The Red Book Magazine/Volume 40/Number 4/The Odyssey of 'Nias

by Harris Dickson

 

The
Odyssey of 'Nias

By Harris Dickson

IN her new ancestral mansion, which climaxed the upper ether of Cherry Street, Mrs. J. Garner Wyndham lived and moved serenely, justifying the plaudit of admiring friends that from her brilliant conversation “you'd never suspect that Elizabeth Wyndham even has a servant. Of course not. Her superior mentality declined to think of servants, of expenses, of butcher-bills. Neither did she allude to her limousines or touring-cars, after the fashion of upstarts with their first flivver. Such things were so common, and Mrs. J. Garner Wyndham. was most distinctly not a common person. She was a club woman, a leader of feminist thought, an authority upon families descended from the Conqueror, a proponent of culture, a patroness of charity and fine art; and since cutting loose from her kinfolks in Yalobusha County, Mrs. Wyndham became fixed as a planet in the rarefied firmament of aristocracy. Satellites might twinkle, but Mrs. Wyndham shone, dazzling, well-rounded, superb.

Ordinarily her own back yard stretched like a terra incognita behind the lady, who paid no heed to the rear—her business being to put up a front. All matters aft she proxied to her gardener, all except one solitary detail of the first magnitude, for nobody can trust everything to a negro.

On Wednesday morning Mrs. Wyndham went out to conduct this negotiation in person, a negotiation with Cooney Bug in the outhouse where corn and oats had been stored until the Wyndham state equipages began feeding on gasoline. Now the room was half-full of empty bottles, varied, of long accumulation.

A little more than fat, a trifle over forty and most extremely blonde, Mrs. Wyndham in very tight shoes minced her way to the feed-house. Within, a negro stood waiting, a black, apologetic and perpetually bowing negro, who received the mandate that she so graciously handed down.

“Cooney, I desire two gallons of the same.”

Yas'm—yas'm.” Cooney's slewfoot scraped the floor and he bobbed his kinky head. “Out o' dat same ol' charred barrel?”

“Certainly. I specified the same.”

“Sholy, ma'am. Co'se, I wouldn't fetch you nothin' else; an' he don't 'low nobody to git a drap o' dat 'cept you.

“It must be delivered here on Friday morning.”

“Yas'm. But, Mrs. Windy—”

“Mrs. Wyndham—ham,” she corrected: it had been always most annoying at public school to have the other children call her “Windy Liz.”

“But y'onderstan', Mrs. Windy,” Cooney kept explaining, “it's a heap more harder now to git dat stuff across de river now dan what it used to be.”

The difficulties—of other people—never impressed Mrs. Wyndham; she merely repeated:

“It must be here on Friday morning.”

“Yas'm—yas'm. I'll fetch it.”

“Very good. I shall hold you strictly responsible.”

Mrs. Wyndham saw nothing humorous in the Bug's responsibility. Not tarrying to argue, Cooney opened himself out like a stepladder and spraddled through the feed-house window. Disappearance was the Bug's long suit.

“Friday mornin,'” he mumbled to himself. “Huh!”

Cooney suspected that this transaction would require time. He couldn't cross into Louisiana, grab two gallons of reverend bourbon, and parade the streets of Vicksburg just the same as totin' the United States mail. He might wriggle like a moccasin among the swamps and bayous to where a certain person still hoarded his ancient remnant. Mighty few white folks could do that much, and no darkies at all—except Cooney. Night or day this might be simple to the Bug, who followed deer-trails and possum-tracks. But recrossing the Mississippi River and chaperoning a demijohn into Mrs. Windy's feed-house was a maneuver that demanded generalship and genius. During the free-and-easy days Cooney had traveled back and forth from Delta Point to Vicksburg, propping his patent leathers on a red plush seat, tilting a cigar in his mouth, and importing eight quarts in a grip-sack. Those happy excursions ended when prohibition constables began to get his liquor and Cooney began to get thirty days, so rapid and regular that he shifted his patronage to the ferry, until meddlesome bulls contracted a habit of meeting him at the landing. Trip by trip the trade grew more ticklish. Even his unostentatious motorboat made such a fuss that Cooney now paddled a midnight skiff, and squinted around mightily before he stepped ashore.

No sordid process of transportation, however, reached the heights whereon Mrs. Wyndham permanently resided. It were unthinkable outrage not to have two gallons—and Mrs. Wyndham didn't think. For Mrs. F. R. M. Chester-Smith was to honor Vicksburg by her presence, was to be Mrs. Wyndham's guest—the Mrs. Chester-Smith, with three initials introducing her name, and a string of cap's behind it to signify one president-generalship, one international vice-consulate, and several important regencies. The Mrs. Chester-Smith, P.G.W.L.; V.P.I.W.C., was scheduled to arrive on Saturday, October 14th, at eleven-thirty a. m. At high noon the committee would escort her to Wyndham Terrace At five an expurgated public would be admitted, by card. Men were to be among those present, and Mrs. Wyndham's smoking-room-salon might prove quite dismal without the famous Wyndham punch.

