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CHAPTER IX
MR. MERRICK BREAKS A PLATE

That was perhaps the quickest trip a Rutter’s Point car ever made, and almost before Gordon realized that town had been reached, and certainly before he had fully recovered from his experiences, the big yellow-sided car was coming to a stop at the foot of B Street, from where it was but two short blocks to Brentwood. The prolonged and frantic whistling had summoned a knot of curious persons to the corner as the car trundled around the curve and there were plenty of willing hands to bear the still unconscious form the remaining distance.

Gordon, not a little faint and weak, followed slowly. Someone had sped ahead and when the little throng reached the house anxious faces were already at the doorway. Gordon remained without and soon the men who had carried Morris inside returned to linger about the door and await the doctor’s verdict. The latter reached the gate a minute later, and, leaping from his buggy, hurried up the walk, his black bag swinging briskly.

There was a long wait after that. The accident was discussed in low voices by the small gathering outside and Gordon was forced to go through his story again. Presently he left the front steps and wandered around to the side of the house. From an upper window came the low mutter of voices. Near at hand was a rustic seat, placed against the wall of the screened porch, and on this Gordon subsided with a big sigh of relief. Inside the house a telephone bell rang shrilly. Footsteps hurried. The voices in the room upstairs still came indistinctly through the open window. It was pretty late, Gordon reflected, and he ought to be at home. His father would be angry with him if he was late for supper. But he didn’t want to go until he had heard whether Morris was going to get well. Meanwhile, it was fine and comfortable in the corner of the rustic seat and he would just close his eyes a minute —

Someone was shaking him gently and calling “Gordon! Wake up!” He stretched and opened his eyes. “Yes’m,” he muttered sleepily. But it couldn’t be morning, for it was almost dark and – and where was he? He sat up quickly then and gazed about him in blank surprise until his roaming glance encountered the smilingly concerned face of Louise Brent bending above him. “Oh!” he said, recollection coming to him.

“Have you been here all the time?” asked Louise. “You poor boy!”

“I – I must have fallen asleep,” admitted Gordon sheepishly. “How – how is he, Louise?”

The girl’s face went suddenly serious in the twilight. “He’s pretty badly hurt,” she said. “One leg is broken and he hurt his head horribly, Gordon.”

“Is that all?” he asked anxiously.

“They think so. Seems to me it’s quite enough, though.”

“Of course, only – ” Gordon heaved a sigh of relief – “I was afraid he was dying. He – he looked so awfully!”

“Yes, didn’t he?” Louise shuddered. “He is still unconscious, but Doctor Mayrick says he will get his senses back in a little while. He must have had an awful blow on his head. Would you mind telling me just how it happened, Gordon, or are you too tired?”

He recounted the incidents of the unfortunate ride rather uncertainly. Somehow, they had got pretty much mixed up by now.

“But I think you were splendid,” said the girl warmly. “To think of stopping the trolley car was fine, Gordon. You must have been dreadfully scared and – and everything. And wasn’t it a wonder you weren’t hurt too?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I guess it would have been better if Morris had been thrown out of the car too. It was the steering wheel that kept him in, I think.”

“I don’t see how you ever thought of lifting the car up with the – that thing you spoke of,” she said admiringly. “Goodness, I’d have been so frightened I’d have just cried!”

“I guess I’d better be going home,” said Gordon.

“Yes, it must be quite late. And you haven’t had any supper, have you? I wish I’d found you here before.”

“I don’t believe I want any,” he murmured. “I – I’m mighty glad he isn’t hurt any worse. I’ll come around to-morrow if you don’t mind and see how he is.”

“Please do. Mama will want to see you, Gordon.”

“I suppose your father is pretty angry, isn’t he?” asked Gordon.

“He’s too upset and anxious now to be angry,” replied Louise. “But I suppose he will have something to say to Morris later. I felt all the time that he shouldn’t run that car. It was horrid of him to get it without letting anyone know.”

“I guess he’s got his punishment,” replied Gordon grimly. “A broken leg will keep him laid up a long time. I’m awfully sorry for him. Good-night, Louise.”

It seemed a terribly long distance to his home, although it was in reality but two blocks. His father was on the porch, reading under the electric light, when Gordon reached the steps. Down went the paper and Mr. Merrick viewed his son with cold severity.

“Well, Gordon, where have you been?” he asked.

