CHAPTER II

A FRIENDLY RIVALRY

This matter of the check that he had given Hetty stuck in Wint’s mind, disquieting him. This in spite of the fact that he tried to forget it, told himself it had no significance, that it meant nothing at all.

He gathered up the other canceled checks and put them back in the bank’s long, yellow envelope, and stuck the envelope in a drawer of his desk. Hetty had not yet cashed the check; that was all. She would cash it when she needed the money. He tried to believe this was the key to the puzzle.

But it was not a satisfactory key; and this was proved by the fact that his thoughts kept harking back to the matter during the next day or two. When he gave Hetty the check, he had expected her to cash it before she left town. In fact, his first thought had been to draw the money himself, and give it to her; but this had been slightly less convenient than to write the check. So he had written the check, and given it to her, and now Hetty had not cashed it.

It was characteristic of Wint that he saw no threat against himself in this circumstance. Wint was never of a suspicious turn of mind. He was loyal to his friends and to those who seemed to be his friends; he took them, and he took the world at large, at face value. So in this case, he was not uneasy on his own account, but on Hetty’s. For Hetty had needed this money; yet she had not cashed the check.

He knew she needed the money. Her wage from his mother left no great margin for saving, if a girl liked to spend money as well at Hetty did. She could not have saved more than a few dollars; twenty, or perhaps thirty.... Besides, she had told him she needed money. When he told her she had better go away, she had said: “A fat chance of that. Where would I get the money, anyway?” It was this that had led him to write a check for her.

She had needed the money; she had accepted it. That is to say, she had accepted the check, but had not cashed it. Not yet, at least. Why not? What was the explanation?

His uneasiness, all on Hetty’s account, began to take shape. He remembered the girl’s sullen hopelessness, her friendlessness. She had been ready to give up, to submit to whatever misfortunes might come upon her. There had always been a defiant, reckless, fatalistic streak in Hetty. And Wint, remembering, was afraid it had taken the ascendant in the girl. He was afraid.

He did not put into words, even in his thoughts, the truth of this fear. But he did write to a college classmate, who was working at the time on one of the Columbus papers, and asked him to try to locate Hetty at one of the hospitals. He told the circumstances. And two or three days later, the man wrote to say that there was no such person as Hetty in any hospital in Columbus under her own name; and that as far as he could learn, there was no one approximating her description.

When this letter came, it tended to clinch Wint’s fears. He was not yet convinced that Hetty had chosen to--do that which writes “Finis” as the bottom of life’s last page. But he was almost convinced, almost ready to believe.

It made Wint distinctly unhappy. He had an honest liking and respect for Hetty, an old friendship for the girl.

He did not tell either his father or mother of the matter of the check; nor did he tell them what he feared had come to pass. There was no need, he thought, of worrying them. There was nothing that could be done.

The long, lazy summer dragged slowly past, and nothing happened. Which is the way of Hardiston. That is to say, nothing happened that was in any way extraordinary. The Baptist Sunday school held its annual picnic in the G. A. R. grove, south of town; and every one went, Baptist or not, Sunday school scholar or not. Everybody went, and took his dinner. Fried chicken, and sandwiches, and deviled eggs, and bananas; and there were vast freezers of ice cream. And some played baseball, and some idled in the swings, and there were the sports that go with such an occasion. Cracker-eating, shoe-lacing, egg-and-spoon race, greased pole, and so on and so on, to the tune of a great deal of laughter and general good nature. And the Hardiston baseball team played a game every week, sometimes away from home, sometimes on the baseball field down by the creek, where the muddy waters over-flowed every spring. And Lint Blood, the hard-throwing left fielder who was fully as good as any big leaguer in the country, if he could only get his chance, had his regular season as hero of the town. And there were a few dances, where the men appeared in white trousers and soft shirts and took off their coats to dance; and there were hay rides, on moonlight nights; and Ed Skinner’s nine-year-old boy almost got drowned in the swimming hole at Smith’s Bridge; and Jim Radabaugh and two or three others went fishing down on Big Raccoon, thirty miles away; and the tennis court in Walter Roberts’s back yard was busy every fine afternoon; and Ringling Brothers and Buffalo Bill paid Hardiston their regular summer visits. It rained so hard, for three days before Ringling Brothers came, that the big show had to be canceled, which made it hard for every father in town. And Sam O’Brien’s brother caught a thirty-five-pound catfish in the river, and sent it up to Sam, who kept it alive in a tub in his restaurant for two days, and killed and fried it for his customers only when it began to pine away in captivity. And Ed Howe’s boy fell off a home-made acting bar and broke his arm; and the Welsh held their County Eisteddfod in a tent on the old fair grounds, and John Morgan won the first prize in the male solo competition. Hardiston boys thought that was rather a joke, because John was the only entry in this particular event; and they reminded him of this fact for a good many years to come, in their tormenting moments. And the hot days and the warm days and the wet days came and went, and the summer dragged away.

