The Definite Object

by Jeffery Farnol

  “Why, since you say so, old blood an’ bones,” said Joe, his mild eye brightening, “we will step along with the Spider a little way if the Guv’nor’ll excuse us?”

  “Certainly, Joe,” nodded Ravenslee, “on condition that you do just as the Spider says.”

  “You mean, sir?”

  “No fighting, Joe—at least, not yet.”

  “Trust me, sir! What ain’t to be—yet, is to be sometime, I ‘opes,” sighed Joe.

  “Good-by, Guv, good-by!” croaked the Old Un, “if I don’t put some o’ they perishers in the ‘orspitals an’ the infirmaries—I ain’t the man I was—

  “‘Oh, used am I to war’s alarms I ‘unger for the fray, Though beauty clasps me in ‘er arms The trumpet calls away.’”

  So having made their adieux, the three took their departure; though once, despite Joe’s objurgations, the Old Un must needs come back to kiss Mrs. Trapes’s toil-worn hand with a flourish which left her voiceless and round of eye until the clatter of their feet had died away.

  Then she closed the door and fixed Ravenslee with her stoniest stare.

  “Mr. Geoffrey,” she demanded, “why did they call you ‘Guv’nor’, and wherefore ‘Sir’?”

  Ravenslee, in the act of lighting his pipe, had paused for a suitable answer, when Tony, who had remained mute in a corner, stepped forward and spoke:

  “Say, Geoff, I got-a bit-a more noos. Old-a Finlay-a want-a spik with-a you—”

  “Old Finlay—with me?”

  “Sure. Old-a Finlay-a go die-a ver’ queek, an’ he vant-a spik with-a you first.”

  “Dying! Old Finlay dying?” questioned Ravenslee, rising.

  “Sure! He go die-a ver’ queek.”

  “I’ll come!”

  “An’ I guess,” said Mrs. Trapes, “yes, I opine as I’ll come along wi’ ye, Mr. Geoffrey.”

  Old Martin Finlay lay propped up by pillows, his great, gaunt, useless body seeming almost too large for the narrow bed wherein he lay, staring up great-eyed at Ravenslee—live eyes in a dead face.

  “It’s dying I am, sorr,” said he faintly, “an’ it’s grateful is ould Martin for the docthers and medicine you’ve paid for. But it’s meself is beyand ‘em all—an’ it’s beyand ‘em I’m goin’ fast. She’s waitin’ for me—me little Maggie’s houlding out her little hand to me—she’s waitin’ for me—beyand, Holy Mary be praised! An’ she’s waited long enough, sorr, my little Maggie as I loved so while the harsh words burned upon me tongue—my little Maggie! I was bitter cruel to my little girl, but you’ve been kind to me, and, sorr, I thank ye. But,” continued the dying man, slowly and feebly, “it aren’t to thank yez as I wanted ye—but to give yez something in trust for Miss Hermy—ye see, sorr, I shant be here when she comes back to-night, I’ll be with—little Maggie when the hour strikes—my little Maggie! Norah, wife—give it to him.”

  Silently Mrs. Finlay opened a drawer, and turning, placed in Ravenslee’s hand a heavy gold ring curiously wrought into the form of two hands clasping each other.

  “It was my Maggie’s,” continued Martin, “an’ I guess she valleyed it a whole lot, sorr. I found it hid away with odds and ends as she treasured. But she don’t want it no more—she’s dead, ye see, sorr—I killed her—drowned, sorr—I drowned her. Cruel an’ hard I was—shut her out onto the streets, I did, and so—she died. But before the river took—oh, Blessed Mary—oh, Mother O’ God—pity! Before she went t’ heaven, Miss Hermy was good t’ her; Miss Hermy loved her and tried t’ comfort her—but only God could do that, I reckon—so she went t’ God. But Miss Hermy was kind when I wasn’t, so, sorr, it’s give her that ring ye will, plaze, an’ say as poor Martin died blessing her. An’ now it’s go I’ll ask ye, sorr, for God’s callin’ me to wipe away me tears an’ sorrers and bind up me broken heart—so lave me to God and—my little Maggie—”

  Very softly Ravenslee followed Mrs. Trapes out of the room, but they had not reached the front door when they heard a glad cry and thereafter a woman’s sudden desolate sobbing.

  “Go on, Mr. Geoffrey,” whispered Mrs. Trapes. “But I guess I’d better stay here a bit.”

  “You mean—?”

  “As poor Martin’s sure found his little girl again!”

  CHAPTER XXV

  HOW SPIKE MADE A CHOICE AND A PROMISE

  Monday morning found Ravenslee knocking at the opposite door, which opening, disclosed Spike, but a very chastened and humble Spike, who blushed and drooped his head and shuffled with his feet and finally stammered:

  “Hello, Geoff—I—I’m all alone, but you—you can come in if—if you care to?”

