only within the law!” said Mr. Briggles
soothingly. “I act only for the Society, and the Society keeps within
the law.”
“Law--fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Potter. “What's this nonsense about
putting Peter Lane in jail?”
“We fear we shall have to make an example of him,” said Mr. Briggles.
“The ungodly throw obstructions in our path, and we must combat them
when we can. This Lane has evaded a court order. We trust he will
receive a term in prison. We have faith that Judge Bennings will uphold
the right.”
“Huh! So that old rascal of a Bennings is the man that let you bother
Peter Lane, is he? Seems to me he's getting pretty free with his court
orders and nonsense! But I guess he ain't heard from me yet!”
She turned her back on Mr. Briggles and almost ran down the incline into
the street. Unluckily for Judge Bennings, he was almost too convenient
to Rapp's Livery, Feed and Sale Stable, living in an old brick mansion
that occupied the corner of the block but, luckily for him, he was not
at home. Mrs. Potter poured out her wrath on the German servant girl.
When Mrs. Potter had hastened away, Mr. Briggles hesitated. He could see
the deputy sheriff and George Rapp through the smoky glass of the
office door, and Joe was talking steadily, only stopping now and then to
expectorate, while Rapp's good-natured face was scowling. Mr. Briggles
buttoned his ulster. From the look on George Rapp's face he felt it
would be better to be out of the stable when Rapp came out of the
office. He turned. Peter Lane was staggering wearily up the incline into
the stable, his back bent with fatigue, and Buddy, sound asleep, in his
arms. Mr. Briggles watched the uncouth, blanket-draped pair advance, and
when Peter stood face to face with him, a smile of satisfaction twisted
his hard mouth. Peter looked into the fellow's shrewd eyes and drew a
long breath.
“Your name's Briggles, ain't it?” he asked listlessly. “Mine's Peter
Lane. This here's Buddy. I guess we got to the end of our string.”
Peter shifted the sleeping boy to his shoulder and touched the child's
freckled face softly.
“I wisht you would do what's possible to put him into a nice home,”
said Peter; “a home where he won't be treated harsh. I've got so used to
Buddy I feel almost like he was my own son, and I wouldn't like him to
be treated harsh. He's such a nice little feller--”
He stopped, for he could say no more just then. He lowered his arms
until Buddy's head slid softly from his shoulder to the crook of his
arm.
“Well,” he said, holding out the sleeping boy, “I guess you might as
well take him now as any time.”
Mr. Briggles reached forward to take the boy just as Mrs. Potter came
rushing up the stable incline, waving her hand wildly.
“Oh, _Smith!_” she called. “Peter _Smith!_ You 're just the man I been
looking for, _Smith!_”
Peter stared at her uncomprehendingly for one instant, and as he
understood her useless little strategy, his eyes softened.
“I'm just as much obliged to you, Mrs. Potter,” he said, “but I've
already told this man who I am. I guess I'll go now.”
He looked from one to the other helplessly and Mrs. Potter put out her
arms and took the sleeping boy.
“Peter, you're a perfect fool!” she said angrily.
“I guess I am,” said Peter. “Yes, I guess I am!”
He bent and kissed Buddy's warm cheek.
“I'd like to be somewheres else when he wakes up,” he explained and
turned away. He had started down the driveway when Mr. Briggles stepped
after him and laid a detaining hand on his arm.
“Wait!” said Mr. Briggles. “The sheriffs deputy is in the office here;
he has been looking for you.”
“Oh, that's all right!” said Peter. “You can tell Joe I've gone on up to
the jail,” and he drew his arm away and went on down to the street. Mrs.
Potter called after him.
“Peter Lane! Peter!” she called, but Peter had hurried away. Buddy
raised his head suddenly and looked up into Mrs. Potter's face.
“I know who you are,” he said fearlessly. “You 're Aunt Jane.”
“No, child,” said Mrs. Potter, “I ain't anybody's aunt. I'm just a
worthless old creature.”
“Where's Uncle Peter?” asked Buddy in his sudden way.
“Now, don't you worry,” said Mrs. Potter. “Uncle Peter has gone away.”
“I know,” said Buddy, now wide awake. “Uncle Peter told me. I want to
get down.” Mrs. Potter put him down and he stood leaning against
her knee, holding tightly to her skirt and eyeing Mr. Briggles
distrustfully, for his quick eyes recognized the “old kazoozer” Uncle
Booge had thrown off the boat, but before he could give utterance to
what was running through his small head, the office door opened and
George Rapp and the deputy came out. Rapp walked up to Mr. Briggles.
“All right,” he said roughly. “You've got the kid, I see, and I guess
that's all you want in my stable, so you pick him up and get out of
here, and don't you ever come here again. Do you understand that? If you
do, I'm going to show you how I treat skunks. Y' understand?”
Involuntarily Mr. Briggles put up his elbow as if to ward off a blow,
and Buddy clung the tighter to Mrs. Potter's skirt. The ex-minister
reached out his hand for the child, and Buddy turned and ran.
Mr. Briggles did not run after him. He stood staring at the child. “I
don't want that boy,” he said. “I don't want him. I couldn't do anything
with that boy. He's a cripple!”
Buddy, stopping at the head of the incline, gazed, wide-eyed from one to
the other.
Didn't anybody want a boy that was lame? “I got _one_ good foot,” he
said boastingly. And suddenly Mrs. Potter's strong, work-muscled arms
gathered Buddy up and held him close to her breast, so that one of the
sharp buttons of her coat made him shake his head and forget the angry
tears he had been ready to shed.
“I want him!” she cried, her eyes blazing. “I'll take him, you--you--”
No one knew what she would have called Mr. Briggles, for with an
unexpectedness that made Mr. Briggles's teeth snap together George Rapp
shut an iron hand on the back of his neck, and bumped a knee into Mr.
Briggles from behind so vigorously as to lift him off his feet. With the
terrible knee bumping him at every step, Mr. Briggles was rushed down
the incline with a haste that carried him entirely across the street and
left him gasping and trembling against a tool box alongside the railway
tracks. George Rapp returned wiping his hands in his coat skirts as if
he had just been handling a snake, or some other slimy creature.
“Now we got done with pleasure,” he said with a laugh, “we'll talk
business. Do you want that colt, or don't you, Mrs. Potter?”