In September, Joan suggested a picnic at Gallop Caves, a dozen miles from Hardiston; and Wint liked the idea, so they discussed who should go, and how, and in due time the affair took place. Joan and Agnes and two or three other girls made the domestic arrangements, with Wint and Dick Hoover and Jack Routt and one or two besides to look after the financial end, and the transportation. In the old days, they would have hired one of the big barges from the livery stable, with a long seat running the length of each side; and they would have crowded into that and ridden the dozen jolting miles, with a good deal of singing and laughing and talking as they went; but there were automobiles in Hardiston now, and no one thought of the barge.

They started early; that is to say, at eight o’clock in the morning, or thereabouts. There were three automobiles full of them, with hampers and boxes and freezers full of things to eat in every car. And they made the trip at a breakneck and break-axle speed over the rough road, and came to the Caves by nine, and unloaded the edibles and got buckets of water from the well behind the house at the entrance to the Caves. The farmer who lived in this house had an eye to business; and a year or two before he had put up a pavilion in the grove by the Caves, and had begun to charge admission. Besides the pavilion, there were swings, and there was a seesaw; and there were always the Caves themselves, and the winding, clear-watered little stream that came down over the rocks in a feathery cascade and wound away among the trees.

This day, they danced a little, in the pavilion--Joan had brought a graphophone--and when it grew too warm to dance, some of them went to climb about on the cool, wet rocks of the Caves; and some took off shoes and stockings, or shoes and socks as the case might be, and waded in the brook; and some sprawled on the sand at the base of the rocky wall and called doodle bugs. A pleasant, idle sport. The doodle bug is more scientifically known as an ant lion. He digs himself a hole in the sand like an inverted cone, and hides himself in the loose sand at the bottom of the hole. The theory of the thing is that an ant tumbles in, slides down the sloping sides, and falls a prey to the ingenious monster at the bottom. To call a doodle bug, you simply chant over and over:

“Doodle up, doodle up, doodle up....”

And at the same time, you stir the sand on the sides of the trap with a twig. Either the song or the sliding sand causes the bug to emerge from his ambush at the bottom of the pit, when you may see him for an instant; a misshapen, powerful little thing. If you happen to be an ant, he looks to you as formidable as a behemoth, bursting out of the sand and tumbling it from his shoulders as a mammoth bursts out of the primeval forest. If you happen to be a human, you laugh at his awkward movements, and find another pit, and call another doodle bug.

Routt and Agnes, Wint and Joan, all four together, investigated doodle bugs this day. They had a good-natured time of it till Jack Routt caught an ant and dropped it into one of the pits to see the monster at the bottom in action. The sight of the ant’s swift end was not pleasant to Joan; and she looked at Routt in a critical way. He and Agnes seemed to think it rather a joke on the ant. Wint and Joan moved away and left them there and went clambering up among the rocks, and picked wintergreen and chewed it, and came out at last on the upper level, on top of the Caves. They looked down from there and shouted to the others below. And when they tired of that, they sat down and talked to each other for a while. That was one pursuit they never tired of.

