The Law Breakers and Other Stories by Robert Grant

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When out of sight of the house, Gorham sped fleetly along the road. He
intended to walk to town, for he felt like glorying in his happiness
under the full moon which was shedding her silver light from a clear
heaven. The air was not oppressive, and it was scented with the
perfume of the lilacs and apple-blossoms, so that Gorham was fain
every now and then to draw a deep breath in order to inhale their
fragrance. There was no dust, and nature looked spruce and trig,
without a taint of the frowziness which is observable in the foliage a
month later.

Gorham took very little notice of the details; his eyes were busy
rather with mind-problems than with the particular beauties of the
night; yet his rapt gaze swept the brilliant heavens as though he felt
their lustre to be in harmony with the radiance in his own soul. He
was imagining the future--his hearth forever blessed by her sweet
presence, their mutual joys and sorrows sweetened and alleviated
through being shared. His efforts to live worthily would be fortified
by her example and counsel. How the pleasures of walking and riding
and reading and travelling--of everything in life--would be a
hundredfold enhanced by being able to interchange impressions with
each other! He pictured to himself the cosey evenings they would pass
at home when the day's work was done, and the jolly trips they would
take together when vacation-time arrived. How he would watch over her,
and how he would guard her and tend her and comfort her if misfortune
came or ill health assailed her! There would be little ones, perhaps,
to claim their joint devotion, and bid him redouble his energies; he
smiled at the thought of baby fingers about his neck, and there arose
to his mind's eye a sweet vision of Emily sitting, pale but
triumphant, rocking her new-born child upon her breast.

He walked swiftly on the wings of transport. It was almost as light as
day, yet he met but few travellers along the country road. An
occasional vehicle passed him, breaking the silvery stillness with its
rumble which subsided at last into the distance. A pair of whispering
lovers, arm in arm, who slunk into the shadow as he came abreast of
them, won from him a glance of sympathy. Just after he had left them
behind the shrill whistle of a locomotive jarring upon the silence
seemed to bring him a message from the woman he adored. Had he not
preferred to walk, this was the train he would have taken, and it must
have stopped not many hundred yards from her door. As he listened to
it thundering past almost parallel to him in the cut below he breathed
a prayer of blessing on her rest.

A little beyond this point the road curved and ran at a gradual
incline so as to cross the railroad track at grade about half a mile
farther on. This stretch was lined on each side by horse-chestnut
trees set near to one another, the spreading foliage of which darkened
the gravelled foot-path, so that Gorham, who was enjoying the
moonlight, preferred to keep in the middle of the road, which, by way
of contrast, gleamed almost like a river. He was pursuing his way with
elastic steps, when of a sudden his attention was arrested about a
hundred and fifty yards from the crossing by something lying at the
foot of one of the trees on the right-hand side. At a second glance he
saw that it was a woman's figure. Probably she was asleep: but she
might be ill or injured. It was a lonely spot, so it occurred to him
that it was proper for him to investigate. Accordingly, he stepped to
her side and bent over her. From her calico dress, which was her only
covering, she evidently belonged to the laboring class. She was a
large, coarse-looking woman, and was lying, in what appeared to Gorham
to be drunken slumber, on her bonnet, the draggled strings of which
caught his eye. He hesitated a moment, and then shook her by the arm.
She groaned boozily, but after he had shaken her again two or three
times she rolled over and raised herself on her elbow, rubbing her
eyes and staring at him glassily.

"Are you hurt, woman?" he asked.

She made a guttural response which might have meant anything, but she
proved that she was uninjured by getting on her feet. She stared at
her disturber bewilderedly, then, perceiving her bonnet, stooped to
pick it up, and stood for a moment trying sleepily to poke it into
shape and readjust its tawdry plumage. But all of a sudden she gave a
start and began looking around her with recovered energy. She missed
something, evidently. Gorham followed the direction of her gaze as it
shifted, and as his glance met the line of the road he perceived a
little figure standing in the middle of the railway crossing. It was a
child--her child, without doubt--and as he said so to himself the roar
of an approaching train, coupled with the sound of the whistle, made
him start with horror. The late express from town was due. Gorham
remembered that there was a considerable curve in the railroad at this
point. The woman had not perceived the situation--she was too far in
the shade--but Gorham from where he stood commanded a clear view of
the track.

