promise of reward.
In the meantime, in so far as his home ties went, the
irritations and the depressions which were almost
inextricably involved with membership in the Griffiths family
were not different from what they had ever been. For,
following the disappearance of Esta, there had settled a
period of dejection which still endured. Only, in so far as
Clyde was concerned, it was complicated with a mystery
which was tantalizing and something more—irritating; for
when it came to anything which related to sex in the
Griffiths family, no parents could possibly have been more
squeamish.
And especially did this apply to the mystery which had now
surrounded Esta for some time. She had gone. She had not
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returned. And so far as Clyde and the others knew, no word
of any kind had been received from her. However, Clyde
had noted that after the first few weeks of her absence,
during which time both his mother and father had been
most intensely wrought up and troubled, worrying greatly as
to her whereabouts and why she did not write, suddenly
they had ceased their worries, and had become very much
more resigned—at least not so tortured by a situation that
previously had seemed to offer no hope whatsoever. He
could not explain it. It was quite noticeable, and yet nothing
was said. And then one day a little later, Clyde had
occasion to note that his mother was in communication with
some one by mail—something rare for her. For so few were
her social or business connections that she rarely received
or wrote a letter.
One day, however, very shortly after he had connected
himself with the Green-Davidson, he had come in rather
earlier than usual in the afternoon and found his mother
bending over a letter which evidently had just arrived and
which appeared to interest her greatly. Also it seemed to be
connected with something which required concealment.
For, on seeing him, she stopped reading at once, and,
flustered and apparently nervous, arose and put the letter
away without commenting in any way upon what she had
been doing. But Clyde for some reason, intuition perhaps,
had the thought that it might be from Esta. He was not sure.
And he was too far away to detect the character of the
handwriting. But whatever it was, his mother said nothing
afterwards concerning it. She looked as though she did not
want him to inquire, and so reserved were their relations
that he would not have thought of inquiring. He merely
wondered, and then dismissed it partially, but not entirely,
from his mind.
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A month or five weeks after this, and just about the time
that he was becoming comparatively well-schooled in his
work at the Green-Davidson, and was beginning to interest
himself in Hortense Briggs, his mother came to him one
afternoon with a very peculiar proposition for her. Without
explaining what it was for, or indicating directly that now she
felt that he might be in a better position to help her, she
called him into the mission hall when he came in from work
and, looking at him rather fixedly and nervously for her,
said: “You wouldn’t know, Clyde, would you, how I could
raise a hundred dollars right away?”
Clyde was so astonished that he could scarcely believe his
ears, for only a few weeks before the mere mention of any
sum above four or five dollars in connection with him would
have been preposterous. His mother knew that. Yet here
she was asking him and apparently assuming that he might
be able to assist her in this way. And rightly, for both his
clothes and his general air had indicated a period of better
days for him.
At the same time his first thought was, of course, that she
had observed his clothes and goings-on and was convinced
that he was deceiving her about the amount he earned.
And in part this was true, only so changed was Clyde’s
manner of late, that his mother had been compelled to take
a very different attitude toward him and was beginning to be
not a little dubious as to her further control over him.
Recently, or since he had secured this latest place, for
some reason he had seemed to her to have grown wiser,
more assured, less dubious of himself, inclined to go his
own way and keep his own counsel. And while this had
troubled her not a little in one sense, it rather pleased her in
another. For to see Clyde, who had always seemed
because of his sensitiveness and unrest so much of a
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problem to her, developing in this very interesting way was
something; though at times, and in view of his very recent
finery, she had been wondering and troubled as to the
nature of the company he might be keeping. But since his
hours were so long and so absorbing, and whatever money
he made appeared to be going into clothes, she felt that
she had no real reason to complain. Her one other thought
was that perhaps he was beginning to act a little selfish—to
think too much of his own comfort—and yet in the face of
his long deprivations she could not very well begrudge him
any temporary pleasure, either.
Clyde, not being sure of her real attitude, merely looked at
her and exclaimed: “Why, where would I get a hundred
dollars, Ma?” He had visions of his new-found source of
wealth being dissipated by such unheard of and
inexplicable demands as this, and distress and distrust at
once showed on his countenance.
“I didn’t expect that you could get it all for me,” Mrs. Griffiths
suggested tactfully. “I have a plan to raise the most of it, I
think. But I did want you to help me try to think how I would
raise the rest. I didn’t want to go to your father with this if I
could help it, and you’re getting old enough now to be of
some help.” She looked at Clyde approvingly and
interestedly enough. “Your father is such a poor hand at
business,” she went on, “and he gets so worried at times.”
She passed a large and weary hand over her face and
Clyde was moved by her predicament, whatever it was. At
the same time, apart from whether he was willing to part
with so much or not, or had it to give, he was decidedly
curious about what all this was for. A hundred dollars! Gee
whiz!
After a moment or two, his mother added: “I’ll tell you what
I’ve been thinking. I must have a hundred dollars, but I can’t
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tell you for what now, you nor any one, and you mustn’t ask
me. There’s an old gold watch of your father’s in my desk
and a solid gold ring and pin of mine. Those things ought to
be worth twenty-five dollars at least, if they were sold or
pawned. Then there is that set of solid silver knives and
forks and that silver platter and pitcher in there”—Clyde
knew the keepsakes well—“that platter alone is worth
twenty-five dollars. I believe they ought to bring at least
twenty or twenty-five together. I was thinking if I could get
you to go to some good pawnshop with them down near
where you work, and then if you would let me have five
more a week for a while” (Clyde’s countenance fell)—“I
could get a friend of mine—Mr. Murch who comes here, you
know—to advance me enough to make up the hundred,
and then I could pay him back out of what you pay me. I
have about ten dollars myself.”
She looked at Clyde as much as to say: “Now, surely, you
won’t desert me in my hour of trouble,” and Clyde relaxed,
in spite of the fact that he had been counting upon using
quite all that he earned for himself. In fact, he agreed to
take the trinkets to the pawnshop, and to advance her five
more for the time being until the difference between
whatever the trinkets brought and one hundred dollars was
made up. And yet in spite of himself, he could not help
resenting this extra strain, for it had only been a very short
time that he had been earning so much. And here was his
mother demanding more and more, as he saw it—ten
dollars a week now. Always something wrong, thought
Clyde, always something needed, and with no assurance
that there would not be more such demands later.
He took the trinkets, carried them to the most presentable
pawnshop he could find, and being offered forty-five dollars
for the lot, took it. This, with his mother’s ten, would make
fifty-five, and with forty-five she could borrow from Mr.
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Murch, would make a hundred. Only now, as he saw, it