The mystery of the missing eyebrows
fellow, “and I promised her I’d see he didn’t carry one long,” he
added. “Give the boy the first one you have which is a tough deal. And
rough it up on him all you can.”
“Mr. Horn,” George Bruce looked directly into the older man’s eyes,
“we have some routes which don’t need the least bit of roughing up
to make them tough propositions for men like me and even you. One is
vacant right now. The business manager wants me to drop that route, and
I’ve almost decided to do so since it has long been a dead loss on our
hands.”
He thumped his fist on the table. “I’m going to put your son out there,
and because I still believe that that route can be made into a paying
proposition I’m going to expect him to make good. I’m doing what you
ask me to do--am I not?”
“And,” he continued after Mr. Horn had given him a hesitant nod, “If he
fails you will have your wish; if he succeeds I’m going to have mine.”
He didn’t speak again until Mr. Horn was out of the room and then he
swung around in his swivel chair and faced his alert stenographer.
“Miss Newell,” he said, and there was a gleam of interest in his keen
blue eyes, “I’m anxious to see that boy. Mr. Horn’s a king of finance.
Mrs. Horn is a society queen. The young prince--well, let’s see how he
wears the family coronets.”
CHAPTER III.
A STRANGE MAN AT A WINDOW.
Late that afternoon, at four o’clock to be exact, Renfro Horn entered
the circulation manager’s office. Behind him lay a line of offices thru
which he had passed, and a line of men with whom he had argued and
urged his way to this seeming potentate of The Globe.
“Mr. Bruce doesn’t see applicants for routes” he had been told exactly
seven times.
But now he was in Mr. Bruce’s office and looking directly at that man,
who was dictating a letter to Miss Newell, his stenographer. Renfro
with his hat in his hand stared around the big room, as simply and well
furnished as his own father’s private office. He liked the pictures
on the walls--some of which were the originals from which the Globe’s
daily cartoons had been made and others, photographs of men famous in
the newspaper world, who had started their careers as route carriers.
Renfro was studying a photograph of a full faced man with a high
forehead when Mr. Bruce finished his letter and looked at him. And
he liked him immediately for the boyish way he had of smiling, the
cordial gleam in his eyes and the sincere tone of his voice while he
had dictated.
“I’m Renfro Horn,” he said, “and I want to buy a route if there is one
vacant.”
Mr. Bruce started. “Oh, yes,” he narrowed his eyes and Renfro realized
that he felt those same shrewd eyes grasping for his past, his present
and future ability all at once. “Any particular part of town, son?”
“Yes sir, out south whenever there’s a vacancy, Mr.--”
“Bruce” finished the other.
“I would like to have the Washington Avenue route--the one farthest
out,” Renfro finished.
“Who told you it was vacant?”
Renfro’s eyes flashed. “Is it right now?” he asked and added, “I was
afraid I would have to wait a while for it.”
“Some fellow has been stringing him on that route,” George Bruce
thought immediately. Out loud he began, “Now, son--”
Then he remembered the promise he had made Renfro’s father. This was
a worse route even than the one he had in mind when he had talked to
Mr. Horn that morning. It was a dead loss. Pride alone kept George
Bruce from stopping that route. The Globe’s rival paper claimed that
they made money on their paper in that part of town, and until he had
discredited that claim George Bruce was determined to keep that route
alive.
Yet only that morning Andy Andrews had announced that after today
he would make no more trips on that route. Here before him was his
salvation. Mr. Horn had wanted his boy to make a failure. All day
whenever George Bruce remembered the interview that morning he had
hoped the boy would succeed. Now after he had seen Renfro he wanted him
more than ever to succeed. “And he hasn’t a chance there,” he admitted
to himself.
“You won’t make much money out there at first, son,” he talked slowly.
“In fact the boy who has been out there has lost so much that he gave
up the route this morning.”
“I can build it up,” Renfro’s eyes held entreaty.
George Bruce nodded. “Slowly,” he returned.
“Do I get it?”
Robert Bruce looked up and down Renfro’s sturdy body, at his determined
dark blue eyes, at his boyish stern mouth. “Yes,” he answered, “and if
you make good out there you can have your choice of any route in town.”
He turned to Miss Newell. “Call Morrison, please.”
He was still studying Renfro when Morrison, the route manager, for the
south side of Lindendale entered the office. “This is Renfro Horn,
Morrison,” he told the younger man. “He is to have Old Grief route.
Andrews gave it up this morning.”
“Yes sir, he was telling me so,” Morrison looked keenly at Renfro.
“He’s waiting now to take some other boy out to teach him the route.
Shall I take him?” he nodded at Renfro.
“Renfro Horn” the circulation manager supplied the missing name. “Yes,
do, please.”
In the outer office Renfro asked permission to telephone his father. “I
don’t want them to worry if I’m late” he explained.
“Oh, you’ll be late all right.” Morrison laughed easily. “Andy’ll tell
you about that.”
When Renfro came back from the telephone Morrison had completed his
survey of him. “You’ve got good legs, Horn,” he admitted, “and can walk
that route. It’s all over everywhere. Now get good ears, listen to what
Andy tells you tonight and I tell you later. We’ve got lots of tough
customers out there, and I want you to watch them. See?”
