“With contents if any,” that was where her surprise was to come in. She would pick out a good bag that had a woman’s name on it, or one that at least looked as if a woman had owned it, and she would bid it in. Then the bag would be hers, and the “contents if any.” She thrilled at the thought. Her friend had told of diamond rings, of gold watches, of a string of pearls, of silks and satins and silver jewel boxes that had come from these mysterious sealed bags and trunks.
“Of course,” Florence assured herself, “there won’t be anything like that in my bag, but anyway there’ll be a surprise. What fun it will be, on my birthday, to turn the key to the bag and to peep inside.
“I know the afternoon is going to drag terribly. I do wish I could go now,” she sighed, “but I can’t. I do hope they don’t sell all the nice bags before I get there.”
With this she rose from the table, paid her check and went back to her elevator, still wondering about her mysterious double and still dreaming of her birthday surprise.
CHAPTER X
CORDIE’S STRANGE RIDE
Twice a day, after Cordie had discovered him, the police horse, Dick, had a lump of sugar—one in the morning and another at noon. And Mounted Officer Patrick O’Hara, very young, quite handsome and somewhat dashing, received a smile with each lump of sugar. It would have been hard to tell which enjoyed his portion the most, Dick or Patrick O’Hara.
Apparently nothing could have pleased Cordie more than this discovery of an old friend. Yes, there was one other thing that would have pleased her much more. She found herself longing for it more and more. Every time she saw the horse she secretly yearned for this privilege.
And then, quite surprisingly, the opportunity came. It was noon. Having come out from the store to give Dick his daily portion, she was surprised to find him standing alone, head down, and patiently waiting. A glance down the street told her there had been an auto collision in the middle of the block; not a serious one probably, as the cars did not seem badly smashed, but of course Patrick O’Hara had gone over there to take down the numbers. Since traffic had been jammed, he had dismounted and walked.
“Wha—what a chance,” Cordie breathed, her heart skipping a beat. “Do I dare?”
She looked up at the splendid saddle with its broad circle of brass and other trappings. She studied Dick’s smooth, sleek sides.
“I know I shouldn’t,” she whispered, “but I do so want to. Dick, do you suppose he’d care?”
The temptation was growing stronger. Glancing down the street, she caught a glimpse of Patrick O’Hara’s cap above the crowd. His back was turned. The temptation was no longer to be resisted. With a touch and a spring, light as air, Cordie leaped into the saddle.
“Just for old times,” she whispered.
She had meant to hover there for an instant, then to leap right down again. But alas for the best laid plans. Old Dick had apparently remembered things about the past which she had quite forgotten, and with a wild snort his head went up, his four feet came together, and with a leap that completely cleared him from the autos that blocked his way, he went tearing down the street.
For a second the girl’s head was in a whirl. So unexpected was this mad dash that she was all but thrown from the saddle. Apparently an experienced rider, she regained her balance, clung to the pommel of the saddle for an instant, then gripping the reins, she screamed:
“Whoa, Dick! Whoa! Whoa!”
Had her scream been “Go Dick! Go!” it would not have had a different effect. He simply redoubled his speed.
Then it was that the State Street throng of shoppers viewed a performance that was not on the program and one they would not soon forget—a hatless, coatless girl, hair flying, cheeks aflame, dashing madly down the street astride a sturdy police horse.
Some laughed, some cheered, others gasped in astonishment and fright. A corner policeman leaped for the reins, but missed. Panic spread through the cross streets. It was a bad morning for jay-walkers. Having failed to see the on-coming charger, they would leap boldly before a slow-moving auto to give one startled look upward, then to register the blankest surprise and shy suddenly backward. Had it not been such a serious business, Cordie would have laughed at the expressions on their faces; but this was no laughing matter. To all appearances she had stolen a policeman’s horse, and that in broad daylight.
Suddenly a second police horse swung out into the street.
“Stop! Stop! I arrest you!” shouted the rider.
