THE SCANDAL DETECTIVES
IT WAS a hot afternoon in May and
Mrs. Buckner thought that a
pitcher of fruit lemonade might
prevent the boys from filling up on
ice cream at the drug store. She
belonged to that generation, since
retired, upon whom the great
revolution in American family life
was to be visited ; but at that
time she believed that her children's
relation to her was much as hers
had been to her parents, for this
was more than twenty years ago.
Some generations are close to
those that succeed them ; between
others the gap is infinite and
unbridgeable. Mrs. Buckner a woman
of character, a member of Society
in a large Middle- Western city
carrying a pitcher of fruit
lemonade through her own spacious back
yard, was progressing across a
hundred years. Her own thoughts
would have been comprehensible to
her great-grandmother; what
was happening in a room above the
stable would have been entirely
unintelligible to them both. In
what had once served as the coach-
man's sleeping apartment, her son
and a friend were not behaving
in a normal manner, but were, so
to speak, experimenting in a void.
They were making the first
tentative combinations of the ideas and
materials they found ready at
their hand ideas destined to become,
in future years, first
articulate, then startling and finally common-
place. At the moment when she
called up to them they were sitting
with disarming quiet upon the
still unhatched eggs of the mid-
twentieth century.
Riply Buckner descended the
ladder and took the lemonade. Basil
Duke Lee looked abstractedly down
at the transaction and said,
"Thank you very much, Mrs.
Buckner."
"Are you sure it isn't too
hot up there?"
"No, Mrs. Buckner. It's
fine."
It was stifling ; but they were
scarcely conscious of the heat, and
they drank two tall glasses each
of the lemonade without knowing
that they were thirsty. Concealed
beneath a sawed-out trapdoor
from which they presently took it
was a composition book bound in
imitation red leather which
currently absorbed much of their atten-
tion. On its first page was
inscribed, if you penetrated the secret of
the lemon-juice ink: "THE
BOOK OF SCANDAL, written by Riply
Buckner, Jr., and Basil D. Lee,
Scandal Detectives."
In this book they had set down
such deviations from rectitude on
the part of their fellow citizens
as had reached their ears. Some of
these false steps were those of
grizzled men, stories that had become
traditions in the city and were
embalmed in the composition book by
virtue of indiscreet exhumations
at family dinner tables. Others were
the more exciting sins, confirmed
or merely rumored, of boys and
girls their own age. Some of the
entries would have been read by
adults with bewilderment, others
might have inspired wrath, and
there were three or four
contemporary reports that would have pros-
trated the parents of the
involved children with horror and despair.
One of the mildest items, a
matter they had hesitated about setting
down, though it had shocked them
only last year, was: "Elwood
Learning has been to the
Burlesque Show three or four times at the
Star."
Another, and perhaps their
favorite, because of its uniqueness, set
forth that "H. P. Cramner
committed some theft in the East he
could be imprisoned for and had
to come here" H. P. Cramner
being now one of the oldest and
"most substantial" citizens of the
city.
The single defect in the book was
that it could only be enjoyed
with the aid of the imagination,
for the invisible ink must keep its
secrets until that day when, the
pages being held close to the fire,
the items would appear. Close
inspection was necessary to determine
which pages had been used already
a rather grave charge against a
certain couple had been
superimposed upon the dismal facts that
Mrs. R. B. Gary had consumption
and that her son, Walter Gary,
had been expelled from Pawling
School. The purpose of the work as
a whole was not blackmail. It was
treasured against the time when its
protagonists should a do
something" to Basil and Riply. Its possession
gave them a sense of power.
Basil, for instance, had never seen
Mr. H. P. Cramner make a single
threatening gesture in Basil's direc-
tion, but let him even hint that
he was going to do something to
Basil and there preserved against
him was the record of his past.
It is only fair to say that at
this point the book passes entirely out
of this story. Years later a
janitor discovered it beneath the trap-
door, and finding it apparently
blank, gave it to his little girl ; so the
misdeeds of Elwood Learning and
H. P. Cramner were definitely
entombed at last beneath a fair
copy of Lincoln's Gettysburg
Address.
The book was Basil's idea. He was
more the imaginative and in
most ways the stronger of the
two. He was a shining-eyed, brown-
haired boy of fourteen, rather
small as yet, and bright and lazy at
school. His favorite character in
fiction was Arsne Lupin, the gentle-
man burglar, a romantic
phenomenon lately imported from Europe
and much admired in the first
bored decades of the century.