“And say,” he went on before Renfro could answer, “I don’t like your
name. It sounds too much like a map name. Get something human to use
for a carrier name. Ever have a nickname?”
Another question without an answer--all due to the speed with which he
talked. “I’ll give you a good one--Hooch, if you please--Hooch Horn.
Sounds good--doesn’t it? It has a business like twang to it. So I’ll
just let it go.”
He hurried “Hooch” out to the hall in which Andy was waiting. He
introduced the two boys, gave them car fare to the station at which
their papers were delivered and hurried them away. “I’m giving you
the east route you asked for, Andy,” he said, “but it will cost you
something rather high. Old Grief is the only route the Globe has to
give away.”
Andy chatted all the way out to the station. A steady stream of
questions followed his description of what he termed “the poorest
paying and hardest route in the city.”
Who had wished Old Grief on Renfro? How had Morrison gotten hold of
him? Would he ask for another route as he went broke on Old Grief? And
finally how much experience had he had with route work?
Renfro, recently christened “Hooch,” evaded all direct answers. It was
almost dusk when they reached the station. He helped Andy tear open
the two packages of papers waiting for them there, stuff them into the
paper bag and carry them down the street.
“We’ll throw them tonight,” Andy was a virtual dictator this last trip
of his. “But when it’s windy or rainy you want to be sure to get them
on the porch. Nobody wants to come out here to run down complaints.”
“There’s the worst dead beat in town, Hooch,” he pointed toward a shot
gun house far back in a narrow yard. “He’ll try to get you--does every
new boy. Turn him down. He owes me $1.65.”
They turned the corner and Andy pointed down the street, “Out there--”
his finger went out directly in a line with his face--“there in that
big old house lives the queerest man in the country. No, not in the
house” he corrected himself, “it’s too rummy a shell for anybody to
live in. But in a cabin out there. I went out last night and bought
six rabbits and every one of ’em was shot clean thru the head--the
prettiest shots I ever saw. Go out some time.”
“Was he in the shack you say?”
“Yep,” Andy rolled the paper for the next customer, “I went to the door
but I didn’t get in. It looked interesting but he shut the door while
he hunted out my rabbits. Queer old bird!”
Renfro wished that their route took them out to the white house so
that he could see whether or not there was a light there tonight. In
the library at noon he had walked past the case of old coins and was
reminded of the counterfeiting story Clint had told him.
If Captain Pete’s brother had returned he might be making that sort
of coin again. But his thoughts were cut short by an exclamation from
Andy. A heavy set old man leading a dog by a heavy strap, had jostled
into them. The dog barked sharply and tugged at the strap, but the
man quieted him without a jerk or command--just a simple Scotch name
muttered in a tone rich with a Scotch accent “Lang Tammy.”
And the dog had followed him obediently.
“That old Bird’s a new inhabitant out here,” Andy stared after the
pair. “Suppose he’ll be wanting to start the paper, Hooch. Look out for
him, and get his money first. Remember what they say about the perils
of parting a Scotchman and his money.”
Renfro tried to watch the old man with occasional glances over his
shoulder but Andy raced him along. The old man had not turned off the
long street when he disappeared in the dusk.
“I don’t believe I’ll remember all these places,” Renfro ventured to
remark.
“Then forget the ones who owe accounts.” Andy laughed facetiously and
hurried still more. “This is a case where I’m not prolonging any fond
farewells,” he ended slyly. “Will you, Hooch, when you leave?”
“Oh, I’ll stay,” retorted Renfro and again Andy laughed.
Renfro thought of that laugh the next afternoon as he passed along the
route. And it was a long, slow trip. He had remembered very few houses
at which Andy had left the Evening Globe. After trying to make out
landmarks which he remembered from the night before and failing to do
so Renfro had adopted his own way of locating customers.
When in doubt he merely went to the front door and asked their names
and what paper they took.
The street lights were on when he reached Wayne Street--the street Andy
had termed the aristocratic portion of his route. “Everybody takes the
paper here and everybody pays for it,” he had given the information
proudly, “Even to Judge Wier, the old duffer.”
“Paying promptly is his policy,” Andy tried to be witty. “The fellows
he sentences in court can tell you that, and he gives generous tips
besides payment in full.”
At the corner Renfro slipped off his gloves and blew on his fingers
to warm them. The wind was losing its volume, but the temperature was
dropping. The ice in the gutter had a hard, unmelting look. Little
flurries of snow played around the light globe like myriads of tiny
bugs in summer.
“I’ll fold my papers at the drug store tomorrow evening,” Renfro
growled. Andy might have told him that. He might have been a little
more definite, too, in showing him the route.
A big, wooly dog brushed past him and ran down the street. “Lang Tammy”
Renfro remembered the name the Scotchman had used the afternoon before,
“I wonder if that could be he. He was just about that size. He--”
And then he stopped abruptly in the middle of the block. Directly
across the street from him was Judge Wier’s old fashioned brick house.
The front room was dark, but the room back of it was lighted and the
window blind raised more than half way.
The light coming from it struck the shrubbery and showed a dark figure
lurking there. The house next door was dark. Walking slowly on so
as not to arouse the lurking figure’s suspicion, Renfro watched him
stealthily.
Suddenly the light in the room was dimmed, and the front room became
brilliantly lighted. At the same minute the lurking figure slouched out