“That does not seem conclusive,” replied Thursday Smith, deprecatingly, “although I naturally hope my family was respectable. I have been inclined to resent the fact that none of my friends or relatives has ever inquired what became of me.”
“Are you sure they have not?”
“I have watched the papers carefully. In two years I have followed several clues. A bricklayer disappeared, but his drowned body was finally found; a college professor was missing, but he was sixty years of age; a young man in New York embezzled a large sum and hid himself. I followed that trail, although regretfully, but the real embezzler was caught the day I presented myself in his place. Perhaps the most curious experience was in the case of a young husband who deserted his wife and infant child. She advertised for him; he had disappeared about the time I had found myself; so I went to see her.”
“What was the result?” asked Beth.
“She said I was not her husband, but if he failed to come back I might take his place, provided I would guarantee to support her.”
During the laugh that followed, Thursday Smith went back to his work and an animated discussion concerning his strange story followed.
“He seems honest,” said Louise, “but I blame a man of his ability for becoming a mere tramp. He ought to have asserted himself and maintained the position in which he first found himself.”
“How?” inquired Patsy.
“At that time he was well dressed and had a watch and diamond ring. If he had gone to some one and frankly told his story he could surely have obtained a position to correspond with his personality. But instead of this he wasted his time and the little capital he possessed in doing nothing that was sensible.”
“It is easy for us to criticise the man,” remarked Beth, “and he may be sorry, now, that he did not act differently. But I think, in his place, I should have made the same attempt he did to unravel the mystery of his lost identity. So much depended upon that.”
“It’s all very odd and incomprehensible,” said Uncle John. “I wonder who he can be.”
“I suppose he calls himself Thursday because that was the day he first found himself,” observed Patsy.
“Yes; and Smith was the commonest name he could think of to go with it. The most surprising thing,” added their uncle, “is the fact that a man of his standing was not missed or sought for.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Louise, “he had been insane and escaped from some asylum.”
“Then how did he come to be lying in a ditch?” questioned Patsy; “and wouldn’t an escaped maniac be promptly hunted down and captured?”
“I think so,” agreed Mr. Merrick. “For my part, I’m inclined to accept the man’s theory that it was an automobile accident.”
“Then what became of the car, or of the others in it?”
“It’s no use,” said Beth, shaking her head gravely. “If Thursday Smith, who is an intelligent young man, couldn’t solve the mystery himself, it isn’t likely we can do so.”
“We know as much as he does, as far as that is concerned,” said Patsy, “and our combined intelligence ought at least to equal his. I’m sorry for the poor man, and wish we might help him to come to his own again.”
They all agreed to this sentiment and while the girls attended to their editorial duties they had the amazing story of Thursday Smith uppermost in their minds. When the last copy had been placed in the hands of Miss Briggs and they were driving to the farm — at a little after six o’clock — they renewed the interesting discussion.
Just before reaching the farm Hetty Hewitt came out of the wood just in front of them. She was clothed in her short skirt and leggings and bore a fishing rod and a creel.
“What luck?” asked Patsy, stopping the horse.
“Seven trout,” answered the artist. “I might have caught more, but the poor little creatures squirmed and struggled so desperately that I hadn’t the heart to destroy any more of them. Won’t you take them home for Mr. Merrick’s breakfast?”
Patsy looked at the girl musingly.
“Jump in, Hetty,” she said; “I’m going to take you with us for the night. The day’s fishing has tired you; there are deep circles under your eyes; and that stuffy old hotel isn’t home-like. Jump in.”
Hetty flushed with pleasure, but hesitated to accept the invitation.
“I — I’m not dressed for — ”
“You’re all right,” said Beth, supporting her cousin’s proposition.
“We’ll lend you anything you need.”
“Do come, Miss Hewitt,” added Louise.
Hetty sighed, then smiled and finally climbed into the surrey.
“In New York,” she said, as they started on, “I’ve sometimes hobnobbed with editors; but this is somewhat different.”
