CHAPTER I
THE WEAVER HOUSE AGAIN

THERE is a dramatist hidden in every one of us. We like to cast ourselves as heroes, as heroines, as villains of the piece. Make-believe is one of the fundamental instincts. It is human nature to construct a drama about our lives; it is also very human to seize dramatic situations.

There was a good deal of the dramatic in Wint. When he left his home that night, Muldoon at his heels, he was acutely conscious that his life was broken. He had lost everything. He had lost father, and mother; and he had lost Joan. They were irrevocably gone. Furthermore, he was beaten in his fight. There could be no question of this. Hardiston would overwhelm him. There was left for him in this world—nothing.

Wint was enough of a boy to take a keen delight in the tragedy of this; he was enough of a boy—or enough of a dramatist, for the two things are in many ways the same—to emphasize his situation, bring out the high lights, vest it in the trappings of drama. He did not think of himself as a hero, for having sacrificed everything for Hetty; he did not think of that phase of the situation at all. He had done that because it was the inevitable consequence of events. It was the only thing he could do. He took no credit to himself for the doing. But he did picture himself as broken or destroyed; and as he walked, more or less aimlessly, it was natural that his thoughts should cast back through the months to those other days when he had fallen low. Thus he remembered the Weaver House, and Mrs. Moody.

There seemed to him something appropriate and fitting in the idea of returning to the Weaver House this night. He had risen out of it; he would return to it. It was in such surroundings, now, that he belonged.

He turned that way.

It was no more than nine o’clock in the evening, or perhaps a little later, when Wint left his home. The day had been fine; the night was clear, and there was a moon. It was pleasant to be abroad on such a night. Wint took a leisurely course that brought him through the last fringes of houses above the railroad yards; and he followed the tag end of a street down the hill to the flats covered with slack and cinders. In the light of day, this was a hideous place, black and begrimed. But the moon could glorify even this. It painted blue shadows everywhere; it laid streaks of silver light along the rails; it touched a pool of water, a puddle here and there, and under the touch the water became quicksilver, alive and beautiful. A switching engine moved down the yard, and when the fire-man twitched open the door to replenish the fires, the glare shone in a pale glow upon his figure and back upon the tender. The long strings of cars, box cars with open doors, or coal cars loaded high, took on a beauty of their own in the night; and the winking switch lamps were like jewels, like rubies and emeralds shining in the moon.

He had to climb between two freight cars, on his way across the yard; and Muldoon scurried underneath them. Wint grimed his hands on the cars, and rubbed them together, cleansing them as well as he could, while he went on. He picked his way across the tracks, past the roundhouse where a locomotive slumbered hissingly, and on into the fringes of the locality where the Weaver House awaited him.

It is the custom in Hardiston that when the moon is full, be it cloudy or clear, the street lamps are not lighted. Thus the street along which Wint took his way was illuminated only by the moon. On either side, the dingy, squalid houses stood, with a flicker of light from one and another where those who dwelt within were still awake. A little later, he passed a store or two, and turned a corner, and so came to the hotel.

Something prompted him to stop outside and look in through the dirty window glass. It was so light outside, and the lamp inside furnished such a meager illumination, that Mrs. Moody saw him at the window; and she took him for some wandering ne’er-do-well, and came scolding to the door. “Be off,” she cried, before she saw who it was. “Get away from there.”

Muldoon snarled at her; and Wint said: “Quiet, boy,” and to the woman: “It’s me. Wint Chase.”

She came out and peered up at him; and he saw her horribly even teeth shine like silver between her cracked old lips. “You, is it?” she exclaimed aggressively. “Well, and you don’t need to come a-snooping around here. We’re lawful folks, here. And you know it. So you can just go along.”

He said: “I came for lodging;” and she backed away.

“Eh?” she asked.

“For lodging,” he repeated. “Can you give me a room?”

“What’s the matter with you, anyhow?” she demanded. “You had a fight with your paw again?” She was still aggressively and suspiciously on guard. He laughed, and said whimsically:

“Come; you wouldn’t turn an old friend out. Let me have a room.”

So she thawed, became her old, meanly ingratiating self.

“Why, deary,” she protested, “you know old Mother Moody never turned a man away. You come right in now. Come right in where it’s warm. Did you say you’d had a scrap with your paw?”

Wint went before her into the office of the squalid hotel. Muldoon kept close to his heels; and Jim, Mrs. Moody’s dog, growled from beneath the table. Mrs. Moody squalled at him:

“You, Jim, be still.”

Wint looked around him; it was curious to find the place so little changed. A train clanked past on the track that flanked the hotel. He could almost hear the gurgle of the muddy waters of the creek behind. The office itself was lighted, as it had always been, by a single oil lamp. It did not seem to Wint that this lamp had been cleaned since he was here before. It stood on the square old table in the corner, where the wall benches ran along two sides. The dog slept under this table; and the boy—the same boy—was leaning his elbows on the table by the lamp and poring with mumbling lips over a tattered, paper-backed tale. This boy’s clothes were still too small; his wrists stuck out from his sleeves, his neck reared itself bare and gaunt above the collar of the coat. There was a strange and pitiful atmosphere of age and experience about him.

There was one change in the room, as Wint saw when he had persuaded Mrs. Moody to leave him to his own devices, and she had gone to her chair behind the high counter that had been a bar. This change lay in the fact that one of the two old checker players was no longer here. The other sat on the wall bench in the corner behind the table; the disused checkerboard lay before him. He was asleep, with sagging head, his occupation gone. His white beard was stained an ugly brown below his mouth. Wint wondered if the other old man were dead. Perhaps.

He did not wish to be alone, just then; he wanted companionship, friendly and impersonal. So he sat down beside the boy, and filled his pipe, and lighted it, and asked amiably:

“What are you reading, son?”

The boy was too absorbed to answer. He brushed at his ear with his hand as though a fly buzzed there, and turned a dogeared page. But the sound of Wint’s voice so near him woke the old man; he stirred, opened his eyes, looked all about. And he reached across and laid a hand like a claw on Wint’s arm.

“Play checkers?” he asked hoarsely. “Play checkers, do you?”

“A little,” Wint said.

“I’ll play you,” the old man challenged. “I’m a good player. I always was. Played all my life. Played every night, right here at this table, with the best player in the county, for seven years.” His skinny old hands were feverishly arranging the pieces, while Wint took his place by the board. “I beat him, too,” the old man boasted. “Beat him lots of times. He’d say so himself. He would, but he had to go and die.” There was resentment in his voice, as at a personal wrong. He said curtly: “Your move,” and spoke no more.

Wint moved, the old man countered. On Wint’s fifth move—he was an indifferent player—the old man cackled gleefully. “That beats you,” he cried. “Heh, heh, heh! That beats you, now.”

It did; and Wint lost the next game, and the next, as easily. His success put the old man in the best of humor. He laughed much between games, studying the board with fixed intensity while the play was in progress. Wint watched the old man as much as he watched the board; he studied the old fellow, with a curiously wistful eye. This old wreck of manhood had been a boy once; a baby once, in a mother’s arms. No doubt she had dreamed dreams for him. Dreamed he might be President, some day. Might be anything.... This is one of the things that makes babies fascinating; their potentialities. There is no greater gamble than to bring a baby into the world. Wint, considering this, thought of Hetty’s baby. The baby that had died. As well, perhaps. Otherwise, it might have come, some day, to playing checkers in the Weaver House. He put the thought aside abruptly. At least, it would have lived. Even this old man had lived. No doubt life had been reasonably sweet to him till his antagonist died. “Had to go and die....”

The old man accused him. “You ain’t trying to play, young fellow. Now don’t you go easy on me. I’ll show you some things.” And Wint gave more of his attention to the game.

