In an angle of the wood the dust-covered policeman and the white-capped man came upon the racer, turned a little from the road, and waiting their arrival. It had a stolid, helpless look—with its nose buried deep in underbrush and the hind wheels tilted a little in air. Once might almost fancy it gave a little, subdued hiccough, as they approached.
The white-capped man bent above it and ran a quick hand along the side, and leaped to the vacant seat. The beast beneath gave a little snort and withdrew its nose and pranced playfully at the underbrush and backed away, feeling for firm ground behind. The man at the wheel pressed hard, leaning—with quick jerk—and wheels gripped ground and trundled in the road. It stopped beside the service car and the two men gazed doubtfully at the wood. Dusty leaves trembled at them in the light air, and beckoned to them—little twigs laced across and shut them out. Anywhere in the dark coolness of the wood, the Greek lurked, hiding away. They could not trace him—and the wood reached far into the dusk. He was undoubtedly armed. Only a desperate man would have made a dash like that—for life. Better go back to town for reinforcements and send the word of his escape along the line. He would not get far—on foot! They gave another glance at the wood and loosed their cars to the road, gliding smoothly off. The wood behind them, under its cover of dust, gave no sign of watching eyes; and the sun, travelling toward the west, cast their long, clean shadows ahead as they went. In the low light, the little, white house in the distance had a rosy, moody look. As they drew nearer, little pink details flashed out. An old man behind the picket fence looked up, and straightened himself, and gazed—under a shading hand. Then he came along the driveway and stood in the white gate, waiting their approach. He had a red, guileless face and white hair. The face held a look of childish interest as they drew up. “You got him?” he asked.
The service man shook his head, jerking his thumb at the racer that came behind. “Got the car,” he said. “He got off—took to the woods.”
“That so?” The old man came out to the road and looked with curious eyes at the big racing-machine coming up. “What’d he do?” he asked.
“He stole my machine,” said the white-capped man quickly. He was holding the wheel with a careful touch.
The old man looked at him with shrewd, smiling eyes—chewing at some invisible cud. The service man nodded to him, “There’ll be a reward out for him, Jimmie—keep a watch out. You may have a chance at it. He’s hiding somewhere over there.” He motioned toward the distant wood.
The old man turned a slow eye toward the west. “I don’t own no telescope,” he said quaintly. He shifted the cud a little, and gazed at the plain around them—far as the eye could see, it stretched on every side. Only the little, white house stood comfortably in its midst—open to the eye of heaven. It was a rambling, one story and a half house, with no windows above the ground floor—except at the rear, where one window, under a small peak, faced the north. Beyond the house, in that direction, lay lines of market garden—and beyond the garden the wide plain. Two men, at work in the garden, hoed with long, easy strokes that lengthened in the slanting light. The service man looked at them with casual eye. “Got good help this year?” he asked.
The old man faced about, and his eye regarded them mildly. “Putty good,” he said, “they’re my sister’s boys. She died this last year—along in April—and they come on to help. Yes, they work putty good.”
“They drove in ahead of us, didn’t they?” asked the service man, with sudden thought.
The old man smiled drily. “Didn’t know’s you see ’em. You were so occupied. Yes—they’d been in to sell the early potatoes. I’ve got a putty good crop this year—early potatoes. They went in to make a price on ’em. We’ll get seventy-five if we take ’em in to-morrow—and they asked what to do—and I told ’em they better dig.” He chuckled slowly.
The service man smiled. “You keep ’em moving, don’t you, Jimmie!” He glanced at the house. “Any trade? Got a license this year?”
The old man shook his head. “Bone dry,” he said, chewing slowly. “Them cars knocked me out!” He came and stood by the racer, running his hand along it with childish touch.
The service man watched him with detached smile. The old man’s silly shrewdness amused him. He suspected him of a cask or two in the cellar. In the days of bicycles the old man had driven a lively trade; but with the long-reaching cars, his business dribbled away, and he had slipped back from whiskey to potatoes. He was a little disgruntled at events, and would talk socialism by the hour to anyone who would listen. But he was a harmless old soul. The service man glanced at the sun. It had dipped suddenly, and the plain grew dusky black. The distant figures hoeing against the plain were lost to sight. “Hallo!” said the service man quickly, “we must get on—” He looked again, shrewdly, toward the old man in the dusk. “You couldn’t find a drop of anything, handy—to give away—Jimmie?” he suggested.
The old man tottered a slow smile at him and moved toward the house. He came back with a long-necked bottle grasped tight, and a couple of glasses that he filled in the dimness.
The service man held up his glass with quick gesture—“Here’s to you, Jimmie!” he said, throwing back his head. “May you live long, and prosper!” He gulped it down.
The old man’s toothless smile received the empty glasses; and when the two machines had trundled away in the dimness, it stood looking after them—the deep smile of guileless, crafty old age—that suffers and waits—and clutches its morsel at last and fastens on it—without joy, and without shame.
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