Chapter 1

THE OAKDALE AFFAIR

By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Chapter One [And only chapter ED.]

The house on the hill showed lights only upon the first floor--in
the spacious reception hall, the dining room, and those more or less
mysterious purlieus thereof from which emanate disagreeable odors and
agreeable foods.

From behind a low bush across the wide lawn a pair of eyes transferred
to an alert brain these simple perceptions from which the brain deduced
with Sherlockian accuracy and Raffleian purpose that the family of the
president of The First National Bank of--Oh, let's call it Oakdale--was
at dinner, that the servants were below stairs and the second floor
deserted.

The owner of the eyes had but recently descended from the quarters of
the chauffeur above the garage which he had entered as a thief in
the night and quitted apparelled in a perfectly good suit of clothes
belonging to the gentlemanly chauffeur and a soft, checked cap which was
now pulled well down over a pair of large brown eyes in which a rather
strained expression might have suggested to an alienist a certain
neophytism which even the stern set of well shaped lips could not
effectually belie.

Apparently this was a youth steeling himself against a natural
repugnance to the dangerous profession he had espoused; and when, a
moment later, he stepped out into the moonlight and crossed the lawn
toward the house, the slender, graceful lines which the ill-fitting
clothes could not entirely conceal carried the conviction of youth if
not of innocence.

The brazen assurance with which the lad crossed the lawn and mounted
the steps to the verandah suggested a familiarity with the habits and
customs of the inmates of the house upon the hill which bespoke long and
careful study of the contemplated job. An old timer could not have moved
with greater confidence. No detail seemed to have escaped his cunning
calculation. Though the door leading from the verandah into the
reception hall swung wide to the balmy airs of late Spring the prowler
passed this blatant invitation to the hospitality of the House of Prim.
It was as though he knew that from his place at the head of the table,
with his back toward the great fire place which is the pride of the
Prim dining hall, Jonas Prim commands a view of the major portion of the
reception hall.

Stooping low the youth passed along the verandah to a window of the
darkened library--a French window which swung open without noise to his
light touch. Stepping within he crossed the room to a door which opened
at the foot of a narrow stairway--a convenient little stairway which
had often let the Hon. Jonas Prim pass from his library to his second
floor bed-room unnoticed when Mrs. Prim chanced to be entertaining the
feminine elite of Oakdale across the hall. A convenient little stairway
for retiring husbands and diffident burglars--yes, indeed!

The darkness of the upper hallway offered no obstacle to this familiar
housebreaker. He passed the tempting luxury of Mrs. Prim's boudoir, the
chaste elegance of Jonas Prim's bed-room with all the possibilities of
forgotten wallets and negotiable papers, setting his course straight
for the apartments of Abigail Prim, the spinster daughter of the First
National Bank of Oakdale. Or should we utilize a more charitable and at
the same time more truthful word than spinster? I think we should, since
Abigail was but nineteen and quite human, despite her name.

Upon the dressing table of Abigail reposed much silver and gold and
ivory, wrought by clever artisans into articles of great beauty and some
utility; but with scarce a glance the burglar passed them by, directing
his course straight across the room to a small wall safe cleverly hidden
by a bit of tapestry.

How, Oh how, this suggestive familiarity with the innermost secrets of a
virgin's sacred apartments upon the part of one so obviously of the
male persuasion and, by his all too apparent calling, a denizen of that
underworld of which no Abigail should have intimate knowledge? Yet,
truly and with scarce a faint indication of groping, though the room was
dark, the marauder walked directly to the hidden safe, swung back the
tapestry in its frame, turned the knob of the combination and in a
moment opened the circular door of the strong box.

A fat roll of bills and a handful of jewelry he transferred to the
pockets of his coat. Some papers which his hand brushed within the safe
he pushed aside as though preadvised of their inutility to one of his
calling. Then he closed the safe door, closed the tapestry upon it and
turned toward a dainty dressing table. From a drawer in this exquisite
bit of Sheraton the burglar took a small, nickel plated automatic, which
he slipped into an inside breast pocket of his coat, nor did he touch
another article therein or thereon, nor hesitate an instant in the
selection of the drawer to be rifled. His knowledge of the apartment of
the daughter of the house of Prim was little short of uncanny. Doubtless
the fellow was some plumber's apprentice who had made good use of an
opportunity to study the lay of the land against a contemplated invasion
of these holy precincts.