He was playing when the door opened and Jack Routt came in; he did not look around till Jack exclaimed behind him: “Wint! By God, I thought you’d be here!”

He looked up then, and said: “Hello, Jack,” in a calm voice, and went on with his play. Routt dropped on the seat beside him and caught his arm.

“Here, Wint,” he protested, “I want to talk to you. Where’d you pick up that old duck? Listen. I want to.... Let’s go outside.”

Wint said: “Wait till we finish the game.” The old man seemed unconscious of Routt’s presence; and when Routt spoke again, Wint bade him be quiet, and wait. Only when the game was done did he rise. To the old man he said: “Thanks. We’ll have another game. I’ll beat you yet.”

The other protested jealously at his going; but Wint said he must. Then, to Routt: “Come upstairs.”

“Have you got a room?” Routt asked, amazed; and Wint said:

“Yes.” And he went toward the stair. Routt followed him.

Mrs. Moody had given Wint that same dingy room in which he had spent the night of his election. They went there, and Wint bade Routt sit down. Routt sat on the bed; Wint stood indolently by the door. Routt exclaimed at once:

“Wint, I want you to know this wasn’t my doing. You could have knocked me flat. I’m sorry as hell.”

“Of course,” Wint agreed.

“I want to know if there isn’t some way we can fix it up,” Routt urged. “There must be something we can do. Some damned thing.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” Wint told him.

“Nothing to fix? Good God!” Routt shifted his position, reached into his pocket. “My Lord, but I’m knocked out. Shaky. I’ve got to have a drink. Mind?”

“Go ahead.”

Routt produced a flask. He held it toward Wint. “Have a slug?” Wint shook his head. Routt drank, again asked: “Sure you won’t?” Wint said:

“No.”

“If I were in your shoes,” said Routt, with the flask still open in his hand, “I’d want to soak myself in it. A good, stiff drunk. There are times when nothing else is any good.”

“I used to think so,” Wint agreed.

Routt took a second drink, wiped his mouth, screwed the cap on the flask and put it in his pocket. “If you want any, say the word,” he suggested. “Now, Wint, what are we going to do?”

Wint, leaning quietly against the wall, stirred a little. “I’m going to tell you something, Routt,” he said.

“Tell me? What?”

“This,” Wint went on gently, eyes a little wistful. “This. That I—know you now. At last.”

Routt sat for an instant very still; then he got to his feet. “Wint, what do you mean?”

“I thought you were my—friend,” said Wint. “Stuck to that thought. People warned me. Amos, and father; and—Joan. Said you were not—my friend. But I believed you were.”

“Damn it, I am your friend.”

“I’m not sorry I held to you as long as I could,” Wint went on impassively. “It’s a good thing to have faith, even in—false friends. But—I know you now, Routt. You’ve made me drunk, played on the worst in me, slandered me, tricked me, played your part in this black thing to-night.” He hesitated, and Routt started to speak, but Wint cut in.

“Are you—responsible for Hetty, Jack?” he asked.

“Am I?” Routt demanded. “Why, damn you, you said yourself....”

“If I thought you were,” Wint told him evenly. “If I thought you had done that to her.... She was a nice girl. Clean. I think I’d take you by the throat, Routt, and kill you here.”

Routt cried angrily: “You’re crazy. What the hell! You said yourself that you....”

“In fact,” Wint told him, “unless you go away, I am going to hurt you—even now. Without being sure. Hurt you as badly as I can.”

Routt started to speak; then Wint’s eyes caught his and silenced him. He stood for a moment, staring at the other.

And his eyes fell. He looked around gropingly for his hat, and he put it on. He went past Wint at the door; and he went past quickly, as though afraid of what Wint might do.

He went along the hall and down the stairs without speaking again.

Wint, left alone, stood still where he was for a time; then he stirred himself and began to prepare for bed. He moved slowly, indolently. Stripped off coat and collar, sat down to unlace his shoes. After a while, he crossed and opened the window. He felt, somehow, infinitely cleaner, healthier, since he had put Jack Routt out of his life. He felt as though he had washed smears of grime from his hands.

Yet there was a certain loneliness upon him, too; for he had lost one whom he had counted a friend.

After a while, he went to bed and slept peacefully enough till dawn.

CHAPTER II
A BRIGHTER CHAPTER

THE crowded events of the evening before had wearied Wint more than he knew; his sleep was dreamless and profound, and he might not have waked till midday if it had not been for Muldoon. The dog slept beside Wint’s bed; but at the first glint of day, it became restless; and when the sun rose, Muldoon got up and walked stiffly across to the open window and propped his feet on the sill and looked out. The slight sound of his nails on the bare floor disturbed Wint, and he turned in his sleep; and Muldoon came back to the bed to see what was the matter. Wint’s arm was hanging over the side of the bed, and Muldoon licked his master’s hand. Which woke Wint effectually enough.

He opened his eyes, and at first he could not remember where he was. The dingy room.... He stared up at the cracked and broken ceiling. At one place, a patch of plaster had fallen, leaving the laths bare. It took Wint some little time to recognize his surroundings. But at last he remembered. He sat up on the edge of the bed, rumpling Muldoon’s ears with his right hand, and looked around.

The room contained, besides the bed, a chair and a wardrobe. His clothes were on the chair. The sagging doors of the wardrobe hung open. There was nothing inside the decrepit thing. His eyes wandered toward the mantel. The cracked old mirror still hung there. His eyes fell to the floor, and he marked the charred place near the hearth, burned there that night of his election when at sight of his own image in the mirror he had smashed the lamp in a fury of shame. He remembered that night, now, and he smiled a little whimsically. It seemed his fortunes were always to be bound up with this dingy room.

Muldoon, disturbed by Wint’s long silence, looked up at his master, and barked, under his breath, uneasily. Wint took the dog’s head in both his hands and shook it gently back and forth. “What’s the matter, pup?” he asked affectionately. “What’s on your mind? What are you fussing about, anyhow? What have you got to fuss about, I’d like to know? Come.”

Muldoon twisted himself free, and he snarled. It was a part of the game. Then he flung himself forward and pinned Wint’s right hand and held it, growling. Wint took him by the scruff of the neck and lifted the dog into his lap; and Muldoon’s solid body accommodated itself to Wint’s knees and he lay there, perfectly contented.

“You stuck around, didn’t you, boy?” Wint asked, his voice a little wistful. “The rest of them didn’t give a hoot for Wint; but you stuck around. Eh? The rest of them didn’t care. ‘Get out. Good enough for him.’ That’s what they’d say. But not you, eh, Muldoon? You stuck. Even Jack Routt. Even Jack came only to offer me booze. And the rest of them didn’t come at all. Only you, pup. You and I, now. But we’ll show them some things. Eh?”

Muldoon rolled his eyes up at Wint and said nothing; and Wint lifted the dog from his knees to the bed. “There, take a nap while I’m dressing,” he said. “Then we’ll be moving on.”

The dog stayed obediently on the bed; and Wint dressed, moving quietly to and fro. He did not hurry. He was possessed by an easy indolence. There seemed to be nothing in the world worth hurrying for. He was not unhappy; he whistled a little, as he dressed. But once or twice he remembered that his father had let him go without a word, and he winced at the thought. And once or twice he remembered that he had no friend now, anywhere, save Muldoon; and that was not pleasant remembering.

But for the most part, he put a good face on life. “After all, pup,” he told Muldoon, “thing’s can’t be any worse. So they’re bound to get better. And we’ll just play that hunch for all it’s worth. Why not? Eh?”