Wint had been meaning to ask Joan something. It concerned that letter which he had received the day after his election as Mayor. The letter had been anonymous; a friendly, loyal, sympathetic little note. He had torn it up angrily, as soon as he read it, because he was in no mood for good advice that day, and the letter had given good advice. He could remember, even now, snatches of it. He had wondered who wrote it; and this wonder had revived, during the last few days, and he had considered the matter, and asked a question or two.

Now he asked Joan whether she had written it; and Joan hesitated, and flushed a little, and then said, looking at him bravely: “Yes, I wrote it, Wint.”

He said in an embarrassed way: “But that was when you had told me you would have no more to do with me.”

She nodded.

“I tore it up,” he said.

“I thought you would.” She smiled a little. “But I hoped you--would remember it, too.”

“I do,” Wint told her. “You said I had ‘the finest chance a man ever had to retrieve his mistakes,’ and you told me to buckle down.”

“Yes, I remember,” she agreed.

Wint looked at her, and his heart was pounding softly. “You said there were some who would watch me--lovingly,” he reminded her.

For a minute she did not speak; then she nodded her head slowly; and she said: “Yes.” Her eyes met his honestly.

Wint had been very sure, before he asked her, that she had written the letter; he had meant to remind her of this word, and if she confessed it, to go on. But now that he had come thus far, he found that he could go no farther. It was not that she forbade him; not that there was any prohibition in her eyes. It was something within himself that restrained him. Something that held his tongue, bade him not risk his fortune--lest, perchance, he lose it.

Any one but a blind man would have seen there was no danger of his losing it; but Wint, in this matter, was blind--for the immemorial reason. So all the courage that had brought him thus far deserted him, and he only said:

“Oh!”

That did not seem to Joan to call for any answer, so she said nothing; and after a moment Wint got hurriedly to his feet and exclaimed:

“Well, I’m getting hungry. Better be getting back, hadn’t we?”

Joan looked, perhaps, a little disappointed. But she said she guessed so; and they made their way down to join the others.

After every one had eaten till there was no more eat in them, there was a general tendency to take things easy. The dishes had to be washed in the brook; and the girls undertook to do that. Dick Hoover found some horseshoes, and started a game of quoits. Wint would have taken a hand; but Jack Routt drew him aside and said:

“I’d like a little talk with you, Wint. Mind?”

Wint was surprised; but he didn’t say so. “All right,” he agreed. “Shoot.”

Routt offered him a cigar, and Wint took it, and they walked slowly away from the others, back toward the Caves. Routt came to the point without preliminaries. “It’s like this, Wint,” he said frankly. “A good many people have been telling me I ought to get into politics.”

Wint had ears to hear; and he had heard something of this. But he pretended ignorance, and only said: “I thought you were in politics. Thought you were linked up with Amos.”

“I have been, in the past,” Routt agreed. “But the trouble with that is, if you tie up with a big man, you get only what he chooses to give you. I’ve been advised to strike out for myself.”

Wint said: “I think that’s good advice. It ought to help your law practice, too.”

“Matter of fact,” said Routt. “They’re telling me I ought to run against you.”

“Against me?” Wint seemed only mildly interested. “For Mayor?”

“Yes. On the wet issue. You know my ideas on that. I’m not on your side of the fence there at all.”

“Well, I don’t find fault with any man’s ideas, Jack.”

“The trouble is this,” Routt explained. “You and I are pretty good friends. Always have been. I don’t want to start anything that will spoil that friendship.”

Wint laughed and said: “Good Lord, Jack; I guess there’s no fear of that.”

“By God, I knew you’d say so!” Routt exclaimed. “Just the same. I was leary. You know what kind of a fellow I am. When I go into a thing, I go in with both feet. If I run against you, Wint, I’ll give you a fight.”