But even the most expert of second story men nod and now that all seemed
as though running on greased rails a careless elbow raked a silver
candle-stick from the dressing table to the floor where it crashed
with a resounding din that sent cold shivers up the youth's spine and
conjured in his mind a sudden onslaught of investigators from the floor
below.

The noise of the falling candlestick sounded to the taut nerved
house-breaker as might the explosion of a stick of dynamite during
prayer in a meeting house. That all Oakdale had heard it seemed quite
possible, while that those below stairs were already turning questioning
ears, and probably inquisitive footsteps, upward was almost a foregone
conclusion.

Adjoining Miss Prim's boudoir was her bath and before the door leading
from the one to the other was a cretonne covered screen behind which
the burglar now concealed himself the while he listened in rigid
apprehension for the approach of the enemy; but the only sound that came
to him from the floor below was the deep laugh of Jonas Prim. A profound
sigh of relief escaped the beardless lips; for that laugh assured the
youth that, after all, the noise of the fallen candlestick had not
alarmed the household.

With knees that still trembled a bit he crossed the room and passed out
into the hallway, descended the stairs, and stood again in the library.
Here he paused a moment listening to the voices which came from the
dining room. Mrs. Prim was speaking. “I feel quite relieved about
Abigail,” she was saying. “I believe that at last she sees the wisdom
and the advantages of an alliance with Mr. Benham, and it was almost
with enthusiasm that she left this morning to visit his sister. I am
positive that a week or two of companionship with him will impress upon
her the fine qualities of his nature. We are to be congratulated, Jonas,
upon settling our daughter so advantageously both in the matter of
family and wealth.”

Jonas Prim grunted. “Sam Benham is old enough to be the girl's father,”
he growled. “If she wants him, all right; but I can't imagine Abbie
wanting a bald-headed husband with rheumatism. I wish you'd let her
alone, Pudgy, to find her own mate in her own way--someone nearer her
own age.”

“The child is not old enough to judge wisely for herself,” replied Mrs.
Prim. “It was my duty to arrange a proper alliance; and, Jonas, I will
thank you not to call me Pudgy--it is perfectly ridiculous for a woman
of my age--and position.”

The burglar did not hear Mr. Prim's reply for he had moved across the
library and passed out onto the verandah. Once again he crossed the
lawn, taking advantage of the several trees and shrubs which dotted it,
scaled the low stone wall at the side and was in the concealing shadows
of the unlighted side street which bounds the Prim estate upon the
south. The streets of Oakdale are flanked by imposing battalions of elm
and maple which over-arch and meet above the thoroughfares; and now,
following an early Spring, their foliage eclipsed the infrequent
arclights to the eminent satisfaction of those nocturnal wayfarers
who prefer neither publicity nor the spot light. Of such there are few
within the well ordered precincts of law abiding Oakdale; but to-night
there was at least one and this one was deeply grateful for the gloomy
walks along which he hurried toward the limits of the city.

At last he found himself upon a country road with the odors of Spring
in his nostrils and the world before him. The night noises of the open
country fell strangely upon his ears accentuating rather than relieving
the myriad noted silence of Nature. Familiar sounds became unreal
and weird, the deep bass of innumerable bull frogs took on an uncanny
humanness which sent a half shudder through the slender frame. The
burglar felt a sad loneliness creeping over him. He tried whistling in
an effort to shake off the depressing effects of this seeming
solitude through which he moved; but there remained with him still the
hallucination that he moved alone through a strange, new world peopled
by invisible and unfamiliar forms--menacing shapes which lurked in
waiting behind each tree and shrub.

He ceased his whistling and went warily upon the balls of his feet, lest
he unnecessarily call attention to his presence. If the truth were to
be told it would chronicle the fact that a very nervous and frightened
burglar sneaked along the quiet and peaceful country road outside of
Oakdale. A lonesome burglar, this, who so craved the companionship of
man that he would almost have welcomed joyously the detaining hand of
the law had it fallen upon him in the guise of a flesh and blood police
officer from Oakdale.

