PEEKING IN ON PEDDERS
Who started that dope about Heaven givin' us our relations but thanks be
we can pick friends to suit ourselves? Anyway, it's phony. Strikes me we
often have friends wished on us; sort of accumulate 'em by chance, as we
do appendicitis, or shingles, or lawsuits. And at best it's a matter of
who you meet most, and how.
Take J. Bayard Steele. Think I'd ever hunted him out and extended the
fraternal grip, or him me? Not if everyone else in the world was deaf
and dumb and had the itch! We're about as much alike in our tastes and
gen'ral run of ideas as Bill Taft and Bill Haywood; about as congenial
as our bull terrier and the chow dog next door. Yet here we are, him
hailin' me as Shorty, and me callin' him anything from J. B. to Old Top,
and confabbin' reg'lar most every day, as chummy as you please.
All on account of our bein' mixed up in carryin' out this batty will of
Pyramid Gordon's. First off I didn't think I'd have to see him more'n
once a month, and then only for a short session; but since he put
through that first deal and collected his twenty-four hundred
commission, he's been showin' up at the studio frequent, with next to no
excuse for comin'.
You remember how he drew Twombley-Crane as the first one that he had to
unload a kind and gen'rous act on, and how I made him give up the
picture that he'd gloated over so long? Well, J. Bayard can't seem to
get over the way that turned out. Here he'd been forced into doin'
something nice for a party he had a grudge against, has discovered that
Twombley-Crane ain't such a bad lot after all, and has been well paid
for it besides, out of money left by his old enemy.
"Rather a remarkable set of circumstances, eh, Shorty?" says he, tiltin'
back comf'table in one of my front office chairs and lightin' up a fresh
twenty-five-cent cigar. "An instance of virtue being rewarded on a cash
basis. Not only that, but I was royally entertained down at
Twombley-Crane's the other night, you know. I think too I interested him
in a little development scheme of mine."
"Jump off!" says I. "You're standin' on your foot. If you dream you can
slip any of your fake stock onto him, you're due to wake up. Better
stick to widows and orphans."
At which jab Mr. Steele only chuckles easy. "What an engagingly frank
person you are!" says he. "As though rich widows weren't fair game! But
with the practice of philanthropy so liberally compensated I'm not
troubling them. Your friend, the late Mr. Gordon, has banished the wolf
from my door; for the immediate present, at least. I wonder if he
anticipated just how much I should enjoy his post-mortem munificence?"
And here J. Bayard gives a caressin' pat to his Grand Duke whiskers and
glances approvin' down at the patent leathers which finish off a costume
that's the last word in afternoon elegance. You've seen a pet cat
stretch himself luxurious after a full meal? Well, that's J. Bayard.
He'd hypothecated the canary. If he hadn't been such a dear friend of
mine too, I could have kicked him hearty.
"Say, you're a wonder, you are!" says I. "But I expect if your kind was
common, all the decent people would be demandin' to be jailed, out of
self-respect."
Another chuckle from J. Bayard. "Is that envy," says he, "or merely
epigram? But at least we will agree that our ethical standards vary. You
scorn mine; I find yours curiously entertaining. The best thing about
you is that you seem to bring me good luck."
"Don't trust that too far," says I. "I'm neither hump-backed, nor a live
Billiken. How soon are you going to start on proposition Number Two?"
"Ah!" says he, straightenin'. "That is the real business of the moment,
isn't it? As a matter of fact, I was just about to seek your valuable
advice on the subject."
"Shoot it, then," says I. "Who's the party?"
He explores his inside pockets, fishes out an envelop, and inspects it
deliberate. It's sealed; but he makes no move to open it. "My next
assignment in altruism," says he, holdin' it to the light. "Rich man,
poor man, beggar man, thief--I wonder?"
"Ah, come!" says I, handin' him a paper knife.
