Читать книгу: «Dangerous Ground: or, The Rival Detectives», страница 16

CHAPTER XLI.
LESLIE GOES “HOME.”

While Alan and Winnie, protected by their temporary armistice, were hurrying toward the modest abode of Mrs. French, each intent upon solving as soon as possible the riddle of Leslie’s flight, the Francoises were holding high council in the kitchen of their most recent habitation.

In all the lists of professional criminals, there were not two who had been, from their very earliest adventure, more successful in evading the police than Papa and Mamma Francoise.

Papa, although in the face of actual, present danger he was the greater coward of the two, possessed a rare talent for scheming, and laying cunning plans to baffle the too curious. And Mamma’s executive ability was very strong, of its kind. In the face of danger, Mamma’s furious temper and animal courage stood them in good stead. When a new scheme was on foot, Papa took the lead.

As for Franz, he, as we have seen, had not been so successful in evading the representatives of law and order. And he had returned, having escaped from durance vile, bringing with him a strangely developed stock of his Mother’s fierceness and his Father’s cunning.

It was a part of Papa’s policy to be, at all times, provided with a “retreat.” Not content with an abiding-place for the present, the pair had always, somewhere within an easy distance from their present abode, a second haven, fitted with the commonest necessaries of life, but seldom anything more, and always ready to receive them. Hence, in fleeing from the scene of the Siebel affray, they had gone to the attic which stood ready to shelter them, where they had been traced by Vernet, and followed by Franz. And on the night when they had left Van Vernet to a fiery death, they had flown straight to another ready refuge.

This time it was a cottage, old and shabby, but in a respectable quarter on the remotest outskirts of the city. This cottage, like the B – street tenement, stood quite isolated from its neighbors, for it was one of Papa’s fine points to choose ever a solitary location, or else lose himself in a locality where humanity swarmed thickest, and where each was too eager in his own struggle for existence to be anxious or curious about the affairs of his neighbors.

This cottage, then, was shabby enough, but not so shabby as their former dwelling, either within or without. Neither did Papa and Mamma present quite so uncanny an appearance as before. They were somewhat cleaner, a trifle better clad, and somewhat changed in their general aspect, for here they were presuming themselves to be “poor but honest” working people, like their neighbors.

In this pretence they were ably supported by Franz, when he was sober. And drunkenness not being strictly confined to the wealthier classes, he cast no discredit upon the honesty of his parents by being frequently drunk.

Papa and Mamma were regaling themselves with a late supper, consisting principally of beer and “Dutch bread,” and as usual, when tête-à-tête, they were engaged in a lively discussion.

“I don’t like the way that boy goes on,” remarks Mamma, as she cuts for herself a slice of the bread.

Papa sets down his empty beer glass, and tilts back his chair.

“Don’t ye?” he queries carelessly.

“No, I don’t,” retorts Mamma with increasing energy. “He’s getting too reckless, and he swigs too much.”

“That’s a fact,” murmurs Papa, glancing affectionately at the beer pitcher.

“He’d ought ter lay low for a good while yet,” goes on Mamma, “instead of prowling off at all hours of the day and night. Why, he’s gone more’n he’s here.”

Papa Francoise brought his chair back into regular position with a slow movement, and leaning his two elbows upon the table, leered across at Mamma.

“Look here, old un,” he said slowly, “that fellow’s just knocked off eight or ten years in limbo, and don’t you s’pose he prizes his liberty? If he can’t keep clear o’ cops and beaks after his experience, he ain’t no son of mine. Don’t you worry about our Franzy; he’s got more brains than you an’ me put together. I’m blest if I know how he come by such a stock. I’m beginning to take pride in the lad.”

“Well,” rejoins Mamma viciously, “he ain’t much like you; if he was, there wouldn’t be so much to be proud of.”

“That’s a fact,” assented Papa cheerfully. “He ain’t like me; he sort o’ generally resembles both of us. And I’m blest if he ain’t better lookin’ than we two together.”

“Franzy’s changed,” sighs Mamma; “he ain’t the same boy he uste to be. If it wa’n’t fer his drinkin’ and swearin’, I wouldn’t hardly know him.”

