Ransom (11 page)

“Yes,” said the father thoughtfully, “but some things have happened since. In fact, I found a letter down at the office just now from the dean of your school. You see, Rand, I took it for granted that those marks were to be well and honestly earned.”

Rannie cast a startled glance at his father and waited, but the father closed his lips and gave his attention to looking out for the address he wanted.

The traffic was heavy, and Rannie had to give entire attention to driving the car. He did not know just what to say. How did his father know of his doings? What did he mean by that word “honest”?

“Stop right here, Rand,” commanded his father. “Let us out, and then drive around to the parking place in the street at the rear. Wait there till Chrissie and I come back. Yes, Chris, hop out. I shall need you, perhaps.”

Christobel followed her father into the grand and beautiful exclusive store. It was like a fairyland to her unused eyes. The school where she had been for the past two years was in a little country town, not near to any large city, and the wildest, most exciting shopping trip possible was in a five-and-ten-cent store that had recently raised a pert little head among the country stores of the community near the school.

They took the elevator up to the fur department, and her father disposed of the two boxes he was carrying, speaking in a low tone to a salesperson who seemed to know him and who showed him utmost deference. The two fur coats were turned over to another salesperson, and the first one led them over to another corner of the great quiet room, where there were glass cases of fur coats.

“Now, what kind do you want? Squirrel did you say?” he said, turning to Mr. Kershaw.

“There you are, Chrissie, pick out your fur coat. What do you want? Squirrel, or some other kind?”

“Oh, squirrel!” said Christobel, her cheeks glowing and her eyes shining. Then turning to her father as the salesman swung open a glass door, she said, “Oh, Daddy! Am I really to have a fur coat? A new coat?”

“You certainly are,” said her father grimly. “And I want you to pick out the one you want, understand. Never mind what it costs. I want you to look like the other girls.”

Christobel was soon arrayed in a lovely squirrel coat. Her father surveyed her critically as she tried on several of them. He found he had to be critic after all, for the girl was so ecstatic over each one that a decision would never have been reached. She was like a little child in her pleasure, and a wave of almost shame mantled her father's face as he realized what his own little girl must have had to suffer of mortification and disappointment in wearing an older woman's freakish garments instead of those suitable for her age.

He studied the hat she was wearing. Did he recognize that, too, as one that had belonged to his wife? Yes, he remembered expressing disapproval of the outlandish ornament on the side. What had Charmian done anyway? Taken the money he had given her to buy things for Christobel and spent it on herself, and then sent Christobel her old things of which she had grown tired? Strange he could have been so blind as not to suspect that his little girl was not having the right things. He had wondered sometimes that she never wrote to thank him when he had thought he had sent her some especially nice thing. But Charmian had explained that all young things nowadays were merely little animals who had no such virtue as gratitude in their makeup, that he expected too much from a child. Ah! What a fool he had been!

When the coat had been selected, the thin little jacket sent up to the house, and Christobel, in her new fur coat stood ready to thank him enthusiastically, he put his attention on the hat again.

“That hat is awful!” he said. “Come, we'll get a new one right away. Where is the millinery department?” he asked the salesman.

“Right through the arch on this same floor,” was the direction.

“Oh, Father! You're wonderful!” breathed Christobel and then showed herself quite capable of picking out the right hat, a jaunty little dark blue felt with a streak of white and green quill cockily stuck in at exactly the right angle.

“Oh, I've wanted one of these cute little hats all winter!” she sighed joyously as she came with the hat on for her father's approval.

“Well, you certainly have good taste,” he said, noticing how pretty she was in the new coat and hat. “And now”—he looked at his watch—“one more thing. You need a new dress right away. I don't like what you've been wearing. You'll need a lot of them, I guess, but we'll only stop for one this morning, or Rannie will get impatient.”

