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THE BAIL JUMPER
BY
ROBERT J. C. STEAD
LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN
ADELPHI--TERRACE
_First published in_ 1914.
[_All rights reserved._]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--A FRIEND AND AN ENEMY
CHAPTER II--SECRETS OF SUCCESS
CHAPTER III--TWO ON THE TRAIL
CHAPTER IV--CROTTON'S CROSSING
CHAPTER V--UNDER SUSPICION
CHAPTER VI--THE ARM OF THE LAW
CHAPTER VII--ONLY A BARNARDO BOY
CHAPTER VIII--A MYSTERIOUS ACQUAINTANCE
CHAPTER IX--A FUGITIVE
CHAPTER X--PLAYING THE GAME
CHAPTER XI--A FRIEND IN NEED
CHAPTER XII--LOVE--OR LAW?
CHAPTER XIII--GROPING
CHAPTER XIV--THE SACRIFICE OF SILENCE
CHAPTER XV--STILL PLAYING THE GAME
CHAPTER XVI--KIT MCKAY
CHAPTER XVII--THE HOMESTEAD LINE
CHAPTER XVIII--RIGHT ABOUT FACE!
CHAPTER XIX--THE LIGHT AT LAST
THE BAIL JUMPER
CHAPTER I--A FRIEND AND AN ENEMY
"We have felt the cold of winter--cursed by those who know it not--
We have braved the blizzard's vengeance, dared its most deceptive
plot;
We have learned that hardy races grow from hardy circumstance,
And we face a dozen dangers to attend a country dance;
Though our means are nothing lavish we have always time for play,
And our social life commences at the closing of the day;
We have time for thought and culture, time for friendliness and
friend,
And we catch a broader vision as our aspirations blend."
_Prairie Born._
The short winter day was at an end. The gloom of five-o'clock twilight
gathered about the frost-shrouded team and the farm sleigh which
crunched complainingly behind. For twenty miles the team had plodded,
steadily, laboriously--their great heads undulating with their gait,
through the snow-blocked roads. The two fur-clad men had long ago
dropped all attempt at conversation, and an occasional swing of their
arms, in an effort to revive the chilled circulation, was the only
evidence that the vital spark still burned in their deep-bosomed bodies.
Suddenly a shape loomed through the grey mist of the night. The horses
lurched back upon the double trees, their trace-chains clattering with
the slack. The shape took form; a frightened team were seen plunging in
the deep snow by the roadside; the vehicles interlocked.
"What d'ye mean by crowdin' me off the road like that?" cried an angry
voice, as a man's form rose in the opposing cutter.
"I didn't crowd you off," returned the driver of the sleigh. "It was
your own reckless speed that got you into trouble. See, man, your nigh
horse is down; I'm thinkin' he needs your attention more than me."
"But it's you will have it first," came the savage reply, as the speaker
sprang from the cutter on to the side of the sleigh. But almost before
he landed a great bear-like arm shot out, and the assailant would have
fallen in a crumpled mass beside his struggling horses, had not the same
arm jerked him forward into the sleigh.
In the deep gloom the two men thrust their faces close, then drew
suddenly back.
"And what way is this to greet a neighbour on the public road, Hiram
Riles?" demanded the driver of the sleigh. "Ye'll have strange tales for
the wife to-night, I'm thinkin', by the breath o' you. Away home with
ye, and mind the road. It's no fit night for a man in your shape,
Hiram."
The other murmured thickly, "I'm all right," but showed no further
belligerent tendencies; and when the team had been extricated from their
entanglement and set upon the road again, the two old-timers parted in
their opposite directions.
"It's a sore temptin' o' Providence for a man to venture on the country
roads a winter's night without all his senses, Raymond," said the elder
man, as they drove on. "See ye're no guilty of it. There's many a
tragedy blamed to the climate that's begun in the gin-shop."
Already the town lights were peering mistily through the haze, and in a
few minutes the sleigh drew up at the door of Gardiner's general store.
The two men got out and lifted a trunk to the sidewalk, when the elder
resumed his seat in the sleigh.