Her plans being so thoroughly matured in every detail, Mrs. Wyndham never contemplated the possibility of a hitch. Nor did she consider so obscure a mite as little Ananias. Once a lion befriended a mouse. Once Mrs. J. Garner Wyndham bestowed a second-hand toy wagon upon a diminutive black imp, the latest inmate of Aunt Cannie's orphan asylum. And verily, paths of the humble must intersect the avenues of the great .....

Just beyond Glass' Bayou, just beyond the edge of old “Springfield,” the far northwestern quarter where Vicksburg was born, Aunt Cannie's orphanage seems barely able to stand alone. It totters on a hillside above the bayou, like some melancholy souse who gazes down at a gutter and balances himself precariously to keep from tumbling in. The queer old garbage-picker had never bothered to inquire whether somebody owned the shanty. She just happened to find it lying around loose and took possession with her brood, as bees swarm into an empty hollow And the conglomeration of plunder that she fetched home every evening naturally suggested its name, “The Garbage Can.”

At gray dawn its door stood open. Out from the square black hole crept a round-faced, blacker boy. Jake, the biggest orphan, avoided every creaking plank in the gallery, stepped to the ground and drew a toy wagon from its hiding-place. His stolid face lit up as he gloated upon its dingy green body, with wheels that once were red. Instantly a smaller speck darted out from the doorway, and little 'Nias in a short-tailed shirt leaped upon him.

“Leggo my ' waggin, Jake. Turn loose!”

The bigger and clumsier boy paid no attention to this new waif whom Aunt Cannie had brought home last night. Jake moved on like an ox, dragging 'Nias along with his wagon

“Leggo, Jake, I tell you I fotch dis waggin here.”

“Turn loose yo' own se'f,” Jake retorted. “I got it fust.”

This was proper and legal. Jake had got the wagon first, and claimed it, as he would have worn the first pair of breeches that his legs got into. At the Garbage Can nothing belonged to an individual.

“Dis is my waggin,” 'Nias panted.

“Yo' waggin? Huh!” The scornful Jake kept traveling, while 'Nias tripped and fell; his shins were scratched against the bricks, yet he swung on manfully. One small fist clutched his wagon-tongue; the other thrashed about him until it grappled something at the woodpile. Then 'Nias let go and sprang erect with a rusty hatchet.

“Jake! Drap dat waggin! Sudden! Befo' I bust yo' crust!” A tense little skinny arm upraised, glittering eyes and snarling teeth, bluffed the larger boy.

“What you chillun quawlin' 'bout?” Aunt Cannie called from her doorway, a shriveled crone, most incredibly old, but spry as a dirt-dauber, and the only creature whom 'Nias feared. So 'Nias held his tongue until Jake tattled:

“Dis new nigger aim to bust my head wid a hatchet.”

“Oh, no,” Aunt Cannie smoothed it over. “'Nias aint goin' to hit you.”

“Yas'm, I is,” 'Nias disputed, “onless he quits meddlin' wid my waggin.”

Jake dodged backward and looked for lightning to strike the rebel. But instead of the expected thunderbolt, their oracle announced a brand-new doctrine.

“Dat's right, Jake,” Aunt Cannie agreed. “Mrs. Windy give 'Nias dat waggin. Co'se he'll let you chillun play wid it. But it's his'n.”

“Yas'm.” 'Nias stuck to it. “Dis is my waggin.”

The police, who knew 'Nias best, and especially Officer Cronin, would never have believed that this tiny black pirate had got religion from the grace of one green wagon with red wheels. Only yesterday morning the exasperated Cronin had dragged 'Nias into court, where the judge didn't know how to deal with him. Nothing new could be done to 'Nias. They had exhausted all police inventions and novelties. His Honor couldn't hold a baby in jail and make people laugh, or turn 'Nias loose to terrorize the streets and make people kick. So he passed the buck to Aunt Cannie who possessed a charm for managing incorrigibles at her orphanage.

Aunt Cannie had stopped with him at Mrs. Wyndham's, and the white lady had given 'Nias a cast-off wagon, his first lawful possession, which transformed the anarchist into a citizen of substance. Give the radical an acre, as they say in England, and he turns conservative.

