The City of Fire

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He was only two feet from the front stoop when he become aware of
danger, something, a familiar scent, a breathlessness, and then a
sudden stir. A dark thing ahead and the feeling of something coming
behind. Billy as if a football signal had been given, grew calm and
alert. Instantly both arms flashed up, and down the mountain shot two
long yellow winks of light, and simultaneously two sharp reports of a
gun, followed almost instantly by another shot, more sinister in sound,
and Billy's right arm dropped limply by his side, while a sick wave of
pain passed over him.

But he could not stop for that. He remembered the day when Mark had
been coaching the football team and had told them that they must not
stop for _anything_ when they were in action. If they thought
their legs were broken, or they were mortally wounded and dying, they
must not even think of it. Football was the one thing, and they were to
forget they were dead and go ahead with every whiff of punch there was
in them, blind or lame, or dead even, because when they were playing,
football was the only thing that counted. And if they were sick or
wounded or bleeding let the wound or the sickness take care of itself.
_They_ were _playing football!_ So Billy felt now.

He hurled himself viciously at the dark shadow ahead, which he mentally
registered as Link because he seemed long to tackle, and then kicked
behind at the thing that came after, and struggled manfully with a
throttling hand on his throat till a wad of vile cloth was forced into
his mouth--and just as he had a half Nelson on Shorty, too! If he could
have got Shorty down and stood on him he might have beaten off Link
until Chief got there. Where was Chief? Where was the gun? Where was
he? His head was swimming. Was it his head he had hit against the wall,
or did he bang Shorty's? How it resounded! There were winding stairs in
his head and he seemed to be climbing them, up, up, up, till he dropped
in a heap on the floor, a hard floor all dust, and the dust came into
his nostrils. He was choking with that rag! Why couldn't he pull it
out? What was cutting his wrists when he tried to raise his hand? And
what was that queer pain in his shoulder?

There were shouts outside. How did he get inside? Was that more
shooting? Perhaps he had found his gun after all. Perhaps he was
shooting the men before the Chief got there, and that was bad, because
he didn't feel competent to judge about a thing as serious as shooting
with that dirty rag in his mouth. He must get rid of it somehow.
Doggone it! He had somehow got his hands all tangled up in cords, and
he must get them out no matter if they did cut. He had to give the
Chief a signal.

He struggled again with all his might, and something somewhere gave
way. He wasn't sure what, but he seemed to be sinking down, perhaps
down stairs or down the mountain, somehow so it was down where the
Chief--! where Mark! The light in his brain went out and he lay as one
dead in the great dusty front bedroom where a man who had sinned,
hanged himself once because he couldn't bear his conscience any longer.

And outside in the front door yard five men struggled in the dark, with
curses, and shots, and twice one almost escaped, for Link was
desperate, having a record behind him that would be enough for ten men
to run away from.

But after the two were bound and secured in the car down at the foot of
the mountain, the Chief lingered, and looking up said in a low tone to
one of his men: "I wonder where that boy is!"

"Oh, he's all right," said his assistant easily, "he's off on another
piece of business by this time, Chief. He likes to seem mysterious.
It's just his way. Say, Chief, we gotta get back if we wantta meet that
train down at Unity t'night."

That was true too, and most important, so the Chief with a worried
glance toward the dark mountain turned his car and hurried his captives
away. Now that they were where he could get a glance at them in the dim
light of the car, he felt pretty sure they were a couple of "birds" he
had been looking for for quite a while. If that was so he must reward
Billy somehow. That boy was a little wonder. He would make a detective
some day. It wouldn't be a bad idea to take him on in a quiet sort of
way and train him. He might be a great help. He mustn't forget this
night's work. And what was that the kid had said about a secret
underground wire? He must look into it as soon as this murder trial was
off the docket. That murder trial worried him. He didn't like the turn
things were taking.

XXIV

In the gray of the morning Billy came to himself and stared around in
the stuffy grimness everywhere. The gag was still in his mouth. He put
up his hand involuntarily and pulled it out, and then remembered that
his hands had been tied. Then he must have succeeded in breaking the
cord! The other hand was still encumbered and his feet were tied
together, but it happened that the well hand was the freed one, and so
after a hard struggle he succeeded in getting out of the tangle of
knots and upon his feet. He worked cautiously because he wasn't sure
how much of what he remembered was dream and how much was reality. The
two men might be in the house yet, very likely were, asleep somewhere.
He must steal down and get away before they awoke.

