CHAPTER XIV

HOW THE CONSTABLE ARGUED HIS CASE

Phoebe turned first white and then red, consumed with shame at being caught prying into the affairs of others. But the constable merely nodded and sat down in a rocker, which thereafter he kept moving in a regular, deliberate manner.

“Evenin’, Phoebe. Lookin’ at the Ritchie box?”

“That can’t be the Ritchie box, Sam,” she replied.

“Why not?”

“The box--the other box--the one they found in Toby’s rubbish-heap--was bent and battered out of shape, and the lock smashed. I saw it myself.”

“M--m. O’ course. So did I. And here’s another Ritchie box in good shape. You’ve seen that, too.”

“I--I was going to read one of the papers, while I waited, and I--I--uncovered the box by accident.”

“It’s all right, little girl. No harm done. But can you tell me which is the real Ritchie box--this or the other?”

“Is one an imitation, Sam?”

“Must be. Judge Ferguson only kept one Ritchie box in his cupboard. Them boxes are kept in stock at the hardware store, an’ the judge bought ’em when he needed ’em. They’re heavy sheet tin, over a steel frame, an’ the locks are the best there is made. The boxes are all black, when they’re new, but for some reason--p’raps so’s to tell it easy--the judge had ’em painted different colors, with the names on ’em. The Ritchie box was blue. I s’pose, Phoebe, it wouldn’t be much of a trick to buy a box, an’ paint it blue, an’ put ‘Ritchie’ on the end of it; would it?”

He spoke lightly, but there was an anxiety underlying the lightness that did not escape Phoebe’s notice.

“Which is the real Ritchie box, Sam?” she asked breathlessly.

“I don’t know, Phoebe.”

“Where did you get this one?”

“I--can’t--tell--you. That’s my private business, an’ I’ll ask you not to mention to a soul on earth that you’ve seen it.”

She looked at him with a puzzled expression. Then she asked:

“Sam, does Lawyer Kellogg buy those boxes at the hardware store?”

“So they tell me,” he replied, shifting uneasily in his chair. “Kellogg’s got a few clients, you know, and he keeps his papers in a good deal the same way as the judge did--only he’s got a big safe to put the boxes in.”

“I suppose no one else in Riverdale ever buys such boxes?” she continued.

“I don’t know. Might, if they had any use for ’em,” he replied.

She sat silent for a time.

“Sam, are they going to convict Toby of this crime?” she presently asked.

He hesitated.

“Looks like it, Phoebe. Looks confounded like it, to me, and I’ve had a good deal of experience in such things.”

“Won’t you save him, Sam?”

“Who? Me? How can I?”

“I thought you were Toby’s friend.”

“So I am. I’d give a year o’ my life to save Toby from prison, if I could; but--it’s out o’ the question, girl; I can’t!” he said emphatically.

“You can!”

“What do you mean, Phoebe Daring?”

“Sam Parsons, you know who stole Mrs. Ritchie’s box.”

He looked at her steadily and not a muscle of his face changed expression.

“Think so?”

“I know it. And, unless you save Toby of your own accord, I’ll make you go on the witness stand and confess the whole truth.”

“How can you do that--if I don’t know?” he asked slowly.

“You _do_ know. I’ll tell the judge at the trial how you were caught twice in the hall before Judge Ferguson’s door--once looking through the keyhole; I’ll tell how I found a blue Ritchie box hidden in your home, and how you found another in Toby’s rubbish heap; and the judge will make you explain things.”

The constable gave a low whistle; then he laughed, but not merrily; next he rubbed his chin in a puzzled and thoughtful way while he studied the young girl’s face.

“Phoebe,” said he, “I used to tote you on my back when you were a wee baby. Your mother called me in to see you walk alone, for the first time in your life--it was jus’ two steps, an’ then you tumbled. You used to ride ’round the country with me in my buggy, when I had to serve papers, and we’ve been chums an’ good friends ever since.”

“That’s true, Sam.”

“Am I a decent fellow, Phoebe? Am I as honest as most men, and as good a friend as many?”

“I--I think so. I could always trust you, Sam. And so could my father, and Judge Ferguson.”

“If that’s the case, why do you think I’d let my friend Toby Clark serve a term in prison for a felony he didn’t commit, when I could save him by tellin’ what I know?”

“I can’t understand it, Sam. It’s so unlike you. Tell me why.”

He sighed at her insistence. Then he said doggedly.

“Our secret, Phoebe? You’ll keep mum?”

“Unless by telling I can save Toby.”

He reflected, his face very grave.

“No; you couldn’t save Toby by telling, for no power on earth can make Sam Parsons speak when he’s determined to keep his mouth shut. It’s for you I’m goin’ to speak now, an’ for no one else. I’d like to explain to you, Phoebe, because we’re old friends, an’ we’re both fond of Toby. It’ll be a sort of relief to me, too. But no judge could make me tell this.”

“Then I’ll promise.”

He rocked to and fro a while before he began.

“It worries me, Phoebe, to think that you--a mere child--have found out what I don’t want found out. If my secret is so loosely guarded, it may not be a secret for long, and I can’t let others know all that I know. The truth is, Phoebe, that I don’t know for certain sure who took the box, not seein’ it taken with my own eyes; but I’ve a strong suspicion, based on facts, as to who took it. In other words, I’ve made up my mind, firmly, as to the thief, and for that reason I don’t want any detective work done--any pryin’ into the secret--by you or anyone else; for I mean to let Toby Clark take the punishment and serve his term in prison for it.”

