"Rowdy was my dog when I was
courting
Ruth," he said.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v25 - Tas to Tur
"
«< Maybe a mother like mine- and yours — is, though. ”
The prisoner's eyes traveled down to the face on the carte.
"That's right," he said, with another ring in his voice.
<< I
wouldn't mind half so much if I could keep my going to the pen
from her. She's never found out about me. "
"How much family you got? " said Wickliff thoughtfully.
## p. 14740 (#314) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14740
"Just a mother. I ain't married. There was a girl, my
sister-good sort too, 'nough better 'n me. She used to be a
clerk in the store,- typewriter, bookkeeper, general utility, you
know. My position in the first place; and when I-well — re-
signed, they gave it to her. She helped mother buy the place.
Two years ago she died. You may believe me or not, but I
would have gone back home then and run straight if it hadn't
been for Mame. I would, by! I had five hundred dollars
then, and I was going back to give every damned cent of it to
ma, tell her to put it into the bakery-»
"That how she makes a living? "
"Yes-little two-by-four bakery; -oh, I'm giving you straight
goods; - makes pies and cakes and bread,- good, too, you bet:
makes it herself. Ruth Graves, who lives round the corner,
comes in and helps-keeps the books, and tends shop busy
times; tends the oven too, I guess. She was a great friend of
Ellie's and mine. She's a real good girl. Well, I didn't get
mother's letters till it was too late, and I felt bad; I had a mind
to go right down to Fairport and go in with ma. That- She
stopped it. Got me off on a tear somehow, and by the time I
was sober again the money was 'most all gone. I sent what was
left off to ma, and I went on the road again myself. But she's
the devil. "
―――
-
"That the time you hit her? "
The prisoner nodded. "Oughtn't to, of course. Wasn't
brought up that way. My father was a Methodist preacher, and
a good one. But I tell you the coons that say you never must
hit a woman don't know anything about that sort of woman:
there ain't nothing on earth so infernally exasperating as a
woman. They can make you worse than forty men. ”
It was the sheriff's turn to nod; which he did gravely, with
even a glimmer of sympathy in his mien.
"Well, she never forgave you," said he: "she's had it in for
you since. »
"And she knows I won't squeal, 'cause I'd have to give poor
Ben away," said the prisoner: "but I tell you, sheriff, she was at
the bottom of the deviltry every time; and she managed to bag
the best part of the swag too. "
"I daresay. Well, to come back to business: the question
with you is how to keep these here misfortunes of yours from
your mother, ain't it? "
## p. 14741 (#315) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14741
"Of course. "
"Well, the best plan for you is to plead guilty, showing you
don't mean to give the court any more trouble. Tell the judge
you are sick of your life, and going to quit. You are, ain't
you? " the sheriff concluded simply; and the swindler, after an
instant's hesitation, answered: -
"Damned if I won't, if I can get a job! "
"Well, that admitted"- the sheriff smoothed his big knees
gently as he talked, his mild attentive eyes fixed on the pris-
oner's nervous presence "that admitted, best plan is for you
to plead guilty; and maybe we can fix it so's you will be sen-
tenced to jail instead of the pen. Then we can keep it from
your mother easy. Write her you've got a job here in this
town, and have your letters sent to my care. I'll get you some-
thing to do. She'll never suspect that you are the notorious
Ned Paisley. And it ain't likely you go home often enough to
make not going awkward. "
"I haven't been home in four years. But see here: how long
am I likely to get? "
The sheriff looked at him,- at the hollow cheeks and sunken
eyes and narrow chest, all so cruelly declared in the sunshine,-
and unconsciously he modulated his voice when he spoke.
"I wouldn't worry about that, if I was you. You need a
You are run down pretty low. You ain't rugged enough
for the life you've been leading. "
rest.
The prisoner's eyes strayed past the grating to the green
hills and the pleasant gardens, where some children were play-
ing. The sheriff did not move. There was as little sensibility
in his impassive mask as in a wooden Indian's; but behind the
trained apathy was a real compassion. He was thinking: "The
boy don't look like he had a year's life in him. I bet he knows
it himself. And when he stares that way out of the window he's
thinking he ain't never going to be foot-loose in the sun again.
Kinder tough, I call it. "
The young man's eyes suddenly met his. "Well, it's no great
matter, I guess," said he. "I'll do it. But I can't for the life of
me make out why you are taking so much trouble "
He was surprised at Wickliff's reply. It was, "Come on down-
stairs with me, and I'll show you. "
"You mean it? "
-
## p. 14742 (#316) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14742
"Yes; go ahead. "
"You want my parole not to cut and run? »
"Just as you like about that. Better not try any fooling. "
The prisoner uttered a short laugh, glancing from his own
puny limbs to the magnificent muscles of the officer.
"Straight ahead, after you're out of the corridor, down-stairs,
and turn to the right," said Wickliff.
Silently the prisoner followed his directions, and when they
had descended the stairs and turned to the right, the sheriff's
hand pushed beneath his elbow, and opened the door before them.
"My rooms," said Wickliff. "Being a single man, it's handier for
me living in the jail. " The rooms were furnished with the un-
chastened gorgeousness of a Pullman sleeper; the brilliant hues
of a Brussels carpet on the floor, blue plush at the windows and
on the chairs. The walls were hung with the most expensive
gilt paper that the town could furnish (after all, it was a modest
price per roll), and against the gold, photographs of the district
judges assumed a sinister dignity. There was also a photograph
of the court-house, and one of the jail, and a model in bas-relief of
the capitol at Des Moines; but more prominent than any of these
were two portraits opposite the windows. They were oil paintings,
elaborately framed; and they had cost so much that the sheriff
rested happily content that they must be well painted. Certainly
the artist had not recorded impressions; rather he seemed to have
worked with a microscope, not slighting an eyelash. One of the
portraits was that of a stiff and stern young man in a soldier's
uniform. He was dark, and had eyes and features like the sher-
iff. The other was the portrait of a young girl. In the original
daguerreotype from which the artist worked, the face was comely,
if not pretty, and the innocence in the eyes and the timid smile
made it winning. The artist had enlarged the eyes and made
the mouth smaller, and bestowed (with the most amiable inten-
tions) a complexion of hectic brilliancy; but there still remained,
in spite of paint, a flicker of the old touching expression. Be-
tween the two canvases hung a framed letter. It was labeled
in bold Roman script, "Letter of Capt. R. T. Manley"; and a
glance showed the reader that it was the description of a battle,
to a friend. One sentence was underlined: "We also lost Private
A. T. Wickliff, killed in the charge,-a good man, who could
always be depended on to do his duty. "
## p. 14743 (#317) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14743
The sheriff guided his bewildered visitor opposite these por-
traits, and lifted his hand above the other's shoulder. "You see
them? " said he. "They're my father and mother. You see that
letter? It was wrote by my father's old captain and sent to me.