Without an instant's hesitation, he sprang forward and ran at full
speed. His first thought was that the train was very near. He ran with
all his might and main, his eyes fixed on the little white figure, and
shouting to warn it of its danger. Suddenly there flashed before his
mind with vividness the remembrance of John Baker, and he recalled his
argument at the Lawfords'. But he did not abate his speed. The child
had plumped itself down on one of the sleepers, and was apparently
playing with some pebbles. It was on the farther track, and, startled
by his cries and by the clang of the approaching train, looked up at
him. He saw a pale, besmeared little countenance; he heard behind him
the agonizing screams of the mother, who had realized her baby's
peril; in his ears rang the shrill warning of the engineer as the
engine rounded the curve. Would he be in time?

As he reached the edge of the tracks, thought of Emily and a terrible
consciousness of the sorrow she would feel if anything were to happen
to him compressed his heart. But he did not falter. He was aware of
the jangle of a fiercely rung bell, the hiss of steam, and a blinding
glare; he could feel on his cheek the breath of the iron monster. With
set teeth he threw himself forward, stooped, and reached out over the
rail: in another instant he had tossed the child from the pathway of
danger, and he himself had been mangled to death by the powerful
engine.

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON

Paul Harrington, the reporter, shifted his eagle glance from one
feature to another of the obsequies with the comprehensive yet swift
perception of an artist. An experience of three years on the staff had
made him an expert on ceremonies, and, captious as he could be when
the occasion merited his scorn, his predilection was for praise, as he
was an optimist by instinct. This time he could praise unreservedly,
and he was impatient to transfer to the pages of his note-book his
seething impressions of the solemn beauty and simplicity of the last
rites in the painful tragedy. In the rustic church into which he had
wormed his way he had already found time to scribble a brief paragraph
to the effect that the melancholy event had "shrouded the picturesque
little town of Carver in gloom," and now as he stood on the greensward
near, though not too near, he hastily jotted down the points of
interest with keen anticipation of working out some telling
description on the way home.

Out from the little church where the families of the pair of lovers
had worshipped in summer time for a generation, the two coffins, piled
high with flowers (Harrington knew them reportorially as caskets),
were borne by the band of pall-bearers, stalwart young intimate
friends, and lifted by the same hands tenderly into the hearse. The
long blackness of their frock-coats and the sable accompaniment of
their silk hats, gloves, and ties appealed to the observant faculties
of Harrington as in harmony both with the high social position of the
parties and the peculiar sadness of the occasion. That a young man and
woman, on the eve of matrimony, and with everything to live for,
should be hurled into eternity (a Harringtonian figure of speech) by a
railroad train at a rustic crossing, while driving, was certainly an
affair heartrending enough to invite every habiliment of woe. As he
thus reasoned Harrington became aware that one of the stalwart young
men was looking at him with an expression which seemed to ask only too
plainly, "What the devil are you doing here?"

As a newspaper man of some years' standing Harrington was hardened.
Such an expression of countenance was an almost daily experience and
slipped off the armor of his self-respecting hardihood like water off
the traditional duck's back. When people looked at him like this he
simply took refuge in his consciousness of the necessities of the case
and the honesty of his own artistic purpose. The press must be served
faithfully and indefatigably--boldly, moreover, and at times
officiously, in order to attain legitimate results; yet he flattered
himself that no one could ever say of him that he had "butted in"
where others of his craft would have paused, or was lacking in
reportorial delicacy. Was he not simply doing his professional duty
for hire, like any respectable lawyer or doctor or architect, in order
to support his family? Were he to trouble his head because impetuous
people frowned, his wife, Amelia, and infant son, Tesla, would be the
sufferers--a thought which was a constant stimulus to enterprise. His
"job" required "cheek" perhaps, but nine people out of ten were not
sensible enough to realize that he was a modern necessity, and to ask
themselves, "Is this man doing his work creditably?" There was the
essence of the situation for Harrington, and from the world's lack of
nice perception he had made for himself a grievance which rendered him
indifferent to ill-considered scowls.

