His Family by Ernest Poole (popular ebook readers txt) 📕

on with his work of opening the morning’s mail. But a few minutes later he gave a cackling little laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Roger asked.

“Fellers,” was the answer. “Fellers. Human nature. Here’s a letter from Shifty Sam.”

“Who the devil is he? A friend of yours?”

“No,” said John, “he’s a con man. He works about as mean a graft as any you ever heard of. He reads the ads in the papers⁠—see?⁠—of servant girls who’re looking for work. He makes a specialty of cooks. Then he goes to where they live and talks of some nice family that wants a servant right away. He claims to be the butler, and he’s dressed to look the part. ‘There ain’t a minute to lose,’ he says. ‘If you want a chawnce, my girl, come quick.’ He says ‘chawnce’ like a butler⁠—see? ‘Pack your things,’ he tells her, ‘and come right along with me.’ So she packs and hustles off with him⁠—Sam carrying her suit case. He puts her on a trolley and says, ‘I guess I’ll stay on the platform. I’ve got a bit of a headache and the air will do me good.’ So he stays out there with her suit case⁠—and as soon as the car gets into a crowd, Sam jumps and beats it with her clothes.”

“I see,” said Roger dryly. “But what’s he writing you about?”

“Oh, it ain’t me he’s writing to⁠—it’s you,” was John’s serene reply. Roger started.

“What?” he asked.

“Well,” said the boy in a cautious tone, vigilantly eyeing his chief, “you see, a lot of these fellers like Sam have been in the papers lately. They’re being called a crime wave.”

“Well?”

“Sam is up for trial this week⁠—and half the Irish cooks in town are waiting ’round to testify. And Shifty seems to enjoy himself. His picture’s in the papers⁠—see? And he wants all the clippings. So he encloses a five dollar bill.”

“He does, eh⁠—well, you write to Sam and send his money back to him!” There was a little silence.

“But look here,” said John with keen regret. “We’ve had quite a lot of these letters this week.”

Roger wheeled and looked at him.

“John,” he demanded severely, “what game have you been up to here?”

“No game at all,” was the prompt retort. “Just getting a little business.”

“How?”

“Well, there’s a club downtown,” said John, “where a lot of these petty crooks hang out. I used to deliver papers there. And I went around one night this month⁠—”

“To drum up business?”

“Yes, sir.” Roger looked at him aghast.

“John,” he asked, in deep reproach, “do you expect this office to feed the vanity of thieves?”

“Where’s the vanity,” John rejoined, “in being called a crime wave?” And seeing the sudden tremor of mirth which had appeared on Roger’s face, “Look here, Mr. Gale,” he went eagerly on. “When every paper in the town is telling these fellers where they belong⁠—calling ’em crooks, degenerates, and preaching regular sermons right into their faces⁠—why shouldn’t we help ’em to read the stuff? How do we know it won’t do ’em good? It’s church to ’em, that’s what it is⁠—and business for this office. Nine of these guys have sent in their money just in the last week or so⁠—”

“Look out, my boy,” said Roger, with slow and solemn emphasis. “If you aren’t extremely careful you’ll find yourself a millionaire.”

“But wait a minute, Mr. Gale⁠—”

“Not in this office,” Roger said. “Send ’em back, every one of ’em! Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” was the meek reply. And with a little sigh of regret John turned his wits to other kinds and conditions of New Yorkers who might care to see themselves in print.

As they worked together day by day, Roger had occasional qualms over leaving John here in the hot town while he himself went up to the mountains. He even thought of writing to Edith that he was planning to bring John, too. But no, she wouldn’t like it. So he did something else instead.

“John,” he said, one morning, “I’m going to raise your salary to a hundred dollars a month.” Instantly from the lad’s bright eyes there shot a look of triumph.

“Thanks, Mr. Gale,” was his hearty response.

“And in the meantime, Johnny, I want you to take a good solid month off.”

“All right, sir, thank you,” John replied. “But I guess it won’t be quite a month. I don’t feel as if I needed it.”

The next day at the office he appeared resplendent in a brand-new suit of clothes, a summer homespun of light gray set off by a tie of flaming red. There was nothing soft about that boy. No, Johnny knew how to look out for himself.

And Roger went up to the farm.

XXIII

George met him at the station, as he had done a year before. But at once Roger noticed a difference. In the short time since his father’s death certain lines had come in the boy’s freckled face, and they gave him a thoughtful, resolute look. George’s voice was changing. One moment it was high and boyish, again a deep and manly bass. As he kept his eyes on the horses and talked about his mother, his grandfather from time to time threw curious side glances.

“Oh, yes,” George was saying, “mother’s all right, she’s doing fine. It was pretty bad at first, though. She wouldn’t let me sit up with her any⁠—she treated me like a regular kid. But any fellow with any sense could see how she was feeling. She’d get thinking of the accident.” George stopped short and clamped his jaws. “You know, my dad did a wonderful thing,” he continued presently. “Even when he was dying, and mother and I were there by his bed, he remembered how she’d get thinking alone⁠—all about the accident. You see he knew mother pretty darned well. So he told her to remember that he was the one to blame for it. If it hadn’t been for him, he said, they would have gone home in the taxi. That’s a pretty good point to keep