Intrusion of Jimmy Read online

locality as Brooklyn or the Bronx. At last, after years of patient

  waiting, he stood like Moses on the mountain, looking down into the

  Promised Land. He had come to where the Big Money was.

  The captain was now reading the little note-book wherein he kept a

  record of his investments, which were numerous and varied. That the

  contents were satisfactory was obvious at a glance. The smile on his

  face and the reposeful position of his jaw were proof enough of

  that. There were notes relating to house-property, railroad shares,

  and a dozen other profitable things. He was a rich man.

  This was a fact that was entirely unsuspected by his neighbors, with

  whom he maintained somewhat distant relations, accepting no

  invitations and giving none. For Mr. McEachern was playing a big

  game. Other eminent buccaneers in his walk of life had been content

  to be rich men in a community where moderate means were the rule.

  But about Mr. McEachern there was a touch of the Napoleonic. He

  meant to get into society--and the society he had selected was that

  of England. Other people have noted the fact--which had impressed

  itself very firmly on the policeman's mind--that between England and

  the United States there are three thousand miles of deep water. In

  the United States, he would be a retired police-captain; in England,

  an American gentleman of large and independent means with a

  beautiful daughter.

  That was the ruling impulse in his life--his daughter Molly. Though,

  if he had been a bachelor, he certainly would not have been

  satisfied to pursue a humble career aloof from graft, on the other

  hand, if it had not been for Molly, he would not have felt, as he

  gathered in his dishonest wealth, that he was conducting a sort of

  holy war. Ever since his wife had died, in his detective-sergeant

  days, leaving him with a year-old daughter, his ambitions had been

  inseparably connected with Molly.

  All his thoughts were on the future. This New York life was only a

  preparation for the splendors to come. He spent not a dollar

  unnecessarily. When Molly was home from school, they lived together

  simply and quietly in the small house which Molly's taste made so

  comfortable. The neighbors, knowing his profession and seeing the

  modest scale on which he lived, told one another that here at any

  rate was a policeman whose hands were clean of graft. They did not

  know of the stream that poured week by week and year by year into

  his bank, to be diverted at intervals into the most profitable

  channels. Until the time should come for the great change, economy

  was his motto. The expenses of his home were kept within the bounds

  of his official salary. All extras went to swell his savings.

  He closed his book with a contented sigh, and lighted another cigar.

  Cigars were his only personal luxury. He drank nothing, ate the

  simplest food, and made a suit of clothes last for quite an unusual

  length of time; but no passion for economy could make him deny

  himself smoke.

  He sat on, thinking. It was very late, but he did not feel ready for

  bed. A great moment had arrived in his affairs. For days, Wall

  Street had been undergoing one of its periodical fits of jumpiness.

  There had been rumors and counter-rumors, until finally from the

  confusion there had soared up like a rocket the one particular stock

  in which he was most largely interested. He had unloaded that

  morning, and the result had left him slightly dizzy. The main point

  to which his mind clung was that the time had come at last. He could

  make the great change now at any moment that suited him.

  He was blowing clouds of smoke and gloating over this fact when the

  door opened, admitting a bull-terrier, a bull-dog, and in the wake

  of the procession a girl in a kimono and red slippers.

  CHAPTER IV

  MOLLY

  "Why, Molly," said the policeman, "what are you doing out of bed? I

  thought you were asleep."

  He placed a huge arm around her, and drew her to his lap. As she sat

  there, his great bulk made her seem smaller than she really was.

  With her hair down and her little red slippers dangling half a yard

  from the floor, she seemed a child. McEachern, looking at her, found

  it hard to realize that nineteen years had passed since the moment

  when the doctor's raised eyebrows had reproved him for his

  monosyllabic reception of the news that the baby was a girl.

  "Do you know what the time is?" he said. "Two o'clock."

  "Much too late for you to be sitting here smoking," said Molly,

  severely. "How many cigars do you smoke a day? Suppose you had

  married someone who wouldn't let you smoke!"

  "Never stop your husband smoking, my dear. That's a bit of advice

  for you when you're married."

  "I'm never going to marry. I'm going to stop at home, and darn your

  socks."

  "I wish you could," he said, drawing her closer to him. "But one of

  these days you're going to marry a prince. And now run back to bed.

  It's much too late--"

  "It's no good, father dear. I couldn't get to sleep. I've been

  trying hard for hours. I've counted sheep till I nearly screamed.

  It's Rastus' fault. He snores so!"

  Mr. McEachern regarded the erring bull-dog sternly.

  "Why do you have the brutes in your room?"

  "Why, to keep the boogaboos from getting me, of course. Aren't you

  afraid of the boogaboos getting you? But you're so big, you wouldn't

  mind. You'd just hit them. And they're not brutes--are you,

  darlings? You're angels, and you nearly burst yourselves with joy

  because auntie had come back from England, didn't you? Father, did

  they miss me when I was gone? Did they pine away?"

