CHAPTER VII.

CLEARING UP A MISTAKE.

That evening, when some of the custom-house officials and some of the guests of the hotel were sitting tipped back in chairs in the smoking-room, the assistant inspector said to the inspector, who had just come in, "I couldn't make anything of your deaf and dumb kid, Jack."

"What deaf and dumb kid?" asked Jack, seating himself, and drawing out his cigar case.

"That young one with the bundle."

"She ain't deaf and dumb. Her tongue's hung as limber as yours."

"Well, I swan!" said the assistant inspector, blankly, and, as he spoke, he brought his chair down on its four legs, and gazed about the room with an expression of such utter helplessness that the other men broke into a roar of laughter.

"Don't cry, Blakeman," said Jack, soothingly. "It's only once in a coon's age you're fooled."

"Do you suppose the slyboots has gone to bed?" asked Blakeman, again tipping back his chair, and returning to his professional manner. "Uncle Sam hasn't got any spare cash to waste on such like. Just open the door, Rufus, and see if you see any of the girls about."

A dining-room girl good-naturedly consented to go in search of 'Tilda Jane, and upon entering the room found her on her knees thoughtfully looking down at the railway tracks running close to the hotel.

Stepping forward and gently touching her shoulder, the girl pointed down-stairs.

'Tilda Jane nodded, smiled, and, taking her hand, went out into the hall and down the staircases with her. 'Tilda Jane stared at the ring of men sitting in the smoking-room. When she caught sight of her friend of the morning, she smiled and bobbed her head at him, then, letting her dog slip from her arm to the floor, she stood in silence, waiting to be questioned.

She had no doubt that this was some special tribunal called together to deliberate upon her case. She was not afraid of these men, they had kindly faces.

"What made you pretend you were deaf and dumb?" asked the inspector, at last.

She opened her mouth once or twice, tried to speak, failed, and at last articulated with difficulty, and with an air of genuine surprise, "Why--ain't I deef an' dumb? I ain't spoke ever since he made me think so till now," and she nodded toward the assistant inspector.

"I made you think so!" ejaculated Blakeman, irritably.

"Yes, sir," she said, dreamily, and lingering over her syllables as if she found a new pleasure in the exercise of speech. "You had so much to say, an' the other people had so much to say, that the room seemed chock full o' words. They was flyin' round ever so thick, but I couldn't ketch one o' them."

"Well, now, you've got to quit lying and tell us where you come from," said the assistant inspector, roughly. "You've got to be sent home to-morrow."

"Sent home?" she repeated wonderingly.

"Yes--to Canada. Now tell us the name of the place you belong to, or we'll ship you to some poorhouse."

"Do I come from Canada?" she asked, with a mystified air.

Jack jogged his assistant's elbow. "Seemed to me there was the smell of a ship about her."

"Not so," responded Blakeman who prided himself on distinguishing nationalities. "She hasn't any European accent. She's from right over the border here somewhere."

"Do you know my mother?" 'Tilda Jane was eagerly asking the assistant inspector.

"Yes--know her well. If you don't speak up I'll telegraph her."

"Oh, I'll never speak then," said 'Tilda Jane, taking a step forward and clasping her hands painfully. "Oh, sir, do telegraph to my mother. I've cried an' cried at nights 'bout her. Other girls has mothers that loves 'em an' strokes their hair, an' nobody ever done that to me. They just thinks I'm ugly. Oh, sir, oh, sir, won't you telegraph my mother?"

Blakeman had gone too far. The sentiment of the meeting was against him, and a low murmur warned him to retract what he had said.

"I don't mean your mother," he said, sulkily. "I mean your guardians."

"The lady-boards?" asked 'Tilda Jane, eagerly.

He did not know what "lady-boards" meant, but his silence seemed to give assent to her question, and losing the bright flush that had come to her face, she relapsed into painful and profound silence.

He would never know how he had hurt her. Oh! what hopes he had raised, and in an instant dashed to the ground, and checking the convulsion in her throat, she stealthily wiped away the two tears of distress coursing down her thin cheeks.

"Don't cry," said Jack, kindly. "I expect you're tired from your trip in the train yesterday. You had a pretty long one, hadn't you?"

