Flappers & Fiction

In one respect the villagers were of the same mind in regard to their shoemaker: he looked like a villain.

But his work? That was good, and his prices were moderate; so his custom was large. He had three apprentices, young men whose years placed them at unequal distances from manhood, which is popularly supposed to begin at the age of twenty-one.

His shop was a corner room, and consequently looked out upon the world in two directions. It was rumored that when Bargoff gazed out of the window facing the south, a soft, warm smile crept over his face. To the west window he turned his back when he was at work. Sometimes at sunset he would glance over his shoulder at the long rays, or the varied hues. Then his features assumed a sudden wry expression that was suggestive of distaste. His apprentices, whose curiosity about him was stimulated by the questions that were constantly put to them by their acquaintances, seeking information regarding the shoemaker, noticed his fondness for the south window, and his peculiar dislike for the outlook toward the west. They spoke of these characteristics, and set the villagers a-guessing to account for them.

Nobody in Kattin knew anything of Bargoff’s life before his settlement in the hamlet, a straggling town at the foot of a deep ravine that cut into the side of the Alleghany Mountains. Renting a small room on the day of his coming to Kattin, he hung out at the door a battered sign, “Bargoff, Shoemaker.” The letters were yellow on a black ground, and did not struggle to encompass the painted boot and shoe that usually adorn the signs of village shoemakers.

“He’s a willain,” quoth Grandam Cole upon first beholding him, and in her opinion all others concurred.

He waited many days for a customer and none entered his door. He was not patronized, not solely because Grandam Cole had spoken against him, but because there was a shoemaker in Kattin, an old man it is true; but he employed a “jour,” and his boots and shoes, made from selected stock, were enduring. So the old man continued to shoe the feet of the Kattiners, while he sneered at Bargoff, whom he finally began to pity, and offered a bench in the old shoeshop “to do the cobblin’.” Bargoff, with a smile, refused to leave his own small room in which the lasts seemed arranged for exhibition on the shelves. Only his landlord called upon him, and that but once a month, on rent day, when he invariably left a receipted bill behind him.

When a year of persistent waiting had gone, a day fell that brought Bargoff a customer. He was gazing out of the window at the other shoeshop where business seemed brisk, when someone opened the door of his little room and came in. He turned round and saw just inside the door a girl with her thumb in her mouth. She seemed about ten years old. Her dress was torn, and her face and hands were dirty, but her voice was sweet as she timidly addressed him.

“My pap wants ter know ef yer’d make me a pair uv shoes an’ wait a month fer yer pay.”

She took her thumb out of her mouth, and wiped it on her dress as she spoke.

“Of course I will, Sunny,” he replied cheerily, as he reached for his measuring stick.

“My name’s Mary, but pap calls me Pert when he ain’t mad at me,” she informed Bargoff.

“I called you Sunny, because you are sunshine to me,” Bargoff said, as he blew the dust off the stick, and sat down on the bench. “Put up your foot.”

She rested a plump bare foot on his knee. When he caught it in his hand he shivered, it was so cold. So he chafed and fondled it until it was warm, and measured the other foot for no other reason than to warm it, for his practiced eye told him at a glance that the feet were mates. The warmth crept up her limbs, bare to the knees, reached her heart, and set her tongue going.

“Pap couldn’t pay old Carnes, and he wouldn’t make no more shoes fer us.”

And Bargoff laughed, for old Carnes was the other shoemaker. Bargoff laughed merrily. “Ah, Sunny,” he said, “you are not sharp!”

And Sunny laughed, too, as she ran away with a bound. In a moment she was back.

“Say, Mister Bargoff, could you make them shoes as soft an’ warm as yer hands?”

She did not wait for a reply. The fact is, he was so taken aback he could not frame one. Compliments thus affect even villains at times. However, he felt his hands, and was surprised at finding how soft they had become in their long-enforced idleness.

That night he worked late. He was eager to have the shoes done before Sunny could come again. There was an excitement in him. It had been caused by his once more engaging in his handicraft, and it buoyed him. The zest of employment was novel to him.

