Then amazingly he enfolded the figure of the woman in his arms and upon her cold, appalled lips he imprinted a swift but accurate kiss.

"There, poor thing!" he murmured.

He lavished one look upon the still frozen Juliana, replaced the cap upon his yellow hair, once more preened his moustache at her, and turned away to meet the oncoming children. And in his glance Juliana retained still the wit to read a gay, cherishing pity. As he turned away she sank limply against the fence, her first sensation being all of wonder that she had not cried out at this monstrous a.s.sault. And very clearly she knew at once that she had not cried out or made any protest because, though monstrous, it was even more absurd. A seasoned sense of humour had not failed.

The guilty man swaggered on to meet the children, not looking back. For him the incident was closed. Juliana, a hand supporting her capable chin, steadily regarded his swaying shoulders and the yellow hair beneath his cap. In her nostrils was the scent of printer's ink and pipe tobacco. She reflectively rubbed her chin, for it had been stung with a day-old beard that p.r.i.c.ked like a nettle. Now she was recalling another woodland adventure of a dozen years before here in this same forest.

Dave Cowan had been wrong when he said that no one had kissed her since her mother died. Once on a winter's day, when she was sixteen, she had crossed here, bundled in a red cloak and hood, and a woodchopper, a merry, laughing foreigner who spoke no English, had hailed her gayly, and she had stopped and gayly tried to understand him, and knew only that he was telling her she was beautiful. She at least had thought it was that, and was certain of it when he had seized and kissed her, laughing joyously the while. She had not told any one of that, but she had never forgotten. And now this curious creature, whom she had not supposed to be gallantly inclined--unshaven, smelling of printer's ink and tobacco!

"I'm coming on!" said Juliana aloud, and laughed rather grimly.

She watched her prankling blade meet the children and go off down the ridge with his son, still not looking back. She thought it queer he did not look back at her just once. She soothed her chin again, sniffing the air.

Patricia Whipple came leaping up the path, excited with an imminent question. She halted before the still-reflective Juliana and went at once to the root of her matter.

"Cousin Juliana, what did that funny man kiss you for?"

This time Juliana in truth did gasp. There was no suppressing it.

"Patricia Whipple--and did that boy see it, too?"

"No, he was too far behind me. But I did. I saw it. I was looking right at you, and that funny man--all at once he grabbed you round your waist and he--"

"Patricia, dear, listen! We must promise never to say anything about it--never to anybody in the world--won't we, dear?"

"Oh, I won't tell if you don't want me to, but what----"

"You promise me--never to tell a soul!"

"Of course! I promise--cross my heart and hope to die--but what did he do it for?"

Juliana tried humorous evasion.

"Men, my dear, are often tempted by women to such lengths--tempted beyond their strength. Your question isn't worded with all the tact in the world. Is it so strange that a man should want to kiss me?"

"Well, I don't know"--Patricia became judicial, scanning the now flushed countenance of Juliana--"I don't see why not. But what did he do it for?"

"My dear, you'll be honest with me, and never tell; so I'll be honest with you. I don't know--I really don't know. But I have an awful suspicion that the creature meant to be kind to me."

"He looks like a kind man. And he's the father of the boy that I wore his clothes yesterday when I was running away, and the father of that other boy that was with him and that I'm going to have one of for my very own brother, because Harvey D. and grandpa said something of that kind would have to be done, so what relation will that make us to this man that was so kind to you?"

"None whatever," said Juliana, shortly. "And never forget your promise not to tell. Come, we must go back."

They went on through the pasture. The shadows had lengthened and the moon already glowed a warmer bronze. Juliana glanced at it and murmured indistinctly.

"What is it?" asked Patricia.

"Nothing," said Juliana. But she had been asking herself: "I wonder where he gets his verses?"

Her hand went again to her chin.

CHAPTER V

Dave Cowan went down the ridge to the road, disregarding his gypsy friends. He trod the earth with a ruffling bravado. The Wilbur twin lingered as far behind as he dared, loitering provocatively in the sight of the child stealers. If they meant to do anything about it now was their chance. But no violence was offered him, and presently, far beyond the camp where the fire still burned, he was forced to conclude that they could not mean to carry him off. Certainly they were neglecting a prize who had persistently flaunted himself at them. They notably lacked enterprise.

Down over the gra.s.sy slope of West Hill they went, the boy still well in the rear; you never could tell what might happen; and so came to Fair Street across shadows that lay long to the east. Newbern was still slumberous. Smoke issued from a chimney here and there, but mostly the town would partake of a cold supper. The boy came beside his father, with Frank, the dog, again on his leash of frayed rope. Dave Cowan was reciting to himself:

Enchanted ports we, too, shall touch; Cadiz or Cameroon--

Then he became conscious of the silent boy at his side, stepping noiselessly with bare feet.