“And Toby innocent!”

“And Toby as innocent as you or I.”

“But that’s a dreadful thing to do, Sam!”

“It is, Phoebe; it’s dreadful; but not so dreadful as telling the truth. I’m only a plain man, my child, without education or what you call ‘gloss’; I’m just a village constable, an’ likely to be that same until I die. But I’ve got a heart, Phoebe, an’ I can feel for others. That’s the only religion I know; to do to others as I’d like ’em to do to me. So I figure it out this way: To bring the--the--person--who took Mrs. Ritchie’s box to justice, to tell the whole world who the criminal is, would bring grief an’ humiliation to some of the kindest and truest hearts in all Riverdale. It would bow them with shame and ruin their lives--not one, mind you, but several lives. It wouldn’t reform the--the one--who did it, for the--the person--wouldn’t do such a thing again; never! It was a case of sudden temptation and--a sudden fall. Prison would wreck that life beyond redemption, as well as the lives of the relations and--and friends, such as I’ve mentioned.

“On the other hand, evidence points to Toby Clark, and unless the real--person--who took the box is discovered, Toby will be convicted on that evidence. That’s the horror of the thing, Phoebe; but horror is sure to follow crime, and a crime has been committed that some one must suffer the penalty for. Who is Toby Clark? A poor boy without a single relative in the world to be shamed by his fate. Friends, yes; a plenty; you and I among ’em; but no friend so close that the prison taint would cling to ’em; _not even a sweetheart has Toby_. So it’s Hobson’s choice, seems to me. I’m dead sorry for the lad; but it’s better--far better--an’ more Christianlike to let him suffer this fate alone, than to condemn many others to suffering--people who have done no wrong, no more ’n Toby has. He’s just one, an’ a boy; the others are--sev’ral, and I consider it best to let Toby redeem ’em. That’s all, Phoebe. Now you understand me, and I know you’ll stand by me and say I’m right.”

The girl had followed these arguments in wonder and perplexity. She felt that Sam Parsons might be right, in a way, but rebelled against the necessity of letting the innocent suffer.

“I know Toby,” she said softly; “but the others I don’t know.”

“Yes; you do,” he contended. “You know ’em, but you don’t know who they are. What diff’rence does that make?”

“Who took the box, Sam?”

“I’ll never tell.”

“My friends and relations are all responsible for me, in a way, and I am responsible to them,” said Phoebe reflectively. “One thing that would keep me from willfully doing wrong is the knowledge that I would grieve others--those near and dear to me.”

“To be sure!” replied Sam, rubbing his hands together; “you’re arguin’ on my side now, Phoebe. S’pose in a moment of weakness you yielded to temptation? We’re all so blamed human that we can’t be sure of ourselves. S’pose you had a hankerin’ for that money of Mrs. Ritchie’s, an’ s’pose on a sudden you got a chance to take it--an’ took it before you thought? Well; there you are. Prison for you; shame and humiliation for all that are dear to you. Eh? Toby Clark? Well, it’s too bad, but it won’t hurt Toby so very much. He couldn’t expect much in life, anyhow, with his poverty, his bad foot, an’ the only man that could push him ahead dead an’ gone. But what’s one ruined career as compared to--say--half a dozen? Toby’ll take his sentence easy, ’cause he’s strong in his innocence. The others would be heartbroken. It’s far better to let Toby do the penance, seems to me.”

Phoebe could not answer him just then. She was too bewildered. The girl understood perfectly Sam’s position and realized that in opposing it she expressed less charity and kindliness than the constable.

“I’m going to think about it,” she said to him. “I’m so surprised and confused right now by what you’ve told me that my senses have gone glimmering. But it strikes me, Sam, that we ought to find a way to save Toby without implicating the guilty one at all.”

He shook his head negatively.

“That would be fine, but it can’t be done,” he replied. “We’ve got to produce the thief to get Toby out of the mess, for otherwise the evidence will convict him.”

“Can’t we destroy the evidence--upset it--prove it false?” inquired the girl.

“Not with safety to--the other party. But do as you say; go home an’ think it over. The more you think the more you’ll feel I’m right, an’ that your best course is to lie low an’ let Toby take his medicine. The life in prison ain’t so bad; plenty to eat, a clean bed and work to occupy his time.”

“But afterward? If he lives to come out he will be despised and avoided by everyone. No one cares to employ a jail-bird.”

“I’ve thought of that, Phoebe. Here in Riverdale Toby couldn’t hold his head up. But it’s a big world and there are places where his past would never be discovered. I’ll look after the lad, if I’m alive when he gets free, and try to help him begin a new life; but, anyhow, he must face this ordeal and make the best of it.”

Phoebe went home discouraged and rebellious. She kept telling herself that Sam Parsons was right, all the time resenting the fact that the common, uneducated man looked at this unfortunate affair in a broader, more philanthropic light than she could, and was resolved to do his duty as his simple mind conceived it. The girl’s heart, stifle it as she would, cried out against the injustice of the plan of sacrifice. Sam knew all the parties concerned, and could therefore judge more impartially than she; but even that argument did not content her.