ONE WAY STREET

Bay of Plenty Times, Volume LXIV, Issue 11934, 28 January 1936, Page 4

ONE WAY STREET

Synopsis of I’rwding Instalments: ■Spencer Cannon. Gorham's loading citizen. linding too little time to attend to his diversilied interests, lias just made Mark St urges manager of the Iron Itluck. the city's foremost deiiartment store, which his father founded—the corner-stone of the growing t'annon fortune. Cannon’s daughter. Ktlylhe. who has been away, strolls into Mark’s office, introduces herself and tells him he is to be a Sunday supper guest at Arden Terrace, the Cannon 1 Her father enters with some papers as they talk and in Mark's presence tells him "that Sawyer girl” is working in the dress department. Father and daughter go to Kniory Stewart, head of the department, and Cannon instructs him to get rid of .lean Sawyer at once. Jean, who is sketching models for display ads., sees the Cannons, goes at once to Stewart and says she must unit her job at once. Stewart is remonstrating with her when Mark enters. Stewart tells Mark what has happened, says Cannon gave him no chance to explain, and that Jean has been doing good work. Keplying to Stewart’s unestion, Mark says Cannon gave him entire control over the store's personnel and asks Jean why she is determined to unit. Folitely she refuses to answer. He tells her he needs her help and wants her to remain so that he can establish his authority over the personnel. Pressed by -Mark for the reason for her persistent refusal to answer, Jean finally says that her father is in the penitentiary.

For a long time now, Jean Sawyer’s memories of the Oak Street house where she was born concerned themselves with a vision of white concrete steps leading up to a shaded porch. The cement treads were flecked with particles of mica that blazed in the sun’s rays like tiny diamonds. An afternoon in late May, and Jean seventeen,

As nearly as she could recall, she never had seen the sunlight on the

porch steps again. Gingering at the gate with a group of chattering school-mates, Jean stood with her arms folded across the top of one of the wooden posts, firm little chin resting on the sleeve of a yellow jersey. Her brown eyes were bright with suppressed excite-

ment. Commencement, with its alluring possibilities, but three weeks away. “How’s the prophecy coming, Jean?” “Pretty good—l hope.” “I’m crazy to see it! Bet you’re kidding all of us plenty. Arc you?” “Maybe. Its heaps of fun, anyway.” “Can you read your own stars?” A mocking voice that had taken no part in the babel of small talk put the question. It was Edythe Cannon’s. A slim girl of nineteen with raven hair and a red mouth. She stood with one foot drawn back, a hand resting gracefully on her hip. Edythe’s eyes were half hidden under their heavy lashes, but Jean [felt their keen scrutiny. "Haven’t tried to,” she admitted shortly. Why had Edythe used that disagreeable tone? “I’ll attend to my future —when I get to work. So long. See'you all tomorrow.” Edythe’s drawling retort. “Come on, gang. Let’s go to Evans’ for sodas. My treat.” Talking and laughing, the girls trooped after her. Edythe was older than her classmates, but the daughter of a rich man. Lavish with her pocket Always sure of a following. As Jean ran lightly up the gleaming steps she sensed a sudden chill in the contrasting gloom of the vineshaded porch. Almost hesitatingly she opened the screen door and passed into the dim hall. The chill seemed to persist here. From somewhere—was it upstairs?—the girl fancied she caught a sound of stifled sobbing. Hurrying through the deserted living room, she peeped into the small library adjoining. There sat her father in his favourite chair at the window. He was

■ alone. j John Sawyer' apparently had nol . heard Jean’s quick footsteps and . she stood staring at him as though she had encountered, a stranger in the house. He sat rigidly upright against the chair’s cushioned back. His thin hands, one of them clutching an empty pipe, rested stiffly on the dark oak arras of the seat. His feet were set in an attitude of curious precision, close together. Small feet, the shoes polished brightly', as always. “Daddy Jack!” Jean called softly. “Are you ill?” She pitched her books recklessly at a convenient chair as she hurried to her father’s side. Sawyer’s dark eyes moved slowly to scan the girl’s anxious face. He did not turn his head. Its wavy hair was in strange disorder; One lock trailed low across the white forehead. “I m all right.” His voice was curiously flat, dull. “Sit down. I wan’t to talk to you.” * Jean dragged a stool close to his chair and seated herself, clasping his nearest hand in both her own. “Here I arc.” She mustered a smile as she said it. It was her babyhood greeting for him, still employed when the two of them were alone. “Oh—you are ill!” she burst out. “Your fingers are like ice! And you’re home early—Tell me!” “Bunkie— His pet name for her, coined in a day when her greatest ambition was to escape from her crib and demand that she be taken in bed with him. How strange Daddy Jack’s eyes were! Jean felt that they were looking through her, beyond. He seemed to find it difficult to talk, drawing a long quivering breath before he went on. “I asked the others to let us be alone—for a little. I’ve been waiting.” Of course—-’’she faltered, winking back tears of sudden fright. What is it? Did something happen?” “Everything.” “But what?” She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. It's all right, you know. TeU me.” Bunkie—” he countered in the same expressionless voice, “you and your dad have always been good pals Haven’t we?” “Of course! Always.” ”Ifs a queer thing,” Sawer mused slowly. “You’ve seemed like a son more than Junior ever did, somehow. I suppose it’s because you were the first. I d counted so on having a boy.” “Sorry?” “’But it didn’t wake so much differ-