“Course not; nor ye didn’t know him till he interduced himself. No more did I. When a feller gets sent up fer fifteen years, and spends ten out of the fifteen tryin’ to contrive a way to get back to his old Pappy and Mammy, it’s apt to change him some. Franzy’s improved, he is. He’s cut some eye-teeth. Ah, what a help he’d be, if I could only git past these snags and back to my old business!”

“Yes,” sighed Mamma, and then suddenly suspended her speech as a lively, and not unmusical, whistle sounded near at hand.

“That’s him,” she said, pushing back her chair and rising. “He seems to be comin’ good-natured.” And she hastened to admit the Prodigal, who, if he had returned in good spirits, had not brought them all on the outside, for as he entered the room with a cheerful smirk and unsteady step, Papa murmured aside:

“Our dear boy’s drunk agin.”

Unmindful of Mamma’s anxious questions concerning his whereabouts, Franzy took the chair she had just vacated, and began a survey of the table.

“Beer!” he said contemptuously. “I wouldn’t drink beer, not – ”

“Not when you have drank too much fire-water already, Franzy,” supplemented Papa, with a grin, at the same time drawing the pitcher nearer to himself. “No, my boy, I wouldn’t if – if I were you.”

Franz utters a half maudlin laugh, and turns to the old woman.

“Is this all yer eatables?” he asks thickly. “Bring us somethin’ else.”

“Yes,” chimes in Papa, “Franzy’s used ter first-class fare, old un; bring him something good.”

Mamma moves about, placing before her Prodigal the best food at hand, and presently the three are gathered about the table again, a very social family group.

But by-and-by Mamma’s quick ear catches a sound outside.

“Some one’s coming,” she says in a sharp whisper. “I wonder – ”

She stops short and goes to a window, followed by Franz, who peers curiously over her shoulder.

“It’s a woman,” he says, a moment later.

“Hush, Franzy,” says Mamma sharply. And then she goes quickly to the door.

It is a woman who enters; a woman draped in black. She throws back her shrouding veil and the pure pale face of Leslie Warburton is revealed.

Franz Francoise utters a sharp ejaculation, and then as Papa’s hand presses upon his arm, he relapses into silence and draws back step by step.

“Ah!” cries Mamma, starting with extended hands to seize upon the new-comer; “ah! it’s our own dear girl!”

But Leslie repulses the proffered embrace, and moves aside.

“Wait,” she says coldly; “wait.” And she looks inquiringly at Franz. “You do not know how and why I come.”

“No matter why you come, dear child,” – it is Papa, speaking in his oiliest accents – “we are glad to see you; very glad.”

Again Leslie’s eyes rest upon Franz, and Mamma says:

“Oh, speak out, my dear. This is our boy, Franz; your brother, my child.”

“Yes,” Papa chimes in blithely, “how beautiful this is; how delightful!”

Leslie favors Franz with a steady look, and turns to Mamma.

“Then I am not your only child,” she says, with a proud curl of the lip.

And Mamma, seeing the look on her face, regrets, for the once, the presence of her beloved Prodigal.

But Franz has quite recovered himself, and moving a trifle nearer the group by the door, he mutters, seemingly for his own benefit, “well, this let’s me out!”

Hearing which, Mamma glances from Franz to Leslie, and spreading out her two bony palms in a sort of “bless-you-my-children” gesture, says theatrically:

“Ah-h, you were too young to remember each other; at least you were too young to remember Franzy. But he don’t forget you; do you, Franzy, my boy? You don’t forget Leschen – little Leschen?”

“Don’t I though?” mutters Franz under his breath, and then he moves forward with an unsteady lurch, saying aloud: “Eh? oh, Leschen: little Leschen. Why in course I – I remember.”

“Ah!” cries Mamma with enthusiasm, “many’s the time you’ve rocked her, when she wasn’t two years old.”

“Franzy was allers good ’bout sech things,” chimes in Papa.

“Umph!” grunts Franz, turning to Papa, “where’s she been?”

“My boy,” replies Papa impressively, “Leschen’s been living like a lady ever since she was adopted away from us. Of course you can’t remember each other much, but ye ort to be civil to yer sister.”