"Hadn't you better put in the team and stay all night, father? The
horses are dog-tired, and it'll be better driving in the morning."
"No, Raymond. I'll push back as far as Mathesons', and spend the night
there. I'm no hand for stayin' in town. I'll be leavin' now, and mind,
boy, we're expectin' you to make good."
The two men grasped hands in a moment's clasp; the next, sleigh and
driver had disappeared in the night.
The young man stood on the sidewalk, in the momentary irresolution of
the stranger. He had been in Plainville before, and knew Mr. Gardiner by
sight; but then, he met him as a customer, and now it was to be as
employee. Overcoming his bashfulness, he pushed open the store door and
entered. The white glare of the gasoline lights revealed a boy of
twenty-one, sturdy and well set up, although of somewhat smaller stature
than the average in the country; with clean, weather-beaten face and
eyes accustomed to look squarely before them. The nose rose strong and
resolute from the cheeks, but in the quiet mouth there was a lurking
sadness suggestive of melancholy.
Raymond Burton unbuttoned his coat and threw back the collar, when a
cheery voice said, "Hello, Burton, you got in? Hardly expected you
to-night, the roads are so full. Throw off your coat and warm yourself,
and then go up to Mrs. Goode's boarding-house and make yourself at home.
I have arranged accommodation for you there. She is one of our best
customers, and she runs a good house."
There was nothing stand-offish about Gardiner. He met his employees on a
basis of friendship and equality, and had a ready way with him that was
continually swelling his list of customers, notwithstanding the
competition of the Sempter Trading Co., the oldest and strongest
mercantile firm in the town. Indeed, Gardiner was little more than a boy
himself, who, a few years before, had come up from one of the Eastern
Provinces to engage in business in the West.
Gardiner walked around to the boarding-house with Burton, after giving a
boy a quarter to deliver the trunk. Mrs. Goode, herself, answered the
bell. She was a sprightly, motherly woman, with a quick step, a ready
tongue, and a hearty laugh; hair that hinted of fifty, but a smile that
said she was twenty-five; and, withal, not entirely blind to her own
accomplishments.
"This is my new clerk, Mr. Burton, Mrs. Goode," said Gardiner. "I
brought him here because I knew the house you run. He has driven most of
the day, and just needs one of your hot suppers to make him feel the
luck he has in being one of Mrs. Goode's boarders."
"Well, I do give a good supper, if I say it myself," said Mrs. Goode.
"No hungry people in my house, if I know it. But you want to go to your
room. Alice, show Mr. Butler to room sixteen. Sweet sixteen, I call it,
and I always save it for the young men," she added, with a coquettish
glance at her new customer.
Alice Goode, aged eighteen, emerged from the dining-room, and Burton
having been introduced, as "Mr. Garden's new clerk," she demurely led
the young man upstairs. "I hope you will like your room," she said, and,
the business obligations of the situation discharged, continued, "Do you
dance?"
"Why, a little," Burton admitted. "But I never learned, properly. Just
country dances, you know."
"Gee, that's all is any good, anyway. None of your city camel-strides
for me, but a good turkey-in-the-straw alamen-lefter an' you can count
me in every trip. There's a hop on at Grant's to-night. Going?"
"I'm afraid I haven't an invitation, and I don't even know the people."
"That don't matter. There'll be some loads goin' out from town, an' you
better just roll into one of them. It's about five miles, an' the ride
will be dandy. Besides, Grant's are the best there is, an' you'll be as
welcome as a rich sinner in church. The hoe-down is in honour of their
niece, who has come out from the East, an's goin' to live with them.
They say she's pretty an' a swell singer. It'll be quite a show-ring
affair, I expect, but all to the good."
"Al-i-c-e!" cried her mother. "Set them good silver knives an' forks,
cause Mr. Burtle's here, an' get a two-step on yuh now or never a foot
will yuh go to the dance to-night."
Alice disappeared, and Burton was left to examine his quarters. They
were small and cheaply furnished, but comfortable enough. "At any rate,"
he soliloquised, "I shall not be very lonely, if Miss Alice is a sample
of Plainville society."
