Intrusion of Jimmy Page 5

  desert the fallen one, and depart alone. Spike was his brother-in-

  arms. He would as soon have thought of deserting him as a sea-

  captain would of abandoning the ship.

  Consequently, as Spike, despite all exhortations, continued to

  remain on the floor, rubbing his head and uttering "Gee!" at

  intervals in a melancholy voice, Jimmy resigned himself to fate, and

  stood where he was, waiting for the door to open.

  It opened the next moment as if a cyclone had been behind it.

  CHAPTER VII

  GETTING ACQUAINTED

  A cyclone, entering a room, is apt to alter the position of things.

  This cyclone shifted a footstool, a small chair, a rug, and Spike.

  The chair, struck by a massive boot, whirled against the wall. The

  foot-stool rolled away. The rug crumpled up and slid. Spike, with a

  yell, leaped to his feet, slipped again, fell, and finally

  compromised on an all-fours position, in which attitude he remained,

  blinking.

  While these stirring acts were in progress, there was the sound of a

  door opening upstairs, followed by a scuttering of feet and an

  appalling increase in the canine contribution to the current noises.

  The duet had now taken on quite a Wagnerian effect.

  There raced into the room first a white bull-terrier, he of the

  soprano voice, and--a bad second--his fellow artiste, the baritone,

  a massive bull-dog, bearing a striking resemblance to the big man

  with the big lower jaw whose entrance had started the cyclone.

  And, then, in theatrical parlance, the entire company "held the

  picture." Up-stage, with his hand still on the door, stood the man

  with the jaw; downstage, Jimmy; center, Spike and the bull-dog,

  their noses a couple of inches apart, inspected each other with

  mutual disfavor. On the extreme O. P. side, the bull-terrier, who

  had fallen foul of a wicker-work table, was crouching with extended

  tongue and rolling eyes, waiting for the next move.

  The householder looked at Jimmy. Jimmy looked at the householder.

  Spike and the bull-dog looked at each other. The bull-terrier

  distributed his gaze impartially around the company.

  "A typical scene of quiet American home-life," murmured Jimmy.

  The householder glowered.

  "Hands up, you devils!" he roared, pointing a mammoth revolver.

  The two marauders humored his whim.

  "Let me explain," said Jimmy pacifically, shuffling warily around in

  order to face the bull-terrier, who was now strolling in his

  direction with an ill-assumed carelessness.

  "Keep still, you blackguard!"

  Jimmy kept still. The bull-terrier, with the same abstracted air,

  was beginning a casual inspection of his right trouser-leg.

  Relations between Spike and the bull-dog, meanwhile, had become more

  strained. The sudden flinging up of the former's arms had had the

  worst effects on the animal's nerves. Spike, the croucher on all-

  fours, he might have tolerated; but Spike, the semaphore, inspired

  him with thoughts of battle. He was growling in a moody, reflective

  manner. His eye was full of purpose.

  It was probably this that caused Spike to look at the householder.

  Till then, he had been too busy to shift his gaze, but now the bull-

  dog's eye had become so unpleasing that he cast a pathetic glance up

  at the man by the door.

  "Gee!" he cried. "It's de boss. Say, boss, call off de dawg. It's

  sure goin' to nip de hull head off'n me."

  The other lowered the revolver in surprise.

  "So, it's you, you limb of Satan!" he remarked. "I thought I had

  seen that damned red head of yours before. What are you doing in my

  house?"

  Spike uttered a howl in which indignation and self-pity were nicely

  blended.

  "I'll lay for that Swede!" he cried. "I'll soak it to him good!

  Boss, I've had a raw deal. On de level, I has. Dey's a feller I

  know, a fat Swede--Ole Larsen his monaker is--an' dis feller an' me

  started in scrapping last week, an' I puts it all over him, so he

  had it in for me. But he comes up to me, like as if he's meanin' to

  be good, an' he says he's got a soft proposition fer me if I'll give

  him half. So, I says all right, where is it? An' he gives me de

  number of dis house, an' says dis is where a widder-lady lives all

  alone, an' has got silver mugs and t'ings to boin, an' dat she's

  away down Sout', so dere ain't nobody in de house. Gee! I'll soak it

  to dat Swede! It was a raw deal, boss. He was just hopin' to put me

  in bad wit' you. Dat's how it was, boss. Honest!"

  The big man listened to this sad story of Grecian gifts in silence.

  Not so the bull-dog, which growled from start to finish.

  Spike eyed it uneasily.

  "Won't you call off de dawg, boss?" he said.

  The other stooped, and grasped the animal's collar, jerking him

  away.

  "The same treatment," suggested Jimmy with approval, "would also do

  a world of good to this playful and affectionate animal--unless he

  is a vegetarian. In which case, don't bother."

  The big man glowered at him.

  "Who are you?" he demanded.

  "My name," began Jimmy, "is--"

  "Say," said Spike, "he's a champion burglar, boss--"

  The householder shut the door.

  "Eh?" he said.