“Go to it. We’ll show Hardiston some action.”

“I’ll lam it into you, Wint.”

“Well, I can give as good as you send,” Wint promised cheerfully.

“The only thing is,” Routt explained, “I just want an understanding with you first; that is, I want you to know there’s nothing personal in anything I may say. It’s politics, Wint; and if I go in, it will be hot politics. If you’ll promise to take it as that and nothing else.”

Wint said easily: “I don’t suppose you can tell Hardiston anything about me that it doesn’t already know.”

Routt grasped his hand. “Attaboy, Wint,” he exclaimed. “You’re a good sport. By God, I believe I’ll go into it!”

“Come ahead. It’s no private fight,” Wint assured him.

“The only thing is, I wanted to know first. I want you to know I’m on the level with you personally.”

“Well, I should say I know that, Jack.”

Routt thrust out his hand. “Shake on it, Wint.”

Wint laughed. “You’re dramatic enough.” But he shook hands.

They rejoined the others after a while, and Wint was glad of it. He had hidden his feelings from Routt; but as a matter of fact he was a good deal surprised and chagrined at Jack’s news. He had heard rumors; but he had not believed Routt would come out against him. It was a thing he, Wint, would not have done.... It smacked, he felt, of disloyalty to a friend. He had even, for a moment, a thought of withdrawing and leaving the field free to Routt. But he put it away. After all, he was first in the fight; it was Routt who had brought about this situation, not he. He could not well avoid the issue.

Nevertheless, he was troubled. The world that had seemed so bright and fair a month ago had a less cheerful aspect now. His fears for Hetty, his anxiety over her, were always with him, faintly oppressive. Now Routt’s desertion, his projected opposition. Try as he would to shake it off, Wint could not rid himself of the feeling that there were rough places on the road that lay ahead.

His anxiety over Hetty was relieved--though only to take a new turn--in the last week of September. For Hetty came back to Hardiston.

Wint met her on the street one day. He was immensely surprised; and he was immensely pleased to see her, safe and sound. He cried: “Why, Hetty, where did you come from?”

She looked around furtively, as though she would have avoided him if it had been possible to do so. “Didn’t you expect me to come back?” she asked sullenly.

“Of course. But.... How are you? All right? Where have you been?”

“Summering in New England,” she said ironically. “Where’d you think?”

“Mother’s been wondering when you’d come back. She needs you.”

“She’ll have to go on needing me.”

“Aren’t you--”

“I’ve got a job in the shoe factory.”

Wint said: “Oh!” He was disturbed and uncertain, puzzled by Hetty’s attitude. He asked: “Is the.... Did you....”

“The baby?” said Hetty listlessly. “Oh, he died.” There was dead agony in her tone, so that Wint ached for her.

“I’m sorry,” he told her.

“That’s all right. I can stand it.”

He asked: “Did you need any money? The check I gave you never came through the bank.”

“I lost it,” she said.

“Why, you must have had trouble. You didn’t have enough.”

“I went in as a charity-ward patient.”

“Columbus?”

“No. Cincinnati. I didn’t want any one knowing.”

Wint smiled in a friendly way and said: “I was worried about you.”

Hetty laughed. “You’d better worry about yourself. Do you know people are looking at you, while you’re talking to me? It won’t help you any to be seen with me.”

Wint said “Pshaw! You’re morbid, Hetty.”

“Besides,” she told him. “I’ve got to look out. Mind my p’s and q’s. If I want to hold my job.”

Wint flushed uncomfortably. “Why.... All right,” he said. “But if there’s ever anything....”

“Oh, I’ll let you know,” Hetty said impatiently, and turned away.

He had been afraid that she had killed herself; that her body was dead. He was afraid now, as he watched her move down the street, that something more important was dead in the girl.

It was at this moment that he realized for the first time that a man had been responsible for what had come to Hetty. He wondered who the man was; and he thought it would be satisfying to say a word or two to the fellow.