CHAPTER XVII.
SOUTHWARD TO CLYDE.
Early on the following morning I visited Trafton's best livery stable,and procuring a good team and light buggy, drove straight to Jim Long'scabin, intending to solicit his companionship on my ride. But the cabinwas deserted; there was no sign of Jim about the premises; and, afterwaiting impatiently for a few moments, and uttering one or tworesounding halloos, I resumed my journey alone.
I had manufactured a pretext for this journey, which was to be confidedto Jim by way of setting at rest any wonder or doubt that my maneuversmight otherwise give rise to, and I had intended to seize thisopportunity for sounding him, in order the better to judge whether itwould be prudent to take him into our confidence, in a less or greaterdegree, as the occasion might warrant.
Such an ally as Jim would be invaluable, I knew; but, spite of the factthat we had been much in his society, and that we both consideredourselves, and were considered by others, very good judges of humannature, neither Carnes nor myself could say truly that we understood JimLong.
His words were a mass of absurd contradictions, betraying no trait ofhis individuality, save his eccentricity; and his face was, at alltimes, as unreadable as the sphinx. When you turned from hiscontradictory words to read his meaning in his looks, you felt as ifturning from the gambols of Puck to peer into a vacuum.
Regretting the loss of Jim's society, as well as the opportunity itmight _possibly_ have afforded, I urged my horses swiftly over thesmooth sun-baked road, noting the aspect of the country as we flew on.
Straight and level it stretched before me, with field, orchard, andmeadow on either hand; a cultivated prairie. There were well-grownorchards, and small artificial groves, rows of tall poplars, clumps oflow-growing trees, planted as wind breaks, hedges high and branching,low and closely trimmed. But no natural timber, no belts of grove, nothick undergrowth; nothing that might afford shelter for skulkingoutlaws, or stolen quadrupeds.
The houses were plentiful, and not far apart. There were the pretentiousnew dwellings of the well-to-do farmers, and the humbler abodes of theunsuccessful land tiller, and the renter. There were stacks, and barns,and granaries, all honest in their fresh paint or their weather-beatendilapidation; no haven for thieves or booty here.
So for ten miles; then there was a stretch of rolling prairie, but stillno timber, and as thickly settled as before.
Fifteen miles from Trafton I crossed a high bridge that spanned a creekalmost broad enough and deep enough to be called a river. On either sidewas a fringe of hazel brush and a narrow strip of timber, so muchthinned by the wood cutter that great gaps were visible among the trees,up and down, as far as the eye could see.
I watered my horses here, and drawing forth a powerful field glass,which I had made occasional use of along the route, surveyed thecountry. Nothing near or remote seemed worthy of investigation.
Driving beneath some friendly green branches, I allowed my horses torest, and graze upon the tender foliage, while I consulted a littlepocket map of the country.
I had been driving directly south, and the C. & L. railroad ran fromTrafton a little to the southwest. At a distance of eighteen miles fromthat town the railroad curved to the south and ran parallel with thehighway I was now traveling, but at a distance of eight miles. Ten milesfurther south and I would come upon the little inland village of Clyde,and running due west from Clyde was a wagon road straight to therailroad town of Amora.
I had started early and driven fast; consulting my watch I found that itwas only half-past ten.
I had intended to push my investigation at least twenty-five milessouth, and although I was already convinced that no midnight raiderswould be likely to choose as an avenue of escape a highway so thicklydotted with houses, many of them inconveniently near the road, and soinsufficient in the matter of hills and valleys, forest and shelteringunderbrush. I decided to go on to Clyde, hoping, if I failed in onedirection, to increase my knowledge in another.
I put away map and field glass, lit a fresh cigar, turned my horses oncemore into the high road and pursued my journey.
It was a repetition of the first ten miles; broad fields and richmeadows, browsing cattle and honest-eyed sheep; thickly scattered farmbuildings, all upright and honest of aspect; the whole broad face of thecountry seemed laughing my investigations to scorn.
When I found myself within sight of Clyde I stopped my team, havingfirst assured myself that no spectator was in sight and selected fromthe roadside a small, round pebble. Looking warily about me a secondtime, I inserted it between the hoof and shoe of the most docile of thetwo horses.
It was an action that would have brought me into disfavor with the greatBergh, but in the little game I was about to play, the assistance whicha lame horse could render seemed necessary.
I promised the martyr a splendid rub down and an extra feed as acompensation, and we moved on slowly toward our destination, the nearhorse limping painfully, and his comrade evidently much amazed, and nota little disgusted, at this sudden change of gait.
The little village of Clyde was taking its noontide nap when I drovedown its principal street, and I felt like a wolf in Arcadia; all was sopeaceful, so clean, so prim and so silent.
A solitary man emerging from a side street roused me to action. I droveforward and checked my horses directly before him.
Could I find a livery stable in the town? And was there such a thing asa hotel?
Yes, there was a sort of a stable, at least anybody could get a feed atLarkins' barn, and he kept two or three horses for hire. As for a hotel,there it was straight ahead of me; that biggish house with the newblinds on it.
Being directed to Larkins', I thanked my informant, and was soon makingmy wants known to Larkins himself.
Thinking it quite probable that the hired team which I drove might beknown to some denizen of Clyde, I at once announced myself as fromTrafton; adding, that I had driven out toward Clyde on business, and,being told that I could reach Baysville by a short cut through or nearClyde, I had driven on, but one of my horses having suddenly becomelame, I had decided to rest at Clyde, and then return to Trafton. I hadbeen told that Baysville was not more than seven miles from Clyde.
It is scarcely necessary to state that I had really no intention ofvisiting Baysville, and that my map had informed me as to its preciselocation.