  "He's a champion burglar from de odder side. He sure is. From

  Lunnon. Gee, he's de guy! Tell him about de bank you opened, an' de

  jools you swiped from de duchess, an' de what-d'ye-call-it blow-

  pipe."

  It seemed to Jimmy that Spike was showing a certain want of tact.

  When you are discovered by a householder--with revolver--in his

  parlor at half-past three in the morning, it is surely an

  injudicious move to lay stress on your proficiency as a burglar. The

  householder may be supposed to take that for granted. The side of

  your character that should be advertised in such a crisis is the

  non-burglarious. Allusion should be made to the fact that, as a

  child, you attended Sunday school regularly, and to what the

  minister said when you took the divinity prize. The idea should be

  conveyed to the householder's mind that, if let off with a caution,

  your innate goodness of heart will lead you to reform and to avoid

  such scenes in future.

  With some astonishment, therefore, Jimmy found that these

  revelations, so far from prejudicing the man with the revolver

  against him, had apparently told in his favor. The man behind the

  gun was regarding him rather with interest than disapproval.

  "So, you're a crook from London, are you?"

  Jimmy did not hesitate. If being a crook from London was a passport

  into citizens' parlors in the small hours, and, more particularly,

  if it carried with it also a safe-conduct out of them, Jimmy was not

  the man to refuse the role. He bowed.

  "Well, you'll have to come across, now you're in New York.

  Understand that! And come across good."

  "Sure, he will," said Spike, charmed that the tension had been

  relieved, and matters placed upon a pleasant and business-like

  footing. "He'll be good. He's next to de game, sure."

/>   "Sure," echoed Jimmy, courteously. He did not understand; but things

  seemed to be taking a turn for the better, so why disturb the

  harmony?

  "Dis gent," said Spike respectfully, "is boss of de cops. A police-

  captain," he corrected himself.

  A light broke upon Jimmy's darkness. He wondered he had not

  understood before. He had not been a newspaper-man in New York for a

  year without finding out something of the inner workings of the

  police force. He saw now why the other's manner had changed.

  "Pleased to meet you," he said. "We must have a talk together one of

  these days."

  "We must," said the police-captain, significantly. He was rich,

  richer than he had ever hoped to be; but he was still on Tom

  Tiddler's ground, and meant to make the most of it.

  "Of course, I don't know your methods on this side, but anything

  that's usual--"

  "I'll see you at my office. Spike Mullins will show you where it

  is."

  "Very well. You must forgive this preliminary informal call. We came

  in more to shelter from the rain than anything."

  "You did, did you?"

  Jimmy felt that it behooved him to stand on his dignity. The

  situation demanded it.

  "Why," he said with some hauteur, "in the ordinary course of

  business I should hardly waste time over a small crib like--"

  "It's banks fer his," murmured Spike, rapturously. "He eats dem

  alive. An' jools from duchesses."

  "I admit a partiality for jewels and duchesses," said Jimmy. "And,

  now, as it's a little late, perhaps we had better--Ready, Spike?

  Good-night, then. Pleased to have met you."

  "I'll see you at my office."

  "I may possibly look in. I shall be doing very little work in New

  York, I fancy. I am here merely on a vacation."

  "If you do any work at all," said the policeman coldly, "you'll look

  in at my office, or you'll wish you had when it's too late."

  "Of course, of course. I shouldn't dream of omitting any formality

  that may be usual. But I don't fancy I shall break my vacation. By

  the way, one little thing. Have you. any objections to my carving a

  J on your front-door?"

  The policeman stared.

  "On the inside. It won't show. It's just a whim of mine. If you have

  no objection?"

  "I don't want any of your--" began the policeman.

  "You misunderstand me. It's only that it means paying for a dinner.

  I wouldn't for the world--"

  The policeman pointed to the window.

  "Out you get," he said, abruptly. "I've had enough of you. And don't

  you forget to come to my office."

  Spike, still deeply mistrustful of the bull-dog Rastus, jumped at

  the invitation. He was through the window and out of sight in the

  friendly darkness almost before the policeman had finished speaking.

  Jimmy remained.

  "I shall be delighted--" he had begun. Then, he stopped. In the

  doorway was standing a girl--a girl whom he recognized. Her startled

  look told him that she, too, had recognized him.

  Not for the first time since he had set out from his flat that night

  in Spike's company, Jimmy was conscious of a sense of the unreality

  of things. It was all so exactly as it would have happened in a

  dream! He had gone to sleep thinking of this girl, and here she was.

  But a glance at the man with the revolver brought him back to earth.

  There was nothing of the dream-world about the police-captain.

  That gentleman, whose back was toward the door, had not observed the

  addition to the company. Molly had turned the handle quietly, and

  her slippered feet made no sound. It was the amazed expression on

  Jimmy's face that caused the captain to look toward the door.

  "Molly!"

  The girl smiled, though her face was white. Jimmy's evening clothes

  had reassured her. She did not understand how he came to be there,

  but evidently there was nothing wrong. She had interrupted a

  conversation, not a conflict.

  "I heard the noise and you going downstairs, and I sent the dogs

  down to help you, father," she said. "And, then, after a little, I

  came down to see if you were all right."

