Read Ebook: Oliver October by McCutcheon George Barr

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Ebook has 987 lines and 37337 words, and 20 pages

"Well," said Mr. Gooch, after a moment's reflection, "I don't mind waiting a while. He'll have to come out some time, I reckon."

The citizen shrugged his shoulders and spread his palms in a gesture disclaiming all responsibility.

Mr. Gooch shut off his engine and settled back in the seat, the personification of grim and dogged patience.

Fifteen minutes passed. Passers-by, sensing something unusual, found an excuse for loitering in front of nearby showwindows; several persons entered Silas Link's undertaking parlors next door and seemed deeply interested in the rubber plants that adorned the windows; Marmaduke Smith, the messenger-boy, with two telegrams in his book, pedaled his bicycle up to the curb and, anchoring it with one thin and spidery leg, sagged limply upon the handlebar and waited for something to happen. Mr. Link came out of his office, and after taking one look at the hard-faced old man in the automobile, hurried to the rear of his establishment. A few seconds later he returned, accompanied by Joseph Sikes. They took up a position in the doorway and, ignoring Mr. Gooch, gazed disinterestedly down the street in the opposite direction.

At last Oliver October appeared. He glanced at his watch as he crossed the sidewalk.

"Hello, Uncle Horace," was his greeting. "Sorry to have kept you waiting. And I'm in a bit of a hurry, too. Some friends coming down on Number Seventeen. Mr. and Mrs. Sage--you remember them, no doubt. And their daughter. The train's due at 4:10--and it's three minutes of four now. Anything in particular you wanted to see me about?"

"Yes, there is," said Mr. Gooch harshly. "I came over here to demand an apology from you, young man--a public apology, printed over your signature in the newspapers."

"What's the joke, Uncle Horace?" asked Oliver calmly.

"Joke? There's no joke about it. You know what I mean. I demand an apology for what you said in the letter you wrote in reply to mine of the twenty-seventh inst."

"Do you expect me to print my letter in the newspapers together with the apology?"

"That isn't necessary, young man."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Oliver, unruffled. "I'll agree to publish your letter to me and my reply, and I'll follow them up with an apology for mine if you'll apologize to me for yours. That's fair, isn't it?"

"Don't beat about the bush," snapped Mr. Gooch. "Don't get fresh, young man. I'm not here to bandy words with you. I wrote you a very plain and dignified letter in which I told you what I thought of the underhanded way you acted in regard to those dear old ladies, Mrs. Bannester and her sister. You know as well as I do that it was my intention to restore their property to them, absolutely tax free and without a single claim against it. You simply sneaked in and got ahead of me, and now you are giving people to understand that I meant to foreclose on 'em and turn them out of house and home. You--"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Oliver, looking at his watch again, "I know that's what you said in your letter--that and a lot of other things, Uncle Horace."

"And what did you say in reply to my simple, straightforward letter? You said you wouldn't trust me as far as you could throw a locomotive with one hand, or something like that. You said--"

"Yes, I know I said that--and a lot of other things too. You don't have to repeat what I said. I've got a copy of the letter in my desk. It wasn't a very long letter, for that matter, and I can recall every word of it. Do you want to continue this discussion, Uncle Horace? If you'll look around you will see that quite a little crowd is collecting. Don't you think you'd better drop the matter right here and now?"

"No, I don't. I don't care how big a crowd there is. The bigger the better, far as I'm concerned. If I don't have a written and published acknowledgment from you that you deliberately misrepresented me, that you played me an underhanded trick simply for political purposes, I'll--I'll--"

"Well, what?"

"I'll make it so blamed hot for you you'll wish you'd never been born," grated Mr. Gooch, shaking his bony finger in his nephew's face.

Observing this physical symptom of animosity, the Messrs. Sikes and Link hastily stepped forth from the doorway and advanced toward the car.

"Keep your temper, Oliver," called out the former warningly. "Hang on to it!"

"Don't forget yourself, boy," cried Mr. Link.

Mr. Gooch glanced at the two old men.

"You stay away from here, you meddling old--" he started to shout.

"Blow your police whistle, Silas," urged Mr. Sikes. "Blow it! We'll see if--"

"Never mind, Uncle Joe," interrupted Oliver, with an airy wave of his hand. "No need of a cop, is there, Uncle Horace?"

"Not at present," replied his uncle grimly. "Later on we may need one--but not just now."

