The Definite Object: A Romance of New York
by Jeffery Farnol · English · Gutenberg #16074 · 598,318 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Definite Object: A Romance of New York
Author: Jeffery Farnol
Release date: June 15, 2005 [eBook #16074]
Most recently updated: December 11, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16074
Credits: E-text prepared by David Kline, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEFINITE OBJECT: A ROMANCE OF NEW YORK ***
E-text prepared by David Kline, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net)
THE DEFINITE OBJECT
A Romance of New York
by
JEFFERY FARNOL
Author of The Broad Highway, The Amateur Gentleman, The Honourable
Mr. Tawnish, Beltane the Smith
1917
CHAPTER
I Which Describes, among Other Things, a Pair of Whiskers
II Of a Mournful Millionaire Who Lacked an Object
III How Geoffrey Ravenslee Went Seeking an Object
IV Telling How He Came to Hell's Kitchen at Peep o' Day
V How Mrs. Trapes Acquired a New Lodger, Despite her Elbows
VI How Spike Initiated Mr. Ravenslee into the Gentle Art of Shopping
VII Concerning Ankles, Stairs, and Neighbourliness
VIII Of Candies and Confidences
IX Which Recounts the End of an Episode
X Tells How Mr. Ravenslee Went into Trade
XI Antagonism is Born and War Declared
XII Containing Some Description of a Supper Party
XIII Wherein may be Found Some Particulars of the Beautiful City of
Perhaps
XIV Of a Text, a Letter, and a Song
XV Which Introduces Joe and the Old Un
XVI Of the First and Second Persons, Singular Number
XVII How Geoffrey Ravenslee Made a Deal in Real Estate
XVIII How Spike Hearkened to Poisonous Suggestion and Soapy Began to
Wonder
XIX In which the Poison Begins to Work
XX Of an Expedition by Night
XXI How M'Ginnis Threatened and--Went
XXII Tells of an Early Morning Visit and a Warning
XXIII Chiefly Concerning a Letter
XXIV How the Old Un and Certain Others had Tea
XXV How Spike Made a Choice and a Promise
XXVI Which Makes Further Mention of a Ring
XXVII Mrs. Trapes Upon the Millennium
XXVIII Which should have Related Details of a Wedding
XXIX In which Hermione Makes a Fateful Decision
XXX How Geoffrey Ravenslee Departed from Hell's Kitchen
XXXI In which Soapy Takes a Hand
XXXII Of Harmony and Discord
XXXIII Of Tragedy
XXXIV Of Remorse
XXXV How Geoffrey Ravenslee Came Out of the Dark
XXXVI Concerning a Clew
XXXVII The Woes of Mr. Brimberly
XXXVIII In which Soapy Takes upon Himself a New Role
XXXIX The Old Un Advises and Ravenslee Acts
XL Concerning a Handful of Pebbles
XLI Of a Packet of Letters
XLII Tells How Ravenslee Broke his Word and Why
XLIII How Spike Got Even
XLIV Retribution
XLV Of the Old Un and Fate
XLVI In which Geoffrey Ravenslee Obtains his Object
CHAPTER I
WHICH DESCRIBES, AMONG OTHER THINGS, A PAIR OF WHISKERS
In the writing of books, as all the world knows, two things are above
all other things essential--the one is to know exactly when and where to
leave off, and the other to be equally certain when and where to begin.
Now this book, naturally enough, begins with Mr. Brimberly's whiskers;
begins at that moment when he coughed and pulled down his waistcoat for
the first time. And yet (since action is as necessary to the success of
a book as to life itself) it should perhaps begin more properly at the
psychological moment when Mr. Brimberly coughed and pulled down the
garment aforesaid for the third time, since it is then that the real
action of this story commences.
Be that as it may, it is beyond all question that nowhere in this wide
world could there possibly be found just such another pair of whiskers
as those which adorned the plump cheeks of Mr. Brimberly; without them
he might have been only an ordinary man, but, possessing them, he was
the very incarnation of all that a butler could possibly be.
And what whiskers these were! So soft, so fleecy, so purely white, that
at times they almost seemed like the wings of cherubim, striving to soar
away and bear Mr. Brimberly into a higher and purer sphere. Again, what
Protean whiskers were these, whose fleecy pomposity could overawe the
most superior young footmen and reduce page-boys, tradesmen, and the
lower orders generally, to a state of perspiring humility; to his
equals how calmly aloof, how blandly dignified; and to those a misguided
fate had set above him, how demurely deferential, how obligingly
obsequious! Indeed, Mr. Brimberly's whiskers were all things to all men,
and therein lay their potency.
Mr. Brimberly then, pompous, affable, and most sedate, having motioned
his visitor into his master's favourite chair, set down the tray of
decanters and glasses upon the piano, coughed, and pulled down his
waistcoat; and Mr. Brimberly did it all with that air of portentous
dignity and leisurely solemnity which, together with his whiskers, made
him the personality he was.
"And you're still valeting for Barberton, are you, Mr. Stevens?" he
blandly enquired.
"I've been with his lordship six months, now," nodded Mr. Stevens.
"Ah!" said Mr. Brimberly, opening a certain carved cabinet and reaching
thence a box of his master's choicest Havanas, "six months, indeed! And
'ow is Barberton? I hacted in the capacity of his confidential valet a
good many years ago, as I told you, and we always got on very well
together, very well, indeed. 'ow is Barberton?"
"Oh, 'e 'd be right enough if it warn't for 'is gout which gets 'im in
the big toe now and then, and 'is duns and creditors and sich-like low
fellers, as gets 'im everywhere and constant! 'E'll never be quite
'imself until 'e marries money--and plenty of it!"
"A American hair-ess!" nodded Mr. Brimberly. "Pre-cisely! I very nearly
married 'im to a rich widder ten years ago. 'E'd 'ave been settled for
life if 'e 'd took my advice! But Barberton was always inclined to be a
little 'eadstrong. The widder in question 'appened to be a trifle
par-say, I'll admit, also it was 'inted that one of 'er--lower limbs was
cork. But then, 'er money, sir--'er jools!" Mr. Brimberly raised eyes
and hands and shook his head until his whiskers quivered in a very
ecstasy.
"But a wooden leg--" began Mr. Stevens dubiously.
"I said 'limb', sir!" said Mr. Brimberly, his whiskers distinctly
agitated, "a cork limb, sir! And Lord bless me, a cork limb ain't to
be sniffed at contemptuous when it brings haffluence with it, sir! At
least, my sentiments leans that way."
"Oh--ditto, certainly, sir! I'd take haffluence to my 'eart if she came
with both le--both of 'em cork, if it meant haffluence like this!" Mr.
Stevens let his pale, prominent eyes wander slowly around the luxuriant
splendour of the room. "My eye!" he exclaimed, "it's easy to see as your
governor don't have to bother about marrying money, cork limbs or
otherwise! Very rich, ain't 'e, Mr. Brimberly?"
Mr. Brimberly set down the decanter he chanced to be holding, and having
caressed each fluffy whisker, smiled.
"I think, sir," said he gently, "y-es, I think we may answer 'yes' to
your latter question. I think we may tell you and admit 'ole-'earted and
frank, sir, that the Ravenslee fortune is fab'lous, sir, stoopendious
and himmense!"
"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Mr. Stevens, and his pale eyes, much wider, now
wandered up from the Persian rug beneath his boots to the elaborately
carved ceiling above his head. "My aunt!" he murmured.
"Oh, I think we're fairly comfortable 'ere, sir," nodded Mr. Brimberly
complacently, "yes, fairly comfortable, I think."
"Comfortable!" ejaculated the awe-struck Mr. Stevens, "I should say so!
My word!"
"Yes," pursued Mr. Brimberly, "comfortable, and I ventur' to think,
tasteful, sir, for I'll admit young Ravenslee--though a millionaire and
young--'as taste. Observe this costly bricky-brack! Oh, yes, young Har
is a man of taste indoobitably, I think you must admit."
"Very much so indeed, sir!" answered Mr. Stevens with his pallid glance
on the array of bottles. "'Three Star,' I think, Mr. Brimberly?"
"Sir," sighed Mr. Brimberly in gentle reproach, "you 'ere be'old Cognac
brandy as couldn't be acquired for twenty-five dollars the bottle! Then
'ere we 'ave jubilee port, a rare old sherry, and whisky. Now what shall
we make it? You, being like myself, a Englishman in this 'ere land of
eagles, spread and otherwise, suppose we make it a B and a Hess?"
"By all means!" nodded Mr. Stevens.
"I was meditating," said Mr. Brimberly, busied with the bottles and
glasses, "I was cogitating calling hup Mr. Jenkins, the Stanways' butler
across the way. The Stanways is common people, parvynoo, Mr. Stevens,
parvynoo, but Mr. Jenkins is very superior and plays the banjer very
affecting. Our 'ousekeeper and the maids is gone to bed, and I've give
our footmen leave of habsence--I thought we might 'ave a nice, quiet
musical hour or so. You perform on the piano-forty, I believe, sir?"
"Only very occasional!" Mr. Stevens admitted. "But," and here his pale
eyes glanced toward the door, "do I understand as he is out for the
night?"
"Sir," said Mr. Brimberly ponderously, "what ''e' might you be pleased
to mean?"
"I was merely allooding to--to your governor, sir."
Mr. Brimberly glanced at his guest, set down the glass he was in the act
of filling and--pulled down his waistcoat for the second time.
"Sir," said he, and his cherubic whiskers seemed positively to quiver,
"I presoom--I say, I presoom you are referring to--Young Har?"
"I meant Mr. Ravenslee."
"Then may I beg that you'll allood to him 'enceforth as Young Har? This
is Young Har's own room, sir. These is Young Har's own picters, sir.
When Young Har is absent, I generally sit 'ere with me cigar and observe
said picters. I'm fond of hart, sir; I find hart soothing and restful.
The picters surrounding of you are all painted by Young Har's very own
'and--subjeks various. Number one--a windmill very much out o' repair,
but that's hart, sir. Number two--a lady dressed in what I might term
dish-a-bell, sir, and there isn't much of it, but that's hart again.
Number three--a sunset. Number four--moonlight; 'e didn't get the moon
in the picter but the light's there and that's the great thing--effect,
sir, effect! Of course, being only studies, they don't look
finished--which is the most hartisticest part about 'em! But, lord!
Young Har never finishes anything--too tired! 'Ang me, sir, if I don't
think 'e were born tired! But then, 'oo ever knew a haristocrat as
wasn't?"
"But," demurred Mr. Stevens, staring down into his empty glass, "I
thought 'e was a American, your--Young Har?"
"Why, 'e is and 'e ain't, sir. His father was only a American, I'll
confess, but his mother was blue blood, every drop guaranteed, sir, and
as truly English as--as I am!"
"And is 'e the Mr. Ravenslee as is the sportsman? Goes in for boxing,
don't 'e? Very much fancied as a heavyweight, ain't 'e? My governor's
seen him box and says 'e's a perfect snorter, by Jove!"
Mr. Brimberly sighed, and soothed a slightly agitated whisker.
"Why, yes," he admitted, "I'm afraid 'e does box--but only as a
ammitoor, Mr. Stevens, strickly as a ammitoor, understand!"
"And he's out making a night of it, is 'e?" enquired Mr. Stevens,
leaning back luxuriously and stretching his legs. "Bit of a rip, ain't
'e?"
"A--wot, sir?" enquired Mr. Brimberly with raised brows.
"Well, very wild, ain't he--drinks, gambles, and hetceteras, don't he?"
"Why, as to that, sir," answered Mr. Brimberly, dexterously performing
on the syphon, "I should answer you, drink 'e may, gamble 'e do,
hetceteras I won't answer for, 'im being the very hacme of
respectability though 'e is a millionaire and young."
"And when might you expect 'im back?"
"Why, there's no telling, Mr. Stevens."
"Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Stevens, and sat up very suddenly.
"'Is movements, sir, is quite--ah--quite metehoric!"
"My eye!" exclaimed Mr. Stevens, gulping his brandy and soda rather
hastily.
"Metehoric is the only word for it, sir!" pursued Mr. Brimberly with a
slow nod. "'E may drop in on me at any moment, sir!"
"Why, then," said his guest, rising, "p'r'aps I'd better be moving?"
"On the other 'and," pursued Mr. Brimberly, smiling and caressing his
left whisker, "'e may be on 'is way to Hafghanistan or Hasia Minor at
this pre-cise moment--'e is that metehoric, lord! These millionaires is
much of a muchness, sir, 'ere to-day, gone to-morrer. Noo York this
week, London or Paris the next. Young Har is always upsetting my plans,
'e is, and that's a fact, sir! Me being a nat'rally quiet, reasonable,
and law-abiding character, I objects to youthful millionaires on
principle, Mr. Stevens, on principle!"
"Ditto!" nodded Mr. Stevens, his glance wandering uneasily to the door
again, "ditto with all my 'eart, sir. If it's all the same to you, I
think p'r'aps I'd better be hopping--you know--"
"Oh, don't you worry about Young Har; 'e won't bother us to-night; 'e's
off Long Island way to try his newest 'igh-power racing car--'e's
driving in the Vanderbilt Cup Race next month. To-night 'e expects to do
eighty miles or so, and 'opes to sleep at one of 'is clubs. I say 'e
'opes an' expects so to do!"
"Yes," nodded Mr. Stevens, "certainly, but what do you mean?"
"Sir," sighed Mr. Brimberly, "if you'd been forced by stern dooty to sit
be'ind Young Har in a fast automobile as I 'ave, you'd know what I mean.
Reckless? Speed? Well, there!" and Mr. Brimberly lifted hands and eyes
and shook his head until his whiskers vibrated with horror.
"Then you're pretty sure," said Mr. Stevens, settling luxurious boots
upon a cushioned chair, "you're pretty sure he won't come bobbing up
when least expected?"
"Pretty sure!" nodded Mr. Brimberly. "You see, this nooest car is the
very latest thing in racing cars--cost a fortune, consequently it's
bound to break down--these here expensive cars always do, believe me!"
"Why, then," said Mr. Stevens, helping himself to one of Mr. Brimberly's
master's cigars, "I say let joy and 'armony be unconfined! How about
Jenkins and 'is banjer?"
"I'll call 'im up immediate!" nodded Mr. Brimberly, rising. "Mr. Jenkins
is a true hartist, equally facetious and soulful, sir!"
So saying, Mr. Brimberly arose and crossed toward the telephone. But
scarcely had he taken three steps when he paused suddenly and stood
rigid and motionless, his staring gaze fixed upon the nearest window;
for from the shadowy world beyond came a sound, faint as yet and far
away, but a sound there was no mistaking--the dismal tooting of an
automobile horn.
"'Eavens an' earth!" exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, and crossing to the window
he peered out. Once again the horn was heard, but very much nearer now,
and louder, whereupon Mr. Brimberly turned, almost hastily, and his
visitor rose hurriedly.
"It's very annoying, Mr. Stevens," said he, "but can I trouble you
to--to step--er--down--stairs--_with_ the glasses? It's 'ighly
mortifying, but may I ask you to--er--step a little lively, Mr.
Stevens?"
Without a word, Mr. Stevens caught up the tray from the piano and glided
away on his toe-points; whereupon Mr. Brimberly (being alone) became
astonishingly agile and nimble all at once, diving down to straighten a
rug here and there, rearranging chairs and tables; he even opened the
window and hurled two half-smoked cigars far out into the night; and his
eye was as calm, his brow as placid, his cheek as rosy as ever, only his
whiskers--those snowy, telltale whiskers, quivered spasmodically, very
much as though endeavouring to do the manifestly impossible and flutter
away with Mr. Brimberly altogether; yes, it was all in his whiskers.
Thus did Mr. Brimberly bustle softly to and fro until he paused, all at
once, arrested by the sound of a slow, firm step near by. Then Mr.
Brimberly coughed, smoothed his winglike whiskers, and--pulled down his
waistcoat for the third time. And lo! even as he did so, the door
opened, and the hero of this history stood upon the threshold.
CHAPTER II
OF A MOURNFUL MILLIONAIRE WHO LACKED AN OBJECT
Geoffrey Ravenslee was tall and pale and very languid, so languid indeed
that the automobile coat he bore across his arm slipped to the floor ere
Mr. Brimberly could take it, after which he shed his cap and goggles and
dropped them, drew off his gauntlets and dropped them and, crossing to
his favourite lounge chair, dropped himself into it, and lay there
staring into the fire.
"Ah, Brimberly," he sighed gently, "making a night of it?"
"Why, sir," bowed his butler, "indeed, sir--to tell the truth, sir--"
"You needn't, Brimberly. Excellent cigars you smoke--judging from the
smell. May I have one?"
"Sir," said Brimberly, his whiskers slightly agitated, "cigars, sir?"
"In the cabinet, I think," and Mr. Ravenslee motioned feebly with one
white hand towards the tall, carved cabinet in an adjacent corner.
Mr. Brimberly coughed softly behind plump fingers.
"The--the key, sir?" he suggested.
"Oh, not at all necessary, Brimberly; the lock is faulty, you know."
"Sir?" said Brimberly, soothing a twitching whisker.
"If you are familiar with the life of the Fourteenth Louis, Brimberly,
you will remember that the Grand Monarch hated to be kept waiting--so do
I. A cigar--in the cabinet yonder."
With his whiskers in a high state of agitation, Mr. Brimberly laid by
the garments he held clutched in one arm and coming to the cabinet,
opened it, and taking thence a box of cigars, very much at random, came
back, carrying it rather as though it were a box of highly dangerous
explosives, and setting it at his master's elbow, struck a match.
As Mr. Brimberly watched his master select and light his cigar, it
chanced that Young R. raised his eyes and looked at him, and to be sure
those eyes were surprisingly piercing and quick for one so very languid.
Indeed, Mr. Brimberly seemed to think so, for he coughed again, faint
and discreetly, behind his hand, while his whiskers quivered slightly,
though perceptibly.
"You're 'ome quite--quite unexpected, sir!"
"Brimberly, I'm afraid I am, but I hope I don't intrude?"
"Intrude, sir!" repeated Mr. Brimberly. "Oh, very facetious, sir, very
facetious indeed!" and he laughed, deferentially and soft.
"I blew the horn, but I see he left his hat behind him!" sighed Young
R., nodding languidly toward the headgear of Mr. Stevens, which had
fallen beneath a chair and thus escaped notice.
"Why, I--indeed, sir," said Mr. Brimberly, stooping to make a fierce
clutch at it, "I took the liberty of showing a friend of mine your--your
picters, sir--no offence, I 'ope, sir?"
"Friend?" murmured his master.
"Name of Stevens, sir, valet to Lord Barberton--a most sooperior person
indeed, sir!"
"Barberton? I don't agree with you, Brimberly."
"Stevens, sir!"
"Ah! And you showed him my--pictures, did you?"
"Yes, sir, I did take that liberty--no offence, sir, I--"
"Hum! Did he like 'em?"
"Like them, sir! 'E were fair overpowered, sir! Brandy and soda, sir?"
"Thanks! Did he like that, too?"
"Why, sir--I--indeed--"
"Oh, never mind--to-night is an occasion, anyway--just a splash of soda!
Yes, Brimberly, when the clocks strike midnight I shall be thirty-five
years old--"
"Indeed, sir!" exclaimed Brimberly, clasping his plump hands softly and
bowing, "then allow me to wish you many, many 'appy returns, sir, with
continued 'ealth, wealth, and all 'appiness, sir!"
"Happiness?" repeated Young R., and smiled quite bitterly, as only the
truly young can smile. "Happiness!" said he again, "thank you,
Brimberly--now take your friend his hat, and have the extreme goodness
to make up the fire for me. I love a fire, as you know, but especially
when I am mournful. And pray--hurry, Brimberly!"
Forthwith Mr. Brimberly bowed and bustled out, but very soon bustled
in again; and now, as he stooped, menial-like, to ply the coal tongs,
though his domelike brow preserved all its wonted serenity, no words
could possibly express all the mute rebellion of those eloquent
whiskers.
"Hanything more, sir?" he enquired, as he rose from his knees.
"Why, yes," said Young R., glancing up at him, and beneath the quizzical
look in those sleepy grey eyes, Mr. Brimberly's whiskers wilted
slightly. "You're getting a trifle too--er--portly to hop round on your
knees, aren't you, Brimberly? Pray sit down and talk to me."
Mr. Brimberly bowed and took a chair, sitting very upright and attentive
while his master frowned into the fire.
"Thirty-five is a ripe age, Brimberly!" said he at last; "a man should
have made something of his life--at thirty-five!"
"Certingly, sir!"
"And I'm getting quite into the sere and yellow leaf, am I not,
Brimberly?"
Mr. Brimberly raised a plump, protesting hand.
"'Ardly that, sir, 'ardly that!" said he, "we are hall of us getting
on, of course--"
"Where to, Brimberly? On where, Brimberly--on what?"
"Why, sir, since you ask me, I should answer--begging your
parding--'eavens knows, sir!"
"Precisely! Anyway, I'm going there fast."
"Where, sir?"
"Heaven knows, Brimberly."
"Ah--er--certingly, sir!"
"Now, Brimberly, as a hard-headed, matter-of-fact, common-sense being,
what would you suggest for a poor devil who is sick and tired of
everything and most of all--of himself?"
"Why, sir, I should prescribe for that man change of hair, sir--travel,
sir. I should suggest to that man Hafghanistan or Hasia Minor, or both,
sir. There's your noo yacht a-laying in the river, sir--"
His master leant his square chin upon his square fist and still frowning
at the fire, gently shook his head.
"My good Brimberly," he sighed, "haven't I travelled in most parts of
the world?"
"Why, yes, sir, you've travelled, sir, very much so indeed, sir--you've
shot lions and tigers and a helephant or so, and exchanged sentiments
with raging 'eathen--as rage in nothing but a string o' beads--but what
about your noomerous possessions in Europe, sir?"
"Ah, yes," nodded Young R., "I do possess some shanties and things over
there, don't I, Brimberly?"
"Shanties, sir!" Mr. Brimberly blinked, and his whiskers bristled
in horrified reproof. "Shanties!--Oh, dear me, sir!" he murmured.
"Shanties--your magnificent town mansion situate in Saint James's
Square, London, as your respected father hacquired from a royal dook,
sir! Shanties!--your costly and helegant res-eye-dence in Park Lane,
sir!"
"Hum!" said Young R. moodily.
"Then, in Scotland, sir, we 'ave your castle of Drumlochie, sir--rocks,
turrets, battlements, 'ighly grim and romantic, sir!"
"Ha!" sighed his young master, frowning at his cigar.
"Next, sir,--in Italy we find your ancient Roman villa, sir--halabaster
pillows and columns, sir--very historical though a trifle wore with wars
and centuries of centoorians, sir, wherefore I would humbly suggest a
coat or two of paint, sir, applied beneath your very own eye, sir--"
"No, Brimberly," murmured Young R., "paint might have attractions--Italy,
none!"
"Certingly not, sir, cer-tingly not! Which brings us to your schloss in
Germany, sir--"
"Nor Germany! Lord, Brimberly, are there many more?"
"Ho, yes, sir, plenty!" nodded Mr, Brimberly, "your late honoured and
respected father, sir, were a rare 'and at buying palaces, sir; 'e
collected 'em, as you might say, like some folks collects postage
starmps, sir!"
"And a collection of the one is about as useless as a collection of the
other, Brimberly!"
"Why, true, sir, one man can't live in a dozen places all at once, but
why not work round 'em in turn, beginning, say, at your imposing
Venetian palazzo--canals, sir, gondoleers--picturesque though dampish?
Or your shally in the Tyro-leen Halps, sir, or--"
"Brimberly, have the goodness to--er--shut up!"
"Certingly, sir."
"To-day is my birthday, Brimberly, and to-night I've reached a kind of
'jumping off' place in my life, and--between you and me--I'm seriously
thinking of--er--jumping off!"
"I crave parding, sir?"
"I'm thirty-five years old," continued Young R., his frown growing
blacker, "and I've never done anything really worth while in all my
useless life! Have the goodness to look at me, will you?"
"With pleasure, sir!"
"Well, what do I look like?"
"The very hacme of a gentleman, sir!"
"Kind of you, Brimberly, but I know myself for an absolutely useless
thing--a purposeless, ambitionless wretch, drifting on to God knows
what. I'm a hopeless wreck, a moral derelict, and it has only occurred
to me to-night--but"--and here the speaker paused to flick the ash from
his cigar--"I fear I'm boring you?"
"No, sir--ho, no, not at all, indeed, sir!"