"Life is funny," said Dave.

"Yes, sir," said Wilbur.

"Of course there's a catch in it somewhere."

"Yes, sir."

"That old girl back there, that old maid, she'll have to small-town it all her life. I feel sorry for her, I do."

"Yes, sir."

But the sorrowing father now began to whistle cheerfully. His grief had not overborne him. A man who would call Judge Penniman Old Flapdoodle and question the worth of Matthew Arnold's acquaintance was not to be long downcast at the plight of one woman. And he had done what man could for her.

They came to River Street, the street of shops, deserted and sleeping back of drawn curtains. Only the shop of Solly Gumble seemed to be open for trade. This was but seeming, however, for another establishment near by, though sealed and curtained as to front, suffered its rear portal to yawn most hospitably. This was the place of business of Herman Vielhaber, and its street sign concisely said, "Lager Bier Saloon."

Dave Cowan turned into the alley just beyond Solly Gumble's, then up another alley that led back of the closed shops, and so came to the back door of this refectory. It stood open, and from the cool and shadowy interior came a sourish smell of malt liquors and the hum of voices.

They entered and were in Herman Vielhaber's pleasant back room, with sanded floor and a few round tables, at which sat half a dozen men consuming beer from stone mugs or the pale wine of Herman's country from tall gla.s.ses.

Herman was a law-abiding citizen. Out of deference to a sacred and long-established American custom he sealed the front of his saloon on the Sabbath; out of deference to another American custom, equally long established, equally sacred, he received his Sabbath clientele at the rear--except for a brief morning interval when he and Minna, his wife, attended service at the Lutheran church. Herman's perhaps not too subtle mind had never solved this problem of American morals--why his beverages should be seemly to drink on all days of the week, yet on one of them seemly but if taken behind shut doors and shielding curtains. But he adhered conscientiously to the American rule. His Lutheran pastor had once, in an effort to clear up the puzzle, explained to him that the Continental Sunday would never do at all in this land of his choice; but it left Herman still muddled, because fixed unalterably in his mind was a conviction that the Continental Sunday was the best of all Sundays.

Nor was there anything the least clandestine in this backdoor trade of Herman's on the Sabbath. One had but to know the path to his door, and at this moment Newbern's mayor, old Doctor Purdy, sat at one of Herman's tables and sipped from a stone mug of beer and played a game of pinochle with stout, red-bearded Herman himself, overlooked by Minna, who had brought them their drink.

This was another thing about Herman's place that Newbern understood in time. When he had begun business some dozen years before, and it was known that Minna came downstairs from their living rooms above the saloon and helped to serve his patrons, the scandal was high. It was supposed that only a woman without character could, for any purpose whatever, enter a saloon. But Herman had made it plain that into the sort of saloon he conducted any woman, however exalted, could freely enter. If they chose not to, that was their affair. And Minna had in time recovered a reputation so nearly lost at first news of her service here.

Herman, indeed, ran a place of distinction, or at least of tone. He did sell the stronger drinks, it is true, but he sold them judiciously, and much preferred to sell the milder ones. He knew his patrons, and would stubbornly not sell drink, even beer or wine, to one he suspected of abusing the stuff. As for rowdyism, it was known far and wide about Newbern that if you wanted to get thrown out of Herman's quick you had only to start some rough stuff, or even talk raw. It was said he juggled you out the door like you were an empty beer keg. Down by the riverside was another saloon for that sort of thing, kept by Pegleg McCarron, who would sell whisky to any one that could buy, liked rough stuff and with his crutch would partic.i.p.ate in it.

When Herman decided that a customer was spending too much money for drink, that customer had to go to Pegleg's if he bought more. And now the mayor at the little table connived at a flagrant breach of the law he had sworn to uphold, quaffing beer from his mug and melding a hundred aces as casually as if it were a week-day.

The other men at the little tables were also of the substantial citizenry of Newbern, including the postmaster, the editor of the _Advance_, and Rapp, Senior, of Rapp Brothers, Jewellery. The last two were arguing politics and the country's welfare. Rapp, Senior, believed and said that the country was going to the dogs, because the rich were getting richer and the poor were getting poorer. The editor of the _Advance_ disputed this, and the postmaster intervened to ask if Rapp, Senior, had seen what our exports of wheat and cotton were lately. Rapp, Senior, said he didn't care anything about that--it was the interests he was down on. Herman Vielhaber, melding eighty kings, said it was a good rich-man's country, but also a good poor-man's country, because where could you find one half as good--not in all Europe--and he now laid down forty jacks, which he huskily called "yacks."

Dave Cowan greeted the company and seated himself at a vacant table.

"Pull up a chair, Buzzer, and we'll drink to the life force--old electricity or something."