  "They got like skeletons. We all did."

  "You?"

  "I should say so."

  "Then, why did you send me away to England?"

  "I wanted you to see the country. Did you like it?"

  "I hated being away from you."

  "But you liked the country?"

  "I loved it."

  McEachern drew a breath of relief. The only possible obstacle to the

  great change did not exist.

  "How would you like to go back to England, Molly?"

  "To England! When I've just come home?"

  "If I went, too?"

  Molly twisted around so that she could see his face better.

  "There's something the matter with you, father. You're trying to say

  something, and I want to know what it is. Tell me quick, or I'll

  make Rastus bite you!"

  "It won't take long, dear. I've been lucky in some investments while

  you were away, and I'm going to leave the force, and take you over

  to England, and find a prince for you to marry--if you think you

  would like it."

  "Father! It'll be perfectly splendid!"

  "We'll start fair in England, Molly. I'll just be John McEachern,

  from America, and, if anybody wants to know anything about me, I'm a

  man who has made money on Wall Street--and that's no lie--and has

  come over to England to spend it."

  Molly gave his arm a squeeze. Her eyes were wet.

  "Father, dear," she whispered, "I beli
eve you've been doing it all

  for me. You've been slaving away for me ever since I was born,

  stinting yourself and saving money just so that I could have a good

  time later on."

  "No, no!"

  "It's true," she said. She turned on him with a tremulous laugh. "I

  don't believe you've had enough to eat for years. I believe you're

  all skin and bone. Never mind. To-morrow, I'll take you out and buy

  you the best dinner you've ever had, out of my own money. We'll go

  to Sherry's, and you shall start at the top of the menu, and go

  straight down it till you've had enough."

  "That will make up for everything. And, now, don't you think you

  ought to be going to bed? You'll be losing all that color you got on

  the ship."

  "Soon--not just yet. I haven't seen you for such ages!" She pointed

  at the bull-terrier. "Look at Tommy, standing there and staring. He

  can't believe I've really come back. Father, there was a man on the

  Lusitania with eyes exactly like Tommy's--all brown and bright--and

  he used to stand and stare just like Tommy's doing."

  "If I had been there," said her father wrathfully, "I'd have knocked

  his head off."

  "No, you wouldn't, because I'm sure he was really a very nice young

  man. He had a chin rather like yours, father. Besides, you couldn't

  have got at him to knock his head off, because he was traveling

  second-class."

  "Second-class? Then, you didn't talk with him?"

  "We couldn't. You wouldn't expect him to shout at me across the

  railing! Only, whenever I walked round the deck, he seemed to be

  there."

  "Staring!"

  "He may not have been staring at me. Probably, he was just looking

  the way the ship was going, and thinking of some girl in New York. I

  don't think you can make much of a romance out of it, father."

  "I don't want to, my dear. Princes don't travel in the second-

  cabin."

  "He may have been a prince in disguise."

  "More likely a drummer," grunted Mr. McEachern.

  "Drummers are often quite nice, aren't they?"

  "Princes are nicer."

  "Well, I'll go to bed and dream of the nicest one I can think of.

  Come along, dogs. Stop biting my slipper, Tommy. Why can't you

  behave, like Rastus? Still, you don't snore, do you? Aren't you

  going to bed soon, father? I believe you've been sitting up late and

  getting into all sorts of bad habits while I've been away. I'm sure

  you have been smoking too much. When you've finished that cigar,

  you're not even to think of another till to-morrow. Promise!"

  "Not one?"

  "Not one. I'm not going to have my father getting like the people

  you read about in the magazine advertisements. You don't want to

  feel sudden shooting pains, do you?"

  "No, my dear."

  "And have to take some awful medicine?"

  "No."

  "Then, promise."

  "Very well, my dear. I promise."

  As the door closed, the captain threw away the stump he was smoking,

  and remained for a moment in thought. Then, he drew another cigar

  from his case, lighted it, and resumed the study of the little note-

  book. It was past three o'clock when he went to his bedroom.

  CHAPTER V

  A THIEF IN THE NIGHT

  How long the light had been darting about the room like a very much

  enlarged firefly, Jimmy did not know. It seemed to him like hours,

  for it had woven itself into an incoherent waking dream of his; and

  for a moment, as the mists of sleep passed away from his brain, he

  fancied that he was dreaming still. Then, sleep left him, and he

  realized that the light, which was now moving slowly across the

  bookcase, was a real light.

  That the man behind it could not have been there long was plain, or

  he would have seen the chair and its occupant. He seemed to be

  taking the room step by step. As Jimmy sat up noiselessly and

  gripped the arms of the chair in readiness for a spring, the light

  passed from the bookcase to the table. Another foot or so to the

  left, and it would have fallen on Jimmy.