There was something warm and sticky on the floor and it had got on his
clothes, but he took no notice of it at first. He wondered what that
sick pain in his shoulder was, but he had not time to stop and see now
or even to think about it. He must call the Chief before the men were
awake. So he managed to get upon his feet land steady himself against
the wall, for he felt dizzy and faint when he tried to walk. But he
managed to get into the hall, and peer into each room, and more and
more as he went he felt he was alone in the house. Then he had failed
and the men were gone! Aw Gee! Pat too! What a fool he had been,
thinking he could manage the affair! He ought to have taken the Chief
into his confidence and let him come along, Aw Gee!

Down in the kitchen he found a pail of water and a cup. He drank
thirstily. His head felt hot and the veins in his neck throbbed. There
seemed to be a lump on his forehead. He bathed his face and head. How
good it felt! Then he found a whiskey bottle on the table half full.
This after carefully smelling he poured over his bruised wrists,
sopping it on his head and forehead, and finally pouring some down his
shoulder that pained so, and all that he did was done blindly, like one
in a dream; just an involuntary searching for means to go on and
fulfill his purpose.

After another drink of water he seemed to be able to think more
clearly. That tapping in the cellar yesterday! What had that been? He
must look and see. Yes, that was really what he had come about. Perhaps
the men were down there yet hidden away. He opened the cellar door and
listened. Doggone it where was that gun of his? But the flash light!
Yes, the flash light!

He shot the light ahead of him as he went down, moving as in a dream,
but keeping true to type, cautious, careful, stealthy. At last he was
down. No one there! He turned the little flash into every nook and
cranny, not excepting the ledges above the cellar wall whereon the
floor beams rested. Once he came on a tin box long and flat and new
looking. It seemed strange to meet it here. There was no dust upon it.
He poked it down with his torch and it sprawled open at his feet.
Papers, long folded papers printed with writing in between, like bonds
or deeds or something. He stooped and waved the flash above them and
caught the name Shafton in one. It was an insurance paper, house and
furniture. He felt too stupid to quite understand, but it grew into his
consciousness that these were the things he was looking for. He
gathered them up, stuffing them carefully inside his blouse. They would
be safe there. Then he turned to go upstairs, but stumbled over a pile
of coal out in the floor and fell. It gave him a sick sensation to
fall. It almost seemed that he couldn't get up again, but now he had
found the papers he must. He, crawled to his knees, and felt around,
then turned his light on. This was strange! A heap of coal out in the
middle of the floor, almost a foot from the rest! A rusty shovel lay
beside it, a chisel and a big stone. Ah! The tapping! He got up
forgetting his pain and began to kick away the coal, turning the flash
light down. Yes, there was a crack in the cement, a loose piece. He
could almost lift it with his foot. He pried at it with the toe of his
shoe, and then lifted it with much effort out of the way. It was quite
a big piece, more than a foot in diameter! The ground was soft
underneath as if it had been recently worked over. He stooped and
plunged the fingers of his good hand in and felt around, laying the
light on the floor so it would shed a glare over the spot where he
worked. He could feel down several inches. There seemed to be something
soft like cloth or leather. He pulled at it and finally brought it up.
A leather bag girt about with a thong of leather. He picked the knot
and turned the flash in. It sent forth a million green lights. There
seemed also to be a rope of white glistening things that reminded him
of Saxy's tears. That brought a pang. Saxy would be crying! He must
remember that and do something about it. He must have been away a long
time and perhaps those men would be coming back. But it wouldn't do to
leave these things here. They were the Shafton jewels. What anybody
wanted of a lot of shiny little stones like that and a rope of tears!
But then if they did they did, and they were theirs and they oughtta
have 'em. This was the thing he had come to do. Get those jewels and
papers back! Make up as far as he could for what he had done! And he
must do it now quick before he got sick. He felt he was getting sick
and he mustn't think about it or he would turn into Aunt Saxon. That
was the queerest thing, back in his mind he felt this _was_ Aunt
Saxon down here in the haunted cellar playing with green stones and
ropes of tears, and he must hurry quick before she found him and told
him he couldn't finish what he had to do.

He did the work thoroughly, feeling down in the hole again, but found
nothing more. Then he stuffed the bag inside his blouse and buttoned up
his sweater with his well hand and somehow got up the stairs. That arm
pained him a lot, and he found his sweater was wet. So he took his
handkerchief and tied it tight around the place that hurt the most,
holding one end in his teeth to make the knot firm.

