WHO WAS THE THIEF?
Paul called for Kirke on the following Saturday, long before
breakfast-time. He had driven in from the ranch in Mr. Keith’s
two-seated wagon, drawn by a pair of little brown mules, and was
evidently in a prodigious hurry.
“Hello, Selkirk!” he shouted to the side of the house. “Stir around
lively. Mr. Keith wants Sing Wung to get to work on the well early.”
“I’ll be there in two seconds,” returned Kirke, thrusting a tumbled
head through an open window. “All dressed but my hair.”
“Good! Can’t you eat your breakfast on the road?”
“To be sure. I can eat anywhere, everywhere.”
The tumbled head disappeared; and Paul began to munch a buttered roll
just brought him by his sister Pauline. Their home was just across the
street, and she had watched for Paul, and rushed out to meet him, and
now stood leaning against the front wheel of the wagon, chatting with
him. She was a warm-hearted, impulsive girl, rather too heedless and
outspoken at times. She had no mother to guide her, and lacked the
gentle manners of her friend, Molly Rowe.
“You ought to put on your hat, Polly. You’re getting as brown as a
Mexican,” remarked Paul, with brotherly frankness, as he attacked a
second roll.
“Black, you should say,” corrected she coolly. “I’ve noticed it myself.
You’re an albino. I’m a negress. I’ve no manner of doubt people call us
‘the black and white twins.’”
“What about Shot, Paul? Has he been heard from?” called Molly from
behind the window-shade of her chamber.
“Oh, I hoped he had turned up by this time. No, we haven’t seen a sign
of him, Molly; but we’ve found this.”
Here Paul held up a dog’s collar.
“Shot’s collar!” cried Molly.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve found that and haven’t found the dog?”
exclaimed Kirke, rushing down the steps of the veranda, flourishing in
one hand a gripsack, in the other a small bunch of bananas. “Where did
you find it, Paul? And when?”
“Last night, Kirke, in the hedge of the olive-orchard.”
“In the hedge?”
“Yes, tucked under it, ’way out of sight.”
“Then somebody hid it there--Sing Wung! I’ll bet ’twas Sing Wung!”
muttered Kirke, as he mounted the wagon. “He killed Shot. Got mad with
him and killed him, and then saved his collar. He thought he could get
money for it.”
“Has somebody killed Shot?” piped half-dressed Weezy, screening herself
from view behind her sister. “Oh, dear, dear! Poor little Shot!”
“Deah, deah, poo’ ’ittle S’ot!” echoed Don, running to the casement in
his ruffled white night-dress, and standing there quite unabashed.
“Such a sweet, lovely little dog as he was!” went on Weezy, in a
tearful voice. “Just as white and good as he could be. S’pose he’s got
up to heaven yet, Kirke?”
“The idea, Weezy!” Kirke’s tone was at once grieved and scornful. “Who
ever heard of a fox-terrier’s going to heaven?”
“Don’t good little fox-terriers go to heaven? Nobody ever told me that
before,” sighed Weezy, as Paul turned the mules toward Chinatown. “O
Kirke, don’t you wish Shot had been a good little skye-terrier ’stead
of a fox? He would have gone to heaven _then_, you know!”
“It’s no sign Shot is dead, Weezy, dear, because he just happened to
lose his collar,” cried Pauline, stepping back from the wheel with a
smothered laugh. “He’ll come trotting home, wagging his tail, one of
these days, you’ll see!”
It was like Pauline to prophesy pleasant things. She was always
hopeful, always cheerful. They called her the merriest member of The
Happy Six.
“Yes, Polly, and you’ll see, too,” was Kirke’s gloomy rejoinder.
“Good-by, everybody.”
“Good-by, Sobersides,” retorted Pauline, brushing her sleeves, which
had rested upon the dusty tire. “Good-by, Twinny, love, I’ll be happy
to meet you later in Europe, both of you.”
Kirke hardly smiled at this nonsensical farewell. He cared very little
just now about Europe, or any other foreign country. He could only
think of Shot’s collar found in the hedge. Somebody had hidden it
there; and in his heart Kirke convicted Sing Wung.
“That collar was expensive, you know, Paul,” he broke forth, before
they had reached the first corner. “He was going to sell it at one of
the second-hand stores.”
“How could he have sold it? That would have given him away, Kirke.
Shot’s name is on it.”
“Poh! couldn’t the villain have ripped off that plate?”
“Not very easily. Besides, Kirke, if Sing Wung really meant to sell the
collar, why didn’t he carry it home with him yesterday?”
“Perhaps he couldn’t screw his courage up. He might have been afraid of
getting caught taking it.”
Though by nature unsuspicious, Kirke was a boy of strong prejudices.
Since making up his mind that the Chinaman was guilty of a crime, he
could no longer tolerate him.