What he says about my father is everything that I know. But
it's enough. He was a good man, who could always be de-
pended on to do his duty. ' You can't say no more of the Presi-
dent of the United States. I've had a pretty tough time of it
in my own life, as a man's got to have who takes up my line;
but I've tried to live so my father needn't be ashamed of me.
That other picture is my mother. I don't know nothing about
her, nothing at all; and I don't need to- except those eyes of
hers. There's a look someway about your mother's eyes like
mine. Maybe it's only the look one good woman has like
another; but whatever it is, your mother made me think of
mine. She's the kind of mother I'd like to have; and if I can
help it, she shan't know her son's in the penitentiary.
come on back. "
Now
As silently as he had gone, the prisoner followed the sheriff
back to his cell. "Good-by, Paisley," said the sheriff at the door.
་ Good-by, sir; I'm much obliged," said the prisoner. Not
another word was said.
That evening, however, good Mrs. Raker told the sheriff that
to her mind, if ever a man was struck with death, that new
young fellow was; and he had been crying too,- his eyes were
all red.
"He needs to cry," was all the comfort that the kind soul
received from the sheriff,- the cold remark being accompanied
by what his familiars called his Indian scowl.
Nevertheless, he did his utmost for the prisoner as a quiet
intercessor, and his merciful prophecy was accomplished: Edgar
S. Paisley was permitted to serve out his sentence in the jail
instead of the State prison. His state of health had something
to do with the judge's clemency; and the sheriff could not but
suspect that in his own phrase, “Paisley played his cough and
his hollow cheeks for all they were worth. "
"But that's natural," he observed to Raker, "and he's doing
it partially for the old lady. Well, I'll try to give her a quiet
spell. "
"Yes," Raker responds dubiously, "but he'll be at his old
games the minute he gits out. "
## p. 14744 (#318) ##########################################
14744
OCTAVE THANET
"You don't suppose >>
the sheriff speaks with a certain em-
barrassment "you don't suppose there'd be any chance of really
reforming him, so as he'd stick? - he ain't likely to live long. "
"Nah," says the unbelieving deputy: "he's a deal too slick to
be reformed. "
――――
――――――
The sheriff's pucker of his black brows, and his slow nod,
might have meant anything. Really he was saying to himself
(Amos was a dogged fellow): "Don't care; I'm going to try. I
am sure ma would want me to. I ain't a very hefty missionary;
but if there is such a thing as clubbing a man half-way decent,
- and I think there is, I'll get him that way.
Poor old lady,
she looked so unhappy! "
During the trial Paisley was too excited and dejected to write
to his mother. But the day after he received his sentence the
sheriff found him finishing a large sheet of foolscap.
It contained a detailed and vivid description of the reasons
why he had left a mythical grocery firm, and described with
considerable humor the mythical boarding-house where he was
waiting for something to turn up. It was very well done, and
he expected a smile from the sheriff. The red mottled his pale
cheeks when Wickliff, with his blackest frown, tore the letter into
pieces, which he stuffed into his pocket.
"You take a damned ungentlemanly advantage of your posi-
tion," fumed Paisley.
"I shall take more advantage of it if you give me any sass,”
returned Wickliff calmly. "Now set down and listen. " Pais-
ley, after one helpless glare, did sit down. "I believe you fairly
revel in lying. I don't. That's where we differ. I think lies
are always liable to come home to roost; and I like to have
the flock as small as possible. Now you write that you are here,
and you're helping me. You ain't getting much wages, but they
will be enough to keep you: these hard times any job is better
than none. And you can add that you don't want any money
from her. Your other letter sorter squints like you did. You
can say you are boarding with a very nice lady,- that's Mrs.
Raker, everything very clean, and the table plain but abundant.
Address you in care of Sheriff Amos T. Wickliff. How's that? »
Paisley's anger had ebbed away. Either from policy or some
other motive, he was laughing now. "It's not nearly so inter-
esting in a literary point of view, you know," said he; "but I
guess it will be easier not to have so many things to remember.
## p. 14745 (#319) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14745
And you're right: I didn't mean to hint for money, but it did
look like it. "
"He did mean to hint," thought the sheriff; "but he's got
some sense. " The letter finally submitted was a masterpiece in
its way.
This time the sheriff smiled, though grimly. He also
gave Paisley a cigar.
liff.
Regularly the letters to Mrs. Smith were submitted to Wick-
Raker never thought of reading them. The replies came
with a pathetic promptness. "That's from your ma," said Wick-
liff when the first letter came; - Paisley was at the jail ledgers
in the sheriff's room, as it happened, directly beneath the por-
traits; "you better read it first. "
―
Paisley read it twice; then he turned and handed it to the
sheriff with a half apology. "My mother talks a good deal better
than she writes. Women are naturally interested in petty things,
you know. Besides, I used to be fond of the old dog; that's why
she writes so much about him. >>>>
"I have a dog myself," growled the sheriff. "Your mother
writes a beautiful letter. " His eyes were already traveling down
the cheap thin note-paper, folded at the top. "I know," Mrs.
Smith wrote, in her stiff, careful hand,-"I know you will feel
bad, Eddy, to hear that dear old Rowdy is gone. Your letter
came the night before he died. Ruth was over, and I read it out
loud to her; and when I came to that part where you sent your
love to him, it seemed like he understood, he wagged his tail so
knowing. You know how fond of you he always was. All that
evening he played round more than usual,—and I'm so glad we
both petted him, for in the morning we found him stiff and cold
on the landing of the stairs, in his favorite place. I don't think
he could have suffered any, he looked so peaceful. Ruth and I
made a grave for him in the garden, under the white-rose tree.