The sun blinded him as he stumbled down the back steps and went to get
his wheel, but somehow he managed it, plunging through the brakes and
tangles, and back to the road.

It ran in his brain where the Shaftons lived out in the country on the
Jersey shore. He had a mental picture in the back of his mind how to
get there. He knew that when he struck the Highroad there was nothing
to do but keep straight on till he crossed the State Line and then he
would find it somehow, although it was miles away. If he had been
himself he would have known it was an impossible journey in his present
condition, but he wasn't thinking of impossibilities. He had to do it,
didn't he? He, Billy, had set out to make reparation for the confusion
he had wrought in his small world, and he meant to do so, though all
hell should rise against him. Hell! That was it. He could see the
flames in hot little spots where the morning sun struck. He could hear
the bells striking the hour in the world he used to know that was not
for him any more. He zigzagged along the road in a crazy way, and
strange to say he met nobody he knew, for it was early. Ten minutes
after he passed the Crossroads Elder Harricutt went across the Highway
toward Economy to his day's work, and he would have loved to have seen
Billy, and his rusty old wheel, staggering along in that crazy way and
smelling of whiskey like a whole moonshiner, fairly reeking with
whiskey as he joggled down the road, and a queer little tinkle now and
then just inside his blouse as if he carried loaded dice. Oh, he would
have loved to have caught Billy shooting crap!

But he was too late, and Billy swam on, the sun growing hotter on his
aching head, the light more blinding to his blood shot eyes, the lump
bigger and bluer on his grimy forehead.

About ten o'clock a car came by, slowed down, the driver watching
Billy, though Billy took no note of him. Billy was looking on the
ground dreaming he was searching for the state line. He had a crazy
notion it oughtta be there somewhere.

The man in the car stopped and called to him:

"How about putting your wheel in the back seat and letting me give you
a lift? You look pretty tired."

Billy lifted bleared eyes and stopped pedalling, almost falling off his
wheel, but recovering himself with a wrench of pain and sliding off.

"Awwright!" said Billy, "Thanks!"

"You look all in, son," said the man kindly.

"Yep," said Billy laconically, "'yam! Been up all night. Care f'I
sleep?"

"Help yourself," said the man, giving a lift with the wheel, and
putting it in behind.

Billy curled down in the back seat without further ceremony.

"Where are you going son?"

Billy named the country seat of the Shaftons, having no idea how far
away it was. The man gave a whistle.

"What! On that wheel? Well, go to sleep son. I'm going there myself, so
don't worry. I'll wake you up when you get there."

So Billy slept through the first long journey he had taken since he
came to live with Aunt Saxon, slept profoundly with an oblivion that
almost amounted to coma. Sometimes the man, looking back, was tempted
to stop and see if the boy was yet alive, but a light touch on the hot
forehead showed him that life was not extinct, and they whirled on.

Three hours later Billy was awakened by a sharp shake of his sore
shoulder and a stinging pain that shot through him like fire. Fire!
Fire! He was on fire! That was how he felt as he opened his eyes and
glared at the stranger:

"Aw, lookout there, whatterya doin'?" he blazed, "Whadda ya think I am?
A football? Don't touch me. I'll get out. This the place? Thanks fer
tha ride, I was all in. Say, d'ya know a guy by the name of Shafton?"

"Shafton?" asked the man astonished, "are you going to Shafton's?"

"Sure," said Billy, "anything wrong about that? Where does he hang
out?" The look of Billy, and more than all the smell of him made it
quite apparent to the casual observer that he had been drinking, and
the man eyed him compassionately. "Poor little fool! He's beginning
young. What on earth does he want at Shaftons?"

"I'spose you've come down after the reward," grinned the man, "I could
have saved you the trouble if you'd told me. The kidnapped son has got
home. They are not in need of further information."

Billy gave him a superior leer with one eye closed:

"You may not know all there is to know about that," he said impudently,
"where did you say he lived?"

The man shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"Suit yourself," he said, "I doubt if they'll see you. They have had
nothing but a stream of vagrants for two days and they're about sick of
it. They live on the next estate and the gateway is right around that
corner."

"I ain't no vagrant," glared Billy, and limped away with old trusty
under his left arm.

