An Oregon Girl: A Tale of American Life in the New West

“Eesa tenna cent-a da one. Nice-a da ripe-a, my friend. Take-a eem a da home, two for-a da fifteen-a da centa.” And he handled a couple of small melons.

“Sacre, da damn,” and his voice again rose to a high pitch, as he shouted: “Me-lo-nas! Ba-nans! Nice-a da ripe-a da Ba-nans. Tenn-a cents-a doz!”

The peculiar idioms of the fellow, and his manner of delivery seemed strangely familiar, and as Sam moved along slowly, a pace or two, rumaging his brain for identification, he suddenly remembered the old cripple at his uncle’s reception, and also, only last night, the mysterious stranger in the park.

It may be pertinent to remark that Jack Shore had obtained most of his dago dialect from a close study of this very man. The similarity of speech and voice, therefore, was accountable for Sam’s mistake of identification.

A moment later, among a passing throng, Sam stopped and pretended to pick up a small copper-colored medal appended to a bit of soiled ribbon. He halted and ostentatiously displayed it, turning it over and over in his hands while examining it. It attracted the attention of an Italian nearby, who at once claimed the medal.

“If it is yours, no doubt you can describe certain marks which appear on its surface?”

“I don-a have to. Eets a Garibaldi! Giv-a da me!”

“What else?” Sam pressed for more definite information, for he immediately became convinced that this claimant was not the real owner.

The word Garibaldi attracted a second Italian, a short, fat man, with huge, flat face, who was at once apprised of the find. He asked Sam to let him have it for examination.

Sam refused to let it pass from his hands, explaining that this man had claimed it, but seemingly was unable to identify it. “I will deliver it to the officer,” and he beckoned a policeman to approach.

There followed instantly a lively colloquy between the two Italians, the second one declaring it belonged to Giuseppe – for he had seen him with it, and he turned to Sam.

“That man,” indicating the fruit vendor, on express wagon license number 346, “is own it. I’m sure he will it tell-a you so,” and he shouted, “Giuseppe!”

Giuseppe heard and shouted back, “Ta-rah-rah!”

As they moved toward him the short man continued to address Sam. “His fadder was wit Garibaldi at Palestrino.”

“Giuseppe, have you lost your fadder’s medal?”

Giuseppe had stepped from his wagon to the curb. With a surprised look he instantly replied, “No! Eesa len eem to deeza fren.”

“When you len eem?” the short, fat man asked.

“Eesa bout five-six day. Why for youse-a ax deeze-a question?”

There was no mistaking the fact that Giuseppe’s frank response conveyed the truth.

Sam believed him.

The short man again spoke. “This man pick eem up there. It belong to you. Ask eem for it.”

“Geeve it-a da me, boss.”

“This man has claimed it as his. Yet he cannot identify it,” replied Sam. “Now, to prove it is yours, tell me its size, and the letters on its two sides.”

“Eesa bout as big as-a deeze.” And Giuseppe produced an American quarter dollar. “Look-a da close. Eesa one-a da side ‘Emanual Rex.’ Below eet a Garibaldi. In-a da middle eesa solidar holding a flag.”

“So far, good!” exclaimed Sam, eyeing the man searchingly and committing to memory his every lineament.

Giuseppe continued, “Eesa da odder side, ‘Palestrino, MDCCCXLIX.’ In a da middle, ‘Liber.’”

“Correct!” said Sam.

“What color is the bit of ribbon?” asked the policeman.

“Eesa be da red. A leetle-a da faded,” was the answer.

Sam was convinced that Giuseppe was the real owner of the medal. A possible important discovery. And he smiled as their eyes met full, face to face. And the Italian smiled at Sam’s open-faced frankness; but utterly unsuspecting the splendidly concealed satisfaction that prompted the smile from Sam.

“Where does the man live to whom you loaned this?” asked Sam.

Giuseppe appeared puzzled. He looked up the street, then down the street, but finally said, “I dunno, eesa move away las week.”

“Where did he live?”

“In-a da cabin – odder side Nort Pacific Mill, at-a da Giles lak.”

“What is his name?”

“George-a da Golda!”

Sam was careful to appear unconcerned, and, to avoid questions that might arouse suspicions of something “crooked” – “Well,” he continued, “I have no doubt the medal is yours, but it is a valuable souvenir, and as Mr. Golda may have something to say, I shall leave my address with this officer.” He thereupon handed the officer a card, remarking, “Please file it at your headquarters.”