Ruth digged the grave, and she painted a Kennedy's-cracker box,
and we wrapped him up in white cotton cloth. I cried, and Ruth
cried too, when we laid him away. Somehow it made me long so
much more to see you. If I sent you the money, don't you think
you could come home for Christmas? Wouldn't your employer
let you if he knew your mother had not seen you for four years,
and you are all the child she has got? But I don't want you to
neglect your business. "
The few words of affection that followed were not written so
firmly as the rest. The sheriff would not read them; he handed
## p. 14746 (#320) ##########################################
14746
OCTAVE THANET
the letter back to Paisley, and turned his Indian scowl on the
back of the latter's shapely head.
Paisley was staring at the columns of the page before him.
"Rowdy was my dog when I was courting Ruth," he said. « I
was engaged to her once. I suppose mother thinks of that.
Poor Rowdy! the night I ran away he followed me, and I had
to whip him back. "
"Oh, you ran away? "
"Oh, yes: the old story. Trusted clerk. Meant to return
the money. It wasn't very much.
But it about cleaned mother
out. Then she started the bakery. "
"You pay your ma back? »
"Yes, I did. "
"That's a lie. "
Do you
"What do you ask a man such questions for, then?
think it's pleasant admitting what a dirty dog you've been? Oh,
damn you! "
"You do see it then," said the sheriff in a very pleasant,
gentle tone: "that's one good thing. For you have got to re-
form, Ned: I'm going to give your mother a decent boy. Well,
what happened then? Girl throw you over? »
"Why, I ran straight for a while," said Paisley, furtively wip-
ing first one eye and then the other with a finger; "there wasn't
any scandal.
Ruth stuck by me, and a married sister of hers
(who didn't know) got her husband to give me a place. I was
doing all right, and-and sending home money to ma, and I
would have been all right now, if-if-I hadn't met Mame, and
she made a crazy fool of me. Then Ruth shook me. Oh, I
ain't blaming her! It was hearing about Mame. But after that
I just went a-flying to the devil. Now you know why I wanted
to see Mame. "
"You wanted to kill her," said the sheriff, "or you think
you did.
But you couldn't: she'd have talked you over. Still,
I thought I wouldn't risk it. You know she's gone now? "
"I supposed she'd be, now the trial's over. " In a minute he
added, "I'm glad I didn't touch her: mother would have had to
know that. Look here: how am I going to get over that invita-
tion ? »
"I'll trust you for that lie," said Wickliff, sauntering off.
Paisley wrote that he would not take his mother's money.
When he could come home on his own money he would gladly.
## p. 14747 (#321) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14747
He wrote a long affectionate letter, which the sheriff read, and
handed back with the dry comment, "That will do, I guess. "
But he gave Paisley a brier-wood pipe and a pound of Yale
Mixture that afternoon.
The correspondence threw some side-lights on Paisley's past.
"You've got to write your ma every week," announced Wick-
liff when the day came round.
"Why, I haven't written once a month. "
"Probably not; but you have got to write once a week now.
Your mother'll get used to it. I should think you'd be glad to
do the only thing you can for the mother that's worked her
fingers off for you. "
"I am glad," said Paisley sullenly.
He never made any further demur. He wrote very good let-
ters; and more and more, as the time passed, he grew interested
in the correspondence. Meanwhile he began to acquire (quite
unsuspected by the sheriff) a queer respect for that personage.
The sheriff was popular among the prisoners: perhaps the gen-
eral sentiment was voiced by one of them, who exclaimed one
day after his visit, "Well, I never did see a man as had killed
so many men put on so little airs! "
Paisley began his acquaintance with a contempt for the slow-
moving intellect that he attributed to his sluggish-looking captor.
He felt the superiority of his own better education. It was grate-
ful to his vanity to sneer in secret at Wickliff's slips in gram-
mar or information. And presently he had opportunity to indulge
his humor in this respect; for Wickliff began lending him books.
The jail library, as a rule, was managed by Mrs. Raker. She
was, she used to say, "a great reader," and dearly loved "a nice
story that made you cry all the way through and ended right. "
Her taste was catholic in fiction (she never read anything else),
and her favorites were Mrs. Southworth, Charles Dickens, and
Walter Scott. The sheriff's own reading seldom strayed beyond
the daily papers; but with the aid of a legal friend, he had
selected some standard biographies and histories to add to the
singular conglomeration of fiction and religion sent to the jail by
a charitable public. On Paisley's request for reading, the sheriff
went to Mrs. Raker. She promptly pulled Ishmael Worth, or
Out of the Depths,' from the shelf. "It's beautiful," says she;
" and when he gits through with that he can have the 'Pickwick
Papers' to cheer him up. Only I kinder hate to lend that book
## p. 14748 (#322) ##########################################
14748
OCTAVE THANET
to the prisoners: there's so much about good eatin' in it, it
makes 'em dissatisfied with the table. "
"He's got to have something improving too," says the sheriff.
"I guess the history of the United States will do: you've read
the others, and know they're all right. I'll run through this. "
He told Paisley the next morning that he had sat up almost
all night reading,- he was so afraid that enough of the thirteen
States wouldn't ratify the Constitution. This was only one of
the artless comments that tickled Paisley. Yet he soon began to
notice the sheriff's keenness of observation, and a kind of work-
a-day sense that served him well. He fell to wondering, during
those long nights when his cough kept him awake, whether his
own brilliant and subtle ingenuity had done as much for him.
He could hardly tell the moment of its beginning, but he began
to value the approval of this big, ignorant, clumsy, strong man.
Insensibly he grew to thinking of conduct more in the sher-
iff's fashion; and his letters not only reflected the change in his
moral point of view,—they began to have more and more to say
of the sheriff. Very soon the mother began to be pathetically
thankful to this good friend of her boy, whose habits were so
correct, whose influence so admirable. In her grateful happiness
over the frequent letters and their affection, were revealed the
unexpressed fears that had tortured her for years. She asked
for Wickliff's picture. Paisley did not know that the sheriff had
a photograph taken on purpose. Mrs. Smith pronounced him “a
handsome man. " To be sure, the unscarred side of his face was
taken. "He looks firm, too," wrote the poor mother, whose own
boy had never known how to be firm: "I think he must be a
Daniel. "
"A which? " exclaimed the puzzled Daniel.
