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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/38341-8.txt b/38341-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..33778f9 --- /dev/null +++ b/38341-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7185 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lash, by Olin L. Lyman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Lash + +Author: Olin L. Lyman + +Release Date: December 19, 2011 [EBook #38341] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LASH *** + + + + +Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + +[Illustration: "_Haskins quizzically looked him over_"] + + + + +THE LASH + +OLIN L. LYMAN + +Author of "The Trail of the Grand Seigneur" + +[Illustration] + + BOSTON + RICHARD G. BADGER + THE GORHAM PRESS + 1909 + + + Copyright 1909 by RICHARD G. BADGER + _All Rights Reserved_ + Printed at The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. + + + + +TO C. E. A + + + + +CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER PAGE + + I A Star Chamber Session 9 + + II An Arrival 18 + + III Micky 29 + + IV Fists and the Man 36 + + V The Ironworkers' Ball--and Maisie 47 + + VI The Web 61 + + VII Loneliness 67 + + VIII An Evening Call 77 + + IX Not on the Programme 87 + + X The Little Red Devil 99 + + XI In the Morning 106 + + XII Why She Cried 113 + + XIII A Wager 122 + + XIV A Discredited Henchman 133 + + XV Useful Information 145 + + XVI His Better Side 155 + + XVII The Coup in Sight 165 + + XVIII A Counter Move 178 + + XIX Suspense 187 + + XX Out of the Past 195 + + XXI The Lash 204 + + XXII The Story 215 + + XXIII Wanderlust 224 + + XXIV The Long Road 234 + + + + +THE LASH + +CHAPTER I + +A STAR CHAMBER SESSION + + +The speaker paused for a moment to pass his handkerchief over his +fevered brow. Up from the ugly, leering, little eyes swept the swabbing +linen, traversing the smooth top of the round head and disappearing +mysteriously at the rear. The reason for this was obvious. The teeth of +time take kindly to the hirsute and the speaker was very bald. Only a +narrow fringe of reddish hair divided the rear depression of his fevered +brow from the nape of his fat red neck. + +A plump and hairy fist smote the table and the glasses jingled. "Don't +fool yourselves, you young fellows," advised the bald gentleman, in a +curious gusty voice. "I've been all through it, clean to the retired +list," with a wicked wink, "and I know, that's all. You've got to work +harder this year than you did the first; you've got to a point where +there ain't no layin' down for you if you want to keep on fodderin'. +'Cause why? 'Cause they're on, or think they are, and they're gettin' +uneasy. You think everything's lovely, do you? Well, take a little +advice from the old man that's now on the sideline, and aim to get busy +from now on." + +He again swabbed his illimitable brow, peering cunningly at them with +wicked little eyes that gleamed unpleasantly on either side of a +bulbous, crimsoned nose, while he chewed complacently at a black cigar. +In common with the rest of the small company he was in his +shirt-sleeves, for it was very hot. A mere ghost of a breeze stole in +through the window screen, against which foiled moths, attracted by the +light within, bumped in vain. A white-aproned waiter, summoned by an +electric bell, entered, removed the empty glasses and received a fresh +order. With his departure the bald gentleman was again heard from. + +"Well," he snorted aggressively, "what's eatin' you? Don't you believe +me?" + +"Why," drawled a lank, middle-aged gentleman with a generally +unsophisticated look that increased the efficiency of his talents for +the peculiar use to which he devoted them; "I suppose it's safe to be on +the safe side, but there's no use in borrowin' trouble any more than you +have to. Everything looks smooth to me." + +"Pals," remarked the bald gentleman impressively, "remember this. The +only way to stave off the foreclosure is to keep borrowin', and it's the +smoothest whisky that gives you the rockiest head the next morning. +'Cause why? 'Cause you get enthused and hit it up too hard. Now that's +where our danger flag's out. We've found this an easy town, we've worked +it for all it's worth, puttin' it in plain English; the reformers ain't +never woke up and you're takin' the attitude that they never will. Boys, +it's a mistake. They do, sometimes. You don't want to plan on no sleepy +campaign, if you'll take it from a sideliner that's 'retired' but +wishes you well." + +"That's all very well, Alderman." said a plump, moon-faced fellow across +the table, "but we've had these scares before and they've been for +nothing. Two years ago Fusion thought it had us beat and we was afraid +it was going to turn the trick. Remember the vote? Why, we got the laugh +from our own men. We needn't have hustled ourselves. It was a dead +open-and-shut." + +"It's because the town don't believe half it hears," interpolated the +lank gentleman. "I'll say this, that the old man--drink to him, +boys!--is the best organizer in this country today, and he leaves the +blindest trail. They can't bring anything home, not while we're in +control." + +"That's what I'm tellin' you," remarked the bald one grimly. "You've got +to hang on to the control. Let it slip away from you while you're +nappin' and how long would it be before the town was next? What would +the hide of any man in this room be worth?" His voice had instinctively +lowered; his head was thrust forward, his little eyes were piercing. "I +tell you it always pays to keep busy all the time." + +There was a moment's silence. The half dozen companions of the speaker +surveyed him minutely but with visible respect. After all, he could give +any and all of them pointers in the gentle art of grafting and they knew +it. Moreover, his words had at last struck home, had awakened them from +a false sense of security. Alderman Goldberg had been through the mill, +and had fed at the public crib at intervals no better judged than times +when he elected to remain in discreet retirement, in his cyclone cellar, +until ominous signs on the municipal weather horizon had disappeared. +So, because they knew that he spoke by the card, his companions now paid +him the tribute of uneasy silence. + +The lanky individual, Dick Peterson by name, finally resumed the +conversation. "Well," said he, "this is only a preliminary to the main +event anyway. Wonder what's keepin' the old man? Here we've been waitin' +an hour. We'll see what he says. I haven't mentioned 'campaign' to him +myself." + +"I know what he'll say," retorted Goldberg. "Just what I've been tellin' +you, to get busy. That's why he called you here tonight, to dig in the +spurs a little. The old man's no fool. Hark! I guess he's comin' now." + +There was a soft tread outside, a door opened and a man entered the +room. Nodding slightly in response to their greeting, he seated himself +in a chair, at the head of the table, which had evidently been reserved +for him. Peterson pushed some cigars toward him, at the same time +thrusting an interrogative finger toward the electric bell. The newcomer +shook his head, and selecting one of the cigars, leaned back in his +chair as he leisurely lighted it. + +John Shaughnessy was as unlike the cartooned type of political boss as +could be imagined. He looked decidedly ordinary, and might have been +taken for anything from a dejected clerk of middle age to an +unostentatious gambler. His garb was quiet; there was an utter absence +of vociferous jewelry. In person he was lank and slightly over middle +height. The face was singularly impassive; that of a gambler to whom +nothing apparently mattered. A hawk nose and small black moustache had +Shaughnessy, also a pair of heavy-lidded eyes. + +These eyes, when they glanced casually at you, held a lustreless, +ennuied expression that impressed you, did you trouble to entertain any +impression at all, with a definite idea of somnolence in Shaughnessy. A +discouraged gambler, you might think casually, had you not the honor of +his acquaintance. But did you happen to kindle Shaughnessy's interest in +any way, lo! a startling change. The heavy lids contracted ever so +little about the black eyes, which shot forth gleams that revealed +Shaughnessy in a new and sinister light. They bared a sleepless +vigilance, an unpleasant concentration, which inspired the person +regarded with a nervousness that was justified. For when those eyes, but +a moment before lustreless and dead, lightened with that strange gleam, +the dispirited clerk or discouraged gambler vanished. In his stead, +regarding you with a cold, basilisk, snaky stare that pierced you +through and through, there was revealed--Shaughnessy. + +It was his wonted mask of impassive features and lustreless eyes that +long caused Shaughnessy to be surprisingly and generally underestimated. +Men chose not to believe that one whose general appearance so lacked +significance was capable of the stealth and finesse in large, dark +matters that a portion of the press emphatically but rather gropingly +attributed to Shaughnessy. So it was Shaughnessy's good fortune, for his +nefarious ends, that most men refused to take him too seriously. The +majority chanced never to rouse his interest; hence, never saw the +optical gleam. For the minority who did, Shaughnessy was a man +transformed, invested with power, genuine and unmistakable. + +Following the leader's entrance, the company waited silently for him to +speak. He favored them with a moment's reflective stare, puffing +billowing smoke clouds. Then he spoke, and his voice was as cold and +impersonal as his white face. + +"I called you together, boys," said he, "because there's work ahead for +us." There was a significant nod from Goldberg. "It doesn't look bad at +a first glance," continued Shaughnessy, "but a look-in will show you +that it will pay to hump some. There's nothing open yet, but we've got +to face the hottest fight we have had. Well," with a grim smile, "we'll +do it and we'll win out. We've got to." + +"Yes," remarked Peterson, with a deep sigh. "We've got to, all right, +governor." + +"That's what I was tellin' 'em, Shaughnessy," put in Goldberg, rolling +his cigar to the lee corner of his mouth. "They wanted to give me the +laugh. Thought everything was lovely. They'll know when they've +sidestepped the shivers as often as we have. I tell you, the clearest +day is the one you want to have your umbrella ready for, and that's no +lie." + +"No," assented Shaughnessy, "that's no lie. It's going to rain votes +this fall and we've got to get busy in mortgaging the majority of 'em. +If we don't, we get caught napping, that's all, and it's us to the +woods. I needn't tell you, of course, that as late as a year ago we +could have defied 'em to put the hooks on us, even if they'd got a +look-in at the polls. We had things tied up so they couldn't have +touched us; we could have stayed right on. But there've been some bad +mistakes made; some instructions exceeded and some things we couldn't +help, being forced into 'em. Truth is, boys, that if through any chance +we're done up in this coming election, we're caught right out in the +open with a wagonload of goods, and there's no time to hide 'em. That's +the situation we're facing and it's one that calls for cutting out sleep +till after election day." + +"Well, we've done it before," remarked Willie Shute, the moon-faced +gentleman, as he pressed the button for another round of drinks. "What +the devil is sleep, anyway? Waste of time." + +"It's a waste of time in politics," assented the leader, "unless you +want to wake up to find you've been buried alive with no air tube." +Willie Shute, following the laughter which greeted this grisly +pleasantry, was discovered looking about him with vague apprehension. + +"Thought I heard someone snickerin'," he explained. "Before we did." + +Peterson glanced significantly at Shute's whisky glass. "Preliminary to +the main event," he commented. "Saw off, or you'll be hearing bands of +music in the morning." + +Shaughnessy leaned forward upon the table. "Well, let's get down to +business," he remarked. "Let's talk things over, look at all we've got +to buck against and plan to buck it in the good old way. Give us another +whack at this and in the next two years we'll be ready to retire with a +trail blinder than an eyeless fish in the Mammoth Cave. But it would be +all day with us to lose just now; we can't afford it. In some ways we're +better fixed for the fight than we've been before. We own one newspaper +body and soul, though we're not advertising it. We've practically +clinched another of 'em, there's a couple that don't count anyway, and +then, there's that damned Courier." + +"What figure does it cut?" sneered Goldberg. "What do you care? You've +got good organs of your own." + +"I'd give the lot of 'em, pro and con," responded Shaughnessy +reflectively, "if I could either switch that sheet onto my line or work +it for a neutral sidetrack. It's got more real, solid influence than the +lot of 'em put together. It's always been against me, more or less, said +I was 'some' back in the days when the other papers gave it the laugh. +Last election it let up a little. I was beginning to get in. Then old +Westlake bought up the controlling interest unexpectedly a while ago, +and they're getting ready to lam it to us this fall, boys, and don't you +forget it. We can't do anything with Westlake. You know I was trying, +through sources that ought to have been influential, to get in an +entering wedge by practically throwing the whole batch of city printing +at Westlake's head. Well, what do you think? Westlake was on all right +and it's a case of no compromise. Matter went to the business office and +was referred directly to him, as a matter of course. He sent back word +that the Courier was planning to print a great deal about the city +"gov." during the next few months that it wouldn't charge anything for." + +"Well," inquired Goldberg, after a moment's silence, "what good is that +going to do him?" + +"Nothing yet," replied Shaughnessy, the light of battle kindling in his +strange eyes. "He's got nothing that'll do us any real harm, and I think +we can see to it that there'll be no leaking on anything that will. It's +up to us just to pull down the blinds, and keep 'em pulled, and then let +Westlake howl about what he suspects; he won't know anything. We've got +respectable papers," with an ugly sneer, "controlled by respectable men +on our side, too. If Westlake or any man of Westlake's can dig up +anything after we've nailed it down, why, he's welcome to it. But now +let's get busy and talk things over." + +A colloquy followed which would have electrified the citizens of this +community, could they have heard it. Ancient, mysterious skeletons were +exhumed in that talk, skeletons which had been in the flesh the source +of much speculation. There were recent dark issues, too, and there was a +murky present and a future that would be murkier, did things go well. +All told, an opportunity to listen to that conversation would have +benefited the adherents of municipal decency. + +After two hours of reminiscence, of planning for the campaign and +speculating on the future, Shaughnessy rose with a yawn. "Get a good +night's sleep, boys," he suggested dryly, "and then don't sleep again +till the day after we do the old ladies at the polls." They laughed as +they followed him out of the private room and down stairs. + +There was a slight stir in a corner of the room. It subsided as a waiter +entered to clear and tidy the table. With the receding steps of the +servitor down the stairs, from behind the sideboard in the corner softly +stepped a man. He looked cautiously about him, then, walking to the +window, he quietly withdrew the screen, and, gaining a convenient roof +outside, replaced the screen carefully. Upon the roof his stealthily +receding footsteps were audible. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +AN ARRIVAL + + +"Ambition is an itch for something you haven't got and never expect to +get," remarked Peters, rapping his pipe bowl against the edge of the +desk and reaching for Mead's tobacco box. He owned none of his own and +the rest of the force formed a convenient and interminable tobacco trust +for him. + +"You might add to that observation the clause 'but others have,' Pete," +put in Charlie Kirk, while Mead resignedly watched Peters jamming an +unwieldy wad of the weed into the bowl with his thumb, to brazenly reach +for more the next instant. "Besides, that remark isn't original. It's +gone the rounds of the papers. I don't know where they pinched it, but +I'll bet it wasn't from you." + +"Your observation does you credit, Sherlock," retorted Peters, +undisturbed. "If you would exercise a little of that faculty on the job, +maybe the old man would raise your attenuated wage." + +The quiet voice of the city editor broke in upon the amiable colloquy. +"Here, Kirk," said he, "and you, Peters, I want you. Go and relieve +Smallwood and Lynn at that visiting convention and tell them to hurry +here with their stuff. They've been there since seven. I thought the +thing would be over by now." + +Kirk and Peters left Mead's desk, where they had been loafing for a few +spare moments, and, slipping on their coats, walked to the elevator and +sank streetward. The city editor delved again into the debris on his +groaning desk. It was a rush night. The few men in the great room, for +most of the reporters were still out, were bent over portly pads or +pecked busily at typewriters. + +Mead scrawled away at the lecture story to which he had been assigned +that evening. Warming to his work he rounded out many of the professor's +periods for him and added some good things of his own. Now and then he +read a paragraph with complacency and sifted in a few more adjectives. +He had heard the old fairy tale of speakers giving reporters credit for +improving their efforts. Moreover, he was but lately hatched from the +high school and was nearing the end of his probationary period upon +the Courier. As with the _debut_ of most of the boys, coherence was +smothered in verbiage. Mead's written words flowed on like rivers to the +sea. You who speak by the card will well remember the turbid freshets +you handed in, long ago, with a sort of awe to think you had penned +them. You looked for a little corresponding awe on the part of the city +editor. He merely grunted, and the next morning it was a wise father +that knew his brain-child. The anxious parent looked twice through the +pages, finally finding the changeling, dwarfed and subdued, in a modest +corner next the patent medicine "ads." Stripped of the gauzy gewgaws of +fancy with which you had complacently adorned it, it lay in its stark +cerements of staring simplicity, a hard, terse, graphic, uncompromising +fact. That salient bar, the editorial pencil, had dammed the winding, +sunlit stream at its very source, forcing it home by a short cut that +skipped much romantic scenery but saved time for the navigator. You read +the mangled remnant of that early flight and cursed the city editor's +lack of literary appreciation. Afterward, when the years had brought you +wisdom, you wondered why he had kept you at all. Yet you knew, after +all,--for the veterans were tyros once. + +Mead toiled on, the mirage of an achieved literary gem on his mental +horizon. It was the same mirage, old yet ever young, that flashes in +transient glory and fades as often and as miserably before the wistful +eyes of the veteran in letters as with the tyro: the dream of an +unattainable ideal, which mocks and melts away, a phantom of the sands. + +His task completed, Mead brought his masterpiece to the city editor's +desk. "The lecture, Mr. Harkins," said he, with a thrill of secret +pride. A sense of polished erudition welled strong within him. Harkins +might now see what the real thing in literary skill could do with the +most prosaic of assignments. + +Harkins had cleared his desk pretty well in the past few minutes and his +assistants were busy in consequence. He slapped the masterpiece +irreverently on the desk. Like a withering blast his trained eyes swept +the first page, which was heavily laden with elaborate introduction. +There were a few fierce swoops of a blue pencil. Words fell in the ranks +like scattered skirmishers, then platoons of phrases were swept away. +The enfiladed page fell face down on the desk. Another, similarly +mangled, followed. Only a few gallant remnants of that imposing array +remained. It was the survival of the fittest, the obliteration of the +superfluous; but it was hard. Mead watched the sacrifice in slow, +gathering horror. + +Harkins looked up. "Busy night!" said he abruptly but not unkindly. +"Anyway, this won't do. Cultivate the newspaper style. Get brevity, +terseness. Cut out excess baggage. Get the right word and fit it in +right. You're voluminous. Make it luminous." + +Harkins resumed the massacre and Mead, poor innocent, walked +disconsolately to his desk to digest the bitter pill that must +invariably be administered to the newspaper novice. At Mead's age the +simultaneous discovery that there are things to learn and things to +unlearn is disconcerting. He sat discouraged, his pinions drooping, and +stared gloomily at some gyrating millers about the electric bulb over +his desk. Presently he tried to catch them, with a half-acknowledged +desire to pluck off their wings in a little game of "pass it on." But +they were elusive and evaded him. + +Several men came in from assignments, and removing their coats, for a +hot wave was grilling the late days of June, set to work. Smallwood and +Lynn, back from the convention, left thick wads of copy on the city +editor's desk and went out for a late lunch. More reporters entered +hurriedly and fell to. The dramatic editor entered with deliberation, as +became the great, and leisurely set about the roasting of a "first +night." Copy boys scurried like scampering ants. The editors bent to +their tasks, the reporters' fingers rushed over the pads or jingled the +typewriter keys. Everybody hit up the pace but the dramatic critic. He +sat, pencil poised like a poniard, deliberating whether he should slay +the piece and principals by slow torture, like an Indian, or perform +the deed with one murderous lunge. The proprietors of this particular +theatre had fallen out with the business office of the Courier. They did +not advertise in the Courier now, so when the dramatic critic attended +their house he paid for his seat and charged it to expense account. +Naturally, what the Courier said about the attractions at that house, +during the season in question, was not what it would have said had the +brethren been dwelling together in amity. + +This was a particularly auspicious occasion. The other houses had been +closed for several weeks, owing to the advent of warm weather. This +theatre had opened to accommodate a troupe which, in stage parlance, was +trying it on the dog before venturing to launch a new summer attraction +in the metropolis. After due reflection the Courier's dramatic critic +savagely gripped his pencil and proceeded to use it as a bowie in the +interest of the suffering dog. + +There had been nothing more for Mead to do and he sat at his desk, +sucking disconsolately at a short pipe. It being a new accomplishment, +he found difficulty in keeping it lighted. He viewed the moths with +malice, their fluttering wings fanning his resentment. He was again +reaching cautiously for them when a voice sounded at his elbow; an odd +voice, unlike other voices. + +"Say, kid," it inquired, "where's the head push?" + +Mead turned, somewhat confused by the unexpected interruption. "Huh?" he +asked. + +"Why, the main squeeze, the first fiddle!" was the impatient rejoinder. +Then, as an afterthought, "the city editor." + +Mead indicated. "Over there," he said. "His name's Harkins." He turned +in his chair to watch the stranger, who shuffled over to Harkins' desk. + +"Say, Mr. Harkins, I need a job. And that's no lie," was how he put it. + +Harkins whirled in his chair. His keen glance swept the visitor from +head to foot. "No, I guess it isn't," was his quiet verdict. "You need a +lot of things, don't you?" + +"You've hit it, sir," grinned the guest, "right behind the ear. But a +job will bring 'em and my face won't. It's been overworked lately, that +face, and I'm restin' it. I'd hock it, but it's all I've got, and +besides I guess I've got all it'll bring already." + +"Shouldn't wonder," grinned Harkins in reply, surveying with growing +interest the traveller, for such his appearance bespoke him. "Did it +bring you here?" + +"No, they didn't see it," laughed the stranger. "I came by freight from +Cleveland. It was a pork train--and I'm on it yet," with a sweeping +gesture that indicated the ensemble of his frayed and dusty habiliments. +"No low bridge for me that trip," he continued. "The brakemen rode on +top, but the bumpers were good enough for me. Ain't so risky." + +Harkins quizzically looked him over. He was uniquely worth the trouble. +A battered cap, tipped rakishly over one ear, topped a mat of curly red +hair of the peculiar bricky hue that hisses a sibilant Celtic brogue in +whilom wind-stirrings. Beneath a broad forehead there danced and rioted +two Irish eyes, pale blue pools in an environing forest of freckles. +Nature had been generous with mouths when he transpired and had given +him enough for two. He had further distended it with much smiling. His +cheeks and chin were rough with a sandy stubble; not over-coarse, for +he was young. He was slender and of medium height. His garments, in an +advanced state of senility, exuded cinders at every pore. As for his +shoes, the poor devil was literally on his uppers. + +"I guess," said Harkins, not unkindly, "I guess, my boy, we're full." + +"You're lucky," murmured the stranger, gray discouragement in his face. +"Wish I was. I'm a hollow tube just now." + +He turned suddenly toward Harkins, despair in the eyes grown dark with +trouble, the light and the laughter fled. + +"My God!" he gulped, "I haven't eaten a morsel for hours! I want to earn +my livin'! I know I look like a hobo,--I am one, I suppose,--but I'm a +workin' one. I'm a bum tramp reporter, it's true enough, you only have +to look at me. But try me, Mr. Harkins, just give me a chance to make +good, for I tell you I can get the news!" + +Harkins involuntarily thrust his hand into his trousers pocket. A +gesture restrained him. + +"Mr. Harkins," said the visitor, with an odd dignity, grotesque enough +in his shabby garb, "no hand-outs. When I can't earn what I eat, I'll +cut the game." + +Harkins reflectively looked him over, now with a little concern. Pride +in such tatters, that would not accept alms, merited consideration. +Then, too, Dodds had just been dismissed and someone must replace him. +But the stranger! He was hardly an acceptable candidate. Still, there +was a frankness in the mottled face and twinkling eyes, an odd note in +the voice just tinged with an Anglicized brogue, that appealed to +Harkins. In the ensuing moment of hesitancy the question was decided +for him. + +A telephone bell sounded at the city editor's elbow. He turned in his +chair, clapped the receiver to his ear, listened a moment, replied +briefly, hung up the receiver and turned to the stranger. Mead, the only +one of the force at liberty, had leaned forward in his chair as the city +editor answered the 'phone. Now he settled back again in deep disgust as +Harkins addressed the disreputable visitor. + +"I'll try you," he said briefly. "Know the town at all?" + +"No, but I can find it," was the reply. + +"There's a big row on at the corner of Elm and Market streets," said +Harkins. "Beer and brickbats, tough locality. Rival nests of low +foreigners. You'll have to step lively, forms close early tonight. By +the way, take Mead with you and you take charge. It's a job if you win +out. If not, you can travel." + +The stranger grabbed his hat and vanished, the resentful cub at his +heels. The city editor glanced at the big clock in the corner and +returned to his task. More men came in, including Kirk and Peters, the +convention having finally adjourned. The manuscripts multiplied on the +readers' desks. On all sides men were laboring furiously. + +Three-quarters of an hour had elapsed when there was an upward whisk of +the elevator and into the big room hurried the seedy stranger. Mead, no +longer resentful, followed him. Indeed, there was something of homage in +Mead's tribute toward the other, the involuntary tribute that any honest +tyro must pay, in any trade, to the experienced hand who knows his +business. Mead was perspiring. So was the stranger, who had evidently +kept himself and his force moving. Straight to Mead's desk strode the +new arrival, tearing off his shabby coat as he went, Mead heeling. The +leader flung himself into Mead's chair, waving his hand toward the +vacant desk next to it, where the cub meekly seated himself and fell to +writing. He had been assigned to his part of the tale by the vagrant +journalist as the two were rushed back to the office in a cab from the +scene of the trouble. + +The stranger drew from his vest pocket the stub of a soft-leaded pencil +about three inches long. The point was inserted for a thoughtful instant +in his mouth, then was slapped swiftly upon a pad. Sprawled forward, +with elbows on the desk, he wrapped his calves securely around the legs +of his chair. Thus he began the strewing of words upon the paper, in the +execrable handwriting and at the phenomenal speed which have become +traditions of that office, where each has remained unrivaled in the +paper's annals. Oblivious of his surroundings, he bent over his desk +like a jockey in the saddle, eyes glued on the pad whose leaves he was +covering at lightning speed. As he proceeded he tossed the finished +sheets carelessly aside without pausing. Mead, too, under the benign +influence of time-pressure, took a long stride forward in newspaper +requirements by forgetting to "pad" uselessly. Meanwhile the city +editor's assistants gathered up the finished sheets and carried them +away to be hastily edited and shot upward to the compositors. + +It was, in reportorial parlance, "hot stuff." A man had been killed in +this battle of the slums and the criminal was somewhere in hiding. Many +men were injured, some seriously. Extra policemen had been summoned. +The detail had charged the mob with sanguinary results, both to the mob +and the bluecoats. As usual some non-combatants had suffered. There had +been a number of arrests. The patrol wagons had been busy, the gongs of +the hospital ambulances had sounded their warning as they dashed to the +relief of the injured. It was the big story of that issue, grim and +formidable, dwarfing even the stormy convention in its dramatic +features, which partook of the sombre dignity of the tragic under the +masterly treatment of the tattered scribe. It was, too, a chaotic story, +with a certain swirl, a swift rush of events that had piled one upon the +other with a cyclonic swiftness that must have staggered a neophyte and +taxed to the utmost the highest resources of brain and nerve, together +with the most feverish energy of the veteran. + +In a full, rounded entirety, dwarfing the efforts of the rival morning +dailies,--though some of them had several experienced men on the +story,--the parish of the Courier read of the memorable riot in that +issue. It was actually impressive to watch the story pouring from the +point of that flying, disreputable pencil, flowing down the sheets in a +mad torrent, the scenes brought before the reader's eyes with an +irresistible force that made them visible in graphic word pictures, as +if actually photographed. The stub rushed on, weaving the main web of +the tale, while Mead's pencil picked up the loose ends in the form of +minor details. Harkins marveled as he watched the story's development. +Its size surpassed his expectations. Had he fully understood its scope, +several of his best men would have been taken summarily from their tasks +and sent post-haste to the scene. Not till this tattered knight of the +road returned, with the cub in tow, had Harkins known of the snowball's +growth. Yet here it was at last, the final sheet of what Harkins' +trained journalistic sense told him was a superb handling of an +unusually difficult assignment. He sent the last sheets upstairs and +turned to the stranger and his faithful cub, who were mopping fevered +faces. + +"Great!" quoth Harkins, including the cub, who felt his oats in +consequence and began filling his pipe with due seriousness. "You will +do," added the editor, turning to the new man. "Come on tomorrow +afternoon." + +The new man rose to leave but hesitated, crimsoning a little. Harkins +eyed him inquiringly. The stranger grinned rather ruefully. + +"Object to my sleeping on this table?" he asked. "The rate is cheaper. +Besides, I'm hollower even than I was." + +Harkins laughed, but it was a sympathetic laugh. "I had forgotten," said +he. "You'll find a bed softer than the table, I imagine, and there is a +filling restaurant in the next block." He proceeded to make an advance +on the new man's salary. The latter thanked him and was off. + +The boys crowded around, curious and interested. "He's no Albert Edward +on wardrobe," commented the dramatic critic, "but he's a pippin just the +same. Who is he, Harkins?" + +"Hang it!" replied Harkins dubiously, "I forgot to ask him. What's his +name, Mead?" + +"Gee, I don't know," replied the cub, sucking contentedly at his pipe. +"He didn't give me any time to ask." + + + + +CHAPTER III + +MICKY + + +Michael O'Byrn, picturesquely Irish, so his name appeared on the +payroll, but from the cases to the press room they called him Micky. +Mike would have been a misfit, for its tang suggests a burly, +bull-necked son of Erin with fists like hams and a brogue of gravy-like +thickness, a boisterous, beefy, big-hearted broth of a boy of blows and +budge. Micky had the Irish heart, but he was short on fists and beef and +possessed the mere ghost of a brogue. Besides, O'Byrn's pseudonym +suggests juvenility, and Micky's four and twenty years, with their +palpable vicissitudes, had not robbed him of that saving grace. Indeed, +on meeting him, light-hearted and laughter-loving as he was in youth, +your imagination