“What’s doin’?” cried a voice.
“Say, run f’r a doctor, somebody—quick—Soapy’s hurt bad, I reckon—”
“Hurt?” said Soapy, in soft, lazy tones. “‘S right! But—say—fellers, there’s a son of a dog in there—waitin’ f’r a spade—t’ bury him!” Then Soapy laughed, choked, and groping before him blindly, staggered forward, and pitching sideways, fell with his head beneath a table and died there.
CHAPTER XLV
OF THE OLD UN AND FATE
Spike leaned back among his cushions and, glancing away across close-cropped lawns and shady walks, sighed luxuriously.
“Say, Ann,” he remarked. “Gee whiz, Trapesy, there sure ain’t no flies on this place of old Geoff’s!”
“Flies,” said Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from her household accounts, “you go into the kitchen an’ look around.”
“I mean it’s aces up.”
“Up where?” queried Mrs. Trapes.
“Well, it’s a regular Jim-dandy cracker-jack—some swell clump, eh?”
“Arthur, that low, tough talk don’t go with me,” said Mrs. Trapes, and resumed her intricate calculations again.
“Say, when’ll Geoff an’ Hermy be back?”
“Well, considerin’ she’s gone to N’ York t’ buy more clo’es as she don’t need, an’ considerin’ Mr. Ravenslee’s gone with her, I don’t know.”
“An’ what you do know don’t cut no ice. Anyway, I’m gettin’ lonesome.”
“What, ain’t I here?” demanded Mrs. Trapes sharply.
“Sure. I can’t lose you!”
“Oh! Now I’ll tell you what it is, my good b’y—”
“Cheese it, Trapes, you make me tired, that’s what.”
“If you sass me, I’ll box your young ears—an’ that’s what!”
“I don’t think!” added Spike. “Nobody ain’t goin’ t’ box me. I’m a sure enough invalid, and don’t you forget it.”
“My land!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, “a bit of a hole in his arm, that’s all.”
“Well, I wish you got it, ‘stead o’ me—it smarts like sixty!”
“Shows it’s healin’. Doctor said as it’ll be well in a week.”
“Doctor!” sniffed Spike, “he don’t know what I suffer. I may be dyin’ for all he knows.”
“You are!” sighed Mrs. Trapes, with a gloomy nod.
“Eh—what?” exclaimed Spike, sitting up.
“So am I—we all are—by the minute. Every night we’re a day’s march nearer home! So now jest set right there an’ go on dyin’, my b’y!”
“Say, now, cut it out,” said Spike, wriggling. “That ain’t no kind o’ way t’ cheer an invalid.”
“It’s th’ truth.”
“Well, it don’t cheer me more, so let’s have a lie for a change.”
Mrs. Trapes snorted and fell to adding and subtracting busily.
“Say, Ann,” said he after awhile, “if you got any more o’ that punkin pie I could do some right now. I’m hungry.”
“It ain’t eatin’ time yet.”
“But—Gee! ain’t I a invalid?”
“Sure! Consequently you must be fed slow an’ cautious.”
“Oh, fudge! What’s th’ good of a guy bein’ a invalid if a guy can’t feed when he wants to?”
“What’s a hundred an’ ninety-one from twenty-three?” enquired Mrs. Trapes.
“Skidoo!” murmured Spike sulkily. But after Mrs. Trapes had subtracted and added busily he spoke again.
“You ain’t such a bad old gink—sometimes,” he conceded.
“Gink?” said Mrs. Trapes, glaring.
“I mean you can be a real daisy when you want to.”
“Can I?”
“Sure! Sometimes you can be so kind an’ nice I like you a whole lot!”
“Is that so?”
“You bet it is—honest Injun.”
“Arthur, if it’s that pie you want—”
“It ain’t!”
“Well, what is it?”
“How d’ ye know I want anything?”
“Oh, I just guess, maybe.”
“Well, say—if you could cop me one o’ Geoff’s cigarettes—one o’ them with gold letterin’ onto ‘em—”
“You mean—thieve you one!”
“Why, no, a cigarette ain’t thievin’. Say, now, dear old Trapesy, I’m jest dyin’ for a gasper!”
“Well, you go on dyin’, an’ I’ll set right here an’ watch how you do it.”
“If I was t’ die you’d be sorry for this, I reckon.”