  “I dropped in on my way down just to have a word with you, Spike.”

  With dragging feet Spike led the way into the sitting room, where lay his breakfast, scarcely tasted.

  “Sit down, Geoff, I—I want to apologise,” said the lad, toying nervously with his teaspoon. “I guess you think I’m a mean, low-down sort o’ guy, an’ you’re right, only I—I feel worse ‘n you think. An’ say, Geoff, if I—if I said anything th’ other night, I want you to—forget it, will you?”

  “Why, of course, Spike.”

  “Hermy’s forgiven me. I—I’ve promised to work hard an’ do what she wants.”

  “I’m glad of that, Spike!”

  “She came creepin’ into my room this mornin’ before she went, but—me thinkin’ she meant to give me a last call down—I pretended t’ be asleep, so she just sighed an’ went creepin’ out again an’ wrote me this,” and Spike drew a sheet of crumpled note paper from his pocket and handed it to Ravenslee, who read these words:

  Boy dear, I love you so much that if you destroyed my love, I think you would destroy me too. Now I must leave you to go to my work, but you will go to yours, won’t you—for my sake and for your sake and because I love you so. Be good and strong and clean, and if you want some one to help you, go to your friend, Mr. Geoffrey. Good-by, dear—and remember your promise.

  Ravenslee passed back the pencilled scrawl and Spike, bending his head low, read it through again.

  “I guess I’ve just got t’ be good,” he murmured, “for her sake. Oh, Geoff,” he cried suddenly, “I’d die for her!”

  “Better live for her, Spike, and be the honourable, clean man she wishes.”

  “She sure thinks you’re some man, Geoff! I guess she’s—kind o’—fond of you.”

  “That’s what I’ve come to talk about, Spike.”

  “Are you—fond of her, Geoff?”

  “Fond!” exclaimed Ravenslee, forgetting to drawl, “I’m so fond—I love her so much—I honour her so deeply that I want her for my wife.”

  “Wife?” exclaimed Spike, starting to his feet, his eyes suddenly radiant, “d’ye mean you’ll marry her?”

  “If she will honour me so far, Spike.”

  “Marry her! You’ll marry her!” Spike repeated.

  “As soon as she’ll let me!”

  “Geoff—oh, Geoff,” exclaimed the boy, and choking, turned away.

  “Won’t you congratulate me?”

  “I can’t yet,” gasped Spike; “I can’t till I’ve told ye what a mean guy I’ve been.”

  “What about?”

  “About you—and Hermy. Bud said you meant t’ make her go the way—little Maggie Finlay went, an’—oh, Geoff, I—I kind of believed him.”

  “Did you, Spike—that foul beast? But you don’t believe it any longer, and M’Ginnis is—only M’Ginnis, after all.”

  “But I—I’ve got to tell you more,” said the lad miserably, as meeting Ravenslee’s eye with an effort, he went on feverishly. “The other night after—after Bud slipped me the—the stuff an’ I’d had a—a drink or two, he began askin’ all about you. At first I blocked and side-stepped all his questions, but he kep’ on at me, an’ at last I—I give you away, Geoff—” Here Spike paused breathlessly and cast an apprehensive glance toward his hearer, but finding him silent and serene as ever he repeated:

  “I—
gave you away, Geoff!”

  “Did you, Spike?”

  “Yes, I—I told him who you really are!”

  “Did you, Spike?”

  “Yes! Yes! Oh, Geoff, don’t you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, why don’t ye say something? Why don’t ye tell me what I am? Say I’m a dirty sneak—call me a yeller cur—anything!”

  “No, you were drunk, that’s all; and when the drink is in, honour, and all that makes a man, is out—you were only drunk.”

  “Oh, but I wasn’t s’ drunk as all that,” gasped Spike, cowering in his chair, “but he kep’ on comin’ at me with his questions, an’ at last—when I told him how I met up with you—he kind o’ give a jump—an’ his face—” Spike clenched his fists and, slowly raising them, pressed them upon his eyes. “I’ll never forget th’ look on—his face! So now you know as I’ve blown th’ game on ye—given ye away—you as was my friend!” With the word Spike sobbed and fell grovelling on his knees. “Curse me, Geoff!” he cried. “Oh, curse me, an’ tell me what I am!”

  “You are Hermione’s brother!”

  “My God!” wailed the boy. “If she knew, she’d hate me.”

  “I—almost think she would, Spike.”

  “You won’t tell her, Geoff, you won’t never let her know?”

  “I—don’t get drunk, Spike.”

