“What news, Patricia?” Inquired the old gentleman blandly.
“Who was Thursday Smith?”
“The identical individual he is now,” said the Major.
“Don’t prevaricate, sir! Who was he? What did he do? What is his right name?”
“Is it because you are especially interested in this man, my dear, or are ye simply consumed with feminine curiosity?”
“Be good, Daddy! Tell us all about it,” said Patsy coaxingly.
“The man Thursday, then, was likely enough the brother of Robinson
Crusoe’s man Friday.”
“Major, you’re trifling!”
“Or mayhap an ex-president of the United States, or forby the senator from Oklahoma. Belike he was once minister to Borneo, an’ came home in a hurry an’ forgot who he was. But John Merrick will be wanting me.”
He escaped and opened the door. Then, with his hand on the knob, he turned and added:
“Why don’t ye come in, me journalistic investigators, and see the fun for yerselves? I suspect there’s an item in store for ye.”
Then he went in, and they took the hint and entered the pressroom in a fluttering group. Fogerty stood with his hands in his pockets intently watching the Dwyer girls set type, while at his elbow Mr. Merrick was explaining in a casual voice how many “m’s” were required to make a newspaper column. In another part of the long room Arthur Weldon was leaning over a table containing the half-empty forms, as if critically examining them. Smith, arrayed in overalls and jumper, was cleaning and oiling the big press.
“A daily newspaper,” said the major, loudly, as he held up a warning finger to the bevy of nieces, behind whom Hetty’s pale face appeared, “means a daily grind for all concerned in it. There’s no vacation for the paper, no hyphens, no skipping a day or two if it has a bad cold; it’s the tyrant that leads its slaves by the nose, metaphorically, and has no conscience. Just as regularly as the world rolls ‘round the press rolls out the newspaper, and human life or death makes little difference to either of the revolutionists.”
While he spoke the Major led the way across the room to the stereotyping plant, which brought his party to a position near the press. Smith glanced at them and went on with his work. It was not unusual to have the pressroom thus invaded.
Presently Fogerty strolled over, smoking his eternal cigarette, and stood watching the pressman, as if interested in the oiling of the complicated machine. Smith, feeling himself under observation, glanced up again in an unconcerned way, and as he faced the detective Fogerty gave a cleverly assumed start and exclaimed:
“Good God!”
Instantly Thursday Smith straightened up and looked at the man questioningly. Fogerty stretched out his hand and said, as if in wonder:
“Why, Melville, old man, what are you doing here? We wondered what had become of you, all these months. Shake hands, my boy! I’m glad I’ve found you.”
Smith leaned against the press and stared at him with dilated eyes. Everyone in the room was regarding the scene with intense but repressed excitement.
“What’s wrong, Harold?” continued Fogerty, as if hurt by the other’s hesitation to acknowledge their acquaintance. “You haven’t forgotten me, have you? I’m McCormick, you know, and you and I have had many a good time together in the past.”
Smith passed his hand across his forehead with a dazed gesture.
“What name did you call me, sir?” he asked.
“Melville; Harold Melville, of East Sixty-sixth street. I’m sure I’m right. There can’t be two like you in the world, you know.”
Thursday Smith stepped down from the platform and with a staggering gait walked to a stool, on which he weakly sank. He wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead and looked at Fogerty with a half frightened air.
“And you — are — McCormick?” he faltered.
“Of course.”
Smith stared a moment and then shook his head.
“It’s no use,” he said despairingly; “I can’t recall a single memory of either Harold Melville or — or his friend McCormick. Pardon me, sir; I must confess my mind is absolutely blank concerning all my life previous to the last two years. Until this moment I — I could not recall my own name.”
“H’m,” muttered Fogerty; “you recall it now, don’t you?”
“No. You tell me my name is Melville, and you seem to recognize me as a man whom you once knew. I accept your statement in good faith, but I cannot corroborate it from my own knowledge.”
“That’s queer,” retorted Fogerty, his cold eyes fixed upon the man’s face.