Then again turning to Giuseppe, Sam continued, “You notify Mr. Golda to call at the police station and put in his claim and I will be on hand with the medal at any time the authorities apprise me of Mr. Golda’s arrival.”

The Italian’s disgust was plain and he ejaculated, “Sacre da-be damn! Eesa mak George-a Golda fetch eem back. Garibaldi geeve eet-a ma fadder.”

Without further question, Sam proceeded on his way to Simm’s office. That Giuseppe was not the man Sam was after, appeared certain, but that he was well acquainted with the fellow, there seemed no doubt.

Giuseppe must be watched, for he would find Golda to get the medal back, as it was evident Giuseppe treasured it as an heirloom.

While deeply engrossed on this line of thought, Sam was starting down Third street on his way to Detective Simms’ office, and had nearly reached Alder street when his reverie was interrupted by a familiar voice, exclaiming, “Good marnin’, sor!”

“How are you?” responded Sam, recognizing Smith.

“Sure, I’m failin’ foine, axcipt” – and a wistful look came into his eyes – “axcipt for a sore spot in me heart. God shield her!” and he bent his head reverently.

Sam knew full well the object of Smith’s allusion, and said sympathetically, “You share in the sorrow of your house?”

“Indade: I do, sor! Tin years ave I known her swate disposition. Sure, didn’t I drive her coach to the church whin she married him? And she was kind to my poor wife, too, whin she suffered betimes wid brankites. God rest her soule! She’s wid the angels now! But I see yeese do be hurted!”

“A bruise! An accident last night, but it’s nothing, I guess! Are you out for a bracer this morning?”

“Just a little sthrole, wid me eye open for signs.”

“Signs of what?”

“Oh, the dinsity of the cratchur! Sure, I do be always lookin’ fer the little wan.”

“Why don’t you search the river?” suggested Sam significantly; “her mother says she is drowned.”

“Yis! Poor woman! And she belaives it, too, so she do. But says I to myself, says I, some blackguard thaif has sthole the little sunbeam of her heart, which do be nearly broken entirely, so it do!” and Smith turned his head away to hide the tears that came unbidden to his eyes.

“Do you think so?”

“I do.”

“Do you?”

“I do, by me faith, I do, and ave I could lay me hands on the wan who is raysponsible fer it, sure there’d be somethin’ doin’!”

Sam had slim faith in George Golda calling at the police station to claim the medal, but he believed it possible to locate him by diligent and discreet inquiry. With that idea he beckoned Smith into a lobby of an adjacent building, which at that early hour was untenanted, and produced the medal from his vest pocket. Handing it to Smith, he said guardedly, “I found it in the City Park this morning.”

“Sure I can’t rade Frinch at all, at all!” said Smith, examining the bronze.

“It’s a Garibaldi medal. I can trust you with it?”

“Phwat d’yees mane?” Smith responded with a snap.

“This,” and Sam added confidentially in a low voice, “circulate among the shanties and scow dwellers below the North Pacific mill. Show the medal, prudently, mind, but never let it pass out of your hands.”

“I want!” responded Smith, thrusting it in his inside coat pocket. “Be it raysponsible for yees hurt?”

“Of that – well, no matter – I fear where the fellow who lost the bronze lives – there will be found the little one.” Sam had spoken in a voice so soft and low and grave that it startled Smith.

During the pause that followed, he looked at Sam in steadfast amaze.

“Do yees belave it?” he finally asked.

“I do!”

“Sure, yees do be after me own hart. I tould thim some thaivin’ blackguard – ”

“Hush!” Sam interrupted, “not so loud. If a fellow by the name of George Golda claims it” —

“George Golda!” repeated Smith.

“Yes; if George Golda claims it bring him to me. If he will not come, track him, and let me know where he lives as soon as possible. Do it quietly.”

“Sure, I will that. D’yees think he’s the wan?” whispered Smith, intensely interested.

“We shall see,” replied Sam. “But don’t part with the bronze. You will remember?”

“I will, be me soul, I will, and be the token ave it, I’ll” – and Smith spat on his hands and made other significant manifestations quite understandable to descendants of a fighting nation.

Immediately thereafter Sam continued on to Simms’ office, and there, closeted with the detective, related his experience.

Twenty minutes later, a quiet, unassuming, seedy-looking man carelessly lounged about in the vicinity of the Plaza fountain, and no matter what position he occupied, or where he loitered, express No. 346 and its driver never escaped from his sight.

CHAPTER X

The sun had traversed half the distance from the horizon to the zenith when Rutley called at Rosemont for information concerning the seriousness of Sam’s injuries, and incidentally to have a chat with Hazel, for he was very fond of the girl.

