Authors: Gilbert Morris
“Get it out of here! Take it away!” Lucy cried as she ran to the other side of the large room.
Lewis had just entered the room, and he came over and asked his daughter what happened.
“She wanted to see what was in my sack,” Kat said innocently.
“And you gave it to her?”
Kat shrugged. “She insisted. I don’t think she liked it much.”
Lewis tried to conceal a grin. “Most ladies don’t like snakes.”
Kat looked up at him and said seriously, “I like snakes better than I like some people.”
Lewis laughed and hugged her. “I’d have to agree with you, but don’t tell anybody.”
He went to find Lucy to make his apologies, but she was highly upset and would not be consoled. He listened to her patiently, then shook his head. “She’s a little bit like her mother.”
“Well, she’ll have to change.”
“I suppose so,” Lewis said, and for the moment he tried to look ahead, thinking what changes would come when he and Lucy were married. Marrying Lucy had seemed like a good idea, but lately he’d been having some doubts.
Maybe we’ll be all right,
he tried to assure himself.
I certainly need help from somebody. . . .
CHAPTER TWO
Jailbird Gardener
Lewis Winslow spread the paper out on his desk, glanced at the date, September 20, 1929, then ran his eyes over the stock market report. He shook his head and muttered sourly, “This is
insane!
It can’t go on. . . .”
He checked the Dow Jones Industrial Average, wondering if the whole country had lost its mind. Buying stocks had become a national mania. Even the poorest of working people were pooling their funds and buying five shares of some stock, without the least idea of what they were buying. He read an article that said more than a million Americans had bought stock and that three hundred million shares of stock were being carried on margin, meaning on credit. The papers were replete with stories of people who’d made fortunes. Lewis himself knew of a broker’s valet who had made nearly a quarter of a million in the market. He’d also heard of a nurse who had made thirty thousand dollars by following tips given her by grateful patients. With a gesture of disgust, Lewis shuffled through the paper, catching up on the other news of the day.
He read with interest about the travels of Charles and Anne Lindbergh, who had married in the spring and were now flying to many foreign lands together. He also read of the explorer Richard Byrd, who was waiting in the Antarctic darkness at his base named Little America for his chance to fly to the South Pole. In sports, the colorful American tennis player Bill Tilden had won his seventh amateur tennis
championship, Bobby Jones ruled the world of golf, and Babe Ruth was still hammering out home runs.
The door opened quietly, and Lewis’s secretary, Miss Handley, stuck her head inside. “There’s a gentleman here to see you, sir.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mr. Fred Davenport.”
“Fred Davenport? Well, show him in.” Lewis got up from his chair and moved across the room. When a diminutive man wearing an outdated light brown suit entered the room, Lewis said, “Fred, it’s good to see you!” He took the man’s hand, noticing that it was hard and calloused. “Where in the world have you been?”
“It’s good to see you too, Mr. Winslow.” Davenport’s apprehensive expression was replaced with a relaxed smile at Lewis’s greeting. “I hated to bust in without an appointment—”
“Never mind all that. Come in and have a seat.” Lewis waved at the chair, and as his guest sat down carefully, holding a worn derby in his lap, he went to the door and said, “Could we have some coffee please, Ellen?” He shut the door and said, “This is fine! I haven’t seen you in—oh, I don’t know how many years.”
“It’s been a long time, Mr. Winslow.”
“Oh, never mind the ‘mister,’ Fred. Lewis was good enough for us in Cuba.”
“Well, yes it was, but things have changed.”
Lewis pulled his chair closer to Davenport’s and began questioning him. Davenport had been in his squad in the Spanish-American War. They had been under fire together, and Davenport had once saved Lewis from getting hit by pulling him back just as a fusillade of shots rang out. Lewis had later distinguished himself in that war by winning the Congressional Medal of Honor.
The coffee arrived, and for twenty minutes the two men exchanged their stories. Finally Davenport said, “Well, I’ve
come asking a favor. That’s the way it is with old acquaintances, isn’t it? You don’t see ’em for years, then suddenly there they are with their hands out, wanting something.”
“Why, don’t worry about that, Fred. What is it?” Lewis knew that Davenport was a workingman, though he did not know what kind of manual labor he had worked at recently.