The sun pointed a long finger at him as he bent over the last the next morning. He had risen early, and was stitching the shoes that were to be as soft and warm as his own hands.

Sunny was not long behind the shoemaker in getting to work. She made the fire, and put the kettle on to boil for the breakfast coffee. She peeped in slyly, and he, intent upon his work, did not see her.

“My, a’n’t they pretty!” she whispered as she ran back to the kitchen.

When she had washed the dishes, she combed her hair, and went to visit Bargoff. He received her with great cordiality and politeness. Her tongue became loosened again and she blurted: “I like you, Mister Bargoff. I don’t like my pap. He’s mean. He makes us wait allers while he eats. Then we git the scraps. Mam, too, she waits with us.”

Bargoff started, and the lapstone fell on his toe, but it did not hurt him then. He was so excited the pain did not attract his attention.

“You don’t mean it, Sunny,” he exclaimed, not interrogatively, but affirmatively.

“Yes, I do. He allers does it. He says he’s lord uv his cas’le.”

“Lord! I should say he was!”

And while Sunny chewed her thumb, she wondered if Bargoff had been profane. She was inclined to say, “Oh! you sweared,” but her thumb was fast between her jaws.

At last the shoes were done and Sunny was ready to try them on. She held up her plump foot, which was clean on top, anyway.

“I couldn’t fly,” she said, apologizing for the dusty sole.

Bargoff laughed and asked for her stockings. She giggled.

“It ain’t cold enuf fer stockin’s yit. We only wears stockin’s when the snow flies.”

“But the shoes, I made them a little large and they won’t fit without stockings.”

“Well, I a’n’t hed no stockin’s since last winter.”

“I can’t knit stockings,” mused Bargoff, “but I can buy them.”

And off he went to the store without a word, leaving Sunny in the shop. He bought a pair of striped stockings.

“Just to try the shoes on, you know,” he said on his return.

Sunny wiped the soles of her feet on the clean side of his little-used apron, and slipped on the stockings. Then the shoes were laced up, and she walked over the sheet of sole leather in them. She pronounced them a fit, and proceeded to take them off.

“Why not wear them?” Bargoff asked.

She did not reply until her feet were bare. Then she handed him the stockings.

“I’ve tried ’em on; I’m much ‘bliged.”

“But the shoes won’t fit without them.”

“They’ll fit better’n bare feet; besides, I didn’t order no stockin’s.”

Then, with thanks for the shoes until he was “better paid,” she went away, leaving Bargoff staring stupidly at the stockings.

Old Carnes, the shoemaker whom the Kattiners had patronized for two generations, laughed when he heard that Bargoff’s customer was Peter Bard’s daughter.

“It’ll be many a day ‘fore Pete pays fer what she gits,” he remarked. “He owes me a bill a mile long.”

But Sunny showed her shoes to a neighbor. They fitted well, were strongly and lightly made, and were cheaper than the price charged by Carnes for children’s shoes.

“My!” exclaimed the neighbor to her husband, “that there Bargoff must be a good shoemaker.”

Then she told him about Sunny’s shoes. He took his daughter by the hand and led her to Bargoff’s shop, where he ordered a pair of shoes like Sunny’s. Thus the customers came, one after another, until old Carnes had little to do, except cobbling, and was compelled to discharge his “jour.”

When Bargoff sought a larger shop he selected the corner room in which we found him. The south window looked out on Peter Bard’s back porch. There Sunny was often visible, and Bargoff smiled when he saw her. She was a child yet, but was nearing the age and stature of womanhood so rapidly that he declared he could notice a change between days.

“Sir,” said an apprentice, “I hope you’ll forgive a bold question, but why do you look sour-like when you see the sun go down?”

“The setting sun reminds me of death, and I like life; and that is why I turn my back to the west. When I forget myself and look that way, I make a face.”

“And why, sir, do you smile so soft when you look out of the south window?”

Bargoff looked at Sunny on the back porch and smiled as he answered: “That is my secret.”

When the apprentice reported these replies to the gossips, who had prompted the questions, they were no wiser than before.