"But there's no need for haste," says J. Bayard. "Just consider, Shorty:
In this envelop is the name of some individual who was the victim of
injustice, large or small, at the hands of Pyramid Gordon, someone who
got in his way, perhaps years ago. Now I am to do something that will
offset that old injury. While the name remains unread, we have a bit of
mystery, an unknown adventure ahead of us, perhaps. And that, my dear
McCabe, is the salt of life."
"Say, you ought to take that lecture out on the Chautauqua," says I.
"Get busy--slit or quit!"
"Very well," says he, jabbin' the knife under the flap. "To discover the
identity of the next in line!"
"Well?" says I, as he stares at the slip of paper. "Who do you pluck
this time?"
"An enigma, so far as I am concerned," says he. "Listen: 'John Wesley
Pedders, in 1894 cashier of the Merchants' Exchange Bank, at Tullington,
Connecticut.' Ever hear of such a person, Shorty!"
"Not me," says I, "nor the place either."
"Then it remains to be discovered first," says Steele, "whether for
twenty years Pedders has stayed put or not. Haven't a Pathfinder handy,
have you? Never mind, there are plenty at the hotel. And if to-morrow is
such another fine spring day as this, I'll run up there. I'll let you
know the results later; and then, my trusty colleague, we will plot
joyously for the well-being of John Wesley Pedders."
"Huh!" says I. "Don't try to pull any steam yachts or French limousines
on me this time. The kind stuff goes, remember."
"To your acute sense of fitness in such matters, McCabe," says he, "I
bow profoundly," and with a jaunty wave of his hand he drifts out.
Honest, compared to the shifty-eyed, suspicious-actin' party that blew
into my studio a few weeks back, he seems like a kid on a Coney Island
holiday. I expect it's the prospects of easy money that's chirked him up
so; but he sure is a misfit to be subbin' on a deeds-of-kindness job.
That ain't my lookout, though. All I got to do is pass on his plans and
see that he carries 'em out accordin' to specifications. So I don't
even look up this tank station on the map.
A couple of days go by, three, and no bulletin from J. Bayard. Then here
the other mornin' I gets a long distance call. It's from Steele.
"Eh?" says I. "Where the blazes are you?"
"Tullington," says he.
"Oh!" says I. "Still there, are you? Found Pedders?"
"Ye-e-es," says he; "but I am completely at a loss to know what to do
for him. I say, McCabe, couldn't you run up here? It's a curious
situation, and I--well, I need your advice badly. There's a train at
eleven-thirty that connects at Danbury. Couldn't you?"
Well, I hadn't figured on bein' any travelin' inspector when I took this
executor job; but as J. Bayard sends out the S O S so strong I can't
very well duck. Besides, I might have been a little int'rested to know
what he'd dug up.
So about three-fifteen that afternoon finds me pilin' off a branch
accommodation at Tullington. Mr. Steele is waitin' on the platform to
meet me, silk lid and all.
"What about Pedders?" says I.
"I want you to see him first," says J. Bayard.
"On exhibition, is he?" says I.
"In a town of this size," says he, "everyone is on exhibition
continuously. It's the penalty one pays for being rural, I suppose.
I've been here only two days; but I'll venture to say that most of the
inhabitants know me by name and have made their guess as to what my
business here may be. It's the most pitiless kind of publicity I ever
experienced. But come on up to the postoffice, and I'll show you
Pedders."
"Fixture there, is he?" says I.
"Twice a day he comes for the mail," says J. Bayard. "Your train brought
it up. He'll be on hand."
So we strolls up Main street from the station, while Steele points out
the brass works, the carpet mill, the opera house, and Judge Hanks'
slate-roofed mansion. It sure is a jay burg, but a lively one. Oh, yes!
Why, the Ladies' Aid Society was holdin' a cake sale in a vacant store
next to the Bijou movie show, and everybody was decoratin' for a
firemen's parade to be pulled off next Saturday. We struck the
postoffice just as they brought the mail sacks up in a pushcart and
dragged 'em in through the front door.