"Didn't you ever go to Sunday school? Don't you know the
verses,-
"Dare to be a Daniel;
Dare to make a stand'? »
The sheriff's reply was enigmatical. It was: "Well, to think
of you having such a mother as that! "
"I don't deserve her, that's a fact," said Paisley, with his
to be the
flippant air. "And yet, would you believe it, I used
model boy of the Sunday school. Won all the prizes.
them in a drawer. "
Ma's got
## p. 14749 (#323) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14749
«< Daresay. They thought you were a awful good boy, because
you always kept your face clean, and brushed your hair without
being told to, and learned your lessons quick, and always said.
'Yes'm' and 'No'm,' and when you got into a scrape lied out
of it, and picked up bad habits as easy and quiet as a long-haired
dog catches fleas. Oh, I know your sort of model boy! We had
'em at the Orphans' Home: I've taken their lickings too. "
Paisley's thin face was scarlet before the speech was finished.
"Some of that is true," said he; "but at least I never hit a fel-
low when he was down. "
The sheriff narrowed his eyes in a way that he had when
thinking; he put both hands in his pockets and contemplated
Paisley's irritation. "Well, young feller, you have some reason
to talk that way to me," said he.
you, thinking about your mother.
highly. "
"The fact is, I was mad at
I-I respect that lady very
Paisley forced a feeble smile over his "So do I. "
But after this episode the sheriff's manner visibly softened to
the young man. He told Raker that there were good spots in
Paisley.
"Yes, he's mighty slick," said Raker.
Thanksgiving-time, a box from his mother came to the pris-
oner, and among the pies and cakes was an especial pie for Mr.
Wickliff, "From his affectionate old friend, Rebecca Smith. "
The sheriff spent fully two hours communing with a large
new 'Manual of Etiquette and Correspondence'; then he sub-
mitted a letter to Paisley. Paisley read:-
Dear Madam:
Your favor (of the pie) of the 24th inst. is received, and I beg you
to accept my sincere and warm thanks. Ned is an efficient clerk, and
his habits are very correct. We are reading history in our leisure
hours. We have read Fiske's 'Constitutional History of the United
States,' and two volumes of Macaulay's History of England. '
very interesting books. I think that Judge Jeffreys was the mean-
est and worst judge I ever heard of. My early education was not as
extensive as I could wish, and I am very glad of the valuable assist-
ance which I receive from your son. He is doing well, and sends his
love. Hoping, my dear madam, to be able to see you and thank you
personally for your very kind and welcome gift, I am, with respect,
Very Truly Yours.
AMOS T. WICKLIFF.
## p. 14750 (#324) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14750
Paisley read the letter soberly. In fact, another feeling de-
stroyed any inclination to smile over the unusual pomp of Wick-
liff's style. That's out of sight! " he declared. "It will please
the old lady to the ground. Say, I take it very kindly of you,
Mr. Wickliff, to write about me that way. "
"I had a book to help me," confessed the flattered sheriff.
"And say, Paisley, when you are writing about me to your ma,
you better say Wickliff, or Amos. Mr. Wickliff sounds kinder
stiff. I'll understand. "
The letter that the sheriff received in return, he did not show
to Paisley. He read it with a knitted brow; and more than once
he brushed his hand across his eyes. When he finished it he
drew a long sigh, and walked up to his mother's portrait. "She
says she prays for me every night, ma," he spoke under his
breath, and reverently. "Ma, I simply have got to save that boy
―――――
for her, haven't I? "
That evening Paisley rather timidly approached a subject
which he had tried twice before to broach, but his courage had
failed him. "You said something, Mr. Wickliff, of paying me
a little extra for what I do,- keeping the books, and so forth.
Would you mind telling me what it will be? I- I'd like to
send a Christmas present to my mother. "
"That's right," said the sheriff heartily. "I was thinking
what would suit her. How's a nice black dress, and a bill pinned
to it to pay for making it up? "
"But I never — "
"You can pay me when you get out. "
"Do you think I'll ever get out? " Paisley's fine eyes were
fixed on Wickliff as he spoke, with a sudden wistful eagerness.
He had never alluded to his health before; yet it had steadily
failed. Now he would not let Amos answer: he may have flinched
from any confirmation of his own fears; he took the word hast-
ily. "Anyhow, you'll risk my turning out a bad investment. But
you'll do a damned kind action to my mother; and if I'm a rip,
she's a saint. "
"Sure," said the sheriff. "Say, do you think she'd mind my
sending her a hymn-book and a few flowers? "
Thus it came to pass that the tiny bakery window, one Christ-
mas day, showed such a crimson glory of roses as the village had
never seen; and the widow Smith, bowing her shabby black bon-
net on the pew rail, gave thanks and tears for a happy Christmas,
and prayed for her son's friend. She prayed for her son also,
## p. 14751 (#325) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14751
that he might "be kept good. " She felt that her prayer would
be answered. God knows; perhaps it was. That night before she
went to bed she wrote to Edgar and to Amos. "I am writing
to both my boys," she said to Amos, "for I feel like you were my
dear son too. "
When Amos answered this letter he did not consult the 'Man-
ual. ' It was one day in January, early in the month, that he
received the first bit of encouragement for his missionary work
palpable enough to display to the scoffer Raker. Yet it was not
a great thing either; only this: Paisley (already half an hour at
work in the sheriff's room) stopped, fished from his sleeve a piece
of note-paper folded into the measure of a knife-blade, and offered
it to the sheriff.
"See what Mame sent me," said he; "just read it. "
There was a page of it, the purport being that the writer had
done what she had through jealousy, which she knew now was
unfounded; she was suffering indescribable agonies from remorse:
and to prove she meant what she said, if her darling Ned would
forgive her, she would get him out before a week was over.
If
he agreed he was to be at his window at six o'clock Wednesday
night. The day was Thursday.
"Do you mind tell-
"How did you get this? " asked Amos.
ing? »
"Not the least. It came in a coat. From Barber & Glas-
son's. The one Mrs. Raker picked out for me, and it was sent
up from the store. She got at it somehow, I suppose. "
"But how did you get word where to look? "
Paisley grinned. "Mame was here, visiting that fellow who
was taken up for smashing a window, and pretended he was so
hungry he had to have a meal in jail. Mame put him up to it,
so she could come. She gave me the tip where to look then. "
"I see. I got on to some of those signals once. Well, did
you show yourself Wednesday? "
"Not much! " He hesitated, and did not look at the sheriff,
scrawling initials on the blotting-pad with his pen. "Did you
really think, Mr. Wickliff, after all you've done for me and my
mother-I would go back on you and get you into trouble for
that_»
"'S-sh! Don't call names! "
at the picture of his mother.
before ?
