But there was a rugged practical side to the character of Roger Gale, and
the next morning he was ashamed of the brooding thoughts which had come in
the night. He shook them off as morbid, and resolutely set himself to what
lay close before him. There was work to be done on Bruce's affairs, and the
work was a decided relief. Madge Deering, in the meantime, had offered to
go with Edith and the children to the mountains and see them all well
settled there. And a little talk he had with Madge relieved his mind still
further. What a recovery _she_ had made from the tragedy of years ago. How
alert and wide-awake she seemed. If Edith could only grow like that.
Soon after their departure, one night when he was dining alone, he had a
curious consciousness of the mingled presence of Edith and of Judith his
wife. And this feeling grew so strong that several times he looked about in
a startled, questioning manner. All at once his eye was caught by an old
mahogany sideboard. It was Edith's. It had been her mother's. Edith, when
she married, had wanted something from her old home. Well, now it was back
in the family.
The rest of Edith's furniture, he learned from Deborah that night, had been
stored in the top of the house.
"Most of it," she told him, "Edith will probably want to use in fitting up
the children's rooms." With a twinge of foreboding, Roger felt the
approaching change in his home.
"When do you plan to be married?" he asked.
"About the end of August. We couldn't very well till then, without hurting
poor Edith a little, you see. You know how she feels about such things--"
"Yes, I guess you're right," he agreed.
How everything centered 'round Edith, he thought. To pay the debts which
Bruce had left would take all Roger had on hand; and from this time on his
expenses, with five growing children here, would be a fast increasing
drain. He would have to be careful and husband his strength, a thing he had
always hated to do.
In the next few weeks, he worked hard in his office. He cut down his
smoking, stayed home every evening and went to bed at ten o'clock. He tried
to shut Deborah out of his mind. As for Laura, he barely gave her a
thought. She dropped in one evening to bid him good-bye, for this summer
again she was going abroad. She and her husband, she told him, were to
motor through the Balkans and down into Italy. Her father gruffly answered
that he hoped she would enjoy herself. It seemed infernally unfair that it
should not be Deborah who was sailing the next morning. But when he felt
himself growing annoyed, abruptly he put a check on himself. It was Edith
he must think of now.
But curiously it happened, in this narrowing of his attention, that while
he shut out two of his daughters, a mere outsider edged closer in.
Johnny Geer was a great help. He was back in Roger's office, and with the
sharp wits he had gained in his eighteen years of fighting for a chance to
stay alive, now at Roger's elbow John was watching like a hawk for all the
little ways and means of pushing up the business. What a will the lad had
to down bodily ills, what vim in the way he tackled each job. His shrewd
and cheery companionship was a distraction and relief. John was so funny
sometimes.
"Good-morning, Mr. Gale," he said, as Roger came into the office one day.
"Hello, Johnny. How are you?" Roger replied.
"Fine, thank you." And John went on with his work of opening the morning's
mail. But a few minutes later he gave a cackling little laugh.
"What's so funny?" Roger asked.
"Fellers," was the answer. "Fellers. Human nature. Here's a letter from
Shifty Sam."
"Who the devil is he? A friend of yours?"
"No," said John, "he's a 'con man.' He works about as mean a graft as any
you ever heard of. He reads the 'ads' in the papers--see?--of servant girls
who're looking for work. He makes a specialty of cooks. Then he goes to
where they live and talks of some nice family that wants a servant right
away. He claims to be the butler, and he's dressed to look the part. 'There
ain't a minute to lose,' he says. 'If you want a chawnce, my girl, come
quick.' He says 'chawnce' like a butler--see? 'Pack your things,' he tells
her, 'and come right along with me.' So she packs and hustles off with
him--Sam carrying her suit case. He puts her on a trolley and says, 'I
guess I'll stay on the platform. I've got a bit of a headache and the air
will do me good.' So he stays out there with her suit case--and as soon as
the car gets into a crowd, Sam jumps and beats it with her clothes."
"I see," said Roger dryly. "But what's he writing _you_ about?"
"Oh, it ain't me he's writing to--it's you," was John's serene reply. Roger
started.
"What?" he asked.
"Well," said the boy in a cautious tone, vigilantly eyeing his chief, "you
see, a lot of these fellers like Sam have been in the papers lately.
They're being called a crime wave."
"Well?"
"Sam is up for trial this week--and half the Irish cooks in town are
waiting 'round to testify. And Shifty seems to enjoy himself. His
picture's in the papers--see? And he wants all the clippings. So he
encloses a five dollar bill."
"He does, eh--well, you write to Sam and send his money back to him!" There
was a little silence.
"But look here," said John with keen regret. "We've had quite a lot of
these letters this week."
Roger wheeled and looked at him.
"John," he demanded severely, "what game have you been up to here?"
"No game at all," was the prompt retort. "Just getting a little business."
"How?"
"Well, there's a club downtown," said John, "where a lot of these petty
crooks hang out. I used to deliver papers there. And I went around one
night this month--"
"_To drum up business?_"
"Yes, sir." Roger looked at him aghast.
"John," he asked, in deep reproach, "do you expect this office to feed the
vanity of thieves?"
"Where's the vanity," John rejoined, "in being called a crime wave?" And
seeing the sudden tremor of mirth which had appeared on Roger's face, "Look
here, Mr. Gale," he went eagerly on. "When every paper in the town is
telling these fellers where they belong--calling 'em crooks, degenerates,
and preaching regular sermons right into their faces--why shouldn't we help
'em to read the stuff? How do we know it won't do 'em good? It's church to
'em, that's what it is--and business for this office. Nine of these guys
have sent in their money just in the last week or so--"
"Look out, my boy," said Roger, with slow and solemn emphasis. "If you
aren't extremely careful you'll find yourself a millionaire."
"But wait a minute, Mr. Gale--"
"Not in this office," Roger said. "Send 'em back, every one of 'em!
Understand?"
"Yes, sir," was the meek reply. And with a little sigh of regret John
turned his wits to other kinds and conditions of New Yorkers who might care
to see themselves in print.
As they worked together day by day, Roger had occasional qualms over
leaving John here in the hot town while he himself went up to the
mountains. He even thought of writing to Edith that he was planning to
bring John, too. But no, she wouldn't like it. So he did something else
instead.
"John," he said, one morning, "I'm going to raise your salary to a hundred
dollars a month." Instantly from the lad's bright eyes there shot a look of
triumph.
"Thanks, Mr. Gale," was his hearty response.
"And in the meantime, Johnny, I want you to take a good solid month off."
"All right, sir, thank you," John replied. "But I guess it won't be quite a
month. I don't feel as if I needed it."
The next day at the office he appeared resplendent in a brand-new suit of
clothes, a summer homespun of light gray set off by a tie of flaming red.
There was nothing soft about that boy. No, Johnny knew how to look out for
himself.
And Roger went up to the farm.