The Black Wolf Pack | Page 2

wait for him at the curb. That is how the trouble started. I got part way around on the hill when that cylinder began missing a lot and next thing I knew the motor stalled and there was I with my car crosswise on the hill, blocking traffic--and traffic is heavy on Front Street hill about five o'clock, because all the mills are rushing their trucks down to the piers with the last loads of merchandise before the down-river boats leave, at six o'clock.
In about two minutes I was holding up a line of trucks a block long and those drivers were saying a lot of things that were not very complimentary to me and not printed in Sunday-school papers. And old Blink Broosmore was right up at the head of the line with a truck load of cases from the box factory and the look on his face was about as ugly as a mud turtle's. Then, to make matters worse, my starter wouldn't work at the critical moment, and I had to get out to crank the engine. What a howl of indignation went up from those stalled truck drivers! I felt like a bad two-cent piece in a drawer full of five-dollar gold pieces. Guess my face was red behind my ears.
And then old Blink made the unkindest remark of all--no, he didn't make it to me; he just yelled it out to a couple of other truck-drivers.
"That's what happens with these make-believe dudes," he shouted. "That's the kid old Skin Flint Crawford took out of an orphan asylum. He's a kid that old Crawford took up with because he was too mean t' have t' Lord bless him with one o' his own. That's straight, fellers. I was Crawford's gardener when it happened an'--"
Old Blink stopped and got red and then white, and I could see the other truck men looking uncomfortable. I looked up and there was Dad Crawford on the curb boring holes into Blink with those cold gray eyes of his and looking as white as marble. No one said a word. It seemed as if the whole street became hushed and silent. I got the car around to the curb somehow and dad got in and the line of trucks trundled by with every driver looking straight ahead and some of them grinning nervously and apparently feeling mighty uncomfortable.
But that wasn't a patch to the way I felt, and I could see by the lack of color and set expression of dad's face and the way he stared straight ahead of him without saying a word that he was feeling very unhappy about it too. There was something behind it all--something that raised in my mind vague doubts and very unpleasant thoughts.
Dad never spoke a word all the way home, and, needless to say, I did not either--I couldn't; my whole world seemed to have been turned upside down in the space of half an hour. Was it true that I was not Donald Crawford? Was it possible that Alexander Crawford, this fine, big, broad-shouldered, kindly man beside me was not my real father? Was it a fact that that noble, generous, happy woman whom I called mamma was not my mother at all? Each of those questions took shape in my mind and each was like a stab in the heart, for Blink Broosmore had answered them all, and Alexander Crawford, though he must know how anxious I was to have Blink denied, did not speak to refute him.
We rolled up the drive and dad stepped out, still silent, but he did smile wistfully at me as he closed the car door.
"Put it away, Don, and hurry in for dinner," he said and I felt certain I detected a break in his voice. I felt sorry--sorry for him and sorry for myself, and as I put the car in the garage, I had a hard time trying to see things clearly; my eyes would get blurred and a lump would get into my throat in spite of me.
As I dressed for dinner I felt half dazed. I hardly realized what I was doing, and I had to stop and pull myself together before I started downstairs to the dining room, for I knew if I did not have myself well in hand I would blubber like a big chump.
Mother and dad were waiting for me and I could see by mother's sad expression and the troubled look in her eyes that dad had told her of the whole occurrence. And that only added to my unhappiness because I felt for a certainty that all that Blink Broosmore had shouted must be true.
For the first time in my memory dad forgot to say grace, and none of us ate with any apparent