The truth was that I had dropped for the moment the Trafton case, andhad visited Clyde in the interest of Groveland, thinking it not unlikelythat this little hamlet, being so near Amora, might be within the areatraversed by Mr. Ed. Dwight, the sewing machine agent.
He was said to live somewhere between Amora and Sharon, perhaps here Icould learn the precise location of his abiding place.
Leaving my tired horses to the care of Larkins, I next bent my stepstowards the commodious dwelling which did duty as hotel. There was nooffice, but the sitting-room, with its homely rag carpet, gaudylithographs, old fashioned rocker, and straight-backed "cane seats," wasclean and cool. There was a small organ in one corner, a sewing machinein another, and an old fashioned bureau in a third.
A little girl, of fourteen years or less, entered the room timidly,followed by two younger children. She took from the bureau a foldedcloth, snowy and smooth, and left the room quietly, but the youngerones, less timid, and perhaps more curious, remained.
Perching themselves uncomfortably upon the extreme edges of two chairs,near together but remote from me, they blinked and stared perseveringly,until I broke the silence and set them at their ease by commencing alively conversation.
The organ was first discussed, then the sewing machine furnished afresh topic. After a time my dinner was served: but, during thehalf-hour of waiting, while my hostess concocted yellow soda biscuit,and fried monstrous slices of ham, I had gathered, from my seeminglycareless chatter with the children, some valuable information. While Iate my dinner, I had leisure to consider what I had heard.
My hostess had not purchased her sewing machine of E
d. Dwight, but hehad been there to repair it; besides, he always stopped there whenmaking his regular journeys through Clyde. They all liked Dwight, thechildren had declared; he could play the organ, and he sang such funnysongs. He could dance, too, "like anything." He lived at _Amora_, but hehad told their mother, when he had paid his last visit, that he intendedto sell out his route soon, and go away. He was going into anotherbusiness.
If Mr. Dwight lived at Amora, then Mrs. Ballou had misunderstood or beenmisinformed. She was the reverse of stupid, and not likely to err inunderstanding. If she had been misinformed, had it not been for somepurpose?
The machine agent had talked of abandoning his present business, andleaving the country shortly.
If this was true, then it would be well to know where he was going, andwhat his new occupation was to be.
Before I had finished doing justice to my country dinner, I had decidedhow to act.
Returning to Larkins' stable I found that he had discovered the causeof my horse's lameness, and listened to his rather patronizing discourseupon the subject of "halts and sprains," with due meekness, as well as aprofound consciousness that he had mentally set me down as a cityblockhead, shockingly ignorant of "horse lore," and wholly unfit to drawthe ribbons over a decent beast.
He had been assisted to this conclusion by a neighboring Clydeite, who,much to my annoyance, had sauntered in, and, recognizing not only theteam, but myself, had volunteered the information that:
"Them was Dykeman's bays," and that I was "a rich city fellow that wasstayin' at Trafton;" he had "seen me at the hotel the last time hehauled over market stuff."
Having ascertained my position in the mind of Mr. Larkins, I consultedhim as to the propriety of driving the bays over to Amora and back thatafternoon.
Larkins eyed me inquisitively.
"I s'pose then you'll want to get back to Trafton to-night?" he queried.
Yes, I wanted to get back as soon as possible, but if Larkins thoughtit imprudent to drive so far with the team, I would take fresh horses,if he had them to place at my disposal. And then, having learned fromexperience that ungratified curiosity, especially the curiosity of thecountry bumpkin with a taste for gossip, is often the detective's worstenemy, I explained that I had learned that the distance to Baysville wasgreater than I had supposed, and I had decided to drive over to Amora tomake a call upon an acquaintance who was in business there.
Mr. Larkins manifested a desire to know the name of my Amoraacquaintance, and was promptly enlightened.
I wanted to call on Mr. Ed. Dwight, of sewing machine fame.
And now I was the helpless victim in the hands of the ruthless andinquisitive Larkins.
He knew Ed. Dwight "like a book." Ed. always "put up" with him, and hewas a "right good fellow, any way you could fix it." In short, Larkinswas ready and willing to act as my pilot to Amora; he had "got a flyin'span of roans," and would drive me over to Amora in "less than no time";he "didn't mind seeing Ed. himself," etc., etc.
There was no help for it. Larkins evidently did not intend to trust hisroans to my unskilled hands, so I accepted the situation, and was soonbowling over the road to Amora, _tete-a-tete_ with the veriestinterrogation point in human guise that it was ever my lot to meet.
Larkins did not converse; he simply asked questions. His interest inmyself, my social and financial standing, my occupation, my business orpleasure in Trafton, my past and my future, was something surprisingconsidering the length, or more properly the _brevity_ of ouracquaintance.
Even my (supposed) relatives, near and remote, came in for a share ofhis generous consideration.
To have given unsatisfactory answers would have been to provoke outsideinvestigation.
A detective's first care should be to clear up all doubt or uncertaintyconcerning himself. Let an inquisitive person think that he knows alittle more of your private history than do his neighbors, and youdisarm him; he has now no incentive to inquiry. He may ventilate hisknowledge very freely, but by so doing he simply plays into your hands.
If the scraps of family history, which I dealt out to Larkins duringthat drive, astonished and edified that worthy, they would haveastonished and edified my most intimate friend none the less.
By the time we had reached our destination, I was bursting withmerriment, and he, with newly acquired knowledge.
I had made no attempt to extract information concerning Ed. Dwight, onthe route. I hoped soon to interview that gentleman in _propriaepersonae_, and any knowledge not to be gained from the interview I could"sound" for on the return drive.
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