A Family Matter

by Harold Titus

NO two men could have been more unlike than the Emory brothers.

Tom was the elder, and the most likable cuss in the world; so likable, even, that most folks in town could have forgiven him the embezzlement that got him a ten-year sentence. He was naturally friendly to everybody, and because we knew how he loved being among people, all of us were sorry to see him go to the pen.

Howard, though, was strictly business, the soul of honor, and so much respected that we had elected him county treasurer over and over again ever since we could remember. The warm, human characteristics of Tom had been left out of Howard’s make-up, but it takes all kinds to make a world, and his flawless integrity went a long ways to balance his reserve. He didn’t have many close friends; in fact, outside his job he never paid much attention to anybody except his boy Demas. He certainly was wrapped up in that boy, and even if the lad didn’t amount to much, nobody objected when the supervisors made him his father’s deputy in the treasurer’s office.

We used to wonder if Howard saw any of Demas’ faults. He must have known what a spendthrift the boy was, because there was no one else to put up the money for his little car and swell clothes. Some said that that was often the way, though, with a strict man when he had only one outlet for his affections.

Howard never talked about Tom’s mistake. He didn’t even seem to be as glad as the rest of the town was when Tom came home on parole after serving three years of his sentence. Being the stern man he was, perhaps he thought imprisonment was justice. But Demas was a good deal put out by his uncle’s parole. He said it was a disgrace to the family to have a jailbird relative hanging around under their noses.

Tom heard this, in time, of course; and when Demas cut him dead when they met afterward, Tom made allowances, just as might have been expected of him. He had done wrong; he admitted it: and he didn’t blame people, he said, for not wanting him around; but for those who were glad to have him back and didn’t make any bones about showing it, he felt the kind of gratitude that a man—anyhow, one like Tom—couldn’t put into words. Maybe his dread of being shut up away from folks had something to do with his willingness to face his family's disapproval. Now and then he talked about prison, and he always went white when he told about it. He said if anything ever happened to send him back to finish those seven years, it would very likely kill him. He loved life that way, you know—just being out, and around.

And he was always getting other people to love life, too. Usually he had a youngster at his heels, teaching him to fish and know the woods; down-and-outers went to him for comfort, and we used to say that even if he had gone wrong once, he was doing more good now than any one of our preachers.

Young Demas’ attitude worried Tom, though. He used to watch the boy with a little scowl as if trying to figure out something. He'd see him in his car, always with a different girl, scooting through town for the dance pavilion, or going to the movie, and he wouldn’t have much to say for a time, as though he was thinking hard. Wondering how he could make up to the boy, most of us thought, at the time.

If he wanted Demas to be friendly, he got his wish. One night at holiday time Demas came into the Owl cigar-store where Tom generally loafed evenings. He had on a fine new overcoat and a fur cap and yellow gloves. He looked rather like a clothing ad.

“Tom,” he said, “got a minute?”

Tom got up, and they went back beyond the last pool-table and sat down together. At first Tom’s face looked queer, as though he was worried about something, but when he came up front again he was smiling. Demas seemed to be in a hurry, but when he went out he said: “Well, tomorrow, then.”

TAXES were coming in, and the court-house was a busy place. Besides, they were getting ready for an audit. That was nonsense, but Howard always insisted that his accounts be gone over every so often. It meant work for him, but he wanted the people to have a check on his straightness just the same.

But busy as they were, Demas found time to be with his uncle every day. They ate lunch in the Bon-Ton, and New Year’s Eve went to the pictures together. Hi Wayman saw them afterward, and he said they acted funny. Tom was talking right seriously to Demas, had him by the front of his swell coat and seemed to be laying down the law, and Hi said the boy seemed to like it because when they parted, he shook hands with Tom as if he was grateful.

That was just a few days before the big excitement.

The auditor was there, with books and money from taxes all over the place. Demas was waiting on a line of farmers when Tom came in and loafed back of the counter. Howard was just going into the vault with the auditor and didn’t notice his brother. Nobody did, much, until he got right over by the ledger desk where packages of bills were lying. When he got that far, he stopped sauntering. All of a sudden he whirled around, stuffed something into his pocket and started out on a run.

Well, Bud Holliday, the sheriff, was just coming in. One of the farmers yelled: “He's stole county money!” Bud told Tom to stop, but he wouldn’t—just slid past, skipped down the hall and down the front steps, with Holliday after him. Tom ran like a fool, but Bud is not a slow man on his feet and gained all the way along the street. When they got to the red bridge, the Sheriff was only one jump behind.

Tom saw it was all up then. He stopped and turned around; but just as he did, he pulled a package out of his pocket and shied it down into the river. He was almost crying when the Sheriff grabbed him.

“All right, Bud,” he said. “I timed her wrong.”

A check-up showed fourteen hundred dollars was missing. Tom admitted taking it. They searched the river, and once they thought they'd found the bills, but it turned out to be only a package of paper tied with string.

OF course, they took Tom back for breaking parole. When he gets through his seven years, it’s likely they'll bring this other charge against him. That’s not certain, though, because they say at the courthouse that young Demas was so broken up by the thing that he sold his car and has been paying the county back what Tom took, a little at a time. So, as one might say, Tom’s second theft did something; it certainly made a man out of Demas. He’s going to be just like his father—straight as a string.