“We appreciate your lordship’s anxiety to learn of Sam’s condition, and I am sure Sam will express to you his gratefulness for promptly bringing him home,” added Mrs. Harris.

“I am glad he is able to be about,” continued Rutley, looking at the floor, “though I should imagine a few days of quiet rest after such a vigorous shake-up would be attended by beneficial results.”

“I am sure of it,” said Mr. Harris; “for immediately he regained consciousness there seemed to come over him a worry about something – ”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris, in surprise. “I cannot conceive Sam being worried about anything.”

“Nevertheless, my dear, the boy did appear worried last night, or rather early this morning, and though he spoke and acted quite rational, still it has given me much concern.” Again turning to Rutley, “And imagine my astonishment, too, when on going to his room early this morning I found he had gone.”

“He hadn’t even been in bed – had evidently not undressed – just flung himself down on the couch.”

“You don’t apprehend the wound exerts undue pressure on the brain?” queried Rutley, in the most carefully studied manner, as he looked meaningly at Mr. Harris.

“James, you should have insisted on the doctor remaining with the dear boy over night.”

“My dear, Sam would not listen to it. I think nervousness and a gloriously fresh morning urged him to an early walk, and his return has been delayed by meeting some friends.”

“Quite likely,” responded Rutley.

“If Sam continues to worry, I shall advise a trip to Texas. The bracing air of that latitude has heretofore proven very beneficial to his constitution.”

“A happy idea, Mr. Harris,” and the grave, concerned look that had settled on Rutley’s face relaxed and vanished in a smile of cunning satisfaction, as he thought how agreeable it would be to have that troublesome fellow out of the way. “I have crossed that country and can testify to the purity, dryness and health invigorating quality of its air. Indeed, I do not think you could suggest a more wholesome vacation than a month of rollicking, free life on the Texas plains.”

“A trip to Texas may all be very well in its way, but I know something of the dear boy’s malady and believe that no climatic change, temporary or prolonged, can be of the least benefit to him,” impressively broke in Mrs. Harris.

“Well, well! Now I do remember that when a boy Sam fell and severely hurt his left knee; and so the old complaint is asserting itself again, eh? You see, Your Lordship” —

“Dear me! How stupid men are!” interrupted Mrs. Harris, with much dignity.

“Ah! James, the dear boy’s affliction is of deeper moment. It lacerates the very source and fountain of life. It is, I may add, an affair of the heart.”

“Oh! You don’t tell Sam is – is – ahem, ahem!” – and to suppress a smile Mr. Harris coughed.

“It is possible you misconceive your most estimable lady’s meaning,” suggested Rutley, with a smile. “Perhaps it is a case of heart failure.”

“Nonsense!”

“James!” quickly retorted Mrs. Harris, with asperity.

Mr. Harris looked meaningly at her, then turned to Rutley. “I beg Your Lordship’s pardon. I did not mean to ridicule your suggestion. At the time I used the word ‘nonsense’ I was thinking of the fact, the one of love,” replied Mr. Harris.

“James! I never thought when I plighted my love to you it was nonsense!” and Mrs. Harris brushed a handkerchief across her eyes.

“There, there, dear heart!” and Mr. Harris stepped to her side, tenderly turned her face upward and kissed her lips. “That day was the happiest of my life, though I have been happy ever since.”

“Heart of gold!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris, smiling through her tears. “And I have never wished I had turned from that altar of our happy union.”

“I perceive the cause of Sam’s worry now, dear,” and the irrepressible Mr. Harris turned to Rutley, “You see, My Lord, it is this way, a lovely young lady guest – since Mr. Corway’s strange disappearance – is an inadvertent companion of our Sam, and his troubles were brought on by the sly darts of a little fellow with wings.”

“Wrong again!” asserted Mrs. Harris. “James, let me assure you in all candor that Hazel Brooke is not the lady our Sam is worrying about, as the fair democrat can testify.”

Just then Hazel entered the room, a poem of grace; a rose glow overspread her soft cheeks, while her eyes sparkled with health and vivacity.

Rutley’s eyes at once betrayed his admiration.

The girl was quick to notice it and immediately evinced her pleasure by advancing straight to his side.

“Good morning, My Lord. When I plucked this beauty,” displaying a slender stemmed white chrysanthemum which was held between her fingers, “I instinctively felt that it was to adorn the breast of a distinguished friend, and now see where it flies for rest,” and she smilingly fastened the flower to the lapel of his coat.