Muldoon had no objections; he wagged the stump of his tail and opened his jaws and laughed, dog-fashion, tongue hanging happily. Wint grinned at him, and sat down to tie his shoes.

Save for collar and coat, he was fully dressed when he heard through the open door the voice of some one who had come into the office of the Weaver House, downstairs. The voice was unmistakable. The newcomer was Amos; and when Wint realized this, he stood very still, and his face turned a little white. He waited without moving. There was nothing else to do.

He heard Amos and some one else coming up the stairs, guided by Mrs. Moody. “Right along here,” the old dame was saying. “Always the same room. I always give him the best. That’s the kind of a gentleman he is, when he comes to old Mother Moody. Right here, now.”

In the doorway she said: “Here’s the Congressman to see you, deary.” And she stood aside to let Amos come in. Wint saw that B. B. Beecham was with Amos, on the other’s heels. He watched them, steady enough by this time. He wondered what they had come for. To triumph? That would not be like B. B. Nor like Amos.

Amos turned and told Mrs. Moody to go. “And thank you, ma’am,” he said. She went away, a little reluctantly. She was a curious old woman; she liked to know what went on in her hostelry. But—Amos had, when he chose, a commanding tone. When she was gone, he turned and looked at Wint, head on one side, squinting good-humoredly; and he said:

“Well, Wint, how’s tricks?”

Wint hesitated; then he said: “Good morning, both of you.”

Amos nodded. B. B. said: “Good morning.”

Wint looked around at the sparse furnishings of the room. “You’ve caught me early,” he said. “I’m not dressed yet.” And he added: “I can’t offer you both a chair, because there’s only one chair.”

“Me,” said Amos, “I’ll sit on the bed. B. B., sit down.”

Wint remained on his feet. “Well,” he asked, a challenge in his voice, “what’s on your mind?”

Amos leaned back against the wall and began to fill his pipe. “Nothing much, Wint,” he said slowly. “We come down here principally to shake you by the hand. Don’t let me forget t’ do it, before I go.”

His tone was friendly and reassuring. Wint wondered just what he meant. He smiled a little, and said: “All right.”

“Thought you might be glad to see your friends,” Amos added; and Wint said, with lips a little white:

“I would be.”

“Well,” Amos told him. “Here’s two of us.”

Wint looked at the Congressman; and he looked at B. B. B. B. said quietly: “That was a fine thing you did last night, Wint.”

Wint flushed, as though he were ashamed of what he had done. “I don’t understand this,” he said, a little impatiently. “What do you want? Out with it!”

Amos said: “Want to help you, any way we can.”

Wint’s eyes narrowed, and he flung out a hand. “You’re too darned mysterious, Amos.”

Amos lighted his pipe. “Well, Wint, I don’t aim to be,” he declared. “I’m talking straight as I know. B. B. and me are on your side; that’s all. We’re taking orders from you. We do anything you say.”

Wint laughed, a sudden, harsh laugh. “I’ve heard they give a condemned man anything he wants—the last morning,” he exclaimed.

Amos nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard tell o’ that. But what’s that got to do with this?”

“Plain enough, I should think.”

“You don’t count yourself a condemned man; now, do you?”

“I should think so.”

Amos shook his head doubtfully. “And here I thought you said last night you didn’t aim to quit.”

“I don’t. But I’ll be snowed under—now. Of course.”

“Well,” said Amos, “that may be so. I ain’t sure. Gergue will know, time he’s talked around a spell. Prob’ly you are—are beat. But I’ve seen men beat before that turned out pretty strong in the end.” He added slowly: “Anyway, licked or unlicked, I’m on your side, Wint. And always was.”

Wint stared at him with a curious, threatening light in his eyes. “What’s the idea? You turned me down cold, in public. Now you come whining around....”

“I’m not whining, Wint,” said Amos cheerfully. “Do you think I’m whining, B. B.?”

B. B. smiled. “Congressman Caretall has his own methods, Wint. I know he seemed to be against you; but I also know that he’s been secretly working for you, that every vote he can swing will go to you. He’s been passing that word around for a week.”

Wint hesitated, looking from one to the other. “I never caught you in a lie, B. B.,” he said.

“It’s true enough,” the editor told him. “You see—” He looked at Amos, then went on: “You see, your father has no use for Amos. And Amos knew it. He also knew your father could do a good deal to help you win this election. But—Chase would not be on your side so long as Amos was with you. Do you see?”

“I see that much,” said Wint. He was thinking hard.

“But your father has been working for you since Amos pretended to have turned against you. Hasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you ever thought of that,” B. B. suggested; and Wint drew his hand across his eyes, and looked at Amos, and asked huskily:

“Is it true, Amos?”

Amos grinned; and he said: “I’m like you. I never knowed B. B. to tell a lie.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?”

“You can’t keep a secret, Wint. You’re too damned honest. Maybe you’re too honest for politics. I don’t know. Anyhow, I couldn’t let on to you without your father seeing it in your eye.”

Wint said, grinning a little shakily: “It hurt me a good deal, just the same.”

“I guess you’ll outgrow that.”

“I suppose so.”

He said nothing more for a minute; and Amos puffed at his pipe, and B. B. studied Wint, smiling a little at the young man’s confusion. Wint was flushed; and he was happier than he had ever expected to be again. These two were true friends, at least. Not all the world had turned its back on him. He crossed abruptly and gripped their hands.

“Why, that’s all right,” said Amos, marking how Wint was moved. “If you hadn’t run away last night, before we could move, I’d have told you then. I tried to find you, after. But no one seemed to know.”

Wint nodded. “I just walked blindly, for a while. I could not go home. This was the first place I thought of.”

Amos blew a cloud of smoke. “Well, that’s all right.”

“How did you find out I was here, now?” Wint asked. “Just guess? Or what?”

“Jack Routt is—spreading the word,” Amos explained. There was a suggestion of something hidden behind his simple statement.

“Routt? Yes, he was here last night,” Wint agreed.

“Yes, he said he was.” Wint caught the implication in the Congressman’s tone, and he asked:

“What’s the matter? What does Routt say?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, he says you were down here last night, stewed to the eyes and getting steweder all the time.”

Wint’s eyes narrowed; then he laughed. “Oh, he says that?”

“Says it frequent and generous.”

“He came down last night and suggested that I drown my sorrows,” Wint explained. “I—” He hesitated. “You see, Jack and I—I’ve always counted him my best friend. But I seemed to see through him last night. I—don’t count him my friend any more.”

“We-ell,” Amos drawled, “I can’t say as I blame you for that. I’ll say he don’t talk friendly about you.”

Wint, flushing, asked quickly: “You don’t believe what he’s saying?”

Amos shook his head. “I know a hangover when I see one; and I know when I don’t.”

Wint nodded. “I’m not starting in again on the booze at this stage of the game.”

“No; I’d guess not.”

Wint sat down beside Amos on the tumbled bed. “Now, Amos, let’s get down to tacks. I said last night I was going to stick; and I meant it. I mean it all the more, now, with you to back me. The thing is—”

Amos turned his head toward the door. “Some one coming,” he said; and Wint heard steps on the stair, and Mrs. Moody’s cheerful harangue. He got up quickly. His father stood in the doorway.

In the long moment of silence that followed the appearance of the elder Chase, Wint put his whole heart into the effort to read his father’s face. Was there anger there? Or shame? Or bitter reproach? Reason enough, in all conscience, for any one of these emotions. He stared deep into his father’s eyes.

The elder Chase came into the room, one stiff step; and he looked at Wint, and at B. B., and at Amos. His lips twitched a little at sight of Amos, then set firmly together again. That was all.

Wint moved toward him a little. “Dad....” he said huskily.

