Chapter 11

"Friend? Bunk Bivens? Dat onery, good-fer-nothin' ole half-strainer? Naw, sir; he ain't no friend ob mine."

"Well, what makes you so pressing and particular about attending his funeral?" asked Mr. Opp.

"'Ca'se I 'spise him so. I been hating dat nigger fer pretty nigh forty year, an' I ain't gwine lose dis chanst ob seein' him buried."

"But, Aunt Tish," persisted Mr. Opp, impatiently, "I've got a very important and critical meeting this afternoon. The business under consideration may be wound up in the matter of a few minutes, and then, again, it may prolong itself into several consecutive hours. You'll have to stay with Kippy till I get home."

The old woman looked at him strangely. "See dis heah hole in my haid, honey? 'Member how you and Ben uster ast Aunt Tish what mek hit? Dat nigger Bunk Bivens mek hit. He was a roustabout on de ribber, an' him an' yer paw fell out, an' one night when you was a baby he follow yer paw up here, an' me an' him had hit out."

"But where was my father?" asked Mr. Opp.

"Dey was 'sputin' right heah in dis heah kitchen where we's standin' at, an' dat mean, bow-laigged nigger didn't have no better manners den to 'spute wif a gentleman dat was full. An' pore Miss she run in so skeered an' white an' she say, 'Aunt Tish, don't let him hurt him; he don't know what he's sayin',' she baig, an' I tell her to keep yer paw outen de way an' I tek keer ob Bunk."

"And did he fight you?" asked Mr. Opp, indignantly.

"Naw, sir; I fit him. We put nigh tore up de floor ob de kitchen. Den he bust my haid open wif de poker, an' looks lak I been losing my knowledge ever sence. From dat day I 'low I's gwine to git even if it took me till I died, an' now dat spiteful old devil done died fust. But I's gwine see him buried. I want to see 'em nail him up in a box and th'ow dirt on him."

Aunt Tish ended the recital in a sing-song chant, worked up to a state of hysteria by the recital of her ancient wrong.

Mr. Opp sighed both for the past and the present. He saw the futility of arguing the case.

"Well, you'll stay until the boat whistles?" he asked. "Sometimes it is two hours late."

"Yas, sir; but when dat whistle toots I's gwine. Ef you is heah, all right; ef you ain't, all right: I's _gwine_!"

As Mr. Opp passed through the hall he saw Miss Kippy slip ahead of him and conceal herself behind the door. She carried something hidden in her apron.

"Have you learned your reading lesson to say to brother D. to-night?" he asked, ignoring her behavior. "You are getting so smart, learning to read handwriting just as good as I can!"

But Miss Kippy only peeped at him through the crack in the door and refused to be friendly. For several days she had been furtive and depressed, and had not spoken to either Aunt Tish or himself.

On the way to his office Mr. Opp was surprised to see Mr. Gallop leaning out of the window of his little room beckoning frantically. It was evident that Mr. Gallop had a secret to divulge, and Mr. Gallop with a secret was as excited as a small bird with a large worm.

"Just come in a minute and sit down," he fluttered; "you'll have to excuse the looks of things. Having just this one room for telegraph office and bedroom and everything crowds me up awful. I've been trying to fix my lunch for half an hour, but the telephone just keeps me busy. Then, besides, Mr. Mathews was here; he came down on the launch at twelve o'clock. Now, of course I know it ain't right to repeat anything I hear over the long-distance wire, but being such a good friend of yours, and you being such a friend of mine--why, Mr. Opp there ain't anybody in the world I owe more to than I do to you, not only the money you've lent me from time to time, but your standing up for me when everybody was down on me--and--"

"Yes; but you was remarking about Mr. Mathews?" Mr. Opp interrupted.

"Yes; and I was saying I never make a practice of repeating what I hear, but he was talking right here in the room, and I was mixing up a little salad dressing I promised Mrs. Fallows for the social,--it's to be over at Your Hotel this evening--there's the telephone!"

Mr. Opp sat on the edge of the sofa, the rest of it being occupied with gaily embroidered sofa pillows, specimens, the town declared, of Mr. Gallop's own handiwork. In fact, the only unoccupied space in the room was on the ceiling, for between his duties as operator and housekeeper Mr. Gallop still found time to cultivate the arts, and the result of his efforts was manifest in every nook and corner.