But, however indifferent his attitude, nothing ever escaped
Harrington, and he noticed that the young man whose eyes met his with
the expression of annoyance was well set up and manly in appearance--a
"dude," in Harrington's parlance, but a pleasant-looking dude, with an
open and rather strong countenance. Such was Harrington's deduction,
in spite of the obvious hostility to himself, and in confirmation of
this view he had the satisfaction of perceiving the tension of the
young man's face relax, as though he had come to the conclusion, on
second thoughts, that interference was, on the whole, not worth while.

"He realizes," said the reporter to himself approvingly, "that there's
no sense in being peevish. A swell funeral must be written up like any
other society function."

While he thus soliloquized, the nearest relatives of the deceased
victims issued from the church, seeking the carriages in waiting for
them. Among those who came next was a handsome, spirited-looking girl
of twenty-five, who, though not of the family group, was a sincere
mourner. As she stepped forward with the elasticity of youth, glad of
the fresh air on her tear-stained cheeks, it happened that she also
observed the presence of the reporter, and she paused, plainly
appalled. Her nostrils quivered with horrified distress, and she
turned her head as though seeking some one. It proved to be the young
man who had misjudged Harrington a few moments before. At least, he
sprang to her side with an agility which suggested that his eyes had
been following her every movement, thereby prompting Harrington, who
was ever on the alert for a touch of romance amid the prose of
every-day business, to remark shrewdly:

"That's plain as the nose on your face; he's her 'steady.'"

He realized at the same time that he was being pointed out in no
flattering terms by the young lady in question, who cast a single
haughty glance in his direction by way of identification. He saw her
eyes flash, and, though the brief dialogue which ensued was
necessarily inarticulate to him, it was plain that she was laying her
outraged feelings at the feet of her admirer, with a command for
something summary and substantial by way of relief.

At any rate, Harrington jumped at once to this conclusion, for he
murmured: "She's telling him I'm the scum of the earth, and that it's
up to him to get rid of me." He added, sententiously: "She'll find, I
guess, that this is about the most difficult billet a fair lady ever
intrusted to a gallant knight." Whereupon, inspired by his metaphor,
he proceeded to hum under his breath, by way of outlet to his amused
sensibilities, the dulcet refrain which runs:

In days of old, when knights were bold
And barons held their sway,
A warrior bold, with spurs of gold.
Sang merrily his lay,
Sang merrily his lay:
"My love is young and fair,
My love hath golden hair,
And eyes so blue and heart so true
That none with her compare.
So what care I, though death be nigh?
I'll live for love or die!
So what care I, though death be nigh,
I'll live for love or die!"

What was going to happen? How would Sir Knight set to work to slay or
expel the obnoxious dragon? Harrington felt mildly curious despite his
sardonic emotions, and while he took mental note of what was taking
place around him he contrived to keep an eye on his censors. He had
observed that the young man's face while she talked to him had worn a
worried expression, as though he were already meditating whether the
situation was not hopeless unless he had recourse to personal
violence; but, having put his Dulcinea into her carriage, he appeared
to be in no haste to begin hostilities. Indeed, without further ado,
or even a glance in Harrington's direction, he took his place in the
line of mourners which was moving toward the neighboring cemetery.

Harrington was for a moment divided in his own mind between the claims
of reportorial delicacy and proper self-respect. It had been his
intention to absent himself from the services at the grave, out of
consideration for the immediate family. It occurred to him now that it
was almost his duty to show himself there, in order not to avoid a
meeting. But the finer instinct prevailed. Why allow what was, after
all, nothing save ignorant disapproval to alter his arrangements? He
had just time to walk leisurely to the station without overheating
himself, and delay would oblige him to take a later train, as there
was no vehicle at his disposal.

Consequently, after his brief hesitation, he followed a high-road at
right angles to that taken by the funeral procession, and gave himself
up to the beguilement of his own thoughts. They were concerned with
the preparation of his special article, and he indulged in the
reflection that if it were read by the couple who had looked at him
askance they would be put to shame by its accuracy and good taste.

Before Harrington had finished three-quarters of the distance which
lay between the church and his destination, the carriages of those
returning from the cemetery began to pass him. When the dust raised by
their wheels had subsided he looked for an undisturbed landscape
during the remainder of his walk, and had just given rein again to
contemplation when a sound which revealed unmistakably the approach of
an automobile caused him to turn his head. A touring car of large
dimensions and occupied by two persons was approaching at a moderate
rate of speed, which the driver, who was obviously the owner, reduced
to a minimum as he ran alongside him.