“I shall proudly treasure it, for without doubt its chrysalis chastity is jealous of its human rival, hence the parting of the two flowers. Is it not so?” questioned Rutley, with the most winsome, yet grave smile he could fashion.

“Hazel – the Lady Beauchamp, sounds quite recherche,” Mrs. Harris whispered to Mr. Harris.

“Looks as if it might be a go,” he responded in like tones.

“It is white and pretty,” Hazel murmured, casting a demure glance at her own faultlessly white dress and then naively remarked, while a serious question stole over her countenance:

“I have just come from the water front, where I have been watching the men drag for poor little Dorothy.”

“Poor child! So sad to be drowned!” said Mrs. Harris, in a reflective mood.

“Or stolen!” exclaimed Mr. Harris. “I shall not give up hope until that old cripple is located.”

Only Hazel noticed the swift glance Rutley shot at Mr. Harris, but she gave it no significance.

“Poor fellow, he feels the loss of his child very deeply,” continued Mr. Harris. “Yesterday Thorpe was in one of the boats for three hours. My Lord may see them dragging the river from the piazza.” Whereupon Mr. Harris and Rutley went out on the piazza, leaving Mrs. Harris and Hazel by themselves.

“Hazel, dear,” spoke Mrs. Harris softly and confidentially, “there is a lady’s tiara awaiting you, if my judgment is not faulty.”

“He seems to be a nice sort of man,” replied the girl.

“A nice sort of man!” remarked Mrs. Harris, astonished. “Why, Hazel! He is one of the nobility. Superior, distinguished! Do you note his condescending air? It is hereditary, my dear. Conscious of being above us, yet every look and move indicates a study to make a descent to our level.”

“Notwithstanding – I think – well – I prefer Joe!” demurely insisted the maid. “He is not quite so polished, but – I like him better, anyway.”

“What! A commoner to a lord? A straw hat to a lady’s tiara? Why, Hazel!”

“That is my choice,” replied the girl, quietly but firmly.

Hazel’s calm dignity irritated Mrs. Harris, and she remarked with a puzzled expression of countenance, “Dear me! I never could understand the fountain of your democratic ideas, Hazel; and the enigma is deeper to me now than ever.”

Hazel’s reply, muttered with the same quiet dignity, was as puzzling to Mrs. Harris as ever. “I am an American, and I love our country too well to leave it for some foreign land.”

Further conversation was cut short by Mr. Harris, who addressed Hazel.

“Did you notice John Thorpe in one of the boats, Hazel?”

“I think so; they were too far away to say positively,” replied the girl.

“Well, here comes Sam, and – and – yes, it’s Virginia Thorpe!” exclaimed Mr. Harris exultantly turning to Mrs. Harris.

“Did I not say it was possible he had met with a friend? Look how proud and joyous he seems walking by her side. No kink in his knee now. Sound as a bell.”

“James, I beg again to correct you. Sam is not lame. His malady has something to do with the charming lady by his side,” remarked Mrs. Harris.

“Oh, I see. She has a pull on him, eh?”

“Yes, a most strenuous one, I may add, as you mere merchants speak of it.”

When Sam entered the room, he was greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Harris with much fervor.

Sam had removed his hat in the vestibule and unconsciously displayed the evidence of his night’s encounter with the automobile. The sight of the plastered wound on his head caused Mrs. Harris to exclaim:

“Oh, my boy, my boy!” and she put her motherly arms about his neck.

“All right, aunty!” said Sam, as he lightly kissed her on the forehead. “Never felt better. Just a scratch. Might have been worse. Eh? I guess so!” and he held her at arms’ length and grinned at her affectionately.

“Where is Virginia? I am sure we saw her with you, Sam!” questioned Mr. Harris.

“She wouldn’t come in, uncle. Gone on down to the shore. She expressed a wish to find you there.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Harris, with alacrity. “I shan’t disappoint her. Splendid young lady. Brainy, good-looking, very fetching, eh, Sam?” and so saying, he turned, bowed to Rutley and left the room.

“I am thankful you were not killed, and think how much we owe his lordship for having so promptly brought you home,” continued Mrs. Harris.

Sam looked sharply at Rutley, not having noticed him in the room before.

Rutley met his stare with a most affable bow and remarked, “I am pleased to see that Mr. Samuel Harris is able to be about.”

There was a bit of keen cynicism, a sort of faltering regret in Rutley’s delivery, which did not escape detection by Sam.

It almost confirmed him in his suspicion that My Lord had run him down in a deliberate attempt to kill or disable him. The impression caused him momentarily to withhold speech, even in his aunt’s presence. The incident was noticed by Mrs. Harris, who at once concluded something was amiss with Sam, and visions of dementia occasioned by the wound flitted across her brain.