«< Maybe a mother like mine- and yours — is, though. ”
The prisoner's eyes traveled down to the face on the carte.
"That's right," he said, with another ring in his voice.
<< I
wouldn't mind half so much if I could keep my going to the pen
from her. She's never found out about me. "
"How much family you got? " said Wickliff thoughtfully.
## p. 14740 (#314) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14740
"Just a mother. I ain't married. There was a girl, my
sister-good sort too, 'nough better 'n me. She used to be a
clerk in the store,- typewriter, bookkeeper, general utility, you
know. My position in the first place; and when I-well — re-
signed, they gave it to her. She helped mother buy the place.
Two years ago she died. You may believe me or not, but I
would have gone back home then and run straight if it hadn't
been for Mame. I would, by! I had five hundred dollars
then, and I was going back to give every damned cent of it to
ma, tell her to put it into the bakery-»
"That how she makes a living? "
"Yes-little two-by-four bakery; -oh, I'm giving you straight
goods; - makes pies and cakes and bread,- good, too, you bet:
makes it herself. Ruth Graves, who lives round the corner,
comes in and helps-keeps the books, and tends shop busy
times; tends the oven too, I guess. She was a great friend of
Ellie's and mine. She's a real good girl. Well, I didn't get
mother's letters till it was too late, and I felt bad; I had a mind
to go right down to Fairport and go in with ma. That- She
stopped it. Got me off on a tear somehow, and by the time I
was sober again the money was 'most all gone. I sent what was
left off to ma, and I went on the road again myself. But she's
the devil. "
―――
-
"That the time you hit her? "
The prisoner nodded. "Oughtn't to, of course. Wasn't
brought up that way. My father was a Methodist preacher, and
a good one. But I tell you the coons that say you never must
hit a woman don't know anything about that sort of woman:
there ain't nothing on earth so infernally exasperating as a
woman. They can make you worse than forty men. ”
It was the sheriff's turn to nod; which he did gravely, with
even a glimmer of sympathy in his mien.
"Well, she never forgave you," said he: "she's had it in for
you since. »
"And she knows I won't squeal, 'cause I'd have to give poor
Ben away," said the prisoner: "but I tell you, sheriff, she was at
the bottom of the deviltry every time; and she managed to bag
the best part of the swag too. "
"I daresay. Well, to come back to business: the question
with you is how to keep these here misfortunes of yours from
your mother, ain't it? "
## p. 14741 (#315) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14741
"Of course. "
"Well, the best plan for you is to plead guilty, showing you
don't mean to give the court any more trouble. Tell the judge
you are sick of your life, and going to quit. You are, ain't
you? " the sheriff concluded simply; and the swindler, after an
instant's hesitation, answered: -
"Damned if I won't, if I can get a job! "
"Well, that admitted"- the sheriff smoothed his big knees
gently as he talked, his mild attentive eyes fixed on the pris-
oner's nervous presence "that admitted, best plan is for you
to plead guilty; and maybe we can fix it so's you will be sen-
tenced to jail instead of the pen. Then we can keep it from
your mother easy. Write her you've got a job here in this
town, and have your letters sent to my care. I'll get you some-
thing to do. She'll never suspect that you are the notorious
Ned Paisley. And it ain't likely you go home often enough to
make not going awkward. "
"I haven't been home in four years. But see here: how long
am I likely to get? "
The sheriff looked at him,- at the hollow cheeks and sunken
eyes and narrow chest, all so cruelly declared in the sunshine,-
and unconsciously he modulated his voice when he spoke.
"I wouldn't worry about that, if I was you. You need a
You are run down pretty low. You ain't rugged enough
for the life you've been leading. "
rest.
The prisoner's eyes strayed past the grating to the green
hills and the pleasant gardens, where some children were play-
ing. The sheriff did not move. There was as little sensibility
in his impassive mask as in a wooden Indian's; but behind the
trained apathy was a real compassion. He was thinking: "The
boy don't look like he had a year's life in him. I bet he knows
it himself. And when he stares that way out of the window he's
thinking he ain't never going to be foot-loose in the sun again.
Kinder tough, I call it. "
The young man's eyes suddenly met his. "Well, it's no great
matter, I guess," said he. "I'll do it. But I can't for the life of
me make out why you are taking so much trouble "
He was surprised at Wickliff's reply. It was, "Come on down-
stairs with me, and I'll show you. "
"You mean it? "
-
## p. 14742 (#316) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14742
"Yes; go ahead. "
"You want my parole not to cut and run? »
"Just as you like about that. Better not try any fooling. "
The prisoner uttered a short laugh, glancing from his own
puny limbs to the magnificent muscles of the officer.
"Straight ahead, after you're out of the corridor, down-stairs,
and turn to the right," said Wickliff.
Silently the prisoner followed his directions, and when they
had descended the stairs and turned to the right, the sheriff's
hand pushed beneath his elbow, and opened the door before them.
"My rooms," said Wickliff. "Being a single man, it's handier for
me living in the jail. " The rooms were furnished with the un-
chastened gorgeousness of a Pullman sleeper; the brilliant hues
of a Brussels carpet on the floor, blue plush at the windows and
on the chairs. The walls were hung with the most expensive
gilt paper that the town could furnish (after all, it was a modest
price per roll), and against the gold, photographs of the district
judges assumed a sinister dignity. There was also a photograph
of the court-house, and one of the jail, and a model in bas-relief of
the capitol at Des Moines; but more prominent than any of these
were two portraits opposite the windows. They were oil paintings,
elaborately framed; and they had cost so much that the sheriff
rested happily content that they must be well painted. Certainly
the artist had not recorded impressions; rather he seemed to have
worked with a microscope, not slighting an eyelash. One of the
portraits was that of a stiff and stern young man in a soldier's
uniform. He was dark, and had eyes and features like the sher-
iff. The other was the portrait of a young girl. In the original
daguerreotype from which the artist worked, the face was comely,
if not pretty, and the innocence in the eyes and the timid smile
made it winning. The artist had enlarged the eyes and made
the mouth smaller, and bestowed (with the most amiable inten-
tions) a complexion of hectic brilliancy; but there still remained,
in spite of paint, a flicker of the old touching expression. Be-
tween the two canvases hung a framed letter. It was labeled
in bold Roman script, "Letter of Capt. R. T. Manley"; and a
glance showed the reader that it was the description of a battle,
to a friend. One sentence was underlined: "We also lost Private
A. T. Wickliff, killed in the charge,-a good man, who could
always be depended on to do his duty. "
## p. 14743 (#317) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14743
The sheriff guided his bewildered visitor opposite these por-
traits, and lifted his hand above the other's shoulder. "You see
them? " said he. "They're my father and mother. You see that
letter? It was wrote by my father's old captain and sent to me.
