Читать книгу The Definite Object - Jeffery Farnol - Страница 8

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A clock in the hall without struck midnight, but Mr. Ravenslee sat there long after the silvery chime had died away, his chin sunk upon his broad chest, his sombre eyes staring blindly at the fading embers, lost in profound and gloomy meditation. But, all at once, he started and glanced swiftly around toward a certain window, the curtains of which were only partly drawn, and his lounging attitude changed instantly to one of watchful alertness.

As he sat thus, broad shoulders stooped, feet drawn up—poised for swift action, he beheld a light that flashed here and there, that vanished and came again, hovering up and down and to and fro outside the window; wherefore he reached out a long arm in the gloom and silently opened a certain drawer in the escritoire.

Came a soft click, a faint creak, and a breath of cool, fragrant air as the window was cautiously opened, and a shapeless something climbed through, while Mr. Ravenslee sat motionless—waiting.

The flashing light winked again, a small, bright disc that hovered uncertainly and finally steadied upon the carved cabinet in the corner, and the Something crept stealthily thither. A long-drawn, breathless minute and then—the room was flooded with brilliant light, and a figure, kneeling before the cabinet, uttered a strangled cry and leapt up, only to recoil before Mr. Ravenslee's levelled revolver.

A pallid-faced, willowy lad, this, of perhaps seventeen, who, sinking to his knees, threw up an arm across his face, then raised both hands above his head.

"Ah, don't shoot, mister!" he gasped. "Oh, don't shoot—I got me hands up!"

"Stand up!" said Ravenslee grimly, "up with you and shutter that window—you may have friends outside, and I'm taking no chances! Quick—shutter that window, I say."

The lad struggled to his feet and, crossing to the window, fumbled the shutter into place, his ghastly face turning and turning toward the revolver that glittered in such deadly fashion in Mr. Ravenslee's steady hand. At length, the shutters barred, the boy turned, and moistening dry lips, spoke hoarsely and with apparent effort.

"Oh, mister—don't go for to—croak a guy as—as ain't done nothing!"

"You broke into my house!"

"But I—haven't took nothin'!"

"Because I happened to catch you!"

"But—but—oh, sir," stammered the boy, taking off his cap and fumbling with it while he stared wide-eyed at the threatening revolver, "I—I ain't a real thief—cross me heart and hope to die, I ain't! Don't croak me, sir!"

"But why in the world not?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee. "Alone and unaided I have captured a desperate criminal, a bloodthirsty villain—caught him in the very act of burgling a cabinet where I keep my cigars of price—and Mr. Brimberly's, of course! Consequently to—er—croak you is my privilege as a citizen; it's all quite just and proper—really, I ought to croak you, you know."

"I—ain't desprit, mister," the boy pleaded, "I ain't a reg'lar crook; dis is me first try-out—honest it is!"

"But then I prefer to regard you as a deep-dyed desperado—you must be quite—er—sixteen! Consequently it is my duty to croak you on the spot, or hand you over to the police—"

"No, no!" cried the boy, his tremulous hands reached out in a passion of supplication, "not d' cops—don't let th' p'lice get me. Oh, I never took nothin' from nobody—lemme go! Be a sport and let me beat it, please, sir!"

All Mr. Ravenslee's chronic languor seemed to have returned as, leaning back in the deep-cushioned chair, he regarded this youthful malefactor with sleepy eyes, yet eyes that missed nothing of the boy's quivering earnestness as he continued, breathlessly:

"Oh, I ain't a real crook, I never done nothin' like this before, an' I never will again if—if you'll only let me chase meself—"

"And now," sighed Mr. Ravenslee, "I'll trouble you for the 'phone, yonder."

"Are ye goin' to—call in de cops?"

"That is my intention. Give me the 'phone."

"No!" cried the boy, and springing before the telephone he stood there, trembling but defiant.

"Give me that telephone!"

"Not much I won't!"

"Then of course I must shoot you!"

The boy stood with head up-flung and fists tight-clenched; Mr. Ravenslee lounged in his chair with levelled pistol. So they fronted each other—but, all at once, with a sound between a choke and a groan, the lad covered his face.

"Go on!" he whispered hoarsely, "go on—what's keepin' you? If it's the cops or croaking, I—I'd rather croak."

"Why?"

