It was the man with the warty nose!
We stared from the window, amazed and speechless. What was the thief doing here? Where was his companion? Were the two men now making their escape into an adjoining county, after having been to the island? Was the white-haired man waiting near by with the recovered bonds? Was the girl with him?
We were crazy in our helplessness. For here was a not improbable chance for us to outwit the evil-minded pair and recover the stolen bonds. Fortune had favored us in bringing the thieves here with their probable booty. But we were powerless to take advantage of what fortune seemed to offer. As prisoners, we could do not a thing except to look down from our jail window.
Approaching the seated lock tender with jaunty [[148]]steps, the newcomer removed his shabby hat and made a sweeping bow, his left hand pressed against his heart.
“Good day, sir; good day. I observe that you are taking it cool and comfortable in the shade, as a man in your favored circumstances should. It is very warm in the sun, sir, and fatiguing to one afoot.”
“Um.… Stranger, hain’t you?”
“My name, sir, is Windbigler—Capricorn Hebrides Windbigler. You, sir, may have read of the Windbiglers in the annals of science. My father, like my learned grandfather, was a geographer of exceptional attainments. At my birth in the New Hebrides Islands, in the South Pacific Ocean, I was given, under the dictation of our family’s distinguished geographical specialist, the somewhat appropriate name of Capricorn Hebrides. A tribute, my illustrious parent considered, to his beloved profession. Alas, sir, you see in me nothing of the greatness of my learned and distinguished parent and grandparent. I may even in my appearance seem a bit shabby to you. But, to apply an old axiom, sir, not inappropriate to the occasion, it is not the clothes that make the piano tuner. Here, sir, is my professional card. When you have perused it I will kindly ask you [[149]]to return it, for it is the last one I have. Though it is somewhat soiled from daily usage, I trust that its printed message will stand out before your eyes like a beacon in the wilderness. Capricorn Hebrides Windbigler, the Harmony Hustler. Behold in me, sir, the true friend and ardent supporter of our greatest American institution—the parlor piano.”
The lock tender, in the time of this long-winded recital, had been listening with an open mouth.
“Say,” he demanded, when the talkative one had paused for breath, “what in Sam Hill be you spoutin’ ’bout, anyway?”
“Sir,” gravely bowed the visitor, “I am, in simple, unflowered English, an itinerant piano tuner. Some days I tune many pianos … for my meals. On the days when I have no pianos to tune, I—er—acknowledge to the pangs of hunger. This, unhappily, is one of the days when my artistic attainments have had no chance of commercial expression. As the son of the late Ferdinand Windbigler—and I would have you know sir, that my esteemed parent was named after the consort of the illustrious Queen Isabella—it pains me, humiliates me, in fact, to be compelled, in my present reduced circumstances, to confess to you that I am sadly in need of such [[150]]stimulating food as a baked potato and a crust of bread. And unless you have a piano, sir, that I may tune, to recompense you for the hearty meal that I—aw—hope to get, I dread to contemplate the early misery that my empty stomach will endure.”