walk and started furtively across the grounds. His conduct greatly
displeased The Hopper, as likely to interfere with the further carrying
out of Muriel's instructions. The Lang-Yao jar was much too large to go
into his pocket and not big enough to fit snugly under his arm, and as the
walk was slippery he was beset by the fear that he might fall and smash
this absurd thing that had caused so bitter an enmity between Shaver's
grandfathers. The soft snow on the lawn gave him a surer footing and he
crept after Wilton, who was carefully pursuing his way toward a house
whose gables were faintly limned against the sky. This, according to
Muriel's diagram, was the Talbot place. The Hopper greatly mistrusted
conditions he didn't understand, and he was at a loss to account for
Wilton's strange actions.
[Illustration: THE FAINT CLICK OF A LATCH MARKED THE PROWLER'S PROXIMITY
TO A HEDGE]
He lost sight of him for several minutes, then the faint click of a latch
marked the prowler's proximity to a hedge that separated the two estates.
The Hopper crept forward, found a gate through which Wilton had entered
his neighbor's property, and stole after him. Wilton had been swallowed up
by the deep shadow of the house, but The Hopper was aware, from an
occasional scraping of feet, that he was still moving forward. He crawled
over the snow until he reached a large tree whose boughs, sharply limned
against the stars, brushed the eaves of the house.
The Hopper was aroused, tremendously aroused, by the unaccountable
actions of Muriel's father. It flashed upon him that Wilton, in his deep
hatred of his rival collector, was about to set fire to Talbot's house,
and incendiarism was a crime which The Hopper, with all his moral
obliquity, greatly abhorred.
Several minutes passed, a period of anxious waiting, and then a sound
reached him which, to his keen professional sense, seemed singularly like
the forcing of a window. The Hopper knew just how much pressure is
necessary to the successful snapping back of a window catch, and Wilton
had done the trick neatly and with a minimum amount of noise. The window
thus assaulted was not, he now determined, the French window suggested by
Muriel, but one opening on a terrace which ran along the front of the
house. The Hopper heard the sash moving slowly in the frame. He reached
the steps, deposited the jar in a pile of snow, and was soon peering into
a room where Wilton's presence was advertised by the fitful flashing of
his lamp in a far corner.
"He's beat me to ut!" muttered The Hopper, realizing that Muriel's father
was indeed on burglary bent, his obvious purpose being to purloin,
extract, and remove from its secret hiding-place the coveted plum-blossom
vase. Muriel, in her longing for a Christmas of peace and happiness, had
not reckoned with her father's passionate desire to possess the porcelain
treasure--a desire which could hardly fail to cause scandal, if it did not
land him behind prison bars.
This had not been in the programme, and The Hopper weighed judicially his
further duty in the matter. Often as he had been the chief actor in
daring robberies, he had never before enjoyed the high privilege of
watching a rival's labors with complete detachment. Wilton must have known
of the concealed cupboard whose panel fraudulently represented the works
of Thomas Carlyle, the intent spectator reflected, just as Muriel had
known, for though he used his lamp sparingly Wilton had found his way to
it without difficulty.
The Hopper had no intention of permitting this monstrous larceny to be
committed in contravention of his own rights in the premises, and he was
considering the best method of wresting the vase from the hands of the
insolent Wilton when events began to multiply with startling rapidity. The
panel swung open and the thief's lamp flashed upon shelves of pottery.
At that moment a shout rose from somewhere in the house, and the library
lights were thrown on, revealing Wilton before the shelves and their
precious contents. A short, stout gentleman with a gleaming bald pate,
clad in pajamas, dashed across the room, and with a yell of rage flung
himself upon the intruder with a violence that bore them both to the
floor.
"Roger! Roger!" bawled the smaller man, as he struggled with his
adversary, who wriggled from under and rolled over upon Talbot, whose arms
were clasped tightly about his neck. This embrace seemed likely to
continue for some time, so tenaciously had the little man gripped his
neighbor. The fat legs of the infuriated householder pawed the air as he
hugged Wilton, who was now trying to free his head and gain a position of
greater dignity. Occasionally, as opportunity offered, the little man
yelled vociferously, and from remote recesses of the house came answering
cries demanding information as to the nature and whereabouts of the
disturbance.
The contestants addressed themselves vigorously to a spirited
rough-and-tumble fight. Talbot, who was the more easily observed by reason
of his shining pate and the pink stripes of his pajamas, appeared to be
revolving about the person of his neighbor. Wilton, though taller, lacked
the rotund Talbot's liveliness of attack.
