when one of these late-adopted darlings throws a brick at it.”
“It’s a curious philosophy,” said Luigi.
“It ain’t philosophy at all–it’s a fact. And there is
something pathetic and beautiful about it, too. I think there is
nothing more pathetic than to see one of these poor old childless
couples taking a menagerie of yelping little worthless dogs to
their hearts; and then adding some cursing and squawking parrots
and a jackass-voiced macaw; and next a couple of hundred
screeching songbirds, and presently some fetid guinea pigs and
rabbits, and a howling colony of cats. It is all a groping and
ignorant effort to construct out of base metal and brass filings,
so to speak, something to take the place of that golden treasure
denied them by Nature, a child. But this is a digression.
The unwritten law of this region requires you to kill Judge Driscoll
on sight, and he and the community will expect that attention at
your hands–though of course your own death by his bullet will
answer every purpose. Look out for him! Are you healed–that is, fixed?”
“Yes, he shall have his opportunity. If he attacks me, I will respond.”
As Wilson was leaving, he said:
“The judge is still a little used up by his campaign work,
and will not get out for a day or so; but when he does get out,
you want to be on the alert.”
About eleven at night the twins went out for exercise,
and started on a long stroll in the veiled moonlight.
Tom Driscoll had landed at Hackett’s Store, two miles below Dawson’s,
just about half an hour earlier, the only passenger for
that lonely spot, and had walked up the shore road and entered
Judge Driscoll’s house without having encountered anyone either
on the road or under the roof.
He pulled down his window blinds and lighted his candle.
He laid off his coat and hat and began his preparations.
He unlocked his trunk and got his suit of girl’s clothes out from
under the male attire in it, and laid it by. Then he blacked his
face with burnt cork and put the cork in his pocket.
His plan was to slip down to his uncle’s private sitting room below,
pass into the bedroom, steal the safe key from the old gentleman’s
clothes, and then go back and rob the safe. He took up his
candle to start. His courage and confidence were high,
up to this point, but both began to waver a little now.
Suppose he should make a noise, by some accident, and get caught–
say, in the act of opening the safe? Perhaps it would be well to go armed.
He took the Indian knife from its hiding place, and felt
a pleasant return of his wandering courage. He slipped
stealthily down the narrow stair, his hair rising and his pulses
halting at the slightest creak. When he was halfway down, he was
disturbed to perceive that the landing below was touched by a
faint glow of light. What could that mean? Was his uncle still up?
No, that was not likely; he must have left his night taper
there when he went to bed. Tom crept on down, pausing at every
step to listen. He found the door standing open, and glanced it.
What he saw pleased him beyond measure. His uncle was asleep on
the sofa; on a small table at the head of the sofa a lamp was
burning low, and by it stood the old man’s small cashbox, closed.
Near the box was a pile of bank notes and a piece of paper
covered with figured in pencil. The safe door was not open.
Evidently the sleeper had wearied himself with work upon his
finances, and was taking a rest.
Tom set his candle on the stairs, and began to make his way
toward the pile of notes, stooping low as he went.
When he was passing his uncle, the old man stirred in his sleep,
and Tom stopped instantly–stopped, and softly drew the knife from its
sheath, with his heart thumping, and his eyes fastened upon his
benefactor’s face. After a moment or two he ventured forward