'Nias never pestered his kinks about what they say in England and what was said in English made no dent upon his macadamized head. Heretofore he had respected the rights of property on while its proprietor was sitting on it. Articles that were not nailed down he regarded as subject to appropriation. If 'Nias hankered for an orange, 'Nias simply took an orange from Tony's fruit-stand, or from anybody's fruit-stand, being a most impartial taker. And it seemed incredible that these habits of an eleven-year lifetime should be demolished by a wagon, and that 'Nias overnight should become more ultra-conservative than the Constitution itself, recognizing neither law nor legal process by which a man could be deprived of his property. That wagon was his.

During his first obedient week at the Garbage Can, 'Nias had washed his face approximately four times, and minded Aunt Cannie, without once assaulting the peace and dignity of Vicksburg. Then somebody stole his wagon.

Tuesday morning the green wagon was reported missing, and ten wet-eyed orphans had one by one returned from ransacking the neighborhood. Like a row of mournful blackbirds they perched along Aunt Cannie's gallery, their faces smudged with dirt and tears—-all except 'Nias, whose eyes were dry and little fists clenched tight.

“Don't worry, 'Nias,” the old woman petted him. “Chillun is 'bleeged to play wid waggins in de street. Deir ma can't keep yo' waggin locked up in no 'frigerator. We'll fin' it.”

And yet, hunting together like a brace of bird-dogs, they didn't find it on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday. But Saturday morning, when Jake opened his blinking eyes, he let out a yell: “Git up, ev'ybody. 'Nias got his waggin!”

A flutter of excited shirt-tails flapped around the little black child who lay smiling in his sleep, and clutching the tongue of a wagon—not a green-bodied, rusty-looking wagon, but white as a new plate, with shiny red wheels.

“Whar'd you fin' it?”

“Who stole it?”

“How come dis waggin painted white?”

From her rough bunk in the corner Aunt Cannie listened to their questions, but failed to hear 'Nias say how he had recovered his stolen property, or who had painted it so white.

“I fotch my waggin home.” That's all the information that they extracted from 'Nias.

“Anyhow, I'm glad you foun' it,” Aunt Cannie nodded as she sat on the edge of her bunk and stuck two naked feet into a pair of men's brogans. “'Cause I promised Mrs. Windy you'd come dis week an' haul away dem bottles.”

IT was Saturday morning, near twenty-four hours after the Bug had pledged himself to deliver a momentous demijohn. At eleven a. m. the reception committee would assemble for the purpose of going in a body to meet Mrs. F. R. M. Chester-Smith's train. A now indignant Mrs. Wyndham, massaged and marcelled and manicured, once more went mincing across her back yard in response to a mysterious signal from the feed-house. Before opening its door, she had framed a stern rebuke. Then on the threshold she stood and stared and gasped. The negro that waited inside was not Cooney Bug, but a totally unknown negro, who had never been accredited to Mrs. Wyndham, a rangy black man with gray derby hat in his hand, and a shaven, corrugated skull.

“Who are you?” She drew back haughtily.

“My name's Spud Hollins, ma'am, an'—”

“Why do you come here?”

“I'm Cooney Bug's pardner,” he whispered.

“Oh!” Mrs. Wyndham lowered her own voice perceptibly and nearly closed the door before inquiring: “Where's my—my purchase?”

“I aint got it, ma'am.”

“You will please inform me why?” Her brows lifted. “I instructed Cooney to deliver it yesterday morning!”

“Dat's so, ma'am; but things is happened, ma'am.”

“No matter what happened, he must keep his word.”

“Cooney aint in no shape fer keepin' his word,' Spud blurted out, “'cause dem white folks is keepin' Cooney in jail.”

“Jail? Indeed!” Mrs. Wyndham had heard of such places and supposed they must exist, for a certain class. “I shall not tolerate his failure.”

“It's all right, ma'am; it's all right.” The new negro put up a most ingratiating smile. “I fotch yo' demijohn across de river las' night.”

“Then you have it? Ah, that's better.”

“Yas'm—an' had a time wid it. Got it for you in a house on de levee, right now.”

“But I required its delivery at my house.”

“Yas'm.” Spud hung his head and looked pestered. “It sho would ease my min' ef you had dat jeg in you' house.”

“You must bring it here at once. At once, I say.”

“Mrs. Windy, I'm skeered to fetch dat jeg through de streets. Dev's grabbin' niggers fer sech. Please ma'am, sen' you' autymobile an'—”

“Certainly not.” She sniffed at the idea of her royal-blue, monogrammed limousine being seen at the door of a Levee Street dive. “You will return to that house now, and deliver my purchase here—at once.”

“Yas'm. It'll be here, ma'am, in less'n a hour,” Spud promised glibly: and Mrs. Wyndham almost smiled at this result of her natural ability to command. But Spud Hollins wasn't studying about the lady, for he saw somebody else, somebody who really could do things. Through the door-crack behind Mrs. Wyndham he had glimpsed Aunt Cannie entering at the back gate, followed by happy little 'Nias, dragging his wagon.