“Well, it’s not for myself, Lewis. You see, I have one sister. We grew up together on a farm in Tennessee. She married a man named Longstreet and had a family, but he died several years ago, and the farm played out. One of her boys, Clinton, has given her a little trouble. He’s a restless sort. He worked the farm until a few years ago, when his mother married again. Evidently the boy didn’t get along with his new stepfather, so he hit the road and has been just about everywhere in the country. He went to sea about a year ago shovelin’ coal, but he didn’t like it. He came back about a month ago to stay with me and hasn’t been able to get work.”
“I take it he’s in some kind of trouble?”
“He got in a fight over a girl down on Water Street. It was a fair fight, but Clint got the best of it. Handy with his fists, he is.”
“Did he get arrested?”
“That’s the problem, Lewis. He beat up the wrong fella. You know James Garvey?”
“You mean the attorney general?”
“That’s him. It was his boy Clint beat up, and Garvey’s gonna press charges. He’s got the judge on his side, of course.”
“Which judge?”
“Name is Ramsey. I been to talk to him, and he says he’s gonna give Clint some time in jail.”
“I see,” Lewis said. “Why don’t you let me work on this. Garvey’s a friend of mine—and I supported Ramsey in the last election.”
Relief washed over Davenport’s face. “That would be great if you could get him off, Lewis, but Judge Ramsey says Clint has to have a job.”
“Well, I’ll find him something.” He stood up and when the other man rose with him, he clapped him on the shoulder. “I think we can work this out. Don’t worry about it, Fred.”
“That’s like you, Lewis. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“We old soldiers have to stick together.”
Lewis waited until Davenport left, then checked a number in his address book and picked up the phone. “Operator, give me 6617. . . .”
****
Kat swung her mallet sharply and struck the wooden ball. It made a straight path through the wicket, and she threw her mallet into the air, shouting, “I win—I win!”
Jenny laughed as the mallet cartwheeled and came down in the grass nearby. “Yes, you do. You’re too good for me.”
“Let’s play one more game, Jenny. Bet I beat you again.”
“Well, maybe just one more. . . .” She paused and turned to look at the vehicle that had pulled into the driveway. “That’s a police car,” she murmured.
“A police car? Have they come to arrest us?” Kat’s eyes were big.
“I doubt that.” Jenny smiled. “They’re probably lost and looking for an address.” She watched as the door opened and a bulky officer got out and opened the back of the paddy wagon. A tall lean man wearing rough-looking clothes and a worn fedora stepped down. She heard the officer say, “Come on, this is where you get off.”
Jenny waited until the policeman and the other man approached, then asked, “Are you lost, Officer?”
“I don’t think so, miss. This is Mr. Lewis Winslow’s place, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. I’m his daughter.”
“Well, Miss Winslow, I’m turning this fellow over to you.”
“You’re doing what?” Jenny stared at the muscular man. His sandy hair crept out from beneath the fedora, and he had steady gray-green eyes. His nose appeared to have been
broken at one time, and he had a scar on the right side of his chin along the jawline. He had a heavy lower lip, high cheekbones, and very large hands with oversized knuckles. “What do you mean? Who is he?”
“His name’s Longstreet. Your father asked us to deliver him here. Is Mr. Winslow home?”
“No, but you can’t leave a prisoner here.”
“He’s safe enough.” The man grinned. “Would you sign right here, miss?”
Jenny protested furiously, but in the end she gave in at the officer’s insistence that this was her father’s instruction. He took the clipboard back, obviously finding something amusing in the situation. “You two enjoy yourselves,” he said as he returned to the car. He waved out the window as he pulled away.
Kat had hardly taken her eyes off of the tall man. “Are you a criminal?” she demanded.
“I guess I am.”
“Are you a murderer?”
A smile turned up the corners of Longstreet’s mouth. “Maybe I am. You’d better run.”
Kat stared at him calmly and shook her head. “I’m not afraid of you. What’s your name?”
“Clint Longstreet. What’s yours?”
“Kat Winslow. I’m twelve.”
“You come with me, Mr. Longstreet,” Jenny said brusquely. She turned and marched away, leading Longstreet around the side of the house. Kat fell back and twisted her head up, studying the stranger as he strolled along. He had very long legs and adjusted his pace to stay behind Jenny. Kat looked down at his right hand and noted that the tip of his little finger was missing.
“What happened to your finger, Clint?”