“In what way?” asked Patsy casually.
“You’re not real journalists, you know, and — ”
“Why aren’t we journalists?” asked Louise.
For a moment Hetty was puzzled how to reply.
“You are doing very good editorial work,” she said mendaciously, “but, after all, you are only playing at journalism. The real journalist — as I know him — is a Bohemian; a font of cleverness running to waste; a reckless, tender-hearted, jolly, careless ne’er-do-well who works like a Trojan and plays like a child. He is very sophisticated at his desk and very artless when he dives into the underworld for rest and recreation. He lives at high tension, scintillates, burns his red fire without discrimination and is shortly extinguished. You are not like that. You can’t even sympathize with that sort of person. But I can, for I’m cut from a remnant of the same cloth.”
“Scintillate all you want to, Hetty,” cried Patsy with a laugh; “but you’re not going to be extinguished. For we, the imitation journalists, have taken you under our wings. There’s no underworld at Millville, and the only excitement we can furnish just now is a night with us at the old farm.”
“That,” replied Hetty, “is indeed a real excitement. You can’t quite understand it, perhaps; but it’s so — so very different from what I’m accustomed to.”
Uncle John welcomed the girl artist cordially and under his hospitable roof the waif soon felt at ease. At dinner the conversation turned upon Thursday Smith and his peculiar experience. Beth asked Hetty if she knew the man.
“Yes,” replied the girl; “I’ve seen him at the office and we’ve exchanged a word or two. But he boards with Thorne, the liveryman, and not at the hotel.”
“You have never seen him before you met him here?”
“Never.”
“I wonder,” said Louise musingly, “if he is quite right in his mind. All this story may be an hallucination, you know.”
“He’s a very clever fellow,” asserted Hetty, “and such a loss of memory is by no means so uncommon as you think. Our brains are queer things — mine is, I know — and it doesn’t take much to throw their machinery out of gear. Once I knew a reporter who was worried and over-worked. He came to the office one morning and said he was George Washington, the Commander of the Continental Army. In all other ways he was sane enough, and we humored him and called him ‘General.’ At the end of three months the idea quit him as suddenly as it had come on, and he was not only normal but greatly restored in strength of intellect through the experience. Perhaps some of the overworked brain cells had taken a rest and renewed their energy. It would not surprise me if some day Thursday Smith suddenly remembered who he was.”
[Footnote: This anecdote is true. — Author.]
“In the meantime,” said Uncle John, “I’m going to make an effort to discover his identity.”
“In what way, Uncle?” asked Patsy.
“I’ll set Fogerty, who is a clever detective, at work. No man can disappear from his customary haunts without leaving some sort of a record behind him, and Fogerty may be able to uncover the mystery in a short time.”
“Then we’ll lose our pressman,” declared Beth; “for I’m positive that
CHAPTER XI
THE HONER’BLE OJOY BOGLIN
One morning while Patsy was alone in her office, busied over her work, the door softly opened and a curious looking individual stood before her.
He was thin in form, leathery skinned and somewhat past the middle age of life. His clothing consisted of a rusty black Prince Albert coat, rusty trousers to match, which were carefully creased, cowhide shoes brilliant with stove polish, a tall silk hat of antiquated design, and a frayed winged collar decorated with a black tie on which sparkled a large diamond attached to a chain. He had chin whiskers of a sandy gray color and small gray eyes that were both shrewd and suspicious in expression.
He stood in the doorway a moment, attentively eyeing the girl, while she in turn examined him with an amusement she could not quite suppress. Then he said, speaking in a low, diffident voice:
“I’m lookin’ for the editor.”
“I am the editor,” asserted Patsy.
“Really?”
“It is quite true.”
He seemed disconcerted a moment, striving to regain his assurance. Then he took out a well-worn pocketbook and from its depths abstracted a soiled card which, leaning forward, he placed carefully upon the table before Patsy. She glanced at it and read: “Hon. Ojoy Boglin, Hooker’s Falls, Chazy County.”
