The Sentimental Adventures of Jimmy Bulstrode. Van Vorst Marie
heard from downstairs what sounded like a call – a cry.
Taking his revolver from the top drawer, he went into the hall, to feel a draft of icy air blow up the staircase, to see over the balusters the open door of the dining-room and light within it, and to hear more clearly the sounds that had come to him through closed doors declare themselves to be scuffling – struggling – the half-cry of a muffled voice – a fall, then Bulstrode started.
"I'm coming," he declared, and ran down the stairs like a boy.
On the dining-room floor, close to the window wide open to the icy night, lay a man's form, and over him bent another man cruelly, with all the animus of a bird of prey.
The under man was Ruggles, Bulstrode's butler, his eyes starting from their sockets, his mouth open, his color livid; he couldn't have called out, for the other man had seized his necktie, twisted it tight as a tourniquet around the man's gullet, and so kneeling with one knee on his chest, Waring held the big man under.
"I say," panted the young man, "can you lend a hand, sir? I've got him, but I'm not strong enough to keep him."
Bulstrode thought his servant's eyes rolled appealingly at him. He cocked his revolver, holding it quietly, and asked coolly:
"What's the matter with him that he needs to be kept?"
"Would you sit on his chest, Mr. Bulstrode?"
"No," said that gentleman. "I'll cover him so. What's the truth?"
"I heard a queer noise," panted the Englishman, "and came out to see what it was, and this fellow was just getting through the window. There was another chap outside, but he got away. I caught this one from the back, otherwise I could never have thrown him."
"You're throttling him."
"He deserves it."
"Let him up."
"Mr. Bulstrode…!"
"Yes," said that gentleman, decidedly, "let him up."
But Ruggles, released from the hand whose knuckles had ground themselves into his windpipe, could not at once rise. The breath was out of him, for he had been heavily struck in the stomach by a blow from the fist of a man whose training in sport had delightfully returned at need.
Ruggles began to breathe like a porpoise, to grunt and pant and roll over. He staggered to his feet, and with a string of imprecations raised his fist at Waring, but as Bulstrode's revolver was entirely ready to answer at command, he did not venture to leave the spot where he stood.
"Now," said his master, "when you get your tongue your story will be just the same as Mr. Waring's. You found him getting away with the silver. The probabilities are all with you, Ruggles. The police will be here in just about five minutes. Ten to one the guilty man is known to the officers. Now there's an overcoat and hat on the hat-rack in the hall. I give both of you time to get away. There's the front door and the window – which, by the way, you would better shut, Waring, as it's a cold morning."
Neither man moved. Without removing his eyes from the butler or uncovering him, Bulstrode, by means of the messenger-call to the right of the window, summoned the police. The metallic click of the button sounded loud in the room.
Ruggles shook his great hand high in air.
"I'd – I'd – "
"Never mind that," interrupted the householder. "The man who's going had better take his chance. There's one minute lost."
During the next half-second the modern philanthropist breathed in suspense. It was so on the cards that he might be obliged to apologize to his antipathetic butler and find himself sentimentally sold by Waring!
But Ruggles it was who with a parting oath stepped to the door – accelerating his pace as the daze began to pass a little from his brain, and snatched the hat and coat, unlocked the front door, opened it, looked quickly up and down the white streets, and then without a word cut down the steps and across Washington Square, slowly at first, and then on a run.
Bulstrode turned to his visitor.
"Come," he said, "let's go up to bed."
"But," stammered the young man, "you're never going to let him go like that?"
"Yes, I am," confessed the unpractical gentleman. "I couldn't send a man to jail on Christmas day."
"But the police – ?"
"I shall tell them out of my window that it was a false alarm."
Bulstrode shut and locked his door, and turning to Waring, laughed delightedly.
"I must tell you that when he let you in last night Ruggles did not think you were a gentleman. He must have found out this morning that you were very much of a man. It's astonishing where you got your strength, though. He'd make two of you, and you're not fit in any way."
He looked ghastly enough as Bulstrode spoke, and the gentleman put his arm under the Englishman's. "I'll ring for the servants and have some coffee made and fetched to your room. Lean on me." He helped the vagabond upstairs.
The New Yorker, whose sentimental follies were certainly a menace to public safety and a premium to begging and vagabondage and crime, slept well and late, and was awakened finally by the keen, bright ringing of the telephone at his side. As he took up the receiver his whole face illumined.
"Merry Christmas, Jimmy!"
…
"What wonderful roses! Thanks a thousand times!"
…
"But of course I knew! No other man in New York is sentimental enough to have a woman awakened at eight o'clock by a bunch of flowers!"
…
"Forgive you!" (It was clear that she did.)
…
"Jimmy, what a day for Tuxedo, and what a shame I can't go!"
…
"You weren't going! You mean to say that you had refused?"
…
"I don't understand – it's the connection – West?"
"Why, ranches look after themselves. They always do. They go right on. You don't mean it, on Christmas day!"
…
"I shouldn't care for your reasons. They're sure to be ridiculous – unpractical – unnecessary – don't tell them to me."
There was a pause, and then the voice, which had undergone a slight change said:
"Jack's ill again … that's why I couldn't go to Tuxedo. I shall pass the day here in town. I called up to tell you this – and to suggest – but since you're going West…"
Falconer's illnesses! How well Bulstrode knew them, and how well he could see her alone in the familiar little drawing-room by a hearth not built for a Christmas tree! He had promised Waring, "I'll stand by you." It was a kind of vow – a real vow, and the poor tramp had lived up to his.
"Jimmy." There was a note he had never heard before; if a tone can be a tear, it was one.
He interrupted her.
…
"How dear of you!"
…
"But I haven't any Christmas tree!"
…
"You'll fetch one? How dear of you! We'll trim it – with your roses – make it bloom. Come early and help me dress the tree."
Two hours later he opened the door into his breakfast-room with the guiltiness of a truant boy. He wore culprit shame written all over his face, and the young man who stood waiting for him in the window might almost have read his friend's dejection in his embarrassed face.
But Waring came eagerly forward, answered the season's greetings, and said quickly:
"Are you still in the same mind about the West, Mr. Bulstrode?"
(Poor Bulstrode!)
"I