The bootlegger's sudden change of manner warned Mrs. Wyndham of intruders, and she too saw Aunt Cannie approaching with the boy

“They're coming here,” she gestured nervously. “Get out—through that window. Don't let anybody see you.”

“No 'm.” Spud's long legs straddled the windowsill, and his gray derby ducked out of sight as Mrs. Wyndham turned and opened the door to greet Aunt Cannie.

“Good morning, Aunt Cannie,” she smiled affably. “And this is the nice little boy who got Cyril's wagon. How beautifully you have painted it!” Mrs. Wyndham always made it a point to flatter these lowly creatures by showing an interest in their affairs.

“Dis is him,” said Aunt Cannie. “Mrs. Windy—”

“Wyndham—h-a-m,” the fretted lady corrected.

“Yas'm, Mrs. Windyham; 'Nias is come to haul away dem bottles.”

“Very good. Clean out the place. It has become an eyesore.” Mrs. Wyndham gathered up the lacery of her skirts and proceeded to the porte-cochere

Eyesore? The sight was good for sore eyes, and little 'Nias wouldn't have swapped fortunes with Ali Baba. Here was limitless wealth—cargoes and caravans and catacombs of bottles hoarded by the Wyndham dynasty.

“Hol' on, 'Nias, hol' on.” Aunt Cannie checked his headlong zeal Don't dump dem bottles in yo' waggin, jesso. Tie 'em up in dis sack, so dey wont jostle out, an' you kin carry a big load.”

“I kin tote a heap,” 'Nias bragged; “my waggin is stout.”

“Pick dese beer bottles fust. Mr. Silas 'lows fifteen cents a dezen fer dem kind.” After giving 'Nias a thrifty start, Aunt Cannie hobbled away, leaving the excited child to load his wagon. No sound came from the feed-house except the clink of glass, and the patter, patter, patter of bare feet back and forth to the door until a voice whispered through the window

“Sh! 'Nias? Nias?”

Although startled, 'Nias could never be wholly surprised by the showing-up of Spud Hollins when a fat hog was being cut. Without even glancing at the window he worked faster while Spud beckoned to him.

“'Nias, come here.”

“Nothin' doin',' the boy refused. “Dis job is mine.”

“I aint atter rollin' you fer no job. Got sumpin' better.”

Very critically the little negro paused and sized up the big one now framed in the window—new gray black-banded derby, white collar and red necktie in which a sparkler glittered but failed to convince. The experienced 'Nias had seen many a sport like Spud twirling his watch-chain on a checkered vest that wrapped itself around an empty stomach.

“Spill yo' news, Spud,” he said.

“Come here. Lemme tell you.”

This pair had sweated together through so many nocturnal complicities that 'Nias readily caught Spud's business proposition as communicated at the window, and agreed.

“All right. Same place. Now git away an' lemme haul dese bottles.”

SOMEWHERE about nine o'clock that morning a very black boy pulled a very white wagon out of the junk-shop on Levee Street, after selling his first consignment of bottles. Had Officer Cronin seen him, he would have guessed that 'Nias planned an important coup, not from any visible agitation, but from the boy's total absence of concern. He trudged away, whistling. and never seemed to care who might be watching as he wheeled his wagon into an alley and halted beneath a previously designated window. Then he vanished inside this rattletrap house.

“Cops see you?” Spud queried anxiously.

“No. They warn't payin' no min'.”

After moving a pile of boxes and taking up a plank in the floor, Spud lifted from its hiding-place a demijohn covered with wicker, which 'Nias saw was stopped by a corncob wrapped in brown paper.

“Wont dat leak?” he asked.

“Not much. Dis is 'lasses. Hide it under yo' sack, an' don't tarry to talk wid nobody. Keep travelin'.”

In bygone days 'Nias had received these same orders so many times that he could begin in the middle and repeat them backward.

Before reopening the door, Spud thrust his clean- shaved head from the window, and his rolling white eyes reconnoitered in both directions; then a demijohn dropped into the wagon, and Spud's swift hand covered it with the sack—his maneuver being executed somewhat quicker than at once.

In this hill-and-hollow city of Vicksburg two conspirators need never be trapped together. They may sneak from their hiding-places by more different holes than are available to insects in a coral reef. So when 'Nias hesitated at the foot of Crawford Street, and gazed up the steep hill, a disconnected and uninterested Spud came slouching along from the steamboat landing. All the world could mark that 'Nias had nothing to hide. He kept the middle of the road, and flaunted his shiny wagon in the sun. Inch by inch the boy plodded upward, every turn of the wheels carrying his jug nearer to Washington Street, and the trailing Spud breathed freer.

