CHAPTER XIX.
The evening's entertainment was over. The last of the nobility and
gentry had departed, and Mr. McEachern had retired to his lair to
smoke--in his shirt sleeves--the last and best cigar of the day, when
his solitude was invaded by his old New York friend, Mr. Samuel Galer.
"I've done a fair cop, sir," said Mr. Galer, without preamble,
quivering with self-congratulation.
"How's that?" said the master of the house.
"A fair cop, sir. Caught him in the very blooming act, sir. Dark it
was. Oo, pitch. Fair pitch. Like this, sir. Room opposite where the
jewels was. One of the gents' bedrooms. Me hiding in there. Door on
the jar. Waited a goodish bit. Footsteps. Hullo, they've stopped!
Opened door a trifle and looked out. Couldn't see much. Just made out
man's figure. Door of dressing room was open. Showed up against
opening. Just see him. Caught you at it, my beauty, have I? says I to
myself. Out I jumped. Got hold of him. Being a bit to the good in
strength, and knowing something about the game, downed him after a
while and got the darbies on him. Took him off and locked him in the
cellar. That's how it _was_, sir."
"Good boy," said Mr. McEachern approvingly. "You're no rube."
"No, sir."
"Put one of these cigars into your face."
"Thank you, sir. Very enjoyable thing, a cigar, sir. 'Specially a good
un. I have a light, I thank you, sir."
"Well, and who was he?"
"Not the man you told me to watch, for. 'Nother chap altogether."
"That red-headed----"
"No, sir. Dark-haired chap. Seen him hanging about, suspicious, for a
long time. Had my eye on him."
Mr. Galer chuckled reminiscently.
"Rummest card, sir, _I_ ever lagged in my natural," he said.
"How's that? inquired Mr. McEachern amiably.
"Why," grinned Mr. Galer, "you'll hardly believe it, sir, but he had
the impudence, the gall, if I may use the word, the sauce to tell me
he was in my own line of business. A detective, sir! Said he was going
into the room to keep guard. I said to him at the time, I said, it's
too thin, cocky. That's to say----"
Mr. McEachern started.
"A detective!"
"A detective, sir," said Mr. Galer, with a chuckle. "I said to him at
the time----"
"The valet!" cried Mr. McEachern.
"That's it, sir. Sir Thomas Blunt's valet, he was. That's how he got
into the house, sir."
Mr. McEachern grunted despairingly.
"The man was right. He is a detective. Sir Thomas brought him down
from London. He niver travels without him. Ye've done it. Ye've
arristed wan of the bhoys."
Mr. Galer's jaw dropped slightly.
"He was? He really was----"
"Ye'd better go straight to where it was ye locked him up, and let him
loose. And I'd suggest ye hand him an apology. G'wan, mister. Lively
as you can step."
"I never thought----"
"That's the trouble with you fly cops," said his employer caustically.
"Ye niver do think."
"It never occurred to me----"
"G'wan!" said the master of the house. "Up an alley!"
Mr. Galer departed.
"And I asked them," said Mr. McEachern, "I asked them particularly not
to send me a rube!"
He lit another cigar, and began to brood over the folly of mankind.
He was in a very pessimistic frame of mind when Jimmy curveted into
the room, with his head in the clouds and his feet on air.
"Can you spare me a few minutes, Mr. McEachern?" said Jimmy.
The policeman stared heavily.
"I can," he said slowly. "What is ut?"
"Several things," said Jimmy, sitting down. "I'll take them in order.
I'll start with our bright friend, Galer."
"Galer!"
"Of New York, according to you. Personally, I should think that he's
seen about as much of New York as I have of Timbuctoo. Look here,
McEachern, we've known each other some time, and I ask you, as man to
man, do you think it playing the game to set a farmer like poor old
Galer to watch me? I put it to you?"
The policeman stammered. The question chimed in so exactly with the
opinion he had just formed, on his own account, of the human
bloodhound who was now in the cellar making the peace with his injured
fellow worker.
"Hits you where you live, that, doesn't it?" said Jimmy. "I wonder you
didn't have more self-respect, let alone consideration for my
feelings. I'm surprised at you."
"Ye're----"
"In fact, if you weren't going to be my father-in-law, I doubt if I
could bring myself to forgive you. As it is, I overlook it."
The policeman's face turned purple.
"Only," said Jimmy, with quiet severity, taking a cigar from the box
and snipping off the end, "don't let it occur again."