"It was Mrs. Gusty getting after Mr. Toddlinger for sending vanilla extract instead of lemon," explained Mr. Gallop, who had stopped to hear the discussion.

"Well, as I was saying, Mr. Mathews called up somebody in the city almost as soon as he got here--Now you've got to promise me you won't tell a living soul about this."

Mr. Opp promised.

"He said to telegraph New York party that terms were agreed on, and to mail check at once to Clark, and tell him to keep his mouth shut. Then the other end said something, and Mr. Mathews said: 'We can't afford to wait. You telegraph at once; I'll manipulate the crowd down here.' They talked a lot more, then he said awful low, but I heard him: 'Well, damn it! they've got to. There's too much at stake.'"

The editor sat with his hat in his hand, and blinked at the operator: "Manipulate," he said in a puzzled tone, "did he use that particular word?"

Mr. Gallop nodded.

"He may have been referring to something else," said Mr. Opp, waiving aside any disagreeable suspicion. "Mr. Mathews is a business gentleman. He's involved in a great many ventures, something like myself. You wouldn't think from what you heard that--er--that he was contemplating not acting exactly--fair with us, would you?"

Mr. Gallop, having delivered himself of his information, did not feel called upon to express a personal opinion.

"If you ever say I told you a word of this, I'll swear I didn't," he said. "It was just because you were such a good friend, and--there's that 'phone again!"

During the early hours of the afternoon, Mr. Opp was oppressed with a vague uneasiness. He made several attempts to see Mr. Mathews, but that gentleman was closeted with his stenographer until five o'clock, the hour named for the meeting.

All feeling of distrust was banished, however, when Mr. Mathews made his way through the crowd of stock-holders that filled the office of Your Hotel, and took his stand by the desk. He was so bland and confident, so satisfied with himself and the world and the situation, that, as Jimmy Fallows remarked, "You kinder looked for him to purr when he wasn't talking."

He set forth at great length the undoubted oil wealth of the region, he complimented them on their sagacity and foresight in buying up the Turtle Creek ground, he praised the Cove in general and that distinguished citizen, the editor of "The Opp Eagle," in particular. The enterprise upon which they had embarked, he said, had grown to such proportions that large capital was required to carry it on. Owing to the recent depression in the money market, the Kentucky company did not feel able properly to back the concern, so it had been agreed that if a good offer was made to buy it, it should be accepted. It was with such an offer, Mr. Mathews said, that he had come to them to-day.

A stir of excitement met this announcement, and Miss Jim Fenton waved her lace scarf in her enthusiasm.

"Some time ago," went on Mr. Mathews, graciously acknowledging the applause, "the Union Syndicate of New York sent an expert, Mr. Clark, down here to report on the oil conditions in this region." Mr. Opp's eyes became fixed on Mr. Mathews's face, and his lips parted. "The report was so entirely satisfactory," continued Mr. Mathews, "that the following offer has been made."

Mr. Opp rose immediately. "Excuse me, sir, there is--er--rather, there must be some little mistake just at this juncture."

All eyes were turned upon him, and a murmur of dissent arose at an interruption at such a critical point.

Mr. Mathews gave him permission to proceed.

"You see--I--Mr. Clark, that is,"--Mr. Opp's fingers were working nervously on the back of the chair before him,--"him and myself went over the ground together, and--I--well, I must say I don't consider him a competent judge."

Mr. Mathews smiled. "I am afraid, Mr. Opp, that your opinion is overruled. Mr. Clark is a recognized authority, although," he added significantly, "of course the most expert make mistakes at times."

"That ain't the point," persisted Mr. Opp; "it's the conflicting difference in what he said to me, and what he's reported to them. He told me that he didn't consider our prospects was worth a picayune, and if the wells were drilled, they probably wouldn't run a year. I didn't believe him then; but you say now that he is a expert and that he knows."

Mr. Mathews's tolerance seemed limitless. He waited patiently for Mr. Opp to finish, then he said smoothly:

"Yes, yes; I understand your point perfectly, Mr. Opp. Mr. Clark's remarks were injudicious, but he was looking at all sides of the question. He saw me after he saw you, you know, and I was able to direct his attention to the more favorable aspects of the case. His report was entirely favorable, and I guess that is all that concerns us, isn't it?" He embraced the room with his smile.