The white wagon had now crossed Mulberry Street. On 'Nias' right lay the eminently respectable Cotton Exchange: beyond the Exchange, on each side of the street there opened an arcaded alley, and half a block onward, 'Nias would be comparatively safe. Just above the mouth of this alley, the tired boy stopped to rest, with wagon drawn crosswise the hill.

If 'Nias had kept on traveling, no calamity might have occurred But he didn't keep traveling, for two other black boys came slouching out from the alley, two active members of his old gang, “The Bottom Buzzards,” and hailed their missing brother

“Hey dere, 'Nias? Whose waggin you got?”

“My waggin. White lady give it to me.”

“Aw, come off,” Punk jeered. “You swiped it. Lemme ride.”

The three were oath-bound comrades, tied together by many versatile discrepancies of behavior; so 'Nias sat down at the edge of the gutter to gossip with Punk and Jim.

“Dat's a nice waggin.” Punk gave it an envious jerk.

“Sho is,” Jim indorsed. “Lemme pull her.”

Three nappy heads were bending over the wagon as Spud Hollins sauntered nigh enough to give 'Nias a reminding kick, then passed on and stationed himself at the Citizens' Bank corner, where he could observe what happened.

The three boys kept seesawing their wagon back and forth until the sack slipped, exposing the neck of the demijohn. Forty feet away, Spud could see its corncob stopper, and other keen eyes saw it too—the flies. Bootleggers can fool the white folks on whisky, but nobody can deceive a Crawford Street fly on molasses. He detects genuine stuff the minute he bogs both feet in it. A buzzing swarm assembled around the stopper, giving the same testimony as that of a spider who once saved Robert Bruce. Anybody would have sworn to its being molasses. But Spud Hollins felt that flies were powerful uncertain witnesses in a case like this, when Officer Cronin came strolling toward him across Washington Street. Soon Cronin's eye must light upon the jug, and Spud would need an alibi. He tried to give 'Nias the high-sign of danger, but 'Nias didn't catch it

“Aw, lemme ride,” Jim kept insisting.

“Turn loose. Dis is my waggin.”

Three wrangling boys rose from the gutter in a bunch, and tussled over the wagon-tongue.

At this point the city of Vicksburg had expended thirteen thousand and four dollars, and eighteen cents, for the malicious purpose of seducing little 'Nias: for the city had just finished paving Crawford Street like a brand-new toboggan-slide.

“Us sho could ride swif',' Punk suggested. “Plumb to de river!”

'Nias tingled, and his feet itched. Many a time had the forlorn waif stood envying white children who coasted downhill, then grinned happily over the privilege of shoving their wagons up again. For once, this glorious once, he possessed a wagon of his own, and the coasting-grounds lay free before him.

“Ef you's skeered,” Jim taunted him, “I'll go fust.”

“Who's skeered?” 'Nias scoffed. “Y'all stay here wid dis jug an' watch me ride. Den it'll be yo' turn.”

The sight gave Spud Hollins a chill, and Mrs. Wyndham also would have shivered when 'Nias deposited his demijohn in the gutter. Lots of folks were passing—cotton men, draymen, bank runners, telegraph bovs, loafers; everybody, including Spud, could see the jug; and anybody might pick it up, anybody except Spud. Suppose some fellow did take a notion to grab it—Spud couldn't even make a holler, and he began to consider eliminating himself from the vicinity, when Officer Cronin gave him such a look as forced the suspect to maintain his position.

With deliberate movements 'Nias prolonged Spud's agony. The boy fooled around and fumbled with the sack, getting it folded to make a cushion, while Spud sweated ice-water that steamed as it spattered on the sidewalk. The boy got into his wagon, squirmed and got out again to arrange his legs more comfortably. Punk and Jim held the wagon; Spud perspired; flies swarmed; and Officer Cronin stood languidly at the corner

“Hold her, Punk,” 'Nias ordered, “till I gits fixed.”

“Now? Is you ready?”

'Nias glanced down the long white slope, his eyes glittering with excitement, and two thin legs braced themselves.

“Hi, there, 'Nias! Stop! Stop!” Cronin saw what he was about to do as the boy gasped out:

“Let her go, Punk!”

She went—in a flash of white, a rattle of wheels, a stoppage of Spud's heart, and a thrill of exhilaration for 'Nias. He steered round an upcoming truck, and dashed by a frightened mule. Like a flying white gull he skimmed a clear sea between the Cotton Exchange and Mulberry Street. Then an auto appeared, moving southward at right angles along Mulberry.

“Look out!” 'Nias yelled.

A grinding of emergency brakes, a crash of glass from the auto's tail-light, a thump against the tires—a rebound, a somersaulting of the wagon, black legs and arms turning handsprings to the curb, and a limp huddle of rags lying in the gutter.

