Part 26 (1/2)

”Charlie.”

”And your address?”

The boy mentioned a distant subdivision.

”That _is_ out, isn't it? Well, we'll take the car. We'll run right out and see what is to be done. I guess I'd better call a doctor at once.”

He went to the telephone and gave some directions. Then he and the boy walked to a garage, and in a few moments were humming along the by-streets into the country. Dave had already become engrossed in his errand of mercy, and his rage at Conward, if not forgotten, was temporarily dismissed from his mind. He chatted with the boy as he drove.

”You go to school?”

”Not this year. Father has been too sick. Of course, this is holidays, and he says he'll be all right before they're over.”

Dave smiled grimly. ”The incurable optimism of it,” he murmured to himself. Then outwardly, ”Of course he will. We'll fix him up in no time with a good doctor and a good nurse.”

They drove on through the calm night, leaving the city streets behind and following what was little more than a country trail. This was crossed in every direction, and at every possible angle, by just such other country trails, unravelling themselves into the darkness. Here and there they b.u.mped over pieces of graded street, infinitely rougher than the natural prairie; once Dave dropped his front wheels into a collapsing water trench; once he just grazed an isolated hydrant. The city lights were cut off by a shoulder of foothill; only their dull glow hung in the distant sky.

”And this is one of our 'choice residential subdivisions,'” said Dave to himself, as with Charlie's guidance and his own in-born sense of location he threaded his way through the maze of diverging trails.

”Fine business; fine business.”

As the journey continued the sense of self-reproach which had been static in him for many months became more insistent, and he found himself repeating the ironical phrase, ”Fine business, fine business.

Yes, I let Conward 'weigh the coal' all right.” The intrusion of Conward into his mind sent the blood to his head, but at that moment his reflections were cut short by the boy.

”We will have to get out here,” he said. ”The bridge is down.”

Investigation proved him to be right. A bridge over a small stream had collapsed, and was slowly disintegrating amid its own wreckage. Dave explored the stream bottom, getting muddy boots for his pains. Then he ran the car a little to one side of the road, locked the switch, and walked on with the boy.

”Pretty lonely out here, isn't it?” he ventured.

”Oh, no. There is a street light we can see in a little while; it is behind the hill now. We see it from the corner of our shack. It's very cheery.”

”Fine business,” Dave repeated to himself. ”And this is how our big success was made. Well, the 'success' has vanished as quickly as it came. I suppose there is a Law somewhere that is not mocked.”

They were pa.s.sing through a settlement of crude houses, dimly visible in the starlight and by occasional yellow blurs from their windows.

Before one of the meanest of these the boy at last stopped. The upper hinge of the door was broken, and a feeble light struggled through the s.p.a.ce where it gaped outward. Charlie pulled the door open, and Dave entered. At first his eyes could not take in the dim outlines before him; he was conscious of a very small and stuffy room, with a peculiar odour which he attributed to an oil lamp burning on a box. He walked over and turned the lamp up, but the oil was consumed; a red, sullen, smoking wick was its only response. Then he felt in his pocket, and struck a match.

The light revealed the dinginess of the little room. There was a bed, covered with musty, ragged clothing; a table, littered with broken and dirty dishes and pieces of stale food; a stove, cracked and greasy, and one or two bare boxes serving as articles of furniture. But it was to the bed Dave turned, and, with another match, bent over the shrunken form that lay almost concealed amid the coa.r.s.e coverings. He brought his face down close, then straightened up and steadied himself for a moment.

”He'll soon be well, don't you think, Mister? He said he would be well when the holidays----” But Dave's expression stopped the boy, whose own face went suddenly wild with fear.

”He is well now, Charlie,” he said, as steadily as he could. ”It is all holidays now for him.”

The match had burnt out, and the room was in utter darkness. Dave heard the child drawing his feet slowly across the floor, then suddenly whimpering like a thing that had been mortally hurt. He groped toward him, and at length his fingers found his shock of hair. He drew the boy slowly into his arms; then very, very tight. . . . After all, they were orphans together.

”You will come with me,” he said, at length. ”I will see that you are provided for. The doctor will soon be here, or we will meet him on the way, and he will make the arrangements for--the arrangements that have to be made, you know.”

They retraced their steps toward the town, meeting the doctor at the broken bridge. Dave exchanged a few words with him in low tones, and they pa.s.sed on. Soon they were swinging again through the city streets, this time through the busy thoroughfares, which were almost blocked with tense, excited crowds about the bulletin boards. Even with the developments of the evening pressing heavily upon his mind, Dave could not resist the temptation to stop and listen for a moment to bulletins being read through a megaphone.

”The Kaiser has stripped off his British regalia,” said the announcer.

”He says he will never again wear a British uniform.”