would experience little effort in leaping a long leap +into futurity to behold him a generation on, white-polled and with the +olden freckles faded in his wrinkled face; still the laugh on his lips, +the light of quizzical humor in his blue eyes. Glad he would always be, +because there would always bubble in his heart the fountain of eternal +youth. + +The newspaper spirit had its embodiment in Micky O'Byrn, the tattered +knight of the road whose first story electrified the city editor of the +Courier. The spirit shone out of the portals of the twinkling Irish +eyes, eternally questioning. It reconnoitred the field from the bridge +of the nose that twitched with eagerness at the scent of a story, as a +pointer snuffs grouse. Within the mouth, that was always distended with +an ingratiating smile, dwelt in amity those heavenly twins, guile and +blarney. They served as forceful means to the eternal end of +news-seeking, and they were backed by ramparts of cheerful impudence +that flanked the whole freckled face. The chin was round, but a bump +peered forth that bespoke tenacity. He ordinarily displayed a guileless +expression that hid an unfathomed depth of resource. Once on the trail, +he could never be turned away. When one route to information failed, he +had a dozen others in readiness, leading by devious paths to the desired +end. + +O'Byrn's appearance, when he had selected and donned his new ready-made +suit, rakish derby and vociferating shirt, was decidedly tracky. This +transformation occurred soon after he joined the Courier's staff. The +suit was checked in a pattern which cried aloud to heaven, the new +crimson tie adding its insistent clamor. The derby was done off in a +delicate drab. As for shoes, he selected tan oxfords with red ties. The +ensemble, to use a word that found much favor with Micky, "jibed" +harmoniously with his thick fell of lurid hair and his staring freckles. +In dress, as in all else, Micky was a pronounced radical. + +Micky entered upon his service for the Courier with a vim which +abundantly realized his promise to "make good" if given the chance. In +him energy was wedded with tenacity. He had an inexhaustible fund of +subtle resource, an ingratiating impudence. Altogether, he was well +adapted to his strenuous trade, the trade that sifts out so much of +chaff and leaves so little wheat--and finally withers the wheat till it +follows the chaff. Micky had a positive genius for coping with +obstacles. If he could not "sidestep" them he climbed over, crawled +under or wriggled through them. Harkins steered him up against nearly +everything in those first few days and he never fell down. Harkins began +to grow self-complacent regarding his discernment. He had discovered +this pearl, or to put it more literally, this speckled ruby of +journalism. As a matter of fact, the ruby had discovered himself, but +Harkins had helped. He was entitled to congratulate himself, for the new +arrival was amply demonstrating his services to be valuable. + +Micky had been with the Courier a fortnight. The voice of his new +apparel had been heard on the land and also on the waters. For only the +previous day he had boarded a tug steaming out to the quarantine +station, casually absorbed a mine of information without the suicidal +flashing of a notebook and scooped the field with a harrowing chapter of +abuses by those in power. His prestige was increased. A little bird +slyly twittered in his ear that they had started him low in the wage +line. He would better strike for more while the iron was hot, for it was +like to cool quickly in this uncertain calling. + +He pondered over the matter, his feet reposing on his desk, a red-eyed +cigar stub in the corner of his mouth. It was midnight. He had handed in +a warm political column, happened upon by accident that evening. He was +always stumbling upon such accidents, that spelled spice for the reader +in the morning. + +Micky ceased ruminating, with a mental vow to strike 'em next day. He +rose, yawned, stretched himself and strolled over to the sporting +editor's desk. O'Byrn sank into an adjoining chair as his neighbor +administered the finishing touches to an intercollegiate field meet of +that afternoon. + +"How 're ye, Fatty?" inquired Micky amiably, prodding his co-laborer in +the ample excuse for his nickname. + +"Fine 'nd dandy, Irish," replied the rotund Stearns rather absently, as +he pensively rubbed his prodded abdomen. "Say, Irish," he burst out in +an odd breathless way--Fatty's fits were a joke in the office and +startling to newcomers--"good hammer throw, that. Fell short two feet, +though." He shoved a written sheet over to Micky. + +Micky had jumped in his chair at the onslaught, spilling cigar ashes +over his noisy shirt bosom. "Short of what?" he demanded with sarcasm, +blowing the ashes into Stearns' rubicund face. "Fatty, have you got 'em +again?" + +"Got nothin'," retorted Fatty, rubbing an ashy eye. "They'll never beat +it, never," he murmured, more to himself than to Micky, with a slow +shake of his fat head. "Not on your pajamas! They can't touch him." + +"Cut it out, Fatty," exhorted Micky with concern. "Quit the pill cookin' +stunt or it'll land you in the dip-house for sure. Why, you spit when +you talk now! Of whom are you dreaming?" + +Fatty came back to earth. "That's so, you weren't here then," he +vouchsafed pityingly. + +"When?" retorted Micky pugnaciously. "When wasn't I here?" + +"Three years ago," replied Stearns, the tremolo of a tender memory +throbbing in his tone. + +"And if I wasn't here," demanded Micky, unmollified, "who was, you sofa +pillow?" + +The sofa pillow, like most such, was good natured. He grinned +forgivingly at the freckled features opposite him. + +"Dick Glenwood was!" he answered with firm finality. "Yes 'r! And when +he got through there was nothin' else. The rest of 'em were hangin' on +the clothes line. It was three years ago, Speckles, and I was helpin' do +the intercollegiate meet for the News. Cubbin' it then, you know. All +the colleges, Hale, Pittston and the rest were there. I knew Dick; best +man Hale ever had, bar none. Knew what was comin'. Came from the same +town as I did. Brought up together; he's licked me more than once," with +pardonable pride. "Came out just as I expected and he scooped +everything. It was his last appearance, graduation year, big rep. Had to +make good and he did, won everything in sight. That is, everything he +went into, and he was in everything worth while. Made some records that +stand today. And that hammer throw! Say," gurgled Fatty, his face +apoplectic, "that man Myers came the closest to it today of any meet +since then, and he's got two feet comin' to touch it!" + +"Dick Glenwood," mused Dicky. "I've heard the name around the office." + +"And why not?" exploded Stearns. His little eyes, lurking beneath folds +of fat, peeled like round agate marbles. "Why, man, don't you know?" + +"Know what?" snapped O'Byrn, reaching for a convenient paper-weight. +"Now, Fatty!" poising the weapon. + +"Know he works here, of course," replied Stearns, viewing the weight +apprehensively. "Say, Irish, don't talk to me! You'd better come out of +it yourself." + +"Works here?" repeated Micky, putting down the weight. "I haven't seen +him." + +"On his vacation," explained Fatty. "Expect him back tomorrow. My last +whack at this stunt." + +"So he does sports," observed Micky, taking a fresh cigar from Stearns' +vest pocket. "I thought you did 'em right along." + +"Me?" exploded Fatty, in incredulous oblivion of slaughtered grammar. +His fat face expressed ludicrous amaze at the impression. "Why, man, +he's the best sporting writer in town or anywhere else! I'm just +supplyin'. Ordinarily I do odds and ends. I've done everything but time. +Sometimes, when we're specially busy, I act as his assistant. He got me +my job here when the News fired me." + +Fatty was nothing if not ingenuous. Micky did not try to hide his grin, +for it would make no difference with Fatty. + +"Why, yes, I've read of that fellow," assented Micky, transferring a +generous portion of the contents of Stearns' match box to his own +pocket. "So he went into this rotten business, did he?" + +"Why, yes, he's stuck on it," explained Fatty. "You see he's got money." + +"Got money!" echoed Micky amazedly. "Gee whiz! then why--? Excuse me, +Fatty, I'm asleep at the switch for fair." + +"I don't know," floundered Fatty helplessly, "but anyway, his father's +got money. But Dick likes this business just the same. Been at it since +he left college." + +"Then it is because he's got money, or his father has," agreed Micky. "I +couldn't see it before, but you have made it very clear, Fatty. It's +because he's got money or his father has. How stupid of me to be wingin' +on that proposition! But if he didn't have money, or his father didn't, +and he was doing this for a living like the rest of us instead of for +the fun of it, he'd say to the devil with it, like the rest of us--and +probably keep right at it, like the rest of us." In which words Micky +gave utterance to a philosophic, universal truth. + +The voice of the city editor broke in upon the conference. "Say, +Stearns," it called, "where's that meet?" + +"Most done, Mr. Harkins," responded Fatty in a panic, diving into his +copy like a greased swimmer off the side of a yacht. + +"O'Byrn," called Harkins. "Here's word of a row down at Goldberg's +saloon on Ash street, pretty serious. Thuggery. Slide down and get it +quietly. You know they don't like the looks of notebooks around there," +with a grim laugh. + +So Micky, whose memory was his notebook and a wonderfully accurate one +when caution and cunning were demanded, hurried to the elevator. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +FISTS AND THE MAN + + +Between Goldberg's and the polite in indulgence there was a great gulf +fixed. From the north side, with its glittering palaces of Bacchus +dispensing varied decoctions served by irreproachable chemists, you +travelled south through a scattered series of lessening liquid glories. +Finally you came to Goldberg's, where they took it straight in draughts +of cheap, blistering stuff which maddened and incited to crime. +Goldberg's was the dive of last resort for the submerged tenth. Its maw +gaped hungrily, gorging upon the dregs it gathered in. Finally, when the +victims were stripped of their miserable resources, they were spewed +forth, with brains inflamed with the liquid damnation purveyed there. +Ripe for any crime, they were foul fruit for the gaoler and a menace to +men. + +Goldberg's existed by grace of the modern god of money. Goldberg was a +tool of the autocratic Shaughnessy, who contrived to head and manage a +corrupt city government. Goldberg captained his ward, which was one of +Shaughnessy's gilt-edged assets. The ward had become Shaughnessy's by +right of Goldberg's conquest. It was a ward of thugs and human jugs and +brutal, elementary mugs; all American sovereigns, equalized with +decency under the deathless document of American independence. Born +sovereigns, or having taken out papers, the adult males in this ward had +lined up one day, now far in the past. One hand of each proudly clutched +a ballot, the badge of his sovereignty. The other hand was greedily +extended for the accompanying cash. Into the grimy palms had dropped +more cash from Shaughnessy via Goldberg, than could be afforded by any +of their rivals. So the ballots poured into the boxes for Goldberg, +whose bull-faced lieutenants flanked the line to see that the bargain +was carried out. Goldberg was the choice of his people for alderman. He +was theirs, and through his rude genius, under Shaughnessy, it +transpired that they were his forever. + +He did not sit with the council now. He had long since relinquished even +the higher posts of confidence with which Shaughnessy had honored him +after his aldermanic career. Truth to tell, Goldberg had become +sufficiently notorious to convince Shaughnessy that it would be politic +to remove him from under the direct glare of the public eye. He could +perform better service from the wings. So Goldberg had apparently +retired from all connection with the politics of the city and even his +own ward, though Shaughnessy and the retired gentleman could have told +better. They now picked their puppets to run, invariably routing the +forces of law and order on election day with the tremendous majorities +for license and disorder rolled up in their several wards. There was +subsequent increment, which someone got, gathered in shady subways of a +peculiar municipal government; presenting the situation which makes the +indifferent voter a byword and reproach in many cities of this broad +and extremely hospitable land. On these triumphal election nights, too, +joy overflowed at Goldberg's place,--albeit he was "no longer interested +in politics,"--and fell like strong dew upon the unjust. There were free +draughts of the cheap in beverages flowing fast into the faces of the +unlaved, unshaved crew. The godless exulted and Goldberg continued to +hold them for Shaughnessy in the hollow of his hand. + +As Micky was whirled southward, in an open trolley car, he reflected +upon his dubious assignment. How should he conduct his campaign? It will +be readily gathered that newspaper men were not especially popular at +Goldberg's. Most of the representative city sheets, irrespective of +political leanings, had for years been flaying the fifth ward king, +seeking to uncrown him. Thus far it had been without avail. Not yet had +the decent element been able to throw off the thrall. This was because +they had been indulging in that practice which so universally blocks the +wheels of progress in most lines, the pastime of quarreling among +themselves in regard to the most desirable means to the end. So +Shaughnessy and Goldberg, their colleagues and all they represented and +misrepresented, were still in control, and buying larger burglar-proof +safes. The newspapers had kept the quarreling factions of the +perennially defeated party informed as to this growing prosperity, as +well as they were able to ascertain regarding it. Naturally the gang's +leaders and their mates resented this, for it favored the chances of the +opposing party's factions finally getting together and putting the whole +evil crew out of commission. When a man has begun to make easy money, +he mourns to break off the habit; nor does he view with pleasure +attempts to compel him to do so. + +Micky hoped he could get his story quietly, for discovery of his errand +in that unfriendly atmosphere would probably mean failure and perhaps a +broken head. However, he hardly thought he would encounter anyone he +knew there, so would trust to luck. + +Alighting from the car at the end of South Avenue, he made his way +through a tangle of dark, rank thoroughfares, which grew dingier and +more disreputable as he continued, till he came to the street, little +more than an alley, where Goldberg's flourished like a green bay +tree,--late in season, for the structure needed painting. Low and dingy, +squat and ugly, it crouched between a couple of cheap brick tenements +like a stolid, sullen beast of prey; its few small windows alight with a +dull red glow, like vengeful eyes. From within there came the discordant +brawling of a cracked phonograph. A couple of red-eyed human derelicts, +stupid with drink, lounged against the portal as Micky entered. + +It was quiet enough now. There were no signs of a disturbance. Micky was +chagrined. He had hoped to arrive before the trouble, whatever it had +been, was over; if not in the thick of it, at least before the +participants had dispersed. He could then follow some of the interested +parties and secure the details, for he knew his game too well to have +meditated seriously the idea of making any pointed inquiries in the dive +itself. That would mean an instant awakening on the part of the +questioned to the fact that a newspaper man was present. If he +persisted, there might ensue rough treatment and a swift and painful +exodus. However, he found it as quiet as the grave. It was apt to be so +at Goldberg's after a rumpus. Micky shrewdly guessed that the end of the +trouble had been the signal for a general discretionary scattering. +There were present only the bartender and two men who stood against the +bar, their backs to him. Micky noticed with relief that Goldberg was not +present. It was as well, for Micky and he had met. + +Micky walked slowly to the end of the big low-ceilinged room and seated +himself at a small beer-splashed table. He chafed inwardly. What had +happened? Had the police arrived and gone, if indeed they knew anything +about it? Or, worse luck, had some man from a rival paper anticipated +him? + +These disturbing reflections came simultaneously with O'Byrn's seating +himself. As he did so, a step sounded behind him and a form sank into a +chair at his left, facing his own table. + +Micky's heart bounded. Luck was with him after all. "How 're ye, Slade?" +he sang out, with cordiality tempered with a sly wink. "I just got in +from the Speedway track. Just enough left to save hitting the ties +home." Micky's horsy clothes bore out the bluff. + +Nick Slade was no fool. He caught the