The Story of the Gravelys

CHAPTER VI.

BONNY’S ORDEAL

“What’s the matter, Roger?” asked his wife, when he went home.

“Nothing,” said the young man, wearily, but he went to bed early, and, rising early the next morning, strode off to the iron works without taking his breakfast.

How he loved the handsome lad, his wife’s double. What could he do, what could he say? Until now he had considered the boy inferior in character to his two sisters. But, as he had often assured himself, the stock was good, and the strength and energy latent in Bonny were now looming to the fore. He was emerging from boyhood into manhood, and his childish, happy-go-lucky disposition of youth was warring with the growing forces of more mature age.

The morning wore on, and his gloominess increased, until his father shortly told him that he didn’t look well, and he had better go home.

“I’m all right,” Roger was saying, almost harshly, when there was a ring at his telephone. The National Bank wanted to speak to him.

“Hello,” said Roger.

“Can you come up to the bank?” asked some one, in a jerky voice. “Have had a robbery—young Gravely hurt.”

Roger dashed from his seat, seized his hat, and with a hurried word to his father, rushed outside.

A delivery-cart was standing before the door. He did not stop to see whose it was, but seizing the reins, urged the horse toward the centre of the city.

There was a crowd around the bank, but the cordon of police let him through. Inside was a group of bank officials, reporters, and detectives.

The president’s face was flushed and angry. “Yes we have had a loss,” he said to Roger. “Oh, young Gravely—his grandmother came for him.”

Roger elbowed his way out and took a cab to River Street.

Here it was quiet. The noise of the bank robbery had not reached this neighbourhood. He ran up-stairs three steps at a time to Bonny’s large room in the top of the house, and softly pushed open the door.

Bonny was in bed. Grandma, Berty, a woman of the neighbourhood, and a doctor were bending over him.

Roger could see that the boy’s face was pale and bandaged.

“Bonny,” he said, involuntarily.

The boy heard him and opened his eyes.

“All right, Roger,” he murmured, feebly. “I stood by the fort, but I—guess—you’ll—have—to—excuse—me—to-night,” and his voice trailed off into unconsciousness.

The doctor looked impatiently over his shoulder, and Roger crept out into the hall.

Grandma sent Berty after him. “Oh, Roger,” she whispered, “we had such a fright.”

“What is it—how was it?” asked Roger, eagerly.

“Why, the circus-parade was passing the bank. Every clerk but Bonny left his desk to go look at it. They don’t seem to know why he stayed. When the parade passed, and the clerks went back, he was lying on the floor with his face and head cut.”

“I know why he stayed,” muttered Roger. “He was trying to do his duty. Thank God, he was not killed. Is he much hurt?”

“Some bad flesh wounds. The doctor says he must be kept quiet, but he doesn’t think his brain is injured. Oh, Roger, we are so thankful his life was spared.”

“Probably the thieves didn’t try to kill him. If I can do nothing, I’ll go find out something about the affair. I must telephone Margaretta. She will be upset if she hears from strangers.”

“Yes, go,” said Berty, “and ask her to come to us.”

Late that evening, the doctor, to quiet his feverish patient, permitted him to have five minutes’ conversation with his brother-in-law.

Roger seized the hand lying on the coverlet, and pressed it silently.

“Did they catch the thieves?” asked Bonny, huskily.

“One of them, my boy—how do you think the detectives made sure of him?”

“Don’t know.”

“He was hanging around the circus-crowd, trying to mix up with it—he had some of your yellow hairs on his coat-sleeve.”

Bonny smiled faintly.

“The police expect him to turn State’s evidence,” continued Roger.

“How much did the bank lose?”

“Fifteen thousand dollars.”

“But they’ll get it back, Roger?”

“Yes, if they catch the other fellow, and they’re sure to do it. Bonny, you’re not to talk. Just tell me if this is straight—I want it for the papers. You stood at your desk, all the others ran to the street door. Then—”

“Then,” said Bonny, “I was mad. I wanted to look at the circus, but I had promised you not to shirk. But I just gritted my teeth as I stood there. I was staring after the others when I heard a little noise in the president’s room. I turned round, and saw a man peeping out. I had no revolver, and I didn’t know where Danvers kept his, and like an idiot I never thought to scream. I just grabbed for Buckley’s camera. You know he is a photographic fiend.”

“Yes,” smiled Roger, and he thought of what the captured thief had asked one of the policemen guarding him: “How’s that gritty little demon that tried to snap us?”

“I was just pressing the button,” went on Bonny, “when the man leaped like a cat, and, first thing I knew, he was smashing me over the head with that camera. There was such a row in the street that the others didn’t hear it.”

“Five minutes are up,” said the doctor, coming into the room.

“One minute, Roger,” said the boy, feebly. “I had a second before I got whacked, and in that second I thought, ‘Here’s a specimen of the leisure class toward which I am drifting. I’ll stay with the workers,’ so, Roger, we’ll not call off that contract of ours to-night.”

“All right,” said Roger, beaming on him, and backing toward the door. “It’s to stand—for how long?”

“For ever!” said the boy, with sudden force, just as the doctor gently pushed him back on his pillow, and, putting a teaspoonful of medicine to his lips, said, “Now, young sir, you take this.”

