Warning Hill by John P. Marquand Page A

sound.
    â€œHe’s right,” said Jim Street. “It’s no good to get the doc, Miss Michael. I was waiting by the gate to have a word with him and—you better set down, Ma’am.”
    Aunt Sarah sat down and folded her hands on her lap.
    â€œIt was an accident,” she repeated. “Of course it was an accident.”
    â€œNo, Ma’am.” Jim Street shook his head. “Alf killed himself; there wasn’t nothing else to do. He lost his pile, and you know Alf. He was a dead game sport.”
    â€œHey?” said Aunt Sarah. “A what?”
    â€œA dead game sport, Ma’am, and it wasn’t as though it mightn’t have been all right. It was Jellett did it as sure as if he’d drawn a bead—damn his soul, he—”
    Jim Street’s voice checked in a sob. Aunt Sarah leaned forward, and looked at him above her glasses. Her lower lip was trembling.
    â€œDon’t be a fool, Jim Street,” said Aunt Sarah. “It was an accident. Alfred couldn’t—of course it was an accident.”
    â€œI tell you it wasn’t, Ma’am.” Poor Jim Street didn’t have the sense to make things right. “I know what I know. I got a brother working up there—up there on the Hill. Jellett asked him to fetch him a pair of shoes. My brother was just down at the house telling me, Ma’am, and when he came to Jellett’s room with the shoes, the door was open a crack and Alf and Jellett was talkin’, Ma’am. You don’t mind my callin’ him Alf, because we played when we were kids—and Alf was sayin’ he would sell him—the gunning shanty, Ma’am.”
    â€œHey?” said Aunt Sarah. “Sell him what?”
    â€œThe gunning shanty, Ma’am, that Mr. Michael built over by the beach. My brother couldn’t help but hear, and Jellett wouldn’t buy now, because he said he could get it cheaper later, because he knew Alf was—had lost money, Ma’am. Damn him for a bloodsucker! He might have bought it just as well, and Alf, he told him he wouldn’t get it ever. Oh, yes, Ma’am, Alf knew what he was doing when he stepped outside. Alf—was a dead game sport.”
    Aunt Sarah’s face was yellow in the lamplight. “He wouldn’t buy the gunning shanty?” she said.—“It’s lucky I own the house, or he’d have tried to sell it too.—He wouldn’t buy the gunning shanty when he’s been after us to sell it all year?”
    â€œNo,” Jim Street’s voice broke. “And Alf he had to have the money, Ma’am. He told me so this mornin’ himself. And when he didn’t, he—”
    â€œIt was an accident,” said Aunt Sarah. “Of course it was an accident.”
    â€œOf course it was an accident,” said Jim Street. “Yes, Ma’am, I understand.”
    Aunt Sarah reached for her stick that was by the table.
    â€œBut just the same,” she said, “I’ll tell Jellett what I think of him. Give me your hand, Jim Street, I’m getting old. I’m getting dreadfully old.”
    And then Tommy found his voice, because he was afraid again, terribly afraid.
    â€œDaddy isn’t dead?” he cried. “Daddy isn’t dead?”
    And then their eyes were on him. He felt their glances as something tangible and heavy as a blow.
    â€œYes,” Aunt Sarah said. “Come here and hold my hand.”
    â€œDid—” Tommy’s voice was hushed. It often seemed to him strange that he should have caught the significance as early as that of Jim Street’s words. “Did that man—who drove the horses—”
    His words trailed into stillness, and no one answered. The fear which Tommy had felt was leaving him in anger against that shining carriage and the man who held the reins.
    â€œWhen I grow up—” he began.
    â€œBe quiet, Tom,” Aunt Sarah said. “Come