“That’s a fact,” assents Franz, coming quite close to Leslie. “Say, Leschen, don’t ye be afraid o’ me; I kin see that ye don’t like my looks much. Say, can’t ye remember me at all?”

A full moment Leslie scans him from head to foot, with a look of proud disdain. Then turning towards Mamma, she says bitterly:

“I am more fortunate than I hoped to be.”

“Ain’t ye, now?” chimes in Franz cheerfully. “Say, ye look awful peaked.” And he hastens to fetch a chair, his feet almost tripping in the act. “There,” he says, placing it beside her, “sit down, do, an’ tell us the news.”

She sinks wearily upon the proffered seat, and again turns her face toward Mamma.

“Yes,” she says coldly, “let me tell my news, since this is a family gathering. You have deplored my loss so often that I have returned. I have come to live with you.”

The consternation that sits upon two of three faces turned toward her, is indeed ludicrous, and Franz Francoise utters an audible chuckle. Then the elders find their tongues.

“Ah,” groans Papa, “she’s jokin’ at the poor old folks.”

“Ah,” sighs Mamma, “there’s no such luck for poor people.”

“Reassure yourselves,” says Leslie calmly. “I have given you all my money; my husband is dead; my little step-daughter has been stolen, or worse, and I have been accused of the crime.”

She pauses to note the effect of her words, but strangely enough, Franz Francoise is the only one who gives the least sign of surprise.

“I am disinherited,” continues Leslie, “cast out from my home, friendless and penniless. You have claimed me as your child, and I have come to you.”

Still she is closely studying the faces of the elder Francoises, and she does not note the intent eyes that are, in turn, studying her own countenance: the eyes of Franz Francoise.

The two old plotters look at each other, and then turn away. Rage, chagrin, baffled expectation, speak in the looks they interchange. Franz is the first to relapse into indifference and stolidity.

“But, my girl,” Papa begins, excitedly, “this can’t be! You are a widow – ah, yes, poor child, we know that. But, my dear, a widow has rights. The law, my child, the law – ”

“You mistake,” says Leslie coldly, “the law will do nothing for me.”

“But it must,” argues Papa. “They can’t keep you out o’ your rights. The law – ”

Leslie rises and turns to face him, cutting short his speech by a gesture.

“There is a higher law than that made by man,” she says sternly; “the law that God has implanted in heart and conscience. That law bids me renounce all claims to my husband’s wealth. Understand this: I am penniless. There is but one thing that could induce me to claim and use what the law will give me.”

“And what is that?” asks Papa, in a wheedling tone, while Mamma catches her breath to listen.

“That,” says Leslie slowly, “is the restoration of little Daisy Warburton.”

CHAPTER XLII.
AN AFFECTIONATE FAMILY

A sudden silence has fallen upon the group, and as Leslie’s clear, sad eyes rest upon first one face and then the other, Papa begins to fidget nervously.

“Oh, yes,” he sighs, “we heard about that.”

And then Mamma comes nearer, saying in a cat-like, purring tone: “The poor little dear! And you can’t find her?”

As she speaks, Franz Francoise shifts his position carelessly, placing himself where he can note the expressions of the two old faces.

But Leslie’s enforced calmness is fast deserting her.

“Woman!” she cries passionately, “drop your mask of hypocrisy! Let us understand each other. I believe that you were in my house on the night of that wretched masquerade. I have reasons for so believing. Ah, I recall many words that have fallen from your lips, now that it is too late; words that condemn you. You believed that with Daisy removed, I would become my husband’s sole heiress; and you knew that at best his life would be short. The more the money in my possession, the more you could extort from me. But I can thwart you here, and I will. You never reckoned upon my throwing away my claim to wealth, for you were never human; you never loved anything but money, or you would have pity on that poor little child. Give me back little Daisy, and every dollar I can claim shall become yours!”

Oh, the greed, the avarice, that shines from Mamma’s eyes! But Papa makes her a sign, and she remains silent, while he says, with his best imitation of gentleness:

“But, my child; but, Leschen, how can we find the little girl?”

Leslie turns upon him a look of contempt, and then a swift spasm of fear crosses her face.

