“What scrabble’s this? What did you do with the money?”
“They’re in the stable,” William Vibard answered more obscurely than before. “With good treatment they ought to last a life. They come cheaper too like that.”
Gordon relinquished all hope of extracting any meaning from the other’s elliptical speech. He rose. “If ‘they’re’ in the stable,” he announced, “I’ll soon have some sense out of you.” He procured a lantern, and tramped shortly to the stable, closely followed by Rose’s husband.
“Now!” he exclaimed, loosening the hasp of the door, throwing it open.
The former entered and bent over a heap in an obscure corner. When he rose the lantern shone on two orderly piles of glossy black paper boxes. Gordon strode across the contracted space and wrenched off a lid.... Within reposed a brand new accordion. There were nine others.
“You see,” William eagerly interposed; “now I’m fixed good.”
At the sight of the grotesque waste a swift resentment moved Gordon Makimmon—it was a mockery of his money’s use, a gibing at his capability, his planning. The petty treachery of Rose added its injury. He pitched the box in his hands upon the clay floor, and the accordion fell out, quivering like a live thing.
“Hey!” William Vibard remonstrated; “don’t do like that ... delicate—” He knelt, with an expression of concern, and, tenderly fingering the instrument, replaced it in the box.
Gordon turned sharply and returned to the house. Rose was in her room. He could hear her moving rapidly about, pulling at the bureau drawers. Depression settled upon him; he carried the lantern into the bedroom, where he sat bowed, troubled. He was aroused finally by the faint strains of William’s latest melodic effort drifting discreetly from the stable.
The next morning the Vibards departed. Rose was silent, her face, red and swollen, was vindictive. On the back of the vehicle that conveyed them to the parental Berrys was securely tied the square bundle that had “fixed good” William Vibard musically for life.