  From the position of the ray, Jimmy could see that the burglar was

  approaching on his side of the table. Though until that day he had

  not been in the room for two months, its geography was clearly

  stamped on his mind's eye. He knew almost to a foot where his

  visitor was standing. Consequently, when, rising swiftly from the

  chair, he made a football dive into the darkness, it was no

  speculative dive. It had a conscious aim, and it was not restrained

  by any uncertainty as to whether the road to the burglar's knees was

  clear or not.

  His shoulder bumped into a human leg. His arms closed

  instantaneously on it, and pulled. There was a yelp of dismay, and a

  crash. The lantern bounced away across the room, and wrecked itself

  on the reef of the steam-heater. Its owner collapsed in a heap on

  top of Jimmy.

  Jimmy, underneath at the fall, speedily put himself uppermost with a

  twist of his body. He had every advantage. The burglar was a small

  man, and had been taken very much by surprise, and any fight there

  might have been in him in normal circumstances had been shaken out

  of him by the fall. He lay still, not attempting to struggle.

  Jimmy half-rose, and, pulling his prisoner by inches to the door,

  felt up the wall till he found the electric-light button.

  The yellow glow that flooded the room disclosed a short, stocky

  youth of obviously Bowery extraction. A shock of vivid red hair was

  the first thing about him that caught the eye. A poet would have

  described it as Titian. Its proprietor's friends and acquaintances

  probably called it "carrots." Looking up at Jimmy from under this

  wealth of crimson was a not unpleasing face. It was not handsome,

  certainly; but there were suggestions of a latent good-humor. The

  nose had been broken at one period of its career, and one of the

  ears was undeniably of the cauliflower type; but these are little

  accidents which may happen to any high-spirited young gentleman. In

  costume, the visitor had evidently been guided rather by individual

  taste than by the dictates of fashion. His coat was of rusty black,

  his trousers of gray, picked out with stains of various colors.

  Beneath the coat was a faded red-and-white sweater. A hat of soft

  felt lay on the floor by the table.

  The cut of the coat was poor, and the fit of it spoiled by a bulge

  in one of the pockets. Diagnosing this bulge correctly, Jimmy

  inserted his hand, and drew out a dingy revolver.

  "Well?" he said, rising.

  Like most people, he had often wondered what he should do if he were

  to meet a burglar; and he had always come to the conclusion that

  curiosity would be his chief emotion. His anticipations were proved

  perfectly correct. Now that he had abstracted his visitor's gun, he

  had no wish to do anything but engage him in conversation. A

  burglar's life was something so entirely outside his experience! He

  wanted to learn the burglar's point of view. Incidentally, he

  reflected with amusem
ent, as he recalled his wager, he might pick up

  a few useful hints.

  The man on the floor sat up, and rubbed the back of his head

  ruefully.

  "Gee!" he muttered. "I t'ought some guy had t'rown de buildin' at

  me."

  "It was only little me," said Jimmy. "Sorry if I hurt you at all.

  You really want a mat for that sort of thing."

  The man's hand went furtively to his pocket. Then, his eye caught

  sight of the revolver, which Jimmy had placed on the table. With a

  sudden dash, he seized it.

  "Now, den, boss!" he said, between his teeth.

  Jimmy extended his hand, and unclasped it. Six shells lay in the

  palm.

  "Why worry?" he said. "Sit down and let us talk of life."

  "It's a fair cop, boss," said the man, resignedly.

  "Away with melancholy," said Jimmy. "I'm not going to call the

  police. You can beat it whenever you like."

  The man stared.

  "I mean it," said Jimmy. "What's the trouble? I've no grievance. I

  wish, though, if you haven't any important engagement, you would

  stop and talk awhile first."

  A broad grin spread itself across the other's face. There was

  something singularly engaging about him when he grinned.

  "Gee! If youse ain't goin' to call de cops, I'll talk till de

  chickens roost ag'in."

  "Talking, however," said Jimmy, "is dry work. Are you by any chance

  on the wagon?"

  "What's dat? Me? On your way, boss!"

  "Then, you'll find a pretty decent whiskey in that decanter. Help

  yourself. I think you'll like it."

  A musical gurgling, followed by a contented sigh, showed that the

  statement had been tested and proved correct.

  "Cigar?" asked Jimmy.

  "Me fer dat," assented his visitor.

  "Take a handful."

  "I eats dem alive," said the marauder jovially, gathering in the

  spoils.

  Jimmy crossed his legs.

  "By the way," he said, "let there be no secrets between us. What's

  your name? Mine is Pitt. James Willoughby Pitt."

  "Mullins is my monaker, boss. Spike, dey calls me."

  "And you make a living at this sort of thing?"

  "Not so woise."

  "How did you get in here?"

  Spike Mullins grinned.

  "Gee! Ain't de window open?"

  "If it hadn't been?"

  "I'd a' busted it."

  Jimmy eyed the fellow fixedly.

  "Can you use an oxy-acetylene blow-pipe?" he demanded.

  Spike was on the point of drinking. He lowered his glass, and gaped.