“That’s easy said,” the girl murmured in an agony of fear lest Dick should trample someone under his feet. “It’s easy said. I wish you would.”
Evidently Dick did not agree with these sentiments, for the instant he sensed this rival his head went higher, a great snort escaped his nostrils and he was away with a fresh burst of speed which left the surprised officer three lengths behind.
“Oh! Oh! What shall I do!” groaned the girl.
The more she tugged at the reins the faster flew Dick’s splendid limbs. He had the bit between his teeth.
Suddenly, as if aggravated by the crowds that threatened to block his way, he whirled to a side street and went dashing toward the Boulevard.
“The Boulevard! Oh, the Boulevard! We will be killed!”
Before them lay the Boulevard where autos, thick as bees in clover, raced forward at twenty miles an hour. What chance could there be of escape?
Trust a horse. While pedestrians stared and screamed in terror, while policemen vainly blew whistles and auto drivers set brakes screaming, Dick, without slackening his pace, raced ahead of a yellow limousine, grazed a black sedan, sent a flivver to the curb, and with one magnificent leap cleared the sidewalk and the low chain at its edge, landing squarely upon the soft, yielding turf of the park.
“Ah, that’s better,” he all but seemed to say. Then, heading south along the narrow park that extended straight away for a mile, he continued his mad career.
Cordie, risking one backward look, gasped in consternation and fear.
“Dick, Dick, you old villain! You’ve got me in for life! Never, never again!”
Three policemen, each mounted on his steed, came dashing after her in mad pursuit.
A straight, broad course lay before them; a pretty enough course to tempt anyone. Seeming to gain new strength from the very touch of it, Dick gripped his bit and fairly flew.
And Cordie, in spite of her predicament, regardless of impending arrest, was actually getting a thrill out of it. For one thing, there were now no pedestrians to be run down. The park was deserted. For another thing, ahead of Dick lay a clear stretch of turf which she hoped would satisfy his lust for speed.
Finding herself in a more cheerful frame of mind, Cordie took to studying her pursuers. That they were of different ages she guessed more by the way they rode than by a clear view of their faces; Dick had left them too far behind for that. The foremost rider was a man of thirty-five or so, a stern minion of the law, and he was plainly angry. It had been he who had informed her on State Street that she was arrested. He had an unusually long nose—she remembered that. He rode a poor mount very badly indeed. The punishment he was getting, as he jounced up and down in the saddle, he would doubtless attempt to pass on to her and to Dick. She ardently wished that he might never catch up, but realized at the same time that it could not well be avoided. The race must come to a close.
The other policemen were different. One was heavy and well past middle age; the other young, perhaps no older than Patrick O’Hara. They rode with the easy grace of an aged and a young cowboy. She had seen some like that in the movies not so long ago. She fancied she saw a smile on the younger man’s face. Perhaps he was enjoying the race. She sincerely hoped he might be, and the older man, too. As for the one of the long nose—not a chance.
All things have an end. Dick’s race did. Having come close to an iron fence, beyond which towered a brick structure, he appeared to assume that he had reached the goal. Dropping to a slow trot, he circled
gracefully to the right, and as he came to a standstill he threw his head high as much as to say:
“We won, didn’t we; and by a handsome margin!”
“Yes, you old goose,” the girl breathed. “And now, instead of a blue ribbon for you and a purse for me, we get an invite to some dirty old police court.”
There was no time for further thought. The foremost policeman, he of the long nose, rode up and snatching at the reins, snarled:
“Suppose you call that smart, you—you flapper!”
Staring angrily at the girl, he gave Dick’s rein such a yank as threw the magnificent horse on his haunches.
Instantly Cordie’s eyes flashed fire. They might take her to jail and welcome; but abuse Dick he might not!
Dick, however, proved quite equal to caring for himself. With a snort he leaped to one side, and jerking his rein from the policeman’s grasp, went dashing away.
So sudden was this turn that Cordie, caught unawares, was thrown crashing to the ground. The officer wheeled and rode after the horse.