“Dear me! What is coming over him?” she remarked in an awed voice. “He never acted so queer before. Sam!” and she shook him and looked in his face as though she feared some distressing discovery.

Rutley was perceptibly uneasy under Sam’s steady stare and suddenly assumed a pose of freezing haughtiness, deliberately and with studied ceremony adjusted the monocle to his eye and fixed a stony stare at Sam.

Then he turned to Hazel, the very apotheosis of stilted grace and, offering her his arm, said in his most suave and gracious manner:

“I shall be deeply sensible of the honor of your company for a stroll on the lawn.”

For a moment the girl hesitated, as though undecided between courtesy due her hostess and friendliness to My Lord.

Observing the embarrassed expression of Mrs. Harris caused by Sam’s rudeness, she chose to accept Rutley’s arm, remarking, “It is so very beautiful this morning that I love to be out in the soft sunshine.”

Then through the room they passed – passed Mrs. Harris, to whom Rutley bent his head, passed Sam, who might as well have been in the Antipodes, for all Rutley seemed to see of him, though he looked directly at him, through him, and beyond him, out into the sunshine, with a triumphant smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, Sam! you have humiliated me beyond anything I could ever dream of,” said Mrs. Harris, whose pain and bewilderment was plainly evident.

“Aunty!” and Sam stooped and gently kissed her forehead.

“I’m sorry my rudeness got the best of me. I did not mean to offend or pain you; but I shall never apologize to that fellow. Never! Never!”

His earnestness was so intense, so unlike his usual self, that his aunt abruptly arose from the chair and in a startled voice said, “Dear me! Why, what do you know, Sam?”

“Why!” – and Sam’s face broke into a broad smile, his usual buoyant spirit asserting itself – “why, bless your dear soul, aunty, he’s a villain!”

“Lord Beauchamp a villain!” she exclaimed, horrified, and she straightened up in offended dignity.

“Sam, permit me to declare you shock me with your irreverence.”

“Well, he gave me the jolt” —

“Not another word!” and she held up her warning finger. “I perceive it my duty, a duty unhappily too long deferred, to instruct you in the art of proper form, especially when in the presence of the nobility,” and so saying, she swept down the room with all the stately majesty of a grand dame.

At the mantle she turned and continued, “The case being important, I shall read you a lesson on deportment by – by, dear me! I have forgotten the author’s name. But that is immaterial. I shall get the book from the library. Don’t leave the room,” and so saying she entered the library, to his great relief.

Sam was in a very serious frame of mind. The night’s work had developed tragic possibilities, and anything of a lugubrious nature interposing in his trend of thought was dismissed at once.

It was, therefore, no easy task for him to assume readily an air of nonchalance, even in the presence of his aunt, who had schooled him in the art. So the moment he was alone his thoughts plunged again into the absorbing events of the night, and presently he found himself considering the policy of making his aunt a confidant.

“Had I better tell her my suspicions?” he thought; “she will ask awkward questions. No, it will not do! Not yet!”

He was aroused from his reverie by a low, deep whispered “Sst!” Looking up, he saw Smith peeping from behind the half open vestibule door.

Smith dared not enter the room for fear of disturbing Mrs. Harris and exciting her curiosity. He saw her enter the library and then he signaled to Sam. Having caught his attention, he held up a warning finger and again repeated “Sst!” adding in a whisper, “Ave some impartant news to tell yees.”

It was well that Smith enjoined caution, for his eyes were expanded and aglow with excitement, and the muscles of his face, tense with serious import, twitched nervously.

Sam’s exclamation of concern died on his lips, and he at once stepped into the vestibule, alert with expectation. Softly closing the door, he said, “What is it, Smith? Speak low and be quick. Aunty is in there” – and he indicated with his thumb the library.

“Sure, she’s in good company, God presarve them. Will yees listen, plaise?”

“Yes, hurry!”

“Whill. I flim-flammed around the scow dwellin’s an’ shanties on the neck ave lant betwix Giles Lak an’ the river – just beyant the Narth Pacific Mills, but divil a wan be the name ave Garge Golda cud I foind at all. Sure, I was nearly dishartened entirely, so I wus, whin who shud bump forninst me but me frint Kelly.”

“Well?” grunted Sam.

“Kelly is a longshoreman, and he understands his business, too, so he do; but he says he’s too big and fat to wurruk much, an’ I belaive him, too, so I do.”

“Well, go on!” again grunted Sam, impatiently.