"You're very kind, Brimberly--light a cigarette! Ah, no, pardon me, you
prefer my cigars, I know."
"Why--why, sir--" stammered Mr. Brimberly, laying a soothing hand upon
his twitching whisker, "indeed, I--I--"
"Oh--help yourself, pray!"
Hereupon Mr. Brimberly took a cigar very much at random, and, while
Young R. watched with lazy interest, proceeded to cut it--though with
singularly clumsy fingers.
"A light, Mr. Brimberly--allow me!"
So Ravenslee held the light while Mr. Brimberly puffed his cigar to a
glow, though to be sure he coughed once and choked, as he met Young R.'s
calm grey eye.
"Now," pursued his master, "if you're quite comfortable, Mr. Brimberly,
perhaps you'll be good enough to--er--hearken further to my tale of
woe?"
Mr. Brimberly choked again and recovering, smoothed his writhing
whiskers and murmured: "It would be a honour!"
"First, then, Brimberly, have you ever hated yourself--I mean, despised
yourself so utterly and thoroughly that the bare idea of your existence
makes you angry and indignant?"
"Why--no, sir," answered Mr. Brimberly, staring, "I can't say as I 'ave,
sir."
"No," said his master with another keen glance, "and I don't suppose you
ever will!" Now here again, perhaps because of the look or something in
Young R.'s tone, Mr. Brimberly took occasion to emit a small, apologetic
cough.
"You have never felt yourself to be a--cumberer of the earth, Brimberly?"
Mr. Brimberly, having thought the matter over, decided that he had not.
"You are not given to introspection, Brimberly?"
"Intro--ahem! No, sir, not precisely--'ardly that, sir, and then only
very occasional, sir!"
"Then you've never got on to yourself--got wise to yourself--seen
yourself as you really are?"
Mr. Brimberly goggled and groped for his whisker.
"I mean," pursued his master, "you have never seen all your secret
weaknesses and petty meannesses stripped stark naked, have you?"
"N-naked, sir!" faltered Mr. Brimberly, "very distressing indeed,
sir--oh, dear me!"
"It's a devilish unpleasant thing," continued Young R., scowling at the
fire again, "yes, it's a devilish unpleasant thing to go serenely on our
flowery way, pitying and condemning the sins and follies of others and
sublimely unconscious of our own until one day--ah, yes--one day we meet
Ourselves face to face and see beneath all our pitiful shams and
hypocrisies and know ourselves at last for what we really are--behold
the decay of faculties, the degeneration of intellect bred of sloth and
inanition and know ourselves at last--for exactly what we are!"
Mr. Brimberly stared at the preoccupation of his master's scowling brow
and grim-set mouth, and, clutching a soft handful of whisker, murmured:
"Certingly, sir!"
"When I was a boy," continued Ravenslee absently, "I used to dream of
the wonderful things I would do when I was a man--by the way, you're
quite sure I'm not boring you--?"
"No, sir--certingly not, sir--indeed, sir!"
"Take another cigar, Brimberly--oh, put it in your pocket, it will do
to--er--to add to your collection! But, as I was saying, as a boy I was
full of a godlike ambition--but, as I grew up, ambition and all the
noble things it leads to, sickened and died--died of a surfeit of
dollars! And to-day I am thirty-five and feel that I can't--that I never
shall--do anything worth while--"
"But, sir," exclaimed Mr. Brimberly with a bland and reassuring smile,
"you are one as don't have to do nothing--you're rich!"
Mr. Ravenslee started.
"Rich!" he cried, and turning, he glanced at Mr. Brimberly, and his
square chin looked so very square and his grey eyes so very piercing
that Mr. Brimberly, loosing his whisker, coughed again and shifted his
gaze to the Persian rug beneath his feet; yet when Young R. spoke again,
his voice was very soft and sleepy.
"Rich!" he repeated, "yes, that's just the unspeakable hell of it--it's
money that has crippled all endeavours and made me what I am! Rich? I'm
so rich that my friends are all acquaintances--so rich that I might buy
anything in the world except what I most desire--so rich that I am tired
of life, the world, and everything in the world, and have been seriously
considering a--er--a radical change. It is a comfort to know that we may
all of us find oblivion when we so desire."
"Oblivion!" nodded Mr. Brimberly, mouthing the word sonorously,
"oblivion, sir, certingly--my own sentiments exactly, sir--for, though
not being a marrying man myself, sir, I regard it with a truly reverent
heye and 'umbly suggest that for you such a oblivious change would be--"
"Brimberly," said Young R., turning to stare in lazy wonder, "where in
the world are you getting to now?"
Mr. Brimberly coughed and touched a whisker with dubious finger.
"Wasn't you allooding to--hem!--to matrimony, sir?"
"Matrimony! Lord, no! Hardly so desperate a course as that, Brimberly. I
was considering the advisability of--er--this!" And opening a drawer in
the escritoire, Young R. held up a revolver, whereat Mr. Brimberly's
whiskers showed immediate signs of extreme agitation, and he started to
his feet.
"Mr. Ravenslee, sir--for the love o' Gawd!" he exclaimed, "if it's a
choice between the two--try matrimony first, it's so much--so much
wholesomer, sir!"
"Is it, Brimberly? Let me see, there are about five hundred highly
dignified matrons in this--er--great city, wholly eager and anxious
to wed their daughters to my dollars (and incidentally myself) even
if I were the vilest knave or most pitiful piece of doddering
antiquity--faugh! Let's hear no more of matrimony."
"Certingly not, sir!" bowed Mr. Brimberly.
"And I'm neither mad, Brimberly, nor drunk, only--speaking
colloquially--I'm 'on to' myself at last. If my father had only left me
fewer millions, I might have been quite a hard-working, useful member of
society, for there's good in me, Brimberly. I am occasionally aware of
quite noble impulses, but they need some object to bring 'em out. An
object--hum!" Here Mr. Ravenslee put away the revolver. "An object to
work for, live for, be worthy of!" Here he fell to frowning into the
fire again and stared thus so long that at last Mr. Brimberly felt
impelled to say:
"A hobject, of course, sir! A hobject--certingly, sir!" But here he
started and turned to stare toward the windows as from the darkness
beyond two voices were uplifted in song; two voices these which sang the
same tune and words but in two different keys, uncertain voices, now
shooting up into heights, now dropping into unplumbable deeps, two shaky
voices whose inconsequent quaverings suggested four legs in much the
same condition.
"Brimberly," sighed his master, "what doleful wretches have we here?"
"Why, sir, I--I rather fancy it's William and James--the footmen, sir,"
answered Mr. Brimberly between bristling whiskers. "Hexcuse me,
sir--I'll go and speak to 'em, sir--"
"Oh, pray don't trouble yourself, Mr. Brimberly; sit down and hearken!
These sad sounds are inspired by deep potations--beer, I fancy. Be
seated, Mr. Brimberly."
Mr. Brimberly obeyed, and being much agitated dropped his cigar and
grovelled for it, and it was to be noted thereafter that as the singers
drew nearer, he shuffled on his chair with whiskers violently a-twitch,
while his eyes goggled more and his domelike brow grew ever moister. But
on came the singing footmen and passed full-tongued, wailing out each
word with due effect, thus:
"--my sweet 'eart's--me mother
The best--the dearest--of--'em all."
"Hum!" murmured Young R., "I admire the sentiment, Brimberly, but the
execution leaves something to be desired, perhaps--"
"If you'll only let me go out to 'em, sir!" groaned Mr. Brimberly,
mopping himself with a very large, exceeding white handkerchief, "if you
honly will, sir!"
"No, Brimberly, no--it would only distress you, besides--hark! their
song is ended, and rather abruptly--I rather fancy they have fallen down
the terrace steps."
"And I 'opes," murmured Mr. Brimberly fervently, "I do 'ope as they've
broke their necks!"
"Of course I ought to have gone out and switched on the lights for
them," sighed Young R, "but then, you see, I thought they were safe in
bed, Brimberly!"
"Why, sir," said Mr. Brimberly, mopping furiously, "I--I ventured to
give 'em a hour's leave of habsence, sir; I ventured so to do, sir,
because, sir--"
"Because you are of rather a venturesome nature, aren't you, Brimberly?"
"No offence, sir, I 'ope?"
"None at all, Mr. Brimberly--pray calm yourself and--er--take a little
brandy."
"Sir?"
"Your glass is under the chair yonder, or is it your friend's?"
Mr. Brimberly goggled toward Mr. Stevens' betraying glass, picked it
up, and sat staring at it in vague and dreamy fashion until, rousing at
his master's second bidding, he proceeded to mix brandy and soda, his
gaze still profoundly abstracted and his whiskers drooping with an
abnormal meekness.
At this juncture a knock sounded at the door, and a chauffeur appeared,
looking very smart in his elegant livery; a thick-set man, mightily deep
of chest, whose wide shoulders seemed to fill the doorway, and whose
long, gorilla-like arms ended in two powerful hands; his jaw was
squarely huge, his nose broad and thick, but beneath his beetling brows
blinked two of the mildest blue eyes in the world.
"What is it, Joe?"
"And what time will ye be wantin' the car in the mornin', sir?" he
enquired.
"The morning, Joe? Who can say what may happen between now and then?"
"Shall I have her round at eleven, sir, or--"
"Eleven will do as well as any other time--let it go at that."
"You was to see your broker, Mr. Anderson, in the morning over them
steamship shares, sir."
"Shares, Joe, are a vanity; all is vanity--they weary me. Mr. Brimberly
yawns, and you look sleepy--good night, Joe; pleasant dreams."
"Good night, sir!" and touching his right eyebrow, Joe went out, closing
the door behind him.
"And now," said Mr. Ravenslee, puffing languidly at his cigar,
"referring to the necessary object, there is a chance that it may be
found--even yet, Mr. Brimberly!"
"Object, sir," murmured Mr. Brimberly, "found, sir--to be sure, sir."
"Yes; I intend you shall find it for me, Brimberly."
Mr. Brimberly's abstraction gave place to sudden amaze.
"Find it--wot, me, sir? Hexcuse me, sir, but did you say--" Mr.
Brimberly actually gaped!
"You, Brimberly, of course!"
"But--but wot kind of a hobject--and where, sir?"
"Really," sighed Young R., "these are quite fool questions for one of
your hard-headed common sense! If I knew exactly 'what' and 'where', I'd
go and find it myself--at least, I might!"
"But--'ow in the world, sir--begging your parding I'm sure, but 'ow am I
to go a-finding hobjex as I've never seen nor 'eard of?"
"Brimberly, I pass! But if you manage it in--say a week, I'll double
your wages and give you a--er--a bonus into the bargain; think it over."
"I--I will, sir--indeed, sir!"
"Very well; you may go."
"Certingly, sir." Mr. Brimberly bowed and crossed to the door but, being
there, paused. "Double me wages I think it were, sir, _and_ a bonus?
Very 'andsome, very 'andsome indeed, sir--thank you, sir." Saying which,
Mr. Brimberly bowed himself out, but immediately bowed himself in again.
"Sir," said he, "if you could give me some hidea, sir--"
"Some what?"
"A few 'ints, sir, as to the nature of said hobject--whether animal,
mineral, or nooter, sir?"
"Well--perhaps 'animal' might be the more interesting."
"Now--as to gender, sir--masculine shall we say, or shall we make it
feminine?"
"Oh--either will do! And yet, since you offer so wide a selection,
perhaps--er--feminine--?"
"Very good, sir!"
"And you'd better make it singular number, Brimberly."
"Certingly, sir, much obliged, sir! Will you be wanting me again, sir?"
"Not again, Brimberly."
"Then good night, sir--thank you, sir!" And Mr. Brimberly went softly
forth and closed the door noiselessly behind him.
Being alone, Mr. Ravenslee switched off the lights and sat in the
fire-glow.
"Feminine gender, singular number, objective case, governed by the
verb--to love--I wonder!"
And he laughed a little bitterly (and very youthfully) as he stared down
into the dying fire.
CHAPTER III
HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE WENT SEEKING AN OBJECT
A clock in the hall without struck midnight, but Mr. Ravenslee sat there
long after the silvery chime had died away, his chin sunk upon his broad
chest, his sombre eyes staring blindly at the fading embers, lost in
profound and gloomy meditation. But, all at once, he started and glanced
swiftly around toward a certain window, the curtains of which were only
partly drawn, and his lounging attitude changed instantly to one of
watchful alertness.
As he sat thus, broad shoulders stooped, feet drawn up--poised for swift
action, he beheld a light that flashed here and there, that vanished and
came again, hovering up and down and to and fro outside the window;
wherefore he reached out a long arm in the gloom and silently opened a
certain drawer in the escritoire.
Came a soft click, a faint creak, and a breath of cool, fragrant air as
the window was cautiously opened, and a shapeless something climbed
through, while Mr. Ravenslee sat motionless--waiting.
The flashing light winked again, a small, bright disc that hovered
uncertainly and finally steadied upon the carved cabinet in the corner,
and the Something crept stealthily thither. A long-drawn, breathless
minute and then--the room was flooded with brilliant light, and a
figure, kneeling before the cabinet, uttered a strangled cry and leapt
up, only to recoil before Mr. Ravenslee's levelled revolver.
A pallid-faced, willowy lad, this, of perhaps seventeen, who, sinking to
his knees, threw up an arm across his face, then raised both hands above
his head.
"Ah, don't shoot, mister!" he gasped. "Oh, don't shoot--I got me hands
up!"
"Stand up!" said Ravenslee grimly, "up with you and shutter that
window--you may have friends outside, and I'm taking no chances!
Quick--shutter that window, I say."
The lad struggled to his feet and, crossing to the window, fumbled the
shutter into place, his ghastly face turning and turning toward the
revolver that glittered in such deadly fashion in Mr. Ravenslee's steady
hand. At length, the shutters barred, the boy turned, and moistening dry
lips, spoke hoarsely and with apparent effort.
"Oh, mister--don't go for to--croak a guy as--as ain't done nothing!"
"You broke into my house!"
"But I--haven't took nothin'!"
"Because I happened to catch you!"
"But--but--oh, sir," stammered the boy, taking off his cap and fumbling
with it while he stared wide-eyed at the threatening revolver, "I--I
ain't a real thief--cross me heart and hope to die, I ain't! Don't croak
me, sir!"
"But why in the world not?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee. "Alone and unaided
I have captured a desperate criminal, a bloodthirsty villain--caught him
in the very act of burgling a cabinet where I keep my cigars of
price--and Mr. Brimberly's, of course! Consequently to--er--croak you
is my privilege as a citizen; it's all quite just and proper--really,
I ought to croak you, you know."
"I--ain't desprit, mister," the boy pleaded, "I ain't a reg'lar crook;
dis is me first try-out--honest it is!"
"But then I prefer to regard you as a deep-dyed desperado--you must be
quite--er--sixteen! Consequently it is my duty to croak you on the spot,
or hand you over to the police--"
"No, no!" cried the boy, his tremulous hands reached out in a passion
of supplication, "not d' cops--don't let th' p'lice get me. Oh, I never
took nothin' from nobody--lemme go! Be a sport and let me beat it,
please, sir!"
All Mr. Ravenslee's chronic languor seemed to have returned as, leaning
back in the deep-cushioned chair, he regarded this youthful malefactor
with sleepy eyes, yet eyes that missed nothing of the boy's quivering
earnestness as he continued, breathlessly:
"Oh, I ain't a real crook, I never done nothin' like this before, an'
I never will again if--if you'll only let me chase meself--"
"And now," sighed Mr. Ravenslee, "I'll trouble you for the 'phone,
yonder."
"Are ye goin' to--call in de cops?"
"That is my intention. Give me the 'phone."
"No!" cried the boy, and springing before the telephone he stood there,
trembling but defiant.
"Give me that telephone!"
"Not much I won't!"
"Then of course I must shoot you!"
The boy stood with head up-flung and fists tight-clenched; Mr. Ravenslee
lounged in his chair with levelled pistol. So they fronted each
other--but, all at once, with a sound between a choke and a groan, the
lad covered his face.
"Go on!" he whispered hoarsely, "go on--what's keepin' you? If it's the
cops or croaking, I--I'd rather croak."
"Why?"
"'Cause if I was ever sent to--prison--it 'ud break her heart, I guess."
"Her heart?" said Mr. Ravenslee, and lowered the pistol.
"Me sister's."
"Ah--so you have a sister?" and Mr. Ravenslee sat up suddenly.
"Lots o' guys has, but there ain't a sister like mine in all N'
York--nor nowheres else."
"Who are you? What's your name?"
"Spike. Me real name's Arthur, but Arthur sounds kinder soft an' sissy;
nobody don't call me Arthur 'cept her, an' I don't mind her."
"And what's her name?"
"Hermy--Hermione, sir."
"Hermione--why, that's Greek! It's a very beautiful name!"
"Kind of fits her too!" nodded Spike, warming to his theme. "Hermy's
ace-high on the face and figure question! Why, there ain't a swell dame
on Fift' Av'ner, nor nowheres else, got anything on Hermy as a looker!"
"And what of your father and mother?"
"Ain't got none--don't remember having none--don't want none; Hermy's
good 'nuff for me."
"Good to you, is she?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee.
"Good t' me!" cried Spike, "good? Well, say--when I think about it I--I
gets watery in me lamps, kinder sloppy in me talk, an' all mushy inside!
Good t' me? Well, you can just bet on that!"
"And," enquired Mr. Ravenslee sleepily, "are you as good to her?"
Hereupon Spike turned his cap inside out and looked at it thoughtfully.
"I--I dunno, mister."
"Ah! perhaps you--make her cry, sometimes?"
Hereupon Spike began to pick at the lining of his cap and finally
answered: "Sometimes, I guess."
"Would she cry if she could see you now, I wonder?"
Hereupon Spike began to wring and twist his cap in nervous hands ere he
answered: "I--I guess she might, perhaps."
"She must love you a good deal."
At this, Spike twisted his cap into a ball but spoke nothing; seeing
which Mr. Ravenslee proceeded.
"You are luckier than I; there isn't a soul in the world to do as much
for me."
Spike gulped audibly and, thereafter, sniffed.
"Now suppose," said Mr. Ravenslee, "let us suppose she found out that
the brother she loved so much was a--thief?"
Hereupon Spike unrolled his cap and proceeded to rub his eyes with it,
and, when at last he spoke, it was in a voice broken by great sobs.
"Say--cut it out--cut it out! I never meant to--to do it. They got me
soused--doped me, I think, else I'd never have done it. I ain't good,
but I ain't so rotten bad as--what I seem. I ain't no real crook, but if
you wanter croak me for what I done--go ahead! Only don't--don't let d'
cops get me, 'cause o' Hermy. If you croak me, she'll think I got it in
a scrap, maybe; so if you wanter plug me, go ahead!"
"But what are you shivering for?"
"I--I'm just waitin', sir," answered Spike, closing his eyes, "I--I seen
a guy shot once!"
Mr. Ravenslee sighed and nodded.
"After all," said he, "I don't think I'll croak you," and he slipped
the revolver into his pocket while Spike watched him in sudden tense
eagerness.
"What yer mean to do wi' me?" he asked.
"That's the question; what shall I do with you? Let me think."
"Say," cried the boy eagerly, "you don't have to do no thinkin'--leave
it all to me! It's de winder for mine; I'll chase meself quick--"
"No you don't! Sit down--sit down, I say!"
Spike sighed and seated himself on the extreme edge of the chair his
captor indicated.
"Won't yer lemme beat it, sir?" he pleaded.
"No, some one else might catch you next time and have the pleasure
of--er--croaking you or handing you over to the police--"
"There won't be no next time, sir!" cried Spike eagerly. "I'll never
do it no more--I'll cut d' whole gang, I'll give Bud M'Ginnis d'
throw-down--on d' dead level I will, if you'll only let me--"
"Who's Bud M'Ginnis?"
"Say," exclaimed the boy, staring, "don't yer know that? Why, Bud's
d' main squeeze with d' gang, d' whole cheese, he is--an' he kind o'
thinks I'm d' candy-kid 'cause he's stuck on me sister--".
"Ah!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee, frowning a little, "and is she--er--stuck on
him?"
"Not so as you could notice it, she ain't! No, she can't see Bud with a
pair of opry-glasses, an' he's a dead game sport, too! Oh, there ain't
no flies on Bud, an' nobody can lick him, either; but Hermy don't cotton
none, she hasn't got no use for him, see? But say--" Spike rose
tentatively and looked on his captor with eyes big and supplicating.
"Well, what now?"
"Why, I thought if you was tired of me chewing d' rag and wanted to hit
the feathers, I'd just cop a sneak. See, if you'll only lemme go, I'll
do d' square thing and get a steady job like Hermy wants me to--honest,
I will, sir! Y' see, me sister's away to-night--she does needleworks for
swell folks an' stops with 'em sometimes--so if you'll only let me beat
it, I can skin back an' she'll never know! Ah!--lemme go, sir!"
"Well then," sighed Mr. Ravenslee, "for her sake I will let you
go--wait! I'll let you go and never speak of your--er--little escapade
here, if you will take me with you."
Now at this, Spike gaped and fell back a step.
"Go wi' me--wi' me?" he stammered. "You--go wi' me to Hell's Kitchen--to
Mulligan's Dump--you! Say, what kind o' song and dance are you giving
me, anyway? Aw--quit yer kiddin', sir!"
"But I mean it."
"On--on d' level?"
"On the level."
"Holy Gee!" and Spike relapsed into wide-eyed, voiceless wonder.
"Is it a go?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee.
"But--but, say--" stammered the boy, glancing from the elegant figure in
the chair around the luxurious room and back again, "but you're a--a--"
"Just a poor, disconsolate, lonely--er--guy!"
"What!" cried Spike, staring around him again, "with all this? Oh, yes,
you're homeless and starving, you are--I don't think!"
"Is it a go?"
"But say--whatcher want to go wi' me for? What's yer game? Put me wise."
"I am filled with desire to breathe awhile the salubrious air of Hell's
Kitchen; will you take me?" Now as he spoke, beholding the boy's staring
amaze, Mr. Ravenslee's frowning brows relaxed, his firm, clean-shaven
lips quivered, and all at once curved up into a smile of singular
sweetness--a smile before which the hopelessness and fear died out of
the boy's long-lashed eyes, his whole strained attitude vanished, and he
smiled also--though perhaps a little tremulously.
"Will you take me, Spike?"
"You bet I will!" exclaimed the boy, his blue eyes shining, "and I'll do
my best to show you I--I ain't so bad as I--as I seem--an' we'll shake
on it if you like." And Spike advanced with his hand outstretched, then
paused, suddenly abashed, and drooping his head, turned away. "I--I
forgot," he muttered, "--I'm--you said I was a--thief!"
"You meant to be!" said Mr. Ravenslee, and rising, he stretched himself
and glanced at his watch.
"Are you coming wi' me, sir?" enquired Spike, regarding Mr. Ravenslee's
length and breadth with quick, appraising eyes.
"I surely am!"
"But--but not in them glad rags!" and Spike pointed to Mr. Ravenslee's
exquisitely tailored garments.
"Ah--to be sure!" nodded their wearer. "We'll soon fix that," and he
touched the electric bell.
"Say," cried Spike, starting forward in sudden terror, "you--you ain't
goin' to give me away?"
"No."
"Cross your heart--hope to die, you ain't?"
"Across my heart and hope to die, I'm not--and there's my hand on it,
Spike."
"What?" exclaimed the boy, his eyes suspiciously bright, "d' you mean
you will shake--after--after what I--"
"There's my hand, Spike!" So their hands met and gripped, the boy's hot
and eagerly tremulous, the man's cool and steady and strong; then of a
sudden Spike choked and turning his back brushed away his tears with his
cap. Also at this moment, with a soft and discreet knock, Mr. Brimberly
opened the door and bowed himself into the room; his attitude was
deferential as always, his smile as respectful, but, beholding Spike,
his round eyes grew rounder and his whiskers slightly bristly.
"Ah, Brimberly," nodded his master, "you are not in bed yet--good!"
"No, sir," answered Mr. Brimberly, "I'm not in bed yet, sir, but when
you rang I was in the very hact, sir--"
"First of all," said Young R., selecting a cigar, "let me introduce you
to--er--my friend, Spike!"
Hereupon Mr. Brimberly rolled his eyes in Spike's direction, glanced him
over, touched either whisker, and bowed--and lo! those fleecy whiskers
were now eloquent of pompous dignity, beholding which Spike shuffled his
feet, averted his eyes, and twisted his cap into a very tight ball
indeed.