“Over to the Point, sir. I – we – ”

“I think I have told you fairly often that I do not like you to be late for your meals?”

“Yes, sir,” assented Gordon wearily.

“Exactly. It is now – hm – nearly eight o’clock. I think you had better go up to your room. You don’t deserve supper at this hour. And – hm – after this kindly give a little consideration to my wishes.”

“Yes, sir.” Gordon wanted to tell him what had happened, but he was frightfully tired and the thought of getting upstairs and into his bed was very alluring. Mr. Merrick showed that the conversation was at an end by again hiding his face behind the newspaper and Gordon went indoors and quietly climbed the stairs, rather hoping that his mother would not hear him. But she did, and came out of her room with the secrecy of a conspirator.

“Gordon, dear,” she whispered, “your father was very angry and said you were to have no supper, but I put a little something on a plate for you. It’s on your bureau. You shouldn’t stay out like this, though, dear. Your father doesn’t like it and – and it makes me worried, too.”

“Yes’m, I won’t again,” replied Gordon. “I – I’m not very hungry, though. I’m going to bed.”

“Aren’t you – don’t you feel well?” inquired Mrs. Merrick anxiously.

“Yes’m, I’m all right. I just feel sort of tired. Good-night.” He kissed her and went on up the second flight. Half-way up, though, he paused and called down in a hoarse whisper: “Thanks for the eats, ma!”

In spite of his weariness, sleep didn’t come readily. It was a hot, still night and, although his bed was drawn close to the two windows that looked out into the upper branches of the big elm, not much air penetrated to his room. He lay for a while staring out at the motionless leaves, intensely black in shadow and vividly green where the light from the big arc on the corner illumined them, reviewing the incidents of the day. He was awfully glad that Morris wasn’t dangerously hurt, grateful for his own escape from injury and sorry that Morris would have to lie abed for many weeks while his broken leg knit together again. Finally he dozed off only to awake in a terror, imagining that he was riding in an automobile that was just about to plunge down a cliff so steep and deep that the bottom was miles away! He awoke shaking and muttering and it took him several seconds to reassure himself and throw off the effects of the nightmare. After that he tossed and turned until he remembered the plate on the bureau. He got up and brought it back to bed with him, and leaned on one elbow and ate a little of the cold chicken and bread-and-butter his mother had placed on it. But he wasn’t really hungry and his appetite was soon satisfied. He put the plate on the floor beside him and settled down again. A clock downstairs struck nine and a moment later the town hall clock sounded the hour sonorously. Then the telephone in the first floor hall rang sharply and he heard his father’s chair scrape on the porch and his father’s feet across the hall.

“Hello? Yes… No… What say?..”

Gordon must have dozed then, for the next thing he knew someone was pushing open his bedroom door cautiously and asking if he was awake.

“Yes, sir,” answered Gordon.

Mr. Merrick closed the door and came over to the bed. “Time you were asleep, son,” he said concernedly. “Having trouble?”

“I – I’ve been asleep once, sir. Something wakened me.”

“Hm. Er – I was just talking to Mr. Brent on the telephone, Gordon.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Hm. He told me about the accident, son.”

“Yes, sir. Did he say how Morris was?”

“Doing very well, he said. Why didn’t you – hm – why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“I don’t know, sir. I was sort of tired, and – ”

“Brent says you carried Morris almost half a mile to the trolley, Gordon.”

“It wasn’t nearly that far. And I didn’t carry him. He was too heavy. I – I pulled him.”

“Well, the doctor says it’s a lucky thing you got him home as quick as you did. Mr. Brent is – hm – very grateful. He’s going to stop in the morning and see you.”

“He needn’t be,” murmured Gordon. “It wasn’t anything.”

“Hm. You can tell me about it in the morning. I-hm – I’m sorry I was so short with you, son. If you’d explained – ”

“Yes, sir, I ought to have. It – it’s all right, dad.”

“Well, but – if you’re hungry, Gordon – ”

“I’m not, sir. I – no, sir, I’m not.”

“If you are I guess you and I can forage around and find something. Sure you wouldn’t like a little bite?”

“No, sir, thank you.”

“Well – hm – ” Mr. Merrick laid a hand on Gordon’s arm and pressed it. “Sorry I scolded, son. I – we – we’re proud of you, boy.”