His father’s eyes searched Wint’s. The older man’s voice was shaking. He said slowly: “Routt is telling Hardiston you are drunk, down here.”

Wint nodded. “Yes; I’d heard.”

“I heard him telling men this thing.”

Wint said nothing; the older man’s face lighted fiercely. “I knew he lied, Wint. I knew he lied.”

Wint flushed with the sudden rush of happiness within him. He looked from his father to Amos. “Dad,” he said, “there’s one thing. I know my friends now.”

“Routt is no friend.”

“I know.”

“I always told you.”

“Yes.”

“He....”

Wint laughed softly. “Forget Jack Routt, dad. I’ve other friends. Amos, here.”

Chase’s face hardened; he said, without expression, “Amos?”

“He and B. B. came to me when I thought I hadn’t a friend in the world. You and Amos have got to make it up, dad. You’ve got to. Please.”

The older man hesitated; then he turned to Amos. “All right,” he said. “I ... Wint’s friends are mine.”

Amos got up from the bed and took the offered hand; and he smiled shrewdly. “I did play you dirty, Chase,” he confessed. “I admit it. But doing it—I played a good trick on your son. Didn’t I now?”

Chase said slowly: “Yes.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have him as he stands?” Amos asked. “Wouldn’t you rather have him as he stands—than the way he was a year ago?”

“Yes. God knows.”

Amos said slowly: “When you’re sorest at me—just give me credit for that.”

Chase exclaimed swiftly: “It doesn’t matter. It’s past. Done. All I want is—my boy. You, Wint.”

Wint was beginning to believe all was right with the world. He said slowly: “Even—after last night, dad? Hetty....”

“Yes,” said his father.

“Mother?” Wint asked. “She’ll.... Is she unhappy?”

“Why did you go away from us, Wint?” his father asked huskily. “Why did you run away?”

“I thought you wouldn’t want me at home.”

“We always want you.”

B. B. caught Amos Caretall’s eye; and he nodded slightly; and Amos understood. He said: “We’ll be moving, Wint. See you uptown, by and by.”

“Yes, I’ll be up,” Wint said.

“So long, Chase.”

“Good-by,” Chase told him quietly. Amos and B. B. went out, and along the hall, and down the stair. Wint and his father were left alone. For a little while they did not speak; then Chase said gently:

“Come home to your mother, Wint.”

Wint asked: “Even—knowing this, what happened last night? You want me in spite of it?”

“Yes.”

“In spite of—what I’ve done?”

Chase threw up his hand; he cried: “Damn it, yes. What do we care? Whatever you do....” His voice broke huskily. “You’re always our son!”

Wint could not move for a moment; he was choking. At last he laughed, happily enough; and he touched his father’s shoulder with one hand.

“Wait till I put on my collar,” he said. “I’ll come along.”

Muldoon, as though in his dog mind he understood, began to prance and bark about his master as Wint prepared to leave the Moody hostelry behind him. Wint was as happy as the dog. He knew his friends, now. Knew the loyal ones. And his father, and his mother.... They loved him.

All was well with the world.

CHAPTER III
HETTY HAS HER DAY

WINT and his father walked home in a silence that was little broken. Across the railroad yards, up the hill. A new understanding of his father and mother was coming to Wint; some measure of comprehension of the completeness of their love for him. He marked that there had been no reproaches from his father, no questions, no scolding. That which had passed was to be forgotten, was to be ignored. He was their son; nothing else mattered in any degree. His father, on their homeward way, spoke of other matters, once or twice. He said the day was fine; he said Mrs. Chase would probably have breakfast waiting. Wint took the older man’s lead, ignored what had passed the night before.

When they got to the house, his mother met him in the hall, and she put her arms around him and cried on his shoulder, and called him her boy. Wint cried, too, and was not ashamed of it. He kept patting her head, and saying: “There, mother,” in an awkward way. She told him he must never go away from home again. Never; for anything....

He said: “I thought you would want me to go.”

But she clasped him close, protesting.

She had breakfast hot upon the stove. The elder Chase had gone downtown as soon as it was day, to try to locate Wint. They ate together; and after that first moment in the hall, they did not speak of what had happened at all. When breakfast was done, Wint went into the kitchen with his mother to help with the dishes. She tied an apron around him, and laughed at him with a sob in her voice; and Wint laughed with her, and joked her, till the sob disappeared. His father looked in on them once or twice, then left them alone together.

Once, Wint broke a little silence by saying, his arm around her shoulders:

“Mother!”

She looked up at him with quick anxiety; and he said: “I’m sorry, for your sakes.”

She said: “You didn’t lie, Wint. Anyway, you didn’t lie. There, dry that plate. So....”

He smiled a little whimsically. After all, he had lied. But they did not care whether it was true or false; these two. He was their son. The thought was glorious. He nursed it, treasured it.

When the work was done, and the dishes were being put away, they heard a step on the porch outside the kitchen. They both looked that way; and through the window saw Hetty. She passed the window, knocked on the door.

Wint looked toward his mother; and he saw that she was white as death. But even while he looked at her, she touched her mouth with her hand, and steadied herself, and went to the door and opened. “Hetty!” she said pleasantly, gently. “Hetty! Well, come in.”

The girl came into the kitchen. She was pale, but she seemed very sure of herself. She looked from Mrs. Chase to Wint. “I want to talk to Wint,” she said gently.

Mrs. Chase nodded. “You wait here.” She went quickly out into the dining room. They heard her speak to her husband. She was back, almost at once. “Go into the sitting room,” she said. “There’s no one there.”

Hetty went toward the door; but Wint at first did not stir. He was curiously ashamed to face Hetty. She stopped in the doorway, and looked back at him; and he pulled himself together, and untied his apron and followed her. In the sitting room, she sat down on the couch, and Wint sat by the table. She looked at him steadily, smiled a little.

He said: “Well, Hetty.”

She laughed at him in a tender way. “Oh, you Wint!” she exclaimed, in a fashion that reminded him of the old, careless Hetty. He shifted uneasily. He felt as though he were guilty toward her. But there was no accusation in her voice. She shook a forefinger at him. “What got into you?” she asked. “Why didn’t you tell them to go to the devil?”

There was no way to put it into words. He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s all right.”

“You knocked us flat; the lot of us,” she said. “Wint, you pretty near killed me. You darned, decent kid.”

Wint stirred uneasily.

“I thought I’d die,” she said. Her voice shook, though she was smiling. “I....” She laughed. “You ought to have seen the others.”

He asked awkwardly: “What happened? I haven’t heard.”

“Didn’t your father—”

“No. I stayed at the Weaver House last night.”

She laughed. “Oh, you. Leave it to you. To think of the fool thing to do.”

He said soberly: “I was in earnest, Hetty. I meant what I said.”

She nodded. “Sure you did. You’re just a big enough fool to go through with it, too.”

“Of course.”

“You’ve got a f-fat chance, Wint,” she said, and her voice broke, and she was very near crying through her smiles. “I’ve waked up, now. You’ve got a fine, fat chance of that.”

“I don’t hold it against you,” he said. “I’d—be good to you.”

“Don’t be a nut, darn you! You’ll make me cry. I came near crying myself to death, last night.”

Wint’s curiosity was awake; he asked again: “What happened?”

“Why, you knocked us all flat,” she said. “I took it out in crying. Routt beat it after you. He was the first to move.”

There was a curious, hard quality in her voice; and Wint asked: “Was it....” He bit off the question, furious with himself for asking. She said slowly:

“Never mind. That’s past. I thought for a while I’d be better dead; but I know better, now. Nothing can kill you unless you want to be killed. Nobody ever fell so hard they couldn’t get up. I’m going to get up, Wint, and go right on living.”