Roger, with a smiling face, sought Grandma and Berty on the veranda at the back of the house. “He’ll be all right in a day or two.”

“Yes, it is the shock that has upset him more than the wounds,” said Berty. “The burglars only wanted to silence him.”

“Grandma, do you know the bank is going to discharge every man-Jack but Bonny?” said Roger.

Grandma’s eyes sparkled, then she became thoughtful.

“What, all those old fellows?” exclaimed Berty.

“Bonny won’t stay,” said Grandma, quietly. “He would feel like a prig.”

“I am going to take him in the iron works with me,” said Roger. “I won’t be denied. He will make a first-class business man.”

“Under your tuition,” said Grandma, with a proud look at him.

“Hush,” said Berty, “the newsboys are calling an extra.”

They all listened. “Extry edeetion Evening Noose—cap-tchure of the second burrgg-lar of the great bank robbery.”

“Good,” cried Berty, “they’ve caught the second man. Roger, dear, go get us a paper.”

The young man ran nimbly down-stairs.

“How he loves Bonny!” said Berty. “What a good brother-in-law!”

Grandma said nothing, but her inscrutable gaze went away down the river.

“And, Grandma,” went on Berty, “let me tell you what Bonny whispered to me before I left the room. He said, ‘I’ve sometimes got mad with Grandma for always harping on keeping the family together, but I see now that if you keep your own family together, you keep your business family together.’”

Grandma did not reply. Her gaze was still down the river, but the girl, watching her lips, saw them softly form the words, “Thank God!”

Bonny’s ordeal was past, and it had better fitted him for other and perhaps more severe ordeals in his life to come.

CHAPTER VII.

BERTY IMPARTS INFORMATION

Mrs. Stanisfield was making her way to her roof-garden.

“If any callers come,” she said to her parlour-maid, “bring them up here.”

Presently there was an exclamation, “What cheer!”

Margaretta looked around. Her irrepressible sister Berty stood in the French window, her dark head thrust forward inquiringly.

“Come out, dear,” said Mrs. Stanisfield, “I am alone.”

“I want to have a talk,” said Berty, coming forward, “and have you anything to eat? I am hungry as a guinea-pig.”

“There is a freezer of ice-cream over there behind those azaleas—the cake is in a covered dish.”

Berty dipped out a saucerful of ice-cream, cut herself a good-sized piece of cake, and then took a low seat near her sister, who was examining her curiously.

“Berty,” said Margaretta, suddenly, “you have something to tell me.”

Berty laughed. “How queer things are. Two months ago we had plenty of money. Then Grandma lost everything. We had to go and live in that old gone-to-seed mansion on River Street—you know what a dirty street it is?”

“Yes, I know—I wish I didn’t.”

“I’m not sorry we went. I’ve had such experiences. I thought I wouldn’t tell you, Margaretta, till all was over. You might worry.”

“What have you been doing?” asked Margaretta, anxiously.

“You remember how the neighbours thought we were missionaries when we first moved to the street?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And when I spoke sharply to a slow workman, an impudent boy called out that the missionary was mad?”

“Yes, I recall it—what neighbours!”

“I shall never forget that first evening,” said Berty, musingly. “Grandma and I were sitting by the fire—so tired after the moving—when a dozen of those half-washed women came edging in with Bibles and hymn-books under their arms.”

“It was detestable,” said Margaretta, with a shrug of her shoulders, “but does it not worry you to repeat all this?”

“No, dearest, I am working up to something. You remember the women informed us in a mousie way that they had come to have a prayer-meeting, and I cuttingly told them that we weren’t ready for callers. Dear Grandma tried to smooth it over by saying that while we had a great respect for religious workers, we did not belong to them, but her salve didn’t cover the wound my tongue had made.”

“What do you mean?” asked Margaretta.

“Here begins the part that is new to you,” said Berty, jubilantly. “To snub one’s neighbours is a dangerous thing. Every tin can and every decrepit vegetable in our yard next morning eloquently proclaimed this truth.”

“You don’t mean to say they had dared—”

“Had dared and done—and our yard had just been so nicely cleaned. Well, I was pretty mad, but I said nothing. Next morning there was more rubbish—I went into the street. There was no policeman in sight, so I went to the city hall. Underneath is a place, you know, where policemen lounge till they have to go on their beats.”

“No, I don’t know. I never was in the city hall in my life. You didn’t go alone, Berty?”

“Yes, I did—why shouldn’t I? I’m a free-born American citizen. Our grandfather was one of the leading men of this city. His taxes helped to build that hall. I’ve a right there, if I want to go.”

“But without a chaperon, and you are so young, and—and—”

“Beautiful.”

“I was going to say pretty,” remarked Margaretta, severely.

“Beautiful is stronger,” said Berty, calmly. “What a lovely view you have from this roof-garden, Margaretta. How it must tranquillize you to gaze at those trees and flower-beds when anything worries you.”

“Do go on, Berty—what did you do at the city hall?”

“A big policeman asked what I wanted. I thought of one of dear grandfather’s sayings, ‘Never deal with subordinates if you can get at principals,’ so I said, ‘I want to see your head man.’”

