Mr. Crewe's Career — Complete - Winston Churchill

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came without the cartridge belt and holster which they had pictured in anticipatory sessions on the baggage-trucks. There could be no doubt of the warmth of their greeting as they sidled up and seized a hand somewhat larger than theirs, but the welcome had in it an ingredient of awe that puzzled the newcomer, who did not hesitate to inquire:—“What's the matter, Ed? Why so ceremonious, Perley?”

      But his eagerness did not permit him to wait for explanations. Grasping his bag, the only baggage he possessed, he started off at a swinging stride for Hanover Street, pausing only to shake the hands of the few who recognized him, unconscious of the wild-fire at his back. Hanover Street was empty that drowsy summer afternoon, and he stopped under the well-remembered maples before the house and gazed at it long and tenderly; even at the windows of that room—open now for the first time in years—where he had served so many sentences of imprisonment. Then he went cautiously around by the side and looked in at the kitchen door. To other eyes than his Euphrasia might not have seemed a safe person to embrace, but in a moment he had her locked in his arms and weeping. She knew nothing as yet of Mr. Blodgett's misfortunes, but if Austen Vane had depopulated a county it would have made no difference in her affection.

      “My, but you're a man,” exclaimed Euphrasia, backing away at last and staring at him with the only complete approval she had ever accorded to any human being save one.

      “What did you expect, Phrasie?”

      “Come, and I'll show you your room,” she said, in a gutter she could not hide; “it's got all the same pictures in, your mother's pictures, and the chair you broke that time when Hilary locked you in. It's mended.”

      “Hold on, Phrasie,” said Austen, seizing her by the apron-strings, “how about the Judge?” It was by this title he usually designated his father.

      “What about him?” demanded Euphrasia, sharply.

      “Well, it's his house, for one thing,” answered Austen, “and he may prefer to have that room—empty.”

      “Empty! Turn you out? I'd like to see him,” cried Euphrasia. “It wouldn't take me long to leave him high and dry.”

      She paused at the sound of wheels, and there was the Honourable Hilary, across the garden patch, in the act of slipping out of his buggy at the stable door. In the absence of Luke, the hired man, the chief counsel for the railroad was wont to put up the horse himself, and he already had the reins festooned from the bit rings when he felt a heavy, hand on his shoulder and heard a voice say:—“How are you, Judge?”

      If the truth be told, that voice and that touch threw the Honourable Hilary's heart out of beat. Many days he had been schooling himself for this occasion: this very afternoon he had determined his course of action, which emphatically did not include a fatted calf. And now surged up a dryad-like memory which had troubled him many a wakeful night, of startled, appealing eyes that sought his in vain, and of the son she had left him flinging himself into his arms in the face of chastisement. For the moment Hilary Vane, under this traitorous influence, was unable to speak. But he let the hand rest on his shoulder, and at length was able to pronounce, in a shamefully shaky voice, the name of his son. Whereupon Austen seized him by the other shoulder and turned him round and looked into his face.

      “The same old Judge,” he said.

      But Hilary was startled, even as Euphrasia had been. Was this strange, bronzed, quietly humorous young man his son? Hilary even had to raise his eyes a little; he had forgotten how tall Austen was. Strange emotions, unbidden and unwelcome, ran riot in his breast; and Hilary Vane, who made no slips before legislative committees or supreme courts, actually found himself saying:—“Euphrasia's got your room ready.”

      “It's good of you to take me in, Judge,” said Austen, patting his shoulder. And then he began, quite naturally to unbuckle the breechings and loose the traces, which he did with such deftness and celerity that he had the horse unharnessed and in the stall in a twinkling, and had hauled the buggy through the stable door, the Honourable Hilary watching him the while. He was troubled, but for the life of him could find no adequate words, who usually had the dictionary at his disposal.

      “Didn't write me why you came home,” said the Honourable Hilary, as his son washed his hands at the spigot.

      “Didn't I? Well, the truth was I wanted to see you again, Judge.”

      His father grunted, not with absolute displeasure, but suspiciously.

      “How about Blodgett?” he asked.

      “Blodgett? Have you heard about that? Who told you?”

      “Never mind. You didn't. Nothing in your letter about it.”

      “It wasn't worth mentioning,” replied Austen. “Tyner and the boys liked it pretty well, but I didn't think you'd be interested. It was a local affair.”

      “Not interested! Not worth mentioning!” exclaimed the Honourable Hilary, outraged to discover that his son was modestly deprecating an achievement instead of defending a crime. “Godfrey! murder ain't worth mentioning, I presume.”

      “Not when it isn't successful,” said Austen. “If Blodgett had succeeded, I guess you'd have heard of it before you did.”

      “Do you mean to say this Blodgett tried to kill you?” demanded the Honourable Hilary.

      “Yes,” said his son, “and I've never understood why he didn't. He's a good deal better shot than I am.”

      The Honourable Hilary grunted, and sat down on a bucket and carefully prepared a piece of Honey Dew. He was surprised and agitated.

      “Then why are you a fugitive from justice if you were acting in self-defence?” he inquired.

      “Well, you see there were no witnesses, except a Mexican of Blodgett's, and Blodgett runs the Pepper County machine for the railroad out there. I'd been wanting to come East and have a look at you for some time, and I thought I might as well come now.”

      “How did this—this affair start?” asked Mr. Vane.

      “Blodgett was driving in some of Tyner's calves, and I caught him. I told him what I thought of him, and he shot at me through his pocket. That was all.”

      “All! You shot him, didn't you?”

      “I was lucky enough to hit him first,” said Austen.

      Extraordinary as it may seem, the Honourable Hilary experienced a sense of pride.

      “Where did you hit him?” he asked.

      It was Euphrasia who took matters in her own hands and killed the fatted calf, and the meal to which they presently sat down was very different from the frugal suppers Mr. Vane usually had. But he made no comment. It is perhaps not too much to say that he would have been distinctly disappointed had it been otherwise. There was Austen's favourite pie, and Austen's favourite cake, all inherited from the Austens, who had thought more of the fleshpots than people should. And the prodigal did full justice to the occasion.

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      So instinctively do we hark back to the primeval man that there was a tendency to lionize the prodigal in Ripton, which proves the finished civilization of the East not to be so far removed from that land of outlaws, Pepper County. Mr. Paul Pardriff, who had a guilty conscience about the clipping, and vividly bearing in mind Mr. Blodgett's mishap, alone avoided young Mr. Vane; and escaped through the type-setting room and down an outside stairway in the rear when that gentleman called. It gave an ironical turn to the incident that Mr. Pardriff was at the moment engaged in a “Welcome Home” paragraph meant to be propitiatory.

      Austen cared very little for lionizing. He spent most of his time with young Tom Gaylord, now his father's

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