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ence.” Her father took no notice of the little question. “When I took you fishing—l always made you bait your own hook.’’ “I know.” Jean smiled up at him through tear-wet eyes. “And I still think worms are squidgy.” “That’s why I know I can depend on you now —you’ve never let me down, Bunkie. You see, I'm —I’m going away, dear.” “Daddy Jack!” A low wail of anguish. “I knew you were sick! You — you're trying to tell me something. I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it! Do you hear?” “Hush. Not that —I only wish it were. I’m leaving home. I’m leaving all of you—For a long time perhaps.” “I don’t understand! Where are you going?” “Prison —•” Sawyer sagged down in his chair as he whispered it. His eyes closed as if unable to witness the result of his admission. Jean’s red-brown head drooped slowly until her forehead rested on her father’s hand. She made no other move. There was no outcry. The silence of the small room Was unbroken, save for the measured ticking of the clock on the mantel shelf. “Bunkie —-?” Sawyer shifted his position slightly. “Yes?” said a muffled little voice. “We —we haven’t so much time. I think you’d better let me tell you.” “Go on.” The story of John Sawyer, defalcator, was briefly told. The misdoing might have been that of another man, so impartial the recounting.’ It was imperative to accumulate money. Four children coming on. He had wanted them to have the best — high school, college. Stocks seemed a possible solution. And so encouraging at first. The profits were steady. They grew. Then something happened. Prices began to toboggan. It

couldn’t last. But it meant losing everything if the insistant calls for margin were not met. Weil— Jean’s head moved imperceptibly. She understood.

In his years at the bank, John Sawyer often had speculated how funds might be diverted temporarily. He evolved a little system. Simple en-

ough, if a man had sense not to work too fast. He was driven to trying it on a small scale. The market kept sagging. Nothing to do but keep

Some of the officers must have become suspicious. The bank examiners appeared. , , lingered relentlessly over his records. This morning he had been called before the directors and specifically accused of a shortage. He told everything. Afterwards, there was the arraignment before a magistrate and some one had arranged a bail bond. Then he walked home...to tell his family. "It’s like some dreadful nightmare, Bunkie. I keep trying to wake up and I can’t. It must be true. At first I thought I’d have to end everything. Now, I see I must go through with it. I’ll do it as soon as they’ll let me. There’s no one to blame but myself, but. .it’s hard.” He turned away his face. The story was finished.

Joan raised her head. The schoolgirl was gone. In her place sat a woman. . .a woman with the colour drained from her cheeks, mouth pale, tense with suffering. The brown eyes were dry. They regarded the man in the chair with dull disbelief.

It couldn’t be Daddy Jack sitting there. Not the Daddy Jack she kissed good-bye this morning. . .who waved to her from the door. He always did that when he was home. The playmate who used to mend her toys and soothe her childish griefs, the strong one who watched over her in illness. The boyish companion on long hikes. . .hours of fishing at the lake. It must be a dream—a very dreadful dream. She must wake up

...must rouse Daddy Jack. Hei hand stole out and touched his face : almost timidly.

“Daddy. Oh, Daddy. . .please!

With a harsh sob, John Sawyer twisted about in his chair. He groped blindly for Jean, caught her in his arms. They clung to each other desperately. In silence. With the passing of that first storm of grief and despair, Jean roused herself to action. “We must plan things,” she told her father. The decision was announced calmly. She released herself gently from his arms. “Things?” he questioned vaguely. “Musn’t we? What is it doing to Mumsy?’ ’ “Your mother...” Sawyer tried to match his daughter’s composure but winced pitifully at the first words. “She’s just as I knew she would be, Bunkie. We don’t have to worry about her. I’m more afraid for Junior and the girls. My. . .the change will be hard for them to understand. And there’s y0u...” “I love you, ’Daddy,” she answered simply. “Nothing else matters. 111 look after the others while you’re away. Don’t worry. But... but I guess you’d better tell me just what it's going to mean.” .“Of course. I shall turn all I can over to the bank. Your mother will have something.” “Then we’ll have to leave here.”

“I’m afraid so. “Thats all right. We don’t need such a big house, anyway. And I know I can find work.” “Not just yet, Bunkie. I’d rather you finished school.” “No. I’m not going back there.

It isn't worth, while.” Jean closed her eyes momentarily at the thought of it all. The commencement. Like a flash came the memory of Edythe Cannons; “Can you read your own stars?” She must have known something then. But how could she? Her father had something to do with the Commonwealth. He might have heard something about Daddy Jack and mentioned it at home. Everybody would know now. “Daddy,” she suggested abruptly, “do you suppose Mr Cannon would

do something to help you if you told him you were going to give back the money just as soon as you could? They say he is very kind to people ...And he must have loads of

money.” “Cannon was in the board room this morning,” Sawyer replied, a trifle grimly. “He was the one who insisted the case he pushed. As an example.” “Oh.” "I suppose he’s right. I’ll pay ■back every dollar. . .if I live. My lawyers will ask for a quick sentence. No good in dragging it out. I want to have it over with.’ “I know.” “You see, dear. . .Is that the doorbell?” His voice sank to a nervous whisper. “Bunkie, I can’t talk to anybody now! I want to sit with your mother a little while.” “Slip up the back way, Daddy. I won’t let them bother you.” (To be continued}.