The smell from Mrs. Goode's supper table justified that lady's high
opinion of it. When Burton came in he was introduced to each boarder in
turn. There were two lady school-teachers, two bank clerks, a couple of
store employees, a young lawyer, and several who might be termed "not
classified." A spirit of good fellowship prevailed, and Burton was
surprised at the point to which banter was carried. Alice waited on the
table, while Mrs. Goode presided in the kitchen. Mr. Goode, a tall,
cadaverous man, moved shyly about the house, in which he occupied a
minor position. It was understood that Mrs. Goode held him in much
disfavour on account of his emaciated appearance, which she felt to be a
reflection upon her boarding-house.
"How can I expect to prosper when I have a walkin' sign-post like that?"
she lamented to her neighbour, Mrs. O'Brien.
"Fade him on breakfast food with a little 'barm' in til't," was that
honest woman's advice.
After supper Burton was reading in his room, when a knock came at the
door, and Gardiner burst in.
"Say, Burton, come with me to the dance at Grant's to-night," said the
visitor. "I'm driving out in my cutter, and I want company. They're O.K.
people, and there's a new-comer out there we all want to see. As for an
invitation--well, I have instructions to see that all the desirables are
asked, and I figure you in that bunch. Come along. The sooner you get
acquainted here the better, both for yourself and from a business point
of view."
Burton surmised that the "business point of view" had a good deal to do
with most of Gardiner's attitudes, but he was glad enough to accept the
invitation. The drive, in a top cutter, behind a spirited team, was so
different from the dreary monotony of the afternoon that Raymond could
scarce believe it was the same country. There were many rigs on the
road, but the trail was banked so high (for in prairie countries the
winter roads rise high above the surrounding snow) that it was
impossible to pass, and before reaching Grant's the scattered rigs had
gathered into a long procession.
The Grant boys, George and Harry, were at the stable with lanterns, and
hurried about, exchanging greetings while they wrestled with frozen
tugs, and directed drivers blinking in the light. The young ladies
became the charge of Susy Grant, who bundled them in at the front door
of the house, while her brothers herded the swains into the kitchen, for
be it known, that while women may be ushered into parlour or bedroom,
the kitchen is the proper reception place for men. There they sit on
stools and wood-boxes, or crowd into corners, exchanging anecdotes or
revelling in amusement furnished by the wits of the countryside. Burton
was introduced by his employer to a few of the men and boys nearest by,
but none Waited for an introduction when there was occasion to speak.
They were a mixed company, some from the town, and others from the
country district in which the Grant homestead lay, but all were
acquainted and most were friends. Presently the door opened and a
new-comer ambled in; a strange human contrivance, half man, half boy,
who tripped over his long coat on the doorstep and projected himself in
a heap in the midst of the laughing crowd.
"Hello, London, what flew up an' hit you?" said one, as the boy
scrambled clumsily to his feet. "Been to town on your way over?"
"Hit's my bloomin' coat," explained London. "Hi fall w'en hever Hi try
to stand hup."
"Take it 'hoff,'" shouted the crowd, as London proceeded to remove his
outer garments. This operation revealed the fact that London, as the
Barnardo lad was popularly called, although a boy in stature, aspired to
the wearing of man's clothes, with the result that his trousers were
turned up almost to his knees and his coat hung down below them, the two
extremes meeting, as it were, about a foot from the floor. His
commodious boots had been recently blacked, and a heavy brass chain
stretched from pocket to pocket of his vest; but, most glorious of all,
was the bright red tie speared with a pin in the form of a horseshoe and
intended, doubtless, to indicate that its wearer was a sport of the
first blood.
"How did you get away to-night, London? Couldn't Riles find anything for
you to do?"
"'E could. 'E'll find work for them as comes to 'is funeral. But 'e's
comin' 'imself, an' has Hi was specially named in Missus Grant's
hinvitation"--this with an air of profound importance--"'e could 'ardly
'elp letting me come, 'specially has Hi said Hi would burn down the
'ouse hif they came with-hout me."
"Good boy, London," was the comment. "That's the way to bring him to
time."