That evening Bargoff looked over the pages of a ledger. In it was a long unbalanced account against Peter Bard. For eight years there had been entries in that account and on the debtor side only. Bargoff smiled as he shut the book. The total was a round sum, for Peter Bard’s family had been hard on shoes ever since Bargoff’s workmanship.

“I will collect that bill,” the shoemaker said, as he laid the book down.

The next Saturday night he said to Peter Bard, who stood by the open door of the shoemaker’s shop: “Pay me the bill that you owe me.”

“Do yer want blood out uv a turnip?” hiccoughed Peter, who was drunk.

“Only what is mine I ask and will have.”

It was after night-fall, and there was no light in the shop. With a quick movement Bargoff pushed Peter into the dark room, then slammed the door, and shut them both in. Peter stumbled over a bench and fell on his face among a lot of old shoes that were waiting the cobbler’s hands.

“The shutters are closed, so we may as well have a light,” Bargoff remarked as he struck a match and looked for a candle.

By this time Peter had regained his feet. He struck at Bargoff, but only extinguished the match. Then there was a sharp struggle in which Peter was worsted; and when he lay panting on the floor, he gasped a promise to pay. Bargoff released him and lighted a candle. Peter produced some new, clean notes, which he handed to Bargoff, who examined and returned them.

“I prefer old bills.”

Peter placed the notes in his pocket and said: “Jest ez yer please.”

“Well,” remarked Bargoff, “I prefer old bank-notes, I said; but may I ask if you have been paying debts with those new ones?”

Peter was frightened.

“Hush!” he said, “I’ll pay yer in money that’s passed through more’n one pair uv han’s.”

Bargoff accepted the bills and coins that Peter tendered him and gave a receipt for the amount of the account so long open. Then he bade Peter good evening.

Peter went away with the singular sensation of having settled an account once. He continued to treat himself until the tavern closed at midnight, and then he went home very drunk. When he awoke next morning, he was sober and remained so for two weeks.

“There’s a miracle in Kattin,” said one woman to another. “Mrs. Bard’s got a new dress.”

“Yes, and her daughter Mary a shawl with her new gown. Pete Bard must have opened his heart.”

But over these new garments Peter, while willing to accept the credit of having given them to his wife and daughter, puzzled as much as any inquisitive neighbor.

Then happened the store-robbery. The Kattiners were thunderstruck. Occasionally chickens were stolen by some prowler. It was generally known who committed the theft, and the crime was forgiven charitably. There was a negro in the place, and to him the disappearance of the fowls was attributed. One villager condoned the theft with the remark: “Guess old Job’s tired uv flitch agin.”

But the store-robbery, that Job could never have accomplished. Besides, he was not missing, but on hand and eager to discover the robbers. In fact, nobody was missing. Bargoff was in his shop twirling a wax-end under the palm of his hand on his knee, when the news was brought to him by one of his apprentices. He exhibited no surprise, and asked how the thieves got into the store.

“Bored auger holes ’round the lock and then knocked it in.”

“They were clever,” said Bargoff, as he began stitching a sole.

The apprentices looked at one another. Greatly excited themselves, they could not understand his calmness. They wondered if there was a fire if he would cry “Put it out,” for he never asked questions, nor went to the store to see the hole in the door. He seemed to have no curiosity, and suspicion fastened upon him.

“He’s a jail bird, yer kin depend on’t,” said Peter about Bargoff to the proprietor of the store, to whom he was in debt.

“Well, he is queer,” mused the storekeeper, who was considerably damaged by the robbery.

“Wasn’t there no tracks?” asked Peter, anxious to curry favor with his creditor.

“Tracks?” asked the store-keeper.

“There’s bin a wagin, yer kin bet on’t. Too much was took to be lugged off by one man er two, and I guess twasn’t more’n two that dun it.”

“Mebbe you’re right, Pete.”

The villagers sought for wagon tracks, and finally discovered that a wagon had been drawn on and off a vacant lot near the store, during the night before, and without the use of horses. This track was followed until it became confused with others in the road. The day went by. The thieves were not captured, but Kattin had another sensation.