No one molested him as he walked in the arched and ivied gateway, for
the gate keeper was off on a little private errand of his own at a
place where prohibition had not yet penetrated. Billy felt too heavy
and dizzy to mount his wheel, but he leaned on the saddle as he walked
and tried to get things straight in his head. He oughtn't to have gone
to sleep, that's what he oughtn't. But this job would soon be over and
then he would hike it for home. Gee! Wouldn't home feel good! And Aunt
Saxon would bathe his head with wych hazel and make cold things for him
to drink! Aw, Gee!

The pedigreed dogs of which the place boasted a number came suddenly
down upon him in a great flare of noise, but dogs were always his
friends, why should he worry? A pity he couldn't stop to make friends
with them just now. Some dogs! Here pup! Gee! What a dog to own! The
dogs whined and fawned upon him. Pedigree or no pedigree, rags and
whiskey and dirt notwithstanding, they knew a man when they saw one,
and Billy hadn't batted an eyelid when they tried their worst tramp
barks on him. They wagged their silky tails and tumbled over each other
to get first place to him, and so escorted proudly he dropped old
trusty by a clump of imported rhododendrons and limped up the marble
steps to the wide vistas of circular piazzas that stretched to
seemingly infinite distances, and wondered if he should ever find the
front door.

An imposing butler appeared with a silver tray, and stood aghast.

"Shafton live here?" inquired Billy trying to look business like. "Like
to see him er the missus a minute," he added as the frowning vision
bowed. The butler politely but firmly told him that the master and
mistress had other business and no desire to see him. The young
gentleman had come home, and the reward had been withdrawn. If it was
about the reward he had come he could go down to the village and find
the detective. The house people didn't want to interview any more
callers.

"Well, say," said Billy disgusted, "after I've come all this way too!
You go tell 'er I've brought her jewels! You go tell 'er I've _gottum
here!_"

The butler opened the door a little wider: he suggested that seeing was
believing.

"Not on yer tin type!" snapped Billy, "I show 'em to nobody an' I give
'em to nobody but the owner! Where's the young fella? He knows me. Tell
'im I brang his ma's string o' beads an' things."

Billy was weary. His head was spinning round. His temper was rising.

"Aw,--you make me tired! Get out of my way!" He lowered his head and
made a football dive with his head in the region of the dignified
butler's stomach, and before that dignitary had recovered his poise
Billy with two collies joyously escorting him, stood blinking in wonder
over the great beautiful living room, for all the world as pretty as
the church at home, only stranger, with things around that he couldn't
make out the use of.

"Where'ur they at? Where are the folks?" he shouted back to the butler
who was coming after him with menace in his eye.

"What is the matter, Morris? What is all this noise about?" came a
lady's voice in pettish tones from up above somewhere. "Didn't I tell
you that I wouldn't see another one of those dreadful people to-day?"

Billy located her smooth old childish face at once and strode to the
foot of the stairs peering up at the lady, white with pain from his
contact with the butler, but alert now to the task before him:

"Say, Miz Shaf't'n, I got yer jools, would ya mind takin' 'em right
now? 'Cause I'm all in an' I wantta get home."

His head was going around now like a merry-go-round, but he steadied
himself by the bannister:

"Why, what do you mean?" asked the lady descending a step or two, a
vision of marcelled white hair, violet and lace negligee, and well
preserved features, "You've got them _there_? Let me see them."

"He's been drinking, Sarah, can't you smell it?" said a man's voice
higher up, "Come away and let Morris deal with him. Really Sarah, we'll
have to go away if this keeps up."

"Say, you guy up there, just shut yer trap a minute won't ya! Here, Miz
Shaf't'n, are these here yours?"

Billy struggled with the neck of his blouse and brought forth the
leather bag, gripped the knot fiercely in his teeth, ran his fingers in
the bag as he held it in his mouth, his lamed arm hanging at his side,
and drew forth the magnificent pearls.

"William! My pearls!" shrieked the lady.

The gentleman came down incredulous, and looked over her shoulder.

"I believe they are, Sarah," he said.

Billy leered feverishly up at him, and produced a sheaf of papers,
seemingly burrowing somewhere in his internal regions to bring them
forth.

"And here, d'these b'long?"

The master of the house gripped them.

"Sarah! The bonds! And the South American Shares!" They were too busy
to notice Billy who stood swaying by the newel post, his duty done now,
the dogs grouped about him.