He told her quickly: “Of course. I’ll help. Honestly....”

She said fiercely: “You will not. If you think I’m going to let you go through with this—” She broke off, laughed. “Well, I was telling you what happened. Routt beat it after you. The rest of us sat still, me bawling. Then your father got up and ran out to the front door, and out to the street. While he was gone, Kite begun to stir. I looked at Kite. Believe me, Wint, he was squashed. He hadn’t expected you to—do what you did. He looked like a dead man. He stuffed his things into his pocket and he pattered out into the hall. Then he came back; and he said to me:

“‘Come, Hetty.’

“I said to him: ‘You go where you’re going, you old buzzard.’ And I went on crying. It felt good.

“I heard Kite go out the front door; and then your father came back. He says: ‘He’s gone! Wint’s gone!’

“Then he looked at me, and I couldn’t look at him. And he went out and went upstairs.

“The rest of them went along, then. Ed Skinner went first. Then B. B. and Amos together. Amos says to me: ‘Don’t cry so, Hetty. Don’t cry so.’ I told him to shut up; and he went along. When they were all gone, I got myself together and went out. Lutcher and Kite were waiting at the corner. They stopped me; and Kite, he says: ‘My God, what are we going to do?’

“I hit him in the face, hard as I could. Lutcher grabbed my arm; and I told him to let go, and he let go. I went on and left them. Went home and cried some more.”

She laughed a little. “I’ll say I felt like crying, Wint. That was your doing. Darn you!”

He said: “You mustn’t feel badly.”

“Badly!” she echoed, and her eyes were suddenly hard. “Wint, I could cut out my tongue.” She moved abruptly, hid her face. After an instant, she turned to him again.

“There’s no use in saying I’m sorry. They fed me up to it. Threats, and promises. If I’d do it, they’d give me—a rat of a man to marry. He said he’d marry me himself. But he’d said that before. He told me himself that he’d marry me if I’d do this. Marry me and take me away. I knew he was a liar, but I thought maybe he’d keep the promise, this time. I thought I had to have him, to be able to look people in the eye. Oh, I’m not making excuses, Wint. There isn’t any excuse for me.”

He said: “It’s all right. Please don’t feel badly.”

“The thing is,” she said steadily, “how am I going to make it up to you? What do you want me to do?” He did not answer at once; and she told him humbly: “I’ll do anything you say.”

He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m willing to go through with it.”

She rose to her feet with a swift, furious movement. “Damn you, Wint!” she cried chokingly. “Don’t you say that again. Ain’t I sorry enough to suit you? Haven’t you poured coals of fire on my head till—till my hair’s all singed? Don’t rub it in, Wint,” she pleaded. “You’ve made me feel bad enough. I’ll say I was ready to quit, last night. It wasn’t worth a penny, to live. Then I thought I might make it up to you. So I—stayed alive. Don’t you rub it in to me, now. Don’t you say that again. I tell you, Wint, I went through something, last night.” Her voice shook, she stretched out her hands to him. “For God’s sake, Wint, don’t rub it in any more!”

There were tears in her eyes, on her cheeks; her face was the face of one in torment. He took her hands; and he said gently: “Please—I didn’t mean to make you unhappy. You’ve—really, you’ve made me happy. I thought every one would be against me. But Amos and B. B. came to me, offered me their friendship, and their help. And father came to me. I never knew before what friends I had. You’ve done that for me, already.”

“I’ll bet Routt came to you, too,” she said, a terrible scorn in her voice. “He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Wint, “he came.”

She was frankly crying, now; her shoulders shaking, tears streaming down her face. Her lips twisted; she held out her clenched hands. “I’d like to kill him.”

“Don’t cry,” Wint begged. “Please.”

She brushed her arms across her eyes and smiled at him. “All right. Now.... What do you want me to do? It’s up to you.”

“I don’t want you to do anything,” Wint protested. “It will all come out right in the end.”

“I’m not going to stand and wait.”

“Please. You’ll see.”

She stamped her foot fiercely. “I tell you, no. I was the goat, yesterday. They made a fool of me. But I’m grown up over night, Wint. This is my day. I’m going to tear things open—wide.”

For all the harshness of her speech, there was a strange new gentleness about Hetty; and there was a new strength in her. Wint had never liked her more, respected her more. He said steadily: “You’re wrong, I think. You’re excited, to-day. I tell you, things will turn out better than you think.”

The telephone tinkled in the hall; and Wint said: “Wait a minute, will you?” And he went to answer it.

Sam O’Brien, the fat restaurant man, was on the other end of the wire. He asked: “This Chase’s house?”

Wint said: “Yes, this is Wint Chase. That you, Sam?”

O’Brien exclaimed: “Yes, it’s me! Say, Wint—you’re there, boy. You’re a man.”

“Pshaw!”

“Say, Wint,” O’Brien cut in. “Is Hetty up there? They say at her room she started for there.”

Wint glanced toward the door of the sitting room. “Yes,” he said.

“Do me a favor?” Sam asked.

“Of course.”

“Keep her there till I come.”

“All right,” Wint agreed. “What—”

But Sam had hung up. Wint went back to Hetty. He decided, for no reason in the world, not to tell her what Sam had asked him to do. She asked, as soon as he came into the sitting room:

“Who was that? Sam O’Brien?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

Wint laughed uneasily, and said: “He just wanted to tell me he was on my side.”

Hetty nodded. “There’s one decent man, Wint.” There was a curious warmth in her tone.

“Yes, he is,” Wint agreed.

“He’s been fine to me,” she said, a little wistfully. Then she put Sam aside with a movement of her hand. “Well, Wint, you want me to go ahead my own way?”

He hesitated; then he said: “Hetty, you’re all right. I don’t blame you for—anything. But I do want you to forget the whole thing. You’ll see it will straighten out. Don’t mix things up.”

They heard his mother come into the dining room, across the hall, and busy herself there; and they kept silent till she went out into the kitchen again. A matter of minutes. Hetty moved once, crossing from her chair to stand beside Wint and touch his shoulder lightly with her hand. When Mrs. Chase had gone out of hearing, she said softly:

“I guess there’s one person you’d like to have know the straight of this.”

Wint’s jaw set slowly with something of the old stubbornness; and he said: “No. She doesn’t believe in me. She’s made no move. I’ll not.”

She twisted her fingers into his hair and shook him good-naturedly. “You, Wint; you’re as stubborn as a mule,” she told him. “What would you think of her if she’d come running? After you’d said you were going to—marry me? What could she do? But she knows you’re a liar, just the same. I’ll bet she’s just waiting.”

Some one came up on the porch outside, and she looked sharply that way, and asked: “Who’s that?”

“I’ll go,” Wint told her; and he went to the front door. Sam O’Brien was there. He had expected Sam. But Jack Routt was with him, and Wint had not expected to see Routt.

He looked from Sam to the other. Routt’s collar, he saw, was rumpled; and there were little beads of perspiration on Sam’s forehead. Wint hesitated. Sam said huskily:

“I know you don’t want this skunk in your house, Wint. But is—she here?”

“Yes,” Wint told him.

“Well, this thing wants to see her,” Sam explained. “Speak up, you.” He looked at Routt.

Routt said: “Yes.” He ran a finger around inside his collar.

Wint moved aside. “Come in,” he agreed; and they stepped into the hall. Then Hetty came out of the sitting room. She had heard their voices, heard what they said. She stood very still, looking at Jack Routt with inscrutable eyes.

Routt looked from Sam to Wint furtively. Then he looked at Hetty; and he moved toward her as though he expected violence. Two paces from where she stood, he stopped; he fidgeted. At last he said:

“Will you marry me?”