During the next quarter of an hour Mr. Opp sat with his arms folded and his eyes bent on the floor and bit his lips furiously. Something was wrong. Again and again he fought his way back to this conclusion through the enveloping mazes of Mr. Mathews's plausibility. Why had they waited so long after drilling that first well? Why, after making elaborate plans and buying machinery, had they suddenly decided to sell? Why had Mr. Clark given such contradictory opinions? What did Mr. Mathews mean by that message from Mr. Gallop's office? Mr. Opp's private affairs, trembling in the balance, were entirely lost sight of in his determination for fair play.

Covering his eyes with his hand, and trying not to hear the flood of argument which Mr. Mathews was bringing to bear upon his already convinced audience, Mr. Opp attempted to recall all that Mr. Gallop had told him.

"He said 'manipulate,'" repeated Mr. Opp to himself. "I remember that, and he said 'telegraph New York party that terms were agreed on.' Then he said 'mail check to Clark; tell him to keep his mouth shut.' What's _he_ paying Clark for? Why--"

"The motion before the house," Mr. Tucker's piping voice broke in upon his agitated reasoning, "is whether the stock-holders of the Turtle Creek Land Company is willing to sell out at a rate of seven to one to the Union Syndicate."

In the buzz of delight that ensued, Mr. Opp found himself standing on a chair and demanding attention.

"Listen here," he cried, pounding on the wall with his hand, "I've got important information that's got to be told: that man Clark is a rascal. He's--he's deceiving his company. He's been paid to make a good report of our ground. I can't prove it, but I know it. We're taking part in a fraud; we're--we're being manipulated."

Mr. Opp almost shrieked the last word in his agony of earnestness; but before the crowd could fully apprehend his meaning, Mr. Mathews rose and said somewhat sharply:

"What the representative of the Union Syndicate is, or is not, doesn't concern us in the least. I come to you with a gilt-edged proposition; all I ask you is to sit tight, and take my advice, and I guarantee you an immediate return of seven dollars to every one you put into this concern. Mr. Chairman, will you put it to the vote?"

But Mr. Opp again stopped proceedings. "As a director in this company I won't stand for what's going on. I'll telegraph the syndicate. I'll advertise the whole matter!"

Mat Lucas pulled at his sleeve, and the preacher put a restraining arm about his shoulder. The amazing rumor had become current that the Cove's stanchest advocate for temperance had been indulging in drink, and there was nothing in the editor's flushed face and excited manner to contradict the impression.

"If by any chance," Mr. Mathews went on in a steady voice, "there should be a stock-holder who is unwilling to take advantage of this magnificent offer, we need hardly say that we are prepared to buy his stock back at the amount he gave for it." He smiled, as if inviting ridicule at the absurdity of the proposition.

"I am unwilling," cried Mr. Opp, tugging at the restraining hands. "I have never yet in all the length and breadth of my experience been associated with a dishonest act."

"Don't! Mr. Opp, don't!" whispered Mat Lucas. "You're acting like a crazy man. Don't you see you are losing the chance to make three thousand dollars?"

"That hasn't nothing to do with it," cried Mr. Opp, almost beside himself. "I'll not be a party to the sale. I'll--"

Mr. Mathews turned to his secretary. "Just fix up those papers for Mr. Opp, and give him a check for what is coming to him. Now, Mr. Chairman, will you put the matter to the vote?"

Amid the hilarious confusion that succeeded the unanimous vote, and the subsequent adjournment of the meeting, Mr. Opp pushed his way through the crowd that surrounded Mr. Mathews.

"You know what I was alluding at," he shouted through his chattering teeth. "You've carried this through, but I'll blockade you. I am going to tell the truth to the whole community. I am going to telegraph to the syndicate and stop the sale."

Mr. Mathews lifted his brows and smiled deprecatingly.

"I am sorry you have worked yourself up to such a pitch, my friend," he said. "Telegraph, by all means if it will ease your mind; but the fact is, the deal was closed at noon to-day."

