As he pa.s.sed the crowded stores he saw the turkeys, the chickens, the oysters, the apples--all of which he might have bought with the lost bill. "What use is there to be honest?" he asked of himself. Without knowing what he did, nor from whence came the resolution, he discovered that he determined to steal a turkey! And he did not feel guilty; it seemed as if he had no conscience. Something stilled that hitherto relentless foe to vice which virtue calls conscience and his whole being throbbed with the delights of the sin that is condemned in the ten commandments. Stealing? "Thou shalt not steal." But he did not feel that he was stealing, so where was the sin? Despising only the level to which his fortunes had fallen he saw without a conscience, without a moral fear. It all seemed so natural that he should take home a turkey, the cranberries and all the little "goodies" that his spare table required to make it strain with surprise on the glad day-tomorrow.
Digby forgot that he had lost the bill, forgot that Kate had treated him so strangely, forgot that but an hour ago he had been lamenting the wrong he was doing Joe Delapere in spending his money. Approaching a big grocery and general provision store he calmly stepped inside, pa.s.sing along the counters with the air of a man who lived solely on turkey and wine sauce. Scores of purchasers thronged the big establishment and dozens of clerks were kept busy, providing for them.
As Mr. Trotter walked through the store he viewed the baskets which stood along the counters, laden with the belongings of customers, ready for the delivery wagons or for their owners who had left them while they visited other stores. Nearly every basket contained a bird of some sort--a Christmas dinner, in fact. Each had a slip of paper on which the name of the owner was written. As he pa.s.sed the second counter he observed a well-filled basket and he stopped to examine the name. "Mrs.
John P. Matthews," was written on the slip. This was his basket, thought he, calmly and without compunction. Then he began to price the articles on the shelves near by. This was his style of bargaining:
"What is your cocoa worth a pound? Sure it"s fresh?"
"Certainly, sir; it"s Baker"s best."
"Baker"s? We never use it. Let me look at that chocolate. I guess I"ll take some of it"--and his hand went slowly into his pocket--"but, hold on! We"ve got chocolate! Confound my forgetfulness; I"ll buy out your store directly. Do you keep mince meat?"
"Yes, sir--over at that counter. Just step over there, please. Mr.
Carew will wait on you."
Digby felt that he had established an ident.i.ty at the counter on which stood the Matthews basket, so he walked over to the other counter, priced sweet potatoes, and was immediately directed to the provision department in the rear. He found the potatoes too high, the apples too sweet, the macaroni too old and the buckwheat not the brand he used--all of which was quite true.
Ten minutes later he drifted back to the second counter, smiled cheerfully at the clerk, picked up the basket and started for the door, stopping beside a barrel of dried apples to run his fingers through the contents and to nibble one of the gritty chunks. He was squeezing his way hastily through the crowd, nearing the door, when a hand was laid firmly on his left shoulder. Turning quickly he found himself gazing into the face of a stranger, fairly well dressed and not overly intelligent in appearance.
"Is that your basket, sir?" asked the stranger, calmly.
"Of course, it is," exclaimed Digby, hastily, a red flush flying to his now guilty cheek, fading away, as the snow goes before the sun, an instant later. Caught!
"I think this basket belongs to a lady, sir."
"My wife," interjected the culprit. "She was with me and went on to another store. Why, what do you mean!" he suddenly demanded, realising that it was high time to appear injured. "Do you think I"m a thief!"
"No, sir; but will you tell me your name--or your wife"s name? Merely to satisfy me, you see; I"m a watchman here."
"Matthews is my name, sir--and so"s my wife"s--John P. Matthews. Is that satisfactory?"
The man slowly turned over the slip in the basket and read the name.
"Are you quite sure that it is your name?" he asked, deliberately, looking keenly at Digby.
"Certainly! Do you think I don"t know my own name?" demanded Digby with an excellent show of asperity.
"Then this is not your basket, sir, and I am sorry to say that you will have to be detained until you can give a satisfactory explanation."
Digby"s eyes fairly stuck from his head and his face was as white as the proverbial sheet.
"Not my--not Mrs. Matthews" basket!" he stammered, clutching the slip in his trembling fingers. His eyes grew blurred with amazement an instant later. He pa.s.sed his hand before them and when he took it away there was a wild, half insane stare in them. He looked again at the slip and read: "Mrs. Digby Trotter, Voxburgh building."
His nerveless arm relinquished the basket to the hand of the stranger and his puzzled eyes sought the floor in a long stare, broken presently by the voice in his ear:
"Come along. Step back here with me."
Digby shook the man"s hand from his arm and, as he turned to follow him, asked hoa.r.s.ely:
"Where is she now?"
"Who?"
"My wife of course--Mrs. Trotter."
"Well, you"re a bird!" exclaimed his guardian. "How about Mrs.
Matthews?"
"Good Heavens, what have I done--I--I--look here, man. It"s a mistake--"
"No, you don"t--mistakes don"t go. A man ought to know his own name."
Digby saw no one, heard no one but the man beside him as he stumbled along, pleading with his eyes, his mouth, his every expression. He did not observe the lady against whom he roughly jostled, but the lady turned in time to hear him say in piteous accents:
"Man, for G.o.d"s sake, don"t be too hasty--; I---"
"Oh, let up; we"re onto you! This ain"t your basket and you took it, that"s all there is about it. Come on!" gruffly jerked out the man at his elbow.
"But where is Mrs. Trotter? I want to--I must see her."
"Here I am, Digby. What is the matter?" cried a well known voice in his ear. That voice had never sounded so sweet to him, nor had its sweetness ever sounded so much like condemnation to his wretched soul.
"Kate!" he gasped.
"What is it?" she demanded hurriedly. "What does this man want?" The man was staring blankly at the pair, stock still with amazement.
"He says I--I have been trying to steal this basket. It"s our--yours, I mean, isn"t it? Tell him so, Kate--quick!" cried the miserable man with the plaintive coat collar turned up about his neck.
"This is our basket, sir," indignantly exclaimed Mrs. Trotter.
"I know it is yours, Mrs. Trotter; I saw you buying the stuff, but--"
"Don"t haggle here any longer!" exclaimed Mr. Trotter, boldly now. "Let go of my arm!"
"I beg your pardon, sir. If the lady says it"s all right, why, it is--but you know you said your name was--"
"You lie, sir!" said Digby, sternly. "I never said anything of the kind. Mrs. Trotter have you paid for this stuff?"
"No--I was not through ordering, but what does all this mean, Digby?"
whispered the mystified saviour, feeling herself the shame-faced centre of a group of wondering people.
"Never mind now," said her husband, with dignity. "And you, sir, unpack this basket. We don"t want a cent"s worth of your goods."
"Oh, Digby--" began Kate.
"My dear Mr. Trotter,"--began the luckless attache, but Digby silenced them both by suddenly grasping his wife"s arm and striding toward the door, he defiantly, conscience stricken, she bewildered beyond all hope of description.
A moment later they were on the pavement and Digby was racking his brain for an explanation. How was he to account to her for his possession of that basket, even though it was hers? It did not occur to him to wonder how she came to be the owner of the coveted basket--his penniless Kate.