But now Brimberly turned his eyes (and his whiskers) on his master, who
had taken out his watch.
"Brimberly," said he, "it is now very nearly two o'clock."
"Very late, sir--oh, very late, sir--indeed, I was in the very hact of
goin' to bed, sir--I'd even unbuttoned my waistcoat, sir, when you
rang--two o'clock, sir--dear me, a most un-'oly hour, sir--"
"Consequently, Brimberly, I am thinking of taking a little outing--"
"Certingly, sir--oh, certingly!"
"And I want some other clothes--"
"Clothes, sir--yessir. There's the noo 'arris tweed, sir--"
"With holes in them, if possible, Brimberly."
"'Oles, sir! Beg parding, sir, but did you say 'oles, sir?"
"Also patches, Brimberly, the bigger the better!"
"Patches! Hexcuse me, sir, but--patches! I beg parding, but--" Mr.
Brimberly laid a feeble hand upon a twitching whisker.
"In a word, Brimberly," pursued his master, seating himself upon the
escritoire and swinging his leg, "I want some old clothes, shabby
clothes--moth-eaten, stained, battered, and torn. Also a muffler and
an old hat. Can you find me some?"
"No, sir, I don't--that is, yessir, I do. Hexcuse me, sir--'arf a
moment, sir." Saying which, Mr. Brimberly bowed and went from the room
with one hand still clutching his whisker very much as though he had
taken himself into custody and were leading himself out.
"Say," exclaimed Spike in a hoarse whisper and edging nearer to Mr.
Ravenslee, "who's His Whiskers--de swell guy with d' face trimmings?"
"Why, since you ask, Spike, he is a very worthy person who devotes his
life to--er--looking after my welfare and--other things."
"Holy Gee!" exclaimed Spike, staring, "I should have thought you was big
'nuff to do that fer yourself, unless--" and here he broke off suddenly
and gazed on Mr. Ravenslee's long figure with a new and more particular
interest.
"Unless what?"
"Say--you ain't got bats in your belfry, have you--you ain't weak in the
think-box, or soft in the nut, are ye?"
"No--at least not more than the average, I believe."
"I mean His Whiskers don't have to lead you around on a string or watch
out you don't set fire to yourself, does he?"
"Well, strictly speaking, I can't say that his duties are quite so
far-reaching."
"Who are you, anyway?"
"Well, my names are Geoffrey, Guy, Eustace, Hughson-and--er--a few
others, but these will do to go on with, perhaps?"
"Well, I guess yes!"
"You can take your choice."
"Well, Guy won't do--no siree--ye see every mutt's a guy down our
way--so I guess we'll make it Geoff. But, say, if you ain't weak on the
think-machinery, why d' ye keep a guy like His Whiskers hanging around?"
"Because he has become a habit, Spike--and habits cling--and speaking of
habits--here it is!" Sure enough, at that moment Brimberly's knuckles
made themselves discreetly heard, and Brimberly himself appeared with
divers garments across his arm, at sight of which Spike stood
immediately dumb in staring, awe-struck wonder.
"Ah, you've got them, Brimberly?"
"Yessir! These is the best I can do, sir--"
"Say rather--the worst!"
"'Ere's a nice, big 'ole in the coat, sir," said Mr. Brimberly,
unfolding the garment in question, "and the weskit, sir; the pocket
is tore, you'll notice, sir."
"Excellent, Brimberly!"
"As for these trousis, sir--"
"They seem rather superior garments, I'm afraid!" said Mr. Ravenslee,
shaking his head.
"But you'll notice as they're very much wore round the 'eels, sir."
"They'll do. Now the hat and muffler."
"All 'ere, sir--the 'at's got its brim broke, sir."
"Couldn't be better, Brimberly!" So saying, Mr. Ravenslee took up the
clothes and turned toward the door. "Now I'll trouble you to keep an eye
on--er--young America here while I get into these."
"Sir," said Mr. Brimberly, turning his whiskers full upon Spike, who
immediately fell to shuffling and wringing at his cap. "Sir--I will,
certingly, sir."
Now when the door had shut after his master, Mr. Brimberly raised eyes
and hands to the ceiling and shook his head until his whiskers quivered.
Quoth he: "Hall I arsks is--wot next!" Thereafter he lowered his eyes
and regarded Spike as if he had been that basest of base minions--a boy
in buttons. At last he deigned speech.
"And w'en did _you_ come in, pray?"
"'Bout a hour ago, sir," answered Spike, dropping his cap in his
embarrassment.
"Ah!" nodded Mr. Brimberly, "about a hour ago--ho! By appointment, I
pre-zoom?"
"No, sir--by a winder."
"A--wot?"
"A winder, sir."
"A--winder? 'Eavens and earth--a winder--ow? Where? Wot for?"
"Say, mister," said Spike, breaking in upon Mr. Brimberly's astounded
questioning, "is he nutty?" And he jerked his thumb toward the door
through which Mr. Ravenslee had gone.
"Nutty!" said Mr. Brimberly, staring.
"Yes--I mean is he batty? Has he got wheels?"
"W'eels?" said Mr. Brimberly, his eyes rounder than usual.
"Well, then, is he daffy?--off his trolley?"
"Off 'is wot?" said Mr. Brimberly, fumbling for his whisker.
"Holy Gee!" exclaimed Spike, "can't you understand English? Say, is your
brother as smart as you?"
"The honly brother as ever I 'ad was a infant as died and--but wot was
you saying about a winder?"
"Nothin'!"
"Come, speak up, you young vagabone--" began Mr. Brimberly, his whiskers
suddenly fierce and threatening, but just then, fortunately for Spike,
the door swung, open, and Mr. Ravenslee entered.
And lo! what a change was here! The battered hat, the faded muffler and
shabby clothes seemed only to show off all the hitherto hidden strength
and vigour of the powerful limbs below; indeed it almost seemed that
with his elegant garments he had laid aside his lassitude also and taken
on a new air of resolution, for his eyes were sleepy no longer, and his
every gesture was lithe and quick. So great was the change that Spike
stared speechless, and Mr. Brimberly gaped with whiskers a-droop.
"Well, shall I do?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee, tightening his faded
neckerchief.
"Do?" repeated Spike, "say--you look all to d' mustard, Geoff! You--you
look as if you could--do things, now!"
"Strangely enough, Spike, I rather feel that way too!" So saying, Mr.
Ravenslee took a pipe from the rack, filled it with quick, energetic
fingers, and proceeded to light it, watched in dumb amaze by the gaping
Brimberly.
"Brimberly," said he, "I shall probably return to-morrow."
"Yes, sir," said he faintly.
"Or the day after."
"Yes, sir!"
"Or the day after."
"Yes, sir!"
"Or the day after that; anyhow, I shall probably return. Should any one
call--business or otherwise--tell 'em to call again; say I'm out of
town--you understand?"
"Out of town--certingly, sir."
"Referring to--to the matter we talked of to-night, Brimberly--"
"Meaning the hobject, sir?"
"Precisely! Don't trouble yourself about it."
"No, sir?"
"No, Brimberly--I'm going to try and find one for myself."
"Ho--very good, sir!"
"And now," said the new Mr. Ravenslee, laying one white, ringless hand
on Spike's shoulder and pointing toward the open door with the other,
"lead on--young Destiny!"
CHAPTER IV
TELLING HOW HE CAME TO HELL'S KITCHEN AT PEEP O' DAY
It was past three o'clock and dawn was at hand as, by devious ways,
Spike piloted his companion through that section of New York City which
is known to the initiated as "Hell's Kitchen." By dismal streets they
went, past silent, squalid houses and tall tenements looming grim and
ghostly in the faint light; crossing broad avenues very silent and
deserted at this hour, on and on until, dark and vague and mysterious,
the great river flowed before them only to be lost again as they plunged
into a gloomy court where tall buildings rose on every hand, huge and
very silent, teeming with life--but life just now wrapped in that
profound quietude of sleep which is so much akin to death. Into one of
these tall tenement buildings, its ugliness rendered more ugly by the
network of iron fire-escape ladders that writhed up the face of it,
Spike led the way, first into a dark hallway and thence up many stairs
that echoed to their light-treading feet--on and up, past dimly lit
landings where were doors each of which shut in its own little world, a
world distinct and separate wherein youth and age, good and evil, joy
and misery, lived and moved and had their being; behind these dingy
panels were smiling hope and black despair, blooming health and pallid
sickness, and all those sins and virtues that go to make up the sum
total of humanity.
Something of all this was in Geoffrey Ravenslee's mind as he climbed the
dingy, interminable stair behind Spike, who presently halted to get his
wind and whisper:
"It ain't much further now, Geoff, only another two flights and--" He
stopped suddenly to listen, and from the landing above a sound reached
them, a sound soft but unmistakable--a woman's muffled sobbing.
Slowly, cautiously, they mounted the stair until in the dim light of a
certain landing they beheld a slim figure bowed upon its knees in an
agony of abasement before a scarred and dingy door. Even as they stared,
the slender, girlish figure sobbed again, and, with a sudden, yearning
gesture, lifted a face, pale in the half-light, and kissed that battered
door; thereafter, weeping still, she rose to her feet and turned, but
seeing Spike, stood very still all at once and with hands clasped tight
together.
"Holy Gee!" exclaimed Spike beneath his breath; then, in a hoarse
whisper: "Is that Maggie--Maggie Finlay?"
"Oh--is that you, Arthur?" she whispered back. "Arthur--oh, Arthur, I,
I'm going away, but I couldn't go without coming to--to kiss dear mother
good-by--and now I'm here I daren't knock for fear of--father. I've been
up to your door and knocked, but Hermy's away, I guess. Anyway,
you--you'll say I came to thank her and--kiss her for the last time,
won't you, Arthur?"
"Sure I will--but where ye goin', Maggie?"
"A long way, Arthur! I don't s'pose I shall ever--see this place any
more--or you--so, Arthur, will you--kiss me good-by--just once?"
Spike hesitated, but she, quick and light-treading, came down to him and
caught his hand and would have kissed that, but he snatched it away and,
leaning forward, kissed her tear-stained cheek, and blushed thereafter
despite the dark.
"Good-by, Arthur!" she whispered, "and thank you--and dear Hermy--oh,
good-by!" So saying, she hurried on past Ravenslee, down the dark
stairway, while Spike leaned over the balustrade to whisper:
"Good-by, Maggie--an' good luck, Kid!" At this she paused to look up at
him with great, sad eyes--a long, wistful look, then, speaking no more,
hurried on down the stair--down, down into the shadows, and was gone.
"We used to go to school together, Geoff," the boy explained a little
self-consciously, "she never--kissed me before; she ain't the kissin'
sort. I wonder why she did it to-night? I wonder--"
So saying, Spike turned and led the way on again until they reached the
landing above, across which two doors, dark and unlovely, seemed to
scowl upon each other. One of these Spike proceeded to open with a
latchkey, and so led Ravenslee into the dark void beyond. Spike struck
a match and lighted the gas, and, looking about him, Ravenslee stared.
A little, cramped room, sparsely furnished yet dainty and homelike, for
the small, deal table hid its bare nakedness beneath a dainty cloth; the
two rickety armchairs veiled their faded tapestry under chintz covers,
cunningly contrived and delicately tinted to match the cheap but
soft-toned drugget on the floor and the self-coloured paper on the
walls, where hung two or three inexpensive reproductions of famous
paintings; and in all things there breathed an air of refinement wholly
unexpected in Hell's Kitchen. Wherefore Mr. Ravenslee, observing all
things with his quick glance, felt an ever-growing wonder. But now
Spike, who had been clattering plates and dishes in the kitchen hard
by, thrust his head around the door to say:
"Oh, Geoff--I don't feel like doin' the shut-eye business, d' you? How
about a cup of coffee, an' I daresay I might dig out some eats; what d'
ye say?"
"Is this--your sister?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee, taking up a photograph
from the little sideboard.
"Yep, that's Hermy all right--taken las' year--does her hair different
now. How about some coffee, Geoff?"
"Coffee?" said Mr. Ravenslee, staring at the picture,
"coffee--certainly--er--thanks! She has--light hair, Spike?"
"Gold!" said Spike, and vanished; whereupon Mr. Ravenslee laid the
photograph on the table, and sitting down, fell to viewing it intently.
A wonderful face, low-browed, deep-eyed, full-lipped. Here was none of
smiling prettiness, for these eyes were grave and thoughtful, these
lips, despite their soft, voluptuous curves, were firmly modelled like
the rounded chin below, and, in all the face, despite its vivid youth,
was a vague and wistful sadness.
"Oh, Geoff," called Spike, "d' ye mind having yer coffee à la milko
condenso?"
"Milk?" exclaimed Mr. Ravenslee, starting. "Oh--yes--anything will do!"
"Why, hello!" exclaimed Spike, reappearing with a cup and saucer, "still
piping off Hermy's photo, Geoff?"
"I'm wondering why she looks so sad?"
"Sad?" repeated Spike, setting down the crockery with a rattle, "Hermy
ain't sad; she always looks like that. Y' see, she ain't much on the
giggle, Geoff, but she's most always singing, 'cept when her kids is
sick or Mulligan calls--"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, Hermy mothers all the kids around here when they're sick, an' lots
o' kids is always getting sick. And when Mulligan comes it's rent day,
an' sometimes Hermy's a bit shy on the money--"
"Is she?" said Mr. Ravenslee, frowning.
"You bet she is, Geoff! An' Mulligan's an Irishman an' mean--say, he's
the meanest mutt you ever see. A Jew's mean, so's a Chink, but a mean
Harp's got 'em both skinned 'way to 'Frisco an' back again! Why,
Mulligan's that mean he wouldn't cough up a nickel to see the Statue
o' Liberty do a Salomy dance in d' bay. So when the mazuma's shy Hermy
worries some--"
"Don't you help her?" demanded Mr. Ravenslee.
"Help her--why, y' see, Geoff, I--I ain't in a steady job yet. But I
do my best an'--why, there's d' kettle boilin' at last!" saying which,
Spike turned and vanished again, leaving Mr. Ravenslee still staring
down at the pictured face. Presently he sank back in his chair, and,
lolling thus, looked sleepily at the opposite wall but saw it not, nor
heard the clatter of cups and saucers from the kitchen accompanied by
Spike's windy whistling; and, as he lounged thus, he spoke softly, and
to himself.
"An object!" he murmured.
"Hey, Geoff," Spike called, "this ain't goin' to be no à la carte, hock
an' claret feedin' match, nor yet no table-de-hoty eat-fest, but if you
can do in some bacon an' eggs, you're on!"
"Why, then," said Mr. Ravenslee, rising and yawning, "count me decidedly
'on.'"
"Then d' you mind givin' me a hand wid d' coffee?"
"Delighted!" and forthwith Mr. Ravenslee stepped out into the kitchen;
and there, in a while, upon a rickety table covered with a greasy
newspaper, they ate and drank with great relish and gusto, insomuch
that Mr. Ravenslee marvelled at his own appetite.
"Say, Geoff," enquired Spike as hunger waned, "how long are you stoppin'
at Mulligan's--a week?"
"A week--a month--six months," replied his guest sleepily. "It's all
according--"
"Accordin' to what?"
"Well--er--circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
"Circumstances over which I have no control--yet!"
"You don't mean me?" queried Spike, with an anxious expression.
"Lord, no!"
"And you'll never tell nobody that I--that I--"
"Meant to be--a thief?" drawled Mr. Ravenslee. "Not a word!"
Spike flushed, took a gulp of coffee, choked, and fell to sulky silence,
while Mr. Ravenslee filled his pipe and yawned.
"Say," demanded Spike at last, "where'll you live while you're here?"
"Oh--somewhere, I suppose; I haven't bothered about where yet."
"Well, I been thinkin' I know where I can fix you up--perhaps!"
"Very kind of you, Spike!"
"There's Mrs. Trapes 'cross d'landing; she lost her lodger last
week--mean guy skinned off without paying d' rent--she might take you."
"Across the landing? She'll do!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee.
"But I'm wonderin' if _you'll_ do; she's a holy terror when she likes,
Geoff."
"Across the landing? I'll put up with her!" murmured Mr. Ravenslee.
"But, say, you don't know Mrs. Trapes."
"Not yet, Spike."
"Well, she ain't no easy mark, Geoff! Most everybody in Mulligan's is
scared of her when she cuts loose; she can talk ye deaf, dumb an'
paralysed, she can so. She sure is aces up on d' chin-music, Geoff!"
"But then she lives just opposite, and that circumstance, methinks, doth
cover a multitude of--" Mr. Ravenslee yawned again.
"Anyway, it's a sure thing she won't take you if she don't like ye,
Geoff."
"Why, then, she must like me!" said Mr. Ravenslee and proceeded to light
his pipe; whereupon Spike produced a box of cigarettes, but, in the act
of lighting one, paused, and sighing, put it away again.
"I promised d' Spider I wouldn't, Geoff," he explained. "Y' see, I'm
sort of in trainin', and Spider says smoke's bad for d' wind, and d'
Spider knows."
"Spider?" said Mr. Ravenslee, glancing up, "do you mean Spider Connolly
the lightweight?"
"That's d' guy!" nodded Spike.
"Is he a friend of yours?"
"Sure! Him an' Bud M'Ginnis is goin' to get me some good matches soon."
"Boxing matches?"
"That's what they call 'em, Geoff--but there ain't much boxin' to it;
real boxin' don't go down wid d' sports, it's d' punch they wanter
see--good, stiff wallops as jars a guy an' makes his knees get
wobbly--swings and jolts as makes a guy blind an' deaf an' sick. Oh,
I been like that, an' I know--an' it ain't all candy t' hear everybody
yellin' to the other guy to go in an' finish ye!"
"Does your sister know you fight?"
"Not much, she don't! I guess she'd like me to be a mommer's pet in lace
collars an' a velvet suit, an' soft an' pretty in me talk. She's made
me promise t' cut out d' tough-spiel, an' so I'm tryin' to--"
"Are you really, Spike?"
"Well--when she's around I do, Geoff!"
"And she doesn't like you to fight, eh?"
"Nope! But y' see--she's only a girl, Geoff!"
"And that's the wonder of it!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee.
"Wonder? What d' ye mean?"
"I mean that all these years she has managed to feed you, and clothe
you, and keep a comfortable home for you, and she's--only a girl!"
"Well, and ain't I tryin' to make good?" cried the boy eagerly.
"Are you really, Spike?"
"Sure! There's lots o' money in d' fightin' game, an' I'm fightin' all
for Hermy. If ever I get a champ, I'll have money to burn, an' then
she'll never be shy on d' dollar question no more, you bet! There'll
be no more needlework or Mulligan's for Hermy; it'll be a farm in d'
country wid roses climbin' around, an' chickens, an'--an' automobiles,
an' servants to come when she pushes d' button--you bet!"
"Is she so fond of the country?"
"Well, I guess yes! An' flowers--Gee, she nearly eats 'em!"
"On the other hand," said Mr. Ravenslee, watching the smoke from his
pipe with a dreamy eye, "on the other hand I gather she does not
like--Mr. M'Ginnis! I wonder why?"
"You can search me!" answered Spike, shaking his head, "but it's a sure
thing she ain't got no use for Bud."
"And yet--you go around with him, Spike."
"But don't I tell ye he's been good t' me! He's goin' t' match me with
some top-liners; he says if I can stick it I'll be a champion sure."
"Yes," nodded Mr. Ravenslee, "but when?"
"Oh, Bud's got it all doped out. But say--"
"And in the meantime your sister will go on feeding you and clothing you
and--"
"Cheese it, Geoff," cried the boy, flushing. "You make a guy feel like a
two-spot in the discard! I told you I'd try to get a steady job, an' so
I will--but I ain't goin' to quit the fightin' game for nobody! 'N'
say--I'm sleepy. How about it? You can have my bed, or the couch here,
or you can get in Hermy's--"
"Thanks, the couch will do, Spike."
"Then I guess it's me for the feathers!" said Spike, rising and
stretching, "so long, Geoff!"
And in a while, having finished his pipe and knocked out the ashes, Mr.
Ravenslee stretched his long limbs upon the chintz-covered sofa, and,
_mirabile dictu_, immediately fell asleep.
CHAPTER V
HOW MRS. TRAPES ACQUIRED A NEW LODGER, DESPITE HER ELBOWS
He awoke suddenly and sat up to find the room full of sunshine and Spike
standing beside him, a bright-faced, merry-eyed Spike, very spruce and
neat as to person.
"Say, Geoff," said he, "I've seen Mrs. Trapes, an' she wants you to go
over so she can pipe you off. 'N' say, you're sure up against a catty
proposition in her; if you don't hit it off on the spot as soon as she
gets her lamps onto you, it'll be nix for you, Geoff, an' nothin'
doin'!"
"Lucid!" said Ravenslee, yawning, "and sounds promising!"
"Why, y' see, Geoff, she's got a grouch on because I was out last night,
so, if she gives you the gimlet eye at first, just josh her along a bit.
Now slick yourself up an' come on." Obediently Mr. Ravenslee arose and
having tightened his neckerchief and smoothed his curly hair, crossed
the landing and followed Spike into the opposite flat, a place of
startling cleanliness as to floors and walls, and everything therein;
uncomfortably trim of aspect and direfully ornate as to rugs and carpet
and sofa cushions.
Mrs. Trapes herself was elderly; she was also a woman of points, being
bony and sharp featured, particularly as to elbows, which were generally
bare. Indeed, they might be said to be her most salient and obtrusive
features; but her shrewd, sharp eyes held an elusive kindliness at
times, and when she smiled, which was very rarely, her elbows and her
general sharpness were quite forgotten.
She was awaiting them in her parlour, enthroned in her best easy chair,
a chair of green velvet where purple flowers bloomed riotously, her feet
firm-planted upon a hearthrug cunningly enwrought with salmon-pink
sunflowers. Bolt upright and stiff of back she sat, making the very
utmost of her elbows, for her sleeves being rolled high (as was their
wont) and her arms being folded within her apron, they projected
themselves to left and right in highly threatening fashion. Sphinx-like
she sat, very silent and very still, while her sharp eyes roved over Mr.
Ravenslee's person from the toes of his boots to the dark hair that
curled short and crisp above his brow. Thus she looked him up and she
looked him down, viewing each garment in turn; lastly, she lifted her
gaze to his face and stared at him--eye to eye.
And eye to eye Mr. Ravenslee, serene and calm as ever, met her look,
while Spike, observing her granite-like expression and the fierce jut of
her elbows, shuffled, and glanced toward the door. But still Mrs. Trapes
glared up at Mr. Ravenslee, and still Mr. Ravenslee glanced down at Mrs.
Trapes wholly unabashed, nay--he actually smiled, and, bowing his dark
head, spoke in his easy, pleasant voice.
"A beautiful afternoon, Mrs. Trapes!"
Mrs. Trapes snorted.
"This room will suit me--er--admirably."
Mrs. Trapes started slightly, opened her grim lips, shut them again,
and--wriggled her elbows.
"Yes, indeed," continued Mr. Ravenslee pleasantly, "I like this room--so
nice and bright, like the rug and wall paper--especially the rug. Yes, I
like the rug and the--er--stuffed owl in the corner!" and he nodded to a
shapeless, moth-eaten something under a glass case against the wall.
Mrs. Trapes wriggled her elbows again and, glaring still, spoke
harsh-voiced.
"Young feller, that owl's a parrot!"
"A parrot--of course!" assented Mr. Ravenslee gently, "and a very fine
parrot too! Then the wax flowers and the antimacassars! What would a
home be without them?" said he, dreamy-eyed and grave. "I think I shall
be very bright and cheerful here, my dear Mrs. Trapes."
Mrs. Trapes swallowed audibly, stared at Spike until he writhed, and
finally bored her sharp eyes into Mr. Ravenslee again.
"Young man," said she, "what name?"
"I think our friend Spike has informed you that I am sometimes called
Geoffrey. Mrs. Trapes, our friend Spike told the truth."
"Young feller," she demanded, "'oo are you and--what?"
"Mrs. Trapes," he sighed, "I am a lonely wight, a wanderer in wild
places, a waif, a stray, puffed hither and thither by a fate perverse--"
"Talking o' verses, you ain't a poet, are you?" enquired Mrs. Trapes,
"last poet as lodged wi' me useter go to bed in 'is boots reg'lar!
Consequently I ain't nowise drawed to poets--"
Mr. Ravenslee laughed and shook his head.
"Have no fear," he answered, "I'm no poet nor ever shall be. I'm quite
an ordinary human being, I assure you."
"Young feller--references?"
