The Colossus Part 24

"He made his flush," said Whittlesy.

Flummers did not look at him. "I went immediately to the jail, where one of the rank and file of the Kittymunkses was confined; and say, you ought to have seen the poor, miserable, bug-bitten wretch they stood up in front of me. He wore about a half-pint of dirty whiskers, and in his make-up he reminded me of a scare-crow that brother and I once made to put out on the farm in Wisconsin. I have seen a number of Kittymunkses, but he was the worst. I said, 'Say, why don't you wash yourself?' and the horrible suggestion made him shudder. 'Is this the man?' the sheriff asked. 'Gentlemen,' I replied, disdaining the sheriff, 'on the first train that pulls out I am going back to Chicago; and whenever you catch another baboon that has worn himself threadbare by sitting around your village, telegraph me and I will come and tell you to turn him loose.' 'Then he is not the man?' said the sheriff, giving me a look that told of deep official disappointment. 'Gentlemen,' I replied, still disdaining the sheriff, 'I never saw this poor wretch before. Tra la.' I met one gentleman in the town. I think he belonged to the sporting fraternity. He said, 'Will you have something?' and we went into a place kept by a retired prize-fighter. My friend pointed to a noisy party at the rear end of the room, and said: 'The city authorities.' 'Should they live?' I asked, and my friend said, 'They should not.' And then papa was in town. 'Make me a sufficient inducement,' said I, 'and I will take a position on one of your newspapers and kill them off. One of my specialties is the killing of city authorities. Nature has intended them for my meat. I have killed mayors in nearly every place that is worthy of the name of munic.i.p.ality; and between the ordinary city official and papa,' I added, 'there is about as much affinity as there is between a case of hydrophobia and a limpid trout stream trickling its way through the woods of my native Wisconsin.' Say, do you know what he did? He eyed me suspiciously and edged off toward the door.

Oh, it is painful to stand by helplessly and see fate constantly casting my lot among jays."

"Mr. Flummers, do you think that you would recognize Kittymunks if you were to see him?" Henry asked.

"Sure thing. Papa's friends may deceive him, but his eyes, backed by his judgment, never do. Say, I'm getting up a great scheme, and pretty soon I'm going to travel through the country with it. I'm going to organize an investment company for country merchants. I've already got about fifteen thousand dollars' worth of stock ready to issue. Has everybody been to lunch? I have been so busy that I haven't eaten anything since early this morning. Joe, lend me fifty cents."

"And take a mortgage on your investment company?"

"Oh, ho, ho, that's a good thing. The other day one of your so-called literary men said that he would give me two dollars an hour to write for him from dictation. 'Ha, I've struck a soft thing,' thinks I, and I goes to his den with him. Well, when I had worked about half an hour, taking down his guff, he turns to me and says, 'Say, lend me a dollar.' 'I haven't got but forty cents,' I replied. But he didn't weaken. 'Well, let me have that,' says he. 'You've got job and I haven't, you know.' And he robbed me. I've got to go out now and see a business jay from Peoria. With my newspaper work and my side speculations I'm kept pretty busy. Joe, where's that fifty?"

"Gave it to you a moment ago."

"All right. Say, will you fellows be here when I come back?"

"Not if we can get out," Whittlesy replied.

"Oh, you've bobbed up again, have you? But remember that papa holds you in the hollow of his hand."

CHAPTER XX.

CRIED A SENSATION.

In Chicago was a sheet--it could not be called a newspaper and a.s.suredly was not a publication--that was rarely seen until late at night, and which always appeared to have been smuggled across the border-line of darkness into the light of the street lamps. Ragged boys, carrying this sheet, hung about the theaters and cried a sensation when the play was done. Their aim was to catch strangers, and to turn fiercely upon their importunity was not so effective as simply to say, "I live here."

One night, as Henry and Ellen came out of a theater, they heard these ragged boys shouting the names of Witherspoon and Brooks.

"Gracious," said Ellen, with sudden weight on Henry's arm, "what does that mean?"

"It's nothing but a fake," he answered.

"But get a paper and see; won't you?"

"Yes, as soon as I can."

They were so crowd-pressed that it was some time before they could reach one of the boys; and when they did, Ellen s.n.a.t.c.hed a paper and attempted to read it by the light of the carriage lamp.

"Wait until we get home," he said. "I tell you it amounts to nothing."

"No, we will go to a restaurant," she replied.

The sensation was a half column of frightening head on a few inches of smeared body. It declared that recent developments pointed to the fact that Witherspoon and Brooks knew more concerning the whereabouts of Dave Kittymunks than either of them cared to tell. It was known that old Colton's extreme conservatism had been regarded as an obstruction, and that while they might not actually have figured in the murder, yet they were known to be pleased at the result, that the large reward was all a "bluff," and that it was to their interest to aid the escape of Kittymunks.

Before breakfast the next morning Brooks was at Witherspoon's house. A "friend" had called his attention to the article. Had it appeared in one of the reputable journals instead of in this fly-by-night smircher of the characters of men, a suit for criminal libel would have been brought, but to give countenance to this slander was to circulate it; and therefore the two men were resolved not to permit the infamy to place them under the contribution of a moment's worry.

"The character of a successful man is a target to be shot at by the envious," said Witherspoon. He was pacing the room, and anger had hardened his step. "A target to be shot at," he repeated, "and the shots are free."

"I didn't know what to do," Brooks replied. He stood on the hearth-rug with his hands behind him. "I was so worried that I couldn't sleep after I saw the thing late last night; and my wife was crying when I left home."

"Infamous scoundrels!" Witherspoon muttered.

"I didn't think anything could be done," Brooke continued, "but I thought it best to see you at once."

"Of course," said Witherspoon.

"But, after all, don't you think we ought to have those wretches locked up?" Brooke asked.

"Yes," Witherspoon answered, "and we ought to have them hanged, but we might as well set out to look for Kittymunks. Ten chances to one they are not here at all; the thing might have been printed in a town three hundred miles from here."

"Yes, that's so," Brooks admitted; and addressing Henry, who stood at a window, gazing out, he added: "What do you think about it?"

Henry did not heed the question, so forgetfully was he gazing, and Brooks repeated it.

"If you have decided not to worry," Henry answered, "it is better not to trouble yourselves at all. I doubt whether you could ever find the publishers of the paper."

"You are right," Brooks agreed.

"Character used to be regarded as something at least half way sacred,"

said Witherspoon, "but now, like an old plug hat, it is kicked about the streets. And yet we boast of our freedom. Freedom, indeed! So would it be freedom to sit at a window and shoot men as they pa.s.s. I swear to G.o.d that I never had as much trouble and worry as I've had lately. _Everything_ goes wrong. What about Jordway & Co., of Aurora?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Brooks answered. "Jordway has killed himself, and the affairs of the firm are in a hopeless tangle."

"Of coa.r.s.e," Witherspoon replied, "and we'll never get a cent."

"I'm afraid not, sir. I cautioned you against them, you remember."

"Never saw anything like it," Witherspoon declared, not recalling the caution that Brooks had advised, or not caring to acknowledge it.

"Oh, everything may come out all right. Pardon me, Mr. Witherspoon, but I think you need rest"

"There is no rest," Witherspoon replied.

"And yet," said Henry, turning from the window, "you took me to task for saying that I sometimes felt there was nothing in the entire scheme of life."

"For saying it at your age, yes. You have but just begun to try life and have no right to condemn it."

"I didn't condemn it without a hearing. Isn't there something wrong when the poor are wretched and the rich are miserable?"

"Nonsense," said Witherspoon.

"Oh, but that's no argument."

"Isn't it? Well, then there shall be none."