Part 16 (1/2)

Mrs. Jones shook him from her and went to the other desk, where she stood facing him, her face red and swollen from her tears. ”Oh!” she wrung her hands as she looked at him with blazing eyes. ”You ought to be ashamed of yourself with the gentlemen here to buy the place and you around the office drinking liquor.”

”No, I ain't.” Bill answered her outburst mildly, backing away from her lest she should discover the flask in his back pocket.

He was too late. Her eye, accustomed to just such investigations, had detected the lines of the flask as it protruded from his back pocket.

Taking hold of him, she put her hand in his pocket and produced the flask, holding it, half empty, to the light.

”That belongs to Mr. Harper,” was Bill's ready excuse, given in the monotone which invariably masked a world of guilt. Seeing the doubt in his wife's eye, he added, ”You can go up-stairs and ask him, if you don't believe it.”

Mrs. Jones did not reply to his last remark. Instead of which she went back to the California desk, where she set down the flask, taking up the deed and holding it out to him. ”Now, Bill,” she said, in a coaxing voice, ”I want you to put your name to this paper.” She smiled kindly upon him for the first time in many hours.

Bill wavered before her smile. It was difficult for him to withstand it, especially as he knew how sorely he had tried her. But a promise was a promise with Bill, and his one pride was that he had kept intact through all the years of his digressions this one principle--he never broke his word. He had told Marvin he would not sign the deed without consulting him further, so he turned his eyes from his wife's face and answered, in a low voice, ”I can't, mother.”

”What's the reason you can't?” Mrs. Jones planted herself in front of him, determined that he should not evade her this time.

”Because I promised my lawyer I wouldn't,” he answered, his head turned away from her.

Mrs. Jones took him by the arm and swung him into line with her gaze.

”Now see here, Bill,” she snapped, ”I've been working my fingers to the bone and I'm ent.i.tled to a rest and you sha'n't stop my having it. Mr.

Thomas is going to take Millie and me to the city to live. If you sign that you can come with us. If you don't you've got to look out for yourself for a while.”

Bill had not paid much heed to Hammond's threat delivered a few minutes back. But now something in his wife's tone brought it, recurrent, to his mind. He wondered if, after all, there was some truth behind it.

Pausing to gather his points together, Bill nodded toward the stairs.

”Mother, that fellow, Hammond, said he'd throw me out. Do you want me to get out? Is that what you mean?”

It was not what Mrs. Jones had meant at all. But the events of the day had strained her nerves to breaking-point. Since daylight Thomas and Hammond had been after her to force Bill to do as she wished him to. To their suggestions that she teach him a lesson by leaving him for a while she had turned a deaf ear. But now they came surging back and, in answer to her call for a method of persuasion, clamored for recognition. Before she had time to stifle them they had their way. ”I mean just that, Bill.” There was silence as she thrust the words from her mouth. Bill stood still, gazing steadily at her.

She lowered her lids.

Then he came closer and looked up under her eyes, in the hope that he would find a relenting gleam there. But she turned away from him.

”All right, mother--I'll go.”

Without another word he turned and walked toward the door. Mrs. Jones took a quick step forward, then paused. ”Where'll you go?” she asked, half in surprise, half in defiance, for she had not believed that he would accept her challenge.

”Oh, 'most anywhere,” he said, gaily, forcing a whistle, though his lips quivered. ”I'll be all right, mother.”

His wife stepped forward again, extending a staying hand, but her resentment had her in its grip. Her hand fell back to her side.

”Well,” she called out to him as suddenly she turned from him and hurried up the stairs, ”I mean every word I've said! It's one thing or the other! Either you make up your mind to sign this,” and she tapped the paper in her hand, ”or I'm through with you!” Without a backward glance--fearing, perhaps, that she might weaken--she disappeared along the upper hallway.

Bill took his hand from the door and came slowly back into the room. He strolled to the California desk, pushed back his old hat, and stood there with his hands in his pockets, thoughtfully. Of a sudden his absent eyes lighted on the flask resting on the desk, where Mrs. Jones had put it down. Bill stroked his stubbled chin and gazed at the flask.

It seemed to suggest an idea to him. Satisfying himself that there was no one around at the moment, he strolled to the door, poked his head out, and gave a peculiar whistle; then he walked back to the desk and leaned against it, waiting.

In a few minutes Zeb's unkempt visage silently framed itself in the softly opened door. Lightnin' jerked his head as a sign to enter.

Stealthily, with many a wary glance to right and left, his disreputable partner of the past eased himself across the lobby and stood before Bill, childlike, trustful inquiry in his eyes.

”What's the idee, Lightnin'?” he rumbled, puffing at the frayed remains of a cigar.