"Mrs. Trapes, I have none--except my face. But you have very sharp eyes;
look at me well. Do I strike you as a rogue or a thief?"
Here Spike, chancing to catch his eye, blushed painfully, while Mr.
Ravenslee continued:
"Come, Mrs. Trapes, you have a motherly heart, I know, and I am a very
lonely being who needs one like you to--to cook and care for his bodily
needs and to look after the good of his solitary soul. Were I to search
New York I couldn't find another motherly heart so suited to my crying
needs as yours; you won't turn me away, will you?" Saying which, Mr.
Ravenslee smiled his slow, sleepy smile and--wonder of wonders--Mrs.
Trapes smiled too!
"When d' ye wanter come?"
"Now!"
"Land sakes!" she exclaimed.
"If it won't trouble you too much?" he added.
"There's sheets to be aired--" she began, but checked suddenly to stare
at him again. "Look a here, Mr. Geoffrey," she went on, "my terms is
two-fifty a week, ten dollars _with_ board, and a week in advance."
"Good!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee, "but since I'm coming in at such short
notice, I'll pay three weeks ahead just to--er--bind the bargain.
See--that will be thirty dollars, won't it?" And speaking, he drew a
handful of crumpled bills from his pocket and proceeded to count out
thirty dollars upon the green and yellow tablecloth.
"Sakes alive!" murmured Mrs. Trapes.
"And now," said he, "I'll just step around the corner with Spike to
buy--er--a toothbrush."
"Toothbrush!" echoed Mrs. Trapes faintly.
"And a few other things. I shall be in early to supper."
"Would a nice, English mutton chop wiv tomatoes--"
"Excellent; and thank you, Mrs. Trapes, for sheltering a homeless
wretch." So saying, her new boarder smiled and nodded and, following
Spike out into the hallway, was gone.
But Mrs. Trapes stood awhile to stare after him, lost in speculation.
"A toothbrush!" said she. "My! My!" Then she turned to stare down at the
pile of bills. "Now I wonder," said she, right hand caressing left
elbow-point, "I jest wonder who he's been a-choking of to get all that
money? But I like his eyes! And his smile! And he looks a man--and
honest! Well, well!"
CHAPTER VI
HOW SPIKE INITIATED MR. RAVENSLEE INTO THE GENTLE ART OF SHOPPING
"Gee!" exclaimed Spike, as they descended the many stairs, "she sure
gave you the frosty-face, Geoff, but it didn't seem to joggle you any!"
"No, it didn't joggle me, Spike, because you see--I like her."
"Like Mrs. Trapes? You 'n' Hermy are about the only ones then; most
every one in Mulligan's hates her an' gets scared stiff when she cuts
loose! But say, you do keep on rubbing it in, I mean about--about
thieving!"
"Probably it's your conscience, Spike."
"You won't ever go telling any one or blowing d' game on me?"
"Spike, when I make a promise I generally keep it."
"Y' see, Geoff, it ain't as though I was a--a real crook."
"You meant to be."
"But I never stole nothin' in my life, Geoff."
"Suppose I hadn't caught you?"
"Oh, well, cheese it, Geoff, cheese it! Let's talk about something
else."
"With pleasure. When does your sister return?"
"This evening, I guess. But, Geoff--say now, do I look like a real
crook--do I?"
"No, you don't, Spike, that's sure! And yet--only last night--"
"Ah, yes, I know--I know!" groaned the lad, "but I was crazy, I think.
It was the whisky, Geoff, an' they doped me too, I guess! I don't
remember much after we left till I found myself in your swell joint.
God! if I was only sure they doped me."
"Who?"
"Who? Why--gee, you nearly had me talking that time! Nix on the
questions, Geoff, I ain't goin' to give 'em away; it ain't playin'
square. Only, if two or three guys dopes a guy till a guy's think-box is
like a cheese an' his mind as clear as mud, that poor guy ain't to be
blamed for it, now, is he?"
"Why, certainly!" nodded Ravenslee.
"How d' ye make that out?"
"For being such a fool of a guy as to let other guys fool him, of
course. Sounds a little cryptic, but I guess you understand."
"Oh, I get you!" sighed Spike drearily. "But say, didn't you come out to
buy a toothbrush?"
"And other things, yes."
"Well, say, s'pose we quit chewing th' rag an' start in an' get 'em.
There's a Sheeny store on Ninth Avenue where you can get dandy shirts
for fifty cents a throw."
"Sounds fairly reasonable!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee as they turned up
Thirty-ninth Street.
"Then you want a new lid, Geoff!"
Mr. Ravenslee took off the battered hat and looked at it.
"What's the matter with this?" he enquired.
"Nothin', Geoff, only it wants burnin'," sighed Spike. "An' then--them
boots--oh, gee!"
"Are they so bad as that?"
"Geoff, they sure are the punkest pavement pounders in little old N'
York. Why, a Dago hodcarrier wouldn't be seen dead in 'em; look at th'
patches. Gee whizz! Where did His Whiskers dig 'em up from?"
"I fancy they were his own--once," answered Mr. Ravenslee, surveying his
bulbous, be-patched footgear a little ruefully.
"Well, I'll gamble a stack of blue chips there ain't such a phoney pair
in Manhattan Village."
"They're not exactly things of beauty, I'll admit," sighed Mr.
Ravenslee, "but still--"
"They're rotten, Geoff! They're all to the garbage can! They are the
cheesiest proposition in sidewalk slappers I ever piped off!"
"Hum! You're inclined to be a trifle discouraging, Spike!"
"Why, ye see, Geoff, I wan'cher t' meet th' push, an' I don't want 'em
to think I'm floatin' around with a down-an'-out from Battyville! You
must have some real shoes, Geoff."
"Enough--it shall be done!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee.
"Well, tan Oxfords are all to th' grapes just now, Geoff. I don't mean
those giddy-lookin' pumps with flossy bows onto 'em, but somethin'
sporty, good an' yellow that'll flash an' let folks know you're comin'.
And here's Eckstein's!"
With which abrupt remark Spike plunged into a shop, very dark and narrow
by reason of a heterogeneous collection of garments, of ribbons and
laces, of collars and ties of many shapes and hues, together with a
thousand and one other things that displayed themselves from floor to
ceiling; amidst which, Mr. Ravenslee observed a stir, a slight
confusion, and from a screen of vivid-bosomed shirts a head protruded
itself, round as to face and sleek as to hair.
"Greetin's, Ikey!" said Spike, nodding to the head. "How's pork to-day?"
"Aw--vat you vant now, hey?" enquired the head. "Vat's the vord;
now--shpit it out!"
"It ain't me, Moses, it's me friend wants a sporty fit-out an' discount
for spot cash, see? Show us your half-dollar shirts for a starter--an'
sporty ones, mind!"
Immediately out came drawers and down came boxes, and very soon the
small counter was littered with piles of raiment variously gaudy which
Spike viewed and disparaged with such knowing judgment that the
salesman's respect proportionately grew, and Mr. Ravenslee, lounging in
the background, was forgotten quite, the while they chaffered after this
manner:
Salesman. "Here vos a shirt as can't be beat for der
money--neglegee boosom an' turnover cuffs, warranted shrunk, and all for
vun dollar."
Spike. "Come off, Aaron, come off! Fifty cents is th' bid!"
Salesman. "Fifty cents? Vy, on Broadvay dey'd sharge you--"
Spike. "Wake up, Ike! This ain't Broadway! And fifty's the
limit!"
Salesman. "But shust look at dem pink shtripes--so vide as an
inch! Dere's fifty cents' vorth of dye in dem shtripes, an' I'll give it
you for seventy-five cents! On Broadvay--"
Spike. "We're gettin' there, Ikey, we're gettin' there; keep
on, fifty's the call!"
Salesman. "Fifty cents! Oi! Oi! I vould be ruined! A neglegee
boosom and turnover cuffs! Vell, vell--I'll wrap it up, so--an' I make
you a present of it for--sixty! An' on Broadvay--"
Spike. "Come on, Geoff, Aaron's talking in his sleep! Come on,
we'll go on to Mendelbaum's; see--we want shirts, an' ties, an' socks,
an' collars, an'--"
Salesman. "Vait--vait! Mendelbaum's a grafter--vait! I got th'
best selection of socks an' ties on Ninth Av'noo, an' here's a neglegee
shirt with turnover cuffs--an' only fifty cents. But at Mendelbaum's or
on Broadvay--"
In this way Mr. Ravenslee became possessed of sundry shirts whose bosoms
blushed in striped and spotted splendour, of vivid-hued ties and of
handkerchiefs with flaming borders. From shop to shop Spike led him and,
having a free hand, bought right royally, commanding that their
purchases be sent around hotfoot to Mulligan's. Thus Spike ordered, and
Mr. Ravenslee dutifully paid, marvelling that so much might be bought
for so little.
"I guess that's about all the fixings you'll need, Geoff!" said Spike,
as they elbowed their way along the busy avenue.
"Well," answered Mr. Ravenslee, as he filled his pipe, "it will
certainly take me some time to wear 'em out--especially those shirts!"
"They sure are dandies, Geoff! Yes, those shirts are all to the
lollipops, but say, you made a miscue gettin' them black shoes," and
here Spike turned to stare down at his companion's newly acquired
footwear. "Why not buy the yellow boys I rustled up for you. They sure
were some shoes!"
"They were indeed, Spike."
"Gee, but it must feel good t' be able t' buy whatever you want!" sighed
Spike dreamily. "Some day I mean to have a wad big enough t' choke a
cow--but I wish I had it right now!"
"What would you do with it?"
"Do with it! Well, say, first off I'd--I'd buy Hermy them roses--th'
whole lot," and he pointed where, among the pushcarts drawn up against
the curb, was one where roses bloomed, filling the air with their
sweetness. "An' next she should--"
"Then go and buy 'em, Spike!" and speaking, Mr. Ravenslee thrust a bill
into Spike's hand.
"Gee--a twenty-spot! Can I, Geoff?" he cried, his blue eyes shining.
"Th' whole lot--on d' level?"
"On the level."
Spike started joyfully away, paused, turned, and came back with head
a-droop.
"I guess it can't be done, Geoff," he sighed.
"Why not?"
"Well, y' see, it ain't as it was my own money, really."
"But it is!"
"No, it ain't! I haven't earned it, Geoff, an' I ain't a guy as sponges
on his pals, not much I ain't. Take your money, Geoff. When I buy Hermy
anything it's goin' to be bought with money as I've earned."
So Mr. Ravenslee thrust the bill back into his pocket and thereafter
walked on, frowning and very silent, as one lost in perplexed thought.
Wherefore, after more than one furtive glance at him, Spike addressed
him with a note of diffidence in his voice.
"You ain't sore with me, are you, Geoff?"
"Sore with you?"
"I mean, because I--I didn't take your money?"
Here Mr. Ravenslee turned to glance down at Spike and clap a hand upon
his shoulder.
"No," he answered, "I'm not sore with you. And I think--yes, I think
your sister is going to be proud of you one day."
And now it was Spike's turn to grow thoughtful, while his companion,
noting the flushed brow and the firm set of the boyish lips, frowned no
longer.
"Hello, there's Tony!" exclaimed Spike as they turned into Forty-second
Street, "over there--behind the pushcart--th' guy with th' peanuts!" And
he pointed where, from amid a throng of vehicles, a gaily painted barrow
emerged, a barrow whereon were peanuts unbaked, baked, and baking as the
shrill small whistle above its stove proclaimed to all and sundry. It
was propelled by a slender, graceful, olive-skinned man, who, beholding
Spike, flashed two rows of brilliant teeth and halted his barrow beside
the curb.
"How goes it, Tony?" questioned Spike, whereat the young Italian smiled,
and thereafter sighed and shook his head.
"Da beezeneez-a ver' good," he sighed, "da peanut-a sell-a all-a da
time! But my lil' Pietro he sick, he no da same since his moder die-a,
me no da same--have-a none of da luck--noding--nix!"
"Hard cheese, Tony!" quoth Spike. "But say, have you seen th' Spider
kickin' around?"
"No, I ain't! But you tell-a da Signorina--"
"Sure I will--"
"My lil' Pietro he love-a da Signorina; me, I love-a her--she so good,
so generosa, ah, yes!" And taking off his hat in one hand, Tony kissed
the other and waved it gracefully in the air.
"Right-o, Tony!" nodded Spike. "You can let it go at that. An' say--this
is me friend Geoff."
Tony gripped Mr. Ravenslee's hand and shook it.
"You one o' da bunch--one o' da boys, hey? Good-a luck." So saying, Tony
nodded, flashed his white teeth again, and seizing the handles of his
barrow, trundled off his peanut oven, whistling soft and shrill.
"Tony's only a guinney," Spike explained as they walked on again. "But
he's white, Geoff--'n' say, he's a holy terror in a mix-up! Totes one o'
them stiletto knives. I've seen him stab down into a glass full of water
an' never spill a drop, which sure wants some doing."
Evening was falling, and dismal Tenth Avenue was wrapping itself in
shadow, a shadow made more manifest by small lights that burned dismally
in small and dingy shops, a shadow, this, wherein moving shadows jostled
with lounging shoulder or elbow. As they passed a certain dark entry
where divers of these vague shadows lounged, a long arm was stretched
thence, and a large hand gripped Spike's shoulder.
"Why--hello, Spider," said he, halting. "What's doin'?"
"Nawthin' much, Kid--only little M--'say, who's wid you?"
"Oh, this is a friend o' mine--Geoff, dis is d' Spider!" explained
Spike.
Visualised in "the Spider" Ravenslee saw a tall, slender youth, very
wide in the shoulder and prodigiously long of arm and leg, and who
looked at him keen-eyed from beneath a wide cap brim, while his square
jaws worked with untiring industry upon a wad of chewing gum.
"Good evening!" said Ravenslee and held out his hand. The Spider ceased
chewing for a moment, nodded, and turning to Spike, chewed fiercer than
ever.
"Where youse goin', Kid?" he enquired, masticating the while.
"What was you goin' to tell me, Spider?" demanded Spike, a note of
sudden anxiety in his voice.
"Nawthin', Kid."
"Aw--come off, Spider! What was it?"
The Spider glanced up at the gloomy sky, glanced down at the dingy
pavement, and finally beckoned Spike aside with a quick back-jerk of the
head, and, stooping close, whispered something in his ear--something
that caused the boy to start away with clenched hands and face of
horror, something that seemed to trouble him beyond speech, for he stood
a moment dumb and staring, then found utterance in a sudden, hoarse cry:
"No--no! It ain't true--oh, my God!"
And with the cry, Spike turned sharp about and, springing to a run,
vanished into the shadows.
"What's the matter?" demanded Ravenslee, turning on the Spider.
"Matter?" repeated that youth, staring at him under his cap brim again;
"well, say--I guess you'd better ask d' Kid."
"Where's he gone?"
"How do I know?"
"It isn't--his sister, is it?"
"Miss Hermione? Well, I guess not!" So saying, the Spider, chewing
ferociously, turned and vanished down the dark entry with divers other
shadows.
For a moment Mr. Ravenslee stood where he was, staring uncertainly after
him; presently however he went on toward Mulligan's, though very slowly,
and with black brows creased in frowning perplexity.
CHAPTER VII
CONCERNING ANKLES, STAIRS, AND NEIGHBOURLINESS
It was in no very pleasant humour that Geoffrey Ravenslee began to climb
the many stairs (that much-trodden highway) that led up to his new
abode; he climbed them slowly, frowning in a dark perplexity, and wholly
unconscious of the folk that jostled him or paused to stare after him as
he went.
But presently, and all at once, he became aware of one who climbed half
a flight above him, and, glancing up, he saw a foot in a somewhat worn
shoe, a shapely foot nevertheless, joined to a slender ankle which
peeped and vanished alternately beneath a neat, well-brushed skirt that
swayed to the vigorous action of the shapely limbs it covered. He was
yet observing the soft, rounded curves of this most feminine back when
he became aware of two facts: one, that she bore a heavy suit case in
her neatly gloved hand; two, that the tress of hair peeping rebellious
beneath the neat hat brim was of a wondrous yellow gold. Instantly he
hastened his steps, and reaching out his hand almost instinctively,
sought to relieve her of her burden.
"Allow me!" said he.
She stopped, and turning on the stair above, looked down on him with a
pair of wondering blue eyes; her cheeks glowed, and she was panting a
little. For a long moment they fronted each other thus silently upon
that grimy, narrow stair, she above with gracious head stooped, her dark
eyes questioning and wistful. And looking up into the flushed loveliness
of her face, those eyes deep and soft beneath their long, black lashes,
the tender droop of those vivid lips, beholding all this, he knew her to
be a thousand times more beautiful than any photograph could possibly
portray, wherefore he bared his head, and striving to speak, could find
no words to utter. For a moment longer she hesitated while her clear
eyes searched his face, then the red lips curved in a little wistful
smile.
"Thank you!" she said, and, yielding him her burden, led the way
up-stairs. "I'm afraid it's rather heavy," she said over her shoulder
after they had climbed another flight.
"It's quite too heavy for you!" he answered.
"Oh, but I've carried it often before now."
"Then you shouldn't!"
"But I have to!"
"No," said Ravenslee, shaking his head, "you should let your brother
bring it up for you."
"My brother!" she exclaimed, pausing to look her amazement. And again as
she stood thus poised above him, he took joy to note the warmth of her
rich colouring, the soft, round column of her white throat, the gracious
breadth of hip and shoulder.
"You know I have a brother?"
"Oh, yes, Spike--er--that is, Arthur and I are quite--er--ancient
cronies--pals, you know--friends, I mean--" Mr. Ravenslee was actually
stammering.
"Oh, really?" she said softly; but all at once, becoming aware of the
fixity of his regard, the colour deepened in her cheek, the long lashes
drooped and, turning away, she went on up the stair.
"It's a long way up yet! Hadn't you better let me take it?"
"Not for worlds!" he answered.
"Isn't it getting heavier?" she enquired, as they climbed the next
flight.
"Decidedly heavier!"
"Then please," said she, slackening her pace, "please let me take it!"
"On the contrary," he answered, his gaze on her slender foot and ankle,
"I should like to carry it for you all my--er--ah, that is--I mean--"
Mr. Ravenslee was stammering again.
"Yes?"
He was aware that the shapely foot had faltered in its going.
"As often as I may, Miss Hermione."
Hereupon the shapely foot halted altogether, and once again she turned
to look at him in wide-eyed surprise.
"You know my name?"
"I learned it from Arthur, and--I shall never forget it!"
"Why not?"
"Well, because it is rather uncommon and--very beautiful!"
"Oh!" said Hermione, and went on up the stair again, yet not before he
had seen the flush was back in her cheek.
"Are you getting tired yet?" she enquired, without looking round.
"Not appreciably," he answered, "but if you think I need a rest--"
"No, no!" she laughed, "we should never get off these frightful stairs!"
"Even that might have its compensations!" he murmured.
"And we've been much longer than if you'd let me carry it up myself."
"But then we've no cause for panting haste, have we?" he suggested.
"And we have four more flights to climb."
"So few!" he sighed.
"You see, I live at the very tip-top."
"Good!" said he.
At this she glanced down at him over the sweep of her shoulder.
"Why 'good'?" she demanded.
"Because I also live at the tip-top."
"Do you--oh!"
"With the excellent Mrs. Trapes."
"But I thought she had lost her lodger?"
"She had the--er--extreme good fortune to find a new one to-day."
"Meaning you?"
"Meaning me."
By this time they had reached the topmost landing, where Mr. Ravenslee
set down the suit case almost reluctantly.
"Thank you!" said Hermione, looking at him with her frank gaze.
"Heaven send I may earn your thanks again--and very soon," he answered,
lifting the battered hat.
"You didn't tell me your name!" said she, fumbling in a well-worn little
hand bag for her latchkey.
"I am called Geoffrey."
Hermione opened the door and, taking up the suit case, held out her
hand.
"Good-by, Mr. Geoffrey!"
"For the present!" said he, and though his tone was light there was a
very real humility in his attitude as he stood bareheaded before her.
"For the present!" he repeated.
"Well--we are very near neighbours," said she, dark lashes a-droop.
"And neighbourliness is next to godliness--isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"Well, I think so, anyway? So, Miss Hermione--not 'good-by.'"
She glanced swiftly up at him, flushed, and turning about, was gone. But
even so, before her door closed quite, she spoke soft-voiced:
"Good--evening, Mr. Geoffrey!"
Thereafter, for a space, Mr. Ravenslee stood precisely where he was,
staring hard at the battered hat; yet it is not to be supposed that the
sight of this could possibly have brought the smile to his lips, and
into his eyes a look that surely none had ever seen there before--such
a preposterously shabby, disreputable old hat! Of course not!
CHAPTER VIII
OF CANDIES AND CONFIDENCES
"Oh!" said Mrs. Trapes, "so you've come? Good land, Mr. Geoffrey,
there's parcels an' packages been a-coming for you constant ever since
you went out! Whatever have you been a-buying of?" And opening the door
of his small bedroom, she indicated divers packages with a saucepan lid
she happened to be holding.
"Well," said her lodger, seating himself upon the bed, "if I remember
rightly, there are shirts, and socks, and pajamas, and a few other
oddments of the sort. And here, when I can get it out of my pocket, is a
box of candies. I don't know if you are fond of such things, but most of
the sex feminine are, I believe. Pray take them as a mark of
my--er--humble respect!"
"Candy!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, turning the gaily bedecked box over and
over, and glaring at it fierce-eyed. "Fer me?"
"If you will deign acceptance."
"Candy!" she repeated, elbows a-twitch. "Fer me? Land sakes, Mr.
Geoffrey, I--I--" Here, very abruptly, she turned about and vanished
into the kitchen.
Mr. Ravenslee, lounging upon his white bed, was taking languid stock of
his purchases when Mrs. Trapes suddenly reappeared, clutching a toasting
fork.
"Mr. Geoffrey," she said, glaring still, "them candies must ha' cost you
a sight o' money?"
"True, certain monies were expended, Mrs. Trapes."
"They must ha' cost you well nigh a dollar-fifty, I reckon?"
"They did!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee, smiling.
"My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, and vanished again.
Mr. Ravenslee was sighing over a hideously striped shirt when Mrs.
Trapes was back again, flourishing a very large tablespoon.
"Mr. Geoffrey," said she, "it's nigh forty years since any one bought me
a box o' chocolates! An' now they look so cute all done up in them gold
an' silver wrappings as I don't wanter eat 'em--seems a sin, it do.
But--Mr. Geoffrey I--I'd like to--thank ye--" and lo, she was gone
again!
Mr. Ravenslee had just pitched the striped shirt out of the window when
behold, Mrs. Trapes was back yet once more, this time grasping a much
battered but more bepolished dish cover.
"Mr. Geoffrey," said she, "I ain't good at thankin' folks, no, I ain't
much on gratitood--never having had much to gratify over--but them
candies is goin' to be consoomed slow an' reverent and in a proper
sperrit o' gratitood. And now if you're ready to eat your supper, your
supper's a-waitin' to be ate!"
So saying, she led the way into the parlour, where upon a snowy cloth,
in a dish tastefully garnished with fried tomatoes, the English mutton
chop reposed, making the very most of itself; the which Mr. Ravenslee
forthwith proceeded to attack with surprising appetite and gusto.
"Is it tender?" enquired Mrs. Trapes anxiously. "Heaven pity that
butcher if it ain't! Is it tasty, kind of?"
"It's delicious," nodded her lodger. "Really, Hell's Kitchen seems to
suit me; I eat and sleep like a new man!"
"So you ain't lived here long, Mr. Geoffrey?" queried Mrs. Trapes,
eagle-eyed.
"Not long enough to--er--sigh for pastures new. Don't go, Mrs. Trapes,
I love to hear folks talk; sit down and tell me tales of dead kings
and--er--I mean, converse of our neighbours, will you?"
"I will so, an' thank ye kindly, Mr. Geoffrey, if you don't mind me
sucking a occasional candy?"
"Pray do, Mrs. Trapes," he said heartily; whereupon, having fetched her
chocolates, Mrs. Trapes ensconced herself in the easy chair and opening
the box, viewed its contents with glistening eyes.
"You're an Englishman, ain't you?" she enquired after a while, munching
luxuriously.
"No, but my mother was born in England."
