The City of Masks Part 6

Stuyvesant, in his rancour, would draw an ugly picture of her midnight adventure. He would, no doubt, feel inspired to add a few conclusions of his own. Her word, opposed to his, would have no effect on the verdict of the indulgent mother. She would stand accused and convicted of conduct unbecoming a governess! For, after all, Thomas Trotter was a chauffeur, and she couldn't make anything n.o.bler out of him without saying that he wasn't Thomas Trotter at all.

She arose the next morning with a splitting headache, and the fear of Stuyvesant in her soul.

He was waiting for her in the hall below. The twins were accorded an unusually affectionate greeting by their big brother. He went so far as to implant a random kiss on the features of each of the "brats," as he called them in secret. Then he roughly shoved them ahead into the breakfast-room.

Fastening his gaze upon the pale, unsmiling face of Miss Emsdale, he whispered:

"Don't worry, my dear. Mum's the word."

He winked significantly. Revolted, she drew herself up and hurried after the children, unpleasantly conscious of the leer of admiration that rested upon her from behind.

He was very gay at breakfast.

"Mum's the word," he repeated in an undertone, as he drew back her chair at the conclusion of the meal. His lips were close to her ear, his hot breath on her cheek, as he bent forward to utter this rea.s.suring remark.

CHAPTER V

MR. THOMAS TROTTER HEARS SOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE

TWO days later Thomas Trotter turned up at the old book shop of J.

Bramble, in Lexington Avenue.

"Well," he said, as he took his pipe out of his pocket and began to stuff tobacco into it, "I've got the sack."

"Got the sack?" exclaimed Mr. Bramble, blinking through his horn-rimmed spectacles. "You can't be serious."

"It's the gospel truth," affirmed Mr. Trotter, depositing his long, graceful body in a rocking chair facing the sheet-iron stove at the back of the shop. "Got my walking papers last night, Bramby."

"What's wrong? I thought you were a fixture on the job. What have you been up to?"

"I'm blessed if I know," said the young man, shaking his head slowly.

"Kicked out without notice, that's all I know about it. Two weeks' pay handed me; and a simple statement that he was putting some one on in my place today."

"Not even a reference?"

"He offered me a good one," said Trotter ironically. "Said he would give me the best send-off a chauffeur ever had. I told him I couldn't accept a reference and a discharge from the same employer."

"Rather foolish, don't you think?"

"That's just what he said. I said I'd rather have an explanation than a reference, under the circ.u.mstances."

"Um! What did he say to that?"

"Said I'd better take what he was willing to give."

Mr. Bramble drew up a chair and sat down. He was a small, sharp-featured man of sixty, bookish from head to foot.

"Well, well," he mused sympathetically. "Too bad, too bad, my boy.

Still, you ought to thank goodness it comes at a time when the streets are in the shape they're in now. Almost impossible to get about with an automobile in all this snow, isn't it? Rather a good time to be discharged, I should say."

"Oh, I say, that _is_ optimism. 'Pon my soul, I believe you'd find something cheerful about going to h.e.l.l," broke in Trotter, grinning.

"Best way I know of to escape blizzards and snow-drifts," said Mr.

Bramble, brightly.

The front door opened. A cold wind blew the length of the book-littered room.

"This Bramble's?" piped a thin voice.

"Yes. Come in and shut the door."

An even smaller and older man than himself obeyed the command. He wore the cap of a district messenger boy.

"Mr. J. Bramble here?" he quaked, advancing.

"Yes. What is it? A telegram?" demanded the owner of the shop, in some excitement.

"I should say not. Wires down everywheres. Gee, that fire looks good. I gotta letter for you, Mr. Bramble." He drew off his red mittens and produced from the pocket of his thin overcoat, an envelope and receipt book. "Sign here," he said, pointing.

Mr. Bramble signed and then studied the handwriting on the envelope, his lips pursed, one eye speculatively c.o.c.ked.

"I've never seen the writing before. Must be a new one," he reflected aloud, and sighed. "Poor things!"

"That establishes the writer as a woman," said Trotter, removing his pipe. "Otherwise you would have said 'poor devils.' Now what do you mean by trifling with the women, you old rogue?" The loss of his position did not appear to have affected the nonchalant disposition of the good-looking Mr. Trotter.

"G.o.d bless my soul," said Mr. Bramble, staring hard at the envelope, "I don't believe it is from one of them, after all. By 'one of them,' my lad, I mean the poor gentlewomen who find themselves obliged to sell their books in order to obtain food and clothing. They always write before they call, you see. Saves 'em not only trouble but humiliation.

The other kind simply burst in with a parcel of rubbish and ask how much I'll give for the lot. But this,--Well, well, I wonder who it can be from? Doesn't seem like the sort of writing--"

"Why don't you open it and see?" suggested his visitor.

"A good idea," said Mr. Bramble; "a very clever thought. There _is_ a way to find out, isn't there?" His gaze fell upon the aged messenger, who warmed his bony hands at the stove. He paused, the tip of his forefinger inserted under the flap. "Sit down and warm yourself, my friend," he said. "Get your long legs out of the way, Tom, and make room for him. That's right! Must be pretty rough going outside for an old codger like you."

The messenger "boy" sat down. "Yes, sir, it sure is. Takes 'em forever in this 'ere town to clean the snow off'n the streets. 'Twasn't that way in my day."

"What do you mean by your 'day'?"

"Haven't you ever heard about me?" demanded the old man, eyeing Mr.

Bramble with interest.

"Can't say that I have."

"Well, can you beat that? There's a big, long street named after me way down town. My name is Ca.n.a.l, Jotham W. Ca.n.a.l." He winked and showed his toothless gums in an amiable grin. "I used to be purty close to old Boss Tweed; kind of a lieutenant, you might say. Things were so hot in the old town in those days that we used to charge a nickel apiece for s...o...b..a.l.l.s. Five cents apiece, right off the griddle. That's how hot it was in my day."

"My word!" exclaimed Mr. Bramble.