Sometimes Bargoff went to the tavern and took a drink. He always called for whisky, which he swallowed eagerly. It was not often he indulged in an intoxicant. When he did, his intention was homeopathic. Already under an excitement, he drank the stimulant to negative the sensation. If the intoxicant brought mental excitement, the other disturbing cause was allayed; at least it sank into comparative insignificance. So the night following the store robbery Bargoff walked into the barroom and bought a glass of whisky, which he drank at once. He remained at the bar a few moments and ordered a second glass of whisky. His mental perturbation had been caused by a succinet warning from Sunny.

“Look out fer my pap.”

She had ejaculated the sentence into the darkness of the shop where Bargoff sat musing. She ran away fleetly, and he could not see her when he reached the door. Her caution caused a great excitement to arise within him, and to allay it he went to the tavern.

As he was lifting the second glass of whisky to his lips, an exclamation behind him interrupted him. He paused and turned around. Peter Bard was just inside the door pointing a pistol at him.

“I’m goin’ ter kill yer, shoemaker.”

“Wait till I drink this whisky. Meantime, tell me why I am sentenced to be shot.”

Bargoff held the glass to his lips, and over the brim he looked steadily at Peter.

“Yer’ve been too intemint with my wife.”

“Who told you?” asked the quiet Bargoff, whose eyes closed partly while a frown tightened the skin of his forehead.

“It’s cominin talk.”

The horse-pistol, big and heavy, began to waver in Peter’s hand, and there was evidence of his losing the resoluteness of purpose that had characterized him at the beginning of the interview.

“I am thinking you were the first to speak of it, and that nobody in Kattin suspected it.”

“Then yer don’t deny it? D’ye hear thet, men?” asked Peter, appealing to the bystanders and lowering his weapon unconsciously.

With a quick forearm movement and correct aim Bargoff threw the glass of whisky in Peter’s face, and while he closed his eyes against the smarting fluid, seized and disarmed him. Bargoff handed the pistol to the landlord, and then addressed the spectators, who, until then, seemed to have been spell-bound and helpless to prevent murder.

“He is wrong, yet partly right, in his suspicions. So I make him a fair offer. If I can not prove by himself that I have only been generous, the landlord may give Mr. Bard the pistol, and I will not move when he levels it to shoot me.”

“That’s fair,” exclaimed the spectators in a chorus.

“Pete Bard can’t git nothin’ fairer’n thet,” said the landlord.

And Peter was forced to acquiesce. He trembled and looked unsteadily at Bargoff.

“Why do you say I have been too intimate with your wife?” asked the shoemaker.

“Cause yer give her money.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the crowd. Peter looked around triumphantly. He regarded his case as made out.

“How much?” asked Bargoff, calmly.

“See, he don’t deny it,” Peter observed uneasily.

“How much?” Bargoff was inflexible.

“What matter’s thet, men? He’s owned up he’s been givin’ my woman money, and no man’s got a right ter give anuther man’s wife money.”

Peter was making an argument to the circle of men and boys.

“How much?”

Bargoff made a step forward. There was a threat in this action and his tones were peremptory.

“Eighty dollars.”

This statement astounded the crowd. It seemed a large sum, too big for simple generosity, and on the face of things Bargoff appeared very guilty.

“The truth, the exact truth,” commanded the shoemaker. “You know it was more.”

“Eighty-nine dollars—and, men——”

“Wait! the cents.”

“And seventy-five cents. Now, I leave it ter you, men——”

“Silence!”

Everybody was startled at the harshness of Bargoff’s voice. Peter slunk into himself. Bargoff was at his full height. All were surprised that a shoemaker could be so tall. The usual posture of the Crispin suggests that he is a small man, and Bargoff always carried the stoop with him. It was part of the make-up of the character of villain by common consent allotted to him.

“You see, gentlemen, the truth is this.” Bargoff’s voice had softened to its natural sweetness. “I did give Mrs. Bard eighty-nine dollars and seventy-five cents, but I first collected it from her husband, Peter Bard.”

