Bunch Grass Part 54

"Yes," said d.i.c.k. "I'm about as big a blackguard as you'll find anywhere, but I'm your son all the same. Father--forgive me."

One must confess that d.i.c.k played his last trump in a masterly fas.h.i.+on. He knew that whining wouldn't avail him, or any puling hypocrisy. So he told the truth.

"Is that what you want?" said the father sarcastically. "Only that: my forgiveness and my blessing?"

d.i.c.k's bold eyes fell beneath this thrust.

"The man who drove me here," continued the father, "told me a curious story. It seems that Mr. Crisp here has toiled and moiled for many years, keeping you in comparative luxury and idleness. Not a word, sir. It's an open secret. For some occult reason he likes to pay this price for your company. Having supported you so long, I presume he is prepared to support you to the end?"

"He's my friend," said the 'Bishop' stoutly.

"My son," said the old man solemnly, "died six years ago, and he can never, _never_," the second word rang grimly out, "be raised from the dead. That man there," his voice faltered for the first time, "is another son whom I do not know--whom I do not want to know--let him ask himself if he is fit to return with me to England, to live with those gentlewomen, his sisters, to inherit the duties and responsibilities that even such wealth as mine bring in their train.

He knows that he is not fit. Is he fit to take my hand?"

He stretched forth his lean white hand, the hand that had signed so many cheques. d.i.c.k did not try to touch it. The 'Bishop' wiped his eyes. The poor fellow looked the picture of misery.

"If there be the possibility of atonement for such as he," continued the speaker--"and G.o.d forbid that I should dare to say there is _not_--let that atonement be made here where he has sinned. It seems that the stoppage of his allowance tempted him to commit suicide. I did not know my son was a coward. Now, to close for ever that shameful avenue down which he might slink from the battle, I pledge myself to pay again that five pounds a month during my life, and to secure the same to Richard _Cartwright_ after my death, so long as he shall live. That, I think, is all."

He pa.s.sed with dignity out of the room and into the street, where the buggy awaited him. d.i.c.k remained standing, but the 'Bishop' followed the father, noting how, as soon as he had crossed the threshold, his back became bowed and his steps faltered. He touched the old man lightly on the shoulder.

"May I take your hand?" he asked. "I am not fit, no fitter than d.i.c.k, but----"

Mr. Carteret held out his hand, and the 'Bishop' pressed it gently.

"I believe," said Mr. Carteret after a pause, "that you, sir, may live to be an honest man."

"I'll look after d.i.c.k," blubbered the 'Bishop,' sorely affected. "d.i.c.k will pan out all right--in the end."

But d.i.c.k's father shuddered.

"It's very chilly," he said, with a nervous cough. "Good-night, Mr.

Crisp. Good-night, and G.o.d bless you."

XIX

A RAGAm.u.f.fIN OF THE FOOTHILLS

Jeff looked ruefully at the hot dusty road which curled upward and in front of him like a great white snake. At the top of the grade, where some pines stood out against the blue sky, hung a small reek of dust concealing the figure of his late companion. As Jeff gazed, the reek melted away. The young man told himself that he was alone in the brush foothills, with a lame horse, and a body (his own) so bruised and battered that it seemed to belong to somebody else.

"h.e.l.lo!" said a voice.

Jeff stared into the chaparral. Wild lilac and big sage bushes, flowering lupins and gilias, bordered the road, for spring was abroad in San Lorenzo county. A boy slipped through the lilacs.

"Jee-whiz!" said the boy. "You've hurt yourself."

"That's right," Jeff replied.

"How did it happen?"

"The plug crossed his feet in the dip yonder, and rolled plum over me.

Say--do you want to earn an honest dollar?"

The adjective was emphasised, for none knew better than Jeff that the foothills harboured queer folk. The boy nodded.

"You must get a buggy, sonny."

"A buggy? Anything else? As if buggies grew in the brush-hills!"

Just then Jeff's sanguine complexion turned grey, and his eyes seemed to slip back into his head. The boy perceived a bulging pocket, out of which he whipped a flask. Jeff took a long drink; then he gasped out: "Thunder! you was smart to find that flask. Ah-h-h!"

"You're in a real bad fix," said the boy.

"I _am_ in bad shape," Jeff admitted. "If I'd known I was going to lose the use o' myself like this, I wouldn't ha' been so doggoned keen about my friend leavin' me."

"Your friend must be in a partic'lar hurry."

"He was that," Jeff murmured. A queer buzzing in his ears and an overpowering feeling of giddiness made him close his eyes. When he opened them, the boy had disappeared. Jeff saw that his horse had been tied up in the shade of a scrub-oak.

"That boy seems to have some sense," he reflected. "This is a knock- out, sure."

Again he closed his eyes. A blue jay began to chatter; and when he had finished his screed, a c.o.c.k-quail challenged the silence. Very soon the wilderness was uttering all its familiar sounds. Jeff, lying flat on his back, could hear the rabbits scurrying through the chaparral.

After an interminable delay his ears caught the crackle of dry twigs snapped beneath a human foot.

"Feelin' lonesome?"

"I'm mighty glad to see you again," Jeff admitted. "Ah, water! That's a sight better'n whisky."

He drank thirstily, for the sun was high in the heavens, and the road as hot as an oven.

"I reckoned you'd come back," Jeff continued.

"Why?"

"To earn that dollar." He eyed the lad's somewhat ragged overalls.

"Say--what do they call ye to home?"

"Bud."

"Bud, eh? Short for brother. Folks got a fam'ly." He reflected that Bud's sister, if he had one, might be nice-looking. "Well, Bud, I'm under obligations to ye, for hitchin' up the plug in the shade. 'Twas thoughtful. Where ha' ye been?"

"I've been hunting Dad. But he's off in the hills. If I could get ye to our camp----"

"The plug'll have to do it. Unhitch him."

Bud untied the animal, who limped even more acutely than his master.