Men rushed to pick him up. Before the first could reach him, 'Nias had already performed that service for himself, also for the wagon. His lip was bleeding; an ugly bruise swelled on his forehead; and one foot left a smear of blood wherever he set it down. The car-owner, a jowly-jawed, badly scared white man, sprang out and ran back, calling as he came:

“Is the boy killed? Is he dead?”

'Nias had already told those first white men that he wasn't killed, and saw no sense in chewing the rag about it. So he never even looked up at this unnecessarily excited person, but kept turning each of his wagon wheels to make sure that none was broken. Then the automobilist got mad because his victim took it so calmly.

“Here, boy,” he said, “you've gashed my car.”

“Huh!” 'Nias countered. “Jes' look what you done to my waggin!”

Sullenly the boy took up his sack, and had set about wiping the scars from the fresh white paint when Cronin parted the crowd with powerful sailor strokes and found precisely what he expected, that the invulnerable pirate had survived. On sight of a uniform, Mr. Barker, who owned the car, began the usual explanations. which Cronin interrupted:

“That's all right, sorr. I saw this mix-up meself, and 'twarn't your fault.”

“Then I need not appear in court?” Mr. Barker felt relieved, and gave exclusive attention to his shattered tail-light

Such trivial details bored little 'Nias. He stanched the blood at his lip, and when Cronin wasn't looking picked his chance to pull out through the crowd. He had already started limping up the Crawford Street hill, and would have got away but for a child's voice that squeaked from the Barker automobile:

“Oh, Papa, Papa! Look! That boy's got our wagon!”

Mr. Rudolph Barker rose from his knees behind the car, and stood in a fuddlement until his mind cleared.

“The wagon? Oh! Yes!” He rushed after 'Nias, grabbing the boy's collar and the wagon-tongue.

“Here! Give me this!” he ordered roughly.

The tiny negro refused to surrender, but grappled tighter with both hands and begged: “Don't take dis, Mister; dis is my waggin.”

“It's not. It belongs to my children.”

“'Taint, Mister. Dis waggin's mine.”

Immediately the crowd coalesced again around the struggling 'Nias, who writhed in the grasp of Mr. Barker. The man needed both hands, and loosed the child's collar, but couldn't break his death-grip on the wagon-tongue. For 'Nias clung to his property with fingers like twisted wires.

“Open up there!” Cronin broke through the ring to inquire: “What's the trouble, Mr. Barker?”

“This boy stole my children's wagon—last night.”

“Didn't,” 'Nias contradicted flatly.

The mere fact of portable property being missing was sufficient to convict 'Nias in any court of law; so Cronin also grasped the wagon-tongue and commanded: “Turn loose, 'Nias.”

“Dis is my waggin, Mr. Cronin.”

Between them Cronin and Barker weighed over four hundred pounds, while the underfed 'Nias weighed sixty. Yet their great hands contended vainly against his two little fists, and the crowd began to snicker. Cronin lifted his club for a rap at the stubborn knuckles; 'Nias saw the blow coming and shut his eyes, but did not flinch. The big Irishman hesitated. Time and again he had dispossessed 'Nias of stolen goods, and never before had the boy protested. 'Nias had always endured these seizures as purely formal proceedings, and his present attitude was disconcerting. Instead of rapping his knuckles, Cronin questioned the white claimant.

“Mr. Barker, are you certain this is your wagon?”

“Certain? My dear man, I painted that wagon myself. Took me two days. It's just got dry enough to handle.”

“Dis is my waggin,” 'Nias insisted without raising his head.

“Where'd you get it?”

That same question had been shot at 'Nias upon more than a thousand previous occasions; when 'Nias happened to get caught with swag, the police knew that some bereaved owner would soon be ringing up. So they formed the habit of first confiscating whatever 'Nias had, and then listening for the phone. Heretofore when cross-examined the boy invariably stood mute; now he spoke up promptly.

“Mrs. Windy gimme dis waggin.”

Deep in his heart Cronin carried an Irishman's sympathy for the underdog. He wanted to do what was right, and something about 'Nias made him feel doubtful.

“Gents,” he said to the crowd, “ye'll have to clear the street. Mr. Barker, you drive to the City Hall, and I can fix this in two minutes. Come along, 'Nias.'

With a puzzled sweep of his club, Cronin opened their path and reached down for the wagon.

“Leggo, Mr. Cronin! I kin pull it. Dis is my waggin.”

“All right. Go straight to the City Hall.”

WHEN the collision occurred, and everybody else went running down Crawford Street, Spud Hollins moved in the opposite direction, at first very slowly with the intention of gathering speed. But he couldn't tear himself away from his demijohn, naked and unnoticed in the gutter. Spud's fingers tingled, yet he dare not pick up a sixty-day sentence. He paused; he glanced down the hill to see what happened, then edged nearer and nearer until he saw little 'Nias untangle himself from the crowd and come plodding up Crawford Street, still dragging his wagon. Spud began to sweat more liberally and began to hope again. Would 'Nias think of the jug? Would he take it in his wagon—or pass it by?

