“Tuck, my boy, you should cultivate the art of music!” cried Hood as Deering reappeared, somewhat pale but resigned to an unknown fate, in the drawing-room. “And now that ten has struck we must be on our way. Madam, will you ring for Cassowary, the prince of chauffeurs, as we must leave your hospitable home at once?” He began making his adieus with the greatest formality.
“Mr. Tuck,” said the mistress of the house as Deering gave her a limp hand, “you have conferred the greatest honor upon us. Please never pass our door without stopping.”
“To-morrow,” he said, turning to Pierrette, “I shall find you to-morrow, either here or in the Dipper!”
“Before you see me or the Dipper again, many things may happen!” she laughed.
The trio—the absurd little Pantaloon; Columbine, laughing and gracious to the last, and Pierrette, smiling, charming, adorable—cheerily called good night from the door as Cassowary sent the car hurrying out of the grounds.
“Well, what do you think of the life of freedom now?” demanded Hood as the car reached the open road. “Begin to have a little faith in me, eh?”
“Well, you seemed to put it over,” Deering admitted grudgingly. “But I can’t go on this way, Hood; I really can’t stand it. I’ve got to quit right now!”
“My dear boy!” Hood protested.
“I’ve heard bad news about my father; one of the—er—servants back there told me he was in jail!”
“Stop!” bawled Hood. “This is important if true! Cassowary, I’ve told you time and again to bring me any news you pick up in servants’ halls. What have you heard about the arrest of a gentleman named Deering?”
“He’s been pinched, all right,” the chauffeur answered as he stopped the car and turned round. “The constables over at West Dempster are trapping joy-riders, and they nailed Mr. Deering about sundown for speeding. I learned that from the chauffeur at that house where you dined.”
Hood slapped his knee and chortled with delight.
“There’s work ahead of us! But probably he’s bailed himself out by this time.”
“Not on your life!” Cassowary answered, and Deering marked a note of jubilation in his tone, as though the thought of Mr. Deering’s incarceration gave him pleasure. “The magistrate’s away for the night, and there’s nobody there to fix bail. It’s part of the treatment in these parts to hold speed fiends a night or two.”
Again Hood’s hand fell upon Deering’s knee.
“A situation to delight the gods!” he cried. “Cassowary, old man, at the next crossroads turn to the right and run in at the first gate. There’s a farmhouse in the midst of an orchard; we’ll stop there and change our clothes.”
As the car started Deering whirled upon Hood and shook him violently by the collar.
“I’m sick of all this rot! I can’t stand any more, I tell you. I’m going to quit right here!”
Hood drew his arm round him affectionately.
“My dear son, have I failed you at any point? Have you ever in your life had any adventures to compare with those you’ve had with me? Stop whining and trust all to Hood!”
Deering sank back into his corner with a growl of suppressed rage.
When they reached the farmhouse Hood drew out a key and opened the front door with a proprietorial air.
“Whose place is this? I want to know what I’m getting in for,” Deering demanded wrathfully.
“Mine, dearest Tuck! Mine, and the taxes paid. I use it as a rest-house for weary and jaded crooks, if that will ease your mind!”
Cassowary struck matches and lighted candles, disclosing a half-furnished room in great disorder. Old clothing, paper bags that had contained food, a violin, and books in good bindings littered a table in the middle of the floor, and articles of clothing were heaped in confusion on a time-battered settle. The odor of stale pipe smoke hung upon the air. Under an empty bottle on the mantel Hood found a scrap of paper which he scanned for a moment and then tore into pieces.
“Just a scratch from good old Fogarty; he’s been taking the rest-cure here between jobs. Skipped yesterday; same chap that left his mark for me on that barn. One of the royal good fellows, Fogarty; does his work neatly—never carries a gun or pots a cop; knows he can climb out of any jail that ever was made, and that, son, gives any man a joyful sense of ease and security. The Tombs might hold him, but he avoids large cities; knows his limitations like a true man of genius. Rare bird; thrifty doesn’t describe him; he’s just plain stingy; sells stolen postage-stamps at par; the only living yegg that can put that over! By George, I wouldn’t be surprised if he couldn’t sell ’em at a premium!”
As he talked he rummaged among the old clothes, chose a mud-splashed pair of trousers, and bade Deering put them on, adding an even more disreputable coat and hat. Cassowary helped himself to a change of raiment, and Hood selected what seemed to be the worst of the lot.
“Three suspicious characters will be noted by the constabulary of West Dempster within two hours!” cried Hood, hopping out of his dress trousers. “Into the calaboose we shall go, my dear Tuck! Never say that I haven’t a thought for your peace and happiness. It will give me joy unfeigned to bring you face to face with your delightful parent. Cassowary, my son, I’m going to hide those bills of yours in the lining of my coat for safety. If they found ten thousand plunks on me, they’d never let us go!”
“Hood!” cried Deering in a voice moist with tears, “for God’s sake what fool thing are you up to now?”
“I tell you we’re going to jail!” Hood answered jubilantly. “You’ve dined in good company with the most charming of girls at your side; you’ve had a taste of the prosperous life; and now it’s fitting that we should touch the other extreme. The moment we step out of this shack we’re criminals, crooks, gallows meat;” he rolled this last term under his tongue unctuously. “This will top all our other adventures. Here’s hoping Fogarty may have preceded us. The old boy likes to get pinched occasionally just for the fun of it.”
He was already blowing out the candles, and, seizing his stick, led the way back to the highway, with Deering and Cassowary at his heels. The car had been run into an old barn, which had evidently served Hood before. Within twenty-four hours they would be touring again, he announced. The change from his dress clothes to ill-fitting rags had evidently wrought a change of mood. Between whiffs at his pipe he sought consolation in Wagner, chanting bars of “In fernem Land.”
Cassowary, who had adjusted himself to this new situation without question, whispered in Deering’s ear: “Don’t kick; he’s got something up his sleeve. And he’ll get you out of it; remember that! I’ve been in jail with him before.”
Deering drew away impatiently. He was in no humor to welcome confidences from Torrence, alias Cassowary, whom his sister met clandestinely and kissed—the kiss rankled! And yet it was nothing against Cassowary that he had been following Hood about like an infatuated fool. Deering knew himself to be equally culpable on that score, and he was even now trudging after the hypnotic vagabond with a country calaboose as their common goal. The chauffeur’s interview with Constance had evidently cheered him mightily, and he joined his voice to Hood’s in a very fair rendering of “Ben Bolt.” Deering swore under his breath, angry at Hood, and furious that he had so little control of a destiny that seemed urging him on to destruction.