"May I give you a lift?" asked a strong, friendly voice.

Before the question was put Harrington had recognized in the speaker
the young man whose mission it had become, according to his shrewd
guess, to call him to account for his presence at the funeral. He had
exchanged his silk hat for a cap, and drawn on a white dust-coat over
his other sable garments, but his identity was unmistakable. Viewing
him close at hand Harrington perceived that he had large, clear eyes,
a smooth-shaven, humorous, determined mouth, and full ruddy cheeks,
the immobility of which suggested the habit of deliberation.
Physically and temperamentally he appeared to be the antipodes of the
reporter, who was thin, nervous, and wiry, with quick, snappy ways and
electric mental processes. It occurred to him now at once that the
offer concealed a trap, and he recalled, knowingly, the warning
contained in the classical adage concerning Greeks who bear gifts.
But, on the other hand, what had he to fear or to apologize for?
Besides, there was his boy Tesla to consider. How delighted the little
fellow, who already doted on electricity, would be to hear that his
father had ridden in a huge touring car! He would be glad, too, of the
experience himself, in order to compare the sensation with that of
travelling in the little puffing machines with which he was tolerably
familiar. Therefore he answered civilly, yet without enthusiasm:

"I don't mind if you do, as far as the station."

At his words the chauffeur at a sign made place for him, and he
stepped in beside his pseudo-enemy, who, as he turned on the power,
met Harrington's limitation as to distance with the remark:

"I'm going all the way to New York, if you care to go with me."

Harrington was tempted again. Apart from the peculiar circumstances of
the case he would like nothing better. Then, why not? What had he or
his self-respect to dread from a trip with this accommodating dude? He
would hardly sandbag him, and were he--Harrington grinned inwardly at
the cunning thought--intending to have the machine break down in an
inaccessible spot, and leave him stranded, what difference would it
make? His article was too late already for the evening papers, and he
would take excellent care to see that nothing should interfere with
its appearance the following morning, for at a pinch he was within
walking distance of the city. The thought of such an attempt to muzzle
the liberty of the press was rather an incentive than otherwise, for
it savored of real adventure and indicated that a moral issue was
involved.

While he thus reflected he appeared not to have heard the observation.
Meanwhile the automobile was running swiftly and smoothly, as though
its owner were not averse to have his guest perceive what a superb
machine it was.

"What make?" asked the reporter, wishing to show himself affable, yet
a man of the world. He had come to the conclusion that if the
invitation were repeated he would accept it.

His companion told him, and as though he divined that the inquiry had
been intended to convey admiration, added, "She's going now only at
about half her speed."

Harrington grinned inwardly again. "Springes to catch woodcock!" he
said to himself, quoting Shakespeare, then went on to reflect in his
own vernacular: "The chap is trying to bribe me, confound him! Well,
here goes!" Thereupon he said aloud, for they were approaching the
station: "If you really would like my company on the way to town I'd
be glad to see how fast she can go." As he spoke he drew out his watch
and added with suppressed humorous intention: "I suppose you'll
guarantee to get me there in a couple of hours or so?"

"If we don't break down or are not arrested." The voice was gay and
without a touch of sinister suggestion.

"Here's a deep one, maybe," thought Harrington.

Already the kidnapper--if he were one--was steering the car into a
country way which diverged at a sharp curve from that in which they
had been travelling. It was a smooth, level stretch, running at first
almost parallel with the railroad, and in another moment they were
spinning along at a hair-lifting rate of speed, yet with so little
friction that the reporter's enthusiasm betrayed itself in a grunt of
satisfaction, though he was reflecting that his companion knew the way
and did not intend to allow him to change his mind. But Harrington was
quite content with the situation, and gave himself up unreservedly to
the pleasant thrill of skimming along the surface of the earth at such
a pace that the summer breeze buffeted his face so that his eyes
watered. There was nothing in sight but a clear, straight road flanked
by hedges and ditches, save the railroad bed, along which after a
while the train came whizzing. A pretty race ensued until it crossed
their path at almost a right angle.