"Hi drownded a pig hin the well one day 'e went to town an' wouldn't
take me," said London, proudly. "Hand another time----"
What happened another time was never made public, for at that moment Big
Jack McTavish, official caller-off and master of ceremonies at every
dance in the Plainville district for a dozen years, strode into the
dining-room and shouted, "Partners for the Circashyun Circle."
The men from the kitchen swarmed into the dining-room and parlour, which
had been cleared of carpets and furniture. The piano stood in the hall,
where it was presided over by Miss Green, the school-teacher; on a chair
alongside sat old Dave Cottrell, the fiddler, who had spent the
sixty-odd years of his life in struggle to draw the maddening music from
his violin, and had succeeded in that, and in nothing else; along the
stairs, and in the bedrooms above, were crowded the girls and young
women. This was partners' dance, and in a few moments the floor was
crowded. Then the music struck up and the feet kept time, and the dance
had started. In the intricacies of the Circassian Circle every couple is
made to dance with every other couple, so that all have a chance to
exchange greetings before the first set is over, and it affords as
appropriate an opening selection as Old Hundred at morning service.
Before Big Jack's ample hands came together as a signal that the first
dance was ended the last atom of reserve had been swept away, and
everybody was in tune to make a night of it. Gardiner danced with every
lady in the room, from Alice Goode to little Miss Green, who was
persuaded to leave the piano for just one set, and even London found
young women who did not scorn his clumsy advances. The dances were
quadrilles, lancers, schottisches and reels, with an occasional waltz or
two-step just to indicate that if they did not give city dances the
place of prominence it was through choice, not ignorance.
Among the ladies was one whom Burton knew to be the guest of honour,
even before he was told; a young woman his own age, or older, dressed in
a creamy white, with a single real rose in her hair. Her dark, full
eye-lashes, the finely shaped nose and ears, the firm but sympathetic
mouth, electrically responsive to every wave of emotion of her alert
brain, were not lost upon the country youth. There were many graceful
dancers, many radiant, happy-faced girls, but hers was a grace distinct
from theirs and a happiness more subtle, more delightful, more
pervading. The little tricks of speech which distinguish between the
intelligent and the well-educated; the little delicate courtesies which
distinguish between the well-meaning and the well-bred; the inborn and
self-effacing refinement which is the touchstone of true culture--these
were evidenced in every word, every motion, every gesture. Burton forgot
about dancing, forgot that he was expected to dance, as he drank in a
music unheard by the less discerning ears about him, and revelled in an
intoxication not of wine. It was not until Gardiner came to his corner
and, with a friendly slap, said, "Burton, old man, get up and dance.
What are you moping for?" that he was recalled to his surroundings.
"I'm not moping; just dreaming," he said, springing to his feet.
"Never dream while you are awake; it doesn't pay. There's Alice Goode;
she has glanced your way a dozen times--and there's worse girls than
Alice."
Burton took the hint, and in a few moments was threading his way through
the meshes of a quadrille amid the pepsin aroma of the sweet Alice. He
discharged his obligation with credit, thanked his partner courteously,
and retired into his corner until supper was called at midnight.
Mrs. Grant supervised the work in the kitchen, while willing, although
not always skilful, hands assisted in the distribution of the
refreshments. This was the stage of the evening's entertainment at which
the social spirit flowed highest; men and women, boys and girls, sat or
stood about in disorganised groups, eating sandwiches, cake and pie, and
consuming great cups of hot coffee, the while sharpening their wits at
each other's expense and joining as heartily in the laugh when it
happened to be at their own.
A middle-aged gentleman whose appearance stirred some old memory in
Burton, seeing the young man seated a little by himself, came over and
engaged in conversation.
"If my old eyes do not deceive me, you are a son of John Burton's," said
he.
"I am Raymond Burton. And you--surely I should remember you?"