Riply Buckner, also in short
pants, contributed to the partnership
a breathless practicality. His
mind waited upon Basil's imagination
like a hair trigger and no scheme
was too fantastic for his immediate
"Let's do it ! " Since
the school's third baseball team, on which they
had been pitcher and catcher,
decomposed after an unfortunate April
season, they had spent their
afternoons struggling to evolve a way
of life which should measure up
to the mysterious energies ferment-
ing inside them. In the cache
beneath the trapdoor were some
"slouch" hats and
bandanna handkerchiefs, some loaded dice, half of
a pair of handcuffs, a rope
ladder of a tenuous crochet persuasion for
rear-window escapes into the
alley, and a make-up box containing
two old theatrical wigs and crepe
hair of various colors all to be
used when they decided what
illegal enterprises to undertake.
Their lemonades finished, they
lit Home Runs and held a desultory
conversation which touched on
crime, professional baseball, sex and
the local stock company. This
broke off at the sound of footsteps and
familiar voices in the adjoining
alley.
From the window, they
investigated. The voices belonged to Mar-
garet Torrence, Imogene Bissel
and Connie Davies, who were cutting
through the alley from Imogene's
back yard to Connie's at the end
of the block. The young ladies
were thirteen, twelve and thirteen
years old respectively, and they
considered themselves alone, for in
time to their march they were
rendering a mildly daring parody in
a sort of whispering giggle and
coming out strongly on the finale:
"Oh, my dar-ling
Clemen-tine."
Basil and Riply leaned together
from the window, then remember-
ing their undershirts sank down
behind the sill.
"We heard you ! " they
cried together.
The girls stopped and laughed.
Margaret Torrence chewed exag-
geratedly to indicate gum, and
gum with a purpose. Basil imme-
diately understood.
"Whereabouts?" he
demanded.
"Over at Imogene's
house."
They had been at Mrs. Bissel 's
cigarettes. The implied recklessness
of their mood interested and
excited the two boys and they pro-
longed the conversation. Connie
Davies had been Riply's girl during
dancing-school term ; Margaret
Torrence had played a part in Basil's
recent past; Imogene Bissel was
just back from a year in Europe.
During the last month neither
Basil nor Riply had thought about
girls, and, thus refreshed, they
became conscious that the centre of
the world had shifted suddenly
from the secret room to the little
group outside.
"Come on up," they
suggested.
"Come on out. Come on down
to the Whartons' yard."
"All right."
Barely remembering to put away
the Scandal Book and the box of
disguises, the two boys hurried
out, mounted their bicycles and rode
up the alley.
The Whar tons' own children had
long grown up, but their yard
was still one of those
predestined places where young people gather
in the afternoon. It had many
advantages. It was large, open to other
yards on both sides, and it could
be entered upon skates or bicycles
from the street. It contained an
old seesaw, a swing and a pair of
flying rings; but it had been a
rendezvous before these were put
up, for it had a child's quality
the thing that makes young people
huddle inextricably on
uncomfortable steps and desert the houses of
their friends to herd on the
obscure premises of "people nobody
knows." The Whartons' yard
had long been a happy compromise;
there were deep shadows there all
day long and ever something vague
in bloom, and patient dogs
around, and brown spots worn bare by
countless circling wheels and
dragging feet. In sordid poverty, below
the bluff two hundred feet away,
lived the "micks" they had merely
inherited the name, for they were
now largely of Scandinavian
descent and when other amusements
palled, a few cries were
enough to bring a gang of them
swarming up the hill, to be faced if
numbers promised well, to be fled
from into convenient houses if
things went the other way.
It was five o'clock and there was
a small crowd gathered there for
that soft and romantic time
before supper a time surpassed only by
the interim of summer dusk
thereafter. Basil and Riply rode their
bicycles around abstractedly, in
and out of trees, resting now and
then with a hand on someone's
shoulder, shading their eyes from the
glow of the late sun that, like
youth itself, is too strong to face
directly, but must be kept down
to an undertone until it dies away.
Basil rode over to Imogene Bissel
and balanced idly on his wheel
before her. Something in his face
then must have attracted her, for
she looked up at him, looked at
him really, and slowly smiled. She
was to be a beauty and belle of
many proms in a few years. Now her
large brown eyes and large
beautifully shaped mouth and the high
flush over her thin cheek bones
made her face gnome-like and
offended those who wanted a child
to look like a child. For a mo-
ment Basil was granted an insight
into the future ; the spell of her
vitality crept over him suddenly.
For the first time in his life he
realized a girl completely as
something opposite and complementary
to him, and he was subject to a
warm chill of mingled pleasure and
pain. It was a definite
experience and he was immediately conscious
of it. The summer afternoon
became lost in her suddenly the soft
air, the shadowy hedges and banks
of flowers, the orange sunlight,
the laughter and voices, the
tinkle of a piano over the way the odor
left all these things and went
into Imogene's face as she sat there
looking up at him with a smile.
For a moment it was too much for
him. He let it go, incapable of
exploiting it until he had
digested it alone. He rode around fast in
a circle on his bicycle, passing
near Imogene without looking at her.