"Say, c'n I get me a drink?" he asked of the butler, who hovered near
uncertain what to be doing now that the tide was turned.

The lady looked up.

"Morris!"

He scarcely heard the lady's words but almost immediately a tall slim
glass of frosty drink, that smelled of wild grapes, tasted of oranges,
and cooled him down to the soul again, was put into his hand and he
gulped it greedily.

"Where did you say you found these, young man?" The gentleman eyed him
sternly, and Billy's old spirit flamed up:

"I didn't say," said Billy.

"But you know we've got to have all the evidence before we can give the
reward--!"

"Aw, cut it out! I don't want no reward. Wouldn't take it if you give
it to me! I just wantta get home. Say, you gotta telephone?"

"Why certainly." This was the most astonishing burglar!

"Well, where is't? Lemme call long distance on it? I ain't got the tin
now, but I'll pay ya when I git back home!"

"Why, the idea! Take him to the telephone Morris. Right there! This
one--!"

But Billy had sighted one on a mahogany desk near at hand and he
toppled to the edge of the chair that stood before it. He took down the
receiver in a shaky hand, calling Long Distance.

"This Long Distance? Well, gimme Economy 13."

The Shaftons for the instant were busy looking over the papers,
identifying each jewel, wondering if any were missing. They did not
notice Billy till a gruff young voice rang out with a pathetic tremble
in it: "That you Chief? This is Billy. Say, c'n I bother you to phone
to Miss Severn an' ast her to tell m'yant I'm aw'wright? Yes, tell her
I'll be home soon now, an' I'll explain. And Chief, I'm mighty sorry
those two guys got away, but I couldn't help it. We'll get 'em yet.
Hope you didn't wait long. Tell you more when I see ya, S'long--!"

The boyish voice trailed off into silence as the receiver fell with a
crash to the polished desk, and Billy slipped off the chair and lay in
a huddled heap on the costly rug.

"Oh, mercy!" cried the lady, "Is he drunk or what?"

"Come away Sarah, let Morris deal--"

"But he's sick, I believe, William. Look how white he is. I believe he
is dead! William, he may have come a long way in the heat! He may have
had a sunstroke! Morris, send for a doctor quick! And--call the
ambulance too! You better telephone the hospital. We can't have him
here! William, look here, what's this on his sleeve? Blood? Oh,
William! And we didn't give him any reward--!"

And so, while the days hastened on Billy lay between clean white sheets
on a bed of pain in a private ward of a wonderful Memorial Hospital put
up by the Shaftons in honor of a child that died. Tossing and moaning,
and dreaming of unquenchable fire, always trying to climb out of the
hot crater that held him, and never getting quite to the top, always
knowing there was something he must do, yet never quite finding out
what it was. And back in Sabbath Valley Aunt Saxon prayed and cried and
waited and took heart of cheer from the message the Chief had sent to
Lynn. And quietly the day approached for the trial of Mark Carter, but
his mother did not yet know.

XXV

Mrs. Gibson, the wife of the comparatively new elder of the Sabbath
Valley church was a semi-invalid. That is she wasn't able to do her own
work and kept "help." The help was a lady of ample proportions whose
husband had died and whose fortunes were depleted. She consented to
assist Mrs. Gibson provided she were considered one of the family, and
she presented a continual front of offense so that the favored family
must walk most circumspectly if they would not have her retire to her
room with hurt feelings and leave them to shift for themselves.

On the morning of the trial she settled herself at her side of the
breakfast table, after a number of excursions to the kitchen for things
she had forgotten, the cream, the coffee, and the brown bread, of which
Mr. Gibson was very fond. She was prepared to enjoy her own breakfast.
Mr. Gibson generally managed to bolt his while these excursions of
memory were being carried on and escape the morning news, but Mrs.
Gibson, well knowing which side her bread was buttered, and not knowing
where she could get another housekeeper, usually managed to sit it out.

"Well, this is a great day for Sabbath Valley," said Mrs. Frost
mournfully, spreading an ample slice of bread deep with butter, and
balancing it on the uplifted fingers of one hand while she stirred the
remainder of the cream into her coffee with one of the best silver
spoons. She was wide and bulgy and her chair always seemed inadequate
when she settled thus for nourishment.

"A great day," she repeated sadly, taking an audible sip of her coffee.

"A great day?" repeated little Mrs. Gibson with a puzzled air, quickly
recalling her abstracted thoughts.

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