A sensation ensued, and there was the beginning of a demonstration in Bargoff’s favor, but he began to speak again and the buzz subsided.

“Peter Bard has owed me a shoe bill for eight years. I forced him to pay it, then balanced the account, and gave the money to his wife, because she and her daughter needed it while I did not. I was moved to do this by gratitude, because his daughter was my first customer. She led to the coming of others, and my trade was established. What say all—shall I be shot?”

“No,” the hearers replied.

“And if Pete Bard dares ter do it, we’ll hang him,” added the landlord.

“Thank you all. Good-night.” Bargoff opened the door and went out. When he awoke next morning, he was no longer the villain Bargoff to the Kattiners, but Bargoff the good-hearted. As for Peter, he shuffled out of the barroom, and, going home, revenged himself for his discomfiture by striking his wife.

The next day the wagon-maker announced that a new wagon had been stolen from him. He had only then missed it, but it was probably used to carry off the goods plundered from the store. The mystery of the store-robbery deepened when, a week after the crime was committed, the wagon was returned to the shed from which it had been taken. A careful examination of the ground showed that no horses had been used to draw the vehicle to its place. It was heavy, more than one man could pull on the level. Hence it was concluded that two persons, at least, were concerned in the store-robbery.

The day after the return of the wagon the village of Kattin was thrown into a ferment by the announcement of the postmaster that some bank-notes that he had sent to Washington in his remittances had been declared counterfeit by the experts of the Treasury Department. The word “counterfeit” was comparatively new to the villagers; when, however, its full significance was explained, there was a rush for boxes and bureau drawers where bank-notes were laid by for a rainy day.

It looked like a run on the post-office, the long line of anxious men and women waiting their turn to ask the postmaster if there were any counterfeits among their savings. The postmaster, with a dignified manner becoming to his newly acquired importance, slowly examined the bank-notes, and, according to his decision, the inquirer went away happy or dejected. When the day was ended, it was known that considerable counterfeit money was circulating in the village and an outcry arose. There was lamentation in almost every household. Even Peter Bard displayed a small amount of the bad money and bemoaned his luck.

Bargoff was calm. He said, in answer to questions, that he had received none of the counterfeit money. His serenity aroused suspicion. How came it that he escaped? Peter Bard insinuated the question to the store-keeper and he asked it musingly. The shoemaker was certainly regarding the excitement in the village with indifference or satisfaction. Either mood would argue that he was concerned in one or both of the crimes that had caused so much disturbance. Thus the store-keeper reasoned, and Peter Bard helped him by disjointed remarks, until at last he resolved to make an affidavit that, to the best of his knowledge and belief, the shoemaker, whose only known name was Bargoff, was sufficiently mysterious in his life to place him under suspicion of the people. The deponent asked for a search-warrant to enable the officers of the law to seek on the premises of the shoemaker for evidences of crime, such as the possession of stolen goods or counterfeit money. The justice of the peace hemmed and hawed and thumbed the digest of laws, and at last granted the warrant, he himself being anxious to be informed about Bargoff.

The constable, armed with the warrant, and accompanied by the store-keeper, proceeded to Bargoff’s shop and stated his business. Bargoff paled, but bade the officer go ahead, and offered to help in the search. His politeness embarrassed the visitors, and they looked about in a perfunctory manner. They opened some drawers and shut them, while the apprentices, forgetful of each other, watched with interest for developments.

A closet that was seldom used attracted the attention of the store-keeper, and he suggested that it be opened. The constable tried the door. It was fastened by an ordinary padlock in a staple, holding fast a band of iron, which was held to the door by nails clinched on the inside. Bargoff handed the officer the key, and the door was soon open. Immediately the store-keeper exclaimed excitedly, and Bargoff looked aghast. In the closet was a collection of things that had been taken from the store. Bargoff did not move; apparently he waited to see more. The constable opened a drawer that was snugly fitted into a corner, and found a roll of bank-notes that were duplicates of those pronounced counterfeit.

“I’ll hev ter ‘rest yer,” remarked the constable, as he laid his hand on Bargoff.