When he came back after a while
and asked if he could walk home
with her, she had forgotten the
moment, if it had ever existed for
her, and was almost surprised.
With Basil wheeling his bicycle
beside her, they started down the
street.
"Can you come out
tonight?" he asked eagerly. "There'll prob-
ably be a bunch in the Whartons'
yard."
"I'll ask mother."
"I'll telephone you. I don't
want to go unless you'll be there."
"Why?" She smiled at
him again, encouraging him.
"Because I don't want to."
"But why don't you want
to?"
"Listen," he said
quickly. "What boys do you like better than
me?"
"Nobody. I like you and
Hubert Blair best."
Basil felt no jealousy at the
coupling of this name with his. There
was nothing to do about Hubert
Blair but accept him philosophically,
as other boys did when dissecting
the hearts of other girls.
"I like you better than
anybody," he said deliriously.
The weight of the pink dappled
sky above him was not endurable.
He was plunging along through air
of ineffable loveliness while warm
freshets sprang up in his blood
and he turned them, and with them
his whole life, like a stream
toward this girl.
They reached the carriage door at
the side of her house.
"Can't you come in,
Basil?"
"No." He saw
immediately that that was a mistake, but it was
said now. The intangible present
had eluded him. Still he lingered,
"Do you want my school
ring?"
"Yes, if you want to give it
to me."
"I'll give it to you
tonight." His voice shook slightly as he added,
"That is, I'll trade."
"What for?"
"Something."
"What ?" Her color
spread ; she knew.
"You know. Will you
trade?"
Imogene looked around uneasily.
In the honey-sweet silence that
had gathered around the porch,
Basil held his breath.
"You're awful," she
whispered. "Maybe. . . Good-by."
II
It was the best hour of the day
now and Basil was terribly happy.
This summer he and his mother and
sister were going to the lakes
and next fall he was starting
away to school. Then he would go to
Yale and be a great athlete, and
after that if his two dreams had
fitted onto each other
chronologically instead of existing independ-
ently side by side he was due to
become a gentleman burglar.
Everything was fine. He had so
many alluring things to think about
that it was hard to fall asleep
at night.
That he was now crazy about
Imogene Bissel was not a distrac-
tion, but another good thing. It
had as yet no poignancy, only a bril-
liant and dynamic excitement that
was bearing him along toward
the Wharton yard through the May
twilight.
He wore his favorite clothes
white duck knickerbockers, pepper-
and-salt Norfolk jacket, a
Belmont collar and a gray knitted tie.
With his brown hair wet and
shining, he made a handsome little
figure as he turned in upon the
familiar but not reenchanted lawn
and joined the voices in the
gathering darkness. Three or four girls
who lived in neighboring houses
were present, and almost twice as
many boys; and a slightly older
group adorning the side veranda
made a warm, remote nucleus
against the lamps of the house and
contributed occasional mysterious
ripples of laughter to the already
overburdened night.
Moving from shadowy group to
group, Basil ascertained that
Imogene was not yet here. Finding
Margaret Torrence, he spoke to
her aside, lightly.
"Have you still got that old
ring of mine?"
Margaret had been his girl all
year at dancing school, signified by
the fact that he had taken her to
the cotillion which closed the sea-
son. The affair had languished
toward the end; none the less, his
question was undiplomatic.
"IVe got it somewhere,"
Margaret replied carelessly. "Why? Do
you want it back?"
"Sort of."
"All right. I never did want
it. It was you that made me take it,
Basil. Ill give it back to you
tomorrow."
"You couldn't give it to me
tonight, could you?" His heart leaped
as he saw a small figure come in
at the rear gate. "I sort of want to
get it tonight."
"Oh, all right, Basil."
She ran across the street to her
house and Basil followed. Mr. and
Mrs. Torrence were on the porch,
and while Margaret went upstairs
for the ring he overcame his
excitement and impatience and an-
swered those questions as to the
health of his parents which are so
meaningless to the young. Then a
sudden stiffening came over him,
his voice faded off and his
glazed eyes fixed upon a scene that was
materializing over the way.
From the shadows far up the
street, a swift, almost flying figure
emerged and floated into the
patch of lamplight in front of the
Whartons' house. The figure wove
here and there in a series of
geometric patterns, now off with
a flash of sparks at the impact of
skates and pavement, now gliding
miraculously backward, describing
a fantastic curve, with one foot
lifted gracefully in the air, until the
young people moved forward in
groups out of the darkness and
crowded to the pavement to watch.
Basil gave a quiet little groan
as he realized that of all
possible nights, Hubert Blair had chosen
this one to arrive.
"You say you're going to the
lakes this summer, Basil. Have you
taken a cottage?"