“Anyway, I’d plant some flowers on you, my lad, an’ keep your lonely grave nice—”
“Huh!” sniffed Spike, “a lot o’ good that ‘ud do me when I was busy pushin’ up th’ daisies. It’s what I want now that matters.”
“An’ what you want now, Arthur, is a rod of iron—good ‘n’ heavy. Discipline’s your cryin’ need, an’ you’re sure goin’ t’ get it.”
“Oh? Where?”
“At college! My land, think of you at Yale or Harvard or C’lumbia—”
“Sure you can think; thinkin’ can’t cut no ice.”
“Anyway, you’re goin’ soon as you’re fit; Mr. Geoffrey says so.”
“Oh, Geoff’s batty—he’s talkin’ in his sleep. I ain’t goin’ t’ no college—Geoff’s got sappy in th’ bean—”
“Well, you tell him so.”
“Sure thing—you watch me!”
“No, I’ll get you somethin’ t’ eat—some milk an’—”
“Say, what about that punkin pie?”
“You sit right there an’ wait.”
“Chin-Chin!” nodded Spike, and watched her into the house.
No sooner was he alone than he was out of his chair and, descending the steps into the garden, sped gleefully away across lawns and along winding paths, following a haphazard course. But, as he wandered thus, he came to the stables and so to a large building beyond, where were many automobiles of various patterns and make; and here, very busy with brushes, sponge, and water, washing a certain car and making a prodigious splashing, was a figure there was no mistaking, and one whom Spike hailed in joyous surprise.
“Well, well, if it ain’t th’ old Spider! Gee, but I’m glad t’ see you! Say, old sport, I’m a invalid—pipe my bandages, will ye?”
“Huh!” grunted the Spider, without glancing up from the wheel he was washing.
“Say, old lad,” continued Spike, “I guess they told you how I put it all over Bud, eh?”
“Mph!” said the Spider, slopping the water about.
“Heard how I saved old Geoff from gettin’ snuffed out, didn’t yer?”
“Huh-umph!” growled the Spider.
“That’s sure some car, eh? Gee, but it’s good t’ see you again, anyway. How’d you come here, Spider?”
“U-huh!” said the Spider.
“Say,” exclaimed Spike, “quit makin’ them noises an’ say somethin’, can’t yer? If you can’t talk t’ a pal, I’m goin’.”
“Right-o, Kid!” said the Spider; “only see as you don’t go sheddin’ no more buttons around.”
“B-buttons!” stammered Spike. “What yer mean? What buttons?”
The Old Un, who happened to have been dozing in the limousine that stood in a shady corner, sat up suddenly and blinked.
“Why, I mean,” answered the Spider, wringing water from the sponge he held and speaking very deliberately, “I mean the button as you—left behind you—in th’ wood!”
Spike gasped and sat down weakly upon the running-board of a car, and the Old Un stole a furtive peep at him.
“So you—know—?”
“Sure I know—more ‘n I want t’ know about you, so—chase yourself out o’ here—beat it!”
Spike stared in mute amazement, then flushed painfully.
“You mean—you an’ me—ain’t goin’ t’ be pals no longer?” he asked wistfully.
“That’s what!” nodded the Spider, with
out lifting his scowling gaze from the sponge. “Kid, I ain’t no Gold-medal Sunday-school scholar nor I ain’t never won no prizes at any Purity League conference, but there’s some guys too rotten even f’r me!”
“But I—I—saved his life, didn’t I?”
“That ain’t nothin’ t’ blow about after what you did in that wood. Oh, wake up an’ see just how dirty an’ rotten you are!”
Spike rose and stood, his hands tight-clenched, and though he tried to frown, he couldn’t hide the pitiful twitching of his lips nor the quaver in his voice.
“I guess you mean you’re goin’ t’ give me th’ throw-down?”
“Well,” answered the Spider, scowling at the sponge in his hand, “there’s jest two or three things as I ain’t got no use for, an’ one of ‘em’s—murder!”
Hereupon Spike shrank away, and the Old Un, reaching out stealthily, opened the door of the limousine while the Spider fell to work again, splashing more than ever. Thus as Spike crept away with head a-droop, the Old Un, all unnoticed, stole after him, his old eyes very bright and birdlike, and, as he followed, keeping in the shade of hedge and tree as much as possible, he whispered a word to himself over and over again:
“Lorgorramighty!”