There was a parrot-like quality in his voice that made Wint, even in that moment, want to smile. Hetty did smile; she said quietly:

“I suppose Sam brought you here.”

Routt looked at Sam; then he protested: “No. I wanted to come. Honestly.”

“You never wanted anything honestly in your life, Jack,” she told him; and there was as much pity as anger in her voice. “I wouldn’t marry you. I wouldn’t look at you. Not if you were the last man in the world.”

No one said anything. They stood very still. Then Routt moved a little; and he turned, and he looked questioningly at Sam O’Brien. Sam had his hat in his hand. He dropped it, to leave his hands free. He opened the front door and stepped outside; and Routt followed him as though at a word of command.

Sam took him by the arm; then he closed the door. Wint looked at Hetty.

They heard a muffled, thudding sound. A hoarse cry. A scuffle of feet. The front gate banged.

When Wint opened the door, Sam was standing on one foot, precariously poised; and with his handkerchief he was carefully wiping the toe of his right shoe. Routt was not in sight.

Hetty came to the door beside Wint; and Sam looked at her humbly, and he asked:

“Will you walk along with me?”

Hetty, smiling a little tenderly, said: “You oughtn’t to have done that.”

“I can clean my shoe,” Sam explained, as though that were the only consideration. “Will you walk along with me?”

She hesitated a moment; then she said swiftly: “Yes, Sam,” and looked at Wint with a quick, laughing glance. “Yes, Sam, I’ll walk along with you.”

Sam looked at Wint. “We’re much obliged to you,” he said.

Wint nodded. Then Sam and Hetty went down to the gate; and Wint watched them go away together.

CHAPTER IV
WINT’S RALLY

IT was well toward dinner time when Hetty and Sam O’Brien went away together and left Wint. He watched them to the corner, and thought Sam was a good fellow. And a lucky one, too. There was a fine strength and pride in Hetty. No doubt about it, Sam was lucky.

When they were out of sight, Wint went into the house. His father had not yet come downstairs; Mrs. Chase was still in the kitchen. Wint settled himself in the sitting room, and filled his pipe, and went over in his thoughts the scenes this room had witnessed in twenty-four hours past. He looked back at them as though he had been an observer. He could not believe he had been chief actor in them all. It is, perhaps, this trait of the human mind which permits mankind to rise to emergencies. The emergency does not seem like an emergency at the time. It seems rather like the ordinary run of life; it is only in retrospect that the actors realize, and wonder at themselves. There is, during these great moments, a vast simplicity about life. It had been so with Wint; it was only now, as he thought back over what had taken place, that the drama of it caught him. And he wondered at it all; and most of all he wondered at himself.

His father came downstairs, after a little while, and joined him. The older man made no reference to Hetty’s having been there; and Wint, at first minded to tell the whole story, to tell his father that Hetty was going to right the wrong she had done, decided on second thought to wait. It would be sweeter to anticipate their joy when they should hear the truth. So he held his tongue.

After a while, Mrs. Chase called them to dinner; and they went into the dining room together. Some impulse made Wint drop his hand lightly on his father’s shoulder; and the older man reached up and took Wint’s hand and held it, so that they crossed the hall with hands clasped, as though Wint were still a little boy. He was suddenly very proud of his father. And ever so fond of him....

At the dinner table, it was as though nothing had happened. Mrs. Chase was cheerful; she talked amiably of everything in the world except Hetty. Wint and Mr. Chase answered her—that is to say, they interrupted her with a remark now and then—while they ate. It was only when they both had finished that Chase looked at his son and said, a little awkwardly:

“You don’t want to forget you have a rally arranged for to-night, Wint.”

Wint exclaimed: “Good Lord; I had forgotten!”

“You’re not going to give it up?”

“Give it up? No. But I’d forgotten all about it. I’ll have to go uptown.”

“You had made some arrangements, hadn’t you?”

“Yes. Hired the Rink. B. B. is going to preside. That is, he said he would. And I asked Sam O’Brien to speak, and you promised that you would.”

“I think I’d rather not,” Chase said, flushing uncomfortably. Wint asked, smiling to take the sting out of his words:

“Not deserting me, are you?”

“No. I’ll be with you. Sitting on the stage. But—I wouldn’t know what to say, Wint.”

“And Davy Morgan is going to speak.” He pushed back his chair. “I’ll go right uptown and make sure things are all right.”

Chase said: “I’m glad you’re not giving it up. I’ll walk up with you, Wint.”

His mother kissed him good-by at the door; and that was unusual. It was the only sign she gave of what she must have been feeling. Wint had sometimes thought, impatiently, that she was a babbling old woman, never able to keep a thought to herself. He was learning a new respect for her. And something more. He had felt that he was justified in counting on his father and mother to stand by him; but he had expected and been prepared for questions and perhaps reproaches. There were no questions; there was never a reproach. It is often tactful to keep silent; and tact is sometimes a shade nobler than loyalty, than many another virtue.

He hugged her close and hard, kissed her again; then he and his father walked away toward town. Shoulder to shoulder, swinging like brothers. They met people. Wint could see a furtive curiosity in the eyes of those they met. But he could bear that. He had anticipated coven jeers, perhaps an open jibe; and his muscles had hardened at the thought.

They went into the Post Office together, and separated there. Wint met Dick Hoover; and Hoover gripped his hand and clapped his shoulder and told him he was all right. That heartened Wint. On his way from the Post Office, he encountered V. R. Kite, face to face, in front of the Bazaar. Kite dropped his eyes and scuttled to cover like a crab in seaweed. Wint chuckled with amusement. Hoover said:

“He can’t face you.”

Wint laughed good-naturedly. “Oh, Kite’s all right. He fights in the only way he knows....”

He left Hoover in front of the Journal office and went in. B. B. was there, stoking the decrepit stove, breaking up the clotted coals with a bit of wood, and pouring on fresh fuel. He greeted Wint smilingly; said:

“Good afternoon!”

“Hello, B. B.!” Wint rejoined, and sat down. “Still fussing with that stove?”

B. B., amiably enough, said: “Yes. It’s a good stove. Perhaps it doesn’t look as well as it might; but it heats this office. That’s the way with a good many things that don’t look very well; they manage to do their work better than the fine-looking things. Did you ever stop to think of that?”

“In other words,” Wint agreed, “beauty is only skin deep, even in stoves.”

“Well, I’d rather have an ugly stove that would draw and give heat than a fine one that wouldn’t,” B. B. declared; and Wint said he did not blame him. B. B. sat down at his desk, working and talking at the same time. This was a way he had; a way he had to have, for there was nearly always some one in the office to talk to him. Wint said:

“I almost forgot about my meeting to-night. Are you still willing to preside?”

B. B. said: “Certainly.”

“I thought you might have changed your mind.”

“No indeed. At the Rink, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Who are your speakers?”

“I’m not having any fine talent,” Wint said, smiling. “Just a couple of good friends of mine, Sam O’Brien and Davy Morgan. And if you’d be willing to say something—”

“Oh, I always talk when I get a chance like that.”

“Sure.”

“Is your father going to speak?”

Wint shook his head. “No,” he said frankly. “Dad’s all right. He’s been absolutely fine. But—he says he wouldn’t know what to say. He’s no speaker, you know.”

“I’ve heard him do very well.”

Wint laughed. “You probably wrote those speeches for him yourself.” And B. B. good-naturedly acknowledged the corn.

“About half past seven?” Wint asked, as he got up to go; and B. B. agreed to the hour, and said he would be there.