Basil became aware after a moment
that Mr. Torrence was mak-
ing this remark for the third
time.
"Oh, yes, sir," he
answered "I mean, no. We're staying at the
club."
"Won't that be lovely?"
said Mrs. Torrence.
Across the street, he saw Imogene
standing under the lamp-post
and in front of her Hubert Blair,
his jaunty cap on the side of his
head, maneuvering in a small
circle. Basil winced as he heard his
chuckling laugh. He did not
perceive Margaret until she was beside
him, pressing his ring into his
hand like a bad penny. He muttered
a strained hollow good-by to her
parents, and, weak with apprehen-
sion, followed her back across
the street.
Hanging back in a shadow, he
fixed his eyes not on Imogene but
on Hubert Blair. There was
undoubtedly something rare about
Hubert. In the eyes of children
less than fifteen, the shape of the
nose is the distinguishing mark
of beauty. Parents may call attention
to lovely eyes, shining hair or
gorgeous coloring, but the nose and its
juxtaposition on the face is what
the adolescent sees. Upon the lithe,
stylish, athletic torso of Hubert
Blair was set a conventional chubby
face, and upon this face was
chiseled the piquant, retrouss6 nose of
a Harrison Fisher girl.
He was confident ; he had
personality, uninhibited by doubts or
moods. He did not go to dancing
school his parents had moved to
the city only a year ago but
already he was a legend. Though most
of the boys disliked him, they
did homage to his virtuosic athletic
ability, and for the girls his
every movement, his pleasantries, his
very indifference, had a simply
immeasurable fascination. Upon sev-
eral previous occasions Basil had
discovered this ; now the discourag-
ing comedy began to unfold once
more.
Hubert took off his skates,
rolled one down his arm and caught it
by the strap before it reached
the pavement ; he snatched the ribbon
from Imogene's hair and made off
with it, dodging from under her
arms as she pursued him, laughing
and fascinated, around the yard.
He cocked one foot behind the
other and pretended to lean an elbow
against a tree, missed the tree
on purpose and gracefully saved him-
self from falling. The boys
watched him noncommittally at first.
Then they, too, broke out into
activity, doing stunts and tricks as
fast as they could think of them
until those on the porch craned their
recks at the sudden surge of
activity in the garden. But Hubert
coolly turned his back on his own
success. He took Imogene's hat and
began setting it in various
quaint ways upon his head. Imogene and
the other girls were filled with
delight.
Unable any longer to endure the
nauseous spectacle, Basil went up
to the group and said, "Why,
hello, Hube," in as negligent a tone as
he could command.
Hubert answered: "Why,
hello, old old Basil the Boozle," and
set the hat a different way on
his head, until Basil himself couldn't
resist an unwilling chortle of
laughter.
"Basil the Boozle! Hello,
Basil the Boozle !" The cry circled the
garden. Reproachfully he
distinguished Riply's voice among the
others.
"Hube the Boob ! "
Basil countered quickly ; but his ill humor de-
tracted from the effect though
several boys repeated it appreciatively.
Gloom settled upon Basil, and
through the heavy dusk the figure
of Imogene began to take on a
new, unattainable charm. He was a
romantic boy and already he had
endowed her heavily from his
fancy. Now he hated her for her
indifference, but he must perversely
linger near in the vain hope of
recovering the penny of ecstasy so
wantonly expended this afternoon.
He tried to talk to Margaret with
decoy animataion, but Margaret
was not responsive. Already a
voice had gone up in the darkness
calling in a child. Panic seized
upon him ; the blessed hour of summer
evening was almost over. At a
spreading of the group to let pedes-
trians through, he maneuvered
Imogene unwillingly aside.
"I've got it," he
whispered. "Here it is. Can I take you home?"
She looked at him distractedly.
Her hand closed automatically on
the ring.
"What? Oh, I promised Hubert
he could take me home." At the
sight of his face she pulled
herself from her trance and forced a note
of indignation. "I saw you
going off with Margaret Torrence just
as soon as I came into the yard."
"I didn't. I just went to
get the ring."
"Yes, you did ! I saw you !
"
Her eyes moved back to Hubert
Blair. He had replaced his roller
skates and was making little
rhythmic jumps and twirls on his toes,
like a witch doctor throwing a
slow hypnosis over an African tribe.
Basil's voice, explaining and
arguing, went on, but Imogene moved
away. Helplessly he followed.
There were other voices calling in the
darkness now and unwilling
responses on all sides.
"All right, mother!"
"I'll be there in a second,
mother."
"Mother, can't I please stay
out five minutes more ?"
"I've got to go,"
Imogene cried. "It's almost nine."
Waving her hand and smiling
absently at Basil, she started off
down the street. Hubert pranced
and stunted at her side, circled
around her and made entrancing
little figures ahead.