“Bear bit it off.”
Kat laughed. “That’s a story!”
“Yes, it is. Got caught in some machinery.” He held it out for her to examine, and she continued to put questions to him.
“Stop asking questions, Kat,” her sister demanded. “I don’t want you talking to him.”
Kat glanced at Jenny, then back at her companion. “She’s not usually that impolite.”
“I don’t expect Yankees to have fine manners.”
Jenny flushed, turned, and glared at Longstreet. She marched on, then stopped in front of the chauffeur, who was washing the big Packard, and said, “Earl, will you keep an eye on this man until Dad gets home?”
“I saw him get out of the police car. Who is he?”
“Some kind of a criminal,” Jenny said stiffly.
“I’ll take care of it, Miss Jenny.”
“I’ll wait here,” Kat said. “I want to talk to Clint some more.”
“You come in the house with me, Kat,” Jenny ordered.
“No, I won’t!” Kat complained. “And you can’t make me.” Furious, Jenny stalked away. Earl watched her go, then said to Longstreet, “You’d better watch yourself, fella. I don’t want no trouble out of you.”
“I don’t expect you’ll get any.”
“You sit over there,” Earl said as he pointed to a garden bench.
Kat accompanied Longstreet to the bench and plopped herself down beside him. “What happened to your nose?” she asked.
“It got broken. . . .”
****
Jenny went straight to her father’s study and called his office, but his secretary informed her that he had already left for the day. As she came out into the hall she encountered Hannah and demanded, “Do you know what our father has done? He sent some kind of a . . . a
criminal
here.”
Hannah smiled. “Oh, Father told me what he was going
to do. Don’t be upset. The man is the nephew of a good friend of Father’s, someone he was in the army with during the war in Cuba.”
“Well, we can’t have a convict here.”
“I think it will be all right. He’s not a serious criminal.”
“What is he, then?” Jenny demanded.
“He just got into some sort of minor trouble. Father’s going to give him a job.”
“Doing what?”
“He’s going to help the gardener. Poor Jamie’s got arthritis so bad he can hardly get around. It’s painful to watch him work. Hopefully this man can do the hard work.”
“Well, I’m going out to talk to him,” Jenny said. “I’ll take him over to Jamie’s cottage.”
Jenny left the house and returned to where Kat was still peppering Clint Longstreet with questions. “You come with me,” she said sternly to the man.
“Maybe I’d better go along and keep an eye on him, Miss Jenny,” Crane spoke up.
“That won’t be necessary, Earl. You just wash the car.”
“All right, but let me know if he gives you any trouble.”
Jenny turned and said, “Kat, you go in the house.”
“I’m not through talking to Clint yet.”
“Stop calling him Clint!”
“Well, that’s his name—Clint Longstreet!”
Jenny knew the stubborn streak that lay in her younger sister and gave up for the moment. “Well, you can come, but be quiet.”
Jenny walked stiffly away and led Longstreet down a cobblestone path to a small cottage nestled between two big trees next to the garden. When she knocked on the door, there was a considerable pause, but it finally opened and a small gray-haired man stepped out. “Why, Miss Jenny!” Jamie’s eyes went over toward the tall form of Longstreet; then he turned back to Jenny and said, “Won’t you come in?” He
had the burr of old Scotland in his voice, and his eyes were sharp and alert, though his body was bent.
“No, I just came by to bring this man,” Jenny replied. “His name’s Clint Longstreet. Dad got him out of jail and hired him to work with you, but you’ll have to watch him.”
Jamie MacDougal was not easily flustered. He was sixty-four years old and had been a gardener all of his life—first in Scotland and then in this country. Now with his arthritis getting so bad, it was difficult to continue his lifelong work. As he studied the strong-looking man with the tanned features, he nodded. “I can use a wee bit of help.”
“You’d better keep a close eye on him, Jamie,” Jenny warned again, then lifted her chin in a challenging way and stared up at Clint. “We don’t know anything about him—except he’s been in jail.”
“I’ll talk to him, Miss Jenny.”
“You come on, Kat.”
Kat protested as her sister dragged her away.
MacDougal waited until they were out of sight, then said to the man, “Come in.” He stepped aside and noted that Longstreet took his hat off as he entered. “So your name is Clint Longstreet, eh? What were you in jail for?”