SOUTHWARD TO CLYDE.
Early on the following morning I visited Trafton's best livery stable,
and procuring a good team and light buggy, drove straight to Jim Long's
cabin, intending to solicit his companionship on my ride. But the cabin
was deserted; there was no sign of Jim about the premises; and, after
waiting impatiently for a few moments, and uttering one or two
resounding halloos, I resumed my journey alone.
I had manufactured a pretext for this journey, which was to be confided
to Jim by way of setting at rest any wonder or doubt that my maneuvers
might otherwise give rise to, and I had intended to seize this
opportunity for sounding him, in order the better to judge whether it
would be prudent to take him into our confidence, in a less or greater
degree, as the occasion might warrant.
Such an ally as Jim would be invaluable, I knew; but, spite of the fact
that we had been much in his society, and that we both considered
ourselves, and were considered by others, very good judges of human
nature, neither Carnes nor myself could say truly that we understood Jim
Long.
His words were a mass of absurd contradictions, betraying no trait of
his individuality, save his eccentricity; and his face was, at all
times, as unreadable as the sphinx. When you turned from his
contradictory words to read his meaning in his looks, you felt as if
turning from the gambols of Puck to peer into a vacuum.
Regretting the loss of Jim's society, as well as the opportunity it
might _possibly_ have afforded, I urged my horses swiftly over the
smooth sun-baked road, noting the aspect of the country as we flew on.
Straight and level it stretched before me, with field, orchard, and
meadow on either hand; a cultivated prairie. There were well-grown
orchards, and small artificial groves, rows of tall poplars, clumps of
low-growing trees, planted as wind breaks, hedges high and branching,
low and closely trimmed. But no natural timber, no belts of grove, no
thick undergrowth; nothing that might afford shelter for skulking
outlaws, or stolen quadrupeds.
The houses were plentiful, and not far apart. There were the pretentious
new dwellings of the well-to-do farmers, and the humbler abodes of the
unsuccessful land tiller, and the renter. There were stacks, and barns,
and granaries, all honest in their fresh paint or their weather-beaten
dilapidation; no haven for thieves or booty here.
So for ten miles; then there was a stretch of rolling prairie, but still
no timber, and as thickly settled as before.
Fifteen miles from Trafton I crossed a high bridge that spanned a creek
almost broad enough and deep enough to be called a river. On either side
was a fringe of hazel brush and a narrow strip of timber, so much
thinned by the wood cutter that great gaps were visible among the trees,
up and down, as far as the eye could see.
I watered my horses here, and drawing forth a powerful field glass,
which I had made occasional use of along the route, surveyed the
country. Nothing near or remote seemed worthy of investigation.
Driving beneath some friendly green branches, I allowed my horses to
rest, and graze upon the tender foliage, while I consulted a little
pocket map of the country.
I had been driving directly south, and the C. & L. railroad ran from
Trafton a little to the southwest. At a distance of eighteen miles from
that town the railroad curved to the south and ran parallel with the
highway I was now traveling, but at a distance of eight miles. Ten miles
further south and I would come upon the little inland village of Clyde,
and running due west from Clyde was a wagon road straight to the
railroad town of Amora.
I had started early and driven fast; consulting my watch I found that it
was only half-past ten.
I had intended to push my investigation at least twenty-five miles
south, and although I was already convinced that no midnight raiders
would be likely to choose as an avenue of escape a highway so thickly
dotted with houses, many of them inconveniently near the road, and so
insufficient in the matter of hills and valleys, forest and sheltering
underbrush. I decided to go on to Clyde, hoping, if I failed in one
direction, to increase my knowledge in another.
I put away map and field glass, lit a fresh cigar, turned my horses once
more into the high road and pursued my journey.
It was a repetition of the first ten miles; broad fields and rich
meadows, browsing cattle and honest-eyed sheep; thickly scattered farm
buildings, all upright and honest of aspect; the whole broad face of the
country seemed laughing my investigations to scorn.
When I found myself within sight of Clyde I stopped my team, having
first assured myself that no spectator was in sight and selected from
the roadside a small, round pebble. Looking warily about me a second
time, I inserted it between the hoof and shoe of the most docile of the
two horses.
It was an action that would have brought me into disfavor with the great
Bergh, but in the little game I was about to play, the assistance which
a lame horse could render seemed necessary.
I promised the martyr a splendid rub down and an extra feed as a
compensation, and we moved on slowly toward our destination, the near
horse limping painfully, and his comrade evidently much amazed, and not
a little disgusted, at this sudden change of gait.
The little village of Clyde was taking its noontide nap when I drove
down its principal street, and I felt like a wolf in Arcadia; all was so
peaceful, so clean, so prim and so silent.
A solitary man emerging from a side street roused me to action. I drove
forward and checked my horses directly before him.
Could I find a livery stable in the town? And was there such a thing as
a hotel?
Yes, there was a sort of a stable, at least anybody could get a feed at
Larkins' barn, and he kept two or three horses for hire. As for a hotel,
there it was straight ahead of me; that biggish house with the new
blinds on it.
Being directed to Larkins', I thanked my informant, and was soon making
my wants known to Larkins himself.
Thinking it quite probable that the hired team which I drove might be
known to some denizen of Clyde, I at once announced myself as from
Trafton; adding, that I had driven out toward Clyde on business, and,
being told that I could reach Baysville by a short cut through or near
Clyde, I had driven on, but one of my horses having suddenly become
lame, I had decided to rest at Clyde, and then return to Trafton. I had
been told that Baysville was not more than seven miles from Clyde.
It is scarcely necessary to state that I had really no intention of
visiting Baysville, and that my map had informed me as to its precise
location.