The up-bound crowd divided, some on either side walk, and Spud marked the position of Cronin. Now they were drawing near his demijohn which lay in the gutter like an unexploded bomb. Marching nearly abreast, 'Nias in the street and Cronin on the sidewalk they climbed the steep ascent. Without batting an eye, 'Nias pulled to the right, and a hundred people saw him lift the demijohn into his wagon. Spud's heart stopped, but 'Nias didn't. The boy went straight on, up the hill for another block, rounded the post-office corner and drew his wagon into police headquarters.

“Ugh!” Spud groaned; and jerking off his derby hat, he ran.

CRONIN missed his guess. It took him longer than two minutes to adjust conflicting titles at the City Hall. The aggrieved Mr. Rudolph Barker tumbled out of his car, followed by two children who clamored for their wagon that Papa had painted. All of his life 'Nias had conceded property to white children—in presence of their papas; but now the smudgy boy stood firm, and refused to give up.

“Mr. Barker,” Cronin asked again, twisting his mustache, “you-are dead certain sure that this is your wagon?”

“Of course I'm sure. So are these children. That demijohn does not belong to me.” Mr. Barker evicted the jug from the wagon without causing 'Nias the least show of concern.

“Three witnesses.” Cronin weighed their evidence and called for proof from the defense. “'Nias, where'd you say you got this wagon?”

“From Mrs. Windy.”

“Who's Mrs. Windy?”

“Chunky-built white lady on Cherry Street. Mose Friley drives her car.”

“You impudent little devil! Why don't you say Mrs. J. Garner Wyndham. Now everybody hold yo' hosses whilst I talks with the lady.” Cronin removed his helmet, brushed some specks from his uniform and bowed elaborately at the phone as he called for Number 3979.

At the other end of the wire Mrs. Wyndham was superintending the decorators in her blue-and-gold drawing-room when the starchy housegirl appeared.

“Telephone, ma'am.”

“Take the message, and say I'm busy.”

“Dat's what I tol' him, ma'am. But he 'low he's 'bleeged to speak wid you, yo' own se'f.”

“Well, who is it?”

“De Chief o' Polices.”

“Chief of Police?”

Most uncomfortably Mrs. Wyndham recalled a slick-headed bootlegger in a gray derby hat, and with a partner in jail. Her knees weakened, but she nerved herself to stiffen up and reply:

“Elise, I have no business with the police. They must be mistaken.”

“No'm, dey aint. Dey done 'rested somebody, an'—”

“Hush, Elise!” Mrs. Wyndham considered it safer to withdraw and question the girl where these gossiping decorators could not hear.

“Now, Elise, precisely what did the officer say?”

“He say ef it's too much trouble fer you to come to yo' telephone, he'd call at yo' house his own se'f.”

At every hazard she must stop this nefarious raid, and Cronin promptly heard the lady's voice.

“This is Mrs. Wyndham. You wish to speak with me? .... Yes—I gave that wagon to a little colored boy .... He's one of Aunt Cannie's orphans; delinquent children, you know, are my hobby. The color? I am not sure as to the original color. But this morning the little boy came to my house, and his wagon was newly painted white. Yes, the same wagon that I gave him. Certainly, certainly. No trouble whatever. I'm glad you rang me up. It is always a pleasure to confer with Officer Cronin. I beg your pardon? What did you say? A demijohn? In the wagon?”

The wire went dead. Mrs. Wyndham collapsed into her brocaded chair, while Patrolman Cronin swelled like a proud frog and strutted away from the phone.

“There's a lady for you,” he said to Barker, and to 'Nias and the crowd. “Take it from me! She's the genuwine all-wool article. And, 'Nias, she puts you in the clear.”

“In the clear?” Mr. Barker repeated.

“Sure. Mrs. Wyndham says to me: 'Officer Cronin,' says she, 'it's a pleasure to confer wid ye. I gave 'Nias the wagon. Yes, I bought it from Barney McNamara!'—Mr. Barker, did you buy yours from Barney?”

“No, I—”

“Bought it from Wright Brothers?”

“No, I bought mine at private sale.”

Not until then did Cronin begin to smell the real mouse, and demanded:

“Mr. Barker, who did you buy that wagon from?”

THE white complainant felt himself driven to the defensive. He didn't want to tell where he had obtained the wagon, and Cronin had to extort the information piecemeal, that Mr. Barker had paid fifty cents for it to a negro boy whose name he did not know.

“I know him!” 'Nias said. “Dat boy stole my waggin from onderneath Aunt Cannie's gallery.”