Only after a minute did Basil
realize that another young lady was
addressing him.
"What?" he demanded
absently.
"Hubert Blair is the nicest
boy in town and you're the most con-
ceited," repeated Margaret
Torrence with deep conviction.
He stared at her in pained
surprise. Margaret wrinkled her nose
at him and yielded up her person
to the now-insistent demands com-
ing from across the street. As
Basil gazed stupidly after her and then
watched the forms of Imogene and
Hubert disappear around the
corner, there was a low mutter of
thunder along the sultry sky and
a moment later a solitary drop
plunged through the lamplit leaves
overhead and splattered on the
sidewalk at his feet. The day was to
close in rain.
Ill
It came quickly and he was
drenched and running before he
reached his house eight blocks
away. But the change of weather had
swept over his heart and he
leaped up every few steps, swallowing
the rain and crying " Yo-o-o
! " aloud, as if he himself were a part of
the fresh, violent disturbance of
the night. Imogene was gone, washed
out like the day's dust on the
sidewalk. Her beauty would come back
into his mind in brighter
weather, but here in the storm he was alone
with himself. A sense of
extraordinary power welled up in him, until
to leave the ground permanently
with one of his wild leaps would
not have surprised him. He was a
lone wolf, secret and untamed ; a
night prowler, demoniac and free.
Only when he reached his own
house did his emotion begin to
turn, speculatively and almost with-
out passion, against Hubert
Blair.
He changed his clothes, and
putting on pajamas and dressing-gown
descended to the kitchen, where
he happened upon a new chocolate
cake. He ate a fourth of it and
drank most of a bottle of milk. His
elation somewhat diminished, he
called up Riply Buckner on the
phone.
"I've got a scheme," he
said.
"What about?"
"How to do something to H.
B. with the S. D."
Riply understood immediately what
he meant. Hubert had been
so indiscreet as to fascinate
other girls besides Miss Bissell that
evening.
"Well have to take in Bill
Kampf," Basil said.
"All right."
"See you at recess tomorrow.
. . . Good night!"
IV
Four days later, when Mr. and
Mrs. George P. Blair were finish-
ing dinner, Hubert was called to
the telephone. Mrs. Blair took ad-
vantage of his absence to speak
to her husband of what had been on
her mind all day.
"George, those boys, or
whatever they are, came again last
night."
He frowned.
"Did you see them?"
"Hilda did. She almost
caught one of them. You see, I told her
about the note they left last
Tuesday, the one that said, 'First warn-
ing, S.D.,' so she was ready for
them. They rang the back-door bell
this time and she answered it
straight from the dishes. If her hands
hadn't been soapy she could have
caught one, because she grabbed
him when he handed her a note,
but her hands were soapy so he
slipped away."
"What did he look
like?"
"She said he might have been
a very little man, but she thought he
was a boy in a false face. He
dodged like a boy, she said, and she
thought he had short pants on.
The note was like the other. It said
'Second warning, S.D.' "
"If youVe got it, I'd like
to see it after dinner."
Hubert came back from the phone.
"It was Imogene Bissel," he
said. "She wants me to come
over to her house. A bunch are going
over there tonight."
"Hubert," asked his
father, "do you know any boy with the
initials S.D.?"
"No, sir."
"Have you thought?"
"Yeah, I thought. I knew a
boy named Sam Davis, but I haven't
seen him for a year."
"Who was he?"
"Oh, a sort of tough. He was
at Number 44 School when I went
there."
"Did he have it in for you
?"
"I don't think so."
"Who do you think could be
doing this ? Has anybody got it in for
you that you know about ?
"I don't know, papa ; I
don't think so."
"I don't like the looks of
this thing," said Mr. Blair thoughtfully.
"Of course it may be only
some boys, but it may be "
He was silent. Later, he studied
the note. It was in red ink and
there was a skull and crossbones
in the corner, but being printed, it
told him nothing at all.
Meanwhile Hubert kissed his
mother, set his cap jauntily on the
side of his head, and passing
through the kitchen stepped out on the
back stoop, intending to take the
usual short cut along the alley. It
was a bright moonlit night and he
paused for a moment on the stoop
to tie his shoe. If he had but
known that the telephone call just re-
ceived had been a decoy, that it
had not come from Imogene Bissel's
house, had not indeed been a
girl's voice at all, and that shadowy
and grotesque forms were skulking
in the alley just outside the gate,
he would not have sprung so
gracefully and lithely down the steps
with his hands in his pockets or
whistled the first bar of the Grizzly
Bear into the apparently friendly
night.
His whistle aroused varying
emotions in the alley. Basil had given
his daring and successful
falsetto imitation over the telephone a little
too soon, and though the Scandal
Detectives had hurried, their prepa-
rations were not quite in order.