“Oh,” she cries, clasping her hands wildly, “surely, surely you have not killed her!”

And now Mamma has resumed her mask. “My child,” she says, coming close to Leslie, “you’re excited. We don’t know where to find that child. What can we do?”

Back to Leslie’s face comes that look of set calm, and she sinks upon the chair she had lately occupied.

“Do your worst!” she says between tightly clenched teeth. “You know that I do not, that I never shall, believe you. You say you are my mother,” flashing two blazing eyes upon Mamma, “take care of your child, then. Make of me a rag-picker, if you like. Henceforth I am nothing, nobody, save the daughter of the Francoises!”

Again, for a moment, the faces that regard her present a study. And this time it is Franz who is the first to speak, Coming forward somewhat unsteadily, he doffs his ragged old cap, and extends to her a hand not overclean.

“Partner, shake!” he says in tones of marked admiration. “Ye’re clean grit! If ye’re my sister, I’m proud of ye. If ye ain’t, and ye ’pear to think ye ain’t, then it’s my loss, an’,” with a leer at the old pair, “yer gain. Anyhow, I’m yer second in this young-un business. Ye kin stay right here, ef ye want ter, and, by thunder, ef the old uns have got yer little gal, ye shall have her back agin – ye hear me! Ain’t ye goin’ ter shake? I wish yer would. I’m a rough feller, Missy; I’ve allers been a hard case, and I’ve just got over a penitentiary stretch – ye’ll hear o’ that soon enough, ef ye stay here. The old un likes to remind me of it when she ain’t amiable. Never mind that; maybe I ain’t all bad. Anyway, I’m goin’ to stand by ye, and don’t ye feel oneasy.”

Again he extends his hand, and Leslie looks at it, and then up into his face.

“Oh, if I could trust you!” she murmurs. “If you would help me!”

“I kin;” says Franz promptly, “an’ I will!”

Again she hesitates, looking upon the uncouth figure and the unwashed hand. Then she lifts her eyes to his face.

Two eyes are looking into her own, eagerly, intently, full of pitying anxiety.

She rises slowly, looks again into the eager eyes, and extends her hand.

“Gracious!” he exclaims, as he releases it, “how nervous yer are: must be awful tired.”

“Tired, yes. I have walked all the way.”

“An’ say, no jokin’ now, have ye come ter live with us?”

“I have,” she replies firmly; “unless,” turning a contemptuous glance toward Mamma and Papa, “my parents refuse me a shelter.”

It is probable that these overtures from Franz would have been promptly interrupted, had not Papa and Mamma, seeing the necessity of exchanging a few words, improved this opportunity to understand each other, and as they exchanged hasty whispers, any vagueness or hiatus in their speech was fully supplied by meaning glances. And now quite up in her role, Mamma again advances.

“My child,” she begins, in a dolorous voice, “when ye know us better, ye’ll think better of yer poor old folks. As fer Franz here, he’s been drinkin’ a little to-night, but he’s a good-hearted boy; don’t mind him.”

“No,” interrupts Franz, with a maudlin chuckle; “don’t mind me.”

“It’s a poor home yer come to, Leschen,” continues Mamma, “and a poor bed I can give ye. But we want to be good to ye, dear, an’ if ye’re really goin’ to stay with us, we’ll try an’ make ye as comfortable as we can.”

Leslie’s head droops lower and lower; she pays no heed to the old woman’s words.

“Poor child, she is tired out.”

Saying this, Mamma takes the candle from the table, and goes from the room quickly, thus leaving the three in darkness.

In another moment, the voice of Franz breaks out:

“Ain’t there another glim somewhere?”

By the time Mamma returns, a feeble light is sputtering upon the table, and Franz is awkwardly trying to force upon Leslie some refreshments from the choice supply left from their late repast. But she refuses all, and wearily follows Mamma from the room.

“Git yer rest now,” says Franz as she goes; “to-morrow we’ll talk over this young-un business.”

But when the morrow comes, and for many days after, Leslie Warburton is oblivious to all things earthly.

