Part 32 (1/2)
”I shall pray for you tonight, Mister Golda. I shall pray for you not to forget tomorrow.” And she softly closed the door.
As Jack mildly stared at the child, the light in his eyes changed to a look far off, and there gradually stole over his face an aspect of infinite sadness, reminiscent of the days of his childhood.
On resuming his presence of mind, he went to the cupboard and took from there a bottle. After removing the stopper he took a straight draught of liquor, turned low the light and tip-toed to the bedroom door, listened, and heard Dorothy say:
”Oh, dear Jesus, make George Golda good; help him remember his promise to take me home tomorrow.”
Jack was deeply moved by the child's sweet disposition, and he turned away disgusted at the despicable role he was enacting, and muttered reflectively: ”Good G.o.d, that I should come to this! From secretary-treasurer of the Securities Investment a.s.sociation to be a kidnapper of babes!
”Jack Sh.o.r.e, the kidnapper! What a fall is here! Yes, I have sunk so low as to abduct from a fond, suffering mother one of the purest gems of flesh and blood that ever blest a home. And for what? The almighty dollar! Only that, and nothing more! Curse the d.a.m.ned dollar that drives men to crime!
”Curse it for cramming h.e.l.l with lost souls. I'll wash my hands of this whole business; I'll have no more of it; I'll take the child home!”
The resolution was so cheering, so fruitful of kindly intent, and urged on by the ”still, small voice” within him to do right, that he decided to fortify himself with a second drink of liquor. Then a contra train of reflection seized him, and he whispered, as one suddenly confronted with an appalling calamity:
”Ah, ah! What am I saying? And I have scarcely a dollar in the world!
Have gone hungry for the want of it--and here is twenty thousand of the beautiful golden things actually in sight--almost at my finger tips!”
and with the thought blank concern spread over his face, and the kindly purpose, the human compa.s.sion for his fellow being in its transient pa.s.sage to his heart, again took flight and the ”still, small voice” within him shrank abashed to silence.
”Out with this sentimental nonsense! The Thorpes can stand the loss of a few thousand without a twitch of an eyelash.”
The sound of a couple of gentle taps on the starboard side of the cabin broke his train of audible thoughts and claimed his quick attention.
The taps were repeated distinctly. He answered them with three light taps on the wall, given by the joint of his finger. Then he quietly opened the door, and Philip Rutley, with the collar of his coat turned up closely about his face, stood in the opening.
”All skook.u.m, Jack?” he questioned, in low tones, on entering.
”All skook.u.m, Phil,” answered Jack, as he locked and bolted the door.
”Good! I love to look at the little darling. Jack, she is a gold mine.” And, so saying, Rutley took the lamp from over the shelf and cautiously opening the door, peered within.
”Isn't she pretty?” Then he quietly closed the door, replaced the lamp on the shelf, turned down his coat collar and said in a low, pleased voice: ”Well, old boy, our troubles are nearly over. Virginia will come tonight.”
”Alone?” queried Jack, in low tones, and he looked significantly at his colleague.
”Yes, and with the ducats! I caused her to be secretly informed that she must meet you here by twelve o'clock this night, and prepared to pay the ransom. Any liquor handy, Jack? I'm feeling a bit nervous after that pull. The boat sogged along as heavy as though a bunch of weeds trailed across her prow.”
Jack smiled, but proceeded to the cupboard and produced a bottle, together with a gla.s.s. Removing the cork, he offered both bottle and gla.s.s to Rutley with the remark: ”Old Kaintuck--dead shot! The best ever. Help yourself!”
”That's an affectionate beauty spot about your right eye, Jack,”
remarked Rutley, taking the bottle and tumbler from him.
”You haven't told me how it happened.”
”I was out on Corbett street when that d.a.m.ned Irish coachman of Thorpe's sauntered along as though he had a chip on his shoulder, and he had the nerve to ask me if I had seen the child.”
”Do you think he suspected you?” queried Rutley, pausing with the gla.s.s and bottle in his hands.
”No; it was a random shot. But it made me hot, and--well, the long and the short of it was the doctor worked over me an hour before I was able to walk.”