They had become separated. Basil,
got up like a Southern planter of
the old persuasion, just outside the
Blairs' gate; Bill Kampf, with a
long Balkan mustache attached by
a wire to the lower cartilage of
his nose, was approaching in the
shadow of the fence ; but Riply
Buckner, in a full rabbinical beard,
was impeded by a length of rope
he was trying to coil and was still a
hundred feet away. The rope was
an essential part of their plan ; for,
after much cogitation, they had
decided what they were going to do
to Hubert Blair. They were going
to tie him up, gag him and put
him in his own garbage can.
The idea at first horrified them
it would ruin his suit, it was
awfully dirty and he might
smother. In fact the garbage can, symbol
of all that was repulsive, won
the day only because it made every
other idea seem tame. They
disposed of the objections his suit
could be cleaned, it was where he
ought to be anyhow, and if they
left the lid off he couldn't
smother. To be sure of this they had paid
a visit of inspection to the
Buckners' garbage can and stared into it,
fascinated, envisaging Hubert
among the rinds and eggshells. Then
two of them, at least, resolutely
put that part out of their minds and
concentrated upon the luring of
him into the alley and the over-
whelming of him there.
Hubert's cheerful whistle caught
them off guard and each of the
three stood stock-still, unable
to communicate with the others. It
flashed through Basil's mind that
if he grabbed Hubert without Riply
at hand to apply the gag as had
been arranged, Hubert's cries might
alarm that gigantic cook in the
kitchen who had almost taken him
the night before. The thought
threw him into a state of indecision.
At that precise moment Hubert
opened the gate and came out into
the alley.
The two stood five feet apart,
staring at each other, and all at once
Basil made a startling discovery.
He discovered he liked Hubert
Blair liked him as well as any
boy he knew. He had absolutely no
wish to lay hands on Hubert Blair
and stuff him into a garbage can,
jaunty cap and all. He would have
fought to prevent that con-
tingency. As his mind, unstrung
by his situation, gave pasture to this
inconvenient thought, he turned
and dashed out of the alley and up
the street.
For a moment the apparition had
startled Hubert, but when it
turned and made off he was
heartened and gave chase. Out-distanced,
he decided after fifty yards to
let well enough alone ; and returning
to the alley, started rather
precipitously down toward the other end
and came face to face with
another small and hairy stranger.
Bill Kampf, being more simply
organized than Basil, had no
scruples of any kind. It had been
decided to put Hubert into a
garbage can, and though he had
nothing at all against Hubert, the
idea had made a pattern on his
brain which he intended to follow.
He was a natural man that is to
say, a hunter and once a creature
took on the aspect of a quarry,
he would pursue it without qualms
until it stopped struggling.
But he had been witness to
Basil's inexplicable flight, and suppos-
ing that Hubert's father had
appeared and was now directly behind
him, he, too, faced about and
made off down the alley. Presently he
met Riply Buckner, who, without
waiting to inquire the cause of his
flight, enthusiastically joined
him. Again Hubert was surprised into
pursuing a little way. Then,
deciding once and for all to let well
enough alone, he returned on a
dead run to his house.
Meanwhile Basil had discovered
that he was not pursued, and
keeping in the shadows, made his
way back to the alley. He was not
frightened he had simply been
incapable of action. The alley was
empty ; neither Bill nor Riply
was in sight. He saw Mr. Blair come
to the back gate, open it, look
up and down and go back into the
house. He came closer. There was
a great chatter in the kitchen
Hubert's voice, loud and
boastful, and Mrs. Blair's frightened, and
the two Swedish domestics
contributing bursts of hilarious laughter.
Then through an open window he
heard Mr. Blair's voice at the tele-
phone :
"I want to speak to the
chief of police. . . . Chief, this is George
P. Blair. . . . Chief, there's a
gang of toughs around here who "
Basil was off like a flash, tearing
at his Confederate whiskers as he
ran.
Imogene Bissel, having just
turned thirteen, was not accustomed
to having callers at night. She
was spending a bored and solitary
evening inspecting the months'
bills which were scattered over her
mother's desk, when she heard
Hubert Blair and his father admitted
into the front hall.
"I just thought I'd bring
him over myself," Mr. Blair was saying
to her mother. "There seems
to be a gang of toughs hanging around
our alley tonight."
Mrs. Bissel had not called upon
Mrs. Blair and she was consider-
ably taken aback by this
unexpected visit. She even entertained the
uncharitable thought that this
was a crude overture, undertaken by
Mr. Blair on behalf of his wife.
"Really I" she
exclaimed. "Imogene will be delighted to see
Hubert, I'm sure. . . .
Imogene!"
