Читать книгу Pee-Wee Harris Turns Detective - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 7

Table of Contents

There was a scene of a customary sort in the brand new bungalow that evening. Lefty knew there would be a scene. As soon as he glanced at the imprint of the envelope the postman had left, he knew there would be a scene. The letter was from the Melrose Field Club of which Lefty’s uncle had been the steward.

Neither Lefty nor his Aunt Laura knew exactly what the trouble had been between Mr. Hulbert and the Club. All they knew was what Mr. Hulbert had told them, and that was that the governing committee were “a lot of bull-headed, ignorant fools who could get somebody else to do a porter’s work and good riddance to them.” They did that; they got somebody else. And Mr. Hulbert, after a brief season of fruitless effort, succeeded in connecting with the paper mill in Bridgeboro.

He was a petty and contentious man, requiring his household to stand loyally behind him in all his bickerings and prejudices. He concerned himself too obtrusively with the goings and comings of his nephew and his groundless prejudices had cost Lefty more than one good friend. He had a prejudice against automobiles because he could not afford to keep one. He was even going to look into this scout business. And so forth and so on.

It was no credit to Mr. Hulbert that he gave a home to Lefty. He had owed a considerable amount of money to the boy’s mother when she died. And there was a small trust fund which at least saved the nephew from being entirely dependent. A terrible occurrence in that household in the Melrose days had reduced Lefty’s feeling for his uncle to that of dutiful submission. He never talked about these things.

The letter, somewhat late in arriving, announced that the Club’s athletic games were to take place the next day, and, as usual, enclosed tickets for the affair. The Field Club had scorned to take notice of Mr. Hulbert’s quarrel with it, and held out, as always, a cordial hand to his family.

“You’re not going to go to that ruction,” said Mr. Hulbert as he paused, in his shirt sleeves, to glance at the tickets and letter which lay on the dining table. “I don’t want any argument about it. I’ll have none of my folks mixing up with that crowd.”

“I’m sure I have no intention of going,” said his wife, rather dryly. “And I’m sure Lefferts hasn’t. I’m sure I don’t know how he’d get there. He certainly can’t walk forty miles.”

“And forty back,” said Lefty, with just the faintest sly intent to make his uncle’s mandate appear ridiculous.

“Well, I’m just saying what he’s not to do, that’s all,” Mr. Hulbert snapped. “Nobody that lives under my roof is going to tag after that gang that played me a dirty trick. I don’t want neither of you going to Melrose.” That was a favorite expression of his, under my roof; it accompanied all his threats and bombast.

There was silence for a few minutes while Mrs. Hulbert read and Lefty glanced at his Handbook. Mr. Hulbert stood, an unattractive figure in his shirt sleeves, somewhat baffled by the anti-climax attending his despotic warning.

“What do you mean, he couldn’t go?” he finally asked, contentiously. “He’s got five dollars, hasn’t he, for spading up those people’s lawn?”

Lefty continued glancing at his Handbook. He was used to this sort of thing.

“You know he put it in the bank,” said the boy’s aunt. “He had to do that to join the scouts.”

“I only had to put two in,” said Lefty, never looking up. “But it was a five dollar bill and I put it all in.”

“What’s the idea, they’re wanting money?” Mr. Hulbert snapped. “They’re like the Red Cross and the Salvation Army, always wanting money.”

“Now you’re making yourself absurd,” said his wife. “I suppose they want to encourage him to save money.”

“Well, you keep away from that Melrose crowd while you’re under my roof,” said Mr. Hulbert, rather weakly. “That’s all I’m telling you.”

To which there was no answer. And there followed another pause. Mr. Hulbert seemed to feel that in some way he must justify himself. He had struck but had hit nothing.

“What about this scout stuff anyway?” he demanded. “Is that why you couldn’t clean up the cellar to-day? Here we’ve been two months and it ain’t done yet. I’m not going to have you fooling away your time on that river when you got work to do. Work’s the best thing for anybody.”

“It doesn’t seem to have helped you much,” said Mrs. Hulbert, intent on her reading.

Mr. Hulbert was very touchy about his own indifferent success in life. But he did not venture into the arena of caustic repartee with his wife. He took it out on the scouts.

“Well, I’m going to find out about this,” he said.

“Everybody knows about them, if you mean the scouts,” said Lefty. He rather dreaded his uncle’s meddlesome habit. “Here’s their book.”

“I don’t want to see their book,” said his uncle. “I’m going around there with you next time and look ’em over. I want to know what it’s all about. It’s taking a lot of your time and I want to know what kind of notions it’s putting into your head. I’m not going to have any more crimes and law breaking laid at my door—not while you’re under my roof. I’m not so keen about this wild west stuff.”

At this, Mrs. Hulbert inverted her book, laid it in her lap, and gave her husband such a look of withering contempt that it seemed for the moment to quell him. Anyone might have seen this. But a close observer might also have seen the reason for it—or some part of the reason for it. Lefty’s hand trembled and his eyes were brimming.

“I thought that was never to be mentioned here,” said Mrs. Hulbert with scornful severity. Then turning to Lefty she said gently, “Try to forget it, dear.”

Mr. Hulbert looked uncomfortable and tried clumsily to square himself with the boy who seemed so cruelly wounded.

“Well, you’ve no objection to me going around and looking them over, have you?” he asked, conciliatingly.

“No,” stammered Lefty, trying to control his voice.

Nothing more was said about the past that night.