"Yes, Mr. Jack," she said, humbly. "It seemed kind o' long, but I'm not used to bein' drug along so mighty quick."

"I didn't notice her till we passed McAdam Junction," whispered Jack to his assistant. "She's come down from some place in New Brunswick. Telegraph McAdam."

"They'll not know," growled Blakeman. "Robinson on yesterday's Montreal express is the man. He'll be back to-night. He'll know where she got on. If he'd reported, 'twould have saved this."

"I guess he didn't think we'd struck such an obstacle," remarked Jack, with a chuckle. Then he said aloud, "Don't you suppose they'll be worrying about you, sissy?"

"No, sir," she said, meekly, "they'll be more mad than worried."

"You haven't lost that paper with the address, have you?" said Jack, cunningly.

"No, sir," and she put her hand to her breast.

He got up and walked toward her. "Let me see if I can read it."

"There's no 'casion for that," she said, with dignity.

"You'll have to let me see it," he said, firmly, so firmly that it being no part of her plan to "dare the undareable," she quietly handed Hank's card to him.

"Hobart Dillson, Ciscasset, Maine," he read, then he gave it back to her. "Thank you, sissy. I guess you can go to bed now."

"In a minute," said 'Tilda Jane, submissively, while she made a queer bob of a curtsey to all present. "Gen'l'men all--before I go I must say somethin'. Up-stairs jus' now I was ponderin' on my wickedness. I guess you think I don't know that all liars has their portion in the lake o' fire an' brimstone. I knows it an' feels it, but gen'l'men I ain't told no more lies nor I could help. That 'bout bein' deef an' dumb I can't call a lie, 'cause I felt it, an' I'm s'prised now to hear myself talk. But I have told lies, an' I know it. To-day I had a boss dinner. I went to sleep an' on my bed I dreamed. Somethin' roared an' shook the house an' I woke in a sweat. Did I think the devil had come after me? Yes, sirs--gen'l'men, I've been awful bad, I don't s'pose any of you knows what such badness is. I'm afeared I've got to go on lyin' till I like lies better'n truth. That's what the--what ladies I has known said would happen to little girls as stepped aside from the paths of righteousness."

The men were all staring at her, the assistant inspector most intently, for this flow of language from the supposedly deaf and dumb child surprised even him--a man used to surprises.

"I'm goin' to repent some day," continued 'Tilda Jane, sadly, "just as soon as I get out o' this, an' enjoyin' fam'ly life. I'm goin' to repent of all 'cept one thing, an' I can't repent 'bout that 'cause I dunno if it's wrong. Do you like dogs?" and she abruptly addressed the assistant inspector.

"No," he said, brusquely.

"What do you like?" she went on, wistfully, "cats, birds, children--do you like girls, sir, nice little girls with blue eyes an' curly hair?"

The assistant inspector was a remarkably fine blond specimen of a man, and, as he was popular among the young women of the neighbourhood, 'Tilda Jane's artless question produced a burst of laughter from his companions, and a furious flaming of colour in his own face.

Her question had gone home, and she proceeded. "Suppose you had a nice little girl an' some one wanted to take her away, an' frighten her, an' tie jinglin' things to her an' make her run, an' you'd ketch her up an' run off to the woods, would that be awful wicked, do you s'pose, an' would you have to repent?"

The assistant inspector preserved a discreet and resentful silence, but two or three of his companions murmured between their pipe-stems and their lips, "Not much he wouldn't."

"Now that's what troubles me," 'Tilda Jane continued. "The rest is bad, but is that bad? I guess I'll have to ask some minister, an', gen'l'men all, I guess you'd better let me go on to Ciscasset. You've got a nice place here, an' plenty o' things to eat, an' I think you're very fair, but I feel like movin' on," and pausing, she anxiously scanned the row of faces about her.

"Run away to bed now," said Jack. "We'll tell you to-morrow what you're to do," and as 'Tilda Jane picked up her pet and disappeared, he sauntered across the room, took up a telegraph form, and addressed a message to the creamery shark's father.

"Hobart Dillson, Ciscasset. Girl, age about twelve. Dark hair, eyes--run away from place unknown. Going to your address. Held as immigrant without means. Refuses to give name. Can you supply any information? Answer paid for."