The Rose in the Ring Part 29

"Oh, thunder," he said in a futile attempt to sneer. "Let's say no more about it. It was just fun for me. Besides, David," he continued, meeting the other's gaze fairly, "you stood by Ernie that day. Don't forget that, kid. You didn't have to, you know."

"You chaps can settle all this some other time," said Joey sharply.

"Wot we want to get at now is this: Wot's to be done next? Is David to set down and wait or is he to go back there and wait?"

"Go back there?" gasped d.i.c.k. "Why, Joey Noakes, ain't you got a mite o' sense? You old noodle! Of course, he ain't to go back there. You mark my words, purty soon his neighbors will be advertisin' for him to come home and forgive 'em. No, sir! Wait here until something drops.

Read the _Cincinnati Enquirer_ every day, kid. You'll find something to interest you every little while about the Jenison murder case. You see, my buck, they're still lookin' for you."

"I hope it all turns out as you think, d.i.c.k," cried David fervently. He was weak with excitement. "Oh, how I long to be cleared of this awful thing! How I long for the sight of Jenison Hall! And, say, d.i.c.k! If I should go back there as master, I want you and Ernie to come there and stay--all the rest of your lives. I--"

But d.i.c.k raised his hand; his eyes had narrowed. "I couldn't do that, David," he said, a harsh note in his usually pleasant voice. "Thank you, just the same. Ernie and me are not cut out for places like Jenison Hall. We--we'd have all the silver inside of a week--and maybe the furniture." His face flushed as he made this ba.n.a.l excuse for jest.

Ruby cried out in protest. "Don't say that, d.i.c.k Cronk! You _could_ be different. Oh, why don't you try it, d.i.c.k?"

He looked down. His lips worked in the effort to force a grin of derision. His hand was trembling. No one spoke; somehow they felt the struggle that was going on within him. At last he lifted his eyes to hers.

"Can't do it, Ruby," he said quietly. "I don't think I'm naturally a thief, but it's got hold of me. If I thought there was a chance, maybe I'd--oh, but what's the use! Let's change the subject. Jacky, before we part for the night, I want to say something more to you. It hurts like the devil to say it, but I got to. You said you'd like me and Ernie to--to come down there. Well, I may as well tell you right here in front of these friends of our'n that Ernie--my brother, don't like you.

Now, don't say anything! You can't understand. He's terrible bitter against you. You'll excuse me if I say there's a--a girl at the bottom of it."

"A girl?" fell from David's lips. "You--Great heaven, d.i.c.k, you don't mean--Christine!"

d.i.c.k nodded, a rueful smile flickering about his lips. "Poor boy," he said apologetically, "he can't help it. But it's so, just the same. And I want to ask you to be on the lookout for him always, kid. He's liable to get you some time if he can. It's dirt mean of me to say this about my brother, but I don't want him to do anything like that. He--he might get desperate, don't you see; and--well, just keep your eye skinned, that's all. You--you got to remember, David, that his dad swung for killin' a man. Mebby it's in Ernie's system, too. He's had such a horrible, unhappy life, I--I somehow can't blame him for having it in for us fellers that are strong and straight."

David had sunk into a chair, appalled by his words.

"But he must know that Christine doesn't care for him," he said mechanically, his eyes on d.i.c.k's face.

"Sure he does. That's the hard part of it. He's bitter jealous of you.

Course she wouldn't think of a cripple like him. But he's got it into his nut that she wouldn't look at you either if you was disfigured or your back was smashed or something like that. I keep arguing with him and he's sensible when he takes time to think. But, just the same, I wish you'd keep your eye peeled."

"I am very sorry he feels as he does about--"

"Oh, I'm not asking you to give her up, kid--not for a minute. Cop her out if you can. She's a little Jim-dandy. And, say," he said, turning to the others, who had listened to him with grave uneasiness, "speaking of her reminds me that you may expect the new partner to-morrow."

"Bob Grand?" growled Joey.

"Yep." d.i.c.k had cast off his repressed air and was grinning once more, with all the delight of a teasing boy. "Old skeezicks was on the train with me this evening, but he's gone on to the next stand. He looks more than ever like a fat, satisfied slug."

"Well," said Joey reflectively, "we don't need him, but we do need 'is money. I 'ope, d.i.c.ky, you didn't deprive 'im of it."

"Joey," said d.i.c.k reproachfully, "do you think I'd take the bread right out of your throat?"

David lay awake until nearly dawn, his mind whirling with the disclosures of the night. That sweet encounter in love still lingered uppermost in his thoughts, its fires fed afresh by the brand of hope that d.i.c.k had tossed upon them, but disagreeably chilled by the prospect of new trouble in the shape of Ernie Cronk. He fell asleep, thinking of those blissful moments under the awning when he held her slim, unresisting body close to his own and they were all alone in the blackest of nights with a tempest about them. In the background of his thoughts lurked Ernie Cronk and still farther back was the ominous figure of Colonel Bob Grand.

For the first time in many weeks he did not think of the detectives--and the bloodhounds!

CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH MANY THINGS HAPPEN

With all the irony of luck, Colonel Grand brought fair weather. It was as if he had ordered the sun to shine and it obeyed him.

When the mud-covered wagons rumbled into town after their tortuous twenty-mile journey, the sun was high and the skies were clear and all the world seemed to be singing with the birds.

David had prepared Mrs. Braddock and Christine; they looked for the Colonel on the station platform as the train rolled in. He was there, waiting, as if directed by Providence, at the foot of the steps which Mrs. Braddock was to descend. He had eyes for no one until she appeared in the car door. Then his ugly smile projected itself; his silk hat came off and he bowed low. One knowing the innermost workings of Colonel Grand's mind would have understood the profoundness of that bow. He was giving her time to collect herself; he was, on his own part, deliberately evading the look of repugnance he knew so well would leap into her eyes at the first glimpse of him.

She did not see the hand he extended, but with a cool nod of her head, stepped unaided to the platform. Another man would have felt the rebuke. Colonel Grand, with the utmost deference in his manner, quietly relieved her of the traveling bag, his hat still in his hand. He sent a smile of greeting up to David and the angry-eyed Christine.

"Bring Christine's bag, Jack," he called out. "I have a hack waiting on the other side of the depot. It is too muddy for walking."

Mary Braddock drew herself up, her eyes flashed and her lips parted to resent this easy proprietorship. But she saw that a group of performers were staring at them in plain curiosity. She closed her lips in bitter determination, and walked off at his side. Close behind came her daughter and the young Virginian.

Joey Grinaldi addressed himself to the little knot of strollers.

"I never did see such a look as she gave 'im," said he. "My eye! It was a stinger. Take my word for it, she's going to take the bit in 'er mouth afore you know it, and show that hyena wot she's made of."

"Hyena, dad?" scoffed his daughter. "He's not even that. He's a rep-_tile_."

"Well, he brought the sunshine," said one of the women half-heartedly.

"But it's still muddy," retorted Joey with dogged pessimism. They trooped off after him, each one lighter hearted in spite of a dull reluctance, simply because Colonel Grand had brought not only the sunshine but a life-saving opulence.

Thomas Braddock, muddy, unkempt and sour, had managed to sleep off some of the effects of the liquor he had poured into himself the night before. True to his word, he had traveled by wagon. The treasurer of the circus had seen to it that he was tossed like a bundle of rags into the ticket wagon, there to roll and jostle from wall to wall over twenty miles of oblivion.

He was waiting at the show grounds for the return of the street parade when he saw his wife and Christine approaching, followed at some distance by Colonel Grand and the faithful David.

"Well," said he harshly, as the women came up to him, "you were too good to travel as I did, eh? Had to borrow money to ride in palace cars, eh? Fine thing for you to do, you two,--setting an example like that. I suppose Bob Grand put up for you. I notice you didn't mention his name to me, you--"

Christine and her mother had talked long and earnestly together on the train coming down. The girl's cheeks had burnt during that serious conference, to which no outsider was admitted. Her mother had listened to an eager, piteous appeal from the lips of the girl; it was the cry of a maiden who suddenly realizes that she is conscious of a modesty heretofore dormant. Together they were now taking up a very portentous question with Thomas Braddock, with small hope of having him see the matter from their point of view.

Mary Braddock had no retort ready for his ruffianly insinuation. "Are you too busy, Tom, to come over to the cook-tent with us for a few moments? I want to speak very seriously about something that has been on my mind for some time."

Colonel Grand and David were sauntering off in the direction of the animal tent.

"Why ain't that loafer in the parade where he belongs?" demanded Braddock, glaring red-eyed at the retreating David.

"How should I know? Ask Colonel Grand. He appears to be giving directions nowadays," said his wife bitterly.

"Well, what do you want of me? Let's have it, please. I'm busy."

"Not out here, Tom. Come over to the cook-tent."

Braddock glanced at her sharply. It occurred to him that she was unusually calm and serious. He turned after a moment and led the way to the cook-tent, which was always unoccupied at this time.

There, in sullen amazement, he listened to the plea of his wife and daughter. He raged back at them as they pleaded; he met Mary's calm, patient arguments with sneers and brutal laughter; he put a stop to Christine's supplications with an oath that shocked and distressed her more than anything that ever had happened to her in all her life.

"What do you take me for?" he roared, time and again, for want of better weapons to meet his wife's determined a.s.sault. In the end, he struck the table a mighty blow with his clenched fist, but he was very careful to have the table between them. More than once he had followed the impulsive movement of her hand in a sort of craven alarm, born of the conviction that he might have driven her at last to the point where a pistol would put an end to his wretched dominion. "Now, this ends it," he shouted. "I won't hear anything more about it. She's got to wear tights as long as I say so. What the devil's got into you two all of a sudden? Lookee here, Christine, don't ever let me hear you make such a fuss as this again. By thunder, I'll--I'll lick you, that's what I'll do. I've never laid a rough hand on you yet. I've allus treated you as a kind father should. But don't drive me to forget myself. You got to wear tights and do this act as long as we run this show. We--"