"'Cause if I was ever sent to—prison—it 'ud break her heart, I guess."

"Her heart?" said Mr. Ravenslee, and lowered the pistol.

"Me sister's."

"Ah—so you have a sister?" and Mr. Ravenslee sat up suddenly.

"Lots o' guys has, but there ain't a sister like mine in all N' York—nor nowheres else."

"Who are you? What's your name?"

"Spike. Me real name's Arthur, but Arthur sounds kinder soft an' sissy; nobody don't call me Arthur 'cept her, an' I don't mind her."

"And what's her name?"

"Hermy—Hermione, sir."

"Hermione—why, that's Greek! It's a very beautiful name!"

"Kind of fits her too!" nodded Spike, warming to his theme. "Hermy's ace-high on the face and figure question! Why, there ain't a swell dame on Fift' Av'ner, nor nowheres else, got anything on Hermy as a looker!"

"And what of your father and mother?"

"Ain't got none—don't remember having none—don't want none; Hermy's good 'nuff for me."

"Good to you, is she?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee.

"Good t' me!" cried Spike, "good? Well, say—when I think about it I—I gets watery in me lamps, kinder sloppy in me talk, an' all mushy inside! Good t' me? Well, you can just bet on that!"

"And," enquired Mr. Ravenslee sleepily, "are you as good to her?"

Hereupon Spike turned his cap inside out and looked at it thoughtfully. "I—I dunno, mister."

"Ah! perhaps you—make her cry, sometimes?"

Hereupon Spike began to pick at the lining of his cap and finally answered: "Sometimes, I guess."

"Would she cry if she could see you now, I wonder?"

Hereupon Spike began to wring and twist his cap in nervous hands ere he answered: "I—I guess she might, perhaps."

"She must love you a good deal."

At this, Spike twisted his cap into a ball but spoke nothing; seeing which Mr. Ravenslee proceeded.

"You are luckier than I; there isn't a soul in the world to do as much for me."

Spike gulped audibly and, thereafter, sniffed.

"Now suppose," said Mr. Ravenslee, "let us suppose she found out that the brother she loved so much was a—thief?"

Hereupon Spike unrolled his cap and proceeded to rub his eyes with it, and, when at last he spoke, it was in a voice broken by great sobs.

"Say—cut it out—cut it out! I never meant to—to do it. They got me soused—doped me, I think, else I'd never have done it. I ain't good, but I ain't so rotten bad as—what I seem. I ain't no real crook, but if you wanter croak me for what I done—go ahead! Only don't—don't let d' cops get me, 'cause o' Hermy. If you croak me, she'll think I got it in a scrap, maybe; so if you wanter plug me, go ahead!"

"But what are you shivering for?"

"I—I'm just waitin', sir," answered Spike, closing his eyes, "I—I seen a guy shot once!"

Mr. Ravenslee sighed and nodded.

"After all," said he, "I don't think I'll croak you," and he slipped the revolver into his pocket while Spike watched him in sudden tense eagerness.

"What yer mean to do wi' me?" he asked.

"That's the question; what shall I do with you? Let me think."

"Say," cried the boy eagerly, "you don't have to do no thinkin'—leave it all to me! It's de winder for mine; I'll chase meself quick—"

"No you don't! Sit down—sit down, I say!"

Spike sighed and seated himself on the extreme edge of the chair his captor indicated.

"Won't yer lemme beat it, sir?" he pleaded.

"No, some one else might catch you next time and have the pleasure of—er—croaking you or handing you over to the police—"

"There won't be no next time, sir!" cried Spike eagerly. "I'll never do it no more—I'll cut d' whole gang, I'll give Bud M'Ginnis d' throw-down—on d' dead level I will, if you'll only let me—"

"Who's Bud M'Ginnis?"

"Say," exclaimed the boy, staring, "don't yer know that? Why, Bud's d' main squeeze with d' gang, d' whole cheese, he is—an' he kind o' thinks I'm d' candy-kid 'cause he's stuck on me sister—".

"Ah!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee, frowning a little, "and is she—er—stuck on him?"

"Not so as you could notice it, she ain't! No, she can't see Bud with a pair of opry-glasses, an' he's a dead game sport, too! Oh, there ain't no flies on Bud, an' nobody can lick him, either; but Hermy don't cotton none, she hasn't got no use for him, see? But say—" Spike rose tentatively and looked on his captor with eyes big and supplicating.