CHAPTER XLIII.
THE PRODIGAL BECOMES OBSTINATE

When the door had closed behind Leslie and the old woman, Franz Francoise dropped his chin upon his breast, and leaning his broad shoulders against the door-frame, stood thinking, or half asleep, it would have been difficult to guess which; while Papa began a slow, cat-like promenade up and down the room, paying no heed to Franz or his occupation, and thinking, beyond a doubt.

After a little, Franz, arousing himself with a yawn, staggered to the nearest chair, and dropped once more into a listless attitude. In another moment, Mamma reëntered the room.

As she passed him, Franz laid a detaining hand upon her arm, and leering up into her face, whispered thickly:

“I say, old un, ye seem ter be troubled with gals. Don’t ye want me to git rid o’ this one fer ye?”

A moment the old woman pauses, and looks down at her Prodigal in silence. Then she brings her hideous face close to his and whispers:

“My boy, that other un, ef we’d a-kept her, ud a-done us hurt. This un, ef we kin keep her, will make all our fortunes.”

“Honor bright?” drawls Franz, looking up at her sleepily, and suppressing a yawn.

“Honor bright, my boy.”

“Then,” and he rises and stretches out his arms, “we’d better keep her.”

Mamma favors him with a nod and a grin of approval, and then goes over to where Papa has halted and stands eyeing the whisperers.

The household belongings here are, as we have said, somewhat more respectable and extensive than those of the former nests occupied by these birds of passage. There were several chairs; a quantity of crockery and cooking utensils; some decent curtains at the windows; and a couch, somewhat the worse for wear and not remarkable for cleanliness, in this room.

Toward this couch Franz moves with a shuffling gait, and flinging himself heavily down upon it, he settles himself to enjoy a quiet nap, paying no heed to Papa and Mamma, who, standing near together, are watching him furtively. It is some time before Franz becomes lost in dreamland. He fidgets and mumbles for so many minutes that Mamma becomes impatient. But he is quiet at last.

And then the two old plotters, withdrawing themselves to the remotest corner of the room, enter into a conversation or discussion, which, judging from their rapid gesticulations, their facial expression, and the occasional sharp hiss, which is all that could have been heard by the occupant of the couch were he ever so broad awake, must be a question of considerable importance, and one that admits of two opinions.

For more than an hour this warm discussion continues. Then it seems to have reached an amicable adjustment, for they both wear a look of relief, and conversation flags. Presently Mamma turns her face toward the couch.

“I wonder ef he is asleep,” she whispers. “Somehow, that boy bothers me.”

“There’s nothin’ ails him,” replies the old man, in the same guarded whisper, “only what he come honestly by. He’s lookin’ out fer number one, same as we are; an’ he won’t trust all his secrets to nobody’s keepin’, no more’n we won’t. He’s our own boy – only he’s a leetle too sharp fer my likin’. Hows’ever, he’s a lad to be proud of, an’ it won’t do to fall out with him.”

“Nobody wants to fall out with him,” retorts Mamma. “He’s going to be the makin’ of us, only – mind this – he ain’t to know too much, unless we want him to be our master. Look at the scamp, a-layin’ there! I’m goin’ to see ef he is asleep.”

She takes the candle from the table, snuffs the wick into a brighter blaze, and moves softly toward the couch. The Prodigal’s face is turned upward. Mamma scans it closely, and then brings the candle very near to the closed eyes, waving it to and fro rapidly.

There is no slow awakening here. The two hands of the sleeper, which have rested in seeming carelessness loosely at his sides, move swiftly and simultaneously with his body. And Mamma’s only consciousness is that of more meteors than could by any possibility emanate from one candle, and a sudden shock to her whole frame. She is sitting upon the floor, clutching wildly at the candle, while Franz, a dangerous-looking revolver in either hand, is glaring fiercely about him.

And all this in scarce ten seconds!

“Wot’s up?” queries Franz shortly, “wot the dickens – ”

Papa comes forward, chuckling softly, but keeping cautiously out of range of the two weapons. And Mamma begins to scramble to her feet.

“Hullo!” says Franz, as he seems to notice Mamma’s position for the first time; “wot ails you?”

Papa is so amused that he giggles audibly; he was never heard to laugh an honest laugh.