  “But you won’t tell her?” he pleaded, reaching out desperate hands, “you won’t?”

  “Not a word, Spike!”

  “Oh, I know I’m—rotten!” sobbed the lad. “I know you ain’t got no use for me any more, but I’m sorry, Geoff, I’m real sorry. I know a guy can’t forgive a guy as gives a guy away if that guy’s a guy’s friend. I know as you can’t forgive me. I know as you’ll cut me out for good after this. But I want ye t’ know as I’m sorry, Geoff—awful sorry—I—I ain’t fit t’ be anybody’s friend, I guess.”

  “I think you need a friend more than ever, Spike!”

  “Geoff!” cried the boy breathlessly. “Say—what d’ you mean?”

  “I mean the time has come for you to choose between M’Ginnis and me. If I am to be your friend, M’Ginnis must be your enemy from now on—wait! If you want my friendship, no more secrets; tell me just how M’Ginnis got you into his power—how he got you to break into my house.”

  Spike glanced up through his tears, glanced down, choked upon a sob, and burst into breathless narrative.

  “There was me an’ Bud an’ a guy they call Heine—we’d been to a rube boxin’ match up th’ river. An’ as we come along, Heine says: ‘If I was in th’ second-story-lay there’s millionaire Ravenslee’s wigwam waitin’ t’ be cracked,’ an’ he pointed out your swell place among th’ trees in th’ moonlight. Then Bud says: ‘You ain’t got th’ nerve, Heine. Why, th’ Kid’s got more nerve than you,’ he says, pattin’ my shoulder. An’ Heine laughs an’ says I’m only a kid. An’ Geoff, I’d got two or three drinks into me an’ th’ end was I agreed t’ just show ‘em as I had nerve enough t’ get in through a winder an’ cop something—anything I could get. So Bud hands me his ‘lectric torch, an’ we skin over th’ fence an’ up to th’ house—an’ Heine has th’ winder open in a jiffy, an’ me—bein’ half-soused an’ foolish—hikes inter th’ room, an’ you cops me on th’ jump an’—an’ that’s all!”

  “And M’Ginnis has threatened to send you up for it now and then, eh?”

  “Only for a joke. Bud ain’t like me; he’d never split on a pal—Bud wouldn’t gimme away—”

  “Anyway, Spike, it’s him or me. Which will you have for a friend?”

  “Oh, Geoff, I—I guess I’d follow you t’ Kingdom Come if you’d let me. I do want t’ live straight an’ clean—honest t’ God I do, Geoff, an’ if you’ll only forgive—”

  Spike’s outstretched, pleading hands were caught and held, and he was lifted to his feet.

  “My Arthur-Spike, art going to the office this morning?”

  “Sure I am; my eye ain’t—ain’t s’ bad, after all, is it? Anyway, I feel more like what a man should feel like now, an’—Gee! look at me doin’ the sissy tear-spoutin’ act! Oh, hell—lemme go an’ wash me face. ‘N’ say, if—if any o’ them—I mean those dolly office boys has anything t’ say, I’ll punch th’ sawdust out o’ them!”

  CHAPTER XXVI

  WHICH MAKES FURTHER MENTION OF A RING

  Ravenslee, strolling in leisurely fashion along Tenth Avenue, became aware of a slender, pallid youth whose old-young face was familiar; a cigarette dangled from his pale, thin lips, and his slender hands were hidden in the pockets of his smartly tailored coat. On went Ravenslee, pausing now and then to glance idly into some shop window until, chancing to slip his fingers into a waistcoat pocket, he paused all at once and, drawing thence a ring wrought into the semblance of two clasped hands, drew it upon his finger. Now as he glanced at the ring, his eye gleamed and, smiling as one who has a sudden bright idea, he set off faster than before, striding on light and purposeful feet. But, as he turned a corner, he noticed that the pallid youth was still close behind, wherefore he halted before a shop window where, among other articles of diet, were cans of tomatoes neatly piled into a pyramid. At these he stared, waiting, and presently found the pallid youth at his elbow, who also stared upon the tomato pyramid with half-closed eyes and with smouldering cigarette pendent from thin-lipped mouth. And after they had stared awhile in silence, cheek by jowl, Ravenslee spoke in his pleasant, lazy voice:

  “Judging by the labels these tomatoes are everything tomatoes possibly could be.”

  “‘S right!” murmured the pale one imperturbably.

  “Fond of tomatoes?” enquired Ravenslee.

  “Aw!” answered his neighbour, “quit foolin’—talk sense!”

  “Certainly! Why do you follow me, Soapy?”

  Soapy’s eyes grew narrower, and the pendent cigarette stirred slightly.

