THE TRAMP AGAIN
I am sure that all will admit that the prospect before me was not a
particularly bright one. I was bound hand and foot and left without
food or water.
Yet as I lay upon the hard floor of the tool house I was not so much
concerned about myself as I was about matters at Widow Canby's house.
It would be a hardship to pass the night where I was, to say nothing
of how I might be treated when Duncan Woodward and his followers
returned. But in the meantime, how would Kate fare?
I knew that my sister would be greatly alarmed at my continued
absence. She fully expected me to be home long before this. As near as
I could judge it was now an hour or so after noon, and she would have
dinner kept warm on the kitchen stove, expecting every minute to see
me drive up the lane.
Then again I was worried over the fact that the widow had left the
house and her money in my charge. To be sure, the latter was locked up
in her private secretary; but I felt it to be as much in my care as if
it had been placed in my shirt bosom or the bottom of my trunk.
I concluded that it was my duty, then, to free myself as quickly as
possible from the bonds which the members of the Model Club had placed
upon me. But this idea was more easily conceived than carried out.
In vain I tugged at the clothes line that held my arms and hands fast
to my body. Duncan and the others had done their work well, and the
only result of my efforts was to make the cord cut so deep into my
flesh that several times I was ready to cry out from pain.
In my attempts I tried to rise to my feet, but found it an
impossibility, and only succeeded in bumping my head severely against
the wall.
There was no use in calling for help, and though I halloed several
times I soon gave it up. I was fully three-quarters of a mile from any
house and half that distance from the road, and who would be likely to
hear me so far off?
The afternoon dragged slowly along, and finally the sun went down and
the evening shadows crept up. By this time I was quite hungry and
tremendously thirsty. But with nothing at hand to satisfy the one or
allay the other I resolutely put all thoughts of both out of my head.
In the old tool house there had been left several empty barrels,
behind which was a quantity of shavings that I found far more
comfortable to rest upon than the bare floor.
As the evening wore on I wondered if I would be able to sleep. There
was no use worrying about matters, as it would do no good, so I was
inclined to treat the affair philosophically and make the best of it.
An hour passed, and I was just dropping into a light doze when a noise
outside attracted my attention. I listened intently and heard a man's
footsteps.
I was inclined to call out, and, in fact, was on the point of so
doing, when the door of the tool house opened and in the dim light I
recognized the form of the tramp moulder who earlier in the day had so
impudently asked me for help.
I was not greatly surprised to see him, for, as mentioned before, the
old tool house was frequently used by men of his stamp. He had as much
right there as I had, and though I was chagrined to see him enter I
was in no position to protest.
On the contrary, I deemed it advisable to keep quiet. If he did not
see me, so much the better. If he did, who could tell what indignities
he might visit upon me?
So I crouched down behind the empty barrels, hardly daring to breathe.
The man stumbled into the building, leaving the door wide open.
By his manner I was certain that he had been drinking heavily, and his
rambling soliloquy proved it.
"The same old shebang," he mumbled to himself, as he swayed around in
the middle of the floor, "the same old shebang where Aaron Woodward
and I parted company four years ago. He's took care of his money, and
I've gone to the dogs," and he gave a yawn and sat down on top of a
barrel.
I was thoroughly surprised at his words. Was it possible that this
seedy-looking individual had once been intimate with Duncan Woodward's
father? It hardly seemed reasonable. I made a rapid calculation and
concluded that the meeting must have had something to do with the
proposed railroad in which I knew Mr. Woodward had held an interest.
Perhaps this tramp had once been a prosperous contractor.
"Great times them were. Plenty of money and nothing to do," continued
the man. "Wonder if any one in Darbyville would recognize--hold up,
Stumpy, you mustn't repeat that name too often or you'll be mentioning
it in public when it ain't no interest for you to do it. Stumpy, John
Stumpy, is good enough for the likes of you."
And with great deliberation Mr. John Stumpy brought forth a short clay
pipe which he proceeded to fill and light with evident satisfaction.
During the brief period of lighting up I caught a good glance at his
face, and fancied that I saw beneath the surface of dirt and
dissipation a look of shrewdness and intelligence. Evidently he was
one of the unfortunates who allowed drink to make off with their
brains.
Mr. John Stumpy puffed on in silence for several minutes. I wondered
what he intended to do, and was not prepared for the surprises that
were to follow.
"Times are changed and no mistake," he went on. "Here I am, down at
the bottom, Nick Weaver dead, Woodward a rich man, and Carson Strong
in jail. Humph! but times do change!"
Carson Strong! My heart gave a bound. This man was speaking of my
father. What did it mean? What did the tramp know of the events of the
past? As I lay behind the barrels, I earnestly hoped he would go on
with his talk. I had heard just enough to arouse my curiosity.
I was certain that I had never, until that day, seen the man. What,
then, could he have in common with my father?
Instinctively I connected the man with the cause of my father's
imprisonment--I will not say downfall, because I firmly believed him
innocent. Why I should do so I cannot to this day explain, but from
the instant he mentioned my parent's name the man was firmly fixed in
my memory.
In a few moments Mr. John Stumpy had puffed his pipe out, leaving the
place filled with a heavy and vile smoke which gave me all I could do
to keep from coughing. Then he slowly knocked the ashes from the bowl
and restored the pipe to his pocket.
"Now I reckon I'm in pretty good trim to go ahead," he muttered as he
arose. "No use of talking; there ain't anything like a good puff to
steady a man's nerves. Was a time when I didn't need it, but them
times are gone, and the least little job on hand upsets me. Wonder how
much that old woman left behind."
I nearly uttered an ejaculation of astonishment. Was this man speaking
of Mrs. Canby? What was the job that he contemplated?
Clearly there could be but one answer to that question. He knew the
widow had gone away, and in her absence he contemplated robbing her
house. Perhaps he had overheard her make mention of the money locked
up in her desk, and the temptation to obtain possession of it was too
strong to resist.
"I'll have to get rid of that boy and the dog, I suppose," he went on.
"If it wasn't for the noise I'd shoot the dog; but it won't do to
arouse the neighborhood. As for the lad, I reckon the sight of a
pistol will scare him to death."
I was not so sure of that, and I grated my teeth at the thought of my
present helplessness. Had I been free, I am sure I could have escaped
easily, and perhaps have had the tramp arrested.
It was an alarming prospect. Kate was the only occupant of the house,
and the nearest neighbor lived a full five hundred feet away. If
attacked in the middle of the night, what would my sister do?
For a moment I felt like exposing myself, but then I reflected that
such a course would not liberate me, and he would know that he had
nothing to fear from me at the house, whereas, if I kept quiet, he
might, by some lucky incident, be kept at bay.
So I lay still, wondering when he would start on his criminal quest.
"Now, one more drink and then I'll be off," he continued, and,
producing a bottle, he took a deep draught. "Ha! That's the stuff to
brace a man's nerves! But you mustn't drink too much, John Stumpy, or
you'll be no good at all. If you'd only let liquor alone you might be
as rich as Aaron Woodward, remember that." He gave something like a
sigh. "Oh, well; let it pass. I'll get the tools and be on the way.
The money in my pocket, I'll take the first train in the morning for
the West." He paused a moment. "But no; I won't go until I've seen
Woodward. He owes me a little on the old score, and I'll not go until
he has settled up."
There was an interval of silence, during which Stumpy must have been
feeling around in his pockets for a match; for a moment later there
were several slight scratches, and then a tiny flame lit up the
interior of the tool house.
"Let's see, where did I leave them tools? Ah, yes; I remember now.
Behind those barrels."
And Stumpy moved over to where I was in hiding.