But Spike went on with dragging feet, ignorant that any one followed, lost in a sudden sense of shame such as he had never known before—a shame that was an agony: for though his bodily eyes were blinded with bitter tears, the eyes of his mind were opened wide at last, and he saw himself foul and dirty, even as the Spider had said. So on stumbling feet Spike reached a shady, grassy corner remote from all chance of observation and, throwing himself down there, he lay with his face hidden, wetting the grass with the tears of his abasement.
When at last he raised his head, he beheld a little old man leaning patiently against a tree near by and watching him with a pair of baleful eyes.
“Hello!” said Spike wearily. “Who are you?”
“I’m Fate, I am!” nodded the Old Un. “Persooin’ Fate, that’s me.”
“What yer here for, anyway?” enquired the lad, humble in his abasement.
“I’m here to persoo!”
“Say, now, what’s your game; what yer want?”
“I want you, me lad.”
“Well, say—beat it, please—I want t’ be alone.”
“Not much, me lad. I’m Fate, I am, an’ when Fate comes up agin murder, Fate ain’t t’ be shook off.”
“Murder!” gasped Spike. “Oh, my God! I—I ain’t—”
The lad sprang to his feet and was running on the instant, but turning to glance back, tripped over some obstacle and fell. Swaying he rose and stumbled on, but slower now by reason of the pain in his wounded arm. Thus, when at last he came out upon the road, the Old Un was still close behind him.
CHAPTER XLVI
IN WHICH GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE OBTAINS HIS OBJECT
Mrs. Trapes glanced sadly around her cosy housekeeper’s room and sighed regretfully; she was alone, and upon the table ready to hand lay her neat bonnet, her umbrella, and a pair of white cotton gloves, beholding which articles her lips set more resolutely, her bony arms folded themselves more tightly, and she nodded in grim determination.
“The labourer is worthy of his hire!” she sighed, apparently addressing the bonnet, “but, if so be the labourer ain’t worthy, why then, the sooner he quits—”
A sound of quick, light feet upon the stair and a voice that laughed gaily, a laugh so full of happiness that even Mrs. Trapes’s iron features relaxed, and her grim mouth curved in her rare smile. At that moment the door opened and Hermione appeared, a radiant Hermione who clasped Mrs. Trapes in her arms and tangled her up in her long motor veil and laughed again.
“Oh, Ann, such a day!” she exclaimed, laying aside her long dust-coat. “New York is a paradise—when you’re rich! No more bargain days and clawing matches over the remnant counter, Ann! Oh, it’s wonderful to be able to buy anything I want—anything! Think of it, Ann, isn’t it just a dream of joy? And I’ve shopped and shopped, and he was so dear and patient! I bought Arthur a complete outfit—”
“Arthur!” said Mrs. Trapes, and groaned.
“And you, Ann, you dear thing, I bought you—guess what? But you never could! I bought you a gold watch, the very best I could find, and he bought you a chain for it, a long one to go around your dear neck, set with diamonds and rubies, I mean the chain is—it’s the cutest thing, Ann! You remember you used to dream of a gold chain set with real diamonds, some day? Well, ‘some day’s‘ to-day, Ann.”
“But—oh, Hermy, I—I—”
“He wants to give it you himself, because he says you’re the best friend he ever had and—oh, here he is! You did say so, didn’t you, Geoffrey?”
“And I surely mean it!” answered Ravenslee, tossing his driving gauntlets into a chair, “though you certainly threw cold water upon my peanut barrow, didn’t you, Mrs. Trapes?”
“Oh, Geoffrey, dear, do give her that precious package; I’m dying to see her open it!”
So Ravenslee drew the jeweller’s neat parcel from his pocket and put it into Mrs. Trapes’s toil-worn hand. For a moment her bony fingers clutched it, then she sighed tremulously and, placing it on the table, rose and stood staring down at it. When at last she spoke, her voice was harsher than usual.
“Hermy, dear—I mean Mrs. Ravenslee, ma’am, I—can’t—take ‘em!”
“But, dear—why not?”
“Because they’re coals o’ fire.”
“But you must take them, dear; we bought them for you and—”
“Which jools, ma’am, I can in no wise accept.”