"There he is," says Steele, nudgin' me, "over in the corner by the
writing shelf!"
What he points out is a long-haired, gray-whiskered old guy, with a
faded overcoat slung over his shoulders like a cape, and an old slouch
hat pulled down over his eyes. He's standin' there as still and quiet as
if his feet was stuck to the floor.
"Kind of a seedy old party, eh?" says I.
"Why not?" says J. Bayard. "He's an ex-jailbird."
"You don't say!" says I. "What brand?"
"Absconder," says he. "Got away with a hundred and fifty thousand from
the local bank."
"Well, well!" says I. "Didn't spend it dollin' himself up, did he?"
"Oh, all that happened twenty years ago," says Steele. "The odd part of
it is, though---- But come over to the hotel, where I can tell you the
whole story."
And, say, he had a tale, all right. Seems Pedders had been one of the
leadin' citizens,--cashier of the bank, pillar of the church, member of
the town council, and all that,--with a wife who was a social fav'rite,
and a girl that promised to be a beauty when she grew up. The Pedders
never tried to cut any gash, though. They lived simple and respectable
and happy. About the only wild plunge the neighbors ever laid up against
him was when he paid out ten dollars once for some imported tulip bulbs.
Then all of a sudden it was discovered that a bunch of negotiable
securities had disappeared from the bank vaults. The arrow pointed
straight to Pedders. He denied; but he couldn't explain. He just shut up
like a clam, and let 'em do their worst. He got ten years. Before he was
put away they tried to make him confess, or give 'em some hint as to
what he'd done with the bonds. But there was nothin' doin' in that
line. He just stood pat and took his medicine.
Bein' a quiet prisoner, that gave no trouble and kept his cell tidy, he
scaled it down a couple of years. Nobody looked for him to come back to
Tullington after he got loose. They all had it doped out that he'd
salted away that hundred and fifty thousand somewhere, and would proceed
to dig it up and enjoy it where he wa'n't known.
But Pedders fooled 'em again. Straight back from the bars he come, back
to Tullington and the little white story-and-a-half cottage on a side
street, where Mrs. Pedders and Luella was waitin' for him.
She'd had some hand-to-hand tussle meanwhile, Mrs. Pedders had; but
she'd stuck it out noble. At the start about nine out of ten of her
neighbors and kind friends was dead sure she knew where that bunch of
securities was stowed, and some of 'em didn't make any bones of sayin'
she ought to be in jail along with Pedders. So of course that made it
nice and comfy for her all around. But she opened up a little millinery
shop in her front parlor, and put up jams and jellies, and raised a few
violets under a window sash in the back yard. She didn't quite starve
that first year or so; though nobody knew just how close she shaved it.
And in time even them that had been her closest friends begun to be
sorry for her.
When Pedders showed up again all the old stories was hashed over, and
the whole of Tullington held its breath watchin' for some sign that he's
dug up his hank loot. But it didn't come. Pedders just camped down
silent in his old home and let his whiskers grow. Twice a day he made
reg'lar trips back and forth from the postoffice, lookin' at nobody,
speakin' to nobody. Mrs. Pedders held her usual fall and spring openin's
of freak millinery, while Luella taught in the fourth grade of the
grammar school and gave a few piano lessons on the side. They didn't act
like a fam'ly that had buried treasure.
But what had he done with that hundred and fifty thousand? How could he
have blown so much without even acquirin' a toddy blossom? Or had he
scattered it in the good old way, buckin' Wall Street? But he'd never
seemed like that kind. No, they didn't think he had the nerve to take a
chance on a turkey raffle. So that left the mystery deeper'n ever.
"No chance of him bein' not guilty to begin with, eh?" I suggests.