“Then how'd you get it back?” Cronin asked, and 'Nias answered straight.

“I seen dis gentmun paintin' my waggin in his back yard. So dat night when he lef' it out to dry, I goes an' gits my waggin.”

“Went and got it, hey?” the big Irishman chuckled. “Then kape it. Mr Barker, we'll call your matter settled.” Turning his back upon the late complainant, Cronin picked up the demijohn and asked:

“'Nias, what's this in here?”

“'Lasses.”

“Where'd you get it?”

“From a country feller what makes 'lasses fer Mrs. Windy.”

By instinct Cronin mistrusted all matter contained in jugs. Stoppers, or even flies, proved nothing. He never took anybody's word about liquid contents.

“I'll try a swig meself,” he said, and 'Nias felt the rabbit-itch in both feet as Cronin swung the demijohn into the crook of his elbow, with an expert ease gained only by long practice. In such position the Irishman could fill a thimble and never waste a drop. Out came the corncob stopper, and the demijohn began to tilt. Even at that crisis the courage of little 'Nias didn't flicker. He gazed up steadily at the officer while Cronin poured a slow trickle into his palm and tasted it—and tasted it again. The unbelieving Cronin was convinced. “Be all the saints,” he declared, “it is molasses!”

“Dat's what I tol' you,” said 'Nias.

Then Cronin set back the jug into the wagon and gave Nias a push toward the door, saying:

“Now beat it! And prisint my compliments to the lady that saved ye from the gallows.”

WITH unhurried composure 'Nias dragged his wagon from police headquarters; the lady at home seemed more in need of saving. Since Cronin had mentioned a demijohn, Mrs. Wyndham supposed that hers had been confiscated. What a contretemps! At the very moment when Mrs. F. R. M. Chester-Smith was being welcomed to Wyndham Terrace, the afternoon papers would spread this distinctly unpleasant publicity.

Staring out upon her lawn, the fluttered Mrs. Wyndham was seeing phantom demijohns in every lilac bush, when a tousled little figure limped through her back gate, and she saw the actual demijohn in his wagon.

The battered condition of 'Nias was enough to make a perfect lady shudder as Mrs. Wyndham stepped out of her rear door, and the boy with a bleeding lip informed her:

“Lady, here's yo' 'lasses.”

“Molasses? I have ordered no molasses. Go away.”

Like a tribute he laid the demijohn at her feet, and 'Nias never blinked as he suggested: “Better take dis jug inside befo' de cop gits it.”

Having delivered the goods, 'Nias left the lady staring down at her undesired demijohn, and backed his wagon to the feed-house, where he resumed the profitable job of loading bottles.

Never had Mrs. J. Garner Wyndham toted a demijohn of molasses, stopped with a corncob and sticky brown paper. But there was something in the boy's suggestion which fired her with a mysterious urge; and in the privacy of her pantry she took the most extreme precautions that nobody witnessed her opening of the jug.

Immediately a very wrathful lady—reminding herself that she was a lady—rushed across her back yard and jerked 'Nias by his elbow.

“Who sent me that demijohn?” she demanded.

“Spud.” 'Nias never looked up, for fear of smashing an armful of bottles worth fifteen cents.

“Why did Spud send molasses?”

“Dat aint 'lasses.”

“I say it is. You must not dispute my statement.”

“Lemme see it.”

“Very good. Come into the house.”

A brunette midget followed the opulent blonde lady into her pantry, where 'Nias saw the open demijohn with a cup beside it, which cup undoubtedly contained a spoonful of molasses.

“There it is—molasses!” Mrs. Wyndham pointed. “Look at it.”

Tiny 'Nias had to mount a chair before he could reach the top of a porcelain table, and hold the demijohn upside down until its syrupy stream stopped flowing—not more than half a cup.

“Dat's all de 'lasses,” he said. “Got a rag—an' a stick?”

Mrs. Wyndham produced a dishcloth, and one of those slim contraptions that are used to sharpen knives.

“Dis'll do,” 'Nias approved, as he wrapped his rag around the steel and swabbed out the molasses from inside the demijohn's neck.

“Corkscrew,” he ordered briefly. “A long un.”

“Here it is,” complied Mrs. Wyndham.

The little boy now set the demijohn on the floor, gripped it with both knobby knees, reached down the neck with his long corkscrew and pulled out a second stopper, three inches below the first. Then he poured again, and grinned.

“I reckin' dat aint 'lasses.”

It was not molasses—decidedly not; Mrs. Wyndham assured herself by smelling and tasting. Then she promptly locked her treasure in a cabinet.

“You're a good little boy.” The gracious lady turned and smiled. “But I observe that you have injured yourself?”

“No'm,” 'Nias answered. “Dat aint nothin'. I jes runned over a white feller's autymobile—wid my waggin.”