situation at a glance. Micky had +rendered him a service only a week before, the little Irishman's blarney +rescuing him from a prospective entanglement with the talons of a +policeman. Slade was a shred of a fellow, with a lean dark face and +black eyes that were as impersonal as a Chinaman's, as they gazed into +Micky's warning blue ones. + +"To the bad, eh?" he rejoined, with a dry grin in the direction of the +men at the other end of the room, whom he was facing while Micky's back +was toward them. "If you'd cut out layin' your own coin, and stick to +business in tippin' off the guys who can afford to lose it, you'd be +better off. I told you not to go up against that bum line of +selling-platers." + +"Well, I've got enough left to have a drink on it anyway," replied +Micky, with reckless prodigality, rapping on the table for the +bartender. "Lap up with me. Say what." + +"Spivins water," answered Slade, his synonym for whisky. Micky ordered +ale, for ordinarily he avoided the little red devil. When he did not, +the little red devil played ducks and drakes with him and his prospects. + +When the bartender had set down the glasses and gone, Micky said +quietly, "Slade, you know why I'm here. Do you know that story?" + +"Sure," said Slade, "but you don't want to ask for it here." + +"I know it," acquiesced Micky, producing cigars. "That's the reason I +just rang the bluff of a cheap sport. I know I'm one anyway, but I don't +want 'em to tumble to the fact that I write when I'm not sportin'." + +"Sure not," agreed Slade. "If they did, Irish, someone would get hurt, +and it wouldn't be the sidewalk. Mulligan, the bartender, is soitinly a +baby bouncer." + +"Well now, Nick," said Micky, "I want that story, and I want it right. +It's gettin' early. Now you do a heart-to-heart Uncle Tom and Little Eva +talk with me about the races, and by and by I'll go away. You're not in +it, you know; I flash no paper and mum's the word. I just keep it in my +nut, understand? Now spill it out." + +So Nick spilled it out and Micky absorbed his facts, sans comment; +mentally registering the full details of a story that proved interesting +the next day, well besprinkled with gore and full of the zest which made +life worth living in the realm that was Goldberg's. Micky gave a subdued +grunt of satisfaction as it was finished, his restored complacency being +heightened by Nick's assurance that so far he was the sole reporter on +the scene. Harkins' tip must have been a private one. Micky gloated over +the prospective beat. + +He had it all now, and time was forging pressward. He shoved what cigars +he had with him toward Nick, with an eloquent look of gratitude, and +rose, moving nonchalantly toward the door, Slade following. + +All had been well, but one of the imbibing pair fronting the bar chanced +to turn, eyeing Micky squarely. He was a gent of agility. With a couple +of bounds he sentineled the doorway, barring the intended exodus. +Wrathful fire gleamed in his bleared eyes; the stubble of his crimsoned +face seemed not unlike the rising hackles of an enraged dog. + +"Speedway track, eh?" he roared. "Busted sport, eh? You little baboon, +youse will be busted afore youse gets out o' here, an' dat ain't no lie +neither! Mulligan, d'ye know who dis is?" + +"Naw!" replied Mulligan, the laconic, thrusting out an angled chin and +screwing his vicious little eyes into gimlet points. "Who t' 'ell?" + +"He's dat new Irish Courier pup!" bellowed the obstacle, "de speckled +sneak wot done my game for me last week. I told youse about it." + +"Youse did, Cullinan," admitted the bartender and deliberately rolled up +his shirt sleeves. Cullinan's companion, too, had slouched up and +scowlingly flanked his irate pard at guard. Mulligan thoughtfully +emerged from behind the bar. In the sinister situation, the forcible +tribute that Cullinan had just paid O'Byrn upon his professional ability +failed wholly to arouse a gentle glow of satisfaction in Micky's +disturbed breast. The recognition between him and Cullinan, general +blackleg, had been mutual. + +There was an instant's silence. Mulligan broke it with salvos of +scientific and finished profanity. + +"Yer here for a story," he concluded, "a hot one. An' ye've got it. But +how de 'ell--" with puzzled head scratchings. His venomous little eyes +fell upon the instinctively shrinking Slade. They flamed luridly. + +"Youse little yellow leper!" he growled. "It's youse dat coughed it up!" +He lunged at Slade. + +Now between the two guards at the open door there was a thin gap to +liberty. Thin it was, but enough for Slade, who had worldly matters yet +to put in order. He ducked Mulligan's hungry hands, and with a swift +spring of a body whose attenuated bulk was a decided advantage in this +time of stress, he shot like a meteor between the disconcerted guards +and landed in a heap upon the sidewalk outside. Bounding to his feet +like a rubber ball, he darted up the alley. The furious guards, +overturned by the sudden onslaught, scrambled up. + +"Follow him, Dinneen!" shouted Mulligan, and Cullinan's partner obeyed, +the room echoing with his curses as he rushed out. + +As Slade achieved his liberty, Micky had tried to follow suit. He had +nearly reached the door when the brawny hand of Mulligan shot out and +connected with his collar. There was a backward jerk and the choking +journalist landed in the middle of the room, falling over a table amid +jangling beer glasses. Picking himself up rather dazedly he grinned +amiably into the two scowling faces opposite him. His left hand was cut +slightly by a broken glass. He drew out his handkerchief, stanching the +flow of blood. + +"Do you mugs provide free ambulance service for your customers," he +inquired airily, "or is that extra?" + +"Shut your face!" remarked Mulligan savagely. "Now ye've got that story +all right, which ain't none of yer business nor yer cursed paper's, +neither. Youse done up a pal o' mine here good and proper last week 'nd +we bote otter lick de stuffin' outer you. But I bets as you didn't come +here of yer own accord, an' I tells ye wot we'll do. You tell de man wot +sent yer dat dere wasn't nuttin' doin', an' you couldn't cop nuttin', +an' we lets you go. Eider dat or--" and his swollen fist fanned the +acrid air an inch from Micky's nose. + +Micky's keen Irish eyes weighed the ruffianly odds. A weaker spirit +would have temporized or lied. However, Micky was a man. His answer left +nothing to be arbitrated. It was a mere suggestion, but it held +finality. + +"You go to hell!" he said. The next instant his eyes, strangely +distended, saw curious vivid, whirling flashes of crimson and orange and +violet. His tongue, curled fantastically, writhed outward like an ant +eater's. His slender hands tore futilely at brutal, strangling fists +clenched upon his throat. He was simultaneously sensible of dull +thudding blows about the lower part of his body, judging hazily but +quite correctly that Cullinan was kicking him. For a moment so, while +the vivid colors faded and resolved themselves gradually into jetty +black, and consciousness waned. Then he heard dimly a rush of feet, felt +a swift relief as the stifling hands were torn from his throat. Gasping, +he rolled weakly to one side while the shadows slowly lifted from his +protruding eyes. They saw what brought Micky staggering to his feet with +trembling interest. + +For the tables were turned, not by a relieving cordon of policemen, but +by one man with vengeance in his hands. A splendid young figure, over +six feet tall, he was in the center of the room, dealing it. A swift +vision of yellow tousled hair, gleaming blue eyes and grim square jaw, +flashed before Micky's bewildered sight. A distinct appreciation welled +within him of the power behind a blow which at that instant knocked Mr. +Cullinan into a corner, where he lay and shuddered. The newcomer now +faced Mr. Mulligan, who, with malice burrowing in his gimlet eyes, at +once fell into approved position. The rescuer laughed a great mellow, +resounding laugh full into Mr. Mulligan's unlovely face. Then, dropping +suddenly, he charged into the bartender in bruising gridiron style, a +brawny shoulder heaving that gentleman in a disorganized heap near his +annihilated partner. + +The athlete straightened with another booming laugh. "Come on, kid," he +shouted, "it'll be warm here in a minute." He dragged the still dazed +Micky out of the door. Up to the corner they ran to a cab in waiting. +They sprang in. "Courier office!" directed the stranger, then drew out +his watch. + +"You'll have plenty of time for your story," he observed. "I know +Goldberg's, so when I happened around the office just now and Fatty told +me, among other things, what was up, I didn't know as it would do any +harm to drive over, seeing I'd nothing else to do. Makes a fellow feel +restless to get out of the grind for a couple of weeks. You get rusty +for exercise." He laughed again. + +Micky remembered his talk with Stearns. "You must be--" he ventured. + +"Dick Glenwood," returned the other, as they shook hands. "And you, I +think I know you. Fatty told me, all in three minutes. You know he +generally does." + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE IRONWORKERS' BALL--AND MAISIE + + +"You fool!" remarked former Alderman Goldberg to his man, Mulligan, when +he learned a little later that night of the spirited occurrence in his +bar room. "You fool! Don't you know no better than to put it onto a +newspaper guy? Don't you know he can make all kinds of trouble for us if +he wants to? Don't you know nothin'? Just because he did up a pal of +yours,--and God knows he had it comin' to him!--is that any reason +you've got to pitch into the bloke and set a lot of bees stingin' us? +You're a bright one, ain't you? You're a rotten stiff!" fulminated +Goldberg, while his assistant scowled and said nothing. "I'll tell you +one thing," concluded Goldberg, "if they make any trouble for me out of +your fool break, you get the run, see?" + +But no trouble ensued and Mulligan remained. Micky, having come out +ahead, laughed at his rough treatment as a part of a good joke, being no +whiner. There was no disposition at the Courier office to cause Goldberg +any more trouble than it was hoped was due him after the next election, +along with his mates. All the Courier's hopes were centered on that +pleasing goal. + +Micky's night off, a little later in the week, fell uneventfully, and it +was with distinct boredom that he tried to kill time. He was invariably +uneasy at these brief intervals of respite from the grind, and it might +be said that he enjoyed himself in discontent. It was with a generally +ennuied air that he sauntered at midnight into a night lunch room much +frequented by the Courier staff and encountered Dick there, whom he +greeted with enthusiasm. It happened that Dick was through especially +early that evening. + +An odd friendship had arisen between these two, so dissimilar and yet so +like in the welding quality of good fellowship and thorough bohemianism. +It was this restless spirit, the arch-enemy of commercial routine, that +had drawn Dick into journalism after leaving college. The step was a +disappointment to his father, who had hoped that Dick would elect to +enter the parent's office and learn the business from the ground up. He +did not oppose Dick's inclinations, however, thinking that a little +experience would weary him of his idea. Thus far, however, there seemed +little likelihood that Dick would leave the fascinating grind for the +more substantial though more prosaic office desk. He had taken naturally +to journalism, was a ready and pleasing writer, and he liked it. + +It was the same restless spirit, too, linked with an inborn, luring love +of roving and shift of scene, that fired O'Byrn. A happy vagabond, his +eyes were filled ever with the charm of new scenes that all too soon +grew old. Always were fair mirages to glow on his horizon, bringing him +hurrying on--to find them faded. Dream-houses, built on barren sands, +dissolving in mists of tears as the years spell the bitter, brutal thing +that we call wisdom! Always for him, strange little Irishman, the luring +whisper from afar and the mad dash thither, to find as before only +chill mists and brooding shadows; and so on, over the wastes, to silence +and the end. + +"What have you done with yourself?" inquired Dick, as the two settled +themselves comfortably before their sandwiches and coffee. "Find +anything worth while?" + +"Oh, early in the evenin' I dropped into Ryan's roof garden," replied +Micky. "The first stunt wasn't so bad; then they rang in one of those +cockney carolers from dear ol' Lunnon. He got off a yowl about-- + + "'Wipe no more, my lidy, + Oh, wipe no more to die--' + +and I got out. Suggested a scullery strike and business, and it was my +night off. + +"Blew along and met a bunch of the boys at the Gold Coin. They had +started in early and were left-handed in both feet and hangin' onto the +bar like a freighter in a recedin' tide. They tried to annex me, but I +faded away. I'm through. The budge-mixer's the natural enemy of the +profesh. He gets your money and you get next, but it's never till the +next morning. I knew a district attorney once, up north, who had been +prosecutin' a gang of cheap thieves from a bum district of the county. +He was gettin' off his final spiel, and it was a beaut'. 'Gentlemen of +the jury,' he yells, 'they don't raise anything on the Pine Plains but +hell and huckleberries!' and it was no lie. + +"Now on whisky the product's even more limited. You just raise hell. No +more for me, I'm stickin' to suds. It's popular, the red-eye, but it +doesn't last and then it does. There's nothing in it but a pneumatic +head and a nimbus of cracked ice in the mornin'. Your Uncle Mike--Why, +hello, Fatty!" + +Fatty Stearns had ambled in and stood regarding them with a tender +smile. Glenwood pulled him into a chair and invited him to order what he +wanted. Stearns was soon busy. + +"Just ran out for lunch," came from him in muffled tones. "I'm up to my +neck in that golf game you didn't have time to do," he told Glenwood +with a reproachful glance. "It's got me wingin'." + +There were strange gurglings from Micky, grown suddenly wild-eyed. +"Fatty, Fatty!" he moaned. "Did you say 'game?'" + +"Sure he did!" answered Dick truculently. "What's the matter with it, +you little ape? I play it." + +Micky dissolved in simulated sobs. "He plays it!" he groaned. "Oh, why +was he ever born, Eliza? Better never have been born than born a slave!" + +"We will listen, Micky," remarked Dick deliberately, "to any objections +you have to the greatest, most healthful--" + +"Oh, fudge!" interrupted Micky. "I was there once and it's a wonder I +didn't turn out a lush for life. Honest, I'd done everything in my time, +but that assignment got me wingin'. I get cross-eyed yet every time I +think about it and I talk really maudlin. I can't tell what I say those +times but the boys say it's fierce. Say I murmur fool talk about putting +it onto the green and bawling on the bunkers. I don't know. I guess I +got it all in my head that time, but somehow I never could make it jibe. + +"You see it was when I was on the Signal in Gulf City. Old man sent for +me one day and says, 'There's a three-day golf meet starts tomorrow +morning and it's up to you.' + +"Now ordinarily I'm the last to buck at any assignment, but I'd seen a +fellow dislocate his jaw once on some of the vocabulary of that game, so +I sparred for wind. + +"'I don't know anything about it,' says I. + +"'Neither does anyone else,' says he. + +"'Do the players?' I asks him. + +"'Damfino!' he came back at me. 'Ask 'em. That's what you're for.' + +"So behold your Uncle Mike, Dick, about nine the next morning looping +the links. I had done a fuss stunt and was got up regardless. Had one of +those long cutaways that dallied with my ankles; they hadn't gone out in +Gulf City. I saw a bunch of busy boys humped up around a dinky flag and +started for 'em to ask 'em about it. One of 'em, I judged, was gettin' +ready to whale a toad or somethin' with an umbrella handle. He'd hocked +his hat and hadn't kept much more than his shirt on anyway; barrin' a +pair of pants that had got elephant-tiss-siss-siss, or whatever you call +it, and looked like they came off the pile way back in the happy +hitherto. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his arms were the color +of sun-cured tobacco, or the mud pies that sister used to bake. Oh, he +was a beam-baked child of nature all right. Well, he sees me comin' +toward him, and straightens up and gives me the cold storage stare. + +"'Here, you!' he yells, 'I can't drive over you!' + +"'No, you bet you can't!' I yells back. 'Ain't it scandalous you can't? +Why can't you? Did you hock the horse along with the hat? Here, go buy +yourself a new one of both!' and I tosses him a dime. + +"They didn't say anything but it grew kind o' chilly, so I turns up my +coat collar and wanders along and by and by I came to the club house. + +"It was gorgeous enough around there, looked like the short end at the +surrender of Yorktown. My fuss stunt looked like mourning in that color +scheme. I drifted around, feelin' lonesome and like a drab tassel on a +red fringe. It was a new one on me, but by and by I got a look-in on the +pools. They had a set of cards tacked on the board. + +"There was a big geezer in a sunrise coat goin' by just then. I annexed +him. 