Part 9 (1/2)
”Not the minute he's finished his supper, he can't sing, Flora May!” he said. ”Beside, I promised old Mr. Blossom to fetch Pippin in to see him.”
”Old Mr. _who_?” cried Pippin.
”He said you'd know the name,” chuckled Jacob. ”This way, Pippin! He's pretty feeble, the old man is. Keeps his bed mostly, now.”
For one moment Pippin hung back. Another! First Nipper, and now--Old Man Blossom, too! Old boozer, old snipe! Was he goin' to meet up with these folks right along, think? Wouldn't he ever get rid of 'em?
”Shut up! If the Lord can stand 'em, I expect you can!” and Pippin followed Mr. Bailey into a clean bare little room, where, propped on pillows, lay a clean old man. He looked eagerly up as Jacob entered.
”You got him with you?” he asked querulously. ”You got Pippin? I heard his voice--”
”You did, Daddy Blossom!” Pippin advanced and took the hand that was plucking nervously at the coverlet. ”You heard Pippin, and now you see him! Well! well! And who ever thought of meetin' up with you here, Daddy? And sick, too! but if I had to _be_ sick, I wouldn't ask no pleasanter place--” He turned to smile at Jacob Bailey, but Jacob had disappeared, and the door was closing softly.
”Pardoned out!” whispered the old man in his weak fretful voice.
”Pardoned out, 'count of age and sickness. I ain't a well man, Pippin; my vitals is all perished; but that ain't what I want to say. I want you to help me! Say you'll help me, Pippin! I was always friends with you over There--” he nodded vaguely--”and now I'm old and sick, you'll help me, won't you?”
”Sure!” Pippin drew a stool beside the bed and sat down. ”Put a name to it, Old Man! What can I do for you?”
”Find my little gal, Pippin, my Mary: you rec'lect her? Sure you do! She used to bring me candy, and poke it in betwixt the bars with her little hand--flowers too, she'd bring: sure you rec'lect little Mary, Pippin?”
Pippin did not, but there was no need of saying so.
”What about her, Old Man?”
”I want her! I ain't a well man, nor yet I ain't goin' to be well, and I want my little gal; I want you to find her, Pippin, and bring her to me.”
”Sure!” said Pippin comfortably. ”Where would I be likely--”
”I don't know!” cried the old man wildly. ”That--” he gave a brief and vivid sketch of his wife's character--a wholly inaccurate sketch--”never would tell me where she sent her. She died herself, and a good job, too, and she sent word to me that Mary was well and doin' well, but now she'd got shet of me she was goin' to keep her shet. Now what a way that was to talk to a father! If little Mary knowed where I was, she'd come like a shot, but she don't know, nor I don't know--You find her, Pippin! You rec'let the little gal: you'll find her, won't you?”
”Sure!” said Pippin. For some moments he sat absently, running his fingers through his brown curls. Taking out the little file, he considered it unseeingly, tried to whistle a tune on it, and failing, returned it to its hiding place. Then, waking from his reverie, he put the old man through a sharp examination. The answers were feeble and uncertain, but he learned something. Eighteen year old, or mighty nigh it. Yes, red hair, or--naw! it might be darker by now, like her ma's was; color of--there! 'member old Mis' Jennings that lived just over the way from There? Well, sir, she had a heifer, kind o' red brown, like a hoss chestnut when you break it open; and her skin the white of one, too, kind o' soft and creamy; and her eyes like her'n too (the heifer's, Old Man Blossom meant), big and soft and blue with a kind of brown in 'em too--there! he'd know her, Pippin would, by the dimple right corner of her little mouth. Cur'us thing that was. When she wasn't more than a baby, 'bout two year old, he gave her a little sunshade--she see her Ma's and hollered for it, and he said she should have one of her own; pink it was, and she carried it like the Lady of the Land, sir. But bimeby she tumbles down, and the p'int of it went right through her cheek. That's right; instead of a scar, it made a dimple, paint him sky blue striped if it didn't. Prettiest little gal--hair would curl round your finger like 'twas a stick--
The whisper broke into crying, and Pippin had to soothe him and sing ”The Factor's Lady, or the Turkish Garland,” all through to restore tranquillity. But when Pippin rose to go, the old man clutched him with trembling fingers.
”Whisper!” he said. ”Whisper, Pippin! The way you go to work--the way I'd go to work if I wasn't perished in my vitals”--he consigned his vitals to a warm region--”is, take Brand along!”
”Brand?” repeated Pippin.
”The blind man! he has eyes in his fingers. He can--he can tell the way the wind blew yesterday by feelin' of it to-day. If I'd had Brand I'd never been nabbed, and I'd be rollin' in gold to-day, and goin' in my automobile to find my little gal. But you get Brand along, Pippin! talk him round first, he's never been in the sportin' line, but--”
”Hold on! hold on!” Pippin loosed the clutching hands gently, and laid the poor old sinner, still gasping and whispering back on the pillow.
”Old Man, you're makin' one big mistake. I'm not in the line any more; I guess not!” He threw back his head and laughed joyously. ”You didn't know I found the Lord, did you? Well, I have, and there's no more sport in mine. But--I'll tell you! I'm runnin' a wheel at present, knife-grindin', you know. Why--I've got Nipper's wheel! Nipper was a pal of yours, wasn't he?”
”Nipper's wheel? Where's Nipper? Is he here?”
”He's dead, and before he went he gave me his wheel. It's a real handy--what now?”
He paused, for the old man, after staring at him a moment, broke into a fit of cackling, wheezing laughter.
”Nipper's wheel!” he gasped. ”He's got Nipper's wheel, and he's found the Lord, and he isn't in the line no more! Gorry to hemlock, this is rich! You took me in complete, Pippin, you did so! Go on! You're all right!”
He grew purple in the face, and his eyes rolled. Pippin stepped to the door.