"Man, man, I know your father like my own brother. Sure you've heard him
speak of Dick Matheson? We shantied together on the Muddywaski, and a
better man than John Burton never rode a log in the Ottaway country,
which is sayin' a good deal. I do not see you dancin' much. I'm thinkin'
you will have your father's quiet way; like a sleepy kitty, he was, when
left alone, but a roarin' lion when put to the bit. But times are
changed, and men win more now with soft speech than we did with hard
knuckles. And whichever the game, a Burton should be to the fore.
Grant," he said, addressing the head of the house, as he was about to
pass, "this is Raymond Burton. I knew his father on the Muddywaski." To
honest Dick Matheson no further credentials seemed necessary.
"Glad to meet you," said Mr. Grant, cordially. "Have you been introduced
to my niece? Dear me, I'm afraid the reception committee are too busy
with the sandwiches. Myrtle, just a moment," as the young lady emerged
from an eddy of humanity, "let me present Mr. Burton. Mr. Burton--Miss
Vane," and the two elder gentlemen allowed themselves to be swept into
the vortex of the crowd.
Miss Vane took Burton's hand in a friendly grip--a grip that was not
afraid to speak of the soul behind it. "I am a stranger here, and I meet
so many people, but I shall remember you," she said in quiet, musical
tones, in such striking contrast, Burton thought, to the strident
country voices about him.
"I am a stranger too," the young man answered for want of a better thing
to say.
"Then we at least have something in common," said Miss Vane, and it
occurred to Raymond that he had said the best thing possible.
In a moment the young lady was claimed by other guests. But Burton was
satisfied.
When supper was over and the conversation began to lag, some one
suggested that Miss Vane should sing. The proposal was received with
applause.
"If it will give you any pleasure," said the young lady. Miss Green
resumed her seat at the piano, and in a few moments human tones such as
never before had been heard in Plainville district filled the sturdy
house from kitchen to attic. Deep, melting, melodious tones--the cultured
expression of the greatest musical instrument God Himself could
devise--the human voice! To what degrading uses it is so often put! She
sang, not the popular airs of the day, nor classical selections beyond
the ken of her audience, however dear to herself, but the old Scotch
songs which are strong enough to force a way to the roughest intellect,
yet fine enough to stir the slightest chord in the galaxy of human
accomplishment; deep enough to send men raging to battle and gentle
enough to croon little children to sleep. As she wandered on and on,
through the heroic, the pathetic, the tenderly sentimental, the dancers
sat in the rapture of a spell as new to them as the angel chorus to the
shepherds of Palestine, and when at last the low voice poured forth the
sanctified lament of "The Land o' the Leal," Big Jack's wife went
sobbing to the kitchen, and Mrs. Grant slipped a motherly arm around
little Mrs. Dale, whose misty eyes were seeing a year-old mound and a
little white slab that stared stolidly through the snow:
"Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
She was baith gude and fair, Jean,
And oh, we grudged her sair,
Tae the Land o' the Leal."
Even London forgot to dangle his watch-chain, and his employer, Riles,
who had sold his soul to Mammon twenty years ago, laughed quietly at the
tear on the boy's cheek.
When the singer had finished, and the spell was broken by the
commonplace talk which someone always finds necessary to introduce on
such occasions, Dick Matheson got up and said, "We have all listened to
Miss Vane with great delight, and feel that she is no longer a stranger
among us. But we have another stranger here to-night, and it is but fair
that we should hear him too. Burton, let's hear from you. Your father
could sing 'The Death of Jimmie Whalen' with any man in the shanties. I
knew his father on the Muddywaski," he explained.
Burton blushed and made excuses, but a popular suggestion in such a
company is tantamount to a command. Surrendering to the inevitable, he
arose, saying, "I do not sing at all, but I will repeat some verses, if
you insist."
