Shorty McCabe on the Job. Ford Sewell

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      When Pedders showed up again all the old stories was hashed over, and the whole of Tullington held its breath watchin' for some sign that he's dug up his hank loot. But it didn't come. Pedders just camped down silent in his old home and let his whiskers grow. Twice a day he made reg'lar trips back and forth from the postoffice, lookin' at nobody, speakin' to nobody. Mrs. Pedders held her usual fall and spring openin's of freak millinery, while Luella taught in the fourth grade of the grammar school and gave a few piano lessons on the side. They didn't act like a fam'ly that had buried treasure.

      But what had he done with that hundred and fifty thousand? How could he have blown so much without even acquirin' a toddy blossom? Or had he scattered it in the good old way, buckin' Wall Street? But he'd never seemed like that kind. No, they didn't think he had the nerve to take a chance on a turkey raffle. So that left the mystery deeper'n ever.

      "No chance of him bein' not guilty to begin with, eh?" I suggests.

      J. Bayard smiles cynical. "So far as I am able to learn," says he, "there is just one person, aside from Mrs. Pedders and her daughter, who believes him innocent. Strangely enough too, that's Norris, who was teller at the time. He's president of the bank now. I had a talk with him this morning. He insists that Pedders was too honest to touch a dollar; says he knew him too well. But he offers no explanation as to where the securities went. So there you are! Everyone else regards him as a convicted thief, who scarcely got his just deserts. He's a social outcast, and a broken, spiritless wretch besides. How can I do anything kind and generous for such a man?"

      Well, I didn't know any more'n he did. "What gets me," I goes on, "is how he ever come to be mixed up with Pyramid Gordon. Got that traced out?"

      "I sounded Norris on that point," says Steele; "but he'd never heard of Gordon's having been in Tullington, and was sure Pedders didn't know him."

      "Then you ain't had a talk with Pedders himself?" says I.

      "Why, no," says J. Bayard, shruggin' his shoulders scornful. "The poor devil! I didn't see what good it would do—an ex-convict, and——"

      "You can't always be dealin' with Twombley-Cranes," I breaks in. "And it's Pedders you're after this trip. Come on. Let's go tackle him."

      "What! Now?" says Steele, liftin' his eyebrows.

      "Ah, you ain't plannin' to spend the summer here, are you?" says I. "Besides, it'll do you good to learn not to shy at a man just because he's done time. Show us the house."

      I could have put it even stronger to him, if I'd wanted to rub it in. Had about as much sympathy for a down-and-out, Steele did, as you'd find milk in a turnip. You should see the finicky airs he puts on as he follows me into the Pedders cottage, and sniffs at the worn, old-fashioned furniture in the sittin' room.

      It's Mrs. Pedders that comes in from the shop to greet us. Must have been quite a good looker once, from the fine face and the still slim figure. But her hair has been frosted up pretty well, and there's plenty of trouble lines around the eyes. No, we couldn't see Mr. Pedders. She was sorry, but he didn't see anyone. If there was any business, perhaps she could——

      "Maybe you can," says I; "although it ain't exactly business, either. It's a delayed boost we're agents for; friendly, and all that."

      "I—I don't believe I understand," says she.

      "We'll get to that later on," says I, "if you'll take our word and help. What we're tryin' to get a line on first off is where and how Mr. Pedders run against Pyramid Gordon."

      "Gordon?" says she. "I don't think I ever heard him mention the name."

      "Think 'way back, then," says I, "back before he was—before he had his trouble."

      She tried, but couldn't dig it up. We was still on the subject when in floats Daughter. She's one of these nice, sweet, sensible lookin' girls, almost vergin' on the old maid. She'd just come home from her school. The case was explained to her; but she don't remember hearin' the name either.

      "You see, I was only nine at the time," says she, "and there was so much going on, and Papa was so upset about all those letters."

      "Which letters?" says I.

      "Oh, the people who wrote to him during the trial," says she. "You've no idea—hundreds and hundreds of letters, from all over the country; from strangers, you know, who'd read that he was—well, an absconder. They were awful letters. I think that's what hurt Papa most, that people were so ready to condemn him before he'd had a chance to show that he didn't do it. He would just sit at his old desk there by the hour, reading them over, and everyone seemed like another pound loaded on his poor shoulders. The letters kept coming long after he was sent away. There's a whole boxful in the garret that have never been opened."

      "And he never shall see them!" announced Mrs. Pedders emphatic.

      "H-m-m-m!" says I. "A whole boxful that nobody's opened? But suppose now that some of 'em wa'n't—say, why not take a look at the lot, just the outsides?"

      Neither Mrs. Pedders nor Luella took kind to that proposition; but somehow I had a vague hunch it ought to be done. I couldn't say exactly why, either. But I kept urgin' and arguin', and at last they gave in. They'd show me the outsides, anyway; that is, Luella might, if she wanted to. Mrs. Pedders didn't even want to see the box.

      "I meant to have burned them long ago," says she. "They're just letters from idle, cruel people, that's all. And you don't know how many such there are in the world, Mr. McCabe. I hope you never will know. But go up with Luella if you wish."

      So we did, J. Bayard glancin' suspicious at the dust and cobwebs and protectin' his silk hat and clothes cautiously. It's a good-sized box too, with a staple and padlock to keep the cover down. Luella hunted up the key and handed out bunch after bunch. Why do people want to write to parties they've read about in the newspapers? What's the good too, of jumpin' on bank wreckers and such at long range? Why, some even let their spite slop over on the envelopes. To see such a lot of letters, and think how many hard thoughts they stood for, almost gave you chills on the spine.

      Didn't seem to do much good to paw 'em over now, at this late date, either. I was almost givin' up my notion and tellin' Luella that would be about enough, when I noticed a long yellow document envelope stowed away by itself in a corner.

      "There's a fat one," says I.

      She hands it out mechanical, as she'd done the rest.

      "Hello!" says I, glancin' at the corner.

      "Gordon & Co., Broad Street, New York! Why, say, that's the Pyramid Gordon I was askin' about."

      "Is it?" says she. "I hadn't noticed."

      "Might give us some clew," I goes on, "as to what him and your Paw had a run-in about."

      "Well, open it, if you like," says Luella careless.

      J. Bayard and I takes it over to the window and inspects the cancel date.

      "June, 1894," says I. "Twenty-eight cents postage; registered too. Quite a package. Well, here goes!"

      "Bonds," says Steele, takin' a look. "That old Water Level Development Company's too."

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