“Let me explain, please,” said Smith, and related his curious experience in practically the same words he had employed when confiding it to Mr. Merrick. “I had hoped,” he concluded, “that if ever I met one who knew me formerly, or heard my right name mentioned, my memory would come back to me; but in this I am sorely disappointed. Did you know me well, sir?”
“Pretty well,” answered the detective, after a slight hesitation.
“Then tell me something about myself. Tell me who I was.”
“Here — in public?” asked Fogerty, with a suggestive glance at the spectators, who had involuntarily crowded nearer.
Smith flushed, but gazed firmly into the faces surrounding him.
“Why not?” he returned. “These young ladies and Mr. Merrick accepted me without knowledge of my antecedents. They are entitled to as full an explanation as — as I am.”
“You place me, Melville, in a rather embarrassing position,” declared
Fogerty. “This is a queer case — the queerest in all my experience.
Better let me post you in a private interview.”
Smith trembled a bit, from nervousness; but he persisted in his demand.
“These people are entitled to the truth,” said he. “Tell us frankly all you know about me, and do not mince words — whatever the truth may be.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” announced the detective, with a shrug; “or at least it wouldn’t be in New York, among your old aristocratic haunts. But here, in a quiet country town, among these generous and simple-hearted folks who have befriended you, the thing is rather difficult to say.”
“Say it!” commanded Smith.
“I will. Many New Yorkers remember the firm of Melville & Ford, the cleverest pair of confidence men who ever undertook to fleece the wealthy lambs of the metropolis.”
“Confidence men!” gasped Smith, in a voice of horror.
“Yes, putting it mildly. You were both jolly good fellows and made a host of friends. You were well-groomed, rode in automobiles, frequented good clubs and had a stunning establishment on Sixty-sixth street where you entertained lavishly. You could afford to, for there was where you fleeced your victims. But it wasn’t so very bad, as I said. You chose the wealthy sons of the super-rich, who were glad to know such popular men-about-town as Harold Melville and Edgar Ford. When one set of innocents had been so thoroughly trimmed that they compared notes and began to avoid you, you had only to pick up another bunch of lambs, for New York contains many distinct flocks of the species. As they could afford to lose, none of them ever complained to the police, although the Central Office had an eye on you and knew your methods perfectly.
“Finally you made a mistake — or rather Ford did, for he was not as clever as you were. He brought an imitation millionaire to your house; a fellow who was putting up a brazen front on the smallest sort of a roll. You won his money and he denounced you, getting away with a pack of marked cards for evidence. At this you both took fright and decided on a hasty retreat. Gathering together your plunder — which was a royal sum, I’m convinced — you and Ford jumped into a motor car and — vanished from New York.
“The balance of your history I base on premise. Ford has been located in Chicago, where, with an ample supply of money, he is repeating his New York operations; but Harold Melville has never been heard of until this day. I think the true explanation is easi
ly arrived at. Goaded by cupidity — and perhaps envy of your superior talents — Ford took advantage of the situation and, finding the automobile speeding along a deserted road, knocked you on the head, tumbled you out of the car, and made off with your combined winnings. The blow had the effect — not so uncommon as you think — of destroying your recollection of your past life, and you have for two years been wandering in total ignorance of what caused your affliction.”
During this recital Smith sat with his eyes eagerly fixed upon the speaker’s face, dwelling upon every word. At the conclusion of the story he dropped his face in his hands a moment, visibly shuddering. Then again he looked up, and after reading the circle of pitying faces confronting him he bravely met Mr. Merrick’s eyes.
“Sir,” he said in a voice that faltered in spite of his efforts to render it firm, “you now know who I am. When I first came to you I was a mere irresponsible hobo, a wandering tramp who had adopted the name of Thursday Smith because he was ignorant of his own, but who had no cause to be ashamed of his manhood. To-day I am discovered in my true guise. As Harold Melville, the disreputable trickster, I am not fit to remain in your employ — to associate with honest men and women. You will forgive my imposition, I think, because you know how thoroughly ignorant I was of the truth; but I will impose upon you no longer. I am sorry, sir, for I have been happy here; but I will go, thanking you for the kindly generosity that prompted you to accept me as I seemed to be, not as I am.”