It was the older man, the one with gray about his temples, who, quickly dismounting, helped the girl to her feet.
“Are you hurt?” he asked in a tone that had a fatherly touch in it.
That did the trick for Cordie. All her anger was gone. She was not injured, but tears came trickling out from beneath her eyelids as she half sobbed:
“I—I’m sorry. Truly I am. I didn’t, didn’t mean to. Truly—truly I didn’t! I—I used to ride him in races, on—on the farm. And I thought—thought it would be fun to just sit—sit a minute in his saddle. I tried it and I guess—guess he thought it was to be another race. Anyway, he—he bolted with me and I couldn’t stop him. Truly, truly I couldn’t!”
“That’s all right, Miss,” said the elderly one, putting a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “It may not be so bad, after all.”
The younger policeman had also dismounted and now stood smiling at them and appearing to wish he might take the place of his older friend.
“That is Pat O’Hara’s horse,” he said at last. “He’s the smartest mount on the force. And I’ll tell you one thing, if we wait for Hogan to catch him we’ll be here until tomorrow morning.”
Hogan, the irate policeman, was certainly having his troubles catching Dick. With the skill and mischief of a trained performer, Dick was playing tag with him in a masterly fashion. He would stand with head down as if asleep until his pursuer was all but upon him; then with a snort he would dash away. No amount of coaxing, cajoling or cursing could bring him any nearer to capture.
This little play went on for several minutes. Then, at a time when Dick had circled quite close to her, Cordie suddenly put two fingers to her lips and let out a shrill whistle. Instantly the splendid horse pricked up his ears and came trotting toward her.
“Good old Dick,” she whispered, patting him on the neck and not so much as putting out a hand for his rein.
“Well I’ll be—” mumbled the younger policeman.
“There’s lots like ’em, both horses and girls,” the old man smiled, “and I’ll swear there’s not more bad in the girl than the horse.”
“No, now Hogan,” he held up a warning hand to the one who came riding up. “You leave this to me. Where’s O’Hara’s stand?”
“State and Madison,” volunteered the younger man.
“Good, we’re off. You men can ride back to your posts. I’ll tend to this matter myself.”
The younger man grinned. Hogan growled; then they rode away.
“You better mount and ride back,” suggested the older man to Cordie.
Seeing her hesitate, he reached for her rein, “I’ll steady him a bit, but he’s had his race. Guess he’ll be satisfied. But,” he said suddenly, “you’re not dressed for this. You must be half frozen.”
Unstrapping a great coat from Patrick O’Hara’s saddle, he helped her into it and together they rode away.
And so it happened that on this day, only a few days before Christmas, the throngs along State Street viewed a second unusual sight. Though quite different from the first, it was no less mystifying. Who ever heard of a gray haired policeman and a bobbed haired girl in a policeman’s great coat, riding police horses and parading up the city’s most congested street in broad daylight?
“What a fool I’ve been,” the girl whispered to herself as she hid her face from a camera. “It will all be in the papers. And then what?”
They found young Patrick O’Hara nervously pacing his beat on foot. His face lit up with a broad grin as he saw them approaching.
“I sort of figured,” he drawled, “that whoever took Dick would bring him back. Can’t anybody do a good job of riding him except me.”
“If you think that,” exclaimed Tim Reilly, the elderly policeman, “you just take any horse on the force, give this girl and Dick a three-length start, and see if you’d catch ’em. You would—not! Not in a thousand moons!”
Patrick O’Hara grinned as he helped the girl down.
“Now you beat it,” said Tim in as stern a voice as he could command. “I suspect you work around here somewhere close. You’ve overdone your noon hour, and this the rush season. You’ll be in for it now.”
Cordie threw him one uncertain glance to discover whether or not he was in earnest. The next moment she went racing across the street.
