  Terence McGuire, potential detective, went straight to the office of Judge Hoyt. It was about one o’clock, and he found the lawyer, about to go to his luncheon. “Well, Terence,” the Judge said, in surprise, “I thought you were busy at your Philadelphia desk.” It was on the tip of Fibsy’s tongue to say that Miss Avice sent for him, but he suddenly changed his mind and said, “Yes, sir, Judge, I was, but me Aunt is awful sick an’ I hadda come home. I’m all she’s got, an’ I can’t leave her w’en she’s sick.” As a matter of fact, Aunt Becky was at that moment preparing some complicated combination of pastry and fruit and whipped cream for her mendacious nephew’s dinner, and was in robust health. “So you’ve left Mr. Stetson?” “Well, I jest came over to see Aunt Becky, an’ she’s so ailin’ I simpully can’t go back. I gotta stay here, I’m sorry, Judge, but say, Mr. Stetson, he don’t really need me,—he don’t.” “No? Is that so? Well, Terence, I want you to have a position, perhaps we can find one in New York, and then you can look after your aunt.” “Good for you, sir. That would be jest the ticket!” “I’m just going out to luncheon. How would you like to go along with me, and we can talk things over?” “Go to lunch! With you, Judge? Gee!” “Yes, come along. As Mr. Trowbridge’s trusted clerk, I feel an interest in your welfare, and I want to see what I can do for you. Yes, come on, and we’ll talk it over as we lunch.” “Great jumpin’ cows! Say, Judge, I s’pose you’d ruther I’d talk nice an’ pretty, if I’m goin’ to eat wit’ a gentleman. Well, say, I’ll try, honust, I will.” “Not only for this time, Terence, but don’t you think it would be a good idea, if you gave up that foolish slang for good and all?” “You bet I do! An’ say, you don’ know how hard I’ve tried! Why, I practice at home, an’ I make Aunt Becky scowl at me every time I say a onnecess’ry woid. An’ I do sure hate to be scowled at! Yes, sir, I do! Well, I’m goin’ to keep on tryin’.” When the strangely mated pair started out, Judge Hoyt led his guest to a restaurant of a good but plain type. “I won’t take you to one of my clubs today, Terence,” said his host, “but as you’re ambitious, let me prophesy that some day you’ll grow up to be a man I’ll be proud to take to luncheon anywhere.” “Say, Judge,” and Fibsy looked serious, “that’s the kinda talk that makes a feller want to rise in this world. I’m ambitious,—I am,—Aunt Becky says I’ve got more ambition ’n’ any one she ever see—” “Saw, Terence.” “Yessir, I mean saw. An’ to talk wit’ you onct, makes me feel I want to go to night school, or sumpum—” “Something.” “Yessir, something.” Seated at a table that was properly appointed, but not elaborate enough to embarrass his young guest, Judge Hoyt settled himself comfortably in his chair, and adjusted his napkin, while Fibsy, watching him closely, followed every motion with a like one of his own. He took a sip of water immediately after his model had done so, and replaced the glass with an imitative gesture, extending his stubby little finger in the manner of the other’s carefully manicured digit. Judge Hoyt noticed all this, but seeing that Fibsy was in earnest and entirely unself-conscious, he ignored it and let the boy have his lessons in etiquette. “Ain’t it a shame, Judge, that they can’t find the feller,—fel-low, I mean, who moidered Mr. Trowbridge?” “Oh, didn’t you know that Kane Landon is indicted for the crime?” “Yep, sure I know that, but he didn’t do it, allee samee.” “Don’t you think so? Why not?” “Well, I loined it outen o’ my pus-shy-kollergy book.” “Terence, if you’re going to read a book on the subject of psychology, you ought to learn to pronounce it.” “Yes, sir. Could you tell me, so’s I kin remember?” “Why, yes, it’s not difficult, once you know it.” And Judge Hoyt carefully taught the young seeker after knowledge how to pronounce the word in question. “Well, now wouldn’t that jar you!” and Fibsy smiled, delighted at his own accomplishment. “All that fooled me was that P to begin it with. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d a loined it long ago. Well, I got that book, an’ it tells you how to know w’en a man’s a criminal an’ w’en he ain’t. An’ Mr. Landon, he’s too careless to be guilty.” “Too careless to be guilty. What do you mean?” “I mean, if he was guilty, he wouldn’t sling around his speech so free. He wouldn’t a told that he was in Van Cortlandt Park that day Mr. Trowbridge was killed. Nor he wouldn’t a owned up so free that he wanted money sumpun—something,—fierce. An’ he wouldn’t a taken his imprisonment so orful easy. He’d a been busy preparin’ alibis, an’ things like that.” “How do you know these are his attitudes?” “Pape. Every day there’s a guy writes a lot about the—psy—chology,—got it!—of crime, an’ spoke about Kane Landon bein’ a example of—of what I was a-talkin’ about.” “But if Landon isn’t guilty, and I fervently hope he isn’t, then who is?” “I dunno, Judge Hoyt,” and Fibsy’s freckled little face was very earnest. “But there’s a chap as can find out. Do you know Fleming Stone?” “The detective? Yes; that is I know him by reputation. I never chanced to meet him.” “He’s the guy, Judge Hoyt. He can find a moiderer by clues what ain’t there! Gee, but he’s a wonder!” “How do you know?” “I’ve read about him a heap o’ times. I’ve read up most every case he’s ever had, if it was in the papers. Why,” and Fibsy pulled a newspaper from his pocket. “Here’s a account of a case he’s jest finished—” “And here’s the waiter with our steak. Suppose we let Mr. Stone wait.” “Will we!” and Fibsy’s eyes shone as he saw the platter that was offered for the Judge’s inspection. “Gee! I’ve dreamed of a steak like that, but I never spected to have one soived up to me!” “And now,” the judge resumed, after the steak had been cut and “soived,” “let us discuss your next position of trust and responsibility. You want to be in New York? But suppose we arrange for your aunt to live in Philadelphia, and then you can keep your place with Mr. Stetson.” “Mighty nice plan,” Fibsy’s fork paused in mid-air, while he thought, “but,—oh, hang it all, Judge,—I jest love New York! Why, its old torn-up dirty streets are more ’tractive to us, than Philly’s clean, every-day-sloshed-up w’ite marble steps.” “Ah, a true Gothamite,” and the Judge smiled. “Well, we must try for a place in this metropolis, then.” “Yes, sir, please. And, too, Judge Hoyt, I gotter be here to keep me eye on that ’ere trial of Mr. Landon.” “You have that in charge, eh?” “Now, don’t you make fun o’ me, please. But I got a hunch that I can put in an oar, when the time comes, that’ll help Mr. Landon along some—” “What do you mean, Terence? If you know anything of importance bearing on the case, it’s your duty to tell it at once.” “I know that, sir, but it ain’t of importance, ’cept to somebuddy who can ’tach importance to it. Now, I told you, Judge Hoyt, that I had some—some clues,—an’ sir, you jest laughed at me.” “Oh, I remember. Some buttons and some mud, wasn’t it?” “Yes sir, that’s what they was.” “Well, I confess the mud doesn’t seem of great importance, and as for the button,—was it a coat button, did you say?” “No, sir, I said a—a suspender button.” “Oh, yes. Well, the detectives have examined all possible clothing for a missing button of that sort, but without success. It is, of course, a button from some other garment than any of interest to this case.” “Yes sir, I s’pose so.” “You see, Terence, all clues have been traced to their last possible degree of usefulness in our investigations.” “Yes, sir, of course, sir. Say, Judge Hoyt, I’m kinder sorry you wasn’t in town that day. If you had a been, you might a kep’ Mr. Trowbridge from goin’ to the woods at all.” “Maybe so, Terence. We can’t know about those things. Some people hold there’s no such thing as chance; if so, it was ordained that I should be out of town.” “Yes, sir. Funny, ain’t it? An’ sorter pathetic that Mr. Trowbridge should have your telegram, what you sent from Philly in his pocket.” “Well, that was only natural, as he must have received it shortly before he went away from his office.” “An’ he thought a heap of you, sir. Why, jest takin’ that telegram shows that. He wouldn’t a taken a plain business telegram.” “Probably not. Yes, if I had been here I should doubtless have been at his office most of the day. But even then, if he had expressed a desire to go to the woods, to look for his specimens, I should not have detained him. By the way, Terence, here’s a rather