The Second Christmas Megapack. Гарриет Бичер-Стоу

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СКАЧАТЬ with another! I never saw your jar; I never wanted it! I wouldn’t have the thing on my place!”

      Muriel’s voice, full of tears, was lifted in expostulation.

      “How can you talk of your silly vases when Billie’s lost! Billie’s been stolen—and you two men can think of nothing but pot-ter-ree!”

      Shaver lifted a startled face to The Hopper.

      “Mamma’s cwyin’; gwanpa’s hurted mamma!”

      The strategic moment had arrived when Shaver must be thrust forward as an interruption to the exchange of disagreeable epithets by his grandfathers. “You trot right in there t’ yer ma, Shaver. Ole Hop ain’t goin’ t’ let ’em hurt ye!”

      He led the child through the dining room to the living-room door and pushed him gently on the scene of strife. Talbot, senior, was pacing the floor with angry strides, declaiming upon his wrongs—indeed, his theme might have been the misery of the whole human race from the vigor of his lamentations. His son was keeping step with him, vainly attempting to persuade him to sit down. Wilton, with a patch over his right eye, was trying to disengage himself from his daughter’s arms with the obvious intention of doing violence to his neighbor.

      “I’m sure papa never meant to hurt you; it was all a dreadful mistake,” she moaned.

      “He had an accomplice,” Talbot thundered, “and while he was trying to kill me there in my own house the plum-blossom vase was carried off; and if Roger hadn’t pushed him out of the window after his hireling—I’d—I’d—”

      A shriek from Muriel happily prevented the completion of a sentence that gave every promise of intensifying the prevailing hard feeling.

      “Look!” Muriel cried. “It’s Billie come back! Oh, Billie!”

      She sprang toward the door and clasped the frightened child to her heart. The three men gathered round them, staring dully. The Hopper from behind the door waited for Muriel’s joy over Billie’s return to communicate itself to his father and the two grandfathers.

      “Me’s dot two chick-ees for Kwismus,” announced Billie, wriggling in his mother’s arms.

      Muriel, having satisfied herself that Billie was intact—that he even bore the marks of maternal care—was in the act of transferring him to his bewildered father, when, turning a tear-stained face toward the door, she saw The Hopper awkwardly twisting the derby which he had donned as proper for a morning call of ceremony. She walked toward him with quick, eager step.

      “You—you came back!” she faltered, stifling a sob.

      “Yes’m,” responded The Hopper, rubbing his hand across his nose. His appearance roused Billie’s father to a sense of his parental responsibility.

      “You brought the boy back! You are the kidnapper!”

      “Roger,” cried Muriel protestingly, “don’t speak like that! I’m sure this gentleman can explain how he came to bring Billie.”

      The quickness with which she regained her composure, the ease with which she adjusted herself to the unforeseen situation, pleased The Hopper greatly. He had not misjudged Muriel; she was an admirable ally, an ideal confederate. She gave him a quick little nod, as much as to say, “Go on, sir; we understand each other perfectly”—though, of course, she did not understand, nor was she enlightened until some time later, as to just how The Hopper became possessed of Billie.

      Billie’s father declared his purpose to invoke the law upon his son’s kidnappers no matter where they might be found.

      “I reckon as mebbe ut wuz a kidnappin’ an’ I reckon as mebbe ut wuzn’t,” The Hopper began unhurriedly. “I live over Shell Road way; poultry and eggs is my line; Happy Hill Farm. Stevens’s the name—Charles S. Stevens. An’ I found Shaver—’scuse me, but ut seemed sort o’ nat’ral name fer ’im?—I found ’im a settin’ up in th’ machine over there by my place, chipper’s ye please. I takes ’im into my house an’ Mary’—that’s th’ missus—she gives ’im supper and puts ’im t’ sleep. An’ we thinks mebbe somebody’d come along askin’ fer ’im. An’ then this mornin’ I calls th’ New Haven police, an’ they tole me about you folks, an’ me and Shaver comes right over.”

      This was entirely plausible and his hearers, The Hopper noted with relief, accepted it at face value.

      “How dear of you!” cried Muriel. “Won’t you have this chair, Mr. Stevens!”

      “Most remarkable!” exclaimed Wilton. “Some scoundrelly tramp picked up the car and finding there was a baby inside left it at the roadside like the brute he was!”

      Billie had addressed himself promptly to the Christmas tree, to his very own Christmas tree that was laden with gifts that had been assembled by the family for his delectation. Efforts of Grandfather Wilton to extract from the child some account of the man who had run away with him were unavailing. Billie was busy, very busy, indeed. After much patient effort he stopped sorting the animals in a bright new Noah’s Ark to point his finger at The Hopper and remark:

      “’Ims nice mans; ’ims let Bil-lee play wif ’ims watch!”

      As Billie had broken the watch his acknowledgment of The Hopper’s courtesy in letting him play with it brought a grin to The Hopper’s face.

      Now that Billie had been returned and his absence satisfactorily accounted for, the two connoisseurs showed signs of renewing their quarrel. Responsive to a demand from Billie, The Hopper got down on the floor to assist in the proper mating of Noah’s animals. Billie’s father was scrutinizing him fixedly and The Hopper wondered whether Muriel’s handsome young husband had recognized him as the person who had vanished through the window of the Talbot home bearing the plum-blossom vase. The thought was disquieting; but feigning deep interest in the Ark he listened attentively to a violent tirade upon which the senior Talbot was launched.

      “My God!” he cried bitterly, planting himself before Wilton in a belligerent attitude, “every infernal thing that can happen to a man happened to me yesterday. It wasn’t enough that you robbed me and tried to murder me—yes, you did, sir!—but when I was in the city I was robbed in the subway by a pickpocket. A thief took my bill-book containing invaluable data I had just received from my agent in China giving me a clue to porcelains, sir, such as you never dreamed of! Some more of your work—Don’t you contradict me! You don’t contradict me! Roger, he doesn’t contradict me!”

      Wilton, choking with indignation at this new onslaught, was unable to contradict him.

      Pained by the situation, The Hopper rose from the floor and coughed timidly.

      “Shaver, go fetch yer chickies. Bring yer chickies in an’ put ’em on th’ boat.”

      Billie obediently trotted off toward the kitchen and The Hopper turned his back upon the Christmas tree, drew out the pocket-book and faced the company.

      “I beg yer pardon, gents, but mebbe this is th’ book yer fightin’ about. Kind o’ funny like! I picked ut up on th’ local yistiddy afternoon. I wuz goin’ t’ turn ut int’ th’ agint, but I clean fergot ut. I guess them papers may be valible. I never touched none of ’em.”

      Talbot snatched the bill-book and hastily examined the contents. His brow relaxed СКАЧАТЬ