When the store-keeper saw the spasm that contracted Bargoff’s features when the constable spoke, he was almost moved with compassion. The apprentices did not lift their eyes to Bargoff’s face, as, walking erect, he went with the constable. They locked the shop and followed their master to the hearing.

The news quickly spread. The Kattiners denounced Bargoff, disbelieved his version of his money transaction with Mrs. Bard, and sympathized with Peter Bard, whom they regarded as a much abused man. The shoemaker was again the villain Bargoff.

The little office of the justice of the peace was soon crowded, and an eager throng pressed against the door and one window, hoping to hear at least some of the testimony.

The crime was duly proved by the store-keeper, who was his own lawyer, and then, without delay, Bargoff was directly connected with it by the fact that, concealed in a closet on the premises occupied by him, were goods that had been in the store previous to the burglary. The law presumed him guilty, and it lay upon him to prove his innocence. Peter Bard, who, with something of the air of a victor, occupied a stool, which was merely a chair bereft of its back, acquiesced in this statement of the case by the justice. Peter did not remove his feet from the rungs of the one-time chair as he partially rose to take a survey of the crowd. It was an evident request for the sympathy of the spectators, and they, being generous, smiled and winked at him. He sat down again with his knees high, his feet still being on the rungs. His position suggested the posture of a man in a saddle with short stirrups. His complacency was somewhat ruffled, when, by mere accident, his gaze met Bargoff’s. Peter tried to look defiant, but he found his lips weak, and his eyes inclined to waver. So he turned around suddenly, as if some one had spoken to him.

“Have you anything to say?” asked the justice of Bargoff.

The magistrate, whose curiosity had weighed so much with him in deciding him to issue the search-warrant, was now half sorry he had granted it, there being every probability that Bargoff would be sent to jail and Kattin would be without a shoemaker, old Carnes having died a few months previous to the store-robbery. The squire was personally sorry, there being then a pair of shoes in Bargoff’s shop that were just turned over the last, and intended for him. The officer of the court selfishly wished that his shoes had been finished before the stolen goods were discovered.

“Have you anything to say, Mr. Bargoff?” he asked again, more sharply than before, his own grievance accenting the asperity of his tones.

“Nothing,” Bargoff answered in a voice singularly sweet, as he looked over the heads of the men near him at the blue sky, dimly visible through the dusty panes. A buzz ran through the crowd. Peter Bard again stood upon the rungs of the chair, this time erect, and nodded to the spectators as much as to say, “Do you hear that?”

“Nothing?” asked the justice, greatly amazed.

“Nothing?” inquired the store-keeper, who had hoped to learn the whereabouts of the remainder of the stolen goods.

“Nothing,” Bargoff again stated, this time more sternly.

“You will have to give bail, or I’ll have to send you to jail——”

The justice was interrupted by “Please, Squire Simons.”

Peter Bard started and turned to the window. His daughter Mary was there, her head just visible above the ledge. She had spoken.

“You go home, Mary, yer ther mother!” Peter commanded, and left the rungs of his chair to insist upon obedience.

“Please, Squire Simons, I want ter kiss the book,” Sunny continued, unmindful of her father.

“G’wan home, I say!” Peter almost shrieked.

“What is it?” asked the justice, while the store-keeper, who was a strong man, pushed Peter aside and went to the window.

Sunny held up her hand to him, a man outside took her foot, and she was half lifted, half pulled, through the window. Disregarding equally Bargoff and her father, she went straight to the little desk and lifted the Bible reverently. She held it in her right hand, while the squire repeated the formal oath. Before she pressed her lips to the binding, she asked: “Can’t yer leave out the bit about the whole truth, squire?”

“No,” said the magistrate, gently.

Bargoff made a step forward, but she stopped him by lifting her hand in a forbidding way. Then her eyes paused a moment on her father, who, pale and perspiring, stood near the window.

“Well, I will. I couldn’t sleep if I didn’t.”

