Black Caesar's Clan Part 7

"Hold that measly dog's collar," he broke in. "So! I don't care to be bitten. I've had my share of knockabout stuff, for one day."

Stooping, he picked up Brice as easily as though Gavin had been a baby, and with rough tenderness carried him toward the house.

"There are a lot of things, about all this, that I don't understand," he continued, irritably, as Claire and the still growling but tight-held Bobby followed him to the veranda.

"For instance, how that dog happens to be here and trying to protect a total stranger. For, Bobby only got to Miami, from New Jersey, by this morning's train. He can't possibly know this man. That's one thing. Another is, how this--Brice, did you say his name is?--happened to be Johnny-on-the-spot when the other chap tried to knife me. And how you happen to know him by name. He's dressed more like a day-laborer than like any one you'd be likely to meet .... But all that can wait.

The thing now is to find how badly he's hurt."

They had reached the veranda, and Standish carried his burden through an open doorway, which was blocked by a knot of excitedly inquisitive servants. A sharp word from Standish sent them whisperingly back to the kitchen regions. Milo laid Brice down on a wicker couch in the broad, flagged hallway, and ran his fingers over the bruised head.

Gavin could hear Claire, in a nearby room, telephoning.

"Hold on, there!" called Standish, as his sister gave the operator a number. "Wait! As well as I can tell, at a glance, there doesn't seem to be any fracture. He's just knocked out. That's all. A mild concussion of the brain, I should think. Don't call a doctor, unless it turns out to be more serious. It's bad enough for the servants to be all stirred up like this, and to blab--as they're certain to--without letting a doctor in on it, too. The less talk we cause, the better."

Reluctantly, Claire came away from the telephone and approached the couch.

"You're sure?" she asked, in doubt.

"I've had some experience with this sort of thing, on the other side," he answered. "The man will come to himself in another few minutes. I've loosened his collar and belt and shoelaces. He--"

"Have you any idea who could have tried to kill you?" she asked, shuddering.

"Yes!" he made sullen answer. "And so have you. Let it go at that."

"You--you think it was one of--?"

"Hus.h.!.+" he ordered, uneasily. "This fellow may not be quite as unconscious as he looks. Sometimes, people get their hearing back, before they open their eyes. Come into the library, a minute. I want to speak to you. Oh, don't look like that, about leaving him alone! He'll be all right, I tell you! His pulse is coming back, strong. Come in here."

He laid one big arm on her slight shoulder and led her, half-forcibly, into the adjoining room. Thence, Gavin could hear the rumble of his deep voice. But he could catch no word the man said, though once he heard Claire speak in vehement excitement, and could hear Milo's harsh interruption and his command that she lower her voice.

Presently, the two came back into the hall. As Standish neared the couch, Gavin Brice opened his eyes, with considerable effort, and blinked dazedly up at the gigantic figure in the torn and muddy white silk suit.

Then Brice's blinking gaze drifted to Claire, as she stood, pale and big-eyed, above him. He essayed a feeble smile of recognition, and let his glance wander in well-acted amazement about the high-veiled hallway.

"Feeling better?" queried Milo. "Here, drink this."

Gavin essayed to speak. His pose was not wholly a.s.sumed. For his head still swam and was intolerably painful.

He sipped at the brandy which Standish held to his sagging lips. And, glancing toward Claire, he smiled, a somewhat wavery and wan smile.

"Don't try to say anything!" she begged. "Wait till you are feeling better."

"I'm I'm all right," he a.s.sured her, albeit rather shakily, his voice seeming to come from a distance. "I got a rap over the head. And it put me out, for a while. But--I'm collecting the pieces. I'll be as good as--as new, in a few minutes."

The fragments of dialogue between brother and sister had supplemented his returning memory. Mentally, he was himself again, keen, secretive, alert, every bit of him warily on guard. But he cursed the fact that Standish had drawn Claire into the library, out of earshot, when he spoke of the man who had attacked him.

Then, with a queer revulsion of feeling, he cursed himself for an eavesdropper, and was ashamed of having listened at all.

For the first time, he began to hate the errand that had brought him to Florida.

Bobby Burns caused a mild diversion, as Brice's voice trailed away. At Gavin's first word, the collie sprang from his self-appointed guard-post at the foot of the couch, and came dancing up to the convalescent man, thrusting his cold nose rapturously against Brice's face, trying to lick his cheek, whimpering in joy at his idol's recovery.

With much effort Gavin managed to stroke the wrigglingly active head, and to say a rea.s.suring word to his wors.h.i.+per.

Then, glancing again at Claire, he explained:

"I'd done about a mile toward Miami when he overtook me.

There was no use in trying to send him home. So I brought him. Just as we got to the gate, here--"

"I know," intervened Claire, eager to spare him the effort of speech. "I saw. It was splendid of you, Mr. Brice! My brother and I are in your debt for more than we can ever hope to pay."

"Nonsense!" he protested. "I made a botch of the whole thing.

I ought--"

"No," denied Milo. "It was I who made a botch of it. I owe you not only my life but an apology. It was my blow, not the other man's, that knocked you out. I misunderstood, and--"

"That's all right!" declared Gavin. "In the dim light it's a miracle we didn't all of us slug the wrong men. I--"

He stopped. Claire had been working over something on a table behind him. Now she came forward with a cold compress for his abraded scalp. Skillfully, she applied it, her dainty fingers wondrously deft.

"Red Cross?" asked Brice, as she worked.

"Just a six-month nursing course, during the war," she said, modestly, adding: "I didn't get across."

"I'm sorry," said Gavin. "I mean, for the poor chaps who might have profited by such clever bandaging .... Yes, that's a very dull and heavy compliment. I know it. But--there's a lot of grat.i.tude behind it. You've made this throbbing old head of mine feel ever so much better, Miss Standish."

Milo was looking bewilderedly from one to the other, as if trying to understand how this ill-clad man chanced to be on such terms of acquaintances.h.i.+p with his fastidious little sister. Claire read his look of inquiry, and said:

"Mr. Brice found Bobby Burns, this afternoon, and brought him home to me. It was nice of him, wasn't it? For it took him ever so far out of his way."

Gavin noted that she made no mention of his having come to the Standish home by way of the hidden path. It seemed to him that she gave him a glance of covert appeal, as though beseeching him not to mention it. He nodded, ever so slightly, and took up the narrative, as she paused for words.

"I saw Miss Standish and yourself, at Miami, this morning,"

said he, "and the collie, here, on the back seat of your car.

Then, this afternoon, as I was walking out in this direction, I saw the dog again. I recognized him, and I guessed he had strayed. So he and I made friends. And as we were strolling along together, we met Miss Standish. At least, I met her.

Bobby met a prematurely gray Persian cat, with the dreamy Bagdad name of 'Simon Cameron.' By the time the dog and cat could be sorted out from each other--"

"Oh, I see!" laughed Milo. "And I don't envy you the job of sorting them. It was mighty kind of you to--"

He broke off and added, with a tinge of anxiety:

"You say you happened to be walking near here. Are you a neighbor of ours?"

"Not yet," answered Gavin, with almost exaggerated simplicity.

"But I was hoping to be. You see I was out looking for a job in this neighborhood."

"A job?" repeated Milo, then, suspiciously: "Why in this neighborhood, rather than any other? You say you were at Miami--"

"Because this chanced to be the neighborhood I was wandering in," replied Gavin. "As I explained to Miss Standish, I'd rather do some kind of outdoor work. Preferably farm work.

That's why I left Miami. There seemed to be lots of farms and groves, hereabouts."