"These toughs were evidently
lying in wait for Hubert," continued
Mr. Blair. "But he's a
pretty spunky boy and he managed to drive
them away. However, I didn't want
him to come down here alone."
"Of course not," she
agreed. But she was unable to imagine why
Hubert should have come at all.
He was a nice enough boy, but
surely Imogene had seen enough of
him the last three afternoons. In
fact, Mrs. Bissel was annoyed,
and there was a minimum of warmth
in her voice when she asked Mr.
Blair to come in.
They were still in the hall, and
Mr. Blair was just beginning to
perceive that all was not as it
should be, when there was another ring
at the bell. Upon the door being
opened, Basil Lee, red-faced and
breathless, stood on the
threshold.
"How do you do, Mrs. Bissel?
Hello, Imogene!" he cried in an
unnecessarily hearty voice.
"Where's the party?"
The salutation might have sounded
to a dispassionate observer
somewhat harsh and unnatural, but
it fell upon the ears of an al-
ready disconcerted group.
"There isn't any
party," said Imogene wonderingly.
"What?" Basil's mouth
dropped open in exaggerated horror, his
voice trembled slightly.
"You mean to say you didn't call me up and
tell me to come over here to a
party?"
"Why, of course not, Basil !
"
Imogene was excited by Hubert's
unexpected arrival and it oc-
curred to her that Basil had
invented this excuse to spoil it. Alone of
those present, she was close to
the truth ; but she underestimated the
urgency of Basil's motive, which
was not jealousy but mortal fear.
"You called me up, didn't
you, Imogene?" demanded Hubert con-
fidently.
"Why, no, Hubert ! I didn't
call up anybody."
Amid a chorus of bewildered
protestations, there was another ring
at the doorbell and the pregnant
night yielded up Riply Buckner,
Jr., and William S. Kampf. Like
Basil, they were somewhat rumpled
and breathless, and they no less
rudely and peremptorily demanded
the whereabouts of the party,
insisting with curious vehemence that
Imogene had just now invited them
over the phone.
Hubert laughed, the others began
to laugh and the tensity re-
laxed. Imogene, because she
believed Hubert, now began to believe
them all. Unable to restrain
himself any longer in the presence of
this unhoped-for audience, Hubert
burst out with his amazing ad-
venture.
"I guess there's a gang
laying for us all!" he exclaimed. "There
were some guys laying for me in
our alley when I went out. There
was a big fellow with gray
whiskers, but when he saw me he ran
away. Then I went along the alley
and there was a bunch more, sort
of foreigners or something, and I
started after'm and they ran. I
tried to catchem, but I guess
they were good and scared, because
they ran too fast for me"
So interested were Hubert and his
father in the story that they
failed to perceive that three of
his listeners were growing purple in
the face or to mark the
uproarious laughter that greeted Mrs. Bissel's
polite proposal that they have a
party, after all.
"Tell about the warnings,
Hubert," prompted Mr. Blair. "You see,
Hubert had received these
warnings. Did you boys get any warn-
ings?"
"I did," said Basil
suddenly. "I got a sort of warning on a piece of
paper about a week ago."
For a moment, as Mr. Blair's
worried eye fell upon Basil, a strong
sense not precisely of suspicion
but rather of obscure misgiving
passed over him. Possibly that
odd aspect of Basil's eyebrows, where
wisps of crepe hair still
lingered, connected itself in his subconscious
mind with what was bizarre in the
events of the evening. He shook
his head somewhat puzzled. Then
his thoughts glided back restfully
to Hubert's courage and presence
of mind.
Hubert, meanwhile, having
exhausted his facts, was making tenta-
tive leaps into the realms of
imagination.
"I said, 'So, you're the guy
that's been sending these warnings/ and
he swung his left at me, and I
dodged and swung my right back at
him. I guess I must have landed,
because he gave a yell and ran.
Gosh, he could run ! You'd ought
to of seen him, Bill he could run
as fast as you."
"Was he big?" asked
Basil, blowing his nose noisily.
"Sure ! About as big as
father."
"Were the other ones big
too?"
"Sure! They were pretty big.
I didn't wait to see. I just yelled,
'You get out of here, you bunch
of toughs, or I'll show you!' They
started to sort of fight, but I
swung my right at one of them and they
didn't wait for any more."
"Hubert says he thinks they
were Italians," interrupted Mr. Blair.
"Didn't you, Hubert?"
"They were sort of
funny-looking," Hubert said. "One fellow
looked like an Italian."
Mrs. Bissel led the way to the
dining room, where she had caused
a cake and grape juice supper to
be spread. Imogene took a chair by
Hubert's side.
"Now tell me all about it,
Hubert," she said, attentively folding
her hands.