She shuddered as she kissed the book. When she laid it down she moved away from it, and farther from Bargoff. As it seemed an effort for her to speak, she was allowed her own time. No one pressed her with questions. Finally she blurted:

“My pap done it all, broke inter the store, put the things inter Mister Bargoff’s closet, an’ spread all the bad money in this here town.”

Then she began to cry. Little moans broke from her lips, and it was feared that she would become hysterical.

Peter Bard shouted, “Yer lie, yer little devil!” and rushed to strike her.

Again the store-keeper interfered, this time assisted by the constable. The officer virtually arrested Peter, around whom the crowd closed angrily, and he shrunk before their menace. Meantime the magistrate offered Sunny a chair beside him, but she said:

“I kin talk better standin’. I don’t lie, pap. I’m goin’ ter tell the whole truth. Didn’t yer hear me swear?”

She paused a moment. Her father maintained a sullen silence.

“Pap an’ his butty from over the hill broke inter the store, an’ took the wagin ter pull the things off in. They hid ’em in a house, an’ put the wagin inter the shed agin. Then pap broke inter Mister Bargoff’s closet by pullin’ the steeple, an’ put a few goods an’ bad money in’t. He never let me an’ mam hev any bad money, ’cause if we’d a spent it that’d ketch him. I know he done all this, ’cause I seen him; I watched him.”

She told the story simply with gathering courage. Then a complete change of feeling toward Bargoff came in the listeners’ hearts.

“Did you know this, Mr. Bargoff?” asked the magistrate, with emphasis on the Mr.

“Yes. I suspected that was the way the goods got into my closet.”

“Then why didn’t you say so?”

Bargoff did not answer.

Sunny twitched her fingers and flushed up to the temples. Determined to clear Bargoff fully of the crimes imputed to him, she spoke again.

“’Cause Mr. Bargoff asked me ter marry him, an’ I wouldn’t ’cause I was ashamed o’ my pap, and Mr. Bargoff wouldn’t tell on pap now fer fear he’d make me shamed.”

The rough assemblage was moved with deep sympathy for the girl. The magistrate got nervous, and fumbled with his papers. All present knew that her sense of justice had wrung the facts from her. Bargoff did not smile upon her, fearing she might think he believed her impelled by love for him. He did not raise his eyes from the floor when she asked:

“May I go now, Squire?”

“Mary,” the magistrate said gently, “you will have to tell this all over again to the court.”

“Oh, Judge, must I?” she inquired quickly, with something of anguish in her tones. “It’s hard ter call one’s pap names before people; but it can’t be helped. I’ll be there, Squire.”

“One question more, Mary: who w.s your father’s accomplice?”

“Hey!”

“Who helped him rob the store?”

“Dutch Henry.”

“You may go now, Mary.”

She fled from the office without looking at Bargoff.

“I told on pap,” she said to her mother on reaching home.

Then followed a quarrel, in which Mrs. Bard used many very harsh words, Sunny retorting in kind. Finally Mrs. Bard ordered her daughter to leave her house forever. Sunny resolutely declared she would do nothing of the kind. So they continued under the same roof, and frequently indulged in wordy fights.

Search was made in Dutch Henry’s house, and the remainder of the stolen goods was found there. He was arrested and sent to jail with Peter Bard. Sunny bravely repeated to the court the story she had told to the justice, and the sharp cross-examination of the prisoner’s lawyer could not shake her testimony. Peter and his accomplice were convicted, and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment.

Bargoff removed from Kattin a short time after the trial, and in a little while Sunny, her mother, and brothers followed him.

“Sunny,” Bargoff said one evening before he went away, “I am not ashamed of you. Be my wife. We will go West, where nobody knows us, and we shall live happily. Your mother and brothers may come, too, and we can all live together.”

“But my pap,” said Sunny. “I sent him ter jail, and I’ve got ter work fer him, so’s when he gits out he’ll hev somethin’.”

“I’ll take care of you all, Sunny.”

“Him, too?” she asked quickly, intently watching his features.

“Yes, him too.”

“Yer a queer villain, Mr. Bargoff,” she remarked, as she let him take her in his arms.