'What's those?' I asked him, pointin' to the cards. + +"'Why, the scores, of course,' says he, tryin' to jerk away. + +"'Well, how many times do they score before they start?' I asks, hangin' +on. And honestly, Dick, I didn't know. I was one up in the air with the +parachute busted, and it certainly looked slow to me. + +"He broke away, wouldn't answer me at all. It was no way to treat a +lonesome tassel. He deserved to be censured for turning me adrift. + +"Well, after awhile I struck a pretty decent guy, if he did wear a horse +blanket for a vest. He said he'd help me out, that the scorers were +busy. I suppose they were flaggin' the bad actors. + +"This accommodatin' chap began to go over the cards with me. I got along +all right for a while till I got to an X mark. 'What's this?' I asked +him. + +"'Oh,' says he, 'that's because he struck his caddy.' + +"'For how much?' I asks. 'Besides, I supposed the caddies were the ones +to strike. They need the money. What races has this bloke been playin' +lately? Must have bet on some brute that ran like cold molasses.' + +"'You don't understand,' says he. 'He struck his caddy with the ball. It +knocks him out.' + +"'I should think it would,' says I, running my finger down the list. +'Here's a fellow with two X's. That's two down, ain't it? I should think +a ten-strike would make a caddy feel sore for fair.' + +"'It makes a player use language when he does that,' says the +accommodatin' chap, starin' at the board and lookin' reminiscent. + +"'Does the caddy contribute?' I asked him. + +"He didn't pay any attention to that, but kept on lookin' dreamy-eyed. +But I wanted to find out about things, so I kept at him. + +"'Say,' I says, 'I notice every once in a while one of those guys yells +'Fore!' That means he's just hit the caddy four times, doesn't it? The +caddy gets all that's comin' to him, doesn't he?' + +"And with that he came to and gave me a sad look-over. Then he faded +away and I floated around lonesome again, lookin' for some one to put me +wise. After a while I heard a couple of swell dames talkin'. + +"'Theah,' one of 'em says, 'my deah, see those two young men? They ah +the Sherrod twins. I declaiah, they ah so much alike that I cawn't tell +one from the othah. One of them's an expert golfah, but I declaiah, I +cawn't tell which one he is. I cawn't guess why he isn't playing today. +The othah one doesn't play at all.' + +"I took a look, and sure enough, they were as near alike as campaign +promises. My move was cut out for me all right and I made a stab at it. +I steered up against one of 'em and buttonholed him. + +"'Say,' says I, 'are you you or your brother?' + +"He looked kind of wild for a minute, but steadied. 'Why, I guess I'm +me,' he says, as if he wasn't sure of it. + +"'Well, you're the man I'm lookin' for,' says I. 'The other one doesn't +play.' Sure enough, he was the right one. He was all right, barrin' the +mashie microbe, and he started in to put me next. It would have been all +hunk, only he was the soul of hospitality and I always hate to say no. +Besides, I wanted to forget it. + +"It was highballs till sunset and then I went away after sticking out +both fins for farewell shakes with him both, for he looked like both him +and his twin to me. It must have been a mistake, for I have a hazy +recollection that the one who didn't play left early. Anyway, my friend +might have been a sextette or a full chorus choir, for they all looked +alike to me about that time. I got down town, thinkin' about writin' my +story every now and then, and I fell in with a gang. + +"The last I remember of that story I was in the backroom of a saloon +tryin' to write it. I was writin' about two words to a page about then, +though once in a while I would make an extra brace and get in three. It +was 'steen down and a bluff to play with me and I was foozled for fair. +My stuff wouldn't make sense. It just gibbered. I don't know just when I +called it off, but I think it was just after I had scrawled a screed to +the effect that 'Willie Van Hackensack, instead of approaching the tea +as he should, had bunked hazardous highballs till he was batty in his +loft.' It was no lie, either, only it didn't belong in the story. + +"That story never got to the Signal, Fatty, and I didn't either. It got +lost somewhere and so did I. I came out of it about a week later, with +Gulf City 'way back beyant the blue and me sitting by the old familiar +track, waiting for a freight. + +"No golf in mine, Dick, it holed me for fair. It's an excuse, that's +all. When you aren't out huntin' low balls you're inside huntin' +highballs. After a while you can't tell a mashie from a ball bat. I +don't know what a mashie is, but I do know what a highball bat is. It's +generally a job, unless you break it off in the middle. Do you follow +me, Fatty? If you do, I'm sorry for you." + +It was with a windy sigh and a look of added dejection that Fatty +Stearns rose to return to the office and finish his account of the golf +tourney. "Just forget what Micky told you," called Dick after him, "or +you'll get all mixed up and get the run in the morning." Then he +surveyed Micky with that smile, so exasperating in golfers, the smile of +forgiving pity for the man outside. + +"Of course, you never played, Micky," he remarked. "If you ever had--" + +"Forget it, Dick," said Micky briskly. "I want to. Say, do you dance?" + +"Why, I don't know," answered Dick doubtfully, taken aback by the swift +change of subject. "Ask some of my partners. I'm in doubt myself and +aching to know." + +"And they know and are aching," grinned Micky. "Well, we'll try you out. +Come on," he added, rising, "let's go over to the Ironworkers' ball. +They'll be going for an hour yet." They left the cafe, and after a +little bolted up the wide stairway of a big brick block. Encountering a +stalwart young fellow behind a ticket table on a landing, Dick's hand +sought his pocket. Micky restrained him, and nodding to the sentry, who +knew him, they passed up to the final landing, where a burst of music +saluted them. A number of couples were "cooling off" there. Dick peered +curiously inside. "How do they dance in such a crush?" he inquired. + +"Why, when these husky guys are dancin' with 'em," explained Micky, +"their feet don't touch the floor at all, and the men don't count." + +Indeed, the brawny cavaliers were well nigh making Micky's comment good. +The prompter, a big red-faced fellow with a bull's voice, just then +roared, "Swing your partners!" It was the relished order, for every +ironworker there had from earliest dancing days devoted himself without +mercy to the mastery of the art of swinging. At the welcome call, each +swain, an arm encircling his partner's waist gently but firmly, placed +one calloused paw against the lady's back, just below the shoulder +blades, while her palm sought his arm. His other hand sought her free +one and extended it out sideways and a little upward. This served a +double purpose, sufficing to fend off danger from colliding circlers and +to add impetus to the ensuing maelstrom. Then, while the fiddlers bent +to their work, there whizzed a general centrifugal whirl, with a soft +scuff of pivoting feet and the swish of agitated lingerie. That it was +as delightful as dizzying was evidenced by the appreciative comments of +the breathless fair, as the spinning knights halted them, preparatory +to starting the next figure. + +"I'm a thirty-third on that," announced Micky complacently. "Can you do +it, Dick?" + +Dick was dubious. "Well, probably they'll have a waltz or two-step +next," proceeded Micky reassuringly. "They sandwich in round ones after +every square deal lately. Gettin' what Bill Nye called ray-sher-shay. +Come on, here's one I know. I'll put you next for the next." He dragged +Dick over to a big blonde and left them introduced and waiting for a +two-step. + +The quadrille ended and Micky watched the dancers scrambling for seats, +of which there were an insufficiency. The overflow billowed out upon the +landing, laughing and demanding room at the open windows. Micky, from +the doorway, beheld with sudden interest a vision seated across the +hall. He grasped an acquaintance by the arm. + +"Say, Lacy," he demanded impetuously, "if you know that, knock me down +to it, will you?" + +So Micky was conveyed across the room and formally knocked down to Miss +Maisie Muldoon. The end was well worth his enterprise. Small and +prettily formed, with eyes of truest Irish blue, the loveliest shade of +brown hair extant and a complexion of milk and roses, she was charming. +She was simply gowned in duck skirt and an airy confection of diaphanous +white waist, which revealed tantalizing glimpses of sweet white neck and +arms. Micky mentally registered her "a dream." + +"Will you dance?" he asked, crowding into a seat beside her. + +"Oh, I don't know, Mr.--er--O'Byrn," she answered. "My card seems to be +full already. I might give you an extra, if they have one," with a +mischievous glance. + +"You might scratch half a dozen of those names," suggested Micky easily, +"and substitute mine. It looks prettier." + +"I believe you're a newspaper man, aren't you?" freezingly. "Seems to me +I've heard so." + +"How do you like 'em?" he demanded, his impudent eyes twinkling. + +"If you're any sample, they seem to have a crust," witheringly. + +"So does any good thing," he chuckled. "Don't you like pie?" + +She laughed in spite of herself. "Say," she acknowledged, turning her +charming face toward his freckled one with decided interest, "you ain't +so worse! I almost wish I had a dance for you." + +"Maybe one of 'em will die," said Micky hopefully. "If I can be of any +help--" + +"The music's starting," she interrupted. "It's a two-step and I've got +it with Billy Ryan. He's rotten on that. Are you?" + +"I'm probably the ripest peach of a two-stepper," averred Micky, "that +ever triangled down a floor. I'm a pippin. Where is your gazabe?" + +"I don't know," she replied, looking about frowningly. "Maybe he won't +come." Micky waxed complacent at the discreet hope lingering in her +tone. + +The dance was well under way. Dick shuffled past, the big blonde in his +arms. He seemed enjoying himself. Micky grew impatient. + +"Went out for another drink, I guess," remarked Miss Maisie +disgustedly, in another moment. "Come on, I sha'n't wait for him," and +she rose. + +"Went a block for a beer with a Manhattan right inside," murmured Micky, +as they prepared to start. "Oh, you g'wan!" she laughed, and they swung +into the revolving circle. + +Micky's boast of terpsichorean ability made good, (he had picked up the +art long before, as readily as he did everything else,) he was rewarded +with two more regulars and an extra before the affair ended. One of the +regulars was originally scheduled with the recreant Ryan, who appeared +for it in due course and retired congealed, with a black look at the +grinning O'Byrn. The other regular had originally been Miss Muldoon's +cousin's. She transferred it airily, but the cousin bore it with the +equanimity of a mere relative. + +"I suppose you've got company home?" inquired Micky, with a certain +mournful hesitation, as they were finishing the last dance. + +"Not yet," she answered demurely. "That is," with a flash of blue eyes, +"Mr. Ryan brought me but he sha'n't take me back. He's too thirsty. That +first dance you got was the second he'd missed with me." + +"Forget him!" breathed Micky ecstatically. "I'm in luck." He invariably +took things for granted. + +"But," she recollected, chilling somewhat, "I haven't accepted your +escort yet, Mr.--er--O'Byrn. I never met you till tonight." + +"O, happy night!" he retorted, with the impudence that time would never +wither nor custom stale. "Aren't you glad you came?" + +She laughed again, a girlish, joyous laugh that warmed the heart in the +hearing. "I'm it," she averred. "You are certainly the limit. But you +aren't in such luck as you think. It's a long way home." + +"Never too long with you for a pacemaker," he assured her. "And luck--I +know the varieties. I've had all kinds." So, as the last waltz ceased +and the dancers prepared for departure, he hastened to the door, where +Dick was waiting for him, and dismissed that gentleman. Glenwood raised +his eyebrows comprehensively and departed alone. + +The way was short to Mulberry Avenue, all too short for Micky, and as +for the lady--well, it would have seemed longer had the discredited Ryan +been in her company. There was the first faint hint of dawn in the +shrouded sky as Micky left the girl at her door and turned away, with +her gracious permission to call on his next night off. So Micky turned +to retrace the way now suddenly grown long; agitated stirrings in his +warm Irish heart that he could not have explained, those first faint +harbingers that come to us all, poor children of fleeting youth, and are +stilled ere we can understand. + +Ah, youth! with its thrilled pulses and fragrant, unspoiled heart, its +mysteries divine--and the arid waste beyond, when dreams are done! It's +a long way home, indeed! + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE WEB + + +A wholesale liquor establishment supplied a portion of Shaughnessy's +income. Time was, some years before, when it had demanded all of its +proprietor's time and undeniable talents, but now a gradually increasing +if reprehensible sphere of usefulness had made it a side-issue. However, +it continued to yield its owner a satisfying revenue and the wicked +prospered, after the fashion of this good old world. + +The fourth ward, contiguous to Goldberg's, while free and easy enough, +in very truth, was respectable in comparison with the notorious fifth. +It was in this fourth ward, in the quietest district, that Shaughnessy's +wholesale house was located. It was in the dingy office of this old +brick building that the dark schemes were matured which, with the aid of +the worst elements in the city, dominated its affairs. Here Shaughnessy +reigned supreme, an unobtrusive king. + +Shaughnessy sat at his desk one warm evening holding converse with his +two faithful satellites, Abe Goldberg and Dick Peterson. The office was +carefully closed to chance encroachment and the men talked in subdued +tones. As usual, the cabal's plans had been carefully discussed, then +the conversation shifted to a minor matter. It was the offense of which +Nick Slade had been guilty, in aiding the journalistic enemy by telling +O'Byrn of the row at Goldberg's saloon. Slade, by the way, was a heeler +under the direct charge of Peterson, and he had done work which had +commended him to that astute though apparently unsophisticated worthy. + +"He ought to get the run," Goldberg growled. "What use is a man to us +that don't stand by the gang? Of course, that row wasn't exactly mixed +up with our doings, but a lot of our men was mixed up in it, and it +ain't the kind of advertising that's goin' to do us any good. Then this +Slade goes and tips off the whole business. He ought to be kicked out." + +"Hold on, Goldberg," said Peterson. "I know all about the deal. I've +talked with Slade. Now you know Slade is shady with the police. Of +course, there are others, but they've got it in for Slade for more than +one reason and he ain't important enough to be immune. As luck would +have it, they were going to nab him the other night for a piece of +light-fingered work that he didn't happen to be concerned with. This +Courier chap, who seems to be a corker anyway, had picked up +acquaintance with Slade in some way, and, more than that, he happened to +know the right party the police were after and he got Slade off. Well, +what could Slade do when the fellow asked for the tip at your place? Of +course, he could have turned him down flat, but that wouldn't have been +natural, would it?" + +Before Goldberg could reply, Shaughnessy's cold voice cut in. "Is he +worth while?" he asked of Peterson. + +"He's O. K.," replied that worthy, with conviction. "One of the best--" + +Shaughnessy turned to Goldberg. "Then forget it," he said dryly. "Keep +on using him, if he's any good. He's hardly worth firing. Exercise your +firing privilege for the officers' quarters; you need the men in the +ranks." + +With which characteristic bit of philosophy, Shaughnessy stretched his +arms and yawned. The others rose, the conference having been closed, and +lighting fresh cigars, left the office. Shaughnessy was left alone. He +leaned back lazily in his office chair, his thin hands clasped behind +his head, his expressionless eyes watching the smoke that curled upward +leisurely from the tip of his cigar. His white face would hold no more +of immobility when he should lie dead. Under the gaslight he reclined at +ease, staring upward. In the eyes, the queer, black, heavy-lidded eyes, +there was a momentary lack alike of definite scrutiny or the soft, +impalpable veil that is drawn by transitory dreams of better things. +Rather were they like a sluggish serpent's; lustreless, foreboding, +unwinking and