"Well, what now?"

"Why, I thought if you was tired of me chewing d' rag and wanted to hit the feathers, I'd just cop a sneak. See, if you'll only lemme go, I'll do d' square thing and get a steady job like Hermy wants me to—honest, I will, sir! Y' see, me sister's away to-night—she does needleworks for swell folks an' stops with 'em sometimes—so if you'll only let me beat it, I can skin back an' she'll never know! Ah!—lemme go, sir!"

"Well then," sighed Mr. Ravenslee, "for her sake I will let you go—wait! I'll let you go and never speak of your—er—little escapade here, if you will take me with you."

Now at this, Spike gaped and fell back a step.

"Go wi' me—wi' me?" he stammered. "You—go wi' me to Hell's Kitchen—to Mulligan's Dump—you! Say, what kind o' song and dance are you giving me, anyway? Aw—quit yer kiddin', sir!"

"But I mean it."

"On—on d' level?"

"On the level."

"Holy Gee!" and Spike relapsed into wide-eyed, voiceless wonder.

"Is it a go?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee.

"But—but, say—" stammered the boy, glancing from the elegant figure in the chair around the luxurious room and back again, "but you're a—a—"

"Just a poor, disconsolate, lonely—er—guy!"

"What!" cried Spike, staring around him again, "with all this? Oh, yes, you're homeless and starving, you are—I don't think!"

"Is it a go?"

"But say—whatcher want to go wi' me for? What's yer game? Put me wise."

"I am filled with desire to breathe awhile the salubrious air of Hell's Kitchen; will you take me?" Now as he spoke, beholding the boy's staring amaze, Mr. Ravenslee's frowning brows relaxed, his firm, clean-shaven lips quivered, and all at once curved up into a smile of singular sweetness—a smile before which the hopelessness and fear died out of the boy's long-lashed eyes, his whole strained attitude vanished, and he smiled also—though perhaps a little tremulously.

"Will you take me, Spike?"

"You bet I will!" exclaimed the boy, his blue eyes shining, "and I'll do my best to show you I—I ain't so bad as I—as I seem—an' we'll shake on it if you like." And Spike advanced with his hand outstretched, then paused, suddenly abashed, and drooping his head, turned away. "I—I forgot," he muttered, "—I'm—you said I was a—thief!"

"You meant to be!" said Mr. Ravenslee, and rising, he stretched himself and glanced at his watch.

"Are you coming wi' me, sir?" enquired Spike, regarding Mr. Ravenslee's length and breadth with quick, appraising eyes.

"I surely am!"

"But—but not in them glad rags!" and Spike pointed to Mr. Ravenslee's exquisitely tailored garments.

"Ah—to be sure!" nodded their wearer. "We'll soon fix that," and he touched the electric bell.

"Say," cried Spike, starting forward in sudden terror, "you—you ain't goin' to give me away?"

"No."

"Cross your heart—hope to die, you ain't?"

"Across my heart and hope to die, I'm not—and there's my hand on it, Spike."

"What?" exclaimed the boy, his eyes suspiciously bright, "d' you mean you will shake—after—after what I—"

"There's my hand, Spike!" So their hands met and gripped, the boy's hot and eagerly tremulous, the man's cool and steady and strong; then of a sudden Spike choked and turning his back brushed away his tears with his cap. Also at this moment, with a soft and discreet knock, Mr. Brimberly opened the door and bowed himself into the room; his attitude was deferential as always, his smile as respectful, but, beholding Spike, his round eyes grew rounder and his whiskers slightly bristly.

"Ah, Brimberly," nodded his master, "you are not in bed yet—good!"

"No, sir," answered Mr. Brimberly, "I'm not in bed yet, sir, but when you rang I was in the very hact, sir—"

"First of all," said Young R., selecting a cigar, "let me introduce you to—er—my friend, Spike!"

Hereupon Mr. Brimberly rolled his eyes in Spike's direction, glanced him over, touched either whisker, and bowed—and lo! those fleecy whiskers were now eloquent of pompous dignity, beholding which Spike shuffled his feet, averted his eyes, and twisted his cap into a very tight ball indeed.