In leaving the city the youth had given little thought to the
practicalities of the open road. He had thought, rather vaguely, of
sleeping in a bed of new clover in some hospitable fence corner; but
the fence corners looked very dark and the wide expanse of fields beyond
suggested a mysterious country which might be peopled by almost anything
but human beings.

At a farm house the youth hesitated and was almost upon the verge of
entering and asking for a night's lodging when a savage voiced dog
shattered the peace of the universe and sent the burglar along the road
at a rapid run.

A half mile further on a straw stack loomed large within a fenced
enclosure. The youth wormed his way between the barbed wires determined
at last to let nothing prevent him from making a cozy bed in the deep
straw beside the stack. With courage radiating from every pore he strode
toward the stack. His walk was almost a swagger, for thus does youth
dissemble the bravery it yearns for but does not possess. He almost
whistled again; but not quite, since it seemed an unnecessary
provocation to disaster to call particular attention to himself at this
time. An instant later he was extremely glad that he had refrained, for
as he approached the stack a huge bulk slowly loomed from behind it;
and silhouetted against the moonlit sky he saw the vast proportions of a
great, shaggy bull. The burglar tore the inside of one trousers' leg and
the back of his coat in his haste to pass through the barbed wire fence
onto the open road. There he paused to mop the perspiration from his
forehead, though the night was now far from warm.

For another mile the now tired and discouraged house-breaker plodded,
heavy footed, the unending road. Did vain compunction stir his
youthful breast? Did he regret the safe respectability of the plumber's
apprentice? Or, if he had not been a plumber's apprentice did he yearn
to once again assume the unharried peace of whatever legitimate calling
had been his before he bent his steps upon the broad boulevard of sin?
We think he did.

And then he saw through the chinks and apertures in the half ruined wall
of what had once been a hay barn the rosy flare of a genial light which
appeared to announce in all but human terms that man, red blooded and
hospitable, forgathered within. No growling dogs, no bulking bulls
contested the short stretch of weed grown ground between the road and
the disintegrating structure; and presently two wide, brown eyes were
peering through a crack in the wall of the abandoned building. What they
saw was a small fire built upon the earth floor in the center of the
building and around the warming blaze the figures of six men. Some
reclined at length upon old straw; others squatted, Turk fashion. All
were smoking either disreputable pipes or rolled cigarets. Blear-eyed
and foxy-eyed, bearded and stubbled cheeked, young and old, were the men
the youth looked upon. All were more or less dishevelled and filthy; but
they were human. They were not dogs, or bulls, or croaking frogs. The
boy's heart went out to them. Something that was almost a sob rose in
his throat, and then he turned the corner of the building and stood in
the doorway, the light from the fire playing upon his lithe young figure
clothed in its torn and ill fitting suit and upon his oval face and his
laughing brown eyes. For several seconds he stood there looking at the
men around the fire. None of them had noticed him.

“Tramps!” thought the youth. “Regular tramps.” He wondered that they had
not seen him, and then, clearing his throat, he said: “Hello, tramps!”

Six heads snapped up or around. Six pairs of eyes, blear or foxy,
were riveted upon the boyish figure of the housebreaker. “Wotinel!”
ejaculated a frowzy gentleman in a frock coat and golf cap. “Wheredju
blow from?” inquired another. “'Hello, tramps'!” mimicked a third.

The youth came slowly toward the fire. “I saw your fire,” he said, “and
I thought I'd stop. I'm a tramp, too, you know.”

“Oh,” sighed the elderly person in the frock coat. “He's a tramp, he is.
An' does he think gents like us has any time for tramps? An' where might
he be trampin', sonny, without his maw?”

The youth flushed. “Oh say!” he cried; “you needn't kid me just because
I'm new at it. You all had to start sometime. I've always longed for
the free life of a tramp; and if you'll let me go along with you for a
little while, and teach me, I'll not bother you; and I'll do whatever
you say.”