  Mr. McEachern was perplexed. Molly's arrival had put him in an

  awkward position. To denounce the visitor as a cracksman was now

  impossible, for he knew too much. The only real fear of the

  policeman's life was lest some word of his money-making methods

  might come to his daughter's ears.

  Quite a brilliant idea came to him.

  "A man broke in, my dear," he said. "This gentleman was passing, and

  saw him."

  "Distinctly," said Jimmy. "An ugly-looking customer!"

  "But he slipped out of the window, and got away," concluded the

  policeman.

  "He was very quick," said Jimmy. "I think he may have been a

  professional acrobat."

  "He didn't hurt you, father?"

  "No, no, my dear."

  "Perhaps I frightened him," said Jimmy, airily.

  Mr. McEachern scowled furtively at him.

  "We mustn't detain you, Mr.-"

  "Pitt," said Jimmy. "My name is Pitt." He turned to Molly. "I hope

  you enjoyed the voyage."

  The policeman started.

  "You know my daughter?"

  "By sight only, I'm afraid. We were fellow-passengers on the

  Lusitania. Unfortunately, I was in the second-cabin. I used to see

  your daughter walking the deck sometimes."

  Molly smiled.

  "I remember seeing you--sometimes."

  McEachern burst out.

  "Then, you--!"

  He stopped, and looked at Molly. The girl was bending over Rastus,

  tickling him under the ear.

  "Let me show you the way out, Mr. Pitt," said the policeman,

  shortly. His manner was abrupt, but when one is speaking to a man

  whom one would dearly love to throw out of the window, abruptness is

  almost unavoidable.

  "Perhaps I should be going," said Jimmy.

  "Good-night, Mr. Pitt," said Molly.

  "I hope we shall meet again," said Jimmy.

  "This way, Mr. Pitt," growled McEachern, holding the door.

  "Please don't trouble," said Jimmy. He went to the window, and,

  flinging his leg over the sill, dropped noiselessly to the ground.

  He turned and put his head in at the window again.

  "I did that rather well," he said, pleasantly. "I think I must take

  up this--sort of thing as a profession. Good-night."

  CHAPTER VIII

  AT DREEVER

  In the days before he began to expend his surplus energy in playing

  Rugby football, the Welshman was accustomed, whenever the monotony

  of his everyday life began to oppress him, to collect a few friends

  and make raids across the border into England, to the huge

  discomfort of the dwellers on the other side. It was to cope with

  this habit that Dreever Castle, in the county of Shropshire, came

  into existence. It met a long-felt want. In time of trouble, it

  became a haven of refuge. From all sides, people poured into it,

  emerging cautiously when the marauders had disappeared. In the whole

  history of the castle, there is but one instance recorded of a

  bandi
t attempting to take the place by storm, and the attack was an

  emphatic failure. On receipt of a ladleful of molten lead, aimed to

  a nicety by one John, the Chaplain (evidently one of those sporting

  parsons), this warrior retired, done to a turn, to his mountain

  fastnesses, and was never heard of again. He would seem, however, to

  have passed the word around among his friends, for subsequent

  raiding parties studiously avoided the castle, and a peasant who had

  succeeded in crossing its threshold was for the future considered to

  he "home" and out of the game.

  Such was the Dreever of old. In later days, the Welshman having

  calmed down considerably, it had lost its militant character. The

  old walls still stood, gray, menacing and unchanged, hut they were

  the only link with the past. The castle was now a very comfortable

  country-house, nominally ruled over by Hildebrand Spencer Poynt de

  Burgh John Hannasyde Coombe-Crombie, twelfth Earl of Dreever

  ("Spennie" to his relatives and intimates), a light-haired young

  gentleman of twenty-four, but in reality the possession of his uncle

  and aunt, Sir Thomas and Lady Julia Blunt.

  Lord Dreever's position was one of some embarrassment. At no point

  in their history had the Dreevers been what one might call a

  parsimonious family. If a chance presented itself of losing money in

  a particularly wild and futile manner, the Dreever of the period had

  invariably sprung at it with the vim of an energetic blood-hound.

  The South Sea Bubble absorbed two hundred thousand pounds of good

  Dreever money, and the remainder of the family fortune was

  squandered to the ultimate penny by the sportive gentleman who held

  the title in the days of the Regency, when Watier's and the Cocoa

  Tree were in their prime, and fortunes had a habit of disappearing

  in a single evening. When Spennie became Earl of Dreever, there was

  about one dollar and thirty cents in the family coffers.

  This is the point at which Sir Thomas Blunt breaks into Dreever

  history. Sir Thomas was a small, pink, fussy, obstinate man with a

  genius for trade and the ambition of an Alexander the Great;

  probably one of the finest and most complete specimens of the came-

  over-Waterloo-Bridge-with-half-a crown-in-my-pocket-and-now-look-at-

  me class of millionaires in existence. He had started almost

  literally with nothing. By carefully excluding from his mind every

  thought except that of making money, he had risen in the world with