But now Brimberly turned his eyes (and his whiskers) on his master, who had taken out his watch.

"Brimberly," said he, "it is now very nearly two o'clock."

"Very late, sir—oh, very late, sir—indeed, I was in the very hact of goin' to bed, sir—I'd even unbuttoned my waistcoat, sir, when you rang—two o'clock, sir—dear me, a most un-'oly hour, sir—"

"Consequently, Brimberly, I am thinking of taking a little outing—"

"Certingly, sir—oh, certingly!"

"And I want some other clothes—"

"Clothes, sir—yessir. There's the noo 'arris tweed, sir—"

"With holes in them, if possible, Brimberly."

"'Oles, sir! Beg parding, sir, but did you say 'oles, sir?"

"Also patches, Brimberly, the bigger the better!"

"Patches! Hexcuse me, sir, but—patches! I beg parding, but—" Mr. Brimberly laid a feeble hand upon a twitching whisker.

"In a word, Brimberly," pursued his master, seating himself upon the escritoire and swinging his leg, "I want some old clothes, shabby clothes—moth-eaten, stained, battered, and torn. Also a muffler and an old hat. Can you find me some?"

"No, sir, I don't—that is, yessir, I do. Hexcuse me, sir—'arf a moment, sir." Saying which, Mr. Brimberly bowed and went from the room with one hand still clutching his whisker very much as though he had taken himself into custody and were leading himself out.

"Say," exclaimed Spike in a hoarse whisper and edging nearer to Mr. Ravenslee, "who's His Whiskers—de swell guy with d' face trimmings?"

"Why, since you ask, Spike, he is a very worthy person who devotes his life to—er—looking after my welfare and—other things."

"Holy Gee!" exclaimed Spike, staring, "I should have thought you was big 'nuff to do that fer yourself, unless—" and here he broke off suddenly and gazed on Mr. Ravenslee's long figure with a new and more particular interest.

"Unless what?"

"Say—you ain't got bats in your belfry, have you—you ain't weak in the think-box, or soft in the nut, are ye?"

"No—at least not more than the average, I believe."

"I mean His Whiskers don't have to lead you around on a string or watch out you don't set fire to yourself, does he?"

"Well, strictly speaking, I can't say that his duties are quite so far-reaching."

"Who are you, anyway?"

"Well, my names are Geoffrey, Guy, Eustace, Hughson-and—er—a few others, but these will do to go on with, perhaps?"

"Well, I guess yes!"

"You can take your choice."

"Well, Guy won't do—no siree—ye see every mutt's a guy down our way—so I guess we'll make it Geoff. But, say, if you ain't weak on the think-machinery, why d' ye keep a guy like His Whiskers hanging around?"

"Because he has become a habit, Spike—and habits cling—and speaking of habits—here it is!" Sure enough, at that moment Brimberly's knuckles made themselves discreetly heard, and Brimberly himself appeared with divers garments across his arm, at sight of which Spike stood immediately dumb in staring, awe-struck wonder.

"Ah, you've got them, Brimberly?"

"Yessir! These is the best I can do, sir—"

"Say rather—the worst!"

"'Ere's a nice, big 'ole in the coat, sir," said Mr. Brimberly, unfolding the garment in question, "and the weskit, sir; the pocket is tore, you'll notice, sir."

"Excellent, Brimberly!"

"As for these trousis, sir—"

"They seem rather superior garments, I'm afraid!" said Mr. Ravenslee, shaking his head.

"But you'll notice as they're very much wore round the 'eels, sir."

"They'll do. Now the hat and muffler."

"All 'ere, sir—the 'at's got its brim broke, sir."

"Couldn't be better, Brimberly!" So saying, Mr. Ravenslee took up the clothes and turned toward the door. "Now I'll trouble you to keep an eye on—er—young America here while I get into these."

"Sir," said Mr. Brimberly, turning his whiskers full upon Spike, who immediately fell to shuffling and wringing at his cap. "Sir—I will, certingly, sir."

Now when the door had shut after his master, Mr. Brimberly raised eyes and hands to the ceiling and shook his head until his whiskers quivered. Quoth he: "Hall I arsks is—wot next!" Thereafter he lowered his eyes and regarded Spike as if he had been that basest of base minions—a boy in buttons. At last he deigned speech.