infinitely, sleeplessly sinister. They stared with a +reptilian fixedness, seeing nothing. Thus for a space, and then they +lighted with a gleam of strange malevolence, as the thin, grim lips of +Shaughnessy relaxed under the small black moustache in a smile that was +not good to see. Some secret reflection had evidently pleased the boss. + +He suddenly leaned forward in his chair and turned to his desk, +extracting some papers which he surveyed with quiet satisfaction and +replaced. As he did so he started violently, then sank back in his +chair, his face drawn lugubriously with sudden pain; the natural pallor +giving place to a ghastly gray. His hands were clasped at his left side +and he gasped for breath. In a moment the paroxysm passed, and +Shaughnessy sat limp in his chair with sprawling legs and nerveless +hands, his head bent forward. Presently he sought his handkerchief with +shaking fingers and wiped the cold beads of perspiration from his +forehead. Then he rose slowly, and with trembling knees tottered to a +small cupboard and produced a flask and glass. Pouring out a stiff +draught of brandy, he swallowed it at a gulp, replaced the bottle and +glass and walked back to his chair. His eyes, again inscrutable, sought +the clock; his face, once more an impassive mask, was turned toward the +door. Shaughnessy was game. + +A moment more and there was the sound of footsteps outside, then a +cautious tapping summoned at the door. Shaughnessy stepped forward and +released the spring lock which had confined it, standing aside to allow +his visitor's entrance, then snapped the door shut. Placing a chair +conveniently, he motioned his caller into it and resumed his own seat. + +The caller sat regarding Shaughnessy with an odd nervousness. He was +plainly ill at ease. An old man he was, with gray hair and beard and +faded blue eyes, whose wonted amiability was just now shadowed by an +unmistakable expression of helplessness. A pair of gold-bowed eyeglasses +dangled at the end of a silken cord looped about his collar; the cut and +texture of his black garb indicated prosperity as well as solid +respectability. The impression was heightened by the old-fashioned high +collar and the white lawn tie. The thin white hands, on which the blue +veins showed prominently, nervously fumbled a black slouch hat. +Shaughnessy's eyes rested an instant upon the headgear. + +"You ordinarily wear a silk hat, don't you, Judge?" he asked. "What's +the matter? Isn't this part of the town good enough for it, or does this +one help to shade your eyes from the light?" The visitor winced and the +boss smiled cruelly. + +"One has to be careful,--" began the old man, and hesitated. + +"Sure," acquiesced the leader, grimly. "A good many eyes would open to +see you in here with me. And I suppose you left your carriage a few +blocks back and walked? Your discretion does you credit. Well, you can +afford to come here better than you can afford to have me go to your +house, which I should have done if you had not wisely concluded to +accept my polite invitation to call. Some of your holy neighbors would +have been surprised, wouldn't they? Well, Judge, saving your venerable +presence, they generally have to come to me,--because I know things." + +The spare form fidgeted, the faded blue eyes sought waveringly +Shaughnessy's black ones that were now quickened with a baleful fire. +"What do you want?" asked the visitor. "I am an old man,--I was through +long since--" + +Shaughnessy bent forward. "No, you are not through," he said with a +softness that was metallic. "You are not through while you live and I +need you. Understand that! You served me on the bench; you shall serve +me now! Else--" He paused significantly while his companion's face +whitened. "Now listen. I am coming to be known; you are not. You are +respectable!" with an ugly sneer. "Now this is the programme, and it'll +feaze the yelping fools that are after me, just as it'll feaze you, my +dear friend, in a minute. The Democratic convention will be held just +before the 'Cits' hold theirs. The 'Cits' are inconveniently in earnest +this year and they're talking of putting up a man who'll cause us +trouble. Now there'll be a dummy candidate, a machine man, in the +Democratic convention, who'll be mine. Well, he'll be knocked out; +decency will give the old Democracy heart disease by swooping down on +her out of a clear sky; there'll be an honored name proposed that'll +sweep the convention off its feet, and that honored name, my dear Judge, +will be your own!" + +The old man sprang to his feet, shivering as with the ague. He shook +impotent, furious fists, his pale eyes glaring. "Damn you!" he cried, "I +won't do it! Never! never! do you understand,--you--devil?" + +Shaughnessy's hand closed on an object on his desk. He rose, shaking a +bundle of documents in his caller's face. "I understand," he muttered +menacingly, "and--you understand. You understand that you will serve as +the next mayor of this city--or you will serve time!" + +The old man fell into his chair and buried his face in his hands, while +Shaughnessy smiled, his eyes alight with malice. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +LONELINESS + + +A big figure arose from a desk at the opposite side of the room. +Glenwood handed in a bulky wad of matter to be read and strolled over to +O'Byrn's desk. Throwing himself into a convenient chair, he produced his +cigar case. They lighted weeds and sat for a time in congenial if smoky +silence. + +It was Micky's night off, but it was early. He was loitering about the +office for a few moments before leaving to fulfill an engagement that +had become usual. He now sat regarding Glenwood appreciatively. What a +man he was, to be sure! He sat at indolent ease, his feet on Micky's +desk, hands clasped behind his handsome blonde head, staring dreamily +far beyond the littered room. He wore no coat. Micky marked the deep +chest, the swell of the splendid muscles outlined beneath the folds of +the soft outing shirt, the well set neck. There was the suggestion, none +the less strong in repose, of mingled virility and grace. Strength of +great scope was here, strength that had once against odds rescued him, +O'Byrn, from an unpleasant predicament. + +How puny was he, O'Byrn, by contrast, physically--and morally. Ah, but +that last thought stung! For here was a man who was thoroughly master of +himself, without being a milksop. His was no pedestal. He was one of +the boys, yet liberty did not spell license with him. There was for him +no painful crawl up a slippery toboggan of renewed intentions, following +a wild, shooting descent that had left him gasping and breathless at the +bottom. Glenwood's was the absolutely perfect mechanism of the normal. +Tough fibred, richly endowed in mental, moral and physical equipment +from long generations of right livers, how different was his lot from +O'Byrn's, cursed at the outset with a vicious appetite which had been +fostered from the beginning by the man who had bequeathed it; hampered, +too, with an indifferent physique that rendered the more hopeless the +boy's struggles with his mastering vice. True, after all, mused Micky +bitterly, that men are created equal in only limited senses. + +He rose abruptly and walked to the window, staring out into the soft +night, for the ebon had settled down. Close by loomed the shadowy bulk +of the city hall, dwarfing the stark ambitious blocks that were its +lesser neighbors. Under the luminous moon glittered an adjacent church +spire; stars peppered the curtained sky. Far down, amid the glare of +myriad electric lights, there arose the faint roll of carriage wheels, +drowned the next moment in the rumble of passing street cars. Within +there sounded the sharp click of typewriters; in a sudden lull there was +audible the ticking of a telegraph key at the end of the room. A man +entered hastily, seated himself before a desk and began to write like +mad. Another young fellow, after a few brief words from the city editor, +seized his hat and hurried on a mission. The room was unwontedly busy +for so early an hour. Copy boys scurried, telephone bells rang, editors +summoned and reporters scuttled. Always there poured into the great +room, in strange and turbulent contrast to the wideflung peace of dead +white moon and watching stars in the black night sky outside, the +unresting flood, the formidable torrent of life and death and the joys +and ills that lurk between, called News. + +Micky stared out of the window, oblivious to the whirl within. It would +have distracted a novice. To the veteran it meant only the inevitable +environment of effort. Many such find it difficult to write in the midst +of quietude. Of such was Micky, and so it was that, with no scribbling +to do, he could lose himself in vague, sad contemplation of moon and +stars and black night sky, with the roar of the flood no louder in his +unheeding ears than the ripple of a little river through June meadows. +It was with a start that he was recalled to earth with a violent slap +upon his thin shoulder. He turned, eyes still wool-gathering, to +confront Dick. + +"What's the dream?" demanded that worthy, smiling down at him. "Isn't +this something new?" + +"Why," answered Micky, a little confusedly, "I was thinking. Yes," with +a laugh but with sober eyes, "it's something new, Dick, I guess. It +would be better if it were oftener," a little wistfully. + +Dick, staring out of the window, readily fell in with his mood. +"Thinking? Yes, it's a good thing,--sometimes. But you don't have much +time for it in this business." + +"No," rejoined Micky thoughtfully. "You need to put in all your hustling +on the job, and it don't give you time for a heavy load under your +roof." He glanced at the clock. "Well, I must be going. Didn't know it +was so late. Gimme a cigar." + +Dick produced one and Micky proceeded to light up. Dick surveyed the +other's unwonted immaculateness with an air of understanding. "Give her +my regards," he said. + +"Her?" repeated Micky, in simulated amazement. "Nit; you're off. I'm +going to cut coupons tonight; they're accumulating on me." He vanished +with a grin and Dick sauntered back to his desk. + +Micky descended in the elevator and stepped forth into the cool night +air. He stood for a moment in indecision, debating whether he should +take a car. Too fine a night to ride, he decided, and started down the +street at a brisk pace. Presently leaving the crowded thoroughfare for a +quieter side street, he proceeded southward. After a half an hour's walk +he turned a final corner and was on Mulberry Avenue. Down the street he +went to a modest little dwelling, with a light shining from the shaded +parlor windows. He ascended the steps and rang the bell. The door +opened. Micky stepped inside and they entered the tiny parlor. + +The door communicating with the sitting room opened ever so cautiously. +A freckled, inquisitive face appeared unobtrusively in the gap, but +Maisie saw it. "Terence!" she exclaimed, and the face disappeared. +Maisie slammed the door shut with asperity, then, taking a seat near it, +turned her pretty face toward her caller. "You're late, Micky," said she +reprovingly. Micky was progressive. It had not taken him long to induce +her to address him by his Christian name. + +"Yes," admitted Micky. "I didn't know it was so late. I forgot to wind +my watch, anyway. What time is it?" He moved toward her, his timepiece +in his hand. It was an old silver hunting-case affair. In fumbling with +the spring to open it, the rear cover opened, disclosing the faded +picture of a woman. Micky held it out to the girl. + +"My mother," he said simply. "She died when I was little." Maisie looked +at the sweet face and patient eyes a moment, then her look sought +Micky's face. It held an unwonted gravity, the blue eyes were a little +misty. He leaned over her, his gaze bent upon the dial of her smart +little watch. + +"Eight forty-five, eh?" he exclaimed. "Whew! it is late." He set his +watch and then began winding it. "That case is loose, I must get it +fixed," he pursued. He glanced again at the girl's timepiece, then +whimsically shook his own. "Not much like yours, is it?" he said, with a +sorry smile. "Poor little turnip! But it'll be buried with me, Maisie, +I'll never have another. I don't want another. You see,--she gave it to +me." + +He sank into a chair, his face in the shadow. "I can see it now," he +pursued in a low voice, "just as if it was yesterday. How tickled I was! +and so was she, to see me so. There were just us two, and now--I'm +alone. Oh! it's years ago, but it's one of those things that'll hurt +every time I remember it--now she's gone--will hurt till I go, too! Of +course it didn't cost her much, poor little woman. It couldn't; she +didn't have it. How she managed to save the few poor dollars for it, God +knows; I can't figure it. But she did, and one day when I got in from +selling my papers, she met me and gave it to me. And I was only a kid, +Maisie, and I up and bellered like a calf, with my arms around +her,--and she cried, too; and it wasn't very long,--" his voice broke +for a moment,--"it wasn't very long after that,--it was dark and cold I +remember, and snowflakes in the air,--and I was crying and trying to +pull away from them while they were leading me away--from--her grave." + +It was very still. The girl averted her eyes; they were full of tears. +O'Byrn sat in the shadow, his head bent. In a moment he resumed. + +"I've knocked around from pillar to post since then, Maisie, from one +end of the land to the other. I've lived high and low, from glad rags to +just plain rags. I could always get a job--and I could always lose it. +Oh, yes, I might as well be frank," with a bitter laugh. "It's whisky--a +heritage. Not all the time--fits that I can't help--every now and +then--like bad dreams, only worse--they're real! It's at those times +that the old feeling grips me, too,--to keep movin'. Why, I usually wake +up where everything's strange--and I have to ask 'em where I am. I've +been on the road to something worth while so often--and always kicked it +over. And it cropped out in me so young! You'd be surprised--" + +"Oh, don't!" she cried. He stared at her mutely. "What makes you say +such horrible things about yourself?" she pursued passionately, a quiver +in her voice. "Do you want me to believe--" + +"The truth," he interrupted, gently. "Only the truth. Of course, I +haven't known you long, but it seems like all my life. I'd feel like a +yellow dog, somehow, if I shouldn't tell you. But then, we won't say +anything more about it. I'm not to blame, exactly; it was a present. +We'll go back, there isn't much to tell. It's always been the newspaper +business with me. Odds and ends at first, then they found I could write, +and I've been at it ever since. I wasn't much on education, but I've +picked up quite a lot, and I've seen the country. Oh, I've had my +dreams. Maybe I could do something sometime--if--" He broke off +abruptly. + +She sprang up, coming quickly to him. Her little hand sought his arm. +"Micky," she breathed softly, with shining eyes, "do it! You can; it's +in you; if you will only leave off--and you can--you must! Think of her, +Micky,--she cried over you--perhaps she's crying yet! Make her smile, +instead! Oh, what makes me talk to you like this, only knowing you a few +weeks? What right--" + +He caught her hand as she moved slowly away and drew her back. "What +right?" he echoed warmly. "The best in the world! It does me good! +You're a true friend, you are, and you can see what a mess I've made of +my life and how I could do better if I would--or could, for you don't +know what I have to fight against, Maisie." He drew a chair for her +close to his own. "But then, I'm young yet," he pursued, with a rather +sorry smile. "Time yet, perhaps, for dreams. Dreams!" he repeated, with +a queer, half-shamed look, "how the fellows at the office would laugh to +hear me say that! They'd say I'd gone bug-house." + +"Dreams?" she repeated softly, a divine smile in her wistful eyes, "why, +Micky, we're all dreamers. Between here and the store--the store and +here, day after day, don't you suppose they help me; the dreams? Doesn't +it help your work--your old humdrum work, whatever it is, without any +beginning or ending--doesn't it help to mix a little dreaming with it? +Of course, it doesn't really help me--I'm a poor, silly little +thing--but it can help you, Micky--it can help you!" + +"'Poor, silly little thing!'" he repeated after her, his eyes +moistening. "Don't, Maisie, it makes me feel like a fool! Why, I'm not +fit to speak to you, girl! The life I've lived--Oh, the road is where I +belong, after all! And the dreams--why, they're just dreams, that's all. +I'd only have to try to realize them to prove it--and I'm afraid. Yes, +when I haven't been drunk, I've been afraid." + +She winced at the word, while he, unheeding, stared gloomily at the +carpet. "What--" she began hesitantly, and stopped. He looked up, +comprehending. + +"To write," he said simply. "To write instead of scribble. Oh, I can see +things--and I can feel 'em. Seems to me that I could do it--but it looms +up so that I don't dare try. And sometimes I get into the