Part 18 (2/2)

”n.o.body but the oaf I described.”

”Wade out, Turkey,” the Whistler was calling to his barefoot companions. He seemed shy of putting his boat ash.o.r.e. Since the arrival of the officer all three urchins had become singularly distant and distressed. Was this only the natural awe which slum children feel in the presence of the police? Or was it conscience that made cowards of them all?

”Come ash.o.r.e, young feller. The gentleman wants to thank you,” said Chandler.

”We must look for the fis.h.i.+ng-pole under the pier,” answered the Whistler. It was true that he had thrown his rod away when they heard the loud splash of s.h.a.garach's body in the water. But his manner indicated that while what he said might be true, it was not the fact. Turkey and Toot also had shown unseemly haste in wading out to the dory with the Whistler's outer raiment. The Whistler was digging the blade in for his first stroke when s.h.a.garach addressed him in a tone that made him pause.

”My young friends, I am too weak to thank you to-night. To-morrow is Sat.u.r.day. Could you call at my office in the morning, 31 Putnam street? Mr. s.h.a.garach. Can you come?”

”Yes, sir,” answered the boys, with more submission than gladness in their voices. All the gamin's impudence melts at a touch of true kindness. The boys waited a moment, then disappeared into the night, while s.h.a.garach, with the policeman's a.s.sistance, made his way through the gathering crowd to the refectory.

It was the misfortune of Jacob, s.h.a.garach's office boy, to be the owner of a most preposterous nose, the consciousness of which led him to fear society and shun the mannerless mult.i.tude. Boys of his own age in particular he dreaded, as a tame crow is said to fear nothing so much as a wild one. So when our three mischiefmakers entered the office the next morning and seated themselves till Mr. s.h.a.garach should return, the poor lad began squirming by antic.i.p.ation in his chair as if its seat were a pin cus.h.i.+on with the points of the pins protruding. As a matter of defensive tactics, this was the worst possible att.i.tude to take, as it courted a.s.sault. But Jacob was not a strategist.

Before long his torture began, first by side comments and giggles, suppressed in deference to the decorum of the surroundings. Then he was subjected to a running fire of personal questions, the tone of which speedily began to mimic the m.u.f.fled nasals of his own richly accented responses. This would have been acute torment to a sensitive lad and a spirited one would have ended the comedy by an appeal to arms. But poor Jacob was stolid and peaceable. So his tormenters had things their own way. The Whistler especially seemed to have neither conscience nor reason in his make-up, but an enormous funny-bone which usurped the functions of both. It was not until Aronson came in that Jacob was able to make his escape.

Saul Aronson was not a musical young man. If he yawned down the major chord twice or thrice at bedtime this was the nearest he ever got to singing. But when the Whistler raised his flexible pipe, at first softly, then loudly, with wonderful trills, breaking into still more wonderful tremolos, with staccato volleys, and ascending arpeggios that would have put a mocking-bird to shame, it is no wonder that he gave up the attempt to insert the metes and bounds correctly in a quit-claim deed and contented himself with furtively watching the o-shaped orifice from which this flood of melody issued. This was his occupation when s.h.a.garach's form, crossing the threshold, sent him back to his copying and checked the Whistler in the full ecstasy of an improvised cadenza.

”You have saved my life,” said s.h.a.garach to the boys when they had followed him into the inner room. He used the plural number, but his gaze seemed to be attracted to the Whistler, whose neatly brushed hair told of a mother's hand, and whose restless blue eyes, fringed with heavy dark lashes, centered a face oval, high-born and sweet, which gave out in every contour the glad emanation of a youth which was natural and pure. There was less in the others to make them distinctive. Turkey seemed to be a hulking clod and Toot was wizened and shrill-voiced and sharp.

”You have saved my life. How can I repay you?”

”I don't want any pay,” spoke up Whistler. ”I on'y came here to tell you about the fire.”

”What fire?”

”Turkey said you was defending the bloke that set fire to the house on Cazenove street.”

”Do you know something about that?”

”We seen a blo--a man coming out of the house,” answered the Whistler.

”Then you come to make me still more obliged to you. But you must let me discharge a part of my other debt first I have just come from the bank. Here are fifteen double eagles. You will each give me your mother's name and address and I will send her five.”

Turkey and Toot showed no reluctance in doing this, but the Whistler still held back.

”My mother doesn't want any reward,” he said. All three of the boys had just graduated from the Phillips grammar school, and could place their negatives correctly when they chose.

”This is not a reward. I only ask you to allow me to be your friend. At your age I had never seen this amount of money.”

But still the Whistler blushed and shook his head till s.h.a.garach perceived the boy's principle could not be shaken.

”You will give me your mother's address? Perhaps I may be able to get you work. Wouldn't you like to go to work?”

”Oh, yes, sir.” The Whistler's face, which obstinate refusal, even for so honorable a scruple, had clouded with a trace of sullenness, brightened at once and his blue eyes smiled. s.h.a.garach copied the address carefully and determined not to lose sight of the boy who knew how to say no so decidedly.

”And now----” he pushed the memorandum book aside. ”I am defending Floyd. What did you wish to tell me?”

”We was the first at the fire,” said Toot, eagerly.

”And we found the body of the servant,” added Turkey.

But s.h.a.garach's eyes never left the Whistler.

”Just when the fire broke out,” said the Whistler, ”we were coming through the alleyway side of the house.”

”Yes.”

”A big bloke--I mean a tall man--was running down the alleyway into Broad street. I noticed him, because the alley was narrow and he knocked me down.”

”Where?”

”In the alleyway.”

”Near Broad street?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Ran against you and knocked you down?”

”Yes, sir, and said: 'Darn it, get out of the way.'”

”Was he running?”

”Well, half-running.”

”We was running,” added Toot; ”'cause we heard them yelling 'Fire!'”

”What kind of a looking man was it?”

”A big, brown man, with a black mustache.”

”He looked like a dood,” added Toot.

”You didn't know him?”

”No, sir.”

”Would you know him again?”

”Oh, yes,” answered the Whistler. ”I seen--I saw him last week pulling a single scull up the river.”

s.h.a.garach remembered having seen a portrait of Harry Arnold displayed in a fas.h.i.+onable photographer's showcase--s.h.a.ggy cape-coat and fur cap setting off his splendid beauty. Immediately he wrote the address on a card, and, summoning Aronson, bade him obtain a half-dozen copies of the photograph.

”He was a handsome young man, then? About how old?”

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