What he says about my father is everything that I know. But
it's enough. He was a good man, who could always be de-
pended on to do his duty. ' You can't say no more of the Presi-
dent of the United States. I've had a pretty tough time of it
in my own life, as a man's got to have who takes up my line;
but I've tried to live so my father needn't be ashamed of me.
That other picture is my mother. I don't know nothing about
her, nothing at all; and I don't need to- except those eyes of
hers. There's a look someway about your mother's eyes like
mine. Maybe it's only the look one good woman has like
another; but whatever it is, your mother made me think of
mine. She's the kind of mother I'd like to have; and if I can
help it, she shan't know her son's in the penitentiary.
come on back. "
Now
As silently as he had gone, the prisoner followed the sheriff
back to his cell. "Good-by, Paisley," said the sheriff at the door.
་ Good-by, sir; I'm much obliged," said the prisoner. Not
another word was said.
That evening, however, good Mrs. Raker told the sheriff that
to her mind, if ever a man was struck with death, that new
young fellow was; and he had been crying too,- his eyes were
all red.
"He needs to cry," was all the comfort that the kind soul
received from the sheriff,- the cold remark being accompanied
by what his familiars called his Indian scowl.
Nevertheless, he did his utmost for the prisoner as a quiet
intercessor, and his merciful prophecy was accomplished: Edgar
S. Paisley was permitted to serve out his sentence in the jail
instead of the State prison. His state of health had something
to do with the judge's clemency; and the sheriff could not but
suspect that in his own phrase, “Paisley played his cough and
his hollow cheeks for all they were worth. "
"But that's natural," he observed to Raker, "and he's doing
it partially for the old lady. Well, I'll try to give her a quiet
spell. "
"Yes," Raker responds dubiously, "but he'll be at his old
games the minute he gits out. "
## p. 14744 (#318) ##########################################
14744
OCTAVE THANET
"You don't suppose >>
the sheriff speaks with a certain em-
barrassment "you don't suppose there'd be any chance of really
reforming him, so as he'd stick? - he ain't likely to live long. "
"Nah," says the unbelieving deputy: "he's a deal too slick to
be reformed. "
――――
――――――
The sheriff's pucker of his black brows, and his slow nod,
might have meant anything. Really he was saying to himself
(Amos was a dogged fellow): "Don't care; I'm going to try. I
am sure ma would want me to. I ain't a very hefty missionary;
but if there is such a thing as clubbing a man half-way decent,
- and I think there is, I'll get him that way.
Poor old lady,
she looked so unhappy! "
During the trial Paisley was too excited and dejected to write
to his mother. But the day after he received his sentence the
sheriff found him finishing a large sheet of foolscap.
It contained a detailed and vivid description of the reasons
why he had left a mythical grocery firm, and described with
considerable humor the mythical boarding-house where he was
waiting for something to turn up. It was very well done, and
he expected a smile from the sheriff. The red mottled his pale
cheeks when Wickliff, with his blackest frown, tore the letter into
pieces, which he stuffed into his pocket.
"You take a damned ungentlemanly advantage of your posi-
tion," fumed Paisley.
"I shall take more advantage of it if you give me any sass,”
returned Wickliff calmly. "Now set down and listen. " Pais-
ley, after one helpless glare, did sit down. "I believe you fairly
revel in lying. I don't. That's where we differ. I think lies
are always liable to come home to roost; and I like to have
the flock as small as possible. Now you write that you are here,
and you're helping me. You ain't getting much wages, but they
will be enough to keep you: these hard times any job is better
than none. And you can add that you don't want any money
from her. Your other letter sorter squints like you did. You
can say you are boarding with a very nice lady,- that's Mrs.
Raker, everything very clean, and the table plain but abundant.
Address you in care of Sheriff Amos T. Wickliff. How's that? »
Paisley's anger had ebbed away. Either from policy or some
other motive, he was laughing now. "It's not nearly so inter-
esting in a literary point of view, you know," said he; "but I
guess it will be easier not to have so many things to remember.
## p. 14745 (#319) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14745
And you're right: I didn't mean to hint for money, but it did
look like it. "
"He did mean to hint," thought the sheriff; "but he's got
some sense. " The letter finally submitted was a masterpiece in
its way.
This time the sheriff smiled, though grimly. He also
gave Paisley a cigar.
liff.
Regularly the letters to Mrs. Smith were submitted to Wick-
Raker never thought of reading them. The replies came
with a pathetic promptness. "That's from your ma," said Wick-
liff when the first letter came; - Paisley was at the jail ledgers
in the sheriff's room, as it happened, directly beneath the por-
traits; "you better read it first. "
―
Paisley read it twice; then he turned and handed it to the
sheriff with a half apology. "My mother talks a good deal better
than she writes. Women are naturally interested in petty things,
you know. Besides, I used to be fond of the old dog; that's why
she writes so much about him. >>>>
"I have a dog myself," growled the sheriff. "Your mother
writes a beautiful letter. " His eyes were already traveling down
the cheap thin note-paper, folded at the top. "I know," Mrs.
Smith wrote, in her stiff, careful hand,-"I know you will feel
bad, Eddy, to hear that dear old Rowdy is gone. Your letter
came the night before he died. Ruth was over, and I read it out
loud to her; and when I came to that part where you sent your
love to him, it seemed like he understood, he wagged his tail so
knowing. You know how fond of you he always was. All that
evening he played round more than usual,—and I'm so glad we
both petted him, for in the morning we found him stiff and cold
on the landing of the stairs, in his favorite place. I don't think
he could have suffered any, he looked so peaceful. Ruth and I
made a grave for him in the garden, under the white-rose tree.