J. Bayard smiles cynical. "So far as I am able to learn," says he,
"there is just one person, aside from Mrs. Pedders and her daughter, who
believes him innocent. Strangely enough too, that's Norris, who was
teller at the time. He's president of the bank now. I had a talk with
him this morning. He insists that Pedders was too honest to touch a
dollar; says he knew him too well. But he offers no explanation as to
where the securities went. So there you are! Everyone else regards him
as a convicted thief, who scarcely got his just deserts. He's a social
outcast, and a broken, spiritless wretch besides. How can I do anything
kind and generous for such a man?"
Well, I didn't know any more'n he did. "What gets me," I goes on, "is
how he ever come to be mixed up with Pyramid Gordon. Got that traced
out?"
"I sounded Norris on that point," says Steele; "but he'd never heard of
Gordon's having been in Tullington, and was sure Pedders didn't know
him."
"Then you ain't had a talk with Pedders himself?" says I.
"Why, no," says J. Bayard, shruggin' his shoulders scornful. "The poor
devil! I didn't see what good it would do--an ex-convict, and----"
"You can't always be dealin' with Twombley-Cranes," I breaks in. "And
it's Pedders you're after this trip. Come on. Let's go tackle him."
"What! Now?" says Steele, liftin' his eyebrows.
"Ah, you ain't plannin' to spend the summer here, are you?" says I.
"Besides, it'll do you good to learn not to shy at a man just because
he's done time. Show us the house."
I could have put it even stronger to him, if I'd wanted to rub it in.
Had about as much sympathy for a down-and-out, Steele did, as you'd find
milk in a turnip. You should see the finicky airs he puts on as he
follows me into the Pedders cottage, and sniffs at the worn,
old-fashioned furniture in the sittin' room.
It's Mrs. Pedders that comes in from the shop to greet us. Must have
been quite a good looker once, from the fine face and the still slim
figure. But her hair has been frosted up pretty well, and there's plenty
of trouble lines around the eyes. No, we couldn't see Mr. Pedders. She
was sorry, but he didn't see anyone. If there was any business, perhaps
she could----
"Maybe you can," says I; "although it ain't exactly business, either.
It's a delayed boost we're agents for; friendly, and all that."
"I--I don't believe I understand," says she.
"We'll get to that later on," says I, "if you'll take our word and help.
What we're tryin' to get a line on first off is where and how Mr.
Pedders run against Pyramid Gordon."
"Gordon?" says she. "I don't think I ever heard him mention the name."
"Think 'way back, then," says I, "back before he was--before he had his
trouble."
She tried, but couldn't dig it up. We was still on the subject when in
floats Daughter. She's one of these nice, sweet, sensible lookin' girls,
almost vergin' on the old maid. She'd just come home from her school.
The case was explained to her; but she don't remember hearin' the name
either.
"You see, I was only nine at the time," says she, "and there was so much
going on, and Papa was so upset about all those letters."
"Which letters?" says I.
"Oh, the people who wrote to him during the trial," says she. "You've no
idea--hundreds and hundreds of letters, from all over the country; from
strangers, you know, who'd read that he was--well, an absconder. They
were awful letters. I think that's what hurt Papa most, that people were
so ready to condemn him before he'd had a chance to show that he didn't
do it. He would just sit at his old desk there by the hour, reading them
over, and everyone seemed like another pound loaded on his poor
shoulders. The letters kept coming long after he was sent away. There's
a whole boxful in the garret that have never been opened."
"And he never shall see them!" announced Mrs. Pedders emphatic.
"H-m-m-m!" says I. "A whole boxful that nobody's opened? But suppose now
that some of 'em wa'n't--say, why not take a look at the lot, just the
outsides?"
Neither Mrs. Pedders nor Luella took kind to that proposition; but
somehow I had a vague hunch it ought to be done. I couldn't say exactly
why, either. But I kept urgin' and arguin', and at last they gave in.
They'd show me the outsides, anyway; that is, Luella might, if she
wanted to. Mrs. Pedders didn't even want to see the box.
"I meant to have burned them long ago," says she. "They're just letters
from idle, cruel people, that's all. And you don't know how many such
there are in the world, Mr. McCabe. I hope you never will know. But go
up with Luella if you wish."