The elderly person frowned. “Beat it, kid!” he commanded. “We ain't
runnin' no day nursery. These you see here is all the real thing. Maybe
we asks fer a handout now and then; but that ain't our reg'lar way. You
ain't swift enough to travel with this bunch, kid, so you'd better duck.
Why we gents, here, if we was added up is wanted in about twenty-seven
cities fer about everything from rollin' a souse to crackin' a box and
croakin' a bull. You gotta do something before you can train wid gents
like us, see?” The speaker projected a stubbled jaw, scowled horridly
and swept a flattened palm downward and backward at a right angle to a
hairy arm in eloquent gesture of finality.

The boy had stood with his straight, black eyebrows puckered into a
studious frown, drinking in every word. Now he straightened up. “I guess
I made a mistake,” he said, apologetically. “You ain't tramps at all.
You're thieves and murderers and things like that.” His eyes opened a
bit wider and his voice sank to a whisper as the words passed his lips.
“But you haven't so much on me, at that,” he went on, “for I'm a regular
burglar, too,” and from the bulging pockets of his coat he drew two
handfuls of greenbacks and jewelry. The eyes of the six registered
astonishment, mixed with craft and greed. “I just robbed a house in
Oakdale,” explained the boy. “I usually rob one every night.”

For a moment his auditors were too surprised to voice a single emotion;
but presently one murmured, soulfully: “Pipe de swag!” He of the frock
coat, golf cap, and years waved a conciliatory hand. He tried to look at
the boy's face; but for the life of him he couldn't raise his eyes above
the dazzling wealth clutched in the fingers of those two small,
slim hands. From one dangled a pearl necklace which alone might have
ransomed, if not a king, at least a lesser member of a royal family,
while diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds scintillated in the
flaring light of the fire. Nor was the fistful of currency in the other
hand to be sneezed at. There were greenbacks, it is true; but there were
also yellowbacks with the reddish gold of large denominations. The Sky
Pilot sighed a sigh that was more than half gasp.

“Can't yuh take a kid?” he inquired. “I knew youse all along. Yuh can't
fool an old bird like The Sky Pilot--eh, boys?” and he turned to his
comrades for confirmation.

“He's The Oskaloosa Kid,” exclaimed one of the company. “I'd know 'im
anywheres.”

“Pull up and set down,” invited another.

The boy stuffed his loot back into his pockets and came closer to the
fire. Its warmth felt most comfortable, for the Spring night was growing
chill. He looked about him at the motley company, some half-spruce in
clothing that suggested a Kuppenmarx label and a not too far association
with a tailor's goose, others in rags, all but one unshaven and all
more or less dirty--for the open road is close to Nature, which is
principally dirt.

“Shake hands with Dopey Charlie,” said The Sky Pilot, whose age and
corpulency appeared to stamp him with the hall mark of authority. The
youth did as he was bid, smiling into the sullen, chalk-white face and
taking the clammy hand extended toward him. Was it a shudder that
passed through the lithe, young figure or was it merely a subconscious
recognition of the final passing of the bodily cold before the glowing
warmth of the blaze? “And Soup Face,” continued The Sky Pilot. A battered
wreck half rose and extended a pudgy hand. Red whiskers, matted in
little tangled wisps which suggested the dried ingredients of an
infinite procession of semi-liquid refreshments, rioted promiscuously
over a scarlet countenance.

“Pleased to meetcha,” sprayed Soup Face. It was a strained smile
which twisted the rather too perfect mouth of The Oskaloosa Kid, an
appellation which we must, perforce, accept since the youth did not deny
it.

Columbus Blackie, The General, and Dirty Eddie were formally presented.
As Dirty Eddie was, physically, the cleanest member of the band the
youth wondered how he had come by his sobriquet--that is, he wondered
until he heard Dirty Eddie speak, after which he was no longer in doubt.
The Oskaloosa Kid, self-confessed 'tramp' and burglar, flushed at the
lurid obscenity of Dirty Eddie's remarks.

“Sit down, bo,” invited Soup Face. “I guess you're a regular all right.
Here, have a snifter?” and he pulled a flask from his side pocket,
holding it toward The Oskaloosa Kid.

“Thank you, but;--er--I'm on the wagon, you know,” declined the youth.

“Have a smoke?” suggested Columbus Blackie. “Here's the makin's.”

The change in the attitude of the men toward him pleased The Oskaloosa
Kid immensely. They were treating him as one of them, and after the
lonely walk through the dark and desolate farm lands human companionship
of any kind was to him as the proverbial straw to the man who rocked the
boat once too often.