“But how are we going to prove that Sing Wung put the collar in the
hedge?” asked Paul earnestly. “Mr. Keith says it isn’t fair to condemn
_anybody_ on circumstantial evidence.”
“Fudge! What more evidence does he want? Didn’t we both see Sing Wung
stoning my Shot? And has anybody set eyes on my Shot from that day to
this?”
“No,” said Paul, “it does look dark against Sing Wung, I confess, and
I’m just as mad with him as you are.”
“I shouldn’t think Mr. Keith would keep such a sneak. He ought to
discharge him, and I’ve a great mind to tell him so,” returned Kirke,
as if his opinion and advice would carry great weight with that
gentleman.
“Oh, he can’t discharge him now, Kirke! How can he, right in the height
of the barley harvest?”
“He can hire somebody else.”
“No, he can’t for love or money. The Mexicans and Chinamen are all
engaged for the season by this time. Besides, there’s the well not half
done.”
Kirke bit his lip. He knew that this well was needed at once. He had
seen for himself how Mr. Keith’s young orange-trees were turning yellow
for want of proper irrigation. As they approached the Chinese quarter
of the city, he broke the silence by remarking grimly,--
“I sha’n’t speak to Sing Wung. I want him to know I suspect him.”
“Do you suppose he’ll take the _cue_?” asked Paul, attempting his
sister’s trick of punning.
Sing Wung was waiting for them at the door of his whitewashed cabin.
He was dressed as usual in loose blue trousers and a frock of lighter
blue denim, his long cue wound about his head in a coil and tied with
narrow, indigo-colored ribbon.
“He has the blues awfully, hasn’t he?” whispered Kirke, not to be
outdone by Paul in the play upon words.
“One of his relatives must have died,” was Paul’s low answer as he drew
in the reins. “I’ve heard that the Chinese wear blue ribbon on their
hair for mourning.”
“If he’s mourning for my dog, it looks well in him,” mused Shot’s
bereaved master; and to emphasize his indignation Kirke turned away his
head while Sing Wung climbed to the back seat of the wagon.
Paul cracked the whip, and the grotesque little mules trotted on,
flapping their broad ears at every step, as if they considered them
wings and were preparing to fly.
“The grass is getting brown,” remarked Paul, when they had left the
city behind them, “as brown as hay. And phew! isn’t the road dusty!”
“Sneezing dusty,” answered Kirke; “I don’t believe the people that live
in that shanty over yonder have to spend any money for snuff.”
As he spoke he pointed to a wretched hut a little removed from the
highway, and entirely surrounded by dirt.
“Mateo lives there,” said Paul carelessly.
“Who’s Mateo?”
“Mateo? Oh, he’s a lazy, no-account Indian, who helps sometimes on the
ranch.”
“I wonder if he isn’t the fellow that mended our thill for us the other
day?” mused Kirke. “We broke down somewhere near here. How does he
look? Is he fat?”
“Fat as butter. He ought to be, you know, considering they call him a
_greaser_.”
Kirke giggled, and Paul looked highly gratified at the success of
his witticism. He thought he might get up quite a reputation as a
humorist, if Pauline didn’t always say the funny things before he had a
chance. He was glad to feel that he was entertaining Kirke: he couldn’t
bear to see the boy so downhearted.
The mules were frisky that morning, and reached the end of the journey
in excellent season.
“Heap soon!” grinned Sing Wung, as he alighted upon the ground,
apparently not at all disturbed because Kirke had taken no notice of
him whatever.
“Oh, you can laugh, can you?” thought Kirke, hopping down over the
opposite wheel. “You ought to be howling, you dog-murderer!”
“You’re early, Sing Wung,” said Mr. Keith, who had come out to shake
hands with the boys. “You’ve got ahead of Yeck Wo.”
“Hasn’t Yeck Wo come yet?” asked Paul quickly. “You don’t suppose the
man is sick again, do you, Mr. Keith?”
“I’m beginning to fear it, Paul.”
“If he is, what’s to be done, Mr. Keith?”
Paul still stood by the wagon, reins in hand. He was very much
interested in the progress of the well, and wanted the digging to go
on, since Kirke had come on purpose to watch it.
“Sha’n’t I go for Mateo, Mr. Keith?”
“No, Paul, thank you, not quite yet. I don’t want Mateo as long as
there’s any hope of Yeck Wo. But if Yeck Wo doesn’t come, I may ask you
later to go for Mateo. We’ll tie the mules here under the pepper-tree
to have them handy.”
“No workee?” asked Sing Wung, not quite understanding what was said.
“Yes, yes, Sing Wung, you can go right to work here,” said Mr. Keith,
leading the way to the new well. “Come boys, please, and help me lower
him down in the bucket. He must go to digging.”
The boys sprang forward with alacrity, feeling that now the fun had
fairly begun.