CHAPTER XIX.
The evening's entertainment was over. The last of the nobility andgentry had departed, and Mr. McEachern had retired to his lair tosmoke--in his shirt sleeves--the last and best cigar of the day, whenhis solitude was invaded by his old New York friend, Mr. Samuel Galer.
"I've done a fair cop, sir," said Mr. Galer, without preamble,quivering with self-congratulation.
"How's that?" said the master of the house.
"A fair cop, sir. Caught him in the very blooming act, sir. Dark itwas. Oo, pitch. Fair pitch. Like this, sir. Room opposite where thejewels was. One of the gents' bedrooms. Me hiding in there. Door onthe jar. Waited a goodish bit. Footsteps. Hullo, they've stopped!Opened door a trifle and looked out. Couldn't see much. Just made outman's figure. Door of dressing room was open. Showed up againstopening. Just see him. Caught you at it, my beauty, have I? says I tomyself. Out I jumped. Got hold of him. Being a bit to the good instrength, and knowing something about the game, downed him after awhile and got the darbies on him. Took him off and locked him in thecellar. That's how it _was_, sir."
"Good boy," said Mr. McEachern approvingly. "You're no rube."
"No, sir."
"Put one of these cigars into your face."
"Thank you, sir. Very enjoyable thing, a cigar, sir. 'Specially a goodun. I have a light, I thank you, sir."
"Well, and who was he?"
"Not the man you told me to watch, for. 'Nother chap altogether."
"That red-headed----"
"No, sir. Dark-haired chap. Seen him hanging about, suspicious, for along time. Had my eye on him."
Mr. Galer chuckled reminiscently.
"Rummest card, sir, _I_ ever lagged in my natural," he said.
"How's that? inquired Mr. McEachern amiably.
"Why," grinned Mr. Galer, "you'll hardly believe it, sir, but he hadthe impudence, the gall, if I may use the word, the sauce to tell mehe was in my own line of business. A detective, sir! Said he was goinginto the room to keep guard. I said to him at the time, I said, it'stoo thin, cocky. That's to say----"
Mr. McEachern started.
"A detective!"
"A detective, sir," said Mr. Galer, with a chuckle. "I said to him atthe time----"
"The valet!" cried Mr. McEachern.
"That's it, sir. Sir Thomas Blunt's valet, he was. That's how he gotinto the house, sir."
Mr. McEachern grunted despairingly.
"The man was right. He is a detective. Sir Thomas brought him downfrom London. He niver travels without him. Ye've done it. Ye'vearristed wan of the bhoys."
Mr. Galer's jaw dropped slightly.
"He was? He really was----"
"Ye'd better go straight to where it was ye locked him up, and let himloose. And I'd suggest ye hand him an apology. G'wan, mister. Livelyas you can step."
"I never thought----"
"That's the trouble with you fly cops," said his employer caustically."Ye niver do think."
"It never occurred to me----"
"G'wan!" said the master of the house. "Up an alley!"
Mr. Galer departed.
"And I asked them," said Mr. McEachern, "I asked them particularly notto send me a rube!"
He lit another cigar, and began to brood over the folly of mankind.
He was in a very pessimistic frame of mind when Jimmy curveted intothe room, with his head in the clouds and his feet on air.
"Can you spare me a few minutes, Mr. McEachern?" said Jimmy.
The policeman stared heavily.
"I can," he said slowly. "What is ut?"
"Several things," said Jimmy, sitting down. "I'll take them in order.I'll start with our bright friend, Galer."
"Galer!"
"Of New York, according to you. Personally, I should think that he'sseen about as much of New York as I have of Timbuctoo. Look here,McEachern, we've known each other some time, and I ask you, as man toman, do you think it playing the game to set a farmer like poor oldGaler to watch me? I put it to you?"
The policeman stammered. The question chimed in so exactly with theopinion he had just formed, on his own account, of the humanbloodhound who was now in the cellar making the peace with his injuredfellow worker.
"Hits you where you live, that, doesn't it?" said Jimmy. "I wonder youdidn't have more self-respect, let alone consideration for myfeelings. I'm surprised at you."
"Ye're----"
"In fact, if you weren't going to be my father-in-law, I doubt if Icould bring myself to forgive you. As it is, I overlook it."
The policeman's face turned purple.
"Only," said Jimmy, with quiet severity, taking a cigar from the boxand snipping off the end, "don't let it occur again."