Gordon didn’t answer. It was rather embarrassing and he was glad of the darkness.

“Good-night, Gordon.”

“Good-night, sir.”

Mr. Merrick turned away, there was a sound of cracking and crunching china and an exclamation.

“What’s this?” asked Mr. Merrick in surprise, peering down at the floor.

“It – it’s a plate, sir. Mother – that is – ”

“Hm,” said Mr. Merrick, and then again “Hm!” He pushed the broken fragments under the bed. “I – hm – I can understand that you aren’t very hungry,” he said dryly. “Evidently your mother – hm – well, good-night, Gordie.”

The door closed. Gordon smiled at the black and green foliage beyond the window. It was all right about that lunch. If it wasn’t his father would never have called him Gordie.

CHAPTER X
GORDON BEARS A MESSAGE

Gordon was up at seven the next morning, having had, as he reckoned, a good nine hours and more of sleep. At breakfast he told again the story of the accident, this time to an interested audience of three. The third was Fudge, who, since almost an hour before, had been hanging around waiting for Gordon’s appearance, and who now was seated at table with a cup of coffee and one of Mrs. Merrick’s graham muffins in front of him. Fudge acknowledged that he had rather skimped his breakfast. Mr. Merrick mildly censured Gordon for accepting Morris Brent’s invitation to ride, but it was evident that he was too proud of Gordon’s part in the affair to be severe. Fudge was anxious to know what had become of the runabout and Gordon replied that so far as he knew it was just where they had left it.

“I guess,” he said, “it’s pretty badly smashed up. I know one wheel has about all the spokes out of it, and I think the axle is busted. Still, I dare say it can be mended.”

“B-b-bet you Morris will never run it again, though,” said Fudge. “Guess it’s a good chance for someone to buy an auto cheap. Wish I could!”

“Why, William!” murmured Mrs. Merrick. “The idea!”

“Oh, a fellow doesn’t have to run it the way Morris did,” replied Fudge knowingly. “Tim Turner’s father has had a car for two years and he’s never had an accident yet.”

“Why don’t you see Mr. Brent?” suggested Gordon. “I dare say he will let you have it for almost nothing.”

Fudge thrust a hand in a pocket and gravely counted the change he drew out. “If he’ll let me have it for sixty-three cents I’ll take it,” he said.

Mr. Merrick pushed back his chair. “If I ever hear of either of you riding in an automobile without permission I’ll see that you get what you deserve,” he said grimly.

Fudge grinned. “You’d have to catch me first,” he said.

Gordon announced his intention of running over to see Dick and his father reminded him that Mr. Brent was going to call. Gordon replied evasively that he guessed Mr. Brent had changed his mind. He secretly hoped that he had. But when, after Mr. Merrick’s departure for his office, Gordon wheeled his bicycle down the steps he saw Mr. Brent coming along the street, his ivory-topped walking-stick thumping the pavement briskly. Escape was impossible and so Gordon leaned his wheel against the gate post and waited. Fudge melted into the background. Mr. Brent was about the only person Fudge was in awe of.

“Well, my boy,” greeted Mr. Brent, “you got off lucky.”

“Yes, sir. I’m awfully sorry about Morris. How is he?”

“Better than he deserves,” replied Mr. Brent with a snap of his jaws. “The doctor tells me it will be six weeks or more before he will be on his feet again. I suppose he was running the thing like mad, wasn’t he?”

“No, sir, he was going quite slowly. I don’t know just how it happened, Mr. Brent. I think there must have been a bad place in the road.”

“Of course it wasn’t his fault,” said the other dryly. “Well, it was a merciful thing he had you with him, my boy. His mother and I are very grateful to you, Merrick. You did a very plucky thing.”

“It wasn’t anything,” muttered Gordon, looking longingly at his wheel. Perhaps Mr. Brent saw that he was more than willing to avoid further expressions of gratitude, for he smiled and said:

“Well, that’s all. I wanted to see you and thank you. And as I told your father last night I’m ready and anxious to prove my gratitude to you. If there’s anything I can do, Merrick, you call on me.”

“Thank you, sir, but I guess there isn’t anything.”

“Perhaps some day there will be. When that time comes don’t forget what I say, Merrick. I wish you’d stop in at the house to-day or to-morrow and see Mrs. Brent. She wants to see you, my boy. And after Morris gets where he can talk to folks I’d like you to pay him a visit too. He doesn’t deserve it, but – well, I guess he’s in for a long, hard siege of it.”