“That’s an African tribe expression, I think,” murmured Margaretta.

“Evidently, for he grinned and said, ‘Oh, the chief,’ and he opened the door of a private office”.

“Another big man sat like a mountain behind a table. He didn’t get up when I went in—just looked at me.”

“‘Are you over the police of this city?’” I asked.

“‘I am,’ he said.

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve come to apply to you for protection. My neighbours throw tin cans in my back yard every night, and I don’t like it.’

“He grinned from ear to ear, and asked me where I lived.

“‘On River Street,’ I said.

“He gave a whistle and stared at me. I didn’t have on anything remarkable—only a black cloth walking-skirt with a round hat, and that plain-looking white shirt-waist you gave me with the pretty handwork.”

“Which cost forty dollars,” said Margaretta, under her breath.

“Well, that man stared at me,” went on Berty, “and then what do you think he said in an easy tone of voice—‘And what have you been doing to your neighbours, my dear?’

“Margaretta, I was furious. ‘Get up out of your seat,’ I said, in a choking voice. ‘Take that cap off your head, and remember that you are in the presence of a lady. My grandfather was the late Judge Travers of this city, my brother-in-law is Mr. Roger Stanisfield, of the Stanisfield Iron Works, and my great-uncle is governor of the State. I’ll have you put out of office if you say “my dear” to me again.’”

Margaretta held her breath. Berty’s face was flaming at the reminiscence, and her ice-cream was slipping to the floor. “What did he say?” she gasped.

“I wish you could have seen him, Margaretta. He looked like a bumptious old turkey gobbler, knocked all of a heap by a small-sized chicken.

“‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, scuttling out of his seat, ‘I’m sure, Miss, I didn’t dream who you were.’

“‘It isn’t your business to dream,’ I said, still furious. ‘When a woman comes to you with a complaint, treat her civilly. You’re nothing but the paid servant of the city. You don’t own the citizens of Riverport!’

“That finished him. ‘I’m going now,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to sit down. See that you attend to that matter without delay,’ and I stalked out, and he followed me with his mouth open, and if I didn’t know what had happened, I’d say he was standing at that door yet gazing up the street after me.”

“What did happen?” asked Margaretta, eagerly.

“I got my back yard cleaned,” said Berty, drily. “Grandma says two policemen came hurrying up the street before I got home. They went into some of the houses, then women came out, and boys swarmed over our fence, and in an hour there wasn’t the ghost of a tin can left.”

“Think of it,” said Margaretta, “what wretched things for you to be exposed to—what degradation!”

“It isn’t any worse for me than for other women and girls,” said Berty, doggedly, “and I’m going to find out why River Street isn’t treated as well as Grand Avenue.”

“But River Street people are poor, Berty.”

“Suppose they are poor, aren’t they the children of the city?”

“But, Berty—workmen and that sort of people can’t have fine houses, and horses and carriages.”

“Not for horses and carriages, not for fine houses am I pleading, but for equal rights in comfort and decency. Would you take your cold dip every morning if you had to cross a frozen yard in winter, and a filthy yard in summer for every drop of water you use?”

Margaretta shuddered.

“Would you have your house kept clean if it were so dark that you couldn’t see the dirty corners?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Margaretta, decidedly, “but who owns those dreadful places?”

“You do,” said Berty, shortly.

“I do!” said Margaretta, aghast.

“Yes—some of them. Roger holds property down there in your name. All the rich people in the city like to invest in River Street tenements. They’re always packed.”

“I won’t have it,” said Margaretta. “Roger shall sell out.”

“Don’t sell—improve your property, and get some of the stain off your soul. Women should ask their husbands where they invest their money. Good old Mrs. Darlway, the temperance worker, owns a building with a saloon in it.”

“Oh, misery!” exclaimed Margaretta, “she doesn’t know it, of course.”

“No—tell her.”

“How have you found all this out, Berty?”

“I’ve talked to the women.”

“What—the women of the tin can episode?”

“Oh, they’re all over that now—they understand Grandma and me—and what a lot of things they’ve told me. Haven’t you always thought that policemen were noble, kind creatures, like soldiers?”

“Yes,” said Margaretta, innocently, “aren’t they?”

“They’re the most miserable of miserable sinners.”

“Oh, Berty, surely not all!”

“Well, I’ll be generous and leave out half a dozen if it will please you. The others all take bribes.”

“Bribes!”

“Yes, bribes. Did you ever see a lean policeman, Margaretta?”

“I don’t know.”

“I never did—they’re all fat as butter, like the sinners in the Psalms. Now, no one need ever tell me that the police are honest, till I see them all get lean with chasing after evil. Now they just stand round corners like green bay-trees, and take bribes.”

Margaretta was silent for a long time, pondering over this new department of thought opened up to her. Then she said, “Why don’t you get the women to leave this hateful neighbourhood?”

“How can they?” said her sister, mournfully, “their husbands work on the wharves. But I mustn’t make you too gloomy. Let me tell you about the heart of the Mayor.”

“You were dreadfully sad just after you went to River Street,” said Margaretta; “was this the trouble?”