Instead of Graham, Wolf had appeared as leader - if he rightfully deserved such a title. Wolf’s idea of leadership was to lurk until the flight began; then to lead the way. That was why Wolf had escaped The Shadow.
Nevertheless, Wolf had failed; his present predicament was as bad a one as Graham’s.
Swinging his pick automatically, Graham Wellerton considered all angles of the case. He realized that when he finished his thirty-day term, he would have to choose a new course of action. A fresh start in crime - that seemed the only possibility. As he labored, Graham found himself in a dilemma.
Crime, now that he was temporarily away from it, seemed a sordid, futile existence. On the contrary, any course that would fit in with recognized ways of society were just as distasteful.
Why should he, Graham Wellerton, attempt to live a law-abiding life? Justice - as the world saw it - was not to his liking. The young man thought of his uncle, Ezra Talboy.
There, he decided, was a man as crooked as they made them - a swindler, a thief, a heartless wretch. Yet Ezra Talboy, by staying within the rules set by law, had gained full title to the wealth and prestige which he had actually stolen from Graham’s father.
GRAHAM’S own plight soured him further. Here, with the road gang, he was paying a penalty demanded by so-called justice. He was serving a short term for vagrancy - his only crime having been the instinct of self- preservation.
He had come to Southwark in a dazed condition, a fit subject for human kindness. He had been seized by an officer anxious to make an arrest. He had been committed to jail in a cold-hearted fashion.
“Hey, there, Gruger!”
The repeated call from one of the guards caused Graham to suddenly realize that the shout was for him. He stopped his work and turned around.
“Don’t you know your own name?” questioned the guard.
“I’d sort of forgotten it,” responded Graham with a sheepish smile.
“Fall out with the rest of the gang,” ordered the guard.
Graham saw that the prisoners had quit their work and were enjoying temporary respite as they sat along a grassy embankment beside the road. Graham joined his companions. While two guards, rifles ready, were on watch, the third was talking with a stranger who had alighted from an automobile.
“That’s Ralph Delkin,” one of the prisoners was saying, in a low tone. “Big manufacturer down in Southwark.”
“What’s he doin’ here?” asked another prisoner.
“He’s on some county committee,” came the explanation. “Supposed to check up on the road gangs.”
“To see that we keep grindin’, huh?”
“No. They say Delkin’s a good egg. Won’t stand for no rough stuff. You notice they gave us a lay off when he showed up? That guy won’t stand for no meanness.”
“Say - who’s the Jane with him - the kid comin’ over from the car?”
“His daughter, I guess.”
Graham Wellerton was looking in the direction indicated. He remembered Ralph Delkin from years ago. He noted that time had not greatly changed the man.
In appearance, Delkin was stern and square-jawed; in action, brusque and businesslike. There was an air about him that symbolized the real type of man.
Delkin, Graham estimated, must now be about forty-five years of age. The girl who was approaching him was certainly his daughter. Graham remembered her as a child - Eunice Delkin. She was now in her early twenties and Graham, as he watched her, was impressed with her beauty.
Ralph Delkin was looking along the row of prisoners. His practiced eye was studying each face. His purpose was apparent; he was here to pick out any who might have cause for protest at harsh treatment which had been received.
GRAHAM noticed that Eunice followed her father’s gaze. There was a frankness in her expression that made each toughened prisoner feel sheepish. Until she came to Graham, Eunice met only wavering glances; but as she looked at the former gentleman of crime, something in Graham’s cold stare caused her to steadily return the gaze.
Graham Wellerton smiled disdainfully. Eunice Delkin was beautiful; her light hair, her frank eyes - these were the features which most impressed him. But Graham could not help but compare her lot with his own.
His father - like hers - had been a prominent citizen of Southwark. But he, Graham Wellerton was an outcast, sentenced to the road gang by so-called justice, while she, protected by her father’s high standing in the community, had never been forced to experience the harsher side of life.
Ralph Delkin was turning away. He spoke to his daughter. Still glancing at Graham Wellerton, Eunice plucked her father’s sleeve and spoke. Delkin turned and looked at Graham. His eyes became puzzled. He spoke to the guard. The man replied; then looked toward Graham and beckoned.
Rising, Graham slouched forward, still wearing his challenging smile. As he neared the little group, Delkin advanced and spoke to him in a low tone.
“You’re Graham Wellerton, aren’t you?” asked Delkin.
“My name is Gruger,” retorted Graham, loud enough for Eunice and the guard to hear. “George Gruger.”
Ralph Delkin looked at this daughter as though there must be some mistake.
The girt shook her head emphatically. She looked squarely at Graham.
“He didn’t know his name was Gruger a few minutes ago,” said the guard.
“I had to holler at him three times.”
“This man,” said Eunice quietly, “is Graham Wellerton. There is no question about it. I remember him.”
The even modulation of the girl’s tone was convincing. Her voice was kindly; her attitude was friendly. Graham was forced to assume a gruff indifference in order to meet this positive statement of his identity.
“What of it?” he questioned. “Suppose I am Graham Wellerton? What’s that to anyone around here?”
Ralph Delkin extended his hand. Graham turned quickly to pretend that he did not see the gesture. His eyes were toward the other prisoners as he heard Ralph Delkin speak.
“Your father,” said Delkin, “was my friend. I am your friend, Graham.”
With a shrug of his shoulders, Graham stalked away toward the other prisoners. He did not want Delkin’s friendship. Nevertheless, he could not stand and face a man who offered him a handshake; nor could he look into the frank eyes of a girl who had picked him out as his father’s son from among two dozen criminals.
When Graham Wellerton reached the embankment and finally turned about, Ralph Delkin and his daughter were walking back to the automobile. Graham laughed roughly. He felt that he had forestalled this one advance of friendship.
At the noon hour, however, when a car arrived with lunch for the prisoners, Graham was informed that he was to go back to Southwark. Figuring that his term on the road gang was ended, he boarded the automobile and sat in the back seat with a hard-faced man who never said a word.
Graham knew this fellow. Ellis Taussig was his name; he had been county sheriff ever since Graham’s boyhood. Southwark was the county seat; and Taussig had evidently come up from there.
The car reached the town and pulled up beside the courthouse. Taussig ordered Graham to alight.
Instead of leading the young man toward the jail, he took him into the courthouse. They walked through a corridor and reached a small room. As Graham entered, he was quick to recognize the people there.
JUSTICE SCHUBLE - Harwin Dowser, the lawyer - these were the first two whom Graham Wellerton noticed. Then he saw another pair: Ralph Delkin and his daughter, Eunice. Graham hesitated; Sheriff Taussig pushed him forward.
Justice Schuble spoke. His tone was an inquiry as he looked at the young man before him.
“You are Graham Wellerton?” he questioned.
“Yes,” admitted Graham, with a defiant glance.
“Since I have been informed correctly,” declared Schuble, “I shall immediately arrange your release. I sentenced you for vagrancy purely because you refused to give a reason for your presence in the town of