"You don't say!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes. "So was I--born in the Old Kent
Road, Mr. Geoffrey. I came over to N' York thirty long years ago as cook
general to Hermy Chesterton's ma. When she went and married again, I
left her an' got married myself to Trapes--a foreman, Mr. Geoffrey, with
a noble 'eart as 'ad wooed me long!" Here Mrs. Trapes opened the candy
box again and, after long and careful deliberation, selected a chocolate
with gentle, toil-worn fingers, and putting it in her mouth, sighed her
approbation. "They sure are good!" she murmured. "But talkin' o' Hermy
Chesterton's ma," she went on after a blissful interval, "I been
wondering where you came to meet that b'y Arthur?"
"Ah, Mrs. Trapes," sighed Ravenslee, leaning back in his chair and
shaking a rueful head, "you touch on gloomy matters. As the story books
say, 'thereby hangs a tale'--the dismal tale of a miserable wretch whose
appetite was bad, whose sleep was worse, and whose temper was worst of
all--oh, a very wretched wretch indeed!"
"My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, stopping abruptly in the act of
masticating a large chocolate walnut, "so bad as that, Mr. Geoffrey?"
"Worse!" he nodded gloomily. "It is indeed a gloomy tale, a tale dark
and dismal that I love not the telling of, for, Mrs. Trapes, that more
than hopeless wretch stands, or rather sits, before you!"
"Save us!" ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, "meanin' yourself?"
"My unworthy self!"
"Lord!" she whispered, "what you been a-doin' of?"
"Wasting a promising life, Mrs. Trapes!"
"You mean," she questioned in a harsh whisper, "you mean as
you've--killed some one--accidental?"
"Oh, no, the life was mine own, Mrs. Trapes."
"Land sakes, Mr. Geoffrey, you give me quite a turn! Y' see, sometimes
folks gets theirselves killed around here--an' it's always
accidental--sure!" and Mrs. Trapes nodded meaningly and went on chewing.
"But say," she demanded, suddenly sharp of eye, "where does Arthur come
in?"
"Arthur comes in right here, Mrs. Trapes! In fact, Arthur broke into
my--er--life just when things were at their darkest generally. Arthur
found me very depressed and gloomy. Arthur taught me that life might yet
have its uses. Arthur lifted me out of the Slough of Despond. Arthur
brought me--to you! And behold! life is good and perchance shall be even
better if--ah yes, if! So you see, my dear Mrs. Trapes, Arthur has done
much for me, consequently I have much to thank Arthur for. Indeed, I
look upon Arthur--"
"Shucks!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, "that'll be about enough about
Arthur--Arthur, indeed! You oughter know his sister!" Now at this her
lodger started and glanced at her so suddenly, and with eyes so
unexpectedly keen that once again she suspended mastication.
"Now, in the name of all that's wonderful, Mrs. Trapes, why mention
her?"
"Why, because she's worth knowin'! Because she's the best, the bravest,
the sweetest thing that ever went in petticoats. She's beautiful inside
and out--mind, I've nursed her in these arms years ago an' I know
she's--oh, well, you ought to meet Hermy!"
"Mrs. Trapes, I have!"
"Eh? You have? My lan'!" Mrs. Trapes bolted a caramel in her
astonishment and thereafter stared at Ravenslee with watering eyes. "An'
you to set there an' never tell me!" quoth she, "an' Hermy never told
me--well, well! When did ye meet her? Whereabouts? How?"
"About half an hour ago! Coming up the stairs! I carried her grip!"
"Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, staring, "well, well!" and she continued
to munch candy and to stare and say "well!" at intervals until arrested
by a new thought. "That b'y!" she exclaimed. "Was Arthur with her?"
"No," answered Ravenslee, wrinkling his brows, "I lost him on my way
home."
Mrs. Trapes sighed and shook her head.
"The sun sure rises and sets for her in that b'y--an' him only her
stepbrother at that!"
"Her stepbrother?"
"Yes!" nodded Mrs. Trapes emphatically. "Hermy's ma were a lady, same as
Hermy is; so were her pa, I mean a gentleman, of course. But Hermy's
father died, an' then her ma, poor soul, goes an' marries a good-lookin'
loafer way beneath her, a man as weren't fit to black her shoes, let
alone take 'em off! And Arthur's his father's child. Oh, a good enough
b'y as b'ys go, but wild, now and then, and rough, like his dad."
"I see!" nodded her hearer, thoughtfully.
"Now me, though married ten long year, never 'ad no children, so ever
since Hermy's mother died, I've tried to watch over her and help her
as much as I could. She's had a mighty hard struggle, one thing and
another, Mr. Geoffrey, an' now I've known her an' loved her so long it
kind o' seems as if she belonged to me--almost!"
"She looks very good and--brave!" said Mr. Ravenslee.
"Good!" cried Mrs. Trapes, and snorted. "I tell you she's jest a angel
o' light, Mr. Geoffrey. If you'd seen her, like I have, goin' from one
poor little sick child to another, kissing their little hot faces,
tellin' 'em stories, payin' for doctor's stuff out of her bit o'
savings, mendin' their clo'es--an' prayin' over 'em when they
died--why--I guess you'd think she was a angel too! One sure thing,"
said Mrs. Trapes rising, "there ain't a breathin' man in all this whole
round earth as is fit to go down on 'is knees an' kiss 'er little
foot--not a one! No, sir!"
"No, I don't think there is!" said Mr. Ravenslee slowly.
"As for that Bud M'Ginnis," cried Mrs. Trapes, seizing on the coffee-pot
much as if it had been that gentleman's throat, "I'd--I'd like to--bat
him one as would quiet him for keeps--I would so!" and she jerked the
coffee-pot fiercely, much to the detriment of her snowy tablecloth.
"There! now see what I done, but I do get all worked up over that
loafer!"
"Pray why?"
"Why?" snorted Mrs. Trapes indignantly. "Hasn't he made eyes at her ever
since they was kids together? Hasn't he worried and worried at her, an'
because she won't look at him if she can help it, don't he try to get
back at her through that b'y--"
"How does he?"
"How? By puttin' him up to fightin' an' all sorts o' devilment, by
teachin' him to be tough, by gettin' him drunk--"
"Oh, does he?"
"Why, bless ye, Bud M'Ginnis can do anything with him!"
"How so?"
"Because Arthur jest worships M'Ginnis for his strength and toughness!"
"I see!"
"Yes, Arthur thinks there's nobody in the world could lick Bud
M'Ginnis."
"Hum! May I smoke, Mrs. Trapes?"
"Sure ye may!" she nodded, and began to collect the supper things. "I
tell you what," she exclaimed suddenly, flourishing the fork she had
just taken up, "if somebody would only come along an' thrash M'Ginnis,
thrash him good, it would be a sight better for every one around
here--it would so! M'Ginnis is always makin' trouble for some one or
other, an' there ain't a man big enough or got heart enough to stand up
to him--not even Spider Connolly. Wish I was a man, that's all--just for
an hour! Ah!" Here Mrs. Trapes snorted fiercer than usual, and the jut
of her elbows was deadly.
"And he gets Arthur drunk, does he!" said Ravenslee, puffing dreamily at
his pipe.
"Yes!" sighed Mrs. Trapes as she loaded a tray with the supper things.
"Hermy's seen him drunk twice, to my knowing, an' I thought it would
break her 'eart, poor dear! Y' see, Mr. Geoffrey, his father died o' the
drink, an' she's frightened for fear Arthur should go the same road. Oh,
Hermy's life ain't all ice-cream sodas an' lollipops, not much it ain't,
poor, brave, beautiful thing!"
Saying which, Mrs. Trapes, sighing again, took up her tray; Mr.
Ravenslee, having opened the door for her, closed it again, lighted his
pipe, and sinking into the easy-chair, fell into frowning thought.
The windows were open, and from the crowded court below rose the shrill
babel of many children's voices, elfin shrieks and cries accompanied by
the jingle of a barrel-organ, very wiry and very much out of tune; but
Ravenslee, deep-plunged in thought, heard nought of it nor heeded the
fact that the pipe, tight-clenched between his strong, white teeth, was
out. For Geoffrey Ravenslee had set himself a problem.
The barrel-organ ceased its jangle, the children's voices were gradually
hushed, as, one by one, they were called in by hoarse-voiced mothers and
led away to bed; and the gloomy court grew ever gloomier as evening
deepened into night. But still Mr. Ravenslee lounged in the easy-chair,
so motionless that he might have been asleep except for the grim set of
his jaw and the bright, wide-open eyes of him.
At last, and suddenly, he sat erect, for he had heard a voice whose soft
murmur he recognised even through the closed door.
"I don't know, Hermy dear," came in Mrs. Trapes' harsh tones, "I'm
afraid he's gone to bed--anyway, I'll see!" Ensued a knocking of bony
knuckles and, opening the door, Ravenslee beheld Mrs. Trapes. Behind her
stood Hermione, and in her eyes he saw again that look of wistful,
anxious fear he had wondered over at the first.
"Oh, Mr. Geoffrey," said Mrs. Trapes, "it's eleven o'clock, an' that b'y
ain't in yet. Here's Hermy been out hunting the streets for him and
ain't found him. Consequently she's worriting herself sick over
him--drat 'im!"
"Out on the streets!" repeated Ravenslee. "Alone?"
"Yes," answered Hermione, "I had to--try and find him."
"But alone! And at this hour! Miss Hermione, that was surely
very--er--unwise of you."
"Yes, you see I didn't know where to look," she sighed. "I've been to
the saloon but he wasn't there--"
"The saloon? Good Lord!" exclaimed Ravenslee, his placidity quite
forgotten, his face set and stern. "That is no place for you--or any
girl--"
"I must go to find Arthur," she said softly.
"No, not there--even for that."
"Why not?"
"Think of the--the risks you run! No girl should take such chances."
"Oh, you mean--that!" said Hermione, meeting his eyes with her frank
glance. "But no one would try to insult me hereabouts; this isn't
Broadway or Fifth Avenue, Mr. Geoffrey!" and she smiled a very sad,
weary little smile. "But I came to ask if you happened to know where
Arthur is or--whom he was with?"
"Wasn't wid that Bud M'Ginnis, was he?" questioned Mrs. Trapes sharply.
"No, he wasn't with M'Ginnis," answered Mr. Ravenslee, in frowning
perplexity, "but that's about all I can tell you."
"Thank you," sighed the girl, "I must go and try again. I know I shall
find him--soon." But, though she tried to speak in a tone of cheerful
confidence, her shapely head drooped rather hopelessly.
"You mean you are going out on to the--to look for him again?"
"Why, of course," she answered, "I must find Arthur!"
"Don't, Hermy, don't--so pale an' tired as you are, don't go again!"
pleaded Mrs. Trapes, her usual sharpness transfigured into a deep and
yearning tenderness; even her voice seemed to lose something of its
harshness. "Don't worry, my sweet, the b'y'll find his way home right
enough, like he did last time."
"Like--last time!" cried Hermione, and shivering, she leaned against the
wall as if she were faint. "Ah, no, no!" she whispered, "not--like last
time!" and bowing her head she hid her face in her hands.
Close, close about that quivering form came two motherly arms, and Mrs.
Trapes fell to passionate invective and tender soothing, thus:
"There, there, my love--my pretty, don't remember that last time! Oh,
drat my fool's tongue for remindin' you, drat it, my dear, my honey! Ah,
don't go breakin' your angel's 'eart along of Arthur, my precious--and
drat him too! That b'y'll come back all right, he will--he will, I know
he will. Oh, if I was only behind 'im with a toasting fork! There,
there, Hermy dear, don't fret, Arthur'll come home all right. My honey,
you're all tuckered out, an' here it's gettin' on to midnight, an' you
to go to Englewood by the early car! Go to bed, dear, an' I'll sit up
for Arthur. Only don't cry, Hermy--"
"Oh, I'm not crying, dear," said Hermione, lifting her head. "See, I
haven't shed a tear! But I must find Arthur. I couldn't rest or sleep;
I should lie listening for his step. So you see, dear, I must go out and
find him!"
Hereupon, with swift, dexterous fingers, Hermione straightened the very
neat hat which the embrace of Mrs. Trapes had rendered somewhat askew,
and, turning to the door, came face to face with Mr. Ravenslee, and in
his hand she beheld his battered hat, but she did not notice how
fiercely his powerful fingers gripped it.
"Miss Hermione," said he, in his soft, indolent voice, and regarding
her beneath languidly drooping lids, "pray accept the hospitality of
my--er--apartment. You will find the easy-chair is very easy, and while
you sit here with Mrs. Trapes, I'll find your brother and bring him here
to you."
"Thank you," she answered a little shortly because of his lazy tone or
his sleepy eyes, or his general languid air, or all of them together.
"Thank you, but I'm going myself; I must go, I--I couldn't wait--"
"Oh, but really you must, you know!"
"Must?" she repeated, looking her surprise.
"Ab-solutely must!" he answered softly, nodding so sleepily that she
almost expected him to yawn. "You really can't go out again to-night,
you know," he added. Hermione's blue eyes flashed, her delicate brows
knit themselves, and Mr. Ravenslee saw that she was taller than he had
thought.
"You mean you will--try to stop me?" she demanded.
"No, I mean that I--will stop you!"
"But you'd never dare--"
"I would dare even your anger in so good a cause. Ah, please don't be
angry with me, Miss Hermione, because--" and here his sleepy voice grew
positively slumberous, "you shall not go out into the streets again
to-night!"
"Ah, an' that's right too, Mr. Geoffrey!" cried Mrs. Trapes. "Hermy
needs some one strong enough to master her now an' then, she is that
wilful, she is so!"
But now all at once, as he watched, Hermione's eyes filled with great,
slow-gathering tears, her firm-set lips grew soft and quivered
pitifully, and she sank down in the easy-chair, her golden head bowed
upon the green and yellow tablecloth. The battered hat tumbled to the
floor, and striding forward, he had bent and caught one of her listless
hands all in a moment, and thereafter, though it struggled feebly once,
he held it closely prisoned in his own.
"Oh, don't!" he pleaded, his words coming quick and eager, "don't do
that! Do you think I can't see that you're all overwrought? How can I
let you go tramping out there in the streets again? You couldn't go--you
mustn't go! Stay here with good Mrs. Trapes, I beg of you, and I swear
I'll bring Arthur to you! Only you must promise me to wait here and be
patient, however long I am--you must promise, Hermione!"
She lifted her heavy head and looked at him through her tears. And
surely, surely in the face that bent above her was none of indolence or
languor. These lips were firm now and close-set, these lazy eyes were
wide and bright, and in them that which brought the warm colour to her
cheeks; but reverence was there also, wherefore she met his look, and
her fingers were not withdrawn from his until she had answered: "I
promise!"
"That's my wise dearie!" nodded Mrs. Trapes. "And good luck to ye, Mr.
Geoffrey, an' when you find that b'y, say as I wish--ah, how I wish I
was back of him with a toasting fork, that's all!"
Mr. Ravenslee caught up the shabby hat, opened the door, and going out,
closed it softly behind him.
"Hermy," said Mrs. Trapes, clasping the girl's slender waist in her long
arm and leading her into the brightest of bright little kitchens, "I
like that young feller--who he is I don't know, what he does I don't
know, but what he is I do know, an' that's--a man, my dear! An' he
called you--Hermione! Sounds kind o' pretty the way he says it, don't
you think?" But Hermione didn't answer.
Meanwhile Mr. Ravenslee, descending the monotonous stairs, paused
suddenly to smile and to clap hand to thigh.
"A toasting fork!" said he, "a toasting fork is an instrument
possessing three or more sharp points! Ha! Mrs. Trapes is a woman of
singularly apposite ideas." And he smiled a little grimly as he went on
down the stairs.
CHAPTER IX
WHICH RECOUNTS THE END OF AN EPISODE
Midway down he beheld two burly policemen who mounted, one behind the
other, their grey helmets, blue coats, and silver buttons seeming to
fill the narrow stairway.
"Anything wrong?" he enquired, as they drew level.
"Not wid you dis time, bo!" answered one, blandly contemptuous, and
strode on up the stair, twirling his club in practised hand, his fellow
officer at his heels.
Thus rebuked, Mr. Ravenslee looked after them with quick-drawn brows
until, remembering his broken hat brim and shabby clothes, he smiled and
went upon his way. Reaching the dingy lower hall he beheld the solitary
gas-jet flare whose feeble light showed five lounging forms, rough
fellows who talked together in hoarse murmurs and with heads close
together.
He was passing by, when, in one of these deep-throated talkers, he
recognised the long limbs and wide, sloping shoulders of the Spider. Mr.
Ravenslee paused and nodded.
"Good evening!" said he, but this time kept his hands in his pockets.
The Spider eyed him somewhat askance, shifted his wad of chewing gum
from one cheek to the other, and spoke.
"'Lo!" said he.
"Do you know where Spike is?"
"S'pose I do--then what?" demanded the Spider with a truculent lurch of
his wide shoulders.
"Then I shall ask you to tell me where I can find him--or better still,
you might show me."
"Oh, might I?"
"You might!"
The feelings of the Spider waxing beyond mere words, he looked at the
speaker, viewed him up and down with a glance of contemptuous hostility,
whereat Ravenslee's whole expression melted into one of lamblike
meekness.
"Say," quoth the Spider at last, "there's only one thing as I can't
stand about you, an' that's--everything!"
"Sorry for that," murmured Ravenslee, "because I rather like you,
Spider. I think you could be quite a decent fellow if you tried very
hard! Come, shake your grouch and let's be friends."
"Say," growled the Spider, "what you're sufferin' from's a hard neck!
You ain't no friend o' mine--not much you ain't, savvy? So crank up an'
get on yer way like a good little feller!"
"But you see I'm anxious to find Spike because--"
"Well, say, you keep on bein' anxious, only do it somewheres else. I
don't want youse around where I am, see? So beat it while d' goin's
good!"
"Why--er--no," said Ravenslee in his laziest tones, "no, I don't think
I'll beat it. I guess I'll stay right here and wait until you are so
kind, so--er--very kind and obliging as to show me where I can find
Spike." And he sighed plaintively as he lounged against the wall behind,
but his eyes were surprisingly bright and quick beneath the shadow of
the battered hat.
"Hully Chee!" exclaimed the Spider, expectorating contemptuously, "hark
to the flossy-boy, fellers! Aw, run away, now!" said he, scowling
suddenly, "run away before ye get slapped on th' wrist!" and, while
divers of his companions laughed hoarsely, he turned a contemptuous back
on Mr. Ravenslee. But even then he was seized in iron fingers that
clutched his shoulder and, in that painful grip, was jerked suddenly
around again to behold a face vicious-eyed, thin-lipped, square-jawed,
fiercely outthrust. Recognising the "fighting-face", the Spider, being
a fighter of a large and varied experience, immediately "covered up",
and fell into that famous crouch of his that had proved the undoing of
so many doughty fighters ere now. Then, like a flash, his long arm shot
out, but in that same instant, Ravenslee, timing the blow to a fraction,
moved slightly, and the Spider's knuckles bruised themselves against the
wall at the precise moment that Ravenslee's open hand flipped lightly on
the side of the Spider's square, lean jaw.
The Spider drew back, staring from Ravenslee's tall, alert figure to his
bruised knuckles and back again, while his companions stood by in mute
and wide-eyed wonder.
"Spider," said Ravenslee, shaking his head in grave reproof, "you were
rather slow that time--very foolish to leave your point uncovered and
offer me your jaw like that, you know!"
Five pairs of eyes stared at the speaker with a new and suddenly
awakened interest, and beholding in him that lithe assurance of poise,
that indefinable air that bespeaks the trained pugilist and which cannot
be mistaken, elbows were nudged, and heads wagged knowingly.
Ravenslee's grey eyes were shining, and his pale cheeks tinged with
colour.
"Ah, Spider," said he, "life is rather worth while after all, isn't it?
Spider, I like you better and better; come, don't be a surly Spider,
shake hands!"
"T' hell wid youse!" growled the Spider, covering up again, and, though
his face was sulky yet was no trace of contempt there now.
"I suppose," mused Ravenslee, looking him over with knowledgeful eye,
"yes, I judge, as you are now, you would fight about seven or eight
pounds over your ringside weight. You'd have to give me eighteen pounds!
Spider--I could eat you! Come, shake hands and let's go and fetch
Spike."
Now, speaking, Ravenslee smiled, with eyes as well as lips; beholding
which, the Spider grew slowly upright, his knotted fists unclenched,
and, staring Ravenslee in the eyes, he reached out slowly and by
degrees and grasped the proffered hand.
"Say," said he, falling to violent mastication of his eternal chewing
gum, "who'd you have d'mitts on with last--an' when?"
"Oh, it seems ages ago!" sighed Ravenslee. "But where's Spike?"
"Say, bo, who wants him, an' whaffor? Spike's me pal, see, so I jest
shore wants ter savvy who wants him an' why?"
"His sister--"
"Hully Chee! Why didn't youse say so at first? When Miss Hermione wants
anything she's gotta have it, I guess! Ain't that right, fellers?"
"You bet," chimed the four.
"So if she wants d' Kid, I guess I'll jest have to fetch him for her.
Come on, bo! S'long, fellers!"
Hereupon, having acknowledged the friendly salutes of the four,
Ravenslee followed the Spider out into the court, empty now and silent.
"Say, bo, where'd you meet up wid Spike, anyway?" enquired the Spider,
as they strode along Tenth Avenue. "You don't belong around here, do
ye?"
"No. Do you know where he was last night?"
"You can search me, bo. All I savvy is he was off on some frame-up or
other."
"Who with?"
"Well--not wid me."
"Did you see any one with him besides M'Ginnis at O'Rourke's?"
"No, there was only them two."
"Ah, I guessed as much," said Ravenslee, nodding; "he went away with
M'Ginnis--good!"
"Say, bo," questioned the Spider when they had gone some way in silence,
"I ain't seen you fight anywheres, have I?"
"No, but I've seen you, Spider, I saw you beat Larry McKinnon at
'Frisco."
"Which sure was some fight!" nodded the Spider. "Them half-arm jolts of
his sure shook me some; he'd have got me in th' third if I hadn't
clinched."
"He was a terror at in-fighting."
"He sure was, bo!"
"It was your jabbing and footwork won you the fight, Spider, one of the
best I've ever seen--very little clinching and clean breakaways."
"Larry sure was game all through, yes--right up to the knock-out. A
good, clean fighter. 'N' say, bo, I was real sorry to see him counted
out."
"It meant a big purse for you, I remember."
"Oh, sure, I had money to burn. I ain't got much left now, though," said
the Spider ruefully.
"You came pretty near being a world's champion, Spider."
"Aw--jest near enough t' miss it, I guess. Talkin' o' champeens, the
greatest of 'em, th' best fightin' man as ever swung a mitt, I reckon
was Joe Madden, as retired years ago. Nobody could ever lick Joe
Madden."
"Did you know him?"
"Not me, bo, I wasn't in his class. But I seen him fight years ago."
"Do you think Spike will ever make a champion?" enquired Ravenslee
suddenly. "I mean if he were given every chance?"
"Well," answered the Spider slowly, "he sure has the grit; ther ain't
nothin' on two legs he's afraid of except--himself, bo. He's too
high-strung. Nerves is his trouble, I reckon. Why, Chee! When he's in d'
ring he can't be still a minute, can't let himself rest between rounds,
see? He kinder beats himself, I guess."
"I know what you mean," nodded Ravenslee, "and I'm sure you're right.
By the way, have you ever seen M'Ginnis fight?"
"I seen him scrap once or twice--he's sure ugly in a rough-house, but in
th' ring--well, I dunno!"
"Has he a punch?"
"Bo, he's got a sleep-pill in each mitt if--if he can land his wallop
right! Yes, siree, if Bud can hit a guy where it'll do most good, that
guy's sure goin' to forget his cares an' troubles for a bit. But he's
slow an' heavy, Bud is, though I ain't never seen him mix it in th'
ring, mind."
"H'm," said Ravenslee thoughtfully, "M'Ginnis seems to have it all his
own way around here--why?"
"Well, because Bud's Bud, an' because Bud's old man is a Tammany
boss--which gives Bud a big pull wid d' police. 'Nuff said, I guess."
"Quite!" nodded Ravenslee, and walked thereafter deeper in thought than
ever. "Where are you taking me?" he enquired, as they turned a sudden
corner.
"To d' river!"
"This is Eleventh Avenue, then?"
"Yep! Watch out you don't trip on d' railroad tracks." And now the
Spider seemed to have become thoughtful also, and somewhat gloomy,
judging by his face as seen by an occasional feeble light as they
traversed the unlovely thoroughfare.