He lit the cigar. Mr. McEachern continued to stare fixedly at him. So
might the colonel of a regiment have looked at the latest-joined
subaltern, if the latter, during mess, had offered to teach him how to
conduct himself on parade.
"I'm going to marry your daughter," said Jimmy.
"You are going to marry me daughter!" echoed Mr. McEachern, as one in
a trance.
"I am going to marry your daughter."
The purple deepened on Mr. McEachern's face.
"More," said Jimmy, blowing a smoke ring. "_She_ is going to marry
me. We are going to marry each other," he explained.
McEachern's glare became frightful. He struggled for speech.
"I must congratulate you," said Jimmy, "on the way things went off
tonight. It was a thorough success. Everybody was saying so. You're
the most popular man in the county. What would they say of you at
Jefferson Market, if they knew? By the way, do you correspond with any
of the old set? Splendid fellows, they were. I wish we had some of
them here tonight."
Mr. McEachern's emotions found relief in words. He rose, and waved a
huge fist in Jimmy's face. His great body was shaking with rage.
"You!" shouted the policeman. "You!"
The fist was within an inch of Jimmy's chin.
Outwardly calm, inwardly very much alive to the fact that at any
moment the primitive man in him might lead his prospective
father-in-law beyond the confines of self-restraint, Jimmy sat still
in his chair, his eyes fixed steadily on those of his relative-to-be.
It was an uncomfortable moment. Mr. McEachern, if he made an assault,
might regret it subsequently. But he would not be the first to do so.
The man who did that would be a certain James Pitt. If it came to
blows, the younger man could not hope to hold his own with the huge
policeman.
"You!" roared McEachern. Jimmy fancied he could feel the wind of
moving fist. "You marry me daughter! A New York crook. The sweepings
of the Bowery. A man who ought to be in jail. I'd like to break your
face in."
"I noticed that," said Jimmy. "If it's all the same to you, will you
take your fist out of my mouth? It makes it a little difficult to
carry on a conversation. And I've several things I should like to
say."
"Ye'll listen to me!"
"Certainly. You were saying?"
"Ye come here. Ye worm yourself into my house, crawl into it----"
"I came by invitation, and in passing, not on all fours. Mr.
McEachern, may I ask one question?"
"What is ut?"
"If you didn't want me, why did you let me stop here?"
The policeman stopped as if he had received a blow. There came
flooding back into his mind the recollection of his position. In his
wrath, he had forgotten that Jimmy knew his secret. And he looked on
Jimmy as a man who would use his knowledge.
He sat down heavily.
Jimmy went on smoking in silence for a while. He saw what was passing
in his adversary's mind, and it seemed to him that it would do no harm
to let the thing sink in.
"Look here, Mr. McEachern," he said, at last, "I wish you could listen
quietly to me for a minute or two. There's really no reason on earth
why we should always be at one another's throats in this way. We might
just a well be friends, as we should be if we met now for the first
time. Our difficulty is that we know too much about each other. You
knew me in New York, and you know what I did there. Naturally, you
don't like the idea of my marrying your daughter. You can't believe
that I'm not simply an ordinary yegg, like the rest of the crooks you
used to know. I promise you, I'm not. Can't you see that it doesn't
matter what a man has been? It's what he is and what he means to be that
counts. Mr. Patrick McEachern, of Corven Abbey, isn't the same as
Constable McEachern, of the New York police. Well, then, I have
nothing to do with the man I was when you knew me first. I have
disowned him. He's a back number. I am an ordinary English gentleman
now. My uncle has left me more than well off. I am a baronet. And is
it likely that a baronet--_with_ money, mind you--is going to carry
on the yegg business as a side line? Be reasonable. There's really no
possible objection to me now. Let's shake, and call the fight off.
Does that go?"
The policeman was plainly not unmoved by these arguments. He drummed
his fingers on the table, and stared thoughtfully at Jimmy.
"Is Molly--" he said, at length, "does Molly----"
"Yes," said Jimmy. "And I can promise you I love her. Come along, now.
Why wait?"
McEachern looked doubtfully at Jimmy's outstretched hand. He moved his
own an inch from the table, then let it fall again.
"Come on," said Jimmy. "Do it now. Be a sport."
And with a great grunt, which might have meant anything, from
resignation to cordiality, Mr. McEachern capitulated.