He rose, his face showing evidence of suffering, and bowed gravely. Hetty Hewitt walked over and stood by his side, laying her hand gently upon his arm.
But Thursday Smith did not know John Merrick very well. The little gentleman had silently listened, observing meanwhile the demeanor of the accused, and now he smiled in his pleasant, whimsical way and caught Smith’s hand in both his own.
“Man, man!” he cried, “you’re misjudging both me and yourself, I don’t
know this fellow Melville. You don’t know him, either. But I do know
Thursday Smith, who has won my confidence and by his manly acts, and
I’ll stand by him through thick and thin!”
“I am Harold Melville — the gambler — the confidence man.”
“You’re nothing of the sort, you’re just Thursday Smith, and no more responsible for Harold Melville than I am.”
“Hooray!” exclaimed Patsy Doyle enthusiastically. “Uncle’s right,
Thursday. You’re our friend, and the mainstay of the Millville Daily
Tribune. We shall not allow you to desert us just because you’ve
discovered that your — your — ancestor — wasn’t quite respectable.”
“That’s it, exactly,” asserted Beth. “It’s like hearing a tale of an ancestor, Thursday, or of some member of your family who lived before you. You cannot be responsible, in any way, for another man’s wickedness.”
“As I look at it,” said Louise reflectively, “you are just two years old, Thursday, and innocent of any wrongdoing before that day you first found yourself.”
“There’s no use our considering Melville at all,” added Uncle John cheerfully. “I’m sorry we ever heard of him, except that in one way it clears up a mystery. Thursday Smith, we like you and trust you. Do not doubt yourself because of this tale. I’ll vouch for your fairness and integrity. Forget Melville, who has never really existed so far as any of us are concerned; be yourself, and count on our friendship and regard, which Thursday Smith has fairly won.”
Hetty was crying softly, her cheek laid against Thursday’s sleeve. The man stood as if turned to stone, but his cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling, and his head proudly poised.
Fogerty lighted a fresh cigarette, watching the scene with an imperturbable smile.
Suddenly Smith awoke to life. He half turned, looked wonderingly at Hetty, and then folded her thin form in his arms and pressed a kiss on her forehead.
Fogerty coughed. Uncle John jerked out his handkerchief and blew his nose like a bugle call.
The major’s eyes were moist, for the old soldier was sympathetic as a child. But Patsy, a little catch in her voice, impulsively put her arms around the unashamed pair and murmured: “I’m so glad, Hetty! I’m so glad, Thursday! But — dear me — aren’t we going to have any paper to-morrow morning?”
That relieved the tension and everybody laughed. Thursday released Hetty and shook Uncle John’s hand most gratefully. Then they all wanted to shake hands, and did until it came to Fogerty’s turn. But now Smith drew back and looked askance at the detective.
“I do not know you, Mr. McCormick,” he said with dignity.
“My name’s not McCormick; it’s Fogerty,” said the other, without malice.
“I was simply testing your memory by claiming to be an old friend.
Personally I never knew Harold Melville, but I’m mighty glad to make
Thursday Smith’s acquaintance and will consider it an honor if you’ll
shake my hand.”
Smith was too happy to refuse. He took Fogerty’s hand.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE JOURNALISTS ABDICATE
Mr. Merrick told Thursday Smith, in an apologetic way, how he had hired Fogerty to unravel the mystery of his former life, and how the great detective had gone to work so intelligently and skillfully that, with the aid of a sketch Hetty had once made of the pressman, and which Mr. Merrick sent on, he had been able to identify the man and unearth the disagreeable details of his history.
Thursday was too humble, by this time, and too grateful, besides, to resent Uncle John’s interference. He admitted that, after all, it was better he should know the truth.
“I’ve nothing to bother me now but the future,” he said, “and with God’s help I mean to keep the name of Thursday Smith clean and free from any reproach.”