Dopey Charlie and The General, alone of all the company, waxed not
enthusiastic over the advent of The Oskaloosa Kid and his priceless
loot. These two sat scowling and whispering in the back-ground. “Dat's
a wrong guy,” muttered the former to the latter. “He's a stool pigeon or
one of dese amatoor mugs.”

“It's the pullin' of that punk graft that got my goat,” replied The
General. “I never seen a punk yet that didn't try to make you think he
was a wise guy an' dis stiff don't belong enough even to pull a spiel
that would fool a old ladies' sewin' circle. I don't see wot The Sky
Pilot's cozyin' up to him fer.”

“You don't?” scoffed Dopey Charlie. “Didn't you lamp de oyster harness?
To say nothin' of de mitful of rocks and kale.”

“That 'ud be all right, too,” replied the other, “if we could put the
guy to sleep; but The Sky Pilot won't never stand for croakin' nobody.
He's too scared of his neck. We'll look like a bunch o' wise ones, won't
we? lettin' a stranger sit in now--after last night. Hell!” he suddenly
exploded. “Don't you know that you an' me stand to swing if any of de
bunch gets gabby in front of dis phoney punk?”

The two sat silent for a while, The General puffing on a short briar,
Dopey Charlie inhaling deep draughts from a cigarette, and both glaring
through narrowed lids at the boy warming himself beside the fire
where the others were attempting to draw him out the while they strove
desperately but unavailingly to keep their eyes from the two bulging
sidepockets of their guest's coat.

Soup Face, who had been assiduously communing with a pint flask, leaned
close to Columbus Blackie, placing his whiskers within an inch or so
of the other's nose as was his habit when addressing another, and
whispered, relative to the pearl necklace: “Not a cent less 'n fifty
thou, bo!”

“Fertheluvomike!” ejaculated Blackie, drawing back and wiping a palm
quickly across his lips. “Get a plumber first if you want to kiss
me--you leak.”

“He thinks you need a shower bath,” said Dirty Eddie, laughing.

“The trouble with Soup Face,” explained The Sky Pilot, “is that he's got
a idea he's a human atomizer an' that the rest of us has colds.”

“Well, I don't want no atomizer loaded with rot-gut and garlic shot
in my mug,” growled Blackie. “What Soup Face needs is to be learned
ettyket, an' if he comes that on me again I'm goin' to push his mush
through the back of his bean.”

An ugly light came into the blear eyes of Soup Face. Once again he
leaned close to Columbus Blackie. “Not a cent less 'n fifty thou, you
tinhorn!” he bellowed, belligerent and sprayful.

Blackie leaped to his feet, with an oath--a frightful, hideous oath--and
as he rose he swung a heavy fist to Soup Face's purple nose. The latter
rolled over backward; but was upon his feet again much quicker than one
would have expected in so gross a bulk, and as he came to his feet a
knife flashed in his hand. With a sound that was more bestial than human
he ran toward Blackie; but there was another there who had anticipated
his intentions. As the blow was struck The Sky Pilot had risen; and
now he sprang forward, for all his age and bulk as nimble as a cat, and
seized Soup Face by the wrist. A quick wrench brought a howl of pain to
the would-be assassin, and the knife fell to the floor.

“You gotta cut that if you travel with this bunch,” said The Sky Pilot
in a voice that was new to The Oskaloosa Kid; “and you, too, Blackie,”
he continued. “The rough stuff don't go with me, see?” He hurled Soup
Face to the floor and resumed his seat by the fire.

The youth was astonished at the physical strength of this old man,
seemingly so softened by dissipation; but it showed him the source of
The Sky Pilot's authority and its scope, for Columbus Blackie and Soup
Face quitted their quarrel immediately.

Dirty Eddie rose, yawned and stretched. “Me fer the hay,” he announced,
and lay down again with his feet toward the fire. Some of the others
followed his example. “You'll find some hay in the loft there,” said The
Sky Pilot to The Oskaloosa Kid. “Bring it down an' make your bed here by
me, there's plenty room.”

