“’N’ ye niver heard anny more uv him?”

“No—I wrote him a letter when my mother died, but I never got any answer. Maybe I sent it to the wrong place. Did you ever hear of a place called O’Brien’s Junction out there?”

“It’s a good name, I’ll say that,” said Pete.

“Everybody used to say he’d make money some day. Maybe he’s rich now, hey?”

“I remimber all uv yez when yez used fer ter worrk fer Schmitt, here,” said Pete.

“It reminded me of that when I came along.”

“Yer fayther, he used fer ter drive th’ wagon fer ’im. Big Bill ’n’ Little Bill, we used fer ter call him ’n’ yer bruther. Yer fayther wuzn’ fond uv worrk, I guess.”

“He used to get cramps,” said Tom simply.

“He used fer ter lick yez, I’m thinkin’.”

“Maybe we deserved to get licked,” said Tom. “Anyway I did.”

“Yer right, ye did,” agreed Pete.

“My brother was better than I was. It made me mad when I saw him get licked. I could feel it way down in my fingers, kind of—the madness. That’s why he went to live at Schmitt’s after my father got so he couldn’t work much. They always had lots to eat at Schmitt’s. I didn’t ever work there myself,” he added with his customary blunt honesty, “because I was a hoodlum.”

“Wal, I see ye’ve growed up ter be a foine lad, jist the same,” said Pete consolingly, “’n’ mebbe the lad as kin feel the tingles ter see’s bruther git licked unfair is as good as that same bruther, whativer!”

Tom said nothing, but gazed up at the windows of the apartment above the store where the Schmitts had lived. How he had once envied Bill his place in that home of good cheer and abundance! He remembered the sauerkraut and the sausages which Bill had told him of, and he had not believed Bill’s extravagant declaration that “at Schmitt’s you could have all you want to eat.” To poor Tom, living with his wretched father in the two-room tenement in Barrel Alley, with nothing to eat at all, these accounts of the Schmitt household had seemed like a tale from the Arabian Nights. Once his father had sent him there to get fifty cents from thrifty and industrious Bill, and Tom remembered the shiny oilcloth on the kitchen floor, the snowy white fluted paper on the shelves, the stiff, spotless apron on the buxom form of Mrs. Schmitt, whom Mr. Schmitt had called “Mooder.”

Tom Slade, of Barrel Alley, had revenged himself on Bill and all the rest of this by stealing apples from the front of the store and calling, “Dirty Dutchman”—a singularly inappropriate epithet—at Mr. Schmitt. But he realized now that Mr. Schmitt had been a kind and hospitable man, a much better husband and father than poor Bill Slade, senior, had ever been, and an extremely good friend to lucky Bill, junior, who had lived so near to Heaven, in that immaculate home, as to have all the sauerkraut and sausage and potato salad and rye bread and Swiss cheese and coffee cake that he could possibly manage—and more besides.

“What became of the Schmitts?” Tom asked.

“It’s aisy ter see ye’ve ben away from here,” said Pete.

“I’ve only been back five days,” Tom explained.

“Wal, if ye’d been here two weeks ago, ye’d know more’n ye know now about it. Ye’re a jack ashore, that’s what ye are. Ye’ve got ter be spruced up on the news. Did ye know the school house burned down?”

“Yes, I knew that.”

“Wal—about this Schmitt, here; thar wuz two detectives come out from Noo Yorrk—from the Fideral phad’ye call it. They wuz making inquiries about Schmitt. Fer th’ wan thing he wuz an aly-an, ’n’ they hed some raysons to think he wuz mixed up in plots. They wuz mighty close-mouthed about it, so I heerd, ’n’ they asked more’n they told. Nivir within half a mile uv Schmitt did they go, but by gorry, he gits wind uv it ’n’ th’ nixt mornin’ not so much as a sign uv him wuz thar left.

“Cleared out, loike that,” said Pete, clapping his hands and spreading his arms by way of illustrating how Adolf Schmitt had vanished in air.

“Thar wuz th’ grocery full uv stuff and all, ’n’ the furnitoor upstairs, but Adolf ’n’ the old wooman ’n’ th’ kids ’n’ sich duds ez they cud cram inter their bags wuz gone—bury drawers lift wide open, ez if they’d went in a ghreat hurry.”

Tom had listened in great surprise. “What—do—you—know—about—that?” he gasped when Pete at last paused.

“It’s iviry blessed worrd that I know. I’m thinkin’ he wint ter Germany, mebbe.”

“How could he get there?” Tom asked.

“Wouldn’t thim Dutch skippers in Noo Yorrk Harrbor help him out?” Pete shouted. “Gerrmany, Holland—’tis all th’ same. Thar’s ways uv gittin’ thar, you kin thrust the Germans. They’re comin’ and goin’ back all the toime.”

“What do you suppose they suspected him of?” Tom asked, his astonishment still possessing him.

“Nivir a worrd wud they say, but ye kin bet yer Uncle Sammy’s not spyin’ around afther people fer nuthin’. They searched the store aftherworrds, but nary a thing cud they find.”

So that was the explanation of the now vacant store which had been so much a part of the life of Tom Slade and his poor, shiftless family. That was the end, so far as Bridgeboro was concerned, of the jovial, good-hearted grocer, and Fritzie and little Emmy and “Mooder” in her stiff, spotless white apron. It seemed almost unbelievable.

“A Hun is a Hun,” said Pete, “’n’ that’s all thar is to’t.”

“What did they do with all the stuff?” Tom asked.

Pete shrugged his shoulders. “Mister Temple, he owns th’ buildin’ an’ he hed it cleared out, ’n’ now he leaves them Red Cross ladies use it fer ter make bandages ’n’ phwat all, ’n’ collect money fer their campaign. He’s a ghrand man, Mister Temple. Would ye gimme a lift wid this here table, now, while ye’re here, Tommy?”

As they carried the table across the sidewalk, a group of ladies came down the block and whom should Tom see among them but Mrs. Temple and her daughter Mary. As he looked at Mary (whom he used to tease and call “stuck up”) he realized that he was not the only person in Bridgeboro who had been growing up, for she was quite a young lady, and very pretty besides.

“Why, Thomas, how do you do!” said Mrs. Temple. “I heard you were back——”

“And you never came to see us,” interrupted Mary.

“I only got back Tuesday,” said Tom, a little flustered.

He told them briefly of his trip and when the little chat was over Pete Connigan had disappeared.

“I wonder if you wouldn’t be willing to move one or two things for us?” Mrs. Temple asked. “Have you time? I meant to ask the truckman, but——”

“He may be too old to be a scout any more, but he’s not too old to do a good turn,” teased Mary.

They entered the store where the marks of the departed store fixtures were visible along the walls and Schmitt’s old counter stood against one side. Piles of Red Cross literature now lay upon it. Upon a rough makeshift table were boxes full of yarn (destined to keep many a long needle busy) and the place was full of the signs of its temporary occupancy.