II
His uncle almost forgot about Tommy for some time. He had a letter from the boy every week—a stupid, schoolboy letter which he hardly bothered to read. “The weather had been very hot. I guess you are glad not to be here, aren’t you? There is a lot of hay fever around now. It is certainly a lucky thing that you didn’t come”—and that sort of thing.
Then, while Uncle James was enjoying his little breakfast at the corner table in the grill room, which he had occupied for years and years, just as he was about to taste that invariable bowl of oatmeal with cream and powdered sugar, his eye was caught by a headline on the front page of his paper. He dropped his spoon on the floor.
FATHER SHOOTS GIRL’S BETRAYER—TRAGEDY NARROWLY AVERTED AT THE HOTEL TRESSILLON—SON OF THE LATE THOMAS ELLINGER WOUNDED
He stared and stared at the thing. The paper crackled in his trembling hands, the letters swam before his eyes. Nonsense! “Son of the late Thomas Ellinger”—must be a mistake!
He read the story with a furious sort of incredulity. It was a nasty story of a young city man going out to a little country town for a vacation, boarding in the house of a decent farmer, and running off one night with the poor little sixteen-year-old daughter. He had taken her to a disreputable hotel and registered as man and wife, which they weren’t. And the decent farmer, the outraged, the desperate father, had tracked them, and, standing in the doorway of the crowded and noisy restaurant, had fired two shots at the girl’s betrayer—at Tommy! At the boy who a few months ago had been sitting opposite Uncle James at this very table!
“No! Nonsense!” he cried, crumpling up the paper and throwing it under the table. “One of those beastly newspaper stories! Damned lies, all of them!”
He went up to his room, got his hat and stick, and hurried out, furtive, terrified, afraid that every one was pointing him out as the uncle of that fellow. He wanted to telephone, where he would not be seen or heard, somewhere outside of his hotel. He went into a booth in a cigar store, and called for the Hotel Tressillon.
“Mr. Ellinger,” he demanded.
In a moment he heard that familiar young voice, with its exaggerated accent.
“This is Mr. Ellinger speaking.”
“Thomas!” cried the old gentleman.
The boy gave a sort of gasp. Then, with his unfailing genius for doing the wrong thing, he assumed an airy and offhand tone.
“Hello, Uncle James!” he said jauntily. “I didn’t know that you were back in town again.”
“See here!” shouted the old gentleman, in a tremendous voice. “Is it true—this abominable thing I saw in the papers? Is it you?”
“Yes,” replied Tommy.
“Yes?” repeated his uncle’s voice, incredulous. “Yes? You did a thing like that? Good God! Explain yourself, Thomas!”
“I can’t!” said Tommy.
There was a brief silence.
“You—you young cur!” The old man’s voice was trembling. “Don’t ever come near me again. Don’t let me see you. I’d like to shoot you! You miserable, dastardly cur! You’ve disgraced the whole family. You’ve disgraced your father’s name. I’d like to see you hanged—only hanging’s too good for you!”