The truth was that I had dropped for the moment the Trafton case, and
had visited Clyde in the interest of Groveland, thinking it not unlikely
that this little hamlet, being so near Amora, might be within the area
traversed by Mr. Ed. Dwight, the sewing machine agent.
He was said to live somewhere between Amora and Sharon, perhaps here I
could learn the precise location of his abiding place.
Leaving my tired horses to the care of Larkins, I next bent my steps
towards the commodious dwelling which did duty as hotel. There was no
office, but the sitting-room, with its homely rag carpet, gaudy
lithographs, old fashioned rocker, and straight-backed "cane seats," was
clean and cool. There was a small organ in one corner, a sewing machine
in another, and an old fashioned bureau in a third.
A little girl, of fourteen years or less, entered the room timidly,
followed by two younger children. She took from the bureau a folded
cloth, snowy and smooth, and left the room quietly, but the younger
ones, less timid, and perhaps more curious, remained.
Perching themselves uncomfortably upon the extreme edges of two chairs,
near together but remote from me, they blinked and stared perseveringly,
until I broke the silence and set them at their ease by commencing a
lively conversation.
The organ was first discussed, then the sewing machine furnished a
fresh topic. After a time my dinner was served: but, during the
half-hour of waiting, while my hostess concocted yellow soda biscuit,
and fried monstrous slices of ham, I had gathered, from my seemingly
careless chatter with the children, some valuable information. While I
ate my dinner, I had leisure to consider what I had heard.
My hostess had not purchased her sewing machine of Ed. Dwight, but he
had been there to repair it; besides, he always stopped there when
making his regular journeys through Clyde. They all liked Dwight, the
children had declared; he could play the organ, and he sang such funny
songs. He could dance, too, "like anything." He lived at _Amora_, but he
had told their mother, when he had paid his last visit, that he intended
to sell out his route soon, and go away. He was going into another
business.
If Mr. Dwight lived at Amora, then Mrs. Ballou had misunderstood or been
misinformed. She was the reverse of stupid, and not likely to err in
understanding. If she had been misinformed, had it not been for some
purpose?
The machine agent had talked of abandoning his present business, and
leaving the country shortly.
If this was true, then it would be well to know where he was going, and
what his new occupation was to be.
Before I had finished doing justice to my country dinner, I had decided
how to act.
Returning to Larkins' stable I found that he had discovered the cause
of my horse's lameness, and listened to his rather patronizing discourse
upon the subject of "halts and sprains," with due meekness, as well as a
profound consciousness that he had mentally set me down as a city
blockhead, shockingly ignorant of "horse lore," and wholly unfit to draw
the ribbons over a decent beast.
He had been assisted to this conclusion by a neighboring Clydeite, who,
much to my annoyance, had sauntered in, and, recognizing not only the
team, but myself, had volunteered the information that:
"Them was Dykeman's bays," and that I was "a rich city fellow that was
stayin' at Trafton;" he had "seen me at the hotel the last time he
hauled over market stuff."
Having ascertained my position in the mind of Mr. Larkins, I consulted
him as to the propriety of driving the bays over to Amora and back that
afternoon.
Larkins eyed me inquisitively.
"I s'pose then you'll want to get back to Trafton to-night?" he queried.
Yes, I wanted to get back as soon as possible, but if Larkins thought
it imprudent to drive so far with the team, I would take fresh horses,
if he had them to place at my disposal. And then, having learned from
experience that ungratified curiosity, especially the curiosity of the
country bumpkin with a taste for gossip, is often the detective's worst
enemy, I explained that I had learned that the distance to Baysville was
greater than I had supposed, and I had decided to drive over to Amora to
make a call upon an acquaintance who was in business there.
Mr. Larkins manifested a desire to know the name of my Amora
acquaintance, and was promptly enlightened.
I wanted to call on Mr. Ed. Dwight, of sewing machine fame.
And now I was the helpless victim in the hands of the ruthless and
inquisitive Larkins.
He knew Ed. Dwight "like a book." Ed. always "put up" with him, and he
was a "right good fellow, any way you could fix it." In short, Larkins
was ready and willing to act as my pilot to Amora; he had "got a flyin'
span of roans," and would drive me over to Amora in "less than no time";
he "didn't mind seeing Ed. himself," etc., etc.
There was no help for it. Larkins evidently did not intend to trust his
roans to my unskilled hands, so I accepted the situation, and was soon
bowling over the road to Amora, _tete-a-tete_ with the veriest
interrogation point in human guise that it was ever my lot to meet.
Larkins did not converse; he simply asked questions. His interest in
myself, my social and financial standing, my occupation, my business or
pleasure in Trafton, my past and my future, was something surprising
considering the length, or more properly the _brevity_ of our
acquaintance.
Even my (supposed) relatives, near and remote, came in for a share of
his generous consideration.
To have given unsatisfactory answers would have been to provoke outside
investigation.
A detective's first care should be to clear up all doubt or uncertainty
concerning himself. Let an inquisitive person think that he knows a
little more of your private history than do his neighbors, and you
disarm him; he has now no incentive to inquiry. He may ventilate his
knowledge very freely, but by so doing he simply plays into your hands.
If the scraps of family history, which I dealt out to Larkins during
that drive, astonished and edified that worthy, they would have
astonished and edified my most intimate friend none the less.
By the time we had reached our destination, I was bursting with
merriment, and he, with newly acquired knowledge.
I had made no attempt to extract information concerning Ed. Dwight, on
the route. I hoped soon to interview that gentleman in _propriae
personae_, and any knowledge not to be gained from the interview I could
"sound" for on the return drive.