Ruth digged the grave, and she painted a Kennedy's-cracker box,
and we wrapped him up in white cotton cloth. I cried, and Ruth
cried too, when we laid him away. Somehow it made me long so
much more to see you. If I sent you the money, don't you think
you could come home for Christmas? Wouldn't your employer
let you if he knew your mother had not seen you for four years,
and you are all the child she has got? But I don't want you to
neglect your business. "
The few words of affection that followed were not written so
firmly as the rest. The sheriff would not read them; he handed
## p. 14746 (#320) ##########################################
14746
OCTAVE THANET
the letter back to Paisley, and turned his Indian scowl on the
back of the latter's shapely head.
Paisley was staring at the columns of the page before him.
"Rowdy was my dog when I was courting Ruth," he said. « I
was engaged to her once. I suppose mother thinks of that.
Poor Rowdy! the night I ran away he followed me, and I had
to whip him back. "
"Oh, you ran away? "
"Oh, yes: the old story. Trusted clerk. Meant to return
the money. It wasn't very much.
But it about cleaned mother
out. Then she started the bakery. "
"You pay your ma back? »
"Yes, I did. "
"That's a lie. "
Do you
"What do you ask a man such questions for, then?
think it's pleasant admitting what a dirty dog you've been? Oh,
damn you! "
"You do see it then," said the sheriff in a very pleasant,
gentle tone: "that's one good thing. For you have got to re-
form, Ned: I'm going to give your mother a decent boy. Well,
what happened then? Girl throw you over? »
"Why, I ran straight for a while," said Paisley, furtively wip-
ing first one eye and then the other with a finger; "there wasn't
any scandal.
Ruth stuck by me, and a married sister of hers
(who didn't know) got her husband to give me a place. I was
doing all right, and-and sending home money to ma, and I
would have been all right now, if-if-I hadn't met Mame, and
she made a crazy fool of me. Then Ruth shook me. Oh, I
ain't blaming her! It was hearing about Mame. But after that
I just went a-flying to the devil. Now you know why I wanted
to see Mame. "
"You wanted to kill her," said the sheriff, "or you think
you did.
But you couldn't: she'd have talked you over. Still,
I thought I wouldn't risk it. You know she's gone now? "
"I supposed she'd be, now the trial's over. " In a minute he
added, "I'm glad I didn't touch her: mother would have had to
know that. Look here: how am I going to get over that invita-
tion ? »
"I'll trust you for that lie," said Wickliff, sauntering off.
Paisley wrote that he would not take his mother's money.
When he could come home on his own money he would gladly.
## p. 14747 (#321) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14747
He wrote a long affectionate letter, which the sheriff read, and
handed back with the dry comment, "That will do, I guess. "
But he gave Paisley a brier-wood pipe and a pound of Yale
Mixture that afternoon.
The correspondence threw some side-lights on Paisley's past.
"You've got to write your ma every week," announced Wick-
liff when the day came round.
"Why, I haven't written once a month. "
"Probably not; but you have got to write once a week now.
Your mother'll get used to it. I should think you'd be glad to
do the only thing you can for the mother that's worked her
fingers off for you. "
"I am glad," said Paisley sullenly.
He never made any further demur. He wrote very good let-
ters; and more and more, as the time passed, he grew interested
in the correspondence. Meanwhile he began to acquire (quite
unsuspected by the sheriff) a queer respect for that personage.
The sheriff was popular among the prisoners: perhaps the gen-
eral sentiment was voiced by one of them, who exclaimed one
day after his visit, "Well, I never did see a man as had killed
so many men put on so little airs! "
Paisley began his acquaintance with a contempt for the slow-
moving intellect that he attributed to his sluggish-looking captor.
He felt the superiority of his own better education. It was grate-
ful to his vanity to sneer in secret at Wickliff's slips in gram-
mar or information. And presently he had opportunity to indulge
his humor in this respect; for Wickliff began lending him books.
The jail library, as a rule, was managed by Mrs. Raker. She
was, she used to say, "a great reader," and dearly loved "a nice
story that made you cry all the way through and ended right. "
Her taste was catholic in fiction (she never read anything else),
and her favorites were Mrs. Southworth, Charles Dickens, and
Walter Scott. The sheriff's own reading seldom strayed beyond
the daily papers; but with the aid of a legal friend, he had
selected some standard biographies and histories to add to the
singular conglomeration of fiction and religion sent to the jail by
a charitable public. On Paisley's request for reading, the sheriff
went to Mrs. Raker. She promptly pulled Ishmael Worth, or
Out of the Depths,' from the shelf. "It's beautiful," says she;
" and when he gits through with that he can have the 'Pickwick
Papers' to cheer him up. Only I kinder hate to lend that book
## p. 14748 (#322) ##########################################
14748
OCTAVE THANET
to the prisoners: there's so much about good eatin' in it, it
makes 'em dissatisfied with the table. "
"He's got to have something improving too," says the sheriff.
"I guess the history of the United States will do: you've read
the others, and know they're all right. I'll run through this. "
He told Paisley the next morning that he had sat up almost
all night reading,- he was so afraid that enough of the thirteen
States wouldn't ratify the Constitution. This was only one of
the artless comments that tickled Paisley. Yet he soon began to
notice the sheriff's keenness of observation, and a kind of work-
a-day sense that served him well. He fell to wondering, during
those long nights when his cough kept him awake, whether his
own brilliant and subtle ingenuity had done as much for him.
He could hardly tell the moment of its beginning, but he began
to value the approval of this big, ignorant, clumsy, strong man.
Insensibly he grew to thinking of conduct more in the sher-
iff's fashion; and his letters not only reflected the change in his
moral point of view,—they began to have more and more to say
of the sheriff. Very soon the mother began to be pathetically
thankful to this good friend of her boy, whose habits were so
correct, whose influence so admirable. In her grateful happiness
over the frequent letters and their affection, were revealed the
unexpressed fears that had tortured her for years. She asked
for Wickliff's picture. Paisley did not know that the sheriff had
a photograph taken on purpose. Mrs. Smith pronounced him “a
handsome man. " To be sure, the unscarred side of his face was
taken. "He looks firm, too," wrote the poor mother, whose own
boy had never known how to be firm: "I think he must be a
Daniel. "
"A which? " exclaimed the puzzled Daniel.
"Didn't you ever go to Sunday school? Don't you know the
verses,-
"Dare to be a Daniel;
Dare to make a stand'? »
The sheriff's reply was enigmatical. It was: "Well, to think
of you having such a mother as that! "
"I don't deserve her, that's a fact," said Paisley, with his
to be the
flippant air. "And yet, would you believe it, I used
model boy of the Sunday school. Won all the prizes.
them in a drawer. "
Ma's got
## p. 14749 (#323) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14749
«< Daresay. They thought you were a awful good boy, because
you always kept your face clean, and brushed your hair without
being told to, and learned your lessons quick, and always said.
