Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“I... I didn’t want to see you about fishing, it so happens, although I certainly know you’d be the man to come to about it,” replied Crocker. “I wanted to see you about — well, about my Essie, to tell you the truth! I... she—”

Amos Crocker stumbled in his speech, bringing it to a mumbling end with a gulp. He looked appealingly at the sheriff, his eyes a trifle moist, and went on in a choked voice:

“Whitcher, my Essie’s a little gay, a little giddy, like a lot of these young ones are to-day. Oh, no harm in her, I guess, but just careless and all the time talking about wanting to have a good time. Brought her up myself, you know, seeing her mother died when Essie was born.

“I... well, I’ve done my best, and it’s been a hard job. Took to running up to the lake here, in that old flivver I gave her, this summer. Afraid — oh, I’m afraid she’s been meeting some of those college boys, at that camp up near the headwaters. She’s only seventeen, you know, Whitcher.”

He stopped rather pitifully, with a sigh, biting his thin lips that looked as if they had suffered much from this habit.

Whitcher Bemis nodded slowly — very slowly and solemnly — and muttered an “Uh-huh” that sounded sympathetic. It brought out, at least, further confidences:

“What I’m getting at, Whitcher,” he explained, “is that I’m darned worried, and that this private worry is mighty hard on a man who’s got plenty of it hanging over him in his business. Hardware ain’t what it was, in a one-man store, what with all this mail order business that’s sweeping the country.

“Been in business close to forty years, there in East Chatham, and I — but there I go wandering off on my other troubles, don’t I?” he wanly smiled, brushing a hand over his forehead.

“I just wanted to ask you, Whitcher, to please maybe speak to Essie for me. Lots of times, when a girl won’t listen to her father, she’ll listen to some one that ain’t related. Tell her... well, tell her to watch her step, sort of. Those college boys wouldn’t be serious.

“I... I’m coming to you, Whitcher, because every kid in most of the whole county thinks such a heap of you. You... you seem to kind of have a knack of being chummy with ’em. Anyway, I know my Essie’s always said how much she likes you, Whitcher.”

He ended up with a quaver, this time, did Amos Crocker. He looked the picture of the usual despairing parent who is bewailing the actions of a recalcitrant offspring. A sad enough sight — and growing sadder and unquestionably more universal in this hectic era.

Yet Bemis, invariably so comforting to every one under stress, merely opened his eyes wider and stared vaguely at this disturbed father. He remained silent, nodding his head just once, as if intimating that he perfectly understood.

“You... you see, Whitcher, I’m more upset to-day than usual, I suppose,” Crocker went on with a rush. “I — Essie left early this morning, saying she was going to visit Joan Wells, down at the Landing. I called up there on the phone a couple of hours ago, to ask her to stop at Jim Trott’s farm on the way home and bring me some com. She... she hadn’t been to see Joan at all, Whitcher. She... she probably—”

He gripped the steering wheel, as his voice rose, and became almost hysterical.

“She’s probably gallivanting off with some of them damn city boys from the colleges, and that’s why I came out here to ask you to help a crazy father and try to talk reason into her, Whitcher. She... she’s always said how much she liked you, Whitcher,” he finished, with a choking gulp.

“Allus liked Essie, Amos,” said the sheriff of Noel’s Landing with one of his grave nods. “Have a talk with her, I will!”

II

Chet Thomas and Boyce Hutchins had always displayed an ingenuity that amounted to positive genius when it came to garnering information concerning Whitcher Bemis. This precious pair, anyway, drifted into Del’s store at the Landing not two hours after the sheriff and Crocker had met — and they were wearing the sleek and satisfied grins that unfailingly brought unrepose to Whitcher’s old cronies.

They were not kept long in suspense, either, were these adherents of the sheriff. Briefly, Chet and Boyce used their time-honored method of attack, the one maligning Bemis and the other defending him until his position was broken down by the laughter of the crowd and he grudgingly had to admit that he had been wrong.

There was a fair-sized gathering there, too, for it was the hour of the evening mail and mid-August summer residents were clustered profusely about the window. Anyway, the crux of the argument was to the effect that it was a downright shame for a feller like Amos Crocker to bother the sheriff.

Wasn’t he pestered enough, already, with having his official duties cut in on his troutin’ ’n’ birdin’ ’n’ philat’lin’ without being worried about looking after frisky young gals?