Part 74

The two men flung themselves upon him as he leaped, and in the ensuing struggle the three rolled together on the deck. He fought them like a madman, using his bandaged arm, his feet, his head. He was powerful with the fictitious strength of desperation and thwarted intent. But the two men got the upper hand, and, astride the prostrate form, the detective forced on the handcuffs. At the sound of the clinking irons, the prisoner suffered collapse then and there.

"Thank God!" said Father Honore as he lifted the limp head and shoulders. With the other's aid he carried him into the cabin and laid him on the floor. The priest took off his own wet cloak, then his coat; with the latter he covered the poor clay that lay apparently lifeless--no one should look upon that face either in curiosity, contempt, or pity.

The detective went out to interview the driver of the team.

"Where'd you pick him up?"

"'Long on West Street, just below Park Place. I see by the way he spoke he'd broke his wind--asked if I was goin' to a ferry an' if I'd give him a lift. I said 'Come along,' and asked no questions. He ain't the first I've helped out o' trouble, but I guess I've got him in sure enough this time."

"You're going to put up on the Island?"

"Yes; but what business is it o' a decent-looking cove like youse, I'd like to know."

"Well, it's this way: we've got to get this man back to New York to-night; it's the boat's last trip and there ain't a chance of getting a cab or hack in this blizzard, and at this time of night, to get him up from the ferry. If you'll take the job, I'll give you fifteen dollars for it."

"That ain't so easy earned in a reg'lar snow-in; besides, I don't want to be a party to gettin' him furder into your grip by takin' him over."

"Oh, that's all right. He's got a friend with him who'll see to him for the rest of the night."

"Well, I don't mind then. It's goin' on one now, an' I might as well make a night o' it on t' other side. It's damned hard on the hosses, though, an' it's ten to one I don't get lifted myself by one o' them cussed cruelty to animil fellers that sometimes poke their noses into the wrong end o' their business.--Make it twenty an' it is done."

The detective smiled. "Twenty it is." He patted the noble Percherons and felt their warmth under the blankets. "You're not the kind they're after. What have you got in your team?"

"Nothing but the hosses' feed-bags."

"That'll do. We'll put him in now in case any one comes on at Staten Island for the return trip. You don't know nothing about this, you know." He looked at him knowingly.

"All right, Cap'n; I'd be willin' to say I was a bloomin' idjot for two saw-horses. Come, rake out."

The detective laughed. "Here's ten to bind the bargain--the rest when you've landed him."

III

The brewery team made its way slowly up from the ferry owing to the drifting snow and icy pavements. From time to time a plough ran on the elevated, or on the trolley tracks, and sent the snow in fan-like spurts from the fender. The driver drew rein in a west-side street off lower Seventh Avenue. It was a brotherhood house where the priest had taken a room for an emergency like the present one. He knew that within these walls no questions would be asked, yet every aid given, if required, in just these circumstances. The man beneath the horse-blankets was still unconscious when they lifted him out, and carried him up to a large room in the topmost story. The detective, after removing the handcuffs, asked if he could be of any further use that night. He stepped to the side of the cot and looked searchingly into the passive face on the pillow.

"No; he's safe here," Father Honore replied. "You will notify the police and the other detectives. I will go bail for him if any should be needed; but I may as well tell you now that the case will probably never come to trial; the amount has been guaranteed." He wrote a telegram and handed it to the man. "Would you do me the favor to get this off as early as you can?"

"Humph! Poor devil, he's got off easy; but from his looks and the tussle we had with him, I don't think he'll be over grateful to you for bringing him through this. I've seen so much of this kind, that I've come to think it's better when they drop out quietly, no fuss, like as he wanted to."

"I can't agree with you. Thank you for your help."

"Not worth mentioning; it's all in the night's work, you know. Good night. I'll send the telegram just as soon as the wires are working. You know my number if you want me." He handed him a card.

"Thank you; good night."

When the door closed upon him, Father Honore drew a long breath that was half a suppressed groan; then he turned to the passive form on the cot. There was much to be done.

He administered a little stimulant; heated some water over a small gas stove; laid out clean sheets, a shirt, some bandages and a few surgical instruments from a "handy closet," that was kept filled with simple hospital emergency requirements, and set to work. He cut the shoes from the stockingless feet; cut away the stiffened clothing, what there was of it; laid bare the bandaged arm; it was badly swollen, stiff and inflamed. He soaked from a clotted knife-wound above the elbow the piece of cloth with which it had first been bound. He looked at the discolored rag as it lay in his hand, startled at what he saw: a handkerchief--a small one, a woman's! With sickening dread he searched in the corners; he found them: A. A., wreathed around with forget-me-nots, all in delicate French embroidery.

"My God, my God!" he groaned. He recalled having seen Aileen embroidering these very handkerchiefs last summer up under the pines. One of the sisterhood, Sister Ste. Croix, was with her giving instruction, while she herself wrought on a convent-made garment.

What did it mean? With multiplied thoughts that grasped helplessly hither and thither for some point of attachment, he went on with his work. Two hours later, he had the satisfaction of knowing the man before him was physically cared for as well as it was possible for him to be until he should regain consciousness. His practised eye recognized this to be a case of collapse from exhaustion, physical and mental. Now Nature must work to replenish the depleted vitality. He could trust her up to a certain point.

He sat by the cot, his elbows on his knees, his head dropped into his hands, pondering the mystery of this life before him--of all life, of death, of the Beyond; marvelling at the strange warp and woof of circumstance, his heart wrung for the anguish of that mother far away in the quarries of The Gore, his soul filled with thankfulness that she was spared the sight of this.