Into the Storm by Avi Page A

weather.”
    â€œBut I’ll warrant you didn’t come to talk about the weather, Mr. Tolliver. Pull up a chair by the fire and unburden your mind.”
    Mr. Tolliver set the chair near the fire but close to the foot of the bed. Instead of speaking, however, he tilted the chair back and thrust both hands again into his pockets as if he might find his thoughts there.
    Finally he said, “Sir, does the name Jeremiah Jenkins mean anything to you?”
    Mr. Hamlyn’s eyes widened. He cocked his head to one side. “Mr. Tolliver,” the man in bed began, “I need to know whom I’m talking to. Is it Mr. Tolliver of the Lowell police? Or is it Mr. Tolliver, Jim Hamlyn’s old friend?”
    â€œCan’t it be both?” the man replied.
    â€œI suppose it can. Why don’t you lay the case out before me. Then I’ll tell you what I know.”
    â€œVery well,” agreed Mr. Tolliver, and he sprang from the chair and paced about, hands in pockets.
    â€œMr. Hamlyn, sir, it’s a delicate situation. Mr. Jenkins is a troublemaker. But the fact of the matter is, to the best of my knowledge, he has not committed any crime.”
    â€œTo the best of your knowledge.”
    â€œBut” — Mr. Tolliver paused in his pacing to rock back on his heels —” I do know he’s stirring up something, some secret society.”
    â€œThe country is full of them,” Mr. Hamlyn replied.
    â€œTrue, true. It’s our way here in America. But this one, sir, is aimed full out at the Irish, and aims at nothing less than shipping them all back home.”
    â€œAll?” Mr. Hamlyn said with a snort.
    â€œAll.”
    â€œAnd how does he intend to do that?”
    â€œI have no idea.”
    Mr. Hamlyn stared into the fire. “Jeremiah Jenkins is a deeply unhappy man,” he said. “Worse, he’s ready to blame anything and anybody for his own failings. Would you like to know what happened?”
    â€œI would, sir.”
    â€œAt the mill where he and I worked, he appeared one day with his son. A child. A sweet-looking lad. It’s not generally permitted. But exceptions are made…. That day I allowed the exception.”
    Mr. Hamlyn closed his eyes at the painful memory. “Anyway, along about midday an overhead pulley belt slipped. Though rare, it does happen. A serious accident resulted. The boy, who had been playing about the machines, was killed. Jenkins became half-mad with the loss. It turned his hair white. What’s more — since I was the overlooker and allowed the boy to be there — he blamed me for being the cause.”
    â€œWere you?”
    â€œNo. And when I tried to extricate the boy, I lost the use of my legs.”
    For a moment Mr. Tolliver said nothing. Then he said, “He’s a good friend of Ambrose Shagwell’s.”
    â€œIs he?”
    â€œMr. Shagwell gives Jenkins money.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œMr. Shagwell likes to keep his operatives nervous. Agitated. I believe that’s Mr. Jenkins’s job.”
    â€œWhen I had problems with him,” Mr. Hamlyn continued, “he tried to raise up the other operatives — this was at the Boott Mill — and I had to turn him out. Do you know what he began to accuse me of?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOf being Irish.”
    â€œAre you?”
    â€œI was born in Ireland. Came here when I was two.”
    â€œMr. Hamlyn,” the police captain said, “if all the man is up to is talk — no matter how foul — it’s no concern of mine. But if there is anything else …”
    â€œYou’d like to know.”
    â€œI would, sir.”
    â€œAnd how might I, from where I now lie, be of use to you?” Mr. Hamlyn asked.
    â€œThe man’s in Lowell — tonight. He was holding a meeting at the Spindle City Hotel. A secret meeting.”
    â€œHardly a secret if you know of it, Mr. Tolliver.” Mr.