After the interview he went about his duties as before and Hetty sat down at her desk and took the telegraphic news that came clicking over the wire as if nothing important in her life had occurred. But the girl journalists were all excitement and already were beginning to plan the things they might do to Make Hetty and Thursday happier. Cox and Booth had gone away and Mr. Merrick thanked Fogerty for his skillful service and gave him a fat check.
“It’s a mighty interesting case, sir,” declared the detective, “and I’m as glad as any of you that it has ended so comfortably. Whatever Melville might have been — and his record is a little worse than I related it — there’s no doubt of Thursday Smith’s honesty. He’s a mighty fine fellow, and Fate played a proper trick when she blotted out his unscrupulous mind and left him as innocent as an unborn babe. He will do well in his new life, I’m sure, and that girl of his, Hetty Hewitt — I’ve know of her reckless ways for years — has also redeemed herself and turned out a regular brick! All of which, Mr. Merrick is unusual in real life, more’s the pity, and therefore it makes even a cold-blooded detective feel good to witness it.”
Mr. Merrick smiled benignantly and Fogerty drove over to the Junction to catch his train.
After luncheon, Patsy, while arranging her galley proofs, inquired of
Louise for the local column.
“Hetty said she’d attend to it,” was the reply; “but we are all upset to-day and things are at sixes and sevens.”
“The column is all prepared, Miss Doyle,” announced Hetty.
“Where is it?”
“Thursday has made it ready for the press. It’s — illustrated,” she confessed. “I’d rather you wouldn’t see it until the paper is out, if you can trust me.”
“To be sure,” said Patsy. “That’s one responsibility I’m relieved of, anyhow.”
The paper was a bit uneven in appearance next morning, but when Patsy came down to breakfast she found both Uncle John and the major roaring with laughter over Hetty’s locals.
The first item stated that “Mrs. Thorne took tea at Sam Cotting’s last evening,” (the Cottings being notoriously inhospitable) and the pictu
re showed Mrs. Thorne, a sour-faced woman, departing from the store with a package of tea. Then came the announcement that “Eph Hildreth got shot at West’s hardware store,” and there was a picture of West weighing out a pound of buckshot for his customer. The next item said: “Our distinguished fellow citizen, Marshall Peggy McNutt, was discovered unconscious on his front porch at 3 p.m.” The drawing of McNutt was one of the best of the series. It was his habit to “snooze” in an easy chair on his porch every afternoon, and Hetty depicted the little man with both feet — meat and wood — on the rail, his mouth open and eyes shut, while lusty snores were indicated by radiating lines and exclamation points. The Widow Clark’s cow occupied the next square, being tethered to a stake while Skim approached the animal with pail and milking-stool. Below the drawing were the words: “Mr. Skimton Clark, cowward.” A few other local hits were concluded by a picture of Hon. Ojoy Boglin shaking his fist at Mr. Skeelty, who held a package of money in his grasp labeled “insurance.” Below was the simple legend: “O Joy!”
The artist’s cleverness became the subject of conversation at the breakfast table, and Arthur remarked:
“You won’t be able to hold Hetty in Millville long. Her talent enables her to draw big salaries in New York and it isn’t likely she will consent to bury herself in this little town.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Patsy. “If we can hold Thursday Smith we can hold Hetty, you know.”
“We won’t need to hold either of them for long,” observed Beth; “for in another three weeks or so we must leave here and return to the city, when of course the Millville Daily Tribune must suspend publication.”
“I’ve been thinking of that,” said Uncle John.
“So have I,” declared Patsy. “For a long time I was puzzled what to do, for I hated dreadfully to kill our dear Tribune after we’ve made it such a nice paper. Yet I knew very well we couldn’t stay here all winter and run it. But last night I had an inspiration. Thursday will marry Hetty, I suppose, and they can both stay here and run the Tribune. They are doing most of the work now. If Uncle John agrees, we will sell out to them on ‘easy terms.’“
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 489