"Bo," said he suddenly, "I'm thinkin' there's some guys in this world as
would be better out of it. I'm thinkin' of some guy as got a little girl
into trouble--an' left her to it. Her kid died, an' her folks turned her
out, an' she'd have died too, I guess, if it hadn't been for Miss
Hermione an' old Mother Trapes--ye see, she was all alone, poor little
kid! Now a man as would treat a girl that ways ain't got no right t'
live, I reckon. I should like t' know who that guy was! I should like
t' meet that guy--once!"
After this the Spider became more gloomy than ever and spoke only in
surly monosyllables. Suddenly he turned off along a narrow, ill-lighted
alleyway that led them between divers small mean houses and tall, dark
warehouses and brought them suddenly out upon the misty foreshore beyond
which the dim and mighty river flowed. On they went, the Spider's
depression growing perceptibly, until at last their feet trod the rough
planking of a narrow causeway which ended in a dark, raft-like structure
moored out in the river. Here was a small and dismal shack from whose
solitary window a feeble ray of light beamed.
Ravenslee shivered suddenly and stopped to stare about him while his
listless hands changed to tight-clenched fists.
What was it?
What was there about this dismal, silent place that seemed to leap at
him all at once from the dimness, he knew not whence? Was it the shack
with its solitary light, or the broad river lapping with soft sighings
and low weeping sounds among the piles below, or was it something in the
altered aspect of the guiding figure that led him forward, slow and ever
slower, as if with dragging feet, and yet with feet that trod so softly?
"Spider," said he at last, speaking in hushed and breathless manner,
"Spider--where are we?" and speaking he shivered again, even while his
clenched hand wiped the sweat from his brow. The Spider made no answer,
for the feeble light was blotted out by a very solid something which,
approaching softly, resolved itself into a burly, blue-clad form whose
silver buttons and shield showed conspicuous.
"What's doin'!" demanded a voice. "Who is it?" The voice was hoarse and
authoritative, but the gruff tones were schooled, it seemed, to an
almost unnatural softness.
"'S all right, Micky," answered the Spider in the same subdued tone,
"it's only me come for d' Kid."
"Who you got wid you there, Spider?"
"A pal o' mine an' d' Kid's--he's all right, Mick!" Then to Ravenslee:
"Come on, bo!" Slowly they approached the shack, but, reaching the door,
the Spider hesitated a long moment ere, lifting the latch, he led the
way in.
A fairly large room was lighted by a lamp that stood upon a rickety
table before which sat a young-faced, white-haired man, very
industriously writing in a small account book; upon the table before
him were a number of articles very neatly arranged, among which
Ravenslee noticed a cheap wrist-watch, a hair-comb, a brooch, and a
small chain purse. He was yet gazing at these and at the white-haired
man, who, having nodded once to the Spider, continued to write so
busily, when he was startled to hear a long-drawn, shuddering sigh.
Turning suddenly sharp about, he stared toward a dark corner where,
among a litter of oars, misshapen bundles, boxes, and odds and ends, was
a small stove, and, crouched above it, his head between his hands, he
beheld Spike.
With the same instinctive feeling that he must be silent, Ravenslee
approached the boy and touched him on the shoulder. Spike started and
glanced up, though without lifting his head.
"Your sister is anxious about you. Why are you here?"
"Don't you know, Geoff? Ain't no one told ye?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'll show ye!"
The boy took a hurricane lamp from the floor beside him, and, having
lighted it, brought Ravenslee further into that littered corner where,
among the boxes and bundles and other oddments, lay what seemed to be
two or three oars covered with a worn tarpaulin.
"Look, Geoff--you remember--only this morning!" Very gently he raised a
corner of the tarpaulin and as he looked down, Ravenslee's breath caught
suddenly.
A woman's face, very young and very placid-seeming! The long, dark hair
framing the waxen features still oozed drops of water like great,
slow-falling tears; and beholding this pale, still face, Ravenslee knew
why he had shivered and hushed voice and step, and instinctively he
bowed his uncovered head.
"You remember Maggie Finlay, Geoff, this morning, on the stairs?
She--she kissed me good-by, said she was goin' away; this is what she
meant--the river, Geoff! She's drowned herself, Geoff! Oh, my God!"
and letting fall the tarpaulin, Spike was shaken suddenly by fierce
hysterical sobbing; whereat the man, looking up from his writing, spoke
harsh-voiced.
"Aw, quit it, Kid, quit it! Here I've just wrote down three rings,
and she's only got one, an' that a cheap fake. Shut up, Kid, you'll
make me drop blots next! Cut it out, it ain't as if she was your
sister--" Hereupon Spike started and lifted a twitching face.
"My sister!" he repeated, "my sister--whatcher mean? My God, Chip,
Hermy could never--come to--that!" And shivering violently, Spike turned
and stumbled out of the shack. Once outside, Ravenslee set his long arm
about him and felt the lad still trembling violently.
"Why, Spike!" said he, "buck up, old fellow!"
"Oh, Geoff, Hermy could never--"
"No, no--of course not!" So very silently, together and side by side,
they crossed the narrow causeway.
"Gee, but I'm cold!" said the boy between chattering teeth as they
turned along the wide avenue, "I--I guess it's shook me some, Geoff.
Y' see, I used to go to school with Maggie once--and now--"
Reaching Mulligan's at last, they beheld numerous groups of whispering
folk who thronged the little court, the doorway, and the hall beyond;
they whispered together upon the stairs and murmured on dim landings.
But as Ravenslee and Spike, making their way through these groups,
mounted upward, they found one landing very silent and deserted, a
landing where was a certain battered door whose dingy panels had been
wetted with the tears of a woman's agony, had felt the yearning,
heartbroken passion of a woman's quivering lips such a very few hours
ago. Remembering which, Geoffrey Ravenslee, turning to look at this
grimy door, beheld it vague and blurred and indistinct as he turned and
climbed that much-trodden stair.
Upon the top landing they found Mrs. Trapes, who leaned over the rails
to greet them.
"So you found that b'y, Mr. Geoffrey. Hermy'll be glad. You'll have
heard of poor little Maggie Finlay? Poor lass--poor, lonely lass! 'T was
her father drove her to it, an' now he's had a fit--a stroke, the
doctor's with him now--an' Hermy, of course! She's always around where
trouble is. I guess there won't be much rest for her to-night--long past
midnight now! I'm glad you found that b'y. I said you would. I'll jest
go down and tell Hermy; she'll be glad."
Spike stood awhile after Mrs. Trapes had gone down-stairs, very silent
and with head a-droop, then, slow and heavily, turned and opened his
door, but paused to speak over his shoulder in a hoarse whisper.
"Geoff--if ever--any man--made my sister go through what Maggie Finlay
went through--I'd--shoot him dead--by God in Heaven, I would!"
CHAPTER X
TELLS HOW MR. RAVENSLEE WENT INTO TRADE
It was a week later, and Mr. Ravenslee leaned from the window of his
room to observe the view, which consisted chiefly of dingy brick walls
and dingier windows, swaying vistas of clothes in various stages of
dampness, clothes that fluttered from many lines stretched across the
court, from window to window, at different altitudes; for to-day it had
been washing day in Mulligan's; also the evening was warm.
So Mr. Ravenslee lounged and smoked and gazed upon the many garments,
viewing them with eyes of reverie. Garments, these, of every size and
hue and shape and for either sex, garments that writhed and contorted
themselves in fantastic dances when gently stirred by a small, cool wind
which, wafting across the river from the green New Jersey shore,
breathed faintly of pine woods.
He was yet in absorbed contemplation of the aerial gambols of these many
garments when to him came Mrs. Trapes, clutching a hot iron.
"Mr. Geoffrey, what'll you eat for supper?" she demanded.
"Mrs. Trapes, what do you suppose I'm worthy of?"
"How about a lovely piece o' liver?"
"Liver!" he repeated, rubbing a square, smooth-shaven chin. "Hum! liver
sounds a trifle clammy, doesn't it? Clammy and cold, Mrs. Trapes!"
"Cold?" said she, staring, "cold--of course not! It would be nice an'
hot, with thick gravy an' a tater or so. An' as for clammy, who ever
heard o' liver as wasn't? Calves' liver, mind! They can't put me off
with sheep's--no, siree! Skudder's young man tried to once--he did so!"
"Foolish, foolhardy young man!" murmured Ravenslee.
"Mr. Geoffrey," sighed Mrs. Trapes, and her elbows were particularly
needle-like, "I jest took that piece o' sheep's liver an' wrapped it
round that young man's face."
"Unhappy young man!" murmured Mr. Ravenslee.
"Y' see, Mr. Geoffrey, though a widder an' therefore lorn, I ain't to be
trod on in the matter of livers, or anything else!"
"I'm sure of it, Mrs. Trapes."
"But if you don't kind of fancy liver, how about sassiges? Sassiges is
tasty an' filling, an' cheap. What d' ye say to sassiges?"
"Sausages," answered Mr. Ravenslee, shaking grave head, "sausages demand
such unbounded faith in the--er--sausagee--or should it be sausage-or?"
"Oh, well--a chop, cut thick an' with a kidney in it--what d' ye say to
a chop, now?"
"No, a chop in an hour, Mrs. Trapes, or say, two hours, will be most
welcome. Are you very busy?"
"Washing's all done, but there's a lot o' your shirts waiting to be
ironed--an' me here, lettin' me iron get cold!"
"Oh, never mind the shirts, Mrs. Trapes! Pray sit down; I need your
counsel and advice."
"But me iron?"
"Give it to me--there!" and Mr. Ravenslee deposited it outside on the
fire escape.
"Now Mrs. Trapes," said he, "first of all, I must find work. 'Man is
born to labour, as the sparks fly upward,' you know."
"Born to sorrer, you mean!" she corrected.
"Precisely," he nodded, "work is sorrow, and sorrow is work--at least,
I know a good many people who think so."
"More fools them!" quoth Mrs. Trapes, folding her arms.
"My own idea exactly!" he answered, lazily tapping out his pipe on the
window sill.
"I ain't noticed you sweating none, lately!" quoth Mrs. Trapes
sarcastically.
"Alas, no, Mrs. Trapes, there being no wherefore to call forth the
aforesaid--er--moisture. Still, 'man is as grass that withereth' unless
he 'goeth forth unto his labour.'"
"An' quite right too!" nodded Mrs. Trapes. "If I had my way I'd make 'em
all work!"
"That would be rather hard on our legislators and Fifth Avenue parsons,
wouldn't it? Anyway, I want work, that's sure!"
"Y' mean as your money's all gone?"
"Very nearly," sighed Mr. Ravenslee with a suitable air of dejection.
And he did it so well that Mrs. Trapes, viewing him askance, frowned,
bit her lip, wriggled her elbows, and finally spoke.
"Are ye up against it good, Mr. Geoffrey?"
"I am!"
"Well," said she, frowning down at the vivid-coloured hearthrug, "I got
twenty-five dollars put away as I've pinched and scrinched to save, but
if you want the loan of 'em, you can have 'em an' welcome."
Her lodger was silent; indeed, he was so long in answering that at last
Mrs. Trapes looked up, to find him regarding her with a very strange
expression.
"And you will lend me your savings?" he asked her softly.
"Sure I will!" And she would have risen then and there but that he
stayed her.
"God bless you for a generous soul!" said he, and laughed rather
queerly; also his grey eyes were a little brighter than usual. "Why
should you trust me so far?"
"Well, you look honest, I guess. An' then we all help each other in
Mulligan's now an' then, one way or another; we jest have to. There's
Mrs. Bowker, third floor--the tea an' sugar as I've loaned that
woman--an' last week a lovely beef-bone! Well, there! But if you want
the loan of that twenty-five--"
"Mrs. Trapes, I don't. Things aren't so desperate as that yet. All I
need is a job of some sort."
"What kind o' job?"
"I'm not particular."
"Well--what have you been used to?"
"Alas, Mrs. Trapes, hitherto I have lived a life of--er--riotous ease!"
"That means as you ain't worked at all, I guess. Hm!" said Mrs. Trapes,
viewing him with her sharp, hawk's eye, "and yet you ain't got the look
of a confidence man nor yet a swell crook, consequently I take it you
was the only son of your father an' lost all he left you, eh?"
"Mrs. Trapes, you are a truly wonderful woman!"
"T' be born the only son of a rich father is a pretty bad disease, I
reckon!" she continued, "yes, siree, it's bad for the child an' worse
for the man; it's bound to be his ruination in the end--like drink! And
talkin' o' drink, I'm glad to see that b'y Arthur's so fond o' you."
"Oh, why?"
"Because you don't drink."
"Well, I don't go to bed in my boots, do I, Mrs. Trapes? But then I
promised you I wouldn't, and, for another thing, I'm not a poet, you
see," said he and yawned lazily.
"Hermy says she's glad too."
Mr. Ravenslee cut short his yawn in the middle.
"Hermione? Did she say so? When?"
"Ah, I guessed that would wake ye up a bit!" said Mrs. Trapes, noting
his suddenly eager look. "It's a pity you're so poor, ain't it?"
"Why? What do you mean?"
"I mean if you had been in a good situation an' making good
money--twenty-five per, say--you might have asked her."
"Asked her?" repeated Ravenslee, staring, "asked her what?"
"Why, t' marry you, o' course," nodded Mrs. Trapes. "You love her about
as much as any man can love--which is sometimes a thimbleful an'
sometimes a bit more--but you sure love her as much as a man knows how,
I guess. An' don't try for ter deny it, Mr. Geoffrey, I ain't blind,
leastways I can see a bit out o' one eye sometimes--specially where
Hermy's concerned, I can so. Of course, you ain't worthy of her--but
then no man is, to my mind!"
"No, I'm not worthy of her, God knows!" said Ravenslee, quite humbly.
"An' Hermy's goin' to marry a man with money. Her heart's set on
it--firm!"
"Money!" said Ravenslee, scowling. "She seems anything but mercenary."
"Mercenary!" cried Mrs. Trapes, "I should say not! I tell ye, she could
be a-rollin' around in a six-thousand-dollar automobile at this very
hour if she was that kind. With her face an' figure! She could so!"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean as there's men--rich men, an' married too--as is mad after
her--"
"Ah!" said Ravenslee, frowning again.
"You may well say 'ah!'" nodded Mrs. Trapes. "Men is all beasts more or
less! Why, I could tell you things--well, there! Hermy ain't no innocent
babe but there's some things better than innocence an' that's a
chin--will-power, Mr. Geoffrey. If a woman's sweet an' strong an'
healthy like Hermy, an' got a chin--nothin' can harm her. But beauty
like hers is a curse to any good woman if she's poor, beauty being a
quick-seller, y' see!"
"Yes, I see--I know!" said Ravenslee, clenching his hands and frowning
blacker than ever.
"But," continued Mrs. Trapes, and here she leaned forward to touch him
with an impressive, toil-worn hand, "Hermy Chesterton's jest a angel o'
light an' purity; she always has been an' always will be, but she knows
about as much as a good girl can know. She's seen the worst o' poverty,
an' she's made up her mind, when she marries, to marry a man as is a man
an' can give her all the money she wants. So y' see it ain't no good you
wastin' your time danglin' around after her an' sighin'--now is it?"
"Why, no, Mrs. Trapes, I think I'll speak to her to-night--"
"My land! ain't I jest been tryin' to show you as you ain't a fit or
worthy party to speak, an' as you won't have a chance if you do speak,
her 'eart bein' set on wealth? But you can't speak--you won't speak--I
know you won't!"
"Why not?"
"First, because t' night she's away at Englewood makin' a dress for Mrs.
Crawley as is very fond of her. An' second, because you ain't the man to
ask a girl to marry him when he ain't got nothin' t' keep her on--you
know you ain't!"
"Which brings us back to the undoubted fact that I must get a job--at
once."
"Hm!" said, Mrs. Trapes, viewing his clean-cut features and powerful
figure with approval, "what could y' do?"
"Anything, so long as I can make good, Mrs. Trapes. What should you
suggest?"
"Well," said Mrs. Trapes, caressing an elbow thoughtfully, "grocers'
assistants makes good money--an' I know Mr. Smith wants a butterman."
"Good," nodded Ravenslee, "I should like to batter butter about--"
"Are ye used to butter?"
"Oh, I've a decided taste for it!"
"Know much about it?"
"Certainly--it is a yellowish, fatty substance concocted by human agency
supposedly from the lacteous secretion of the graminivorous quadruped
familiarly known as the common (or garden) cow."
"Land sakes!" said Mrs. Trapes, drawing a deep breath, "you sure do know
something about it. Ever worked in it before?"
"Only with my teeth."
"Oh--quit your jollying, Mr. Geoffrey, if you want me t' help you!"
"Solemn as an owl, Mrs. Trapes!"
"Well, then, there's Jacob Pffeffenfifer wants a young man in his
delicatessen store."
"Mrs. Trapes, I can slice ham and beef with any one on earth."
"D' ye understand picklin' and seasonin'?"
"Ah, there you have me again; I fear I don't."
"Then you ain't no good to Jacob Pffeffenfifer!"
"On second thoughts, I'm not wholly sorry," answered Ravenslee gravely.
"You see, a name like that would worry me, it would shake my nerve; I
might cut beef instead of ham, or ham instead of--"
"Mr. Geoffrey!" quoth Mrs. Trapes, squaring her elbows.
"Sober as a judge, Mrs. Trapes and--by Jupiter!"
"My land! What is it?"
"An idea--look!" and Ravenslee pointed down into the yard.
"Why, it's only Tony!" said Mrs. Trapes, glancing down a vista of
riotous garments.
"Precisely," answered Ravenslee, rising and stretching his long arms,
"Tony has solved my difficulty; I'll go into the peanut trade."
"What? Sell peanuts? You?"
"Why not? 'Man is born--' you know."
"But--my land! Only dagos and guinneys sells peanuts!"
"Splendid! I shall be the exception, Mrs. Trapes. Anyway, a peanut man
I'll be!" And catching up his disreputable hat, Ravenslee nodded and
left his landlady staring after him and murmuring "well!" at intervals.
Presently she reached for her iron, stone-cold long since, and stood
awhile clutching it in bony fingers and staring at nothing in
particular.
"He's sure a man, Hermy my dear!" she said at last, nodding at the
stuffed parrot in the corner. "I've watched him careful and I know. And
there's some things better than money, my dear--ah, much better! So if I
should help to bring you into his arms--man an' wife, my dear--why, I
guess it would be the best thing Anne Angelina Trapes ever done--yes,
mam!" Saying which, she went back to her ironing.
On the stairs Ravenslee met Spike, who hailed him joyously.
"Say, Geoff, I'm all alone to-night; come an' eat supper with me--how
about it?"
"Suppose you have supper at Mrs. Trapes' with me?"
"No, she gets on me nerves--so come on over, will you?"
"With pleasure."
"'N' say, I'm a few chips shy on butter, Geoff--bring in ten cents'
worth, will you?"
"Right, O comrade, I'll be with you anon. Make boil the kettle against
my coming," and Ravenslee hastened down the stairs. Reaching the court
he met the Italian trundling his barrow toward a certain shed, its usual
nocturnal biding place.
"How goes it, Tony?" he enquired, shaking hands.
The Italian nodded and flashed his teeth. "Ver-a good, pal!" he
answered.
"Tony, where can I get a peanut outfit like yours?"
"Ha! You go-a in-a da peanut-a beezneez, hey? You want-a push-a de cart,
hey?"
"That's it, Tony."
"Ver-a good!" nodded the good-natured Italian. "You come-a long-a me,
pal. I take-a you get-a push-a-de-cart, up-a de street, yes?" Having
very soon locked away his barrow, the loquacious Tony led Ravenslee
along certain streets and into a certain yard, where presently appeared
a stout man with rings in his ears, who smiled and nodded and greeted
them with up-flung finger and the word "altro." Presently Ravenslee
found himself examining a highly ornate barrow fitted with stove and
outfit complete, even unto the whistle, and mounted upon a pair of the
rosiest wheels he had ever seen. Thereafter were more smiles and nods,
accompanied by the ever recurrent "altro", the transfer of certain bills
into the stout man's pocket, and Geoffrey Ravenslee sallied forth into
the street, bound for Mulligan's, with the chattering Tony beside him
and the gaily-painted barrow before him, receiving many friendly hints
as to the pitfalls and intricacies of the peanut trade and hearkening
with unflagging interest to the story of "lil Pietro" and the unbounded
goodness of "da Signorina Hermione."
CHAPTER XI
ANTAGONISM IS BORN AND WAR DECLARED
"Why--hello, Hermy!" exclaimed Spike, pausing in the doorway. "Gee, I
thought you was--were in Englewood."
Hermione lifted her golden head, stayed her humming sewing-machine, and
smiled at him.
"And I thought I'd come home and surprise you. Aren't you glad to see
me, boy dear?"
"Why, sure I am!" he answered, and stooping, kissed a golden curl that
wantoned at her white temple; which done, he sprawled in the easy-chair
and taking a newspaper from his pocket, fell to studying the latest
baseball scores while Hermione, head bent above her work again, glanced
at him now and then rather wistfully.
"Gee whiz," he exclaimed suddenly, "the Giants put it all over
Cincinnati to-day, Hermy. Y' see, Matty was in th' box, an' he sure
pitched some game!"
Hermione stopped her machine and looked at him under wrinkling brows.
"I thought you were hunting through the 'wanted' columns, Arthur?"
"Why, y' see I ain't--haven't got to the ads yet, Hermy."
Hermione sighed softly and, resting her round chin in her hands, viewed
him silently awhile until, becoming aware of the steadfast gaze of those
sweet and gentle eyes, Spike shuffled uneasily and changed colour.
"Arthur," she said softly, "when you promised me to try and find a
situation you meant it, didn't you?"
"Sure I did!"
"That was a week ago, dear."
"But, Hermy, I went after that office-boy's job--you know I did!"
"Yes, dear, though you got there too late."
"No, I wasn't late, Hermy, only another guy happened t' get there
first--an' got the job! A kid I could have licked with one hand, too.
One of these mommer's pets in a nobby sack suit--all dolled up in a
clean collar an' a bow-tie an' grey kid gloves. I guess his outfit
helped him a whole lot--an' y' see I'm a few chips shy on clothes, I
guess."
Hermione looked at her brother's worn garments, shiny at elbow and knee,
and as she looked, her eyes were suddenly suffused.
"Yes, dear, I--I'm afraid they are--rather shabby," she admitted humbly.
"Your clothes always did seem to wear out so very quickly! And--and it
costs so much to live! And--sometimes I grow--afraid--"
The smooth, low voice faltered and ended upon a sob. Spike stared in
wide-eyed amaze, for seldom had he seen his sister thus, but now,
beholding the droop of that brave head, seeing how her strong white
hands gripped each other, he tossed the paper aside, and flinging
himself on his knees clasped her in his arms.
"Don't cry, Hermy!" he pleaded. "Oh, don't cry, I--I can't bear it. You
know I love you best in the world--ah, don't cry, dear. I--I'll hunt up
a job first thing--honest I will--"
"But your clothes are so very shabby!" she sobbed, "and oh, boy dear,
I have only just enough to--pay our rent this month--so I can't get you
any more--yet, dear!"
"Hermy," said he brokenly, "oh, Hermy, you make me feel so mean
I--I--One sure thing you're never goin' t' spend your money on clothes
for me any more--? the money you work so hard for! Never any more,
Hermy dear. You've done enough for me, I guess, an' now it's up t' me
to help you and--and--oh, Gee!" Here Spike's voice broke altogether,
whereupon Hermione, quite forgetting her own sorrows and worries, fell
to soothing and comforting him as she had done many and many a time
during his motherless childhood.
"Say, Hermy," said he at last, his tear-stained cheek pillowed on her
soft, round bosom, "you won't think me a--an awful kid for--for cryin',
will you?"
"I think I love you all the better, boy dear, and--I'm sure it has done
us both good," and, smiling down at him through her tears, she kissed
him.
"I'll start in an' rustle up a job right away, Hermy!" said he, rising
and nodding grimly.
"Oh, boy," said she, looking up at him fondly, "I shall be so proud of
you. It wouldn't matter what it was, or how little you got at first, so
long as it was decent and honourable. And I'm sure you'll get on--Mr.
Geoffrey thinks so too."
"Does he? I'm glad o' that. Say, how d'ye like Geoff?"
"Oh--well, I've only seen him two or three times," said Hermione,
folding away her work preparatory to cooking supper.
"Is that all?" said Spike, smoothing out the paper and scowling at the
long columns headed "Help Wanted."
"Ye-es, I think so."
"But you an' him 's always meetin' on the stairs, ain't--aren't you?"
"You should say 'he and you', dear."
"Well--but aren't you?"
"We have met--once or twice."