interesting photograph. That day, in Philadelphia, there was a camera man in the station, taking picture postcards of the place. And, purposely, I got in his focus. See the result.” From his pocket-book, Judge Hoyt took a picture postcard, and handed it to the boy. The great station showed up well, and in the foreground was easily distinguishable the figure of Judge Hoyt, standing in his characteristic attitude, with both hands behind him. “Say, Judge, that’s fine! My, I’d know you in a minute. Kin I keep this?” “Wish I could give it to you, but it’s the only copy I have left. I’ll send for some more, if you really care to have one.” “Sure I do,—I mean, soitenly I do.” “Well, do all you can to improve that execrable diction of yours, and I’ll get you a card like this one.” Seeing Fibsy look a little disappointedly at the two demi-tasses that appeared as a final course, Judge Hoyt asked the waiter to bring a cup of breakfast coffee for the lad. “Oh, thank you,” said the guest, “I sure do like a cup o’ coffee worth botherin’ with. Is that little mite of a cup all you want?” “Why, yes, I suppose so. I never think about it. It is my habit to take a small cup after luncheon. Some day, Terence, if you’re ambitious, you must brush up on these minor matters of correct custom. However, here’s your large cup, now. Drink it and enjoy it. Cream and sugar, I suppose?” “Yes sir,” said Fibsy, and he watched the elegance of Judge Hoyt’s movements, as he poured cream and dropped a lump of sugar in the good-sized cup of steaming coffee. “Another?” the judge asked, poising the second lump just above the brim. “Yes, sir, please, sir. You’re awful good to me, Judge Hoyt, sir.” “Well, to be honest, Terence, I want to give you a few hints as to your table manners, for you have the instincts of a gentleman, and I’m going to help you to become one, if I can.” “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” Fibsy looked earnestly at the kindly face that smiled at him, and then said, in a burst of determination to do the right thing, “Say, Judge Hoyt, I want to learn to be a gentleman as soon as I can. An’ I’m goin’ to begin right now, by drinkin’ this here little cup o’ coffee,—an’ I’m goin’ to drink it like you did yours, without no sugar or cream!” Pushing to one side the larger cup, Fibsy took the demi-tasse, which had been left on the table, and with a visible effort swallowed its contents. “Whew! some bitter!” he exclaimed, making a wry face. “Good for you, old chap!” and the Judge laughed outright at this act of real heroism. “Now that you’ve proved you can do it, follow it up with the other cup, that you’ll enjoy.” “No sir—ee! I’ve begun to do the c’rect thing, an’ I’m goin to stick to it!” “Oh, pshaw, don’t deprive yourself of a little pleasure. That good cup of coffee, fixed just to your taste, will be wasted if you don’t drink it.” “No, sir, I’m in fer the manners today. Maybe I won’t keep it up, but this is me day fer bein’ a gentleman, let it rain ebber so hard!” With a merry smile in his blue eyes, Fibsy stood his ground, and then in another moment, looked crestfallen and sheepish, as finger bowls were brought. “That gets my goat!” he confided to his host. “Say, Judge, put me wise.” “Very well, Terence, simply do as I do.” Fibsy watched carefully, though unostentatiously, and when the judge had finished, the boy gave a perfect imitation of the man’s correct and graceful motions. Before the finger-bowls came, the waiter had taken up Fibsy’s large cup of coffee to remove it. But with a longing glance, the boy had said, “Say, can’t I keep that after all, Judge?” “Certainly,” Judge Hoyt had replied. But now, after the new glory of cleansed finger-tips, again Fibsy renounced the temptation, and said, “Nope, if I’m goin’ to learn to be a swell, I gotter learn to say no.” And without even a backward glance at the coffee, he followed the judge from the dining room. They reached the street, when Fibsy cried out, “Good gracious, I left me paper!” and he darted back into the restaurant, returning, after a moment’s delay, with the newspaper under his arm. “Now we are off,” he said, and with Judge Hoyt, he walked briskly back to the lawyer’s office. |
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