"We insist," came the chorus, and, when silence was secured, he began in
a strong, human voice, lacking the finish of culture, but vibrant with
sympathy with the spirit of the poem:
"This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main--
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings----"
He had not repeated four lines until he discovered that he had made a
mistake. The soul may respond to music it cannot comprehend, as a rusty
wire may thrill with vibrations from the throat of a Melba, but the mind
of man makes no answer to poetry beyond its grasp. Burton was forcing
himself against an immovable resistance; projecting a thought, live,
warm, charged with the germs of a million inspirations, against a stone
wall of mental vacuity. And yet he was sustained, as in an electric coil
a single wire thinner than a human hair may support the current that
flashes on two oceans at once, and he proceeded. In the second stanza
his eyes met Miss Vane's, and heaven was opened before him. She
understood! Her mind was pacing the "caves of thought" with his; her
mentality was producing the current that he transformed into speech. He
remembered the advice of a great orator--"Speak to one soul in your
audience, and forget all others," and he obeyed. Not again did he look
at Miss Vane; he dared not double-circuit the delicate current that
carried him on, but he poured forth the solemn cadences of Holmes' great
poem with a fire and enthusiasm that commanded the attention of the
company until, focusing his energy in the last stanza, the walls
trembled with the vibrations of his intensity:
"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll;
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea."
There was a clapping of hands, which Burton knew to be a courtesy rather
than a compliment, and Susy Grant went so far as to say that it was a
very nice piece. Matheson justified all by repeating that he "knew his
father on the Muddywaski," but the young man cared not what they said or
thought. For a dozen years he had spent the long winter evenings on the
farm in reading and self-culture, thereby opening to himself a door
through which none of these could follow. None--save one. And she had
followed. She understood!
The dancing was then revived, more vigorously, if possible, than in the
earlier part of the evening. Burton noticed that Gardiner twice engaged
Miss Vane as his partner, but himself did not dare claim so great a
boon. He was but a country boy, and Gardiner was a town man, a business
man, and--his employer.
Before the dance broke up a laugh was caused by the discovery of London
in the kitchen, deep amid the sandwiches and pie.
"You must be hungry, London," said one of the young men, as a group
gathered round him.
"You bet Hi ham," answered the lad, unabashed. "Hi 'aven't 'ad wot you'd
call a decent meal hin a month."
"Fill your pockets, then; there's lots there," was the good advice
given, which London proceeded to take.
At the back of the group was a coarse, animal-looking man, with heavy,
scowling features and an eye whose natural repulsiveness was heightened
by a deep scar along the brow, which caused the livid eye-lids to loop
outward as they approached the nose. He noted the incident, and as he
heard the conversation a look of malignant hate deepened in the glaring
eyes, and the mouth twitched in a brutal lust for revenge. It was Riles.
At last it was time to go home, and the gathering broke up. Gardiner
lingered a moment with Miss Vane, and Burton proceeded to the stable. On
the way he passed near by the Grant summer-house, now little more than a
great mound of snow. Through his fur covering he fancied he heard a
strange noise; he turned down the collar, and listened. Unmistakable
sounds of violence, of muffled cursing, of hard, short breathing, came
from beyond the summer-house. Burton ran in that direction, and the
gibbous moon which now shone dimly through the scattering clouds
revealed a form in the snow and another above kicking viciously,
endeavouring to sink the heavy boots in the face of the fallen man. As
the victim threw up his arms to protect his face he received the blows
in the chest, driving the breath from his lungs in great gasps. Burton,
seeing how desperate was the situation, rushed upon the assailant, and,
crossing his arms about the other's neck, gripped his throat in a
strangle-hold that sent him to his knees in a moment. Every effort to
break loose was vain; the vital supply of air was shut off, and in a few
seconds the big frame rolled helplessly in Burton's arms. The muscles
relaxed, the head fell back, the face turned up to the pale light of the
moon, and the eyes, glaring and misshapen, glared into his. It was
Riles.
London, seeing help at hand, sent up a lusty shriek, and in a few
minutes a big crowd had gathered about the combatants. Gardiner hurried
to Burton's side and whispered, "Let him go, that's not what I hired you
for." Burton released his grip and Riles fell in the snow, London
sending up a fresh series of shrieks when he saw his oppressor again at
liberty. The big man soon recovered himself and scrambled to his feet,
and the crowd rapidly dispersed. But before Riles went he found occasion
to hiss in Burton's ear, "You got the drop on me that time, young
meddler, but I'll square it with ye yet, if I do murder for it."
Burton laughed, but the words left an unpleasant taste.