proper mood, +and get squared away--and then--" He broke off with a despairing +gesture. + +"I don't know much about those things, of course," she said, "but I like +to read what I can, and it seems to me that feelin' like you do about +it--I mean it's lookin' so big to you--that you ought to be all the more +able to do it." + +He stared at her. This subtle viewpoint had never struck him before. "By +George, it takes a girl, after all, to hit the nail square," he told +her. "I never thought of it. But say,--why--it's encouraging, it is!" + +"Sure it is." She smiled at him. "You want to get busy." + +He stared wide-eyed in sudden reverie, his eyes wistful, his freckled +face softened with something that contrasted oddly enough with his +ordinary reckless, devil-may-care attitude toward the world. His better +side was uppermost; somehow this girl could always summon it. But now, +as she watched him mutely, a swift shadow darkened his face. + +"Yes," he told her, "perhaps I ought to be encouraged by the way I feel +about it, and get busy. I could if I was built right, but I'm not, +Maisie. I can't get settled and I haven't any balance wheel. It's 'off +again, on again, gone again' with me. I can't get fairly into a place +before the old itch to keep moving bothers me, and with the other, the +combination keeps me shifting. Why, I seem to be a whole bunch of +fellows mixed up in a free-for-all, sometimes," he added, with a forlorn +smile. "Other fellows can get down to a steady grind and climb; I can't. +God knows I want to, sometimes." He gave her a queer look; she did not +seem to notice. + +"And then," he pursued, "I've never had a home, you know, not since the +poor little mother died. Of course, that wasn't much of a home to look +at, but she was there, and I've never had one since. Oh, it's been so +lonesome sometimes; you don't know. It's the man who goes jumping over +the world alone, here today and there tomorrow, that knows what +lonesomeness is. It's that, I tell you, that's raised the devil with me. +Perhaps I'm wrong, but it seems to me that if it had been with me like +it is with others I'd have been different. I've known fellows inclined +the same way as I am, but they settled down and got homes, and now--why, +they've got me beat out of sight." + +"Well," she queried eagerly, "why don't you--" and stopped suddenly, her +cheeks crimsoning, for Micky's disturbed face had with her unthinking +words grown suddenly tense with purpose. A flash of realization had +revealed to him his great need, the influence to anchor him and hold him +fast against the restless, turbid tide that sought to sweep him away. +Why, he needed--her! On the word of this slip of a girl hung his +opportunity for a new and better world; a world for two, two who might +work, one for the other,--and climb; a world in which dreams might come +true. In a moment it would have all been poured forth in broken, +incoherent phrase, the sum of Micky's illumining dream and his desire. +But the girl, with the unerring instinct of her sex, divined the +situation and in quick alarm frustrated O'Byrn's intention, though very +gently. + +"Well," she said, smiling at him brightly, "we've had a good talk, +haven't we? I'm glad you told me about--everything. I know you'll win, +it's in you. And now--I know you won't mind--but it's gettin' late, and +I have to get up early, you know." + +So Micky, effectually forestalled, went away with settled gloom +shadowing his freckled face. For a long time after he had gone the girl +sat by the window, the light turned low; young eyes staring sombrely out +upon the darkened street; young, fearful soul oppressed by the soft +encroaching shadow of the divinest of life's mysteries. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +AN EVENING CALL + + +It was early in the evening and some of the Courier's reportorial staff +were in the office, waiting for late assignments. As often happened when +a few moments of leisure allowed, there was an animated group in the +corner, with O'Byrn occupying the center. The political situation was +beginning to grow warmer, so it naturally followed that Shaughnessy was +the subject of conversation. + +Micky had just been indulging in what Dick Glenwood called one of his +"bursts of indiscriminate philosophy." "This game of politics," he +declared, "is getting to be a science in solitaire. It's up to you to +play it alone and use the rest of 'em for pawns, if you want to win out. +Now, look at Shaughnessy. He fools his bowers, right and left. He +annexes the whole graft. His gang of four-flushers think it's a divvy, +but the boss has the wad and they're gettin' one-half of one per cent +handouts. What a graft it is! I read in a paper the other day of a sign +in front of an eat-joint in a Western boom town. It read: + + MEALS, 25 CENTS. + SQUARE MEALS, 50 CENTS. + GORGE, 75 CENTS. + +But Shaughnessy's doin' a lot better than that. He's gettin' gorged +without payin' for it." + +"Where did he hail from?" asked Peters. "Isn't indigenous, is he?" + +"Please remember, Pete," remarked Dick, in a pained tone, "that kind of +vocabulary is barred outside your copy writing, and even then must never +be used unless you've lost your book of synonyms. You positively must +never throw verbal lugs into us like that. As for Shaughnessy, he isn't +whatever you call it. He came here from the devil knows where a dozen +years ago and annexed Goldberg, the gentleman that's so popular with +Micky. Mr. Shaughnessy had enjoyed a good ward training somewhere and +was quick to catch onto the possibilities of that section of the town. +His connection with politics has always been of the quietest nature, but +he's popularly supposed to rule the roost. They say, too, he's long on +aspirations and hopes humbly for the ultimate possession of the state." + +"Newspapers are dead against him," observed Mead; "at least, all that +count." + +"Two of 'em weren't till lately," responded Dick dryly. "He had 'em +bought, body and soul, till they had a row with him on a question of +patronage and did a chameleon change for political virtue. He's got his +own Messenger--good name for that organ. He's the owner of that sheet, +though he doesn't figure in the firm name. There's the Courier, of +course, and our rival over the way must have fought him from the first, +but the good in this city mostly died young, I guess." + +"'Tisn't that," put in Micky, from the midst of a placid cloud of cigar +smoke. "There's enough of the decent element in this place to shelve +Shaughnessy, if you could rouse it. But it's doing a Rip Van Winkle +that it's going to take a big gob of dynamite to jar it out of. Some day +that will happen, and the decent element will be on top for a year or +two. Then it will fall asleep at the switch and do another century, +while the gang rings in again. Oh, it'll happen, for a little while, the +reform stunt. It always does. But it won't last long, and then it's the +gang that we have always with us. Boss rule? It's explained easily +enough. Your decent element is troubled with trances; the gang's got +insomnia." + +"So you think Shaughnessy'll get what's coming to him some day?" mused +Dick. "Where's your dynamite?" + +"Right here!" asserted O'Byrn, bracing in his chair and vigorously +banging his desk. "Here or in some other good newspaper office in this +town. Do you know the reason of Shaughnessy's success here? It's because +he never shows his hand. He's a gilt-edged daisy, that fellow. If he had +been doing his business in the open they'd have had him behind bars long +ago. But he's doing his directing from the wings. You and I know that if +we pick out a reputable man, hap-hazard, from the decent element we've +been speaking of, and begin talking to him of Shaughnessy, he'll laugh +and chase up the street, saying that the papers have Shaughnessy on the +brain. It's a fact that a lot of people don't look on that Irish +scoundrel as anything more than a cheap ward boss, with little influence +in the city at large. There's reason enough for the view. The newspapers +have poured out columns of abuse of Shaughnessy in the past few years, +but sum it all up and it's composed wholly of vague generalities. +They've never brought anything home to him that was worth the bringing, +never a thing that would jug him for a minute. The average voter here +holds him too cheap. That fact, coupled with the natural majority he +controls, always tips his scales right. Tell your voter-at-large that it +was Shaughnessy who engineered the queer, rotten deals that have figured +in this town--yes, and the legislature,--deals whose parentage they +can't trace, and the voter would give you the laugh." + +"He'd have a right to," commented Kirk. "Go slow, Micky. Shaughnessy's a +good organizer, and maybe he's put some cheap ones through, but he's +limited." + +"So is the flyer," retorted Micky, "but it'll jerk you along some. Don't +you foolish yourself about that mick, Andy. He's a deep one. He's got a +side to him that's working overtime. It's an underground system, and any +lucky guy in this business that tumbles into it will see things that'll +fill his paper next day with facts, not surmises, facts that'll set 'em +all gapin'. That's the dynamite that'll explode some day and it'll blow +Shaughnessy into stripes and behind the bars. Of course, there'll be a +new boss after a while, but it won't be Shaughnessy." + +The city editor summoned them just then and the conference was abruptly +terminated. Soon afterward Micky and Dick descended together in the +elevator and walked up the avenue toward the point where their paths +separated. They were still talking of Shaughnessy. + +"He's an odd genius," Dick was saying, "and I think you have sized him +up about right. I've studied him more or less, and I gave him credit +from the first of having a lot more under his hat than a good many think +he has. He strikes me as a sort of a cross between a hyena and a +bulldog. From his start here he's never let go--and there's the stench +about him of a political charnel house. After he got his start, +everything that would be likely to hamper him went by the board. You +know he runs a wholesale liquor house. It used to be a little saloon +when he first struck here, and they tell me he used to drink up most of +his stock himself. Very secretive fellow, nobody knew anything about +him. Then, all of a sudden, he got started on his career. Alderman at +first, I believe, but wasn't in public life long, didn't need to be. +He's a wonder. They tell me that from the time of his first canvass for +office he cut out the booze and doesn't touch it at all. Wiped out his +own handicap. Well, you see what he's done; he's well fixed. They all +know it's there, but they can't prove where he got it. And say, speak of +the devil--there he is now." + +Shaughnessy passed them, with a slight nod of recognition to Glenwood. +His face gleamed ghastly under the flood of electric light, there were +blue shadows under his black eyes. While he walked briskly enough, his +face, in addition to its usual lack of animation, held utter weariness. + +"Looks bad, doesn't he?" remarked Dick, as they separated on the corner. +"Something must be the matter with him. Looks to be all in." + +"No," grinned Micky; "it just makes him thin every campaign figuring to +keep his job." Then he added unsmilingly, "He makes me feel as tired as +he looks, Dick. I don't know what it is, but there's something about +that geezer that makes a fellow feel like crape on the knob." + +A little later, seated in the library of his handsome residence on +Morley Street, Colonel John Westlake heard his door bell ringing and was +manifestly apprehensive. The closed oak desk in the corner, the sight of +the Colonel stretched contentedly in his easy chair, a fragrant cigar +between his lips and a favorite book in his hand, indicated a quiet, +enjoyable evening which the gentleman regretted to have disturbed. So it +was with suppressed irritation that the Colonel looked up, warned by the +rustle of feminine skirts, to find the maid standing in the doorway. + +"A gentleman to see you, sir," said she. "He didn't give any card. He +said to tell you that Mr. Shaughnessy wanted to see you a minute." + +The Colonel's smile was grimly questioning, while he reflectively +stroked his sandy beard, which was faintly streaked with gray. Then he +cogitated for a moment, while he abandoned his whiskers for a small, +round bald spot on his crown, which he thoughtfully rubbed. "Well," said +he finally, "show him in, Mary." + +Left to himself the Colonel took a couple of long thoughtful puffs at +his cigar, while he chuckled audibly. The look of irritation had +vanished; it had given place to one of piqued and peppery curiosity. + +The look with which Colonel Westlake greeted his visitor, as the boss +entered the library, was one of eager aggressiveness. The Colonel was a +fighter and a gallant one; he itched for any fray that would allow him +to glory in honorable combat, for it was always honorable on his side. +His eyes were blue and stormy, but they always looked straight at you +and the fire of awakened antagonism in them had often caused the +dishonorable to quail. But at this particular moment, the black, +sinister eyes of Shaughnessy, the unbidden, sullenly impassive as an +Indian's, stared straight into the sharp, challenging ones of the +Colonel without a sign of wavering, and the even, expressionless voice +of Shaughnessy anticipated any words of dubious welcome the Colonel +might have spoken. + +"You need not ask regarding the occasion for the honor of my visit, +Colonel," he said, as his host rose, "for I know well enough that you do +not regard it as an honor." He smiled sardonically. + +The Colonel smiled also, quite broadly. This was not so bad. "You are +quite right, Mr. Shaughnessy," he acknowledged. "I know you well enough +to know that you're here on business. Well, take a chair and state it." +There was an underlying something in the Colonel's tone, a peremptory +note that spelled, "Be brief as possible and get out." + +It failed to disturb the nonchalance of Shaughnessy. He leisurely seated +himself in a chair opposite that of the Colonel, the large oak table +being between them. Then, with half-closed eyes dreamily searching the +ceiling, he proceeded to apparently forget his host's presence in a +sudden fit of abstraction which was, under the circumstances, superb. + +The Colonel waited a moment, his choler rising perceptibly. "Well, sir?" +he finally queried, and there was menace in his tone. + +Shaughnessy lazily lowered his eyes till they rested level with those of +his host. The Colonel thought instinctively, as he gazed into them, of +the fixed beady stare of a serpent. + +"You are at present the principal owner of the Courier, having purchased +the controlling interest early the past summer, aren't you, Colonel?" +asked Shaughnessy. + +"Most certainly. What of it?" + +"You are not at present in favor of taking a contract for any or all of +the official city printing?" pursued Shaughnessy. + +"What do you mean?" demanded the Colonel, his gorge rising. "You have +had my answer--" + +"Wait a moment," interrupted the boss, raising a deprecating thin hand. +"Let's get at this logically. Keep cool, Colonel. And now, another +thing. Do I understand that you intend to pound what you are pleased to +call my machine during the present campaign?" + +The Colonel's eyes lighted up with the battle fire, but his voice was +mellow with an ominous softness as he answered, "Pound you? As hard as +God will let me, my dear sir. Yes, you bet your life!" + +"Well, now, let's see about that," pursued Shaughnessy, his voice as +soft and menacing as the other's. "I'm told by a friend of mine, +Colonel, that you're a heavy holder of this Consolidated Gas that is +arousing so much speculation just now." His voice had grown insolent. +His face remained impassive, but his eyes, beginning to burn with evil +exultation, searched the Colonel's own. + +For his part, the host leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and +stared straight across at Shaughnessy. "Well," he inquired, still +softly, "what if I am, eh?" + +"Well, if you are," retorted Shaughnessy, also leaning forward, his lips +set cruelly under his small black moustache, "if you are--not to please +me, for I'm getting out of the small share I've had in local politics, +but for your own good--don't you think you'd better reconsider that city +printing matter?" + +"And if I should," suggested the Colonel, his tone even quieter, "why, +you'd expect the Courier--of course--" + +Shaughnessy leaned back with a cynical, assured smile. His tone was now +arrogant. "The Courier," he sneered, "why, of course, the Courier will +get in line." + +Colonel Westlake looked away for a moment. "Yes, the Courier will get in +line," he murmured. He slowly removed his still lighted cigar from his +mouth and placed it carefully on the corner of the table. Shaughnessy +silently exulted with evil eyes, which then again indifferently, +dreamily, sought the ceiling. + +"The Courier will get in line!" There was a difference in the tone, a +ringing note which in a flash recalled Shaughnessy's wandering gaze. He +found the Colonel