The long, low whistle of the packet sounded, but Mr. Opp heeded it not. He was flinging his way across to the telegraph office in a frenzy of Quixotic impatience to right the wrong of which he had refused to be a part.

XVI

Half an hour later, Mr. Opp dragged himself up the hill to his home. All the unfairness and injustice of the universe seemed pressing upon his heart. Every muscle in his body quivered in remembrance of what he had been through, and an iron band seemed tightening about his throat. His town had refused to believe his story! It had laughed in his face!

With a sudden mad desire for sympathy and for love, he began calling Kippy. He stumbled across the porch, and, opening the door with his latch-key, stood peering into the gloom of the room.

The draft from an open window blew a curtain toward him, a white spectral, beckoning thing, but no sound broke the stillness.

"Kippy!" he called again, his voice sharp with anxiety.

From one room to another he ran, searching in nooks and corners, peering under the beds and behind the doors, calling in a voice that was sometimes a command, but oftener a plea: "Kippy! Kippy!"

At last he came back to the dining-room and lighted the lamp with shaking hands. On the hearth were the remains of a small bonfire, with papers scattered about. He dropped on his knees and seized a bit of charred cardboard. It was a corner of the hand-painted frame that had incased the picture of Guinevere Gusty! Near it lay loose sheets of paper, parts of that treasured package of letters she had written him from Coreyville.

As Mr. Opp gazed helplessly about the room, his eyes fell upon something white pinned to the red table-cloth. He held it to the light. It was a portion of one of Guinevere's letters, written in the girl's clear, round hand:

Mother says I can never marry you until Miss Kippy goes to the asylum.

Mr. Opp got to his feet. "She's read the letter," he cried wildly; "she's learned out about herself! Maybe she's in the woods now, or down on the bank!" He rushed to the porch. "Kippy!" he shouted. "Don't be afraid! Brother D.'s coming to get you! Don't run away, Kippy! Wait for me! Wait!" and leaving the old house open to the night, he plunged into the darkness, beating through the woods and up and down the road, calling in vain for Kippy, who lay cowering in the bottom of a leaking skiff that was drifting down the river at the mercy of the current.

* * * * *

Two days later, Mr. Opp sat in the office of the Coreyville Asylum for the Insane and heard the story of his sister's wanderings. Her boat had evidently been washed ashore at a point fifteen miles above the town, for people living along the river had reported a strange little woman, without hat or coat, who came to their doors crying and saying her name was "Oxety," and that she was crazy, and begging them to show her the way to the asylum. On the second day she had been found unconscious on the steps of the institution, and since then, the doctor said, she had been wild and unmanageable.

"Considering all things," he concluded, "it is much wiser for you not to see her. She came of her own accord, evidently felt the attack coming on, and wanted to be taken care of."

He was a large, smooth-faced man, with the conciliatory manner of one who regards all his fellow-men as patients in varying degrees of insanity.

"But I'm in the regular habit of taking care of her," protested Mr. Opp. "This is just a temporary excitement for the time being that won't ever, probably, occur again. Why, she's been improving all winter; I've learnt her to read and write a little, and to pick out a number of cities on the geographical atlas."

"All wrong," exclaimed the doctor; "mistaken kindness. She can never be any better, but she may be a great deal worse. Her mind should never be stimulated or excited in any way. Here, of course, we understand all these things and treat the patient accordingly."

"Then I must just go back to treating her like a child again?" asked Mr. Opp, "not endeavoring to improve her intellect, or help her grow up in any way?"

The doctor laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.

"You leave her to us," he said. "The State provides this excellent institution for just such cases as hers. You do yourself and your family, if you have one, an injustice by keeping her at home. Let her stay here for six months or so, and you will see what a relief it will be."

Mr. Opp sat with his elbow on the desk and his head propped in his hand, and stared miserably at the floor. He had not had his clothes off for two nights, and he had scarcely taken time from his search to eat anything. His face looked old and wizened and haunted from the strain. Yet here and now he was called upon to make his great decision. On the one hand lay the old, helpless life with Kippy, and on the other a future of dazzling possibility with Guinevere. All of his submerged self suddenly rose and demanded happiness. He was ready to snatch it, at any cost, regardless of everything and everybody--of Kippy; of Guinevere, who, he knew, did not love him, but would keep her promise; of Hinton, whose secret he had long ago guessed. And, as a running accompaniment to his thoughts, was the quiet, professional voice of the doctor urging him to the course that his heart prompted. For a moment the personal forces involved trembled in equilibrium.