“Yes, sir, I will. I – I was going to call to-day and ask after him, but now that I know how he is – ”

“Better go just the same. My wife is anxious to tell you how she feels about it, Merrick. She can do it better than I can, too. Your father at home?”

“No, sir, he’s gone down town.”

“That’s where I ought to be. I waited around for the doctor to call. By the way, Merrick, there’s something you can do for me if you will. See this man Stacey and get him to take that automobile away from there. If I talk to him I’ll fly off the handle and tell him what I think of him. I don’t care what he does with the thing. He may burn it up or fix it up or anything he likes, but you tell him from me that he will never get another cent in payment. Will you do that?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll see him right away. I guess the car will be worth quite a good deal after it’s fixed up. I mean, sir, I don’t think Mr. Stacey will be out much.”

“I don’t care if he is,” replied Mr. Brent grimly. “Morris tells me he paid three hundred and fifty dollars and owes about two hundred more. He will never get it. You tell him so. If he wants to sue, let him. I wish he would!” Mr. Brent flicked angrily with his cane at a spray of leaves that peeked through the fence. “Well, I’ll be grateful if you’ll attend to that for me, Merrick. Good morning.”

After Mr. Brent had gone Gordon summoned Fudge with a whistle and that youth sauntered around from the back yard. “I guess Stacey will be mad,” he commented when Gordon had told him of the commission he had accepted. “I’ll go along with you. I like a scrap.”

“There isn’t going to be any scrap,” said Gordon. “I’ll just tell him what Mr. Brent says and come away.”

“All right. Wait till I get my wheel.”

Mr. Stacey’s place of business was on Oak Street, a smart shop with two big plate-glass windows behind which were displayed shining new automobiles. The proprietor was a small man under thirty who affected brilliant neckties and a jovial smile. But the smile faded when Gordon delivered his message. Mr. Stacey looked angry and ugly.

“Is that so?” he demanded truculently. “Old Jonathan Brent said that, did he? Well, you tell him I hold Morris’ note for two hundred and thirty-five dollars and I mean to collect it. Why, that car’s no good to me, son! What would I do with it? It isn’t mine, anyway. I sold it fairly and squarely. If he wants me to fetch it in and have it repaired I’ll do it and charge him only what it costs, but as to taking it back and calling quits – nothing doing, son. You tell him that, see?”

“It isn’t my affair,” replied Gordon calmly. “I’ve only told you what Mr. Brent asked me to. Why don’t you talk to him about it?”

“Because I haven’t any dealings with him. I sold that car to his son. If he wants to talk to me let him come here or call me up on the telephone. It’s nothing to me. I’ve got Morris Brent’s note – ”

“It isn’t worth anything,” piped up Fudge, who found proceedings dull. “He isn’t old enough to give a note.”

“We’ll see whether he’s old enough,” was the answer. “I’ll go to court with it if it isn’t paid prompt. Get me?”

“Sure. But Jonathan Brent’s a bad man to fight, I guess,” said Fudge with a shake of his head. “I wouldn’t want to do it.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t.” Mr. Stacey had to smile in spite of himself. “But I would – if I had to. I’m not in this business for my health, son. You tell Mr. Brent that if he wants me to haul that car in and repair it I’ll do it, but I won’t take it back.”

“All right,” answered Gordon. “Seems to me, though, you could fix it up for a few dollars and have a perfectly good car.”

“There’s no market here for second-hand cars,” replied the dealer shortly. “Tell you what I will do, though. I’ll fix that car up as good as new as cheap as it can be done and take it on sale. Maybe I’d find a buyer for it.”

“You mean you’ll let Morris off on the balance he owes?”

“No, sir, I don’t mean anything of the sort! I mean that he’s to pay what he owes when it comes due. If I can sell the machine he’ll get what it fetches, less my commission of twenty per cent. Understand?”

“Well, I’ll tell Mr. Brent what you say,” agreed Gordon. “But I don’t believe he will be willing to have it that way.”

“There’s no other way he can have it,” snarled Mr. Stacey. “He may have a heap of money and own this town, but he don’t own me! And he can’t cheat me out of what belongs to me, either! And you can tell him so! You tell him that if that two-thirty-five isn’t paid by the tenth of October I’ll sue for it.”