"D'ye like him?"
"Well, he's so very--different! And rather lazy! And awfully sleepy! And
yet I don't think he's sleepy really, somehow."
"Sleepy?" exclaimed Spike. "Well, I guess not! Lazy I dunno, but he
sure is all to the wide-awake-o. When he looks sleepiest, I guess he's
widest-awakest. And he ain't a--isn't a bad looker, is he?"
"He has nice eyes!" Hermione admitted.
"Oh, I don't mean his eyes!" quoth Spike disgustedly. "I mean his arms
an' legs an' shoulders."
"They are nice and wide!" nodded Hermione.
"I should like t' see Geoff in th' ring. He'd strip big!"
"Oh, really," said Hermione, taking a very large apron from the table
drawer. "Boy, dear, I do wish you weren't always thinking of fighting."
"All right, Hermy dear. But there ain't no flies on Geoff--'n' say, I
want yer to like him 'cause I kinder think he's all to the cream-puffs
an'--"
"Arthur!" cried Hermione, lifting an admonishing finger.
"I'm sorry; my tongue kinder slipped, Hermy. But I have been trying t'
keep tabs on me talk, honest I have."
"Yes, dear. You haven't been quite so frightful lately."
"Y' see, Hermy, you're different; you went to a swell school an'--"
"And you never did--I know, dear. But oh, Arthur, I did the best I
could."
"And a lot better than I deserved," said he, reaching out to pat her
hand caressingly. "When I get a good job, I'll stay in nights and study
hard like you want me to--I sure will."
"Yes, dear, and you'll soon be heaps cleverer than I am," said she,
stooping to kiss his curly head as she tied the apron about her shapely
hips; and then, giving him a smiling nod, she vanished into the kitchen,
while Spike laboured through the long columns headed "Help Wanted." And
presently, as she moved light-footed to and fro in the kitchen, he heard
her singing softly to herself, an old, old song of other days that had
often been his lullaby when he was a small, motherless armful of
sleepiness hushed in her young, protecting clasp.
"Arthur!" she called.
"Hello!" he answered.
"Are you hungry?"
"You bet I am!"
A long pause, whereafter ensued the following conversation between
kitchen and parlour:
Hermione. "Boy dear!"
Spike. "Hello!"
Hermione. "Be a dear and lay the cloth for me!"
Spike. "Right-o!"
A longer pause, during which Spike rises and takes cloth from sideboard
drawer.
Hermione. "Arthur!"
Spike. "Yes?"
Hermione. "Where did you meet him?"
Spike (starting). "Who?"
Hermione. "Mr. Geoffrey. How did you happen to meet each other?"
Another pause, while Spike stands frowning in perplexed thought.
Spike. "Where did you say the cloth was?"
Hermione. "In the sideboard drawer. How long have you known
him?"
Spike (beginning to lay the cloth feverishly). "Oh, a goodish
time. Say, Hermy, he sure likes your name a whole lot!"
Hermione. "Oh!" (A very small pause.) "Likes my name, does he?"
Spike. "He sure does. He told me so."
Hermione. "Oh!" (Another small pause.) "Just what did he say,
boy dear?"
Spike. "He said it was Greek an' very beautiful, an' then I said
it kind of fitted you because you were aces up on the face an' figure
question."
A rush of petticoats, and enter Hermione, flushed and laughing.
"You dear boy!" she cried, "for that you shall be kissed!" which he was
forthwith; after which she turned to the mirror to smooth back a
shining tress of hair--that same rebellious curl that glistened above
her fine, black eyebrow.
"Where did you say you first met him--Mr. Geoffrey?" she enquired
suddenly, still busied with the rebellious curl. Spike started, and
glanced uneasily at her shapely back.
"Say, Hermy," said he, a little huskily, "have you got anything for
supper?"
"Not much, dear, I'm afraid."
"That's a pity!"
"Why?"
"Oh, because I asked him in to supper."
"You asked Mr. Geoffrey--here?" she gasped.
"Surest thing you know. Y' see, I thought you was staying over at
Englewood."
"Oh, Arthur!" she sighed. "And there are only two wretched little chops!
And not a bit of butter! And the rent's due to-morrow--I can't spare a
cent--and me in this shabby old gown! and you broke the best teapot."
"Sounds kind of gay an' festive!" sighed Spike ruefully. "But don't
worry about the eats, dear. Geoff won't mind, an' he'll never notice
your old gown--"
"He seems to notice a great deal," said Hermione doubtfully as she
hastily untied the big apron, "and besides--oh, gracious goodness!"
she cried, as a knock sounded at the front door, "you must let him in,
Arthur--and don't let him know I'm changing my gown!" Saying which, she
vanished into her bedroom while Spike hastened to the door.
"Why--hello, Tony!" he exclaimed, "what's wrong now?"
"My lil Pietro," cried the Italian excitedly, "he no sleep--he burn-a
burn-a all-a da time,--all-a da time cry! You tell-a you sis--she come-a
like-a da las' time den he no cry-a--" But here Tony broke off to
flourish his hat and bow gracefully as he caught sight of Hermione
herself. "Ah, Signorina!" he cried, "my lil Pietro he seeck. You
please-a come see my lil Pietro? He flush-a he cry--he all-a da fire! he
burn-a, burn-a, like-a da fire! You so good, so generosa--you come see
my lil Pietro?"
"Why, of course I will!" said Hermione in her calm, soft voice, "poor
little mite--is he feverish?"
"Si, si Signorina!" answered the anxious young father, "he burn-a,
burn-a all-a da time!"
"Reach me the aconite, boy dear; yes, that's it."
"But what about supper, Hermy?" queried Spike wistfully.
"Oh, well--finish laying the table; I'll be back as soon as ever I can,
dear."
"Oh, Gee!" sighed Spike, as their footsteps died away down the stair,
"she sure is keen on knowing how I met Geoff! And if she ever finds
out--" Spike cowered down into a chair and clasping his head between his
hands sat thus a long while, staring moodily at the floor, striving for
a way out of the difficulty. He was yet wrestling with this knotty
problem when he heard muffled knocks at the front door, which, being
opened, disclosed the object of his thoughts.
"Why, Geoff," he cried gladly, "I thought you wasn't coming. Say, what
you got there?" he enquired, for Ravenslee's arms were filled with
sundry packages and parcels.
"Come and see!" said Ravenslee mysteriously. "Catch this one before I
drop it!"
"Why--hello," said Spike, sniffing at the package in question as he led
the way into the parlour, "it smells good! It sniffs like--Holy Gee,
it's a roast turkey! And--oh, say, Geoff--she's a beaut!"
"Precisely what Mr. Pffeffenfifer assured me," said Ravenslee,
depositing his other burdens on the table. "Mr. Pffeffenfifer is
a man educated in eats, a food fancier, an artist of the appetite!
Mr. Pffeffenfifer is fat and soulful! Mr. Pffeffenfifer nearly wept
tears over the virtues of that bird--pledged his mortal soul for its
tenderness, vowed by all the gods it had breast enough for twins! Mr.
Pffeffenfifer seemed so passionately attached to that bird that I feared
he meant to keep it to gloat over in selfish secrecy. But no--base coin
seduced him, did the trick and--here it is. Also we have a loaf!" and
from beneath one arm Ravenslee dropped a package that resolved itself
into a Vienna roll. "Also, ham--"
"Hey, Geoff," said Spike in awe-struck tones, "are all these eats?"
"Certainly. I should have brought more if I could have carried 'em."
"More?"
"Most decidedly. When I buy eats, my lad, I buy everything in sight that
looks worth while--if Mr. Pffeffenfifer sells. Mr. Pffeffenfifer sells
in such a soulfully seductive way that eats acquire virtues above and
beyond their own base selves. Mr. Pffeffenfifer can infuse soul into a
sausage. Behold now, eats the most alluring. See, what's this! Ah, yes,
here we have, item: Salmi, redolent of garlic! Here again a head cheese,
succulent and savoury; here's ham, most ravishingly pink--and a
Camembert cheese."
"But, Jiminy Christmas--you bought such a lot of each. Who's goin' t'
eat all these?"
"We, of course!"
"But we can't eat 'em all!" sighed Spike.
"Can't we?" said Ravenslee, beginning to view the quantity of the
numerous viands with dubious eyes. "They do seem rather a lot now I see
'em all together. But I'm ravenous, and if we can't manage 'em, we'll
find some one who can."
"Y' see, Geoff, I shan't be able t' eat any o' the rest when I'm through
with the turk'!" sighed Spike, a little reproachfully. "My, but I'm
hungry! Strange how hungry cold turkey makes a guy!"
"Why, then," said Ravenslee, pitching his hat into a corner, "sit down,
comrade, and 'let mirth with unconfin_ed_ wing'--" Ravenslee yawned.
"I guess we'd better wait a bit, Geoff."
"What for?"
"Hermy."
"Is she--do you mean she's back?" enquired Ravenslee, sitting up.
"Yes, she didn't stay at Englewood; she's down-stairs, doctoring Tony's
kid."
"But what will she think of all these confounded messes?"
"Messes!" cried Spike indignantly. "Cheese it, Geoff--look at that
turk'!"
"But--do you think she'll--mind?" enquired Ravenslee uneasily.
"Mind?" said Spike, staring. "Not on your life--why should she? Besides,
it's kind o' lucky you happened to blow in with this free lunch; she's a
bit shy on the dollar question this month--an' Mulligan comes t'morrow.
An' oh, say, Geoff--she's dead set on findin' out how I met you an'--an'
where."
"Very naturally!" murmured Ravenslee.
"An' we must tell her something--but what?"
"Spike, you've forgotten the mustard! And as for--er--lying to your
sister, let our motto be 'sufficient unto the day.' Our present need
is mustard, Spike."
"Say, this sure is goin' t' be some supper, Geoff!" said Spike, setting
on the mustard and gazing at the array of edibles with shining eyes.
"Gee, I could eat cold turkey all night!"
"Have we everything ready, Spike?"
"Except butter, Geoff."
"Ha! the one thing I forgot, of course! Cut off and get some like the
good fellow you are!" and Ravenslee flicked a bill into Spike's hand,
who, seizing his cap, promptly vanished. Being alone, Ravenslee crossed
to the sideboard, and taking thence a certain photograph, seated himself
in the easy-chair and fell to studying it with deep and grave attention.
And sitting thus, he let fancy run riot--and fancy was singularly
pleasing to judge by the glow in his eyes and the tender smile that
curved his lip.
He was lost deep within his dreams when he was aware of a loud knock
upon the outer door which Spike had left unlatched and, replacing the
photograph, he rose.
"Come in!" said he. A heavy step sounded in the little hall, the door
was pushed open, and a man entered. He was a young man, big and
broad-shouldered, and Ravenslee's keen eyes were quick to heed the
length and ponderous carriage of the arms, the girth of chest, and firm,
heavy poise of the feet; lastly he looked at the face, aggressively
handsome with its dominating nose and chin, and blue eyes shaded by
thick lashes, that looked out beneath heavy brows--a comely-seeming face
from the dark, close-cropped hair to the deep cleft in the strong,
fleshy chin.
But now, beneath Ravenslee's persistent regard, the full-curved, shapely
lips grew slowly into a cruel, down-trending line, the nostrils
expanded, while the blue eyes narrowed to shining slits beneath
quick-scowling, black brows. For a long moment the two men stared at
each other, eye to eye, then, in a hoarse, assertive tone the newcomer
spoke.
"What you doin' here? Who are ye?"
Mr. Ravenslee sat down and began to fill his pipe.
"Where's d' Kid?"
Mr. Ravenslee brushed stray grains of tobacco from his knee with
elaborate care.
"Hey, you! Where's Spike--'n' what you doin' here, anyway?"
Mr. Ravenslee glanced up casually. "And pray, who the devil may you be
pleased to be?" he enquired.
"Me name's M'Ginnis!"
"Oh, indeed?"
"Yes--indeed! Bud M'Ginnis--Is that good 'nuff for ye?"
"Well, since you ask," said Ravenslee, shaking languid head, "I should
scarcely class you as a 'bud' myself. No--I should say you were perhaps
just a trifle--er--overblown. But have it your own way!" and Mr.
Ravenslee smiled engagingly.
"Where's Spike?" demanded M'Ginnis, his tone a little gruffer, "and
say--you can cut out the comedy, see? Nix on the funny business."
"You are a pessimist, I presume, Mr. Flowers?"
"Where's d' Kid? Speak up now--where is he?"
"Also, your conversation grows a little monotonous, Mr. Flowers."
M'Ginnis stared, then shot out his big chin viciously.
"What you doin' in Hermy's flat, eh?"
Mr. Ravenslee's brows wrinkled slightly, but his soft voice grew softer,
as, pausing in the act of lighting his pipe, he answered: "On the whole
I think you are a rather--er--unpleasant young man, so suppose
you--er--go--"
"What? Go? Are ye tryin' t' tell me t' go?"
"I'm suggesting that you--er--crank up the machine, Mr. Flowers, and
beat it while the going's good!"
M'Ginnis clenched his fist and took a threatening step toward Ravenslee,
then checked himself and stood breathing heavily.
"May I further suggest," said Ravenslee in his pleasantest voice, "that
you look in again--say next Thursday fortnight, Mr. Flowers?"
"T' hell with you--me name's M'Ginnis."
"Of course you might leave a message, Mr. Flowers--"
"Now, see here, you!" said M'Ginnis, his words coming thick with
passion. "I wanter know, first, where Spike is. And then I wanter know
who you are. And then I wanter know what you're after in Hermy
Chesterton's flat--and you're sure goin' t' tell me!"
"Am I?"
"You sure are!"
Mr. Ravenslee opened the matchbox. "Seems a pity to shake a confidence
so sublime," he sighed. "And yet--"
"An' see here again! I've known Hermy since we was kids, an' I don't
allow no man t' come stamping around here--see? So you're goin' t' quit,
an' you're goin' t' quit right now!"
"Do I look like a quitter, Mr. Flowers?"
Now beholding the speaker's lazy assurance of pose, the contemptuous
indifference of his general air, M'Ginnis stood speechless a moment, his
clenched fists quivering, while, above the loosely-tied scarf, his
powerful neck seemed to swell and show knotted cords that writhed and
twisted, and when at last he spoke, his words came in a panting rush.
"This is Hermy's flat, an' I guess--you think you're safe here--but you
ain't! I'm thinkin' out which'll do th' least harm to her furniture--to
lick ye here or drag you out on to the landin' first!"
Mr. Ravenslee lounged lower in the armchair and yawned behind the box of
matches. And in that moment, like a maddened animal, M'Ginnis leapt upon
him and, striking no blow, seized and shook Ravenslee in powerful,
frantic hands, while from between his lips, curled back from big, white
teeth, came a continuous, vicious, hissing sound.
"I'll wake ye up!" he panted. "Come out--come out, I say--oh, I'll wake
ye up when I get ye outside, I guess. Come out! What you doin' in
Hermy's flat? By God! I'll choke ye till you tell me!" and his hands
came upon Ravenslee's throat--came to be met there by two other hands
that, closing upon his wrists, wrenched and twisted viciously in
opposite directions and, loosing his hold, M'Ginnis fell back, staring
down at bruised and lacerated skin where oozed a few slow drops of
blood.
"And now," said Ravenslee, rising, "after you, Mr. Flowers! Let us by
all means step outside, where we will each earnestly endeavour to pitch
the other down-stairs--personally, I shall do my very damnedest, for
really I don't--no, I do not like you, Mr. Flowers; you need some one
to tread on you a little. Step outside and let _me_ try."
While M'Ginnis stared from his swelling, bloody wrists to Ravenslee's
face--a face quite as fierce and determined as his own--steps were heard
and Spike's voice called:
"Hermy come in yet, Geoff?"
"Not yet--but our friend Mr. Flowers has dropped in--socially, I fancy."
"Mr. Who?" enquired Spike at the door, but beholding M'Ginnis's angry
face, he paused there, staring aghast. "Why--hello, Bud!" said he
nervously. "What's wrong?"
"Nothin' much--yet, Kid, only it's kinder lucky for this guy as you
happened in. Who is he? What's he doin' here?"
"He's only a friend o' mine, Bud, an' he's all right, 'n' say--"
"Tell him t' beat it."
"But y'see, Bud--"
"Tell him as we don't want his kind around here or--"
"Spike, did you bring in the butter?" enquired Ravenslee, serenely
unconscious of M'Ginnis.
"Yes, here it is, Geoff--but say--"
"It doesn't feel much," said Ravenslee, weighing the package in his
hand.
"It's half a pound. But say, here's Bud; he says you're to--"
"My, Spike, I'll trouble you for the butter-dish--thanks!" and turning
away, Ravenslee busied himself at the table, whistling softly the while.
"But, Geoff, this is Bud!" cried the lad, glancing from one to the other
in an agony of suspense. "Oh, don' ye know dis is Bud M'Ginnis?"
"Ah, still here, is he?" said Ravenslee, without looking round.
"See here, Kid," growled M'Ginnis, "you tell your--friend t' clear
out an' t' do it real quick, see? You tell him if he ain't out in two
minutes, I'll run him out meself--"
"Spike, this butter is nearly oil."
"Oh, Geoff," groaned the boy, "you've got t' go--here's Bud--"
"Why, then, Spike, tell him to--er--chase himself; I'm busy!" Came the
sound of a chair set roughly aside and a shrill cry from Spike: "My God,
Bud--don't! Look out, Geoff!"
But, as M'Ginnis came, Ravenslee turned swiftly, ducked the expected
blow, and swinging his fist up beneath his assailant's extended arm,
smote him hard and true upon the elbow; and Spike, pale and wide of eye,
saw that arm fall and dangle helplessly at M'Ginnis' side, while his
face was contorted with sharp agony.
"My God, Geoff! What you done t' him?"
"Pins and needles, Spike--that's all. A hoary old trick, but useful now
and then. Mr. Flowers isn't so very wide-awake as folks seem to think.
You see, it wouldn't have done to knock him out here; he might have
upset the table."
"Knock out Bud!" cried Spike, aghast. "But there ain't nobody can lick
Bud M'Ginnis!"
"Oh, I don't know, Spike. Anyway, we'll see what can be done--outside!
After you, Mr. Flowers! Pray go first, Mr. Flowers! A fellow who would
attack a man sitting down isn't to be trusted behind one--so, after you,
Mr. Flowers. Oh, we'll wait until you can use your arm, but we'll wait
outside. Miss Chesterton's flat is no place for your sort, so--out with
you, and quick--d'ye hear?"
M'Ginnis opened his lips to retort, but passion choked him, and snarling
unintelligibly, he turned and strode out upon the landing. As they stood
fronting each other, very silent and grim and menacing, running feet
were heard ascending the stairs, and a slender boy appeared, who,
perceiving M'Ginnis, panted out:
"Say, Bud, O'Rourke's been pinched by d' cops! He wants ye t' skin over
an' fix it up--"
"O'Rourke pinched?" growled M'Ginnis. "Say you, Larry, what yer givin'
me?"
"S' right, Bud, dere's a noo captain on d' precinct, an' he's pinched
O'Rourke. 'N' say, Bud, d' game's all balled up; d' push is all up in d'
air. 'N' say, O'Rourke's crazy an' can't do nothin', so he sent me t'
fetch ye. You're d' only one as can fix d' police, so come on right now
before d' whole show's busted up." During this breathless speech the
narrowed eyes of M'Ginnis never left Ravenslee's pale, placid face, and
in the persistence of this ferocious glare was something animal-like.
"Say, you--Mr. Butt-in!" said he, "I ain't through wid you--not by a
whole lot I ain't. Oh, I'll get ye yet, an' I'll get ye good! There
won't be nothin' left for nobody else when I'm through wid you. Savvy
this--there ain't nobody ever goin' t' queer me with Hermy Chesterton.
Oh, I'll get ye good, an' I'll get ye--soon!"
So saying, Bud M'Ginnis turned, and went slowly and unwillingly down the
stair.
"Gee, but I'm glad he's gone!" said Spike, as he closed the door. "Gee,
but I'm--glad!" and he drew a deep breath.
"So am I!" said Ravenslee, sinking into the armchair, "but there's
always to-morrow, isn't there?"
But instead of replying, Spike stood to stare on Ravenslee with eyes of
admiring awe.
"I guess you know how t' handle y' self, Geoff," said he.
"I used to think I could, once upon a time," answered Ravenslee,
stooping to recover his pipe.
"That sure was some wallop you handed him!"
"'T was fair, I thank you, comrade!"
"I shall be awful sorry to have you leave me, Geoff."
"Leave you?"
"Well, you heard what he said?"
"Yes, I heard."
"An' you know what he meant?"
"I can guess."
"You'd best skin out o' Mulligan's first thing to-morrow."
"What for?"
"Bud says you must, an' he'll make you, worse luck!"
"Oh, how?"
"Well," said Spike in low, troubled tones, "he'll sic d' gang on to you
if you don't make your get-away while you can--"
"By God!" exclaimed Ravenslee, his eyes suddenly very bright, "I never
thought of that!"
"Yes, so I'm thinking you'd best skin off t'night, Geoff!" sighed the
lad gloomily, whereupon Ravenslee, pocketing his pipe, clapped him
joyously upon the shoulder.
"Banish that dejection, my comrade," said he, "for now, my Arthur-Spike,
'now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer in this brutal
Bud' and--"
"What yer mean, Geoff?"
"I mean that life's erstwhile dull monotony is like to be forgotten
quite in the vigorous, exhilarating air of Hell's Kitchen. Hell's
Kitchen suits me admirably, consequently in Hell's Kitchen I'll stay."
"Stay? Geoff, are ye crazy? What about Bud M'Ginnis?"
"M'Ginnis, my Arthur? Oh, Bud M'Ginnis may be--hush! Straighten the
cloth yonder, Spike; she's coming at last, by Heaven!"
CHAPTER XII
CONTAINING SOME DESCRIPTION OF A SUPPER PARTY
"Oh!" said Hermione, as she caught sight of Ravenslee's tall figure,
"you've come then, Mr. Geoffrey? I've been hoping and praying you
wouldn't! I mean--" she added hastily, in answer to his look, "I mean
I have only two miserable little chops for supper."
"S' all right, Hermy!" cried Spike. "I told you not to worry about the
eats. Look what's here--stand out o' the light, Geoff, so she can see
the table!"
"Why--why--what's all this?" she exclaimed, staring at the numerous
well-filled dishes with blue eyes very wide. "Oh, goodness
gracious--me!" and she turned to look at Mr. Ravenslee, who, meeting
that wondering glance, actually found himself stammering again.
"The fact is, Miss Hermione--er--I say the fact is we--Arthur and I--are
giving a little supper to-night in honour of--of--er--my birthday."
"You bet we are, Hermy!" added Spike. "Will you pipe the turk'?"
"We have been waiting for you," continued Ravenslee, placing a chair for
her, "you see--er--you are to be our guest of honour--if you will?"
"Sure you are!" nodded Spike, "and I'm head-waiter, eater-in-chief t'
the turk' while she lasts, an' chief mourner when she's gone--so now
I'll go an' make th' tea, only don't begin without me--a fair start an'
all together, see?" and he vanished into the kitchen.
"But--a whole turkey!" said Hermione, viewing it with feminine,
knowledgeful eyes, "and then all this ham and tongue and--Mr. Geoffrey,
how extravagant of you!" And she shook her shapely head at him
reprovingly but with a smile curving her red lips; and lo! there was the
shining curl above her eyebrow again, more wantonly alluring than usual.
"Whatever made you buy so much?"
"Mr. Pffeffenfifer!" answered Ravenslee, staring at the radiant curl,
whereupon she, becoming aware of it, would have sent it into immediate
retirement among its many fellows but that he stayed her humbly.
"Please don't!" he said.
"But it--tickles!"
"Well, let it!"
"But--why should I?"
"For--Arthur's sake."
"Arthur's!" she laughed. "Oh, Mr. Geoffrey, as if he would ever notice!"
"Well, then, for the--er--turkey's sake!"
"The turkey!" she laughed. "I'm afraid I'm dreadfully untidy to sit down
at such a luxurious feast."
"Are you?"
"Well--am I not? Look at this poor old gown!"
"I'm afraid I didn't notice your--er--gown."
"What did I tell you, Hermy?" said Spike, entering with the teapot.
"Geoff ain't--I mean, isn't--that kind o' guy--I mean mutt--no, I mean
feller. Y' see, Geoff, a girl always thinks a feller's got his lamps--I
mean eyes--on their rags--clo'es, I mean. 'S' funny, ain't it? Gee, but
I'm hungry!"
