THAT NIGHT.
At ten o'clock that night, business was running lively at the low
ceiled, dingy, riverside saloon, that was most popular with the factory
men, the colliers, the drovers, and the promiscuous roughs of W----, and
that bears the dignified title of "Old Forty Rods."
The saloon is well patronized to-night. At the upper end, nearest the
door, "Old Forty," in person, is passing liquors across the bar, and
bawling orders to a nimble assistant, while every now and then he
addresses a coarse jest to some one of the numerous loafers about the
bar, mingling them strangely with his orders, and his calling of the
drinks, as he passes them across the rail.
"Here's your beer, Lupin; Jack, half a dozen brandies for Mr. Burrill's
party; Little, you are out on the brown horse--rum and water? Yes, sir,
yes."
"Burrill's beastly high to-night," said a factory hand, setting down his
beer glass and wiping his mouth; "and the boys freeze to him since he
handles old Lamotte's rocks."
"Of course, of course. Burrill don't forget old friends; Jack, bring the
rum flask; they've been here a plum hour, them chaps, sir; 'ere's your
punch, mister, and they keep the stuff runnin' down their throats, now
I can tell you. Burrill foots the bill, of course; and they can do
anything with that big chap when the wines get the upper hands of him.
I'll be sworn, they're up to mischief to-night, for I see Rooney and Bob
Giles, they delight in getting Burrill into scrapes, are drinking light,
and plying him heavy," and "Forty" turned about to draw a glass of beer
for a low-browed, roughly-dressed man who had just entered, and who was
in fact, none other than the tramp who had feasted by the roadside, on
the day before, and whom Mr. Belknap had called Roake.
Roake drank his beer, and lounged over the bar for a short time, then
called for a second glass, and after drinking it, went quietly out.
At the lower end of the long saloon, several tables are scattered, and
gathered about one of these we see the party spoken of as "Mr.
Burrill's."
Five men are grouped about the small table, and among these, John
Burrill is conspicuous for being much better dressed, much louder in his
laughter, and viler in his jests, and much drunker than are the other
four.
Since his change of fortunes, these men have made capital of his
weakness, and his purse has supplied their thirst, in return for which
he has been fawned upon, and flattered, during the earlier stages of his
intoxication, and made a tool and a jest later.
"I mus' go home," articulated Burrill, drawing forth and consulting a
showy gold repeater. "Folks's sick er home; mus' be good; take er
nother drink, boys?"
"Folks sick, eh?" queried Rooney, winking behind his hand at the others,
"wife, I 'spose?"
"Yes, wife I 'spose; wife 'n' brother-in-law, both sick; take er
nother--"
"All right, old pard; but don't let a little sickness call you off so
early; just let Heath take care of them; you're fond of Heath, too."
"Curse Heath!" roared out John Burrill; "what do you mean, I say,
Roo-Roo-ney?"
"Burrill," said Bob Giles, setting down his glass and speaking in a low,
confidential tone; "what's this power you have over Heath? Don't you
know he's afraid of you?"
"He--he zer 'fraid er me! an' so he better be--him un--"
"And yet there are two or three of the fellows that say you are the one
that's afraid."
"Me afraid! I--John Bur--ll, f-fraid. Boys, look, en I'll jus' tell you
a s-secret. If I jus' opened my mouth, I could run that f-fellow out of
the country; fact!" and he nodded sagaciously again and again.
"Then there ain't no truth in that story that you are the one that's
afraid, and that you wouldn't dare go to Heath's office, not even if you
wanted a doctor?"
"T-truth? By gad, sir, show me the man that says so; show 'im to me! By
heavens, sir, I wouldn't be f-fraid to rout him up the d-darkest night
that ever blew, sir."
"Of course not, we don't doubt that, but--there's them do. I'll tell you
what it is, Burrill, the thing would be settled if you would just walk
up to the doctor's cottage, tell him you are sick somewhere, and bring
away a prescription; that _would_ settle it."
A murmur of approval went round the table. Not a man was there among
them who would not rejoice inwardly at the discomfiture of the arrogant,
would-be aristocrat, who, while he was less than their equal in many
things, had risen above them in fortune. He had reached that period of
drunkenness, and it took a vast quantity of stout liquor to bring him up
to it, where his voice began to grow hoarse, his ready tongue to trip,
his brain to be most completely muddled, and his legs to be most
unreliable instruments of locomotion. The men about the table nodded and
winked to each other, under his very nose.
"Egg him on, Rooney," whispered Giles, "let's have the fun out." And
they did.
Ere long, John Burrill, staggering under the additional cargo of drinks
imbibed as toasts to the undertaking, and again, as draughts of defiance
to the enemy who would dare question his courage, buttoned his coat
about him, and, boasting, cursing, and swaggering, reeled out into the
night. Out into the night that swallowed him up forever.
"Let's follow him," said one of the plotters, starting up as the door
closed behind him.
But this proposition met with no favor. The night was very dark, and the
wind blowing in fierce gusts; the saloon was warm and inviting, and
their victim had ordered their grog, until he should return.
"Let's drink the good liquor he has paid for," said Rooney, with a wink,
"then we will let some more of the boys into the secret, and start out
in a gang and gather him up. Heath will kick him out sure enough, and if
we follow too close we might be discovered. Not by Burrill but by the
doctor. We will bring Burrill back here and two more drinks will make
him tell the whole story."
They did not agree with Rooney on all points of his argument; but they
had played a coarse, practical joke upon a man who sometimes "took on
airs" and vaunted himself as their patron; he who had been only their
equal once. It was only a joke, a witless, mirthless, coarse saloon
joke, and they drank on and grew hilarious, never dreaming that they had
sent one man to his grave, and another to the foot of the scaffold.
As John Burrill came forth from the saloon and turned his face toward
Doctor Heath's cottage, a lithe form emerged from amidst the darkness
and paused for a moment just outside the saloon door, seeming to
hesitate.
"He's goin' home, in course," muttered the man. "I'll jest light out and
come in ahead." And he plunged down a by street and went swiftly over
the bridge; but not alone.
A second dark form had been lurking in the vicinity of "Old Forty's,"
the form of a boy, who glided through the dark, at the heels of the
other, like a spirit.
"He is going wrong," thought this shadow, discontentedly. "Somehow I'm
sure of it; I'm shadowing the wrong party; but--I'm obeying
instructions." And pursued and pursuer crossed the bridge and turned
their steps toward Mapleton.
Meantime, John Burrill, reeling, singing snatches of low songs, and
stopping sometimes to rest and assure himself that all the landmarks are
there, pursues his way toward Doctor Heath's cottage.
It is situated on the outskirts of the town; the way is long, the night
dark, the wind boisterous, and the way lonely. It is after ten o'clock.
Later--nearly two hours later, Frank Lamotte, driven by his demon of
unrest, is pacing his room, feverish and fierce, when his door opens
softly, a white, haggard face looks in, a hoarse voice articulates,
"Frank, for God's sake, for your own sake, come with me quick!"
Frank Lamotte turns swiftly, angrily. He is about to speak, when
something catches his eye, fixes it in horror, and causes him to gasp
out, pointing with one shaking finger.
"Ah-h-h! _what_ is that?"
"It is the _Family Honor_!" came the hissing answer. "_Come_, I tell
you."
And like a man in a nightmare, Frank Lamotte obeys.