An authoritative voice, which The Hopper attributed to Shaver's father,
anxiously demanding what was the matter, terminated The Hopper's
enjoyment of the struggle. Enough was the matter to satisfy The Hopper
that a prolonged stay in the neighborhood might be highly detrimental to
his future liberty. The combatants had rolled a considerable distance away
from the shelves and were near a door leading into a room beyond. A young
man in a bath-wrapper dashed upon the scene, and in his precipitate
arrival upon the battle-field fell sprawling across the prone figures. The
Hopper, suddenly inspired to deeds of prowess, crawled through the window,
sprang past the three men, seized the blue-and-white vase which Wilton had
separated from the rest of Talbot's treasures, and then with one hop
gained the window. As he turned for a last look, a pistol cracked and he
landed upon the terrace amid a shower of glass from a shattered pane.
A woman of unmistakable Celtic origin screamed murder from a third-story
window. The thought of murder was disagreeable to The Hopper. Shaver's
father had missed him by only the matter of a foot or two, and as he had
no intention of offering himself again as a target he stood not upon the
order of his going.
He effected a running pick-up of the Lang-Yao, and with this art treasure
under one arm and the plum-blossom vase under the other, he sprinted for
the highway, stumbling over shrubbery, bumping into a stone bench that all
but caused disaster, and finally reached the road on which he continued
his flight toward New Haven, followed by cries in many keys and a
fusillade of pistol shots.
Arriving presently at a hamlet, where he paused for breath in the rear of
a country store, he found a basket and a quantity of paper in which he
carefully packed his loot. Over the top he spread some faded lettuce
leaves and discarded carnations which communicated something of a blithe
holiday air to his encumbrance. Elsewhere he found a bicycle under a shed,
and while cycling over a snowy road in the dark, hampered by a basket
containing pottery representative of the highest genius of the Orient, was
not without its difficulties and dangers, The Hopper made rapid progress.
Halfway through New Haven he approached two policemen and slowed down to
allay suspicion.
"Merry Chris'mas!" he called as he passed them and increased his weight
upon the pedals.
The officers of the law, cheered as by a greeting from Santa Claus
himself, responded with an equally hearty Merry Christmas.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VIII
At three o'clock The Hopper reached Happy Hill Farm, knocked as before at
the kitchen door, and was admitted by Humpy.
"Wot ye got now?" snarled the reformed yeggman.
"He's gone and done ut ag'in!" wailed Mary, as she spied the basket.
"I sure done ut, all right," admitted The Hopper good-naturedly, as he set
the basket on the table where a few hours earlier he had deposited Shaver.
"How's the kid?"
Grudging assurances that Shaver was asleep and hostile glances directed at
the mysterious basket did not disturb his equanimity.
Humpy was thwarted in an attempt to pry into the contents of the basket by
a tart reprimand from The Hopper, who with maddening deliberation drew
forth the two glazes, found that they had come through the night's
vicissitudes unscathed, and held them at arm's length, turning them about
in leisurely fashion as though lost in admiration of their loveliness.
Then he lighted his pipe, seated himself in Mary's rocker, and told his
story.
It was no easy matter to communicate to his irritable and contumelious
auditors the sense of Muriel's charm, or the reasonableness of her request
that he commit burglary merely to assist her in settling a family row.
Mary could not understand it; Humpy paced the room nervously, shaking his
head and muttering. It was their judgment, stated with much frankness,
that if he had been a fool in the first place to steal the child, his
character was now blackened beyond any hope by his later crimes. Mary wept
copiously; Humpy most annoyingly kept counting upon his fingers as he
reckoned the "time" that was in store for all of them.
"I guess I got into ut an' I guess I'll git out," remarked The Hopper
serenely. He was disposed to treat them with high condescension, as
incapable of appreciating the lofty philosophy of life by which he was
sustained. Meanwhile, he gloated over the loot of the night.
"Them things is wurt' mints; they's more valible than di'mon's, them
things is! Only eddicated folks knows about 'em. They's fer emp'rors and
kings t' set up in their palaces, an' men goes nutty jes' hankerin' fer
'em. The pigtails made 'em thousand o' years back, an' th' secret died
with 'em. They ain't never goin' to be no more jugs like them settin'
right there. An' them two ole sports give up their business jes' t' chase
things like them. They's some folks goes loony about chickens, an' hosses,
an' fancy dogs, but this here kind o' collectin' 's only fer millionaires.
They's more difficult t' pick than a lucky race-hoss. They's barrels o'
that stuff in them houses, that looked jes' as good as them there, but
nowheres as valible."