Christobel tried on two dresses to see which her father liked best, a dark blue wool, beautifully tailored with a touch of white and green in the brilliant scarf that adorned the neck; and a dark blue silk, with white crepe vest and deep cuffs in lovely young lines.

“Take them both!” said her father with a satisfied tone to his voice. “And there! That garnet velvet thing on the model there,” he said, pointing to a lovely dinner dress in transparent velvet with a deep, scalloped cape collar. “I like that. Is that her size? Well, send that up, too. No, we can't stop now to try it on. We're in a hurry. If she doesn't like it, we'll return it. Just keep that dress you have on Chris, and let them send up your old things.”

“Oh, Father!” said Christobel when she was arrayed once more in her fur coat and new hat and they were hurrying away. “You've fixed me up like a princess.”

“Well, you are, aren't you? My princess!” he said with a look of wonder at the transformation a few garments had wrought. What would Mary, the child's mother, have thought if she had known that he had neglected her little girl so long? Oh, what a fool he had been to marry that spoiled, selfish Charmian just because she had a pretty face and had seemed fond of him! How the fondness had disappeared when she had him hard and fast! How he had had to pour out the money upon her until there was nothing left for his business! That great mountain of a house that she would have!

He sighed and hurried Christobel down to the car.

“Now,” he said, “we're going anywhere you want to go for an hour, and then we'll stop at a restaurant and have lunch. Where do you want to go?”

“Oh, Father! Anywhere?” said Christobel blissfully. “Or—
could
we? Would that be too far? I guess it would. Suppose instead we just drive to where Maggie lives and let me say good morning to her? Would that be out of your way?”

“Maggie? Oh, Maggie! Your old nurse? Why, where does she live now?”

Christobel told him.

“That's all right,” he said, looking at his watch again. “It won't take long to get there, and if you don't stay too long, we'll have time left to go eat somewhere. Where else was it you wanted to go?”

“Oh, I would love to see the old house where we used to live. I'd like at least to drive past there sometime. I do want to see if it looks the way I remember it.”

“Yes, that's some distance,” said the father. “I guess we'll have to let that go till this afternoon or some other time, but I'm afraid you'll be disappointed in it. It's not in a very exclusive neighborhood.”

“I don't care,” said Christobel. “I'd love to go see it.”

“All right!” promised her father. “We'll go and see it before you go back to school.”

The conversation was cut short by Randall's exclamation as he saw his sister.

“Good night! Some baby doll! No wonder you were gone so long! I thought you'd got lost! I was just getting ready to have you paged. Say, Chrissie, you're a looker in that outfit. Never knew you were looking so good. Say, Dad, how about staking me a couple o' suits o' clothes? I ain't so flush with garments as I'd like ta be either.”

“We'll see!” said his father, and Randall couldn't tell for the life of him whether there was a coldness in his father's voice or not. He had had a most uneasy half hour while he waited, thinking over what his father had said and wondering which of his misdeeds at school had been recounted to his parent in the letter from the dean. He had thought everything had been pretty well concealed from that official's knowledge, but perhaps somebody had squealed about something. He wished he knew what it was. It would be well to be prepared with excuses. However, he fixed up one or two that would do for any of them and then began to work on each separate sin, providing excuses or alibis for all of them. By the time his father appeared, he had felt pretty well prepared for almost anything, only it was a bit disconcerting not to have his father more affable. It must be one of his more serious offenses—that act, for instance, of burning the principal in effigy—only, he wasn't the only one involved in that affair. Practically the whole class had been in on that, as a protest against sending Hi Spencer home without a chance of returning just because he sneaked some liquor into the dorm.

Rand was rather quiet as they drove through traffic, threading their way to the little back street where lived the old nurse. Even when Christobel went in to see Maggie and he was left alone with his father, the subject was not opened up, and Rannie didn't dare say anything lest he would give away too much on the wrong offense. No, he must wait for his father to speak first. Maybe he would forget about it and say no more. But it wouldn't be wise, Rannie reflected, to say anything about having a car till this was all cleared up.

