Christopher And The Clockmakers Part 16

"Just gone out."

"Is Davis, his a.s.sistant, in?"

"Yes, sir."

"Rush him here. I want to speak to him."

"Who shall I--"

"No matter who. Get him here quick."

There must have been something in the tone that carried a command, for almost immediately a weak, panting voice answered:

"This--is--Davis, sir."

"I'm Christopher Burton, the son of--"

"Yes, sir, I get it."

"I've left at the corner of Fifth Avenue and West Fifty-seventh Street a bus numbered 1079 that's on its way down town; in it was a man that looked like Stuart. Know who I mean?"

"Jove! You bet I do! Well?"

"He was togged out in an old brown ulster, worn trousers, and boots that were all splashed with plaster or paint, and he had white hair, a white beard, a slouch hat, and a bag. It may not be he at all, you know; but his hands--say--h.e.l.lo--h.e.l.lo--Davis--h.e.l.lo--the darn operator's cut me off."

"Maybe not. More likely Davis hung up the 'phone."

"But I wasn't through," declared the boy indignantly.

"He'd got all he wanted, I imagine, and had to get to work."

"Perhaps so." Christopher, however, was not satisfied.

Moreover, now that the excitement of the incident was over and he began to look back on what he had done, it seemed madness. What right had he to turn the whole police force of the city of New York loose on a poor old working man, solely because his hands happened to be white! It was audacious. A pretty kind of a fool he'd feel if he had started them off on a false scent! They would not thank him. He had fumbled the affair from the beginning, and doubtless was continuing to fumble it.

All the elation died in his face, and noticing this, McPhearson, who loitered in the meantime at the door of the telephone booth, remarked:

"What's the trouble, son?"

"If I was only _sure_ it was Stuart."

"That's what I was trying to tell you, laddie, when you ran pell-mell in here to call the police. You ought to have made sure before you gave the information."

"But how could I?" retorted Christopher irritably. "I couldn't go up to the man and ask him politely whether he was the burglar who took a diamond ring from my father's shop, could I?"

The absurdity of the question brought back his good humor.

"No. I grant that," McPhearson agreed. "Still you might have proceeded with a grain less speed. I always think an action can bear considering."

"But all actions can't be considered," was the crisp reply. Again an edge of sharpness had crept into the lad's voice.

"Well, well. Maybe no harm's done," the clockmaker hastened to say soothingly. "No doubt the police chase about on a hundred false clews a day. Their information can't always be right."

"You feel like a fool, though, if you give them the wrong clew."

"Yes, you do."

The promptness of the concession was anything but comforting. Obviously McPhearson felt that in the present instance, at least, the tip offered had been both valueless and absurd. A strained silence fell between them.

"I suppose we may as well hail another bus and get back to the store,"

the clock repairer at length suggested. "There's no good hanging round here."

Although he did not actually say in so many words that they had already wasted two fares, Christopher, well aware of his Scotch thrift, felt his manner implied it.

They did not say much during the ride down town. McPhearson was a bit ruffled and annoyed, and Christopher crestfallen and mortified. He was thinking, too, that he would have to confess to his father what he had so impulsively done, and receive from him more jeers and ridicule linked with probable admonitions to greater deliberation and caution in future.

He hated to be preached at. Therefore he was entirely unprepared for the ovation that greeted his return to the shop.

Hollings was near the door when he went in and had evidently been waiting for him.

"Birdie is securely in his cage!" announced he, dropping his voice so that the thrilling tidings might not be overheard by customers close at hand.

"What?" gasped Christopher.

"Yes, he's bagged for fair! Your father is delighted. They're all upstairs waiting for you--Corrigan, Davis, and all. We're to go down to headquarters and identify the chap."

"Then it really _was_ Stuart!"

"Sure thing!" Hollings was actually trembling with joy. "Oh, I hope they'll find those diamonds on him! At least, they'll probably be able to make him tell where they are. If we can only get that ring back, I shall die happy."

"So you were right after all, Christopher," McPhearson put in.

"Apparently!"

The cry, _"I told you so!"_ rose like a wave to the lad's lips and then as speedily receded. Why should he feel triumphant? Mistakes are always possible, and he might have been mistaken. Fortunately this time he had not been, that was all.

"I'm glad!" the clockmaker declared.

"So am I!" replied the boy modestly.

No further comment was made except as they went up in the elevator, the old man added:

"It's never amiss to have your eyes about you, son. The majority of folks might as well have two gla.s.s beads in their heads, so little do they really observe of what they see. To have your eyes open and your mouth shut isn't a bad notion."

It was like McPhearson to turn his praise into good council. He never flattered. Perhaps, too, it was just as well, for Christopher received that noon all the adulation that was good for him.

Corrigan, the big inspector, clapped him on the shoulders, calling him a little general; and Davis almost wrung his hand off. Even the silent Mr.

Norcross announced he was a son to be proud of. As for Mr. Burton, Senior--well, he merely settled back into his office chair and beamed about him.