Part 41 (1/2)

At the mention of her husband, Mrs. Blaisdell fell to weeping afresh.

”No, no! He's gone--to Fred, you know.”

”To--Fred?”

”Yes, yes, that's what's the matter. Oh, Fred, Fred, my boy!”

”Fred! Oh, Mrs. Blaisdell, I'm so sorry! But what--IS it?”

The woman dropped her hands from her face and looked up wildly, half defiantly.

”Mr. Smith, YOU know Fred. You liked him, didn't you? He isn't bad and wicked, is he? And they can't shut him up if--if we pay it back--all of it that he took? They won't take my boy--to PRISON?”

”To PRISON--FRED!”

At the look of horror on Mr. Smith's face, she began to wring her hands again.

”You don't know, of course. I'll have to tell you--I'll have to,” she moaned.

”But, my dear woman,--not unless you want to.”

”I do want to--I do want to! I've GOT to talk--to somebody. It's this way.” With a visible effort she calmed herself a little and forced herself to talk more coherently. ”We got a letter from Fred. It came this morning. He wanted, some money--quick. He wanted seven hundred dollars and forty-two cents. He said he'd got to have it--if he didn't, he'd go and KILL himself. He said he'd spent all of his allowance, every cent, and that's what made him take it--this other money, in the first place.”

”You mean--money that didn't belong to him?” Mr. Smith's voice was a little stern.

”Yes; but you mustn't blame him, you mustn't blame him, Mr. Smith. He said he owed it. It was a--a debt of honor. Those were his very words.”

”Oh! A debt of honor, was it?” Mr. Smith's lips came together grimly.

”Yes; and--Oh, Maggie, Maggie, what shall I do? What shall I do?” she broke off wildly, leaping to her feet as Miss Maggie pushed open the door and hurried in.

”Yes, I know. Don't worry. We'll find something to do.” Miss Maggie, white-faced, but with a cheery smile, was throwing off her heavy coat and her hat. A moment later she came over and took Mrs. Hattie's trembling hands in both her own. ”Now, first, tell me all about it, dear.”

”You KNOW, then?”

”Only a little,” answered Miss Maggie, gently pus.h.i.+ng the other back into her chair. ”I met Frank. Jim telephoned him something, just before he left. But I want the whole story. Now, what is it?”

”I was just telling Mr. Smith.” She began to wring her hands again, but Miss Maggie caught and held them firmly. ”You see, Fred, he was treasurer of some club, or society, or something; and--and he--he needed some money to--to pay a man, and he took that--the money that belonged to the club, you know, and he thought he could pay it back, little by little. But something happened--I don't know what--a new treasurer, or something: anyhow, it was going to be found out--that he'd taken it. It was going to be found out to-morrow, and so he wrote the letter to his father. And Jim's gone. But he looked so--oh, I never saw him look so white and terrible. And I'm so afraid--of what he'll do--to Fred. My boy--my boy!”

”Is Jim going to give him the money?” asked Miss Maggie.

”Yes, oh, yes. Jim drew it out of the bank. Fred said he must have cash. And he's going to give it to him. Oh, they can't shut him up--they CAN'T send him to prison NOW, can they?”

”Hush, dear! No, they won't send him to prison. If Jim has gone with the money, Fred will pay it back and n.o.body will know it. But, Hattie, Fred DID it, just the same.”

”I--I know it.”

”And, Hattie, don't you see? Something will have to be done. Don't you see where all this is leading? Fred has been gambling, hasn't he?”

”I--I'm afraid so.”