When he had left B. B., Wint telephoned the furnace to make sure of Davy Morgan; and Morgan said energetically that he surely would be on hand. “I’ve some few things to say, also,” he declared. “I can talk when they get me mad, Wint. And I’m mad enough, to-day.”

Wint said: “All right; go as far as you like. This is a fight. It’s no pink tea.” And he dropped in on Sam O’Brien. But Sam was not in the restaurant. His underling told Wint the fat man had been out all day.

“He went looking for Jack Routt,” the man explained.

“He found him,” said Wint. “Well, tell Sam I’m counting on him to be at the Rink to-night.”

From the restaurant, he crossed the street to Dick Hoover’s office. Dick and his father were busy, so that Wint was alone for a time. Then he decided people might think he was hiding; so he came downstairs and out to the street again, and went to the barber shop for a haircut. Jim Radabaugh was there; and Jim shifted the bulge in his cheek and shook hands with Wint and said:

“You’re there, boss. I’d say you’re there.”

Marshall, the barber, violated all the traditions of his craft by being a silent man. He said nothing whatever while he trimmed Wint’s crisp hair; and Wint was glad of that. He would not hide. But he did not want to talk overmuch. When he came out of the barber shop, he saw Amos and Sam O’Brien and Peter Gergue on the other side of the street. They were walking purposefully, coming uptown from the direction of Amos’s home. They saw him, and Amos waved his hand in greeting; then Peter spoke to Amos, and left the others, and came across to Wint, scratching the back of his head. Wint said:

“Hello, Peter.”

Gergue grinned. “Well, Wint, you’ve started something.”

Wint nodded. “I suppose so.”

“You’ve made ’em talk, Wint. That never hurt a bit.”

“I think you told me that once before,” Wint agreed, laughing.

“Well, and it’s so,” Gergue insisted. He looked all around, took Wint’s arm. “Let’s walk along,” he suggested.

Amos and Sam had disappeared. Wint said: “I’ve been looking for Sam. I want to see him.”

“What about?”

“He’s going to speak at my meeting to-night. At least I want him to.”

Gergue chuckled; and he gripped Wint’s arm as though he knew a thing or two, which he might tell if he chose. “Oh, he’ll speak,” he said. “Sam’ll speak.”

“I’ve counted on him.”

“You going to speak, ain’t you?” Gergue asked.

“Why, yes. Naturally.”

“Fixed you up a speech, have you?”

“Not yet. I’ll—just say whatever comes up at the time. Anything.”

Gergue shook his head. “I tell you, Wint,” he said. “You better go on home and write you a speech. A good one, with flowers on it, and all.”

“Oh, I don’t need to.”

“I’ve seen more’n one man get up on his hind legs and go dumb. Good idea to have something on your mind before you get up.”

“We-ell, maybe.”

“I tell you,” Gergue said again. “You go on home and fix up something. Best thing to do.”

“I want to see Sam.”

“I’ll see him.”

Wint was more than half persuaded, before Peter spoke to him. He had thought of going home; he was tired. He wanted to sleep. He said: “We-ell, all right.”

“That’s the talk,” said Peter. “You go along.”

“So long, then.”

“Fix you up a good one,” Gergue advised him again. “Fix it up, and learn it, and all. You’ll maybe be interrupted, you know.”

“If there’s any one there to interrupt,” Wint said, in a tone of doubt; and Gergue cackled.

“Lord, there’ll be some folks there. Don’t you worry about that. You go home and fix you up a speech. You’ll have a crowd.”

So Wint went home, in mid-afternoon. He found the house empty. His mother, he thought, was probably next door, with Mrs. Hullis. He felt sleepy; and he went to his room and lay down. His father woke him, at last. Told him it was supper time.

At supper, Chase asked Wint’s mother if she were going to Wint’s rally. She said: “I don’t know. I said to Mrs. Hullis this afternoon that I wanted to go, but I didn’t know whether women went. And she said she didn’t know either. But I told her I—”

“You’ll have plenty of company,” her husband told her. “From what I hear, the whole town is going to be there. Every one was talking about it this afternoon.”

“Then I’m going,” she said. “Mrs. Hullis wanted me to go with her; and I—”

“You go with her,” Chase advised. “I’ll be on the stage, with Wint.”

She said: “I’ll have to leave the dishes. There won’t be—”

“I’ll do them, mother, while you’re dressing,” Wint told her cheerfully. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Well, I don’t know!”

In the end, Wint and his father did them together. Wint broke a plate, and Mrs. Chase called down the stairs to know what had happened, and protested that she ought to come down and do them. But they would not let her. Afterwards, they all started downtown together, Wint and his father, Mrs. Chase and Mrs. Hullis. Two by two.

It was dark; the early dark of a winter evening. They met people, or overtook them, or were overtaken by them; and Wint thought there were more people than usual abroad. The moon was bright again this night, bright as it had been the night before when Wint took his way to the Weaver House. That seemed more like weeks than hours ago. As they came nearer the Rink, they saw more people; and Chase said:

“You’re certainly going to have a crowd.”

Wint nodded. He was beginning to be nervous. He realized that this was going to be hard.

But it was only when they turned the last corner and started down the hill toward the Rink that he realized just how hard it was going to be. It seemed to him all Hardiston was there ahead of him. The crowd clustered in front of the Rink and extended out into the street; and more were coming from each direction. Mrs. Hullis and Mrs. Chase, ahead, were lost in the throng. Wint stopped; he turned to his father.

“We’ll cut through the back way,” he said.

Chase agreed; and they turned down an alley, and came circuitously to the stage door and went in. The minute he came inside the door, he heard the hum and buzz of voices. He could see out on the stage, with its stock set of a farmyard scene. There were chairs, and a table.

Amos, and Sam O’Brien, and B. B. and two or three others were waiting just inside the stage door; and Sam gripped Wint’s shoulders and exclaimed: “Lord, but you give us a scare, Wint. Thought you wasn’t coming. I was all set to go fetch you.”

“Oh, I was coming, all right,” Wint said nervously, one ear attuned to the murmur of the crowd. “Sounds as though there were a lot of people here.”

“Every seat, and standing room in the aisles, and half of ’em can’t get in.”

Wint grinned weakly. “And I suppose they’ve got every rotten egg in town.”

Sam stared; then he howled. “Rotten egg! Oh, Lord, Wint, you’ll be the death of me. I’ll die a-laughing. Rotten egg!” He turned to Amos. “Wint says rotten egg!” he cried.

Amos looked at Wint in a curious fashion; and he smiled. “It’s half past seven,” he said. “No need to make them wait.”

Wint gulped. “All right. I’m ready as I will be.”

Amos nodded. “Then it’s your move, B. B.”

B. B. cleared his throat. “Very well.” He turned and started toward the stage. Sam shepherded Wint that way. Amos and Wint’s father came side by side, the others following. Wint found himself out on the stage.

The glare of the footlights blinded him for a moment; but he heard the sudden, brief clatter of handclapping that greeted them. The stir was quickly hushed. His eyes, accustomed to the footlights, discovered that the house was banked full of people. Floor and gallery were jammed. Small boys clung to the great beams and steel rods that crisscrossed to support the roof. Some of them seemed right overhead. And everywhere Wint looked, people were staring at him. He felt the actual, physical weight of all those eyes, overwhelming him. He felt crushed, helpless; he had a curious obsession that he could not move hands or feet. He worked the fingers of his right hand cautiously, and was relieved to find that they answered to his will. He was dazed.

He became conscious that B. B. was on his feet, his hands clasped in front of him in a characteristic way; there was a little smile upon his face, and he was speaking in a low, pleasant voice. Wint could not catch the words; his ears were not functioning. His senses were numbed by that overpowering sea of faces in front of him.