"So am I!" said Hermione.
"So am I!" said Ravenslee.
"Why, then," quoth Spike, "I'll tell you what--let's all sit down and
eat! I guess I'm full o' brilliant ideas t'night, but this ain't no time
for talk--not with that turkey starin' us in the face, it ain't--isn't,
I mean. So quit chewin' d' rag an' let's chew d' turk' instead--an' Gee,
but that's some brilliant too, I guess!"
So down they sat, and while Hermione presided over the cups and saucers,
Ravenslee carved.
"Light or dark meat, Miss Hermione?" he enquired.
"Herm; likes th' light, but a drumstick for mine--an' please don't
forget th' stuffin', Geoff!"
"Tea, Mr. Geoffrey?"
"Thanks!" he answered, pausing to watch the curve of her shapely neck as
she bent to pour the tea, and to note how her white hand grasped the
battered teapot, little finger delicately poised.
"Say, Geoff--get busy!" said Spike wistfully. "I know the teapot's a bit
off on looks, but I broke the best one and--"
"I didn't even notice the teapot, Spike," said Ravenslee, meeting
Hermione's quick, upward glance.
"Oh, cheese it, Geoff, here you've sat with your fork in th' turk' an'
your knife in th' air, starin' at that teapot a whole minute."
"No, Spike, no! I was only thinking that tea never tastes quite right
unless poured out by a woman's hand--and the fairer the hand the better
the tea!"
"Which means--just what, Mr. Geoffrey?" laughed Hermione.
"Why, that Spike and I are about to drink the most delicious tea in the
world, of course."
"I'd rather be eatin' that turk' when you've sawed me off a leg," sighed
Spike. "I say--when you have!"
"Ah, to be sure!" said Ravenslee, turning his attention to his carving
again, while Hermione bowed her golden head above the teacups.
"Gee, but she cuts tender!" quoth Spike; "that bird sure has the Indian
sign on me!"
"Sugar, Mr. Geoffrey?"
"Two lumps, please."
"Milk, Mr. Geoffrey?"
"Thank you!"
"Geoff," said Spike wearily, "I cracked that milk jug last night, but
you don't have to sit starin' at it that way, an' me dyin' of hunger by
inches!"
"My humble apologies!" said Ravenslee, wresting his gaze from a certain
curl and fixing it upon the turkey again. "I'm a little--er--distracted
to-night, it seems."
"Oh, Gee!" said Spike in a hopeless tone, "now Hermy's gone an' filled
my cup with milk."
"Why, boy dear, so I have!" she confessed, with a rueful laugh, and her
cheeks were very pink as she rectified her mistake.
"Are you distracted too, then?" demanded Spike.
"No, I--I don't think so--no, no--of course I'm not! I--I was
just--thinking, that's all!"
"Not about tea, I reckon! Say, what's gettin' you two, anyway?"
"Arthur," said she serenely, as she passed his tea, "please fetch some
more hot water."
Spike sighed, rose, and taking the jug, went upon his mission.
"And how do you like Mulligan's, Mr. Geoffrey?" enquired Hermione,
regarding him with her calm, level eyes.
"Very much," he answered, "I like it better and better. I think--no, I'm
sure I would rather be in Mulligan's than anywhere else in the world."
"Oh! Why?"
Down went carving knife and fork, and leaning toward her he answered:
"Because in Mulligan's, among many other wonders, I have found something
more beautiful and far more wonderful than I ever dreamed of finding."
"In Mulligan's?" she asked, looking her amazement.
"In Mulligan's," he answered gravely. Now here, all at once, her glance
wavered and sank before his.
"What do you mean?" she enquired, staring into her cup.
"Shall I tell you?"
"Yes--no!" she murmured hastily and a little breathlessly, as Spike
reentered, and paused, jug in hand, to stare.
"What--haven't you served Hermy--yet?" he enquired in an injured tone.
"Certainly I have," answered Ravenslee, "here it is, you see--all
ready!"
"Only you forgot t' hand it t' her, and she forgot t' take it. Well,
say--for hungry folks you two are the limit!"
"'Man doth not live by bread alone,' boy; we were talking," said
Ravenslee, handing Hermione her plate.
"You said you liked milk and sugar, didn't you, Mr. Geoffrey?"
"Holy Gee!" murmured Spike.
"Milk and sugar, thank you," said Ravenslee, heedful of her deepened
colour.
"Geoff," enquired Spike gently, "if I was to hang on to that drumstick,
d' ye suppose you might be able to hack it off for me--some day?"
"My Arthur," said Ravenslee, plying knife and fork energetically, "'tis
done--behold it!"
"But surely," said Hermione, glancing up suddenly, "surely you
don't--like Mulligan's, Mr. Geoffrey?"
"Like it, Miss Hermione? I--abominate it!"
"Oh!"
"Say, Geoff," mourned Spike, "don't I get any stuffin' after all?"
"Mr. Geoffrey, I've been wondering how you and Arthur met--and where,
and--"
"Gee, Hermy!" Spike exclaimed, "you sure do talk! If you go on asking
poor old Geoff s' many questions, he'll forget t' serve himself this
week. Look at his plate!"
"Why, Mr. Geoffrey, do serve yourself, please, and--oh, my gracious!
I've forgotten to give you your tea; I'm so sorry!"
Here Spike, having once again staved off the inevitable explanation,
grew hilarious, and they laughed and talked the while they ate and drank
with youthful, healthy appetites. And what a supper that was! What
tongue could tell the gaiety and utter content that possessed them all
three? What pen describe all Hermione's glowing beauty, or how her blue
eyes, meeting eyes of grey would, for no perceptible reason, grow
sweetly troubled, waver in their glance, and veil themselves beneath
sudden, down-drooping lashes? What mere words could ever describe all
the subtle, elusive witchery of her?
And Spike--ate, of course, in a blissful silence for the most part and
whole-heartedly, his attention centred exclusively upon his plate; thus
how should he know or care how often, across that diminished turkey,
grey eyes looked into blue? As for Ravenslee, he ate and drank he knew
and cared not what, content to sit and watch her when he might--the
delicious curves of white neck and full, round throat, the easy grace of
movement that spoke her vigorous youth; joying in the soft murmurs of
her voice, the low, sweet ring of her laughter, and thrilling responsive
to her warm young womanhood.
"But Mr. Geoffrey," she enquired suddenly, "if you hate Mulligan's as
much as I do, whatever made you choose to live here?"
"A thrice blessed fate," he answered, "I came because--er--"
"You were a poor, lonely guy," added Spike hastily.
"Precisely, Spike! Compared to my sordid poverty Lazarus was rich, and
as for the loneliness of my existence the--er--abomination of desolation
was a flowery garden!"
"And how did you happen to meet Ar--"
A plate crashed to pieces on the floor, and turning, she beheld Spike
very red and rueful of visage.
"'Fraid I've bent a plate, Hermy," he explained, and winking desperately
at Ravenslee, he stooped to gather up the fragments.
"Oh, Arthur, and we have so few--"
"Yes, I know--but it's only the old cracked one, Hermy."
"You've broken an awful lot of things lately, boy dear," she sighed.
"Never mind--get on with your supper, dear."
"Oh, I'm all right, but what about you? Gee, Hermy, you sure do talk!"
"Do I, dear?"
"Well, I guess! You keep on at poor old Geoff so he don't get a chance
for a real proper chew."
"But then you see," said Ravenslee, "I would much rather talk than
eat--sometimes."
"But say, Geoff--"
"Miss Hermione, you were asking how I met--"
"Hey, Geoff!" said Spike hoarsely.
"How I met your brother," continued Ravenslee, silencing the boy with a
look. "Miss Hermione, I'll tell you full and freely." Here Spike took a
gulp of tea and choked, also his brow grew clammy, and he stared with
dilating eyes at Ravenslee, who began forthwith:
"Once upon a time, Miss Hermione, that is to say upon a certain dark
night, a man sat alone, physically and mentally alone, and very wretched
because his life was empty of all achievement--because, having been
blessed with many opportunities, he had never done anything worth while.
And as he sat there, looking back through the wasted years, this
miserable fool was considering, in his wretched folly, the cowardly sin
of self-destruction, because he was sick of the world and all things in
it--especially of his own useless self! But I hope I don't--er--bore
you, do I?"
"No," she answered a little breathlessly, gazing at him with eyes deep
and tender; "go on--please go on!"
"Well," continued Ravenslee gravely, "Destiny, or Heaven, or the
Almighty, taking pity on this sorry fool, sent to him an angel in the
shape of--your brother."
"Of--Arthur?" she exclaimed, while Spike's rigid attitude relaxed, and
he drew a sudden, deep breath.
"Of Arthur!" nodded Ravenslee. "And Arthur lifted him out of the Slough
of Despond and taught him that life might be a useful thing after all,
if he could but find some object to help him--one who might inspire him
to nobler things. And so he came here, hoping to find this object."
"An object?" she enquired softly.
"The Definite Object!" he answered, "with capital letters. One who might
make life truly worth while. One who, teaching him to forget himself,
should lift him to better things. An object to live for, work for, and
if necessary to--die for!"
Here Spike, finding himself utterly forgotten again, sighed in deep and
audible relief, and taking up knife and fork, fell to with renewed
appetite, while Hermione, chin rested on folded hands, gazed into
Ravenslee's grave face.
"Do you think he will ever--find his Object?"
"Oh, yes!"
"You seem very--confident."
"I am! You see, she's found."
"She?" exclaimed Hermione, her eyes beginning to waver.
"With a capital S," said he, leaning nearer. "The Woman! And it's right
here that his difficulties begin, because in the first place he is so
humble and she is so proud and--"
"Proud?" said she, glancing up swiftly.
"And so very beautiful!" he continued.
"Oh!" said she, and this time she did not look at him.
"Say," quoth Spike, "I think I could go another drumstick, Geoff."
"And in the second place, he is so unworthy and she so--"
"An' a bit more stuflin', Geoff," sighed Spike.
"Can she--help him?" enquired Hermione, stirring her tea absently.
"She is the only one who can--help me."
"Oh!" said Hermione again, very softly this time, stirring a little
faster; and, conscious of his glance, flushed deliciously and was silent
awhile. As for Spike, he glanced from one rapt face to the other
and--unostentatiously helped himself to more turkey.
"But," said Hermione at last, "how can--she help?"
"By constant association," answered Ravenslee, "by affording me the
daily example of her sweet self-forgetfulness and blameless life."
"Are you sure she is so--very good?"
"I am sure she is braver and nobler than any woman I have ever known!"
Once more Spike glanced from the flushed beauty of his sister's
half-averted face to Ravenslee's shining eyes, and boldly helped himself
to more seasoning.
"Have you known her very long, Mr. Geoffrey?"
"Long enough to know she is--the only woman!"
"Say, Geoff," sighed Spike, "I guess old Pffeff was right about this
bird; she kind o' melts--'n' say--she's meltin' fast! If you two don't
stop chewin' d' rag an' get busy you'll be too late for this bird,
because this bird is sure a bird of passage and--Holy Gee!" he broke
off, as a knock sounded on the outer door, "who's this, I wonder?"
Before he could rise, Hermione had vanished into the passage.
"Say, Geoff," he whispered, "how if it's Bud?"
Ravenslee frowned and pushed back his chair, but in that moment they
heard Hermione's glad welcome: "Why, Ann, you dear thing, you're just in
time for the turkey--come right in."
"Turkey, my dear!" spoke the harsh voice of Mrs. Trapes. "Turkey--land
sakes! But I only jest stepped over t' ask if you'd happened to find
that lodger o' mine anywheres--why, Lord bless me!" she broke off,
halting in the doorway as she beheld Ravenslee. "Lordy Lord, if he ain't
a-settin' there, cool as ever was! If he ain't a-eatin' an' drinkin' an'
me cookin' him at this moment the loveliest mutton chop you ever see! A
mutton chop wiv a kidney, as he ordered most express--Lord, Mr.
Geoffrey!"
"Why, to be sure," said Ravenslee, rising. "I forgot all about that
chop, Mrs. Trapes."
"Didn't you order it most express--cut thick--an' wiv a kidney?"
"I did," said Ravenslee penitently.
"Well--there it is, cooked to a turn, an' nobody t' eat it! An' kidneys
is rose again--kidneys is always risin'. Lord, Mr. Geoffrey!"
"Why, you see, Mrs. Trapes, we--that is, I had a birthday not long ago,
and we're celebrating."
"And so shall you, Ann," said Hermione, "sit down, dear!"
"An' me in me oldest apron?" said Mrs. Trapes, squaring her elbows, "my
dear, I couldn't--an' I wouldn't! But, oh! Mr. Geoffrey, what about that
beautiful chop? I might warm it over for your breakfast?"
"Heaven forbid!"
"Then I must eat it myself, I suppose, though it do seem a shame to
waste such a lovely chop on Ann Angelina Trapes! But, Hermy dear, I just
been down to see Mrs. Bowker, an' her little Hazel's very bad--her poor
little hip again, an' she's coughin' too, somethin' dreadful."
"Poor little Hazel! Did she ask for me, Ann?"
"Well, my dear, she did, an' Mrs. Bowker did ask if you'd go an' look at
her--but I do hate t' disturb ye, that I do!"
"Oh, it's all right, Ann. Tell Mrs. Bowker I'll be right down."
"I will so, but it's a dratted shame as you should shoulder everybody's
troubles, that it is."
"Oh, Ann--as though I do! And then how about yourself, dear--what of the
Baxters and the Ryders, and Mrs. Tipping's baby and--"
"My land!" cried Mrs. Trapes, "that chop'll be a cinder!" and she
hurried away.
"Poor little Hazel," said Hermione, coming to a small corner cupboard.
"She's such a dear, quaint little person! You must have seen her on the
stairs, Mr. Geoffrey."
"I see so many on the stairs, Miss Hermione, and they are always small
and generally quaint."
"Hazel's got a game leg, Geoff," said Spike, "an' she hops around
on a little crutch. She told me yesterday she thought you was--I mean
were--a fairy prince, because you always bow an' tip your lid to her
when she says 'good morning.' So now she waits for you every morning,
Geoff--says it makes her feel like she was a real fairy princess in a
story-book. Sounds kind o' batty to me, though."
Hermione was standing on tiptoe endeavouring to reach a certain bottle
upon the top shelf where were ranged many others of various shapes and
sizes, when Ravenslee's big hand did it for her; but when she would have
taken it, he shook his head.
"I should like to go with you, if I may," he said, "to be--er--formally
introduced to the princess."
"But--" began Hermione, hesitating.
"Also I could carry the bottle for you."
"Why, if you will do all that--" she smiled.
"Thanks!" he answered, and putting the bottle in his pocket, he opened
the door.
"Hey, Geoff," Spike called after him, "you've forgot to kiss the turkey
good-by!"
"Why then, you can do it for me, Spike!" he answered, and followed
Hermione out upon the landing.
Side by side they descended the stair, in the doing of which her soft
shoulder met him once, and once he thrilled to feel her hand touch his
in the shadow, but this hand was hastily withdrawn; also, though the
light was dim, he saw that she was frowning and biting her red underlip.
"These stairs are rather--narrow, aren't they?" said she, drawing to the
wall.
"Delightfully!" he answered, drawing to the rail; and so they went down
very silently with the width of the stairs between them.
CHAPTER XIII
WHEREIN MAY BE FOUND SOME PARTICULARS OF THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF PERHAPS
Mrs. Bowker was a small woman, worn and faded like her carpets and
curtains and the dress she wore, but, like them, she was very clean and
neat.
"'T is real good of you to come, Miss Hermy," said this small, faded
woman, and Ravenslee thought her very voice sounded faded, so repressed
and dismally soft was it. "I wouldn't have had the face t' send for you,
Miss Hermy, only Hazel calls an' calls, like she's doin' now--listen!"
And sure enough from somewhere near by a small voice reached them,
pitifully faint and thin: "Hermy dear, come t' me--oh, Hermy dear!"
"She allus lays an' calls like that lately when her poor hip's worse 'n
usual," sighed Mrs. Bowker. "And your gentleman friend--would he like t'
see her too?"
"Thank you, I should," answered Ravenslee in his soft, pleasant voice.
"Oh, Mrs. Bowker, this is Mr. Geoffrey," said Hermione a trifle
hurriedly, "he came with me to--to--"
"Be presented to the princess, if she will honour me," he added.
"Ah!" said Mrs. Bowker, looking up at him with a faded smile, "Hazel
told me you had a pretty voice, sir, an' I guess I know what she meant.
She sets out on the stairs when she's well enough an' has often seen
ye."
"Hermy, dear, come t' me--oh, Hermy dear!" called the little voice.
"Yes, go in, my dear, you know y' way, I guess," sighed Mrs. Bowker,
passing a small, worn hand across her faded eyes. "There's five dozen
more collar-bands I must stitch an' buttonhole t'night--so go your ways,
my dear." So saying, Mrs. Bowker went back to her labour, which was very
hard labour indeed, while Hermione led the way into a tiny room, where,
on a small, neat truckle-bed covered by a faded quilt, a small, pale
child lay fading fast. But at sight of her visitors, two big, brown eyes
grew bigger yet, and her pale, thin little cheeks flushed eagerly.
"Oh, Hermy dear!" she cried, clasping frail hands, "oh, Hermy, you've
brought him--you've brought me our fairy prince at last!"
Now what was there in these childish words to cause Hermione's eyes to
droop so suddenly as she took the bottle from Ravenslee's hand, or her
rounded cheek to flush so painfully as she stooped to meet the child's
eager kiss, or, when she turned away to measure a dose of the medicine,
to be such an unconscionable time over it? Observing all of which,
Ravenslee forthwith saluted the small invalid with a grave bow, battered
hat gracefully flourished.
"It is truly an honour to meet you, princess!" said he, and lifting the
child's frail little hand, he touched it to his lips. Thereafter,
obeying the mute appeal of that hand, he seated himself upon the narrow
bed, while Hermione, soft-voiced and tender, bent above the invalid,
who, having obediently swallowed her medicine, leaned back on her pillow
and smiled from one to the other.
"And now," said she, drawing Hermione down at her other side and
snuggling between, "now please let's all tell some more fairy tale; an'
please, you begin, Hermy, just where you had t' leave off last time."
"Why, I--I'm afraid I've forgotten, dear," said Hermione, bending to
smooth the child's pillow.
"Forgotten--oh, Hermy! But I 'member quite well; you got where poor
Princess Nobody was climbing the mountain very tired an' sad an'
carrying her heavy pack, an' all at once--along came the Prince an'
took her heavy bundle and said he'd love to carry it for her always if
she'd let him. An' poor Nobody knew he was the real Prince at last--the
Prince she'd dreamed of an' waited for all her life, 'cos he'd got grey
eyes so brave an' true--an' he was so big an' strong an' noble. So he
helped her to the top of the mountain, an' then she thought at last she
could see the beautiful City of Perhaps. That's where you got to--don't
you 'member, Hermy dear?"
Now why should Hermione's shapely head have drooped and drooped until
at last her face was hidden on the pillow? And why should Geoffrey
Ravenslee reach to touch the child's hair with hand so light and tender?
"The beautiful City of Perhaps," said he gently, "why, Princess, where
did you learn about that?"
"From dear Princess Nobody, oh, Prince!"
"And who is she?"
"Why, she's Hermy, Prince--and I'm Princess Somebody. And oh, Hermy
dear, you do 'member where you left off now, don't you?"
"Yes, I remember; but I--don't feel like telling fairy stories now,
dear."
"Oh! are y' sick?" cried the child anxiously, touching Hermione's golden
hair with loving fingers, "is it a headache like my mumsey gets?"
"N-no, dear, only I--I don't feel like telling any more of our
story--to-night--somehow, dear."
"Princess," said Ravenslee, "do you know much about the wonderful City
of Perhaps?"
"Oh, yes--an' I dream about it sometimes, Prince--such beautiful dreams!"
"Why, of course," nodded Ravenslee, "because it is the most beautiful
City that ever happened, I guess!"
"Oh, it is!" cried the child, "shall I tell you?"
"Please do, Princess."
"Well, it's all made of crystal an' gold, an' every one's happy there
and never sick--oh, never! An' all the children can have ices an' cream
sodas whenever they want an' lovely doll-carriages with rubber on the
wheels an'--an' everything's just lovely. Of course every one's daddy's
got lots an' heaps an' piles of money, so they never get behind with the
rent an' never have to set up all night stitching an' stitching like
mumsey an' Hermy have to sometimes. An' I'm Princess Somebody, an'
Hermy's Princess Nobody, an' we're on our ways through the valley of
gloom, trying to find the beautiful City of Perhaps--but oh, it's awful
hard to find!" she ended, with a weary little sigh.
"And yet, Princess, I'm sure we shall find it."
"We? Oh, are you coming too, Prince?" cried the child joyfully.
"To be sure I am!" nodded Ravenslee.
"Oh, goody, I'm glad--so glad, 'cause I know we shall find it now!"
"Why?"
"Well," answered the child, looking at him with her big, wistful eyes,
"'cause you look like you could find it, somehow. You see, Prince,
you've got grey eyes so brave an' true--an' you're big an' strong an'
could carry me an' Hermy over the thorny places when we get very, very
tired--couldn't you?"
"I could!" answered Ravenslee almost grimly, "and I--surely will!"
"When we get there, Prince, I want first--a doll-carriage an' a doll
with lovely blue eyes that wink at you, an' a big box of candy, an' a
new dress for my mumsey, an' no more work, an' I want lots an' lots of
flowers for my daddy 'cause he loves flowers--oh, an' I want my leg t'
be made well. What d' you want, Hermy?"
"Well, dear, I want to--say good-by to my sewing-machine for ever and
ever and ever!"
"Why, Hermy!" exclaimed the child, "last time you said you wanted some
one who could give you your heart's desire!"
"Perhaps that is my heart's desire, little Hazel," said Hermione, rising
and taking up the medicine bottle.
"An' what do you want, Prince?"
"I want a great deal," answered Ravenslee, smiling down into the big,
soft eyes. "I want some one who--is my heart's desire now and for ever
and ever. Good night, dear little Princess!"
"You'll come again, Prince?" she pleaded, holding up her face to be
kissed, "you'll come again soon?"
"As soon as--Princess Nobody will bring me."
"Good night, Hermy dear; you'll bring our Prince again soon?"
"If you wish, dear," said Hermione, stooping to kiss her in turn.
"Why, Hermy--what makes your cheeks so hot to-night?"
"Are they?" said Hermione, making pretence to test them with the back of
her hand.
"Why, yes," nodded the child, "an' they look so red an'--"
"Of course you believe in fairies, don't you, Princess?" enquired
Ravenslee rather hurriedly.
"Oh, yes, Prince, I often see them in my dreams. They just wait till I'm
asleep, an' then they come an' show themselves. Do you ever see any?"
"Well, your highness, I fancy I have lately, and when fairies are
around, things are sure to happen; wishes get the habit of coming true.
So, little Princess, just go on wishing and dreaming and--watch out!"
Then Ravenslee turned and followed Hermione out upon the dingy landing;
but as he climbed the stair, there went with him the memory of a little
face, very thin and pale, but radiant and all aglow with rapturous hope.
Silently as they had come they mounted the stairs, until, reaching the
topmost landing, they paused as by mutual consent.
"Poor little Hazel!" said Hermione very gently, "if only there were real
fairies to spirit her away to where the air is sweet and pure and
flowers grow for little hands to gather--the doctor told me it was her
only chance."
"Why, then of course she must have her chance!" said Ravenslee with a
sleepy nod.
"But, Mr. Geoffrey--how?"
"Well--er--the fairies--you said something about fairies spiriting--"
"The fairies!" said Hermione a little bitterly, "I guess they are too
busy over their own affairs to trouble about a poor, little, sick child;
besides, what fairy could possibly live five minutes in--Mulligan's?"
"Which leaves us," said Ravenslee thoughtfully, "which leaves us the
beautiful City of Perhaps. It is a wonderful thought, that!"
"But only a thought!" she sighed.
"Is it? Are you quite sure?"
"Well, isn't it?" she questioned wistfully.
"No!" he answered gravely, "the City of Perhaps is very, very real."
"What do you mean?"
Once again their hands touched in the shadow, but this time his fingers
closed upon her hand, the hand that held the medicine bottle, drawing
her nearer in the dimness of that dingy landing.
"I mean," he answered, "that for every one of us there is a City of
Perhaps waiting to open its gates to our coming, and I am sure we shall
reach it sooner or later, all three of us--the Princess and you and
I--yes,
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