  “Know me, hey?” he enquired.

  “Heaven forbid! ‘T was a bolt at a venture—a shot in the dark.”

  “Talkin’—o’—shootin’,” said Soapy, grimly deliberate, “peanuts ain’t a healthy profesh around here—not fer your kind, it ain’t!”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” answered Ravenslee, shaking his head gently at the tomatoes, “I’ve heard of professions even more unhealthy.”

  “Aw—well—say what?”

  “Well, talking of shooting—yours!”

  Soapy’s narrow eyes gleamed with an added viciousness, his pale nostrils expanded, but the retort died upon his curling mouth, his puffy eyelids widened and widened as he stared at the ring on Ravenslee’s finger, and when he spoke his voice was strangely hoarse and eager.

  “Say, sport—where’d you—get that—ring?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “‘Cause I want to know, I guess.”

  “Think you’ve seen it before?”

  “Sport, I don’t think—I know. I seen it many a time. I’d know it in a million, sure.”

  “Where did you see it before?”

  “On M’Ginnis’s mitt. It useter belong t’ Bud.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Ravenslee, scowling down at the ring, “you make me wish more than ever that I had throttled him a little harder.”

  “Where’d you get that ring, sport?” Soapy repeated.

  “From Maggie Finlay’s father!”

  Soapy turned away to stare at the tomato cans again.

  “Meanin’?” he enquired at last, hoarser than before.

  “That once upon a time it belonged to—her.”

  “Sport,” said Soapy after an interval, still staring at the pyramid of cans, “I useter know her once, an’ I’ve jest nacherally took a fancy t’ that ring; if fifty dollars’ll buy it, they’re yours—right now.”

  “It isn’t mine,” answered Ravenslee, still scowling at the ring which he had drawn from his finger. “I’m on my way to take it to—its owner. But if that person doesn’t want it, and I’m pretty sure�
�that person—won’t, you shall have it, I promise you. And now,” said he, pocketing the ring and turning, still scowling, on Soapy, “you are one of M’Ginnis’s gang, I fancy; anyway, if you see him you can tell him from me that if he gives me another chance I’ll surely kill him for the foul beast he is.”

  “Sport,” said Soapy, “I guess the Spider’s right about you—anyway, you ain’t my meat. An’ as fer killin’ Bud—you sure ain’t goin’ t’ get th’ chance—not while I have the say-so. S’ long, sport!” and turning upon his heel, Soapy lounged away.

  At Times Square Ravenslee entered the subway and, buying his ticket, was jostled by a boy, a freckled boy, round-headed and round of nose, who stared at him with a pair of round, impertinent eyes.

  Lost in happy speculation he was duly borne to One Hundred and Thirtieth Street, where he boarded the ferry. Upon the boat he was again conscious of a round head that bobbed here and there amid the throng of passengers, but paid small heed as he leaned to watch the broad and noble river and the green New Jersey shore. At Fort Lee, exchanging boat for trolley car, he was once more vaguely conscious of two round eyes that watched him from a rear seat; but as the powerful car whirled them up-hill, plunged them down steep inclines, swung them around sharp curves, through shady woods, past far-flung boughs whose leaves stirred and whispered as the great car fleeted by, he fell again to dreaming of Hermione and the future; and so reached Englewood, a small township dreaming in the fierce midday sunshine. Here he enquired of a perspiring butcher in shirtsleeves the whereabouts of the house he wanted and, being fully directed and carefully admonished how to get there, set off along the road. And remembering that her feet must often have traversed this very path, he straightway fell to his dreaming again. Thus how should he know anything of the round head that bobbed out from behind bush or tree ere it followed whither he went? So Ravenslee came where the road led between tall trees—to smooth green lawns beyond which was the gleam of water and so at last to the house he sought.

  Now beside this house, separated by a wide stretch of lawn, was a small wood and, lured by its grateful shade, he turned aside into this wood and began pushing his way through the dense undergrowth, which presently thinned to form a small clearing, roofed and shut in by leaves and full of a tender green light. Here he paused, and espying a fallen tree hard by, sat himself down and began to fill his pipe. And now, remembering his shabby person, he felt disinclined to go up to the house and demand to see Miss Chesterton. Yet see her he would—but how? He was frowning over this problem when it was resolved for him quite unexpectedly; roused by the sound of a snapping twig, he glanced up—and Hermione was before him. She was coming down a narrow path that wound amid the leaves, and because she wore no hat, the sunlight, filtering through the branches, made a glory of her hair as she passed. Her head was bowed, and she walked very slowly as one in thought; she had brought sewing with her, but for once her busy hands were idle, and, as he looked upon her beauty, scarce breathing, he saw again that look of wistful sadness.