So we did, J. Bayard glancin' suspicious at the dust and cobwebs and
protectin' his silk hat and clothes cautiously. It's a good-sized box
too, with a staple and padlock to keep the cover down. Luella hunted up
the key and handed out bunch after bunch. Why do people want to write to
parties they've read about in the newspapers? What's the good too, of
jumpin' on bank wreckers and such at long range? Why, some even let
their spite slop over on the envelopes. To see such a lot of letters,
and think how many hard thoughts they stood for, almost gave you chills
on the spine.
Didn't seem to do much good to paw 'em over now, at this late date,
either. I was almost givin' up my notion and tellin' Luella that would
be about enough, when I noticed a long yellow document envelope stowed
away by itself in a corner.
"There's a fat one," says I.
She hands it out mechanical, as she'd done the rest.
"Hello!" says I, glancin' at the corner.
"Gordon & Co., Broad Street, New York! Why, say, that's the Pyramid
Gordon I was askin' about."
"Is it?" says she. "I hadn't noticed."
"Might give us some clew," I goes on, "as to what him and your Paw had a
run-in about."
"Well, open it, if you like," says Luella careless.
J. Bayard and I takes it over to the window and inspects the cancel
date.
"June, 1894," says I. "Twenty-eight cents postage; registered too. Quite
a package. Well, here goes!"
"Bonds," says Steele, takin' a look. "That old Water Level Development
Company's too."
"And here's a note inside," says I. "Read it."
It was to John Wesley Pedders, cashier of the Merchants' Exchange Bank,
from Mr. Gordon. "In depositing securities for a loan, on my recent
visit to your bank," it runs on, "I found I had brought the wrong set;
so I took the liberty, without consulting your president, of
substituting, for a few days, a bundle of blanks. I am now sending by
registered mail the proper bonds, which you may file. Trusting this
slight delay has caused you no inconvenience, I am----"
"The old fox!" cuts in J. Bayard. "A fair sample of his methods! Had to
have a loan on those securities, and wanted to use them somewhere else
at the same time; so he picked out this little country bank to work the
deal through. Oh, that was Pyramid Gordon, every time! And calmly
allowed a poor cashier to go to State's prison for it!"
"Not Pyramid," says I. "I don't believe he ever heard a word of the
trouble."
"Then why did he put Pedders' name on his list?" demands Steele.
"Maybe he thought sendin' on the bonds would clear up the mess," says I.
"So it would, if they hadn't come a day or two late and got stowed away
here. And here they've been for twenty years!"
"Yes, and quite as valuable to the bank as if they'd been in the
vaults," sneers J. Bayard. "That Water Level stock never was worth the
paper it was printed on, any more than it is now."
"We'll make it useful, then," says I. "Why, it's got Aladdin's lamp beat
four ways for Wednesday! These bonds go to Pedders. Then Pedders shaves
off his whiskers, puts on his Sunday suit, braces his shoulders back,
walks down to the bank, and chucks this bunch of securities at 'em
triumphant."
"But if the bank is still out a hundred and fifty thousand," objects
Steele, "I don't see how----"
"They ain't out a cent," says I. "We'll find a customer for these
bonds."
"Who?" says he.
"J. Bayard Steele," says I. "Ain't you actin' for a certain party that
would have wanted it done?"
"By Jove!" says he. "Shorty, you've hit it! Why, I'd never have thought
of----"
"No," says I; "you're still seein' only that twenty per cent commission.
Well, you get that. But I want to see the look in Mrs. Pedders' eyes
when she hears the news."
Say, it was worth makin' a way train trip to Tullington, believe me!
"I knew," says she. "Oh, I always have known John didn't do it! And now
others will know. Oh, I'm glad, so glad!"
Even brought a slight dew to them shifty eyes of J. Bayard's, that
little scene did. "McCabe," says he, as we settles ourselves in the
night express headed towards Broadway, "this isn't such a bad game,
after all, is it?"