“Git up, old lady,” commands Franz, withdrawing his eyes from Mamma; and he stands as at first, until she has risen.

Then he glances sharply about the room, and asks impatiently: “Come, now, what have ye been up to?”

“Ye see, Franzy,” begins Mamma in a conciliating tone, “I went ter take a look at ye – ”

“Oh, ye did!”

“With the candle in my hand.”

“Jest so; an’ to get a good look, ye stuck it pretty close to my eyes. Wanted to see ef I was asleep, or playin’ possum, eh? Wall,” replacing one revolver in a hip-pocket, and trifling carelessly with the other, while he seats himself upon the couch, “what did ye find out?”

Though his tone was one of quiet mockery, there was an angry gleam in his eyes, and neither Papa nor Mamma ventured a reply.

“I’ll tell ye what ye discovered, an’ it may be a good lesson fer ye,” he goes on in a low tone that was full of fierce intensity. “Ye have discovered that Franz Francoise asleep, and the same feller awake, are pretty much alike. It’s jest as onsafe to trifle with one as with the other. I’ve slept nearly ten years o’ my life with every nerve in me waitin’ fer a sign to wake quick and active. I’ve taught myself to go to sleep always with the same idea runnin’ in my head. An’ since I got out o’ that pen down there, I’m always armed, and I’m always ready. The brush of a fly’ll wake me, and it’ll take me just five seconds to shoot. So when ye experiment ’round me agin, ye want to fly kinder light. And, old woman, ye may thank yer stars that ye was so close ter me that ye didn’t come in for nothin’ more’n a tumble.”

He sits quite still for a few moments, and then rising slowly, goes over and seats himself on the edge of the table near which Papa stands.

“When I stowed myself away over there,” resumes Franz, “I was more or less muddled. But I’m straight enough now, an’ my head’s clear. I’ve just reckelected about that gal’s comin’, an’ – I say, old woman, can she hear us if she happens to be awake?”

“No,” replies Mamma, “she can’t – not unless we talk louder than we’re likely to.”

“Then haul up yer stool. We’re goin’ ter settle about her.”

The look which Mamma casts toward her worser half says, as plainly as looks can speak: “It’s coming.” And then she compresses her lips, and draws a chair near the table, while Papa occupies another, and Franz looks down upon the pair from his more elevated perch.

“Now, then,” begins Franz, “Who’s that ’ere gal?”

No answer from the two on the witness-stand. They exchange glances, and remain mute.

“Next,” goes on Franz, as if quite content with their silence, “wot’s all this talk about child-stealin’?”

Still no answer. Franz remains tranquil as before, and by way of diversion probably, squints along the shining barrel of his six shooter, and snaps the trigger playfully.

“Have ye got that gal’s young un?” he asks, still seeming to find the revolver an object of interest, “or hain’t ye?” Down comes the dangerous weapon upon the knee of its owner, and quite by accident, of course, it has Papa’s head directly in range.

Seeing which, that worthy moves quickly aside with an exclamation of remonstrance. But Mamma is made of other stuff. She leans forward and leers up into the face of her Prodigal.

“It seems ter me, youngster,” she sneers, “that gal’s took a strong hold on yer sympathies. Ain’t ye gettin’ terrible curious?”

“Maybe,” retorts Franz, returning her gaze with interest; “an’ maybe, now, ’tain’t so much sympathy as ye may suppose. I don’t think sympathy runs in this ’ere family. The pint’s right here, and this is a good time to settle it. You two’s hung onter me ter stay by yer, an’ strike together fer luck, but I’m blessed ef I’m goin’ ter strike in ther dark. I’m goin’ ter see ter the bottom o’ things, er let ’em alone. An’ afore we drop this, I want these ’ere questions answered: Who is that gal, an’ why does she talk about bein’ your gal? Who is the young-un she talks of, an’ have you got it? I’m goin’ ter know yer lay afore I move.”

“Franz,” breaks in Papa deprecatingly, “jest give yer mother a chance. Maybe ye won’t ride sich a high horse when ye hear her plans fer yer good.”