But the elder Kershaw seemed abstracted, absorbed in thought. As Rannie cast sidewise furtive glances at him, he was startled to see that his face looked troubled and worried. Then, right out of a wide silence, he suddenly spoke.

“Why did you do it, Rannie?”

D
o what, Dad?” asked the astonished boy, wondering which of his various offenses could have produced such an expression on his father's face. Surely Chic Carter hadn't died or anything, had he, the fellow he had a fistfight with over a crap game just the day he came away? Good night! What if he had? But what kid that had any stuff in him ever died from a mere bloody nose?

Rannie drew a deep breath and tried to look innocent.

“Why did you steal the list of examination questions?” asked his father in a sad, disappointed voice. “I knew you were full of monkeyshines, but I never supposed you would be dishonest.”

“Aw, that!” said the boy, a kind of careless relief in his voice. “Why, Dad, that wasn't dishonest. That was merely a point of honor. You don't understand.”

“No, I don't understand,” said his father in a tired voice. “Tell me, Son. How could breaking into a safe and stealing the paper containing your examination questions for the next day be a point of honor? Your important midyear examinations?”

“Well, ya see, it's this way!” said the son, settling down affably to explain the customs of his school to an ignorant parent. “It's a thing that's always been done fer that particular exam. The mids mean so much ta the class an' ta sports an' all, ya know, an' sometimes there's fellas that aren't so bright, an' we see to it that they have a fair chance, see? It's always been the custom for years, Dad. Each class hands it down ta the next ta see that it's done. It's tradition, ya know. An' I was elected ta do the deed this year. It wasn't my own doings, ya understand. I was
'lected
.”

“You mean that you were elected to do the stealing and you couldn't decline the offer?”

“That's right!” said the boy cheerfully. “It is an honor in a way. They wouldn't 'lect ya if they didn't think ya c'ud get away with it. They know me. And I've monkeyed 'round combinations a lot. They knew I could do the deed. If I'd ben clumsy, an' one that would be likely ta get caught, doncha see, they wouldn'ta picked me out.”

“But you did get caught. You didn't get away with it, my son.”

The boy's face clouded over. He had forgotten for the moment that this was the case. “Aw, Dad!” said the boy, and then with the resilience of youth, “Gee! I don't see how they found out! I had the window catch fixed, and the whole thing worked out, I didn't even carry a flashlight. I knew the combination, see?”

But his father's face was graver than he had ever seen it before.

“So I have a son who is in training to be a crook!” he said, and there was an anguished quality in his voice that made Rannie writhe. He had never thought his father would take a thing like that to heart.

“Aw, gee! Dad! It wasn't anything serious. It was just old 'xam'nation papers. You oughtn'ta take it so seriously. Nobody else does. They don't think anything of it at school. It's done every year. Last year—”

“I assure you, you are mistaken, my son. They think it a most serious matter. In fact they have written me that they cannot receive you back into the school because of it.”

“Dad!”

Rannie slumped down into his seat, like a tire suddenly punctured.

“But, Dad! They can't do that! I–I–I'm—Why, I'm
cheerleader
in all the games!”

“They have done it, Son. Being a cheerleader won't get you anywhere with a faculty when you have committed a dishonorable act.”

“I don't see how they ever found it out,” said Rannie. “Somebody musta squealed.”

“That has nothing to do with the matter, my son. You committed a crime, and you will have to suffer the consequences.”

“Oh, but Dad, if you write ta them, they'll take me back. They think an awful lotta you!”

“I will not write,” said the father sorrowfully. “You deserve what you are getting, and it is not right that you should get out of it.”

“But, Dad! Just fer pinchin' the exams?”

“Randall, for whose benefit were those tests, those examinations? For the faculty, or for you?”

The boy mused sulkily.

“It's so the faculty can tell who ta promote,” he answered at last, reluctantly.