"Then we can end the discussion in two seconds. I decline to apologize, I refuse to accept an apology from you, and I'll see you in Jericho before I'll retract a word I've said about the Bannester affair. The only thing I will say to you is that I hadn't the faintest idea of running for office when I helped those poor old ladies out of their trouble. You can lump it if you--"

"And what's more," broke in Mr. Sikes, heatedly, "this nomination was forced on Oliver against the wishes of his friends and family. When his poor old father sees in the newspapers that Oliver is headed for the halls of state, he'll break his heart. No matter where Ollie is, he grabs up the newspaper every morning of his life to see what the news is from Rumley--"

"I am one of those people, Uncle Horace," said Oliver quietly.

"And don't you go calling Ollie Baxter a brother-in-law," snorted Mr. Sikes. "I won't stand here and let you slander my lifelong friend by calling him a brother-in-law. If you'll get out of that automobile, I'll--"

"Hold your horses, Joe," put in Mr. Link, clutching his crony's arm.

"Oh, he can't bulldoze me," said Mr. Gooch loftily.

"Smash him, Mr. Sikes," whispered young Marmaduke Smith, excitedly.

Horace turned to his nephew. "It rests with you, young man, whether a certain investigation takes place or not," he said, threateningly.

"What do you mean by investigation?" demanded Oliver, his eyes narrowing. "Just what are you driving at?"

His uncle leaned forward and spoke slowly, distinctly. "Is there any evidence that your father ever left this place at all?"

Oliver looked his uncle straight in the eye for many seconds, a curious pallor stealing over his face. When he spoke it was with a visible effort; and his voice was low and tense.

"There is no evidence to the contrary."

"There's no evidence at all," said Gooch, "either one way or the other. There has never been anything like a thorough search for him--in the neighborhood of his own home. From all I can learn, you have run things to suit yourself so far as the search around here is concerned. Well, I am here to say that I'm not satisfied. I don't believe Oliver Baxter ever ran away from home. I believe he's out there in that swamp of yours. Now you know what I mean by an investigation, young man--and if it is ever undertaken I want to say to you it won't be under your direction and it won't be a half-hearted job. And the swamp won't be the only place to be searched. There are other places he might be besides that swamp."

"I think I get your meaning, Uncle Horace," said Oliver, now cool and self-possessed. "If I don't do what you ask, you'll start something, eh? Your idea, I take it, is to impress the voters of the county with the idea that my father may have met with foul play, and that I know more about the circumstances than I've--"

"I am not saying or claiming anything of the sort," broke in Mr. Gooch hastily, with visions of a suit for slander looming up before him. "I am not accusing you of anything, Oliver. All I want and all I shall insist on is a thorough examination."

"And if I agree to withdraw from the race and perjure myself in the matter of the Bannester tax scandal, you will drop the investigation and forget all about it--is that the idea?"

"I hate to take any drastic step that might involve my own nephew in--er--in fact, I'd a good deal sooner not ask the authorities to take a hand in the matter."

"I see. The point I'm trying to get at is this, Uncle Horace," went on Oliver, relentlessly. "If I do what you ask, you will agree to let me off scot-free even though I may have killed my own father? You can answer that question, can't you?"

"I am not here to argue with you," snapped Mr. Gooch, his gaze sweeping the ever-increasing group of spectators. "Your candidacy has nothing to do with my determination to sift this business to the bottom," he went on, suddenly realizing that he was now committed to definite action. "I shall appeal to the proper authorities and nothing you do or say, young man, can head off the investigation. That's final. I'm going to find out what became of the money he drew out of the bank and where you got the money to pay up for Mrs. Bannester and her sister. I'm going to find out why you refuse to let the dredgers go farther out into the swamp, and I'm going to--Oh, you needn't grin! There are plenty of witnesses who will swear that you and him were not on good terms, and that one day you threatened to hire an aeroplane and take him up five miles and drop him overboard if he didn't quit pestering you with that story about the gypsy. A lot of people heard you say that and--"

"It begins to look as though you were actually accusing me of murder, Uncle Horace."

"Good boy!" cried Mr. Sikes, appeasingly. "That's the way to hold your temper. He's wonderful, ain't he, Silas?"

"Wonderful, nothing!" said Mr. Link. "He ain't had anything to get mad about, far as I can see. The thing is, why ain't he laughin' himself sick at the darned old nanny goat?"

"You go to grass!" shouted Mr. Gooch furiously.

Mr. Sikes and Mr. Link joined in the gale of laughter that went up from the crowd.

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