In The Bishop's Carriage [18]
own fault, you damned little chump!" he said to me, as they went out.
You lie, Mag Monahan, he's no such thing! He may be a hard man to live with, but he's mine--my Tom--my Tom!
What? Latimer?
Well, do you know, it's funny about him. He'd told the cop that I'd peached--peached on Tom! So they went off without me.
Why?
That's what he said himself when we were alone.
"In order to insure for myself another of your most interesting visits, I suppose, Miss--not Omar? All right. . . . Tell me, can I do nothing for you? Aren't you sick of this sort of life?"
"Get Tom out of jail."
He shook his head.
"I'm too good a friend of yours to do you such a turn."
"I don't want any friend that isn't Tom's."
He threw the pistol from him and pulled himself up, till he sat looking at me.
"In heaven's name, what can you see in a fellow like that?"
"What's that to you?" I turned to go.
"To me? Things of that sort are nothing, of course, to me--me, that `luckless Pot He marr'd in making.' But, tell me--can a girl like you tell the truth? What made you hesitate when that fellow told you with his eyes to murder me?"
"How did you know?"
"How? The glass. See over yonder. I could watch every expression on both your faces. What was it--what was it, child, that made you--oh, if you owe me a single heart-beat of gratitude, tell me the truth!"
"You've said it yourself."
"What?"
"That line we read the other night about `the luckless Pot'."
His face went gray and he fell back on his pillows. The strenuous life we'd been leading him, Tom and I, was too much for him, I guess.
Do you know, I really felt sorry I'd said it. But he is a cripple. Did he expect me to say he was big and strong and dashing--like Tom?
I left him there and got out and away. But do you know what I saw, Mag, beside his bed, just as Burnett came to put me out?
My old blue coat with the buttons--the bell-boy's coat I'd left in the housekeeper's room when I borrowed her Sunday rig. The coat was hanging over a chair, and right by it, on a table, was that big book with a picture covering every page, still open at that verse about
Through this same Garden--and for ONE in vain!
IV.
No--no--no! No more whining from Nance Olden. Listen to what I've got to tell you, Mag, listen!
You know where I was coming from yesterday when I passed Troyon's window and grinned up at you, sitting there, framed in bottles of hair tonic, with all that red wig of yours streaming about you?
Yep, from that little, rat-eyed lawyer's office. I was glum as mud. I felt as though Tom and myself were both flies caught by the leg--he by the law and I by the lawyer--in a sticky mess; and the more we flapped our wings and struggled and pulled, the more we hurt and tore ourselves, and the sooner we'd have to give it up.
Oh, that wizen-faced little lawyer that lives on the Tom Dorgans and the Nance Oldens, who don't know which way to turn to get the money! He looks at me out of his red little eyes and measures in dollars what I'd do for Tom. And then he sets his price a notch higher than that.
When I passed the big department store, next to Troyon's, I was thinking of this, and I turned in there, just aching for some of the boodle that flaunts itself in a poor girl's face when she's desperate, from every silk and satin rag, from every lace and jewel in the place.
The funny part of it is that I didn't want it for myself, but for Tom. 'Pon my soul, Mag, though I would have filled my arms with everything I saw, I wouldn't have put on one thing of all the duds; just hiked off to soak 'em and pay the lawyer. I might have been as old and ugly and rich as the yellow-skinned woman opposite me, who was turning over laces on the middle counter, for all these things meant to me--with Tom in jail.
I was thinking this as I looked at her, when all at once I saw--
You know it takes a pretty quick touch, sharp eyes and good nerve to get away with the goods in a big shop like that. Or it takes something altogether
You lie, Mag Monahan, he's no such thing! He may be a hard man to live with, but he's mine--my Tom--my Tom!
What? Latimer?
Well, do you know, it's funny about him. He'd told the cop that I'd peached--peached on Tom! So they went off without me.
Why?
That's what he said himself when we were alone.
"In order to insure for myself another of your most interesting visits, I suppose, Miss--not Omar? All right. . . . Tell me, can I do nothing for you? Aren't you sick of this sort of life?"
"Get Tom out of jail."
He shook his head.
"I'm too good a friend of yours to do you such a turn."
"I don't want any friend that isn't Tom's."
He threw the pistol from him and pulled himself up, till he sat looking at me.
"In heaven's name, what can you see in a fellow like that?"
"What's that to you?" I turned to go.
"To me? Things of that sort are nothing, of course, to me--me, that `luckless Pot He marr'd in making.' But, tell me--can a girl like you tell the truth? What made you hesitate when that fellow told you with his eyes to murder me?"
"How did you know?"
"How? The glass. See over yonder. I could watch every expression on both your faces. What was it--what was it, child, that made you--oh, if you owe me a single heart-beat of gratitude, tell me the truth!"
"You've said it yourself."
"What?"
"That line we read the other night about `the luckless Pot'."
His face went gray and he fell back on his pillows. The strenuous life we'd been leading him, Tom and I, was too much for him, I guess.
Do you know, I really felt sorry I'd said it. But he is a cripple. Did he expect me to say he was big and strong and dashing--like Tom?
I left him there and got out and away. But do you know what I saw, Mag, beside his bed, just as Burnett came to put me out?
My old blue coat with the buttons--the bell-boy's coat I'd left in the housekeeper's room when I borrowed her Sunday rig. The coat was hanging over a chair, and right by it, on a table, was that big book with a picture covering every page, still open at that verse about
Through this same Garden--and for ONE in vain!
IV.
No--no--no! No more whining from Nance Olden. Listen to what I've got to tell you, Mag, listen!
You know where I was coming from yesterday when I passed Troyon's window and grinned up at you, sitting there, framed in bottles of hair tonic, with all that red wig of yours streaming about you?
Yep, from that little, rat-eyed lawyer's office. I was glum as mud. I felt as though Tom and myself were both flies caught by the leg--he by the law and I by the lawyer--in a sticky mess; and the more we flapped our wings and struggled and pulled, the more we hurt and tore ourselves, and the sooner we'd have to give it up.
Oh, that wizen-faced little lawyer that lives on the Tom Dorgans and the Nance Oldens, who don't know which way to turn to get the money! He looks at me out of his red little eyes and measures in dollars what I'd do for Tom. And then he sets his price a notch higher than that.
When I passed the big department store, next to Troyon's, I was thinking of this, and I turned in there, just aching for some of the boodle that flaunts itself in a poor girl's face when she's desperate, from every silk and satin rag, from every lace and jewel in the place.
The funny part of it is that I didn't want it for myself, but for Tom. 'Pon my soul, Mag, though I would have filled my arms with everything I saw, I wouldn't have put on one thing of all the duds; just hiked off to soak 'em and pay the lawyer. I might have been as old and ugly and rich as the yellow-skinned woman opposite me, who was turning over laces on the middle counter, for all these things meant to me--with Tom in jail.
I was thinking this as I looked at her, when all at once I saw--
You know it takes a pretty quick touch, sharp eyes and good nerve to get away with the goods in a big shop like that. Or it takes something altogether