Earl Derr Biggers

The Ebony Stick

Warsaw 2017

Contents

AT nine o’clock on a bright June morning Clay Garrett, colored, intermittent sweeper and duster of the leading bank in a large Texas city, opened the heavy doors that led from the street into that most marble of bank interiors. Two minutes later–this being also part of the regular schedule–Major Tellfair, white-haired but erect, crossed the threshold, nodded to Clay and to the boys behind the bars, and passed into the office where he ruled as president. There he opened his desk, lighted a cigar, and began the perusal of his morning paper.

He had got no farther than the headlines of the first page when the door of his office opened and young Dick Merrill of the Silver Star Ranch came in. Merrill was covered with the dust he had collected on his ride in from the ranch that morning. Lighting his face was the Merrill smile, human and kindly, and it brought the major to his feet in hearty welcome.

“Sit down, Dick,” he said. “Beautiful morning, ain’t it? How are things out at the Silver Star?”

“The Silver Star’s all right,” Merrill answered. “But, say, I got a cablegram from Bob this morning.” He explored a pocket. “Here it is. I wish you’d read it. Bob’s in Italy–at a place called Rome–over there among them I-talians.”

His tone was as disapproving as the pleasant Merrill tone could be. He deposited his husky length in a mahogany chair and waited for the major to adjust his glasses. The bank president noted the truth of Merrill’s scornful statement as to Rome, and then read the message slowly:

Cable thousand dollars immediately. Care National Express. Keep matter under hat, Bob.

“What do you make of it, major?” Merrill asked.

The major smiled.

“It looks to me like somebody had annexed your brother’s roll,” he replied.

“That’s how I figure it,” Merrill said, also with a smile. “He’s been in Italy less than a week too–they work fast, them boys. Bob had two thousand dollars small change, along with all his tickets, which he bought from this man Cook in New York. I hope they didn’t clean him out of those too. Well, it serves him right for wandering off the range. He ain’t got no business over on the other side.”

The major cleared his throat.

“I don’t wish to seem inquisitive,” he said. “But I was utterly at a loss to understand your brother’s sudden dash for Europe, particularly at a time when the nations over there are engaged in the most bloody and terrible warfare–”

“A woman,” interrupted Dick Merrill. “It was a woman that done it. Maybe you remember her–Celia Ware–she used to sing at church concerts hereabouts a few years back.”

“Ah, yes, I have heard her sing,” said Major Tellfair reminiscently.

“You’ll hear her again,” said Merrill, “l reckon you don’t pay much attention to such things, but old Bob sure was far gone on her. And she seemed to think a heap of him too.”

“Naturally,” nodded the major.

“But when it came to a showdown she picked her art. Wedded to music she was. Went over to Italy to get better acquainted with it. Bob got a letter from her ‘bout a month back: wants to divorce her art now. Maybe it’s grounds of non-support, maybe the war’s upset her, maybe she just naturally loves old Bob–I don’t know. Anyhow, she told him to come for her, and they’re to be married over there: in Florence. Ain’t that a devil of a sissy name for a town?”

“It’s an Italian name, I believe,” responded the major. “Miss Ware struck me as a singularly attractive young woman. I’m sure I congratulate your brother most heartily.”

“Oh, Celia’s all right,” said Merrill. “How she’ll pan out on a ranch I don’t know, but she’s a mighty fine girl, even if she did drag poor old Bob all them thousands of miles to Italy.”

“We must send him his thousand,” mused the major. “No man wants to be broke on his wedding day.”

“Sure: dig into his account and send it along,” agreed Merrill. “He’s boss, and it’s his money. Shoot it to him. Only I wish he hadn’t been so all-fired brief. I wonder what happened. Bob’s too childlike and simple to wander around among them I-talians. Somebody got to him. I wonder–oh, well–send him the money, major: I leave it to you.”

The major promised to attend to the matter immediately, and Dick Merrill, still wondering, set out for the Silver Star Ranch.

There was a rumor in that Texas city to the effect that Major Tellfair was growing too old and forgetful for the position he held, and, unkind as this assertion sounds, subsequent events seemed to justify it. The gentle old president turned back for a moment to his newspaper. Shortly after he was interrupted by the cashier, who had an important matter to discuss. The cabled appeal from Bob Merrill slipped out of sight on his cluttered desk, and for two days the Texas ranchman waited forlorn in the city of Rome.

He might have waited indefinitely had not Clay Garrett, the aged negro custodian of the bank, been a devotee of that art which has made Caruso wealthy. On the third day following the visit of Dick Merrill to the bank, Major Tellfair entered at two minutes past nine in the morning to hear Clay giving a spirited rendering of a favorite song. Fortunately for Bob Merrill, two lines of that song reached the ears of the major:

“Darling–Ah am growin’ ol’–
Silver threads among the gol’–”

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.