He caught, presently, a word or two that appalled him. “...violate the usual order,” B. B. was saying. “The principal speaker usually last.... Keep you waiting.... Lengthy introduction.... I believe you know him, now....”

He turned to look at Wint; and Wint, appalled and panic-stricken, saw the invitation in B. B.’s eyes. B. B. wanted him to speak first; but he was still tongue-tied and muscle-fast in the face of all those eyes. He shook his head weakly. Some one tugged at his elbow. Sam O’Brien. Sam whispered hoarsely:

“Get up on your feet, boy!”

Wint shook his head again, trying to find words to explain. Then a man yelled, out beyond those footlights. Other men yelled. Wint flushed angrily, his courage came back. They thought him afraid. Baying him like dogs.... He’d show them all....

He stood up and strode forward to the very lip of the stage. There was a moment’s hush. He flung out one hand. “People....” he began.

But it was as well that Wint had not wasted time in following Gergue’s advice to fix up a good speech; because on that one word of his, an overwhelming blast of sound struck him full in the face. A roar, a bellowing, a whistling, a shrilling.... Shouts and screams and cries.... He stiffened, furious. They were trying to yell him down. He flung up both hands, shouted at them....

Every one in the house was up on his or her feet. Some one threw his hat in the air. Order came out of chaos. A terrible, rhythmic order. The blare of sound dissolved into beats; they pounded on Wint’s ears; he shuddered under the blow of them. His anger gave way to bewilderment. He could not understand. He bent lower to see more clearly the faces of those in the front row, just beyond the footlights. Dick Hoover was there. And Dick was yelling in a fashion fit to split his throat, flinging his fists up toward Wint, shrieking. Beside Dick, Joan. Her face stood out suddenly before Wint’s eyes. She was crying; that is to say, tears were streaming down her cheeks. Yet was she happy, too. Smiling, laughing, calling to him.... She was clapping her hands, he saw. Then he discovered that others were clapping their hands, while they yelled at him. Everybody was clapping their hands....

Utterly bewildered, Wint whirled around to look at the men behind him. And there was Amos, both hands upraised, beating time to that appalling roar that swept up from the house before them. Beating time, leading them....

Sam O’Brien and Davy Morgan—they were both yelling like fools—came swiftly across the stage to where Wint stood. They caught his arms. He struggled with them, not understanding. They swept him off his feet, up in the air, to their shoulders.... Swung him to face the house.

The noise doubled; then it seemed as though an army of men swarmed upon the stage. So, at last, Wint understood. They were not trying to yell him down.

It is one of the most hopeful facts of life that all mankind is so ready to recognize, and to applaud, an action which is fine. Wint was in the hands of his friends. He thought, for a little while, that they would kill him.

When it was all over—and this took time, and left Wint sore and stiff from hand-shaking and back-slapping—the people began to drift away. And Wint escaped, off the stage, into one of the compartments that served as greenroom for theatrical folk. His father was there, and his mother. And Peter, and Amos, and Sam.

Every one seemed to be wild with exultation; they continued the celebration, there among themselves. And Wint heard how it had been done. Hetty had gone to Amos with the story. To Joan first, Sam told Wint. “I was with her,” the fat man said. “You understand. I was with her.”

Wint nodded, gripping Sam’s shoulder. “She’s fine,” he said. “You’re lucky. I understand.”

Joan, Sam said, sent them to Amos, and Amos had arranged the rest; sent Wint home—Gergue was his agent in this—and spread the word through Hardiston. To-night had attested the thoroughness of his work.

Wint found a chance at last to thank Amos. They were a little apart from the others; and they talked it over briefly. Amos, Wint thought, was curiously subdued, curiously sad. He wondered at this. But he understood, at the end.

He had said: “Wonder what Routt will say to this, anyway? And Kite?”

“You don’t have to—worry about Routt,” said Amos.

Wint asked quickly: “Why not? Is he ... Is there something?”

“He took the noon train,” said Amos. “And—Agnes went with him. She telephoned to-night. She says they’re married.”

Wint was so stunned that for a moment he could not speak; he could not move. He managed to grip Amos’s hand; tried to say something.

“I’ve said to myself, more than once,” Amos told him huskily, “that I wished her mother hadn’t ’ve died.” He began, slowly, to fill his pipe. Wint thought there was something heroic, splendid about the man. Facing life, driving ahead. And this to think upon.... He was sick with sorrow.

Amos was facing the stage; he said slowly, smiling a little, “but forget that. Here’s some one coming for you to see her home.”

When Wint turned, he saw Joan.

CHAPTER V
SEEING JOAN HOME

THEY walked home slowly, Wint and Joan. The moon was bright upon them; the streets were still filled with the dispersing throng. People spoke to them, then went discreetly on their way, and smiled back at the two. Wint and Joan said little; and what they said was of no importance. He told her he had seen her crying.

“I had to,” she said. “I was so happy.”

“I wasn’t happy,” Wint declared. “I was scared.”

She said she didn’t blame him. “It must have been hard to face them all.”

He nodded. “I’ll tell you; all that noise.... It—made me seasick. Something like that.”

“I know,” she said.

When they were halfway home, she told him that Hetty had come to her, that morning. Wint looked at her quickly.

“Hetty’s all right,” he said. “She’ll be all right. She’s found herself.”

Joan nodded. “It’s going to be a fight, for her.”

“She’ll win. Sam will help.”

“I know. I saw that, this morning.”

A little later, she said: “You—did the right thing. Foolish, maybe. But—it was fine, too. Foolish things often are.”

Wint shook his head. “But I’d like to pound Routt.”

“Don’t,” she said. “Agnes loves him.”

Wint told her then what Amos had told him; and she uttered a low, pitiful exclamation. “I didn’t know that,” she said. “But—they may be happy. Agnes is good.... Loyal.... In her way.”

“You knew she loved him?”

“Yes. I’ve always known. Agnes had talked to me.”

“I hope Routt does—settle down.”

Joan said thoughtfully: “There is something strong in him. Misdirected.”

“I liked him,” Wint said. “I can’t help it, even now. He was my friend.”

“I believe they will come out all right. I feel it.”

Wint laughed at her gently. “Intuition?”

“Yes. You men call it a hunch.”

Silence again, for a while. They came to her house. Wint thought the simple place was beautiful in the moonlight; he wanted, desperately, to go in. But there was a curious diffidence upon him, and he stopped at the gate till she said:

“Come. It’s not cold, to-night. We can sit on the porch.”

“You want me?”

“Yes, Wint.” Her eyes said more than her words. He opened the gate, and they went up the walk to the house sedately enough, side by side. Any one might have seen.

The moonlight did not fall upon the porch. There was a shadowed place there. When they came into this shadow, Joan stopped, and looked at Wint. Her eyes were very dark. Something was pounding in his throat, so that he could not speak. He put out one hand, in an uncertain, fumbling way. Joan looked down at his hand, and smiled a little, and put her hand in his.

They stood thus for a little, hand in hand, facing each other. Wint said huskily, at last:

“I’ve—tried, Joan.”

Her voice was clear and sweet as a bell when she answered. “You’ve done more than try, Wint,” she told him. “You’ve—won.”

So, without either of them knowing, or caring, how it happened, she was in his arms. And he kissed her; and her lips answered his. No cool kiss of a child, this. Months of longing and of yearning spoke through his lips, and through hers. Infinite promise of the years to come....

While they sat together on her shadowed porch thereafter, they could hear for a long time the murmuring voices of people passing on their homeward way. Some looked toward Joan’s house; but they could not see Wint and Joan.

It was as well; for it is the way of Hardiston to talk. The way of a little town....

THE END
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