“Oh,” said she, rather surprised; “are you Mr. Boglin?”
“I am the Honer’ble Ojoy Boglin, miss,” he replied, dwelling lovingly upon the “Honer’ble.”
“I have not had the honor of your acquaintance,” said she, deciding she did not like her visitor. “What is your business, please?”
The Hon. Ojoy coughed. Then he suddenly remembered he was in the presence of a lady and took off his hat. Next he slid slowly into the vacant chair at the end of the table.
“First,” he began, “I want to compliment you on your new paper. It’s a good thing, and I like it. It’s what’s been needed in these ‘ere parts a long time, and it’s talked about all over Chazy County.”
“Thank you,” said the editor briefly, for the praise was given in a perfunctory way that irritated her.
“The only other papers in this senatorial deestric’, which covers three counties,” continued the visitor, in impressive tones, “air weeklies, run by political mud-slingers that’s bought up by the Kleppish gang.”
“What is the Kleppish gang?” she asked, wonderingly.
“The supporters o’ that rascal, Colonel Kleppish, who has been occupyin’ my berth for goin’ on eight years,” he said with fierce indignation.
“I fear I do not understand,” remarked Patsy, really bewildered. “What was your berth, which Colonel Kleppish has — has usurped?”
“See that ‘Honer’ble’ on the card?”
“I do.”
“That means I were senator — state senator — which makes any common man honer’ble, accordin’ to law, which it’s useless to dispute. I were elected fer this deestric’, which covers three counties,” he said proudly, “an’ I served my country in that capacity.”
“Oh, I see. But you’re not state senator now?”
“No; Kleppish beat me for the nomination, after I’d served only one term.”
“Why?”
“Eh? Why did he git the nomination? ‘Cause he bought up the newspapers — the country weeklies — and set them to yellin’ ‘graft.’ He made ‘em say I went into office poor, and in two years made a fortune.”
“Did you?” asked the girl.
He shuffled in his seat.
“I ain’t used to talkin’ politics with a girl,” he admitted; “but seein’ as you’re the editor of this paper — a daily, by Jupe! — you’ve probably got a head on you and understand that a man don’t get into office for his health. There’s a lot of bother in servin’ your country, and a man oughter be well paid for it. I did jest like the others do — like Kleppish is doin’ right now — but the reg’lar voters don’t understand politics, and when the howl went up about graft, backed by Kleppish’s bought-up newspapers, they turned me down cold. I’ve been eight years watchin’ for a chance to get in again, an’ now I’ve got it.”
“This is very interesting, I’m sure,” remarked Patsy; “but our paper doesn’t go much into local politics, Mr. Boglin, and I’m very busy to-day.”
“Honer’ble Ojoy Boglin,” he said, correcting her; but he did not take the hint to leave.
Patsy picked up her pencil as if to resume her work, while he eyed her with a countenance baffled and uncertain. Presently he asked:
“Has Kleppish got this paper too?”
“No,” she coldly replied.
“I thought I’d likely head him off, you being so new. See here,
Editor — ”
“I am Miss Doyle, sir.”
“Glad to know you, Miss Doyle. What I was about to remark is this: The election for senator comes up agin in September and I want this paper to pull for me. Bein’ as it’s a daily it’s got more power than all of Kleppish’s weeklies put together, and if you work the campaign proper I’ll win the nomination hands down. This is a strong Republican deestric’, and to git nominated on the Republican ticket is the same as an election. So what I want is the nomination. What do you say?”
Patsy glared at him and decided that as far as appearances went he was not a fit candidate for any office, however humble. But she answered diplomatically:
“I will inquire into the condition of politics in this district, Mr.
Boglin, and try to determine which candidate is the most deserving.
Having reached a decision, the Millville Tribune will espouse the
cause of the best man — if it mentions local politics at all.”
The Hon. Ojoy gave a dissatisfied grunt.