"Now he thinks he has me," thought Harrington.

It almost seemed so, for in another moment he of the humorous,
determined mouth diminished the power, and after they were on the
other side of the railroad track he proceeded at a much less strenuous
pace and opened conversation.

"You're a reporter, I judge?"

Harrington, who was enjoying himself, would have preferred to avoid
business for a little longer and to talk as one gentleman to another
on a pleasure trip. So, in response to this direct challenge, he
answered with dry dignity:

"Yes. I have the honor of representing the Associated Press."

"One of the great institutions of the country."

This was reasonable--so reasonable, indeed, that Harrington pondered
it to detect some sophistry.

"It must be in many respects an interesting calling."

"Yes, sir; a man has to keep pretty well up to date."

"Married or single, if I may be so bold?"

"I have a wife and a son nine years old."

"That is as it should be. Lucky dog!"

Harrington laughed in approval of the sentiment. "Then I must assume
that you are a bachelor, Mr. ---- ?"

"Dryden. Walter Dryden is my name. Yes, that's the trouble."

"She won't have you?" hazarded the reporter, wishing to be social in
his turn.

"Exactly."

"Mrs. Harrington would not the first time I asked her."

"I have offered myself to her six separate times, and she has thus far
declined."

Harrington paused a moment. The temptation to reveal his own
astuteness, and at the same time enhance the personal flavor which the
dialogue had acquired, was not to be resisted. "May I venture to ask
if she is the lady with whom you exchanged a few words this forenoon
at the door of the church?"

The young man turned his glance from the road toward his questioner by
way of tribute to such acumen. "I see that nothing escapes your
observation."

"It is my business to notice everything and to draw my own
conclusions," said the reporter modestly.

"They are shrewdly correct in this case. Would you be surprised,"
continued Dryden in a confidential tone, "if I were to inform you that
I believe it lies in your power to procure me a home and happiness?"

Harrington chuckled in his secret soul. He would dissemble. "How could
that possibly be?"

"I don't mind telling you that the last time I offered myself the
young lady appeared a trifle less obdurate. She shook her head, but I
thought I observed signs of wavering--faint, yet appreciable. If now I
could only put her under an obligation and thus convince her of my
effectiveness, I am confident I could win her."

"Your effectiveness?" queried Harrington, to whom the interview was
becoming more psychologically interesting every moment.

"Yes, she considers me an unpractical person--not serious, you know. I
know what you consider me," he added with startling divergence--"a
dude."

Harrington found this searchlight on his own previous thought
disconcerting. "Well, aren't you one?" he essayed boldly.

Dryden pondered a moment. "I suppose so. I don't wear reversible cuffs
and I am disgustingly rich. I've shot tigers in India, lived in the
Latin quarter, owned a steam yacht, climbed San Juan Hill--but I have
not found a permanent niche. There are not places enough to go round
for men with millions, and she calls me a rolling stone. Come, now,
I'll swap places with you. You shall own this motor and--and I'll
write the press notice on the Ward-Upton funeral."

Harrington stiffened instinctively. He did not believe that the
amazing, splendid offer was genuine. But had he felt complete faith
that the young man beside him was in earnest, he would have been proof
against the lure of even a touring car, for he had been touched at his
most sensitive point. His artistic capacity was assailed, and his was
just the nature to take proper umbrage at the imputation. More; over,
though this was a minor consideration, he resented slightly the
allusion to reversible cuffs. Hence the answer sprang to his lips:

"Can you not trust me to write the notice, Mr. Dryden?"

"She would like me to write it."

"Ah, I see! Was that what she whispered to you this morning?"

Dryden hesitated. "Certainly words to that effect. Let me ask you in
turn, can you not trust me? If so, the automobile is yours and----"

Harrington laughed coldly. "I'm sorry not to oblige you, Mr. Dryden.
If you understood my point of view you would see that what you propose
is out of the question. I was commissioned to write up the Ward-Upton
obsequies, and I alone must do so."

As he spoke they were passing at a lively gait through the
picturesquely shaded main street of a small country town and were
almost abreast of the only tavern of the place, which wore the
appearance of having been recently remodelled and repainted to meet
the demands of modern road travel.

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