'Yes'm' and 'No'm,' and when you got into a scrape lied out
of it, and picked up bad habits as easy and quiet as a long-haired
dog catches fleas. Oh, I know your sort of model boy! We had
'em at the Orphans' Home: I've taken their lickings too. "
Paisley's thin face was scarlet before the speech was finished.
"Some of that is true," said he; "but at least I never hit a fel-
low when he was down. "
The sheriff narrowed his eyes in a way that he had when
thinking; he put both hands in his pockets and contemplated
Paisley's irritation. "Well, young feller, you have some reason
to talk that way to me," said he.
you, thinking about your mother.
highly. "
"The fact is, I was mad at
I-I respect that lady very
Paisley forced a feeble smile over his "So do I. "
But after this episode the sheriff's manner visibly softened to
the young man. He told Raker that there were good spots in
Paisley.
"Yes, he's mighty slick," said Raker.
Thanksgiving-time, a box from his mother came to the pris-
oner, and among the pies and cakes was an especial pie for Mr.
Wickliff, "From his affectionate old friend, Rebecca Smith. "
The sheriff spent fully two hours communing with a large
new 'Manual of Etiquette and Correspondence'; then he sub-
mitted a letter to Paisley. Paisley read:-
Dear Madam:
Your favor (of the pie) of the 24th inst. is received, and I beg you
to accept my sincere and warm thanks. Ned is an efficient clerk, and
his habits are very correct. We are reading history in our leisure
hours. We have read Fiske's 'Constitutional History of the United
States,' and two volumes of Macaulay's History of England. '
very interesting books. I think that Judge Jeffreys was the mean-
est and worst judge I ever heard of. My early education was not as
extensive as I could wish, and I am very glad of the valuable assist-
ance which I receive from your son. He is doing well, and sends his
love. Hoping, my dear madam, to be able to see you and thank you
personally for your very kind and welcome gift, I am, with respect,
Very Truly Yours.
AMOS T. WICKLIFF.
## p. 14750 (#324) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14750
Paisley read the letter soberly. In fact, another feeling de-
stroyed any inclination to smile over the unusual pomp of Wick-
liff's style. That's out of sight! " he declared. "It will please
the old lady to the ground. Say, I take it very kindly of you,
Mr. Wickliff, to write about me that way. "
"I had a book to help me," confessed the flattered sheriff.
"And say, Paisley, when you are writing about me to your ma,
you better say Wickliff, or Amos. Mr. Wickliff sounds kinder
stiff. I'll understand. "
The letter that the sheriff received in return, he did not show
to Paisley. He read it with a knitted brow; and more than once
he brushed his hand across his eyes. When he finished it he
drew a long sigh, and walked up to his mother's portrait. "She
says she prays for me every night, ma," he spoke under his
breath, and reverently. "Ma, I simply have got to save that boy
―――――
for her, haven't I? "
That evening Paisley rather timidly approached a subject
which he had tried twice before to broach, but his courage had
failed him. "You said something, Mr. Wickliff, of paying me
a little extra for what I do,- keeping the books, and so forth.
Would you mind telling me what it will be? I- I'd like to
send a Christmas present to my mother. "
"That's right," said the sheriff heartily. "I was thinking
what would suit her. How's a nice black dress, and a bill pinned
to it to pay for making it up? "
"But I never — "
"You can pay me when you get out. "
"Do you think I'll ever get out? " Paisley's fine eyes were
fixed on Wickliff as he spoke, with a sudden wistful eagerness.
He had never alluded to his health before; yet it had steadily
failed. Now he would not let Amos answer: he may have flinched
from any confirmation of his own fears; he took the word hast-
ily. "Anyhow, you'll risk my turning out a bad investment. But
you'll do a damned kind action to my mother; and if I'm a rip,
she's a saint. "
"Sure," said the sheriff. "Say, do you think she'd mind my
sending her a hymn-book and a few flowers? "
Thus it came to pass that the tiny bakery window, one Christ-
mas day, showed such a crimson glory of roses as the village had
never seen; and the widow Smith, bowing her shabby black bon-
net on the pew rail, gave thanks and tears for a happy Christmas,
and prayed for her son's friend. She prayed for her son also,
## p. 14751 (#325) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14751
that he might "be kept good. " She felt that her prayer would
be answered. God knows; perhaps it was. That night before she
went to bed she wrote to Edgar and to Amos. "I am writing
to both my boys," she said to Amos, "for I feel like you were my
dear son too. "
When Amos answered this letter he did not consult the 'Man-
ual. ' It was one day in January, early in the month, that he
received the first bit of encouragement for his missionary work
palpable enough to display to the scoffer Raker. Yet it was not
a great thing either; only this: Paisley (already half an hour at
work in the sheriff's room) stopped, fished from his sleeve a piece
of note-paper folded into the measure of a knife-blade, and offered
it to the sheriff.
"See what Mame sent me," said he; "just read it. "
There was a page of it, the purport being that the writer had
done what she had through jealousy, which she knew now was
unfounded; she was suffering indescribable agonies from remorse:
and to prove she meant what she said, if her darling Ned would
forgive her, she would get him out before a week was over.
If
he agreed he was to be at his window at six o'clock Wednesday
night. The day was Thursday.
"Do you mind tell-
"How did you get this? " asked Amos.
ing? »
"Not the least. It came in a coat. From Barber & Glas-
son's. The one Mrs. Raker picked out for me, and it was sent
up from the store. She got at it somehow, I suppose. "
"But how did you get word where to look? "
Paisley grinned. "Mame was here, visiting that fellow who
was taken up for smashing a window, and pretended he was so
hungry he had to have a meal in jail. Mame put him up to it,
so she could come. She gave me the tip where to look then. "
"I see. I got on to some of those signals once. Well, did
you show yourself Wednesday? "
"Not much! " He hesitated, and did not look at the sheriff,
scrawling initials on the blotting-pad with his pen. "Did you
really think, Mr. Wickliff, after all you've done for me and my
mother-I would go back on you and get you into trouble for
that_»
"'S-sh! Don't call names! "
at the picture of his mother.
before ?
