THE BRIGHT MORN
The long tramp up the mountain proved to Tom that he was weary. It
seemed as if he would never reach Mead’s. Oh, for Mead’s! Then he would
know that another hour’s climbing would bring him to the summit. No more
landmarks to watch for, just the unbroken stretch of woods road, up, up,
up....
He entered the cottage like a thief in the night and was soon stretched
upon his ugly little iron couch. But he was too tired and excited to
sleep. His knees ached. He lay listening to the safety cables clanking
in the wind.
Far off in the woods he could hear the call of a wildcat. And the cheery
little crickets nearby beguiled him with their soothing orchestra. A
katydid soloist entertained him. Well, one thing he would do, he would
arouse Anson Dyker—Whalen—out of that blamed sarcastic calm of his. Oh
yes, he would do that. He had the ammunition.
Early in the morning he went down into the deserted kitchen and made
himself a cup of coffee. He had never before seen the kitchen quiet and
deserted. A holy calm pervaded it, and it seemed unnatural not to hear
the clatter of dishes, the vocal accompaniment by Miranda, and the
emphatic voice of Audry edifying her with her theories and conclusions.
The kitchen was not kitchen without Audry in the full swing of debate.
It seemed good to be out in the fresh, early morning. He felt no ill
effects of his long tramp except that his knees ached. He was not going
to run the chance of missing Whalen by waiting for breakfast. Besides,
he wished to see Whalen before he saw any one else. He would rouse him,
he would make him sit up and take notice....
He strolled down the mountainside a few yards and sat on a discarded
line-pole and waited. He watched the much praised early bird and noted
the unhappy fate of the early worm. Luck was with him for after a little
while Whalen came down the road alone.
So much had transpired in Tom’s mind that it seemed to him that he had
not seen Whalen for weeks. He was carrying his axe and smoking a pipe.
He looked very peasant-like in the early morning, picturesque in his
canvas smock. He had a kind of easy efficiency about him, a kind of
unobtrusive reserve force of experience and intelligence and power.
“Back again?” he greeted.
“Where’s the legitt?” Tom asked.
“Getting his suit pressed,” said Whalen.
“Would—will—do you mind stopping? I want to speak to you.”
Whalen stopped, leaned against a tree. Tom unconsciously paid him the
compliment of being perturbed and not sure of himself. It was always so
when he talked to Whalen.
“I—I—Ned, I know who you are.”
“Yes?” said the other.
“Don’t be—I know you’re Anson Dyker.”
“I thought you knew,” said Whalen quietly.
“_You—thought—I—knew?_”
“Eh, huh.”
All the wind was out of Tom’s sails. “What do you mean?” he ejaculated.
“Weren’t you afraid I’d go and tell?”
“No.”
Followed a pause. Whalen was perfectly calm.
“You mean to tell me you weren’t afraid?” Tom demanded in amazement.
“You didn’t think I’d tell?”
Whalen puffed his pipe. “I _knew_ you wouldn’t,” he said.
“Well—I’ll—be—. Is there anything you don’t know?”
“I didn’t have to know much to know that.”
Followed another pause.
“Thanks,” said Tom, his voice trembling. “I—_thanks_.”
“Not at all,” said Whalen.
Here was an anti-climax. It left Tom with eyes glistening. Whalen just
leaned against the tree puffing his pipe. But Tom rose to the occasion.
“Well then, I’ve got another one for you,” he said. “I’ve got two more
shots. I found the murderer of Henry Merrick and I took his confession
to the police. They’ll have to squash the indictment against you, or
quash it, or whatever they do. The man is dead. It was—you knew him—it
was Ganley.”
Now Whalen looked straight into Tom’s eyes with inquiry, incredulity.
“And I’ll tell you something else,” said Tom. “You didn’t know—when you
saved my life you didn’t know, did you, that I’m the miracle man? You
didn’t think about me—listen—you didn’t think about me being a little
old boy scout, did you? Something for a service—good turns. Oh, I’m the
little Santa Claus all right. I’ve got your grandfather down at Temple
Camp—waiting to be called for. All you have to do is to go and claim
him. He’s having the time of his life, thank you.” He was smiling all
over, his eyes brimming. “You—you think you know so much about me—you
think you’re smart—you old grouch—you didn’t know that, did you? Go on,
say something sarcastic now. All I wanted was to stay here long enough
to put it all over you. Go ahead, say something sarcastic—you—”
He could say no more, he was all but hysterical with joy. “I could—gee,
I could never get you to sit down and talk with me—I—I’m all right, sit
down and I’ll tell you the whole thing—Ganley—he came back, he was dead
on a boat in the river, he wrote out everything.”
“Poor Joey,” said Whalen.
“Sit down,” said Tom, “and I’ll tell you the whole thing. I won’t tell
you unless you sit down. I bet you don’t believe me, do you? Knew I
wouldn’t tell. You took awful chances, let me tell you that.”
“So, Tommy?”
Whalen sat down on the log, seeming bewildered, skeptical, keenly
curious. Tom’s first shot had missed. But the other two had struck the
lonely, taciturn man. His eyes were pathetic with suspense. He seemed
even still to harbor a kindly doubt about crediting this exuberant boy.
“Tell me everything you know, Tommy,” he pled earnestly.
“What do you suppose I got up for at five o’clock?” said Tom.