“That means, in plain words,” he suggested, “that you’ll give Kleppish a chance to bid against me. But I need this paper, and I’m willin’ to pay a big price for it. Let Kleppish go, and we’ll make our dicker right now, on a lib’ral basis. It’s the only way you can make your paper pay. I’ve got money, Miss Doyle. I own six farms near Hooker’s Falls, which is in this county, and six hundred acres of good pine forest, and I’m director in the Bank of Huntingdon, with plenty of money out on interest. Also I own half the stock in the new paper mill at Royal — ”
“You do?” she exclaimed. “I thought Mr. Skeelty — ”
“Skeelty’s the head man, of course,” he said. “He came to me about the mill proposition and I went in with him. I own all the forest around Royal. Bein’ manager, and knowin’ the business, Skeelty stood out for fifty-one shares of stock, which is the controllin’ interest; but I own all the rest, and the mill’s makin’ good money. People don’t know I’m in that deal, and of course this is all confidential and not to be talked about.”
“Very well, sir. But I fear you have mistaken the character of our paper,” said Patsy quietly. “We are quite independent, Mr. Boglin, and intend to remain so — even if we can’t make the paper pay. In other words, the Millville Daily Tribune can’t be bought.”
He stared in amazement; then scratched his ear with a puzzled air.
“Such talk as that means somethin’,” he asserted, gropingly, “but what it means, blamed if I know! Newspapers never turn money down unless they’re a’ready bought, or have got a grouch of their own…. Say!” he suddenly cried, as an inspiration struck him, “you ain’t got anything agin the mill at Royal, or agin Skeelty, have you?”
“I have, sir!” declared Patsy, raising her head to frown discouragingly upon the Honer’ble Ojoy. “Mr. Skeelty is acting in a very disagreeable manner. He has not only boycotted our paper and refused to pay for the subscriptions he engaged, but I understand he is encouraging his workmen to annoy the Millville people, and especially this printing office.”
“Well — durn — Skeelty!” ejaculated Mr. Boglin, greatly discomposed by this statement. “
But I’ll fix all that, Miss Doyle,” he added, eagerly. “Skeelty’s my partner and he’s got to do what I say or I’ll make trouble for him. You dicker with me for the support of your paper and I’ll guarantee a hundred subscriptions from Royal and get you an apology from Skeelty and a promise he’ll behave an’ keep his men to home. And all that’s outside the price I’ll agree to pay.”
Patsy’s eyes were full of scorn.
“I won’t dicker with you an instant,” she firmly declared. “I don’t know Colonel Kleppish, or what his character is, but I’m very sure he’s the better man and that the people have made no mistake in electing him in your place. No respectable candidate for office would attempt to buy the support of a newspaper, and I advise you to change the wording on your card. Instead of ‘Honorable’ it should read ‘Dishonorable’ Ojoy Boglin. Good day, sir!”
Mr. Boglin’s face turned white with rage. He half rose from his seat, but sat down again with a vicious snarl.
“I’ve coaxed, so far, young woman,” he said grimly, “but I guess it’s time I showed my hand. You’ll either run this paper in my interest or I’ll push Skeelty on to make the town too hot to hold you. I’ve got power in this county, even if I ain’t senator, and you’ll feel that power if you dare oppose me. Take your choice, girl — either to make good money out o’ this campaign, or be run out of town, neck an’ crop! It’s up to you to decide.”
“In thirty seconds,” said Patsy, her face as white as was Boglin’s, “I shall ring this bell to summon my men to throw you out.”
The Honer’ble Ojoy slowly rose and put on his hat.
“Look out!” he said warningly.
“I will,” snapped Patsy.
“This ain’t the end of it, girl!”
“There are ten seconds left,” she said.
He picked up his card, turned his back and walked out, leaving his opponent trembling betwixt agitation and righteous indignation. A few moments later Bob West came in and looked at the girl editor curiously.
“Ojoy Boglin has been here,” he said.
“The Honer’ble Ojoy, if you please,” answered Patsy, with a laugh that bordered on hysteria.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 482