He lit the cigar. Mr. McEachern continued to stare fixedly at him. Somight the colonel of a regiment have looked at the latest-joinedsubaltern, if the latter, during mess, had offered to teach him how toconduct himself on parade.
"I'm going to marry your daughter," said Jimmy.
"You are going to marry me daughter!" echoed Mr. McEachern, as one ina trance.
"I am going to marry your daughter."
The purple deepened on Mr. McEachern's face.
"More," said Jimmy, blowing a smoke ring. "_She_ is going to marryme. We are going to marry each other," he explained.
McEachern's glare became frightful. He struggled for speech.
"I must congratulate you," said Jimmy, "on the way things went offtonight. It was a thorough success. Everybody was saying so. You'rethe most popular man in the county. What would they say of you atJefferson Market, if they knew? By the way, do you correspond with anyof the old set? Splendid fellows, they were. I wish we had some ofthem here tonight."
Mr. McEachern's emotions found relief in words. He rose, and waved ahuge fist in Jimmy's face. His great body was shaking with rage.
"You!" shouted the policeman. "You!"
The fist was within an inch of Jimmy's chin.
Outwardly calm, inwardly very much alive to the fact that at anymoment the primitive man in him might lead his prospectivefather-in-law beyond the confines of self-restraint, Jimmy sat stillin his chair, his eyes fixed steadily on those of his relative-to-be.It was an uncomfortable moment. Mr. McEachern, if he made an assault,might regret it subsequently. But he would not be the first to do so.The man who did that would be a certain James Pitt. If it came toblows, the younger man could not hope to hold his own with the hugepoliceman.
"You!" roared McEachern. Jimmy fancied he could feel the wind ofmoving fist. "You marry me daughter! A New York crook. The sweepingsof the Bowery. A man who ought to be in jail. I'd like to break yourface in."
"I noticed that," said Jimmy. "If it's all the same to you, will youtake your fist out of my mouth? It makes it a little difficult tocarry on a conversation. And I've several things I should like tosay."
"Ye'll listen to me!"
"Certainly. You were saying?"
"Ye come here. Ye worm yourself into my house, crawl into it----"
"I came by invitation, and in passing, not on all fours. Mr.McEachern, may I ask one question?"
"What is ut?"
"If you didn't want me, why did you let me stop here?"
The policeman stopped as if he had received a blow. There cameflooding back into his mind the recollection of his position. In hiswrath, he had forgotten that Jimmy knew his secret. And he looked onJimmy as a man who would use his knowledge.
He sat down heavily.
Jimmy went on smoking in silence for a while. He saw what was passingin his adversary's mind, and it seemed to him that it would do no harmto let the thing sink in.
"Look here, Mr. McEachern," he said, at last, "I wish you could listenquietly to me for a minute or two. There's really no reason on earthwhy we should always be at one another's throats in this way. We mightjust a well be friends, as we should be if we met now for the firsttime. Our difficulty is that we know too much about each other. Youknew me in New York, and you know what I did there. Na
turally, youdon't like the idea of my marrying your daughter. You can't believethat I'm not simply an ordinary yegg, like the rest of the crooks youused to know. I promise you, I'm not. Can't you see that it doesn'tmatter what a man has been? It's what he is and what he means to be thatcounts. Mr. Patrick McEachern, of Corven Abbey, isn't the same asConstable McEachern, of the New York police. Well, then, I havenothing to do with the man I was when you knew me first. I havedisowned him. He's a back number. I am an ordinary English gentlemannow. My uncle has left me more than well off. I am a baronet. And isit likely that a baronet--_with_ money, mind you--is going to carryon the yegg business as a side line? Be reasonable. There's really nopossible objection to me now. Let's shake, and call the fight off.Does that go?"
The policeman was plainly not unmoved by these arguments. He drummedhis fingers on the table, and stared thoughtfully at Jimmy.
"Is Molly--" he said, at length, "does Molly----"
"Yes," said Jimmy. "And I can promise you I love her. Come along, now.Why wait?"
McEachern looked doubtfully at Jimmy's outstretched hand. He moved hisown an inch from the table, then let it fall again.
"Come on," said Jimmy. "Do it now. Be a sport."
And with a great grunt, which might have meant anything, fromresignation to cordiality, Mr. McEachern capitulated.
CHAPTER XX.
The American liner, _St. Louis_, lay in the Empress Dock, atSouthampton, taking aboard her passengers. All sorts and conditions ofmen flowed in an unceasing stream up the gangway.
Leaning over the second-class railing, Jimmy Pitt and Spike Mullinswatched them thoughtfully.