A half hour later all were stretched out upon the hard dirt floor upon
improvised beds of rotted hay; but not all slept. The Oskaloosa Kid,
though tired, found himself wider awake than he ever before had been.
Apparently sleep could never again come to those heavy eyes. There
passed before his mental vision a panorama of the events of the night.
He smiled as he inaudibly voiced the name they had given him, the right
to which he had not seen fit to deny. “The Oskaloosa Kid.” The boy
smiled again as he felt the 'swag' hard and lumpy in his pockets. It
had given him prestige here that he could not have gained by any other
means; but he mistook the nature of the interest which his display of
stolen wealth had aroused. He thought that the men now looked upon
him as a fellow criminal to be accepted into the fraternity through
achievement; whereas they suffered him to remain solely in the hope of
transferring his loot to their own pockets.

It is true that he puzzled them. Even The Sky Pilot, the most astute
and intelligent of them all, was at a loss to fathom The Oskaloosa Kid.
Innocence and unsophistication flaunted their banners in almost every
act and speech of The Oskaloosa Kid. The youth reminded him in some ways
of members of a Sunday school which had flourished in the dim vistas of
his past when, as an ordained minister of the Gospel, he had earned the
sobriquet which now identified him. But the concrete evidence of the
valuable loot comported not with The Sky Pilot's idea of a Sunday school
boy's lark. The young fellow was, unquestionably, a thief; but that he
had ever before consorted with thieves his speech and manners belied.

“He's got me,” murmured The Sky Pilot; “but he's got the stuff on him,
too; and all I want is to get it off of him without a painful operation.
Tomorrow'll do,” and he shifted his position and fell asleep.

Dopey Charlie and The General did not, however, follow the example of
their chief. They remained very wide awake, a little apart from the
others, where their low whispers could not be overheard.

“You better do it,” urged The General, in a soft, insinuating voice.
“You're pretty slick with the toad stabber, an' any way one more or less
won't count.”

“We can go to Sout' America on dat stuff an' live like gents,” muttered
Dopey Charlie. “I'm goin' to cut out de Hop an' buy a farm an' a
ottymobeel and--”

“Come out of it,” admonished The General. “If we're lucky we'll get as
far as Cincinnati, get a stew on and get pinched. Den one of us'll hang
an' de other get stir fer life.”

The General was a weasel faced person of almost any age between
thirty-five and sixty. Sometimes he could have passed for a hundred
and ten. He had won his military title as a boy in the famous march of
Coxey's army on Washington, or, rather, the title had been conferred
upon him in later years as a merited reward of service. The General,
profiting by the precepts of his erstwhile companions in arms, had never
soiled his military escutcheon by labor, nor had he ever risen to the
higher planes of criminality. Rather as a mediocre pickpocket and
a timorous confidence man had he eked out a meager existence, amply
punctuated by seasons of straight bumming and intervals spent as the
guest of various inhospitably hospitable states. Now, for the first time
in his life, The General faced the possibility of a serious charge; and
his terror made him what he never before had been, a dangerous criminal.

“You're a cheerful guy,” commented Dopey Charlie; “but you may be right
at dat. Dey can't hang a guy any higher fer two 'an they can fer one
an' dat's no pipe; so wots de use. Wait till I take a shot--it'll be
easier,” and he drew a small, worn case from an inside pocket, bared
his arm to the elbow and injected enough morphine to have killed a dozen
normal men.

From a pile of mouldy hay across the barn the youth, heavy eyed but
sleepless, watched the two through half closed lids. A qualm of disgust
sent a sudden shudder through his slight frame. For the first time he
almost regretted having embarked upon a life of crime. He had seen
that the two men were conversing together earnestly, though he could
over-hear nothing they said, and that he had been the subject of their
nocturnal colloquy, for several times a glance or a nod in his direction
assured him of this. And so he lay watching them--not that he was
afraid, he kept reassuring himself, but through curiosity. Why should
he be afraid? Was it not a well known truth that there was honor among
thieves?

But the longer he watched the heavier grew his lids. Several times they
closed to be dragged open again only by painful effort. Finally came a
time that they remained closed and the young chest rose and fell in the
regular breathing of slumber.

The two ragged, rat-hearted creatures rose silently and picked their
way, half-crouched, among the sleepers sprawled between them and The
Oskaloosa Kid.