“Think of him suing Mr. Brent!” chuckled Fudge as they went out.

“I guess he’d have a pretty good case, though,” said Gordon. “Of course Morris does owe that money to him.”

“Pshaw, Morris’ note isn’t worth a cent.”

“Maybe not; I don’t know about that; but he’s morally liable, isn’t he?”

“I guess so. Going to tell Mr. Brent now, Gordie?”

Gordon shook his head. “Not – not right away. I think I’ll see Dick first. I told him I’d be over last night.”

Fudge chuckled again. “You’re scared,” he said. “I’d be, too. Tell you what, Gordie; tell him over the ’phone, why don’t you?”

“I was thinking of letting you tell him, Fudge.”

“Me! Gee, I wouldn’t d-d-do it if he g-g-gave me the car!”

They found Dick on the porch. “Hail to the Hero!” he declaimed.

“Shut up!” said Gordon.

“Modesty is very becoming,” pursued Dick. “Hello, Fudge. I’m glad to see you in such distinguished society. Sit down, Gordie, and tell me about it. First, though, how’s Morris getting on? Lanny told me that he was pretty well broken to pieces.”

“He’s got a busted leg. Broken in two places. That’s all. He was unconscious when they brought him home, but he’s all right that way now. There isn’t much to tell. We were coming along that stretch where the white fence is and – ”

Gordon went through with it again, Fudge interpolating details where Gordon failed to do full justice to the narrative. Afterward Gordon told about his visit to the automobile agent. “I don’t know what to do,” he ended. “I hate to tell Mr. Brent what that fellow said, Dick.”

“I don’t see why. It isn’t your fault. Besides, Mr. Brent is in the wrong, anyway. It’s Morris’ duty to pay what he owes. The dealer isn’t supposed to find out before he makes a sale whether the buyer’s relatives want him to own a car!”

“That’s all very well,” grumbled Gordon, “but he will be as mad as a March hare. I don’t see why he got me to do it for him, anyway.”

“Because you’ve made a hit with him,” laughed Dick. “I believe if you asked for it you could get a yearly pass over the trolley line. And speaking of trolleys reminds me that I’ve got to hustle over to the Point and get busy with young Mr. Townsend. What time is it?”

It was almost ten, and Dick seized his crutches and swung himself hurriedly into the house to reappear a minute later ready for the journey. Gordon and Fudge walked to the corner with him.

“How about another game with those fellows, Dick?” asked Gordon. “Are you going to see Billings to-day?”

“If you want me to. There’s time enough, though, I guess. We’ve got a game with Lesterville the day after to-morrow, as you perhaps recall.”

“I know, but I was thinking we might get the Pointers to come over and play us a week from Saturday. You might see what Billings thinks about it.”

“All right. If I can find him I’ll ask. By the way, he’ll have to find someone to take Morris’ place, won’t he? Guess, though, it won’t be hard to do. Here comes my car. See you later, fellows.”

Gordon and Fudge mounted their wheels again when the trolley had rolled off and pedaled leisurely along Sawyer Street.

“Too bad,” observed Fudge, “that Dick hasn’t got that automobile, Gordie. It would save him a lot of hard work, wouldn’t it? Say, someone may run off with it if it stays out there on the road much longer. Bet you half of it’s gone already!”

There was no reply from Gordon, who was riding slowly along with his gaze fixed intently on his handle-bar.

“You ought to have hidden it behind a tree or something before you came away, Gordie.”

“Eh? Hidden what?”

“The automobile, of course. Say, what did you think I was talking about, anyway?”

“I guess I didn’t hear you,” replied Gordon apologetically. “I – I was thinking.”

“Some day you’ll be doing that and get run down by a trolley car,” commented Fudge crushingly. “What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing much,” answered Gordon. “Want to play some tennis?”

“My racket’s busted. I can borrow Lanny’s, though. But I guess it’s too hot for tennis, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. I suppose, anyway, I’d ought to see Mr. Brent and tell him what that fellow said. There’s no use putting it off. Will you come with me?”

“Not to speak of! I’d do most anything for you, Gordie, but not that!”

“Well, ride down town with me. You needn’t go in.”

“That’s fair. And I’ll try to catch you when he drops you out the window. Come on.”