Hubert ran over the adventure
once more. A knife now made its
appearance in the belt of one
conspirator; Hubert's parleys with
them lengthened and grew in
volume and virulence. He had told
them just what they might expect
if they fooled with him. They had
started to draw knives, but had
thought better of it and taken to
flight.
In the middle of this recital
there was a curious snorting sound
from across the table, but when
Imogene looked ovef, Basil was
spreading jelly on a piece of
coffee cake and his eyes were brightly
innocent. A minute later,
however, the sound was repeated, and this
time she intercepted a
specifically malicious expression upon his
face.
"I wonder what you'd have
done, Basil," she said cuttingly. "Ill
bet you'd be running yet I "
Basil put the piece of coffee
cake in his mouth and immediately
choked on it an accident which
Bill Kampf and Riply Buckner
found hilariously amusing. Their
amusement at various casual inci-
dents at table seemed to increase
as Hubert's story continued. The
alley now swarmed with
malefactors, and as Hubert struggled on
against overwhelming odds,
Imogene found herself growing restless
without in the least realizing
that the tale was boring her. On the
contrary, each time Hubert
recollected new incidents and began
again, she looked spitefully over
at Basil, and her dislike for him
grew.
When they moved into the library,
Imogene went to the piano,
where she sat alone while the
boys gathered around Hubert on the
couch. To her chagrin, they
seemed quite content to listen indefi-
nitely. Odd little noises
squeaked out of them from time to time, but
whenever the narrative slackened
they would beg for more.
"Go on, Hubert. Which one
did you say could run as fast as Bill
Kampf?"
She was glad when, after half an
hour, they all got up to go.
"It's a strange affair from
beginning to end," Mr. Blair was say-
ing. "I don't like it. I'm
going to have a detective look into the
matter tomorrow. What did they
want of Hubert? What were they
going to do to him?"
No one offered a suggestion. Even
Hubert was silent, contem-
plating his possible fate with
certain respectful awe. During breaks
in his narration the talk had
turned to such collateral matters as
murders and ghosts, and all the
boys had talked themselves into a
state of considerable panic. In
fact each had come to believe, in
varying degrees, that a band of
kidnappers infested the vicinity.
"I don't like it,"
repeated Mr. Blair. a ln fact I'm going to see all
of you boys to your own
homes."
Basil greeted this offer with
relief. The evening had been a mad
success, but furies once aroused
sometimes get out of hand. He did
not feel like walking the streets
alone tonight.
In the hall, Imogene, taking
advantage of her mother's somewhat
fatigued farewell to Mr. Blair,
beckoned Hubert back into the
library. Instantly attuned to
adversity, Basil listened. There was a
whisper and a short scuffle,
followed by an indiscreet but unmistak-
able sound. With the corners of
his mouth falling, Basil went out the
door. He had stacked the cards
dexterously, but Life had played
a trump from its sleeve at the
last.
A moment later they all started
off, clinging together in a group,
turning corners with cautious
glances behind and ahead. What Basil
and Riply and Bill expected to
see as they peered warily into the
sinister mouths of alleys and
around great dark trees and behind
concealing fences they did not
know in all probability the same
hairy and grotesque desperadoes
who had lain in wait for Hubert
Blair that night.
VI
A week later Basil and Riply
heard that Hubert and his mother
had gone to the seashore for the
summer. Basil was sorry. He had
wanted to learn from Hubert some
of the graceful mannerisms that
his contemporaries found so
dazzling and that might come in so
handy next fall when he went away
to school. In tribute to Hubert's
passing, he practised leaning
against a tree and missing it and rolling
a skate down his arm, and he wore
his cap in Hubert's manner, set
jauntily on the side of his head.
This was only for a while. He
perceived eventually that though
boys and girls would always
listen to him while he talked, their
mouths literally moving in
response to his, they would never look at
him as they had looked at Hubert.
So he abandoned the loud
chuckle that so annoyed his
mother and set his cap straight upon his
head once more.
But the change in him went deeper
than that. He was no longer
sure that he wanted to be a
gentleman burglar, though he still read
of their exploits with breathless
admiration. Outside of Hubert's
gate, he had for a moment felt
morally alone ; and he realized that
whatever combinations he might
make of the materials of life would
have to be safely within the law.
And after another week he found
that he no longer grieved over
losing Imogene. Meeting her, he saw
only the familiar little girl he
had always known. The ecstatic
moment of that afternoon had been
a premature birth, an emotion
left over from an already
fleeting spring.
He did not know that he had
frightened Mrs. Blair out of town
and that because of him a special
policeman walked a placid beat
for many a night. All he knew was
the vague and restless yearn-
ings of three long spring months
were somehow satisfied. They
reached combustion in that last
week flared up, exploded and
burned out. His face was turned
without regret toward the bound-
less possibilities of summer.
1928 Taps at Reveille