After a long time he unknotted his fingers, and drew his handkerchief across his brow.

"I guess I'll go up and see her now," he said, with the gasping breath of a man who has been under water.

In vain the doctor protested. Mr. Opp was determined.

As the door to the long ward was being unlocked, he leaned for a moment dizzily against the wall.

"You'd better let me give you a swallow of whisky," suggested the doctor, who had noted his exhaustion.

Mr. Opp raised his hand deprecatingly, with a touch of his old professional pride. "I don't know as I've had occasion to mention," he said, "that I am the editor and sole proprietor of 'The Opp Eagle'; and that bird," he added, with a forced smile, "is, as everybody knows, a complete teetotaler."

At the end of the crowded ward, with her face to the wall, was a slight, familiar figure. Mr. Opp started forward; then he turned fiercely upon the attendant.

"Her hands are tied! Who dared to tie her up like that?"

"It's just a soft handkerchief," replied the matronly woman, reassuringly. "We were afraid she would pull her hair out. She wants its fixed a certain way; but she's afraid for any of us to touch her. She has been crying about it ever since she came."

In an instant Mr. Opp was on his knees beside her. "Kippy, Kippy darling, here's brother D.; he'll fix it for you! You want it parted on the side, don't you, tied with a bow, and all the rest hanging down? Don't cry so, Kippy. I'm here now; brother D.'ll take care of you."

She flung her loosened arms around him and clung to him in a passion of relief. Her sobs shook them both, and his face and neck were wet with her tears.

As soon as they could get her sufficiently quiet, they took her into her little bedroom.

"You let the lady get you ready," urged Mr. Opp, still holding her hand, "and I'll take you back home, and Aunt Tish will have a nice, hot supper all waiting for us."

But she would let nobody else touch her, and even then she broke forth into piteous sobs and protests. Once she pushed him from her and looked about wildly. "No, no," she cried, "I mustn't go; I am crazy!" But he told her about the three little kittens that had been born under the kitchen steps, and in an instant she was all a-tremble with eagerness to go home to see them.

An hour later, Mr. Opp and his charge sat on the river-bank and waited for the little launch that was to take them back to the Cove. A curious crowd had gathered at a short distance, for their story had gone the rounds.

Mr. Opp sat under the fire of curious glances, gazing straight in front of him, and only his flushed face showed what he was suffering. Miss Kippy, in her strange clothes and with her pale hair flying about her shoulders, sat close by him, her hand in his.

"D.," she said once in a high, insistent voice, "when will I be grown up enough to marry Mr. Hinton?"

Mr. Opp for a moment forgot the crowd. "Kippy," he said with all the gentle earnestness that was in him, "you ain't never going to grow up at all. You are just always going to be brother D.'s little girl. You see, Mr. Hinton's too old for you, just like--" he paused, then finished it bravely--"just like I am too old for Miss Guin-never. I wouldn't be surprised if they got married with each other some day. You and me will just have to take care of each other."

She looked at him with the quick suspicion of the insane, but he was ready for her with a smile.

"Oh, D.," she cried, in a sudden rapture, "we are glad, ain't we?"

XVII

For the next four weeks there was no issue of "The Opp Eagle." When it did make its appearance, it contained the following editorial:

Ye editor has for several weeks been the victim of the La Grip which eventuated into a rising in our left ear. Although we are still in severe and continuous pain, we know that behind the clouds of suffering the blue sky of health is still shining, and that a brighter day is coming, as it were.

The night of Mr. Opp's return from Coreyville, he had written a long letter to Guinevere Gusty telling her of his final decision in regard to Kippy, and releasing her from her promise. This having been accomplished, he ceased to fight against the cold and exhaustion, and went to bed with a hard chill.

Aunt Tish, all contrition for the disasters she thought she had brought upon the household, served him night and day, and even Miss Kippy, moved by the unusual sight of her brother in bed, made futile efforts to assist in the nursing.