An informal lecture on Chinese ceramics before daylight on Christmas
morning was not to the liking of the anxious and nerve-torn Mary and
Humpy. They brought The Hopper down from his lofty heights to practical
questions touching his plans, for the disposal of Shaver in the first
instance, and the ceramics in the second. The Hopper was singularly
unmoved by their forebodings.
"I guess th' lady got me to do ut!" he retorted finally. "Ef I do time fer
ut I reckon's how she's in fer ut, too! An' I seen her pap breakin' into a
house an' I guess I'd be a state's witness fer that! I reckon they ain't
goin' t' put nothin' over on Hop! I guess they won't peep much about
kidnapin' with th' kid safe an' us pickin' 'im up out o' th' road an'
shelterin' 'im. Them folks is goin' to be awful nice to Hop fer all he
done fer 'em." And then, finding that they were impressed by his defense,
thus elaborated, he magnanimously referred to the bill-book which had
started him on his downward course.
"That were a mistake; I grant ye ut were a mistake o' jedgment. I'm goin'
to keep to th' white card. But ut's kind o' funny about that
poke--queerest thing that ever happened."
He drew out the book and eyed the name on the flap. Humpy tried to grab
it, but The Hopper, frustrating the attempt, read his colleague a sharp
lesson in good manners. He restored it to his pocket and glanced at the
clock.
"We gotta do somethin' about Shaver's stockin's. Ut ain't fair fer a kid
to wake up an' think Santy missed 'im. Ye got some candy, Mary; we kin put
candy into 'em; that's reg'ler."
Humpy brought in Shaver's stockings and they were stuffed with the candy
and popcorn Mary had provided to adorn their Christmas feast. Humpy
inventoried his belongings, but could think of nothing but a revolver that
seemed a suitable gift for Shaver. This Mary scornfully rejected as
improper for one so young. Whereupon Humpy produced a Mexican silver
dollar, a treasured pocket-piece preserved through many tribulations, and
dropped it reverently into one of the stockings. Two brass buttons of
unknown history, a mouth-organ Mary had bought for a neighbor boy who
assisted at times in the poultry yard, and a silver spectacle case of
uncertain antecedents were added.
"We ought t' 'a' colored eggs fer 'im!" said The Hopper with sudden
inspiration, after the stockings had been restored to Shaver's bed. "Some
yaller an' pink eggs would 'a' been the right ticket."
Mary scoffed at the idea. Eggs wasn't proper fer Christmas; eggs was fer
Easter. Humpy added the weight of his personal experience of Christian
holidays to this statement. While a trusty in the Missouri penitentiary
with the chicken yard in his keeping, he remembered distinctly that eggs
were in demand for purposes of decoration by the warden's children
sometime in the spring; mebbe it was Easter, mebbe it was Decoration Day;
Humpy was not sure of anything except that it wasn't Christmas.
The Hopper was meek under correction. It having been settled that colored
eggs would not be appropriate for Christmas he yielded to their demand
that he show some enthusiasm for disposing of his ill-gotten treasures
before the police arrived to take the matter out of his hands.
"I guess that Muriel'll be glad to see me," he remarked. "I guess me and
her understands each other. They's things wot is an' things wot ain't; an'
I guess Hop ain't goin' to spend no Chris'mas in jail. It's the white card
an' poultry an' eggs fer us; an' we're goin' t' put in a couple more
incubators right away. I'm thinkin' some o' rentin' that acre across th'
brook back yonder an' raisin' turkeys. They's mints in turks, ef ye kin
keep 'em from gettin' their feet wet an' dyin' o' pneumonia, which wipes
out thousands o' them birds. I reckon ye might make some coffee, Mary."
The Christmas dawn found them at the table, where they were renewing a
pledge to play "the white card" when a cry from Shaver brought them to
their feet.
Shaver was highly pleased with his Christmas stockings, but his pleasure
was nothing to that of The Hopper, Mary, and Humpy, as they stood about
the bed and watched him. Mary and Humpy were so relieved by The Hopper's
promises to lead a better life that they were now disposed to treat their
guest with the most distinguished consideration. Humpy, absenting himself
to perform his morning tasks in the poultry-houses, returned bringing a
basket containing six newly hatched chicks. These cheeped and ran over
Shaver's fat legs and performed exactly as though they knew they were a
part of his Christmas entertainment. Humpy, proud of having thought of the
chicks, demanded the privilege of serving Shaver's breakfast. Shaver ate
his porridge without a murmur, so happy was he over his new playthings.
