OLD GRIM BARNES GETS A THRILL.
The precipitate departure of Travers Gladwin left Whitney Barnes and
the shirt-sleeved Michael Phelan staring blankly at each other. The
unfrocked policeman was anything but an imposing figure and the
contortions of distress in his rubicund countenance were grotesque
enough to kindle the sense of humor in a far less volatile mind than
that of Whitney Barnes. His smile came to the surface and spread out
in full blossom. But it failed to find reflection in the features of
Mrs. Phelan's son.
"What the divvil are ye grinnin' at?" snarled Phelan. "Ye wouldn't
see no fun in it if it mint your job an' your pension an' your
silf-respect. Now, what is it all about?"
"There you have me, officer," responded the young man, lightly. "The
riddle is dark on all four sides. You and I are in the same
boat--guardians of the castle against the mysterious foe. While you
guard the moat from the kitchen I will operate the portcullis."
"Talk sinse, will yez?" hissed Phelan. "What in blazes has moats an'
portcollars to do with it?"
"Only in a way of speaking," laughed Barnes. "But calm yourself, Mr.
Phelan, my friend is both wise and discreet. He will do no dishonor to
your cloth, and together we will see that you suffer no material
damage in this life. I am unable to explain further without uttering
more confusion, so kindly take yonder tray down into the kitchen. That
little door on the extreme right I believe opens the way to the lower
regions. I am sure Bateato left the lights on."
"May the blessed saints presairve ye if it's a trap ye're riggin' fer
Michael Phelan," breathed that gentleman, shaking his head dubiously.
"'Tis not a step I'll go down into that kitchen till yez lead me the
way, and if there's any more ravin' maniacs down in them quarters I
warn ye it's shootin' I'll be after doin'."
And Phelan patted the bulge in his hip pocket as he swung around.
Barnes led the way through the long, narrow corridor to the rear of
the house, while Phelan followed, muttering and grumbling every inch
of the way. There was no further conversation between them while they
investigated the elaborate quarters below stairs, and at last Phelan
ceased his mutterings and accepted from Barnes an armful of cook books
with which to regale himself until he was summoned to resume his
uniform.
Returning to the big silent rooms above, Whitney Barnes was utterly at
a loss how to occupy himself. The thundering stillness got on his
nerves and he found himself thinking of a dozen different things at
once. But as idea pursued idea the image of the shy and winsome Sadie
persisted in intervening.
So he dropped Travers Gladwin, or rather the two Travers Gladwins,
Helen, Phelan and all the others from his mind and gave himself up to
the beatific contemplation of the picture that was most soothing to
his spirits.
For a while he lolled back in one of the great chairs, shut his eyes
and revolved pleasant visions. Suddenly he thought of his father and
sprang to his feet.
"By Jove! I'll break the news to the pater," he cried. "There's a
telephone somewhere in this house, and I'll call him up at his club."
He fairly danced out into the hallway, switching on lights wherever he
could find a button to press. Presently he located the phone in a
secluded alcove and slumped down on a divan with the instrument in his
lap.
As a matter of fixed routine, it happened that this particular hour
found Joshua Barnes, mustard magnate, settled down to his cigar and
coffee, in which he found immense comfort after a hearty meal. To be
disturbed at this most luxurious moment of the day was, to a man of
his temperament, about as pleasant a sensation as being stung by a
rattlesnake.
He sent the club attendant back to the phone with a savage growl and
the message to his son to call him up in an hour or to come to the
club in person. The attendant crept back with the report that Barnes
junior insisted that there could be no delay--that he had a vastly
important matter to report on.
Old Grim Barnes flung down his cigar, gulped his coffee till he choked
and stamped off to the telephone booth.
"Well?" he bellowed.
--That you, pater--sorry to disturb you, but--
--Of course it's important and no damn nonsense about it, I----
--No, I haven't been arrested and am not in a police station.
--Then what the devil----
--No devil, nothing of the sort. On the contrary, quite the opposite!
I've called you up to report progress----
--You know better than that, dad. I've only had two drinks.
--I'd better take four more and sober up? Now, Father Barnes, will you
oblige me by cooling off for an instant? You recall that this
afternoon you gave me a year within which to find a wife. Well, I've
found one already.
--Now you know I'm intoxicated? Was my voice ever soberer--now
listen.
--You won't listen? But you must. This is all up to you. You
commanded. I obeyed. Say, dad, she's an angel. I'm madly in love with
her.
--Who is she? Well, er, I really don't know--that is, her first name
is Sadie. I----
--Sadie what? Sadie Omaha--I mean she lives in Omaha.
--What is her last name and who are her people? To tell you the truth
I haven't found that out yet. I----
--I'm an ass?--a blankety, blank ass? Just wait till you see her! I
met her up at Travers Gladwin's, and----
--Travers is in Egypt! No, yes, of course he is, but----
The final outburst of paternal expletive fairly hurled Whitney Barnes
from the phone.
"There, by thunder! He's rung off in a rage."
"There's the ungrateful parent for you!" he muttered as he made his
way back to Gladwin's drawing room. "Here I've gone and broken my neck
to fall in love for him and that's all the thanks I get for it. Well,
I'll marry her in spite of him, if he doesn't leave me a dollar. I
could starve in a garret with her, and if I got too dreadfully hungry
I could eat her. Hi, ho! but, say, Mr. Whitney Barnes, you had better
switch off some of these lights. This house isn't supposed to be
occupied."
He left just one heavily shaded bronze lamp abeam. Then he carefully
drew all the curtains across the windows and tiptoed about the room
with the air of a sinister conspirator. He stopped in front of the
great, mysterious-looking chest to one side of the entrance to the
hallway, lifted the heavy lid and looked in.
"Here's where we will put our dead," he said, with a lugubrious grin,
let down the lid softly and crossed abruptly to the roomiest and
coziest chair beside the curtained window. After another sweeping
glance about the room he stretched his arms and yawned.
"Reckon I better sleep off that jag the pater presented me over the
wire," he chuckled, and down he slid into the soft upholstery, raising
his long legs upon another chair and sighing with deep contentment.
His eyes roved about the room for a moment, when he smiled suddenly
and quoted:
Why, let the stricken deer go weep;
The hart ungalled play,
For some must watch, while some must sleep:
So runs the world away.
And upon the suggestion of the immortal bard he chose the sleeper's
end of it and passed away.