“Why, Ann, dear, whatever—”
“Which jools, ma’am, having been a dream, must for me so remain, me not bein’ faithful in my dooties to you an’ Mr. Geoffrey. Consequently I begs to tender you now my resignation, yieldin’ up my post in your service to one better worthy, and returnin’ t’ th’ place wherefrom I come.”
Here Mrs. Trapes put on her bonnet, setting it a little askew in her agitation.
“Th’ labourer is worthy of his hire, but if he ain’t—so be it!”
Here Mrs. Trapes tied her bonnet strings so tightly and with such resolute hands that she choked.
“Why, Ann dear,” cried Hermione, “whatever do you mean? As if I could bear to part with you!” Here she untied the bonnet strings. “As if I could ever let you go back to Mulligan’s!” Here she took off the bonnet. “As if I could ever forget all your tender love and care for me in the days when things were so hard and so very dark!” Here she tossed the bonnet into a corner.
“My land!” sighed Mrs. Trapes, “me best bonnet—”
“I know, Ann. I made it for you over a year ago, and it’s time you had another, anyway! Now, open that parcel—this minute!”
But instead of doing so, Mrs. Trapes sank down in the chair beside the table and bowed her head in her hands.
“Hermy,” said she, “oh, my lamb, he’s gone! You left Arthur in my care an’—he’s gone, an’ it’s my fault. Went away at five o’clock, an’ here it is nigh on to ten—an’ him sick! God knows I’ve searched for him—tramped to th’ ferry an’ back, an’ th’ footmen they’ve looked for him an’ so have th’ maids—but Arthur’s gone—an’ it’s my fault! So, Hermy—my dear—blame me an’ let me go—”
The harsh voice broke and, bowing her head, she sat silent, touching the unopened packet of jewellery with one long, bony finger.
“Why, Ann—dear Ann—you’re crying!” Hermione was down on her knees, had clasped that long bony figure in her arms. “You mustn’t, Ann, you mustn’t. I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, so don’t grieve, dear—there!” And she had drawn the disconsolate grey head down upon her shoulder and pillowed it there.
“But—oh, Hermy, he’s gone! An’ you told me to—look after him.”
“Ann, if Arthur meant to go, I’m sure you couldn’t have prevented him; he isn’t a child any longer, dear. There, be comforted
—we’ll hunt for him in the car—won’t we, Geoffrey?”
“Of course,” nodded Ravenslee, “I’ll ‘phone the garage right away.”
But as he opened the door he came face to face with Joe, who touched an eyebrow and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“S’cuse me, sir,” said he, “but it’s that Old Un, covered wi’ dust ‘e is, sir, an’ wants a word wi’ you. And, sir, ‘e ‘s that mysterious as never was. Shall I let him come in, sir?”
“You try an’ keep me out, my lad, that’s all!” panted the Old Un, ducking under Joe’s great arm, “I’m better man nor ever you’ll be!”
So saying, the Old Un hobbled forward and, sinking into the nearest armchair, fanned himself with his hat, which, like the rest of his garments, bore the dust of travel.
“Greetin’s, Guv!” said he, when he had caught his breath. “‘Ere I be—a old man as ‘as done more for ye than all th’ young ‘uns put t’gether. Mrs. Ravenslee, ma’am, best respex!”
“And what have you been doing now?” enquired Ravenslee, smiling.
“Well, Guv, I been an’ got th’ murderer for ye, that’s all!”
Hermione caught her breath suddenly and gazed at the fierce, dusty old man with eyes full of growing terror; beholding which Ravenslee frowned, then laughed lightly and, seating himself on a corner of the table, swung his leg to and fro.
“So you’ve found him out, have you, Old Un?”
“Ah, that I have!”
“Are you sure?”
“Ah, quite sure, Guv.”
“Well, where is he—trot him out.”
“‘E’s comin’ along—th’ Spider’s bringin’ un. Ye see, he’s a bit wore out same as I am—we been trampin’ all th’ arternoon. Look at me shoes, that’s th’ worst o’ patent leather—they shows th’ dust. Joe, my lad, jest give ‘em a flick over with ye wipe.”
But at this moment steps were heard slowly approaching, and Hermione uttered an inarticulate cry, then spoke in an agonised whisper: “Arthur!”
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