Mary bathed and dressed him with care. As the candy had stuck to the
stockings in spots, it was decided after a family conference that Shaver
would have to wear them wrong side out as there was no time to be wasted
in washing them. By eight o'clock The Hopper announced that it was time
for Shaver to go home. Shaver expressed alarm at the thought of leaving
his chicks; whereupon Humpy conferred two of them upon him in the best
imitation of baby talk that he could muster.
"Me's tate um to me's gwanpas," said Shaver; "chickee for me's two
gwanpas,"--a remark which caused The Hopper to shake for a moment with
mirth as he recalled his last view of Shaver's "gwanpas" in a death grip
upon the floor of "Gwanpa" Talbot's house.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IX
When The Hopper rolled away from Happy Hill Farm in the stolen machine,
accompanied by one stolen child and forty thousand dollars' worth of
stolen pottery, Mary wept, whether because of the parting with Shaver, or
because she feared that The Hopper would never return, was not clear.
Humpy, too, showed signs of tears, but concealed his weakness by
performing a grotesque dance, dancing grotesquely by the side of the car,
much to Shaver's joy--a joy enhanced just as the car reached the gate,
where, as a farewell attention, Humpy fell down and rolled over and over
in the snow.
The Hopper's wits were alert as he bore Shaver homeward. By this time it
was likely that the confiding young Talbots had conferred over the
telephone and knew that their offspring had disappeared. Doubtless the New
Haven police had been notified, and he chose his route with discretion to
avoid unpleasant encounters. Shaver, his spirits keyed to holiday pitch,
babbled ceaselessly, and The Hopper, highly elated, babbled back at him.
They arrived presently at the rear of the young Talbots' premises, and The
Hopper, with Shaver trotting at his side, advanced cautiously upon the
house bearing the two baskets, one containing Shaver's chicks, the other
the precious porcelains. In his survey of the landscape he noted with
trepidation the presence of two big limousines in the highway in front of
the cottage and decided that if possible he must see Muriel alone and make
his report to her.
The moment he entered the kitchen he heard the clash of voices in angry
dispute in the living-room. Even Shaver was startled by the violence of
the conversation in progress within, and clutched tightly a fold of The
Hopper's trousers.
"I tell you it's John Wilton who has stolen Billie!" a man cried
tempestuously. "Anybody who would enter a neighbor's house in the dead of
night and try to rob him--rob him, yes, and _murder_ him in the most
brutal fashion--would not scruple to steal his own grandchild!"
"Me's gwanpa," whispered Shaver, gripping The Hopper's hand, "an' 'im's
mad."
That Mr. Talbot was very angry indeed was established beyond cavil.
However, Mr. Wilton was apparently quite capable of taking care of himself
in the dispute.
"You talk about my stealing when you robbed me of my Lang-Yao--bribed my
servants to plunder my safe! I want you to understand once for all, Roger
Talbot, that if that jar isn't returned within one hour,--within one hour,
sir,--I shall turn you over to the police!"
"Liar!" bellowed Talbot, who possessed a voice of great resonance. "You
can't mitigate your foul crime by charging me with another! I never saw
your jar; I never wanted it! I wouldn't have the thing on my place!"
Muriel's voice, full of tears, was lifted in expostulation.
"How can you talk of your silly vases when Billie's lost! Billie's been
stolen--and you two men can think of nothing but pot-ter-ree!"
Shaver lifted a startled face to The Hopper.
"Mamma's cwyin'; gwanpa's hurted mamma!"
The strategic moment had arrived when Shaver must be thrust forward as an
interruption to the exchange of disagreeable epithets by his grandfathers.
"You trot right in there t' yer ma, Shaver. Ole Hop ain't goin' t' let 'em
hurt ye!"
He led the child through the dining room to the living-room door and
pushed him gently on the scene of strife. Talbot, senior, was pacing the
floor with angry strides, declaiming upon his wrongs,--indeed, his theme
might have been the misery of the whole human race from the vigor of his
lamentations. His son was keeping step with him, vainly attempting to
persuade him to sit down. Wilton, with a patch over his right eye, was
trying to disengage himself from his daughter's arms with the obvious
intention of doing violence to his neighbor.
"I'm sure papa never meant to hurt you; it was all a dreadful mistake,"
she moaned.
"He had an accomplice," Talbot thundered, "and while he was trying to kill
me there in my own house the plum-blossom vase was carried off; and if
Roger hadn't pushed him out of the window after his hireling--I'd--I'd--"
A shriek from Muriel happily prevented the completion of a sentence that
gave every promise of intensifying the prevailing hard feeling.