CHAPTER XI
AS SEEN FROM THE STAIRWAY
“Where in the world have you been?” Lucile exclaimed, pouncing upon Cordie as soon as she came in sight. “Rennie’s been worrying her poor old head off about you, and Miss Mones, who’s in charge of the checking girls, is furious.”
“Oh,” Cordie drawled, “I was out to lunch. Then I took a spin down the park on my favorite steed. It’s a won-der-ful day outside.”
“You’ll have a lot of time to spend outside,” scolded Lucile, “if you don’t get right back to your stand.”
A moment later, having somehow made her peace with Miss Mones, Cordie was back at her task, rustling paper and snipping cord.
Late that afternoon Lucile was sent to the twelfth floor storeroom to look up a special order. She enjoyed these trips to the upper realms. This vast storeroom was like a new world to her. As she walked down long, narrow, silent aisles, on either side of which were wired in compartments piled high with every conceivable form of merchandise: rugs, piano lamps, dolls, dishes, couches, clothes-pins, and who knows what others, she could not help feeling that she was in the store house of the world, that she was queen of this little ward and that there remained only for her to say the word and a house would be handsomely furnished, a beautiful bride outfitted with a trousseau, or a Christmas tree decorated for a score of happy children. Yes, these aisles held a charm and fascination all their own. She liked the silence of the place, too. After the hours of listening to the constant babble of voices, the murmur of shoppers, the call of clerks, the answers of floormen, this place seemed the heart of silent woods at night.
Captivated by such thoughts as these, and having located the missing books and started them on their journey down the elevator, she decided to walk down the nine flights to her own floor.
Here, too, as she skipped lightly down from floor to floor, she caught little intimate glimpses of the various lives that were being lived in this little world of which she was for a time a part. Here a score of printing presses and box making machines were cutting, shaping and printing containers for all manner of holiday goods. The constant rush of wheels, the press and thump of things, the wrinkles on the brows of operators, all told at what a feverish heat the work was being pushed forward.
One floor lower down the same feverish pace was being set. Here nimble fingers dipped and packed chocolate bonbons, while from the right and left of them came the rattle and thump of drums polishing jelly beans and molding gum drops at the rate of ten thousand a minute.
Ah yes, there was the Christmas rush for you. But one floor lower down there was quiet and composure such as one m
ight hope to find in a meadow where a single artist, with easel set, sketches a landscape. It was not unlike that either, for the two-score of persons engaged here were sketching, too. The sketches they made with pen and ink and water-colors were not unattractive. Drawings of house interiors they were; here the heavily furnished office of some money king, and there the light and airy boudoir of one of society’s queens; here the modest compartment of a young architect who, though of only average means, enjoyed having things done right, and there the many roomed mansion of a steel magnate. These sketches were made and then shown to the prospective customer. The customer offered suggestions, made slight changes, then nodded, wrote a check, and a sale amounting to thousands of dollars was completed.
“That must be fascinating work,” Lucile whispered to herself as an artistic looking young woman showed a finished sketch to a customer. “I think I’d like that. I believe—”
With a sudden shock her thoughts were cut short. Two persons had entered the glassed-in compartment—a woman of thirty and a girl in her late teens. And of all persons!
“The Mystery Lady and Cordie! It can’t be,” she breathed, “and yet it is!”
It was, too. None other. What was stranger still, they appeared to have business here. At sight of them one of the artists arose and lifting a drawing which had been standing face to the wall, held it out for their inspection.
Cordie clasped her hands in very evident ecstasy of delight, and, if Lucile read her lips aright, she exclaimed:
“How perfectly wonderful!”
The expression on the Mystery Lady’s face said plainer than words, “I hoped you’d like it.”
The sketch, Lucile could see plainly enough from where she stood, was a girl’s room. There was a bed with draperies, a study table of slender-legged mahogany, a dresser, one great comfortable chair surprisingly like Lucile’s own, some simpler chairs of exquisite design. These furnishings, and such others as only a girl would love, were done in the gay tints that appeal to the springtime of youth.
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