Jimmy looked up at the Blue Peter that fluttered from the foremast,and then at Spike. The Bowery boy's face was stolid andexpressionless. He was smoking a short wooden pipe, with an air ofdetachment.
"Well, Spike," said Jimmy. "Your schooner's on the tide now, isn't it?Your vessel's at the quay. You've got some queer-looking fellowtravellers. Don't miss the two Cinghalese sports, and the man in theturban and the baggy breeches. I wonder if they're air-tight. Usefulif he fell overboard."
"Sure," said Spike, directing a contemplative eye toward the garmentin question. "He knows his business."
"I wonder what those men on the deck are writing. They've beenscribbling away ever since we came here. Probably society journalists.We shall see in next week's _Sphere_: 'Among the second-classpassengers we noticed Mr. "Spike" Mullins, looking as cheery as ever.'It's a pity you're so set on going, Spike. Why not change your mind,and stop?"
For a moment, Spike looked wistful. Then his countenance resumed itswoodenness. "Dere ain't no use for me dis side, Mr. Chames," he said."New York's de spot. Youse don't want none of me, now you're married.How's Miss Molly, Mr. Chames?"
"Splendid, Spike; thanks. We're going over to France by to-night'sboat."
"It's been a queer business," said Jimmy, after a pause. "A deuced rumbusiness. Well, I've come very well out of it, at any rate. It seemsto me that you're the only one of us who doesn't end happily, Spike.I'm married. McEachern's butted into society so deep that it wouldtake an excavating party with dynamite to get him out of it. Molly.Well, Molly's made a bad bargain, but I hope she won't regret it.We're all going some, except you. You're going out on the old trailagain--which begins in Third Avenue and ends in Sing Sing. Why tearyourself away, Spike?"
Spike concentrated his gaze on a weedy young emigrant in a bluejersey, who was having his eye examined by the overworked doctor, andseemed to be resenting it.
"Dere's nuttin' doin' dis side, Mr. Chames," he said, at length. "Iwant to get busy."
"Ulysses Mullins!" said Jimmy, looking at him curiously. "I know thefeeling. There's only one cure, and I don't suppose you'll ever takeit. You don't think a lot of women, do you? You're the ruggedbachelor."
"Goils----" began Spike comprehensively, and abandoned the topic withoutdilating on it further.
Jimmy lit his pipe, and threw the match overboard. The sun came outfrom behind a cloud, and the water sparkled.
"Dose were great jools, Mr. Chames," said Spike thoughtfully.
"I believe you're still brooding over them, Spike."
"We could have got away wit' dem, if you'd have stood for it. Deadeasy."
"You _are_ brooding over them. Spike, I'll tell you something whichwill console you a little before you start out on your wanderings.That necklace was paste."
"What's dat?"
"Nothing but paste. They weren't worth thirty dollars."
A light of understanding came into Spike's eyes. His face beamed withthe smile of one to whom dark matters are made clear.
"So _dat's_ why you wouldn't stand for gettin' away wit' dem!" heexclaimed.
* * * * *
The last voyager had embarked. The deck was full to congestion.
"They'll be sending us ashore in a minute," said Jimmy. "I'd better bemoving. Let me know how you're making out, Spike, from time to time.You know the address. And, I say. It's just possible you may find youwant a dollar or two, every now and then. When you're going to buyanother automobile, for instance. Well, you know where to write forit, don't you?"
"T'anks, Mr. Chames. But dat'll be all right. I'm going to sit in atanother game dis time. Politics, Mr. Chames. A fr'en' of a mug what Iknows has got a pull. Me brother Dan is an _alderman_ wit' a grip onde 'Levent' Ward," he went on softly. "He'll find me a job!"
"You'll be a boss before you know where you are."
"Sure!" said Spike, grinning modestly.
"You ought to be a thundering success in American politics," saidJimmy. "You've got all the necessary qualities."
A steward passed.
"Any more for the shore?"
"Which shore?" asked Jimmy. "Well, Spike----"
"Good-by, Mr. Chames."
"Good-by," said Jimmy. "And good luck!"
* * * * *
Two tugs attached themselves excitedly to the liner's side. The greatship began to move slowly from the shore. Jimmy stood at the waterside, and watched her. The rails were lined with gesticulatingfigures. In the front row, Spike waved his hat with silent vigor.
The sun had gone behind the clouds. As the ship slid out on its way, astray beam pierced the grayness.
It shone on a red head.
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