"Look!" Muriel cried. "It's Billie come back! Oh, Billie!"
She sprang toward the door and clasped the frightened child to her heart.
The three men gathered round them, staring dully. The Hopper from behind
the door waited for Muriel's joy over Billie's return to communicate
itself to his father and the two grandfathers.
"Me's dot two chick-ees for Kwismus," announced Billie, wriggling in his
mother's arms.
Muriel, having satisfied herself that Billie was intact,--that he even
bore the marks of maternal care,--was in the act of transferring him to
his bewildered father, when, turning a tear-stained face toward the door,
she saw The Hopper awkwardly twisting the derby which he had donned as
proper for a morning call of ceremony. She walked toward him with quick,
eager step.
"You--you came back!" she faltered, stifling a sob.
"Yes'm," responded The Hopper, rubbing his hand across his nose. His
appearance roused Billie's father to a sense of his parental
responsibility.
"You brought the boy back! You are the kidnaper!"
"Roger," cried Muriel protestingly, "don't speak like that! I'm sure this
gentleman can explain how he came to bring Billie."
The quickness with which she regained her composure, the ease with which
she adjusted herself to the unforeseen situation, pleased The Hopper
greatly. He had not misjudged Muriel; she was an admirable ally, an ideal
confederate. She gave him a quick little nod, as much as to say, "Go on,
sir; we understand each other perfectly,"--though, of course, she did not
understand, nor was she enlightened until some time later, as to just how
The Hopper became possessed of Billie.
[Illustration: THE THREE MEN GATHERED ROUND THEM, STARING DULLY]
Billie's father declared his purpose to invoke the law upon his son's
kidnapers no matter where they might be found.
"I reckon as mebbe ut wuz a kidnapin' an' I reckon as mebbe ut wuzn't,"
The Hopper began unhurriedly. "I live over Shell Road way; poultry and
eggs is my line; Happy Hill Farm. Stevens's the name--Charles S. Stevens.
An' I found Shaver--'scuse me, but ut seemed sort o' nat'ral name fer
'im?--I found 'im a settin' up in th' machine over there by my place,
chipper's ye please. I takes 'im into my house an' Mary'--that's th'
missus--she gives 'im supper and puts 'im t' sleep. An' we thinks mebbe
somebody'd come along askin' fer 'im. An' then this mornin' I calls th'
New Haven police, an' they tole me about you folks, an' me and Shaver
comes right over."
This was entirely plausible and his hearers, The Hopper noted with relief,
accepted it at face value.
"How dear of you!" cried Muriel. "Won't you have this chair, Mr. Stevens!"
"Most remarkable!" exclaimed Wilton. "Some scoundrelly tramp picked up the
car and finding there was a baby inside left it at the roadside like the
brute he was!"
Billie had addressed himself promptly to the Christmas tree, to his very
own Christmas tree that was laden with gifts that had been assembled by
the family for his delectation. Efforts of Grandfather Wilton to extract
from the child some account of the man who had run away with him were
unavailing. Billie was busy, very busy, indeed. After much patient effort
he stopped sorting the animals in a bright new Noah's Ark to point his
finger at The Hopper and remark:--
"'Ims nice mans; 'ims let Bil-lee play wif 'ims watch!"
As Billie had broken the watch his acknowledgment of The Hopper's courtesy
in letting him play with it brought a grin to The Hopper's face.
Now that Billie had been returned and his absence satisfactorily accounted
for, the two connoisseurs showed signs of renewing their quarrel.
Responsive to a demand from Billie, The Hopper got down on the floor to
assist in the proper mating of Noah's animals. Billie's father was
scrutinizing him fixedly and The Hopper wondered whether Muriel's handsome
young husband had recognized him as the person who had vanished through
the window of the Talbot home bearing the plum-blossom vase. The thought
was disquieting; but feigning deep interest in the Ark he listened
attentively to a violent tirade upon which the senior Talbot was launched.
"My God!" he cried bitterly, planting himself before Wilton in a
belligerent attitude, "every infernal thing that can happen to a man
happened to me yesterday. It wasn't enough that you robbed me and tried to
murder me--yes, you did, sir!--but when I was in the city I was robbed in
the subway by a pickpocket. A thief took my bill-book containing
invaluable data I had just received from my agent in China giving me a
clue to porcelains, sir, such as you never dreamed of! Some more of your
work--Don't you contradict me! You don't contradict me! Roger, he doesn't
contradict me!"