And then, as if she has just received her cue, Mamma breaks in:

“Ah-h, Franz,” she says contemptuously, “I’m disappinted in ye! Wot were ye thinkin’ on, ter go an’ weaken afore a slip of a gal like that, talkin’ such chicken talk, an’ goin’ back on yer old mother!”

“I thought ye said ye’d got ter hang onto that gal, an’ she’d make all our fortin’s,” comments Franz.

“An’ so I did.”

“Well,” and he favors her with a knowing leer, “if that’s a fact, somebody needs ter git inter her good books, an’ she don’t ’pear to take much stock in you two.”

He points this sentence with a wink at Papa. And this gentleman, seeming to see his son’s gallantry in a new light, indulges in one of his giggles. Even Mamma grins visibly as she leans forward and pats him on his knee.

“Ah, you sly dog, ah-h! Look what luck’s throwed in our way, my boy! Ye’re bound ter be rich, if ye jest listen to yer mother.”

“It’ll take a power o’ listenin’ unless yer git down ter business. An’ now, once more, wot does the gal mean by talkin’ about a child that’s stole?”

“Never mind the young un, boy,” replies Mamma, her face hardening again; “how do ye like the gal?”

“Like the gal? Wot’s that got ter do with it?”

“Listen, Franz,” and Mamma bends forward with uplifted forefinger; “I’ll explain all that needs explainin’ by an by. S’pose it should turn out as that gal, that’s come here and throwed herself into our hands, should fall heir to – well, to a pile o’ money. What would you be willin’ to do ter git the heft of it?”

“Most anything,” replies Franz coolly, and letting his eyes drop to the weapon in his hand. “I shouldn’t ‘weaken,’ nor play ‘chicken,’ old un. But I’d want ter see the fortin’ ahead.”

“Hear the boy!” chuckles Mamma in delight. “But we don’t want none o’ that,” nodding toward the revolver. “It’s a live gal ye want.” Then leaning forward, she whispers sharply: “You have got ter marry the gal!”

Franz stares at his mother for full ten seconds. Then slowly lowering first one leg and next the other, he stands upon his feet, and embracing himself with both arms, he indulges in what appears to be a violent fit of noiseless laughter.

“Marry the gal!” he articulates between these spasms. “Oh, gimmini! won’t she be delighted!”

“Delighted or not,” snarls Mamma, considerably annoyed by this levity on the part of her Prodigal, “she’ll be brought to consent.”

But the spasm has passed. Franz resumes his position on the table, and looks at Mamma, this time with the utmost gravity, while he says:

“Look here, old woman, that’s a gal as can’t be drove. Ye can’t force her ter marry yer han’some son. An’ ye can’t force yer han’some son ter marry her – not unless he sees some strong inducements. An’ then, ye don’t expect ter make a prisoner o’ that gal, do yer? That racket’s played out, ’cept in the theatres. I don’t know what sent her here, but I’m pretty sure she’ll be satisfied with a short visit.”

“Franz,” remonstrates Mamma, “listen to me. That gal, the minit we step for’ard an’ prove her identity, is goin’ to come into a fortin’ as big as a silver mine. And we shan’t prove her identity – till she’s married ter you.”

Suddenly the manner of the Prodigal, which has presented thus far a mixture of incredulity and indifference, changes to fierce anger. Again he comes down upon his feet, this time with a quick spring that causes Papa to start and tremble once more.

“Now, you listen,” he says sharply. “The quicker yer stop this fool business, the better it’ll be fer yer plans. Who’s that gal, I say? How did she git inter yer clutches? What’s this fortin’, and where’s it comin’ from? When ye’ve answered these ’ere questions, ye kin talk ter me; not afore.”

“Jest trust us fer that, Franzy,” says Papa softly.

“Not any! Then here’s another thing: how are ye goin’ ter git that gal’s consent?”

“Trust us fer that, too,” says Mamma, in a tone betokening rising anger. “We know how ter manage her.”

“An’ that means that ye’ve got her young un! Now look here, both on ye. Do you take me fer a stool-pigeon, to go into such a deal with my eyes blinded? Satisfy me about the gal, an’ her right to a fortin’, an’ let me in to the young un deal, an’ I’m with ye. I don’t go it blind.”