standing opposite him, his hands grasping the edge of +the table, his face crimson with rage. "You hound!" growled the Colonel, +"you crawling snake! I've drawn you out; I only wish it was far enough +for me to get my heel on you. But I'll do it yet. The Courier will get +in line, you leper, don't you doubt it, but it will be to crush you and +your dirty brood, for the forces of decency are going to stamp you out +this November as sure as there's a God in heaven! We've got to dig to do +it, thanks to your devilish ingenuity, but it'll be done. The Citizens' +Fusion ticket, with an honest man at the head, is going through, and +your ward heeler list will be wiped out at the polls, mark me. We're +going to clean this cesspool, but we'll drown you in it first! And now +let me tell you just how much of a cursed fool you made of yourself just +now in trying to intimidate me. Your solicitous friend didn't pry long +enough, it seems. I was the holder of a big block of Consolidated Gas +for just three days, solely through the blunder of an agent. It's an +infamous thing, which nobody should know better than yourself, and if +your sneaking lieutenant had been worth his salt, he'd have found that +I haven't had a dollar in that highway robbery combine for four months; +that I was not personally responsible for being in it in the first +place, and that I was at pains to get out of it at the expense of a +personal loss the moment I learned of it. Moreover, I suspect that it +was a cunning plan made months ago to compromise me in the belief that +the love of revenue would keep me in it and allow interests of which you +well know, you scoundrel, to get control of me. It's worked with others, +but I'm not built that way. You've shown your hand for nothing, and if +your heeler had been possessed of a penny's worth of brains, he'd have +found out about things and saved you unnecessary trouble. Let me assure +you that the Courier will put in double time to smash you, Shaughnessy, +and now I will ask you to leave before you are put out." + +The Colonel ceased, his hands trembling with rage, his blazing eyes +fixed on Shaughnessy, who had sat with averted face and without a word +during Westlake's fiery denunciation. Now he rose, ever so leisurely, +and turned slowly, facing the owner of the Courier. The white face was +unruffled by any trace of emotion, the black, sinister eyes stared +unwaveringly as a reptile's into the Colonel's fiery blue ones. +Shaughnessy fumbled in an upper pocket of his vest. + +"Pardon, Colonel, have you a match?" he inquired. His voice had all the +serenity of a mild June day. The dazed Westlake mechanically produced +one. Shaughnessy lazily lighted a cigar and sauntered out. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +NOT ON THE PROGRAMME + + +In a few days occurred the Citizens' convention. A formidable array of +men was there; business and professional men, leaders in the city's +activities. It was an array which might well set the forces that +controlled the city government to worrying. Moreover, real enthusiasm +ruled the assemblage, and when Colonel Westlake, in a fiery nominating +speech, named Theodore Packard, one of the city's leading merchants, for +the mayoralty, thunderous demonstrations attested the temper of the +delegates. + +Under the aggressive leadership of Colonel Westlake, the Fusionists had +taken time by the forelock and were first in the field with a strong +ticket. Warm hopes were entertained for it this year. Republicans, who +were greatly in the minority in the city, had taken the initiative in +starting the Fusion movement, which was strengthened by the open avowal +of some of the community's best known men, of Democratic allegiance, +that they were done with Shaughnessy and his methods. The movement +appeared to be gaining in force and bulk, like a snowball rolling down +hill, as the hour approached for the Democratic convention, toward which +all eyes were now turning. + +There were indications that the entrenched, corrupt forces which +dominated the city were getting ready to invite their own destruction. +Was it not Shaughnessy who held the whip hand, and was not Shaughnessy +going crazy? Verily, it seemed so, and Shaughnessy, apparently drunk +with the power invested in his acquired authority, seemed likely to +exercise it to his own destruction. "The man is mad," remarked the +leaders of the Citizens' movement, one to the other, and rubbed their +hands. For Shaughnessy's candidate for the nomination, the man for whom, +as he calmly stated, the convention would, at his word, vote as one man, +was so notoriously inadequate, so miserably unfit, that the prospect of +his nomination set a resentful growl to circulating even among many of +the chosen delegates to the Democratic, otherwise the Shaughnessy, +convention. Dare Shaughnessy, so cocksure of his evil hold upon the +city, thrust such a candidate upon his party? Certain of Shaughnessy's +supporters grumbled, while the leaders of the Citizens' movement ground +their teeth and figuratively removed their coats. + +True to his promise to Shaughnessy, on the occasion of that worthy's +call upon the owner of the Courier, Colonel Westlake's paper was firing +hot shot at the local boss. The effrontery and callous indifference to +all considerations, save his own sweet will, which Shaughnessy was +displaying in his choice of a candidate for the mayoralty, was dished up +daily, in attractive and toothsome guise, for the Courier's readers. +Westlake was certainly pounding Shaughnessy. + +Meanwhile, strange whispers began circulating around the town, things +that savored of disloyalty to Shaughnessy. The unpopularity of the +candidate, whose fortunes he had espoused, was evidently breeding a +revolt among Shaughnessy's followers, of which he seemed strangely +oblivious. At all events, he was wholly indifferent to it. To add +seriousness to the situation, some of the boss' most trusted lieutenants +had been heard to utter words that sounded strangely from the lips of +faithful followers. These little seeds of dissension were sown +cautiously, but they fell where they seemed sure to bring forth the +fruit of contention. When ex-Alderman Goldberg, supposed to be retired +from politics, the lanky Dick Peterson, and the moon-faced Willie Shute, +men known to have been for years identified with Shaughnessy's +interests, began treacherously knifing him, the Fusionists pricked up +their ears and polished their eyeglasses. Might there not be a +disastrous factional Democratic fight? + +The day before the convention occurred there was a tense, growing +expectancy through the city, a vague, intangible premonition of an +unguessed something on the morrow. What is was to be nobody knew, but +that there was a rift in the Shaughnessy lute,--or "loot," as one +Fusionist wag expressed it,--was now plainly apparent to all parties. +The existence of a plot against him was recognized, yet Shaughnessy made +no sign. His insolent programme was known; he proposed on the morrow to +thrust his preposterously unfit candidate for the mayoralty, together +with a few other objectionable nominees for divers offices, down the +throat of the convention. The programme of the opposition was not known, +but Goldberg, Peterson and Shute, with others whose fidelity to the +interests of the boss had hitherto been unquestioned, had been busy. +They had toward the end thrown off the pretense of secrecy and had +declared the boss' programme to be suicidal to the chances of Democratic +success. The array of malcontents grew larger and more formidable. It +was increased by the well circulated report that Goldberg had tried to +remonstrate with the boss and been freezingly turned down. + +"The delegates won't stand for it, Shaughnessy," Goldberg had said. +"It's out of all reason." + +The sneer in Shaughnessy's reply had inflamed an army of hitherto +faithful adherents against him. "The delegates will do as I dictate," he +had said. "This convention, let me tell you, will name my ticket, and +the kickers will be kicked out of the party." + +Surely Shaughnessy was going mad. "I understand he said lately that he +didn't intend to figure in local politics much longer," said Colonel +Westlake one day to the Fusionist candidate for the mayoralty, Theodore +Packard, though without apprising him of the circumstances under which +the boss made that statement. "Well, do you know, I begin to believe +this dissension in their ranks has been brewing for some time. 'When +thieves fall out,' you know. I think he foresaw this scrap and is +risking the issue on a last desperate game, which he is growing rather +afraid of losing." + +"Yes, but why is he espousing such a notorious ticket?" inquired +Packard. "It seems to me that he is beaten in advance, with a handicap +like that, and ought to have sense enough to know it." + +"He probably had his programme laid out months ago," replied the +Colonel, "when he felt more secure than he does now. His opponents are +cunning. They played foxy Judas till the last moment, and then they +began to knife him. It's a slick game. He can't back down now, he's got +to stand by his guns. To knuckle would be a confession of weakness, and +that would be fatal. It looks to me as if he had a Waterloo coming in +his own camp. They've got something up their sleeve, depend upon it. I +wish I knew what it was." + +Decidedly, the ordinary expressionless face of Shaughnessy, could he +have heard this conversation, would have been worth seeing. + +The momentous autumn day, peaceful and delightful, was in strong +contrast to the turbulent scene within the hall, just before the +Democratic convention was called to order. The galleries were packed +with a nervous crowd, ripe for anticipated excitement. That something +big, not on the card, was about to happen, everyone was confident. And +once and again the eyes of the massed, fitful throng of spectators +searched out Shaughnessy, standing unobtrusively in a corner of the +great hall, always surrounded by excited, gesticulating delegates. +Shaughnessy was evidently saying little and his dead black eyes and +ghastly face expressed less. Yet the thousands of eyes turned hungrily +to him again and again, for the impression had gone forth that in some +way the mute, mysterious boss was to be offered as a sacrifice, to the +ends of treacherous associates, on the altar of his own unscrupulous +ambition. + +Micky O'Byrn, of the Courier, detailed to do the descriptive touches of +the convention, viewed Shaughnessy curiously from his position at the +rear of the hall. "He looks like his own funeral," thought Micky, "but +then, that's chronic with him." His gaze wandered interestedly over the +mass of excited delegates swarming about the floor; his ears sought +instinctively to gather something definite from the swelling babel of +speech. Suddenly a low-toned voice sounded at his elbow in a +communication evidently intended for a single ear, and that not Micky's. +O'Byrn's rapid sidelong glance verified his supposition. It was +Goldberg, speaking softly to a delegate. + +"Tom Grady, he'll do the trick," said Goldberg, and the two moved away. +Micky whistled softly. "Good move!" he remarked quietly to himself. +"He'll take 'em by storm." For it was evident that it was Tom Grady, the +city's youngest and most fiery Democratic orator, who was to nominate +the opponent to Shaughnessy's man. But who was this opponent? Micky +wrinkled his brows, and, like the crowd in the galleries and many of the +delegates themselves, fell to speculating, for the extraordinary thing +about the situation was that while everybody was sure an opponent would +be produced, nobody knew who he would be. + +But now the convention was rapped to order, and delegates and audience +alike fell into uneasy silence. The roll was called, the credentials +were handed in, and in due time the temporary chairman retired in favor +of the permanent incumbent. His selection had been railroaded through +before it dawned upon the gathering that he was one of Shaughnessy's +strongest adherents. So the boss had scored one. Dave Mulhill could be +relied upon to look after him. + +With the chair's call for nominations the excitement increased. It had +rather been expected that, at this critical point of his political +fortunes, Shaughnessy would decide to speak for himself, though he had +never done so. He did not, however, and his man, Dennis Burns, was +placed in nomination by Charles Heferman, a young lawyer who had of late +dulled a formerly bright reputation by known dealings with the gang that +ruled the city. Heferman's effort was able, though no enthusiasm was +evident. No one could have grown enthusiastic over Shaughnessy's +candidate. + +Heferman finished and sat down, amid a ripple of perfunctory applause +that boded ill for the boss' prospects. At that moment Micky O'Byrn +chanced to be looking across the hall straight at Shaughnessy. The +sinister face was unmoved, but the black eyes, momentarily alight with +unwonted fire, were fixed intently at a point about midway of the hall. +In that instant Micky's keen vision beheld something that acted upon his +intelligence like a galvanic battery, swiftly launching his wits upon +previously unguessed channels of absorbing and profitable speculation. + +"Next in order, nominations of President of the Council," announced Dave +Mulhill from the chair, even before the faint applause which had greeted +Heferman's speech had died away. The chairman's words produced an angry +hubbub, and his evident reluctance to recognize a gentleman who was on +his feet, demanding attention, had the effect of fanning the latent +antagonism against the machine to a brighter blaze. Not until sundry +groans and cries of "Gag!" and "Fair play!" were heard did Chairman +Mulhill deign to recognize Hon. Thomas Grady, now known to all as the +spokesman of the opposition. + +Intense silence prevailed as Mr. Grady, recognized already as one of +the leaders of the legislature, was reluctantly accorded the privilege +of the floor. A silver tongue he had indeed, and a voice like the +mellow, dulcet notes of an organ. Over six feet in height and with the +bulk and carriage of a Viking, his handsome face flushed and his blue +eyes alight with battle, he was a figure to command admiration. Added to +these a splendid gift of oratory, the whole produced a combination of +magnetic charm which they used to say was fairly hypnotizing to an +audience. + +The howl of delight with which the assemblage received the ironical +acknowledgment of the speaker to the chairman, for the privilege of the +floor, indicated its temper toward Shaughnessy. The words of the orator +flowed on, gathering fire as he warmed to the subject of the hopes and +prospects of the city Democracy. He warned them that it was a critical +moment, that the Fusionists had nominated a strong ticket. "It is one +that we must reckon with," he declared. "You and I, secure in the +knowledge of the good our party has done our beloved municipality, will +utterly disclaim the necessity for this absurdly mistaken movement on +the part of our friends, the visionary enemy. But even if that enemy be +composed of so many wild-eyed Don Quixotes, mounted on their hobbies and +fighting windmills, yet, friends, the issue, however ridiculous, is +here." He turned and looked straight at Shaughnessy. "Gentlemen, it is +as yet unmet. This is not a moment for any false and perhaps fatal step. +We owe it to ourselves to meet the enemy with a front that shall be +utterly unassailable to his assaults." + +Pausing imperturbably till the resultant applause had died away, the +orator proceeded, in glowing periods, to discourse of the sovereignty of +the people, of their right to choose their leaders, of the moment which +had now arrived to reaffirm their convictions and pursue the highest of +party ideals. While the address continued some clever, covert digs at +Shaughnessy, the speaker, after the manner of his suave tribe, avoided +the quagmires of ugly suspicions and half-guessed corruption that had +characterized his party's administration of affairs during recent years. +With consummate tact he rather confined himself to broad generalities +that fired the blood of his auditors and did not remind them of things +that would chill enthusiasm. Mr. Grady urged them only to take the right +step in time, to meet strength with strength,--this with another +challenging look at Shaughnessy,--to enter the battle equipped for +victory rather than defeat. + +Now he was approaching the end of his discourse and had not named his +candidate. They had hung upon every word, had drunk in the golden +sentences that thrilled, that satisfied, yet did not reveal the name of +the mysterious champion whose candidacy the orator was advocating. As he +swung into his peroration, the piqued curiosity of the people had become +almost pain. They were ripe for a shrieking chaos of enthusiasm, and he +knew it. So, with gathered forces, with flashing eyes and voice that +rang like a trumpet, he figuratively fired the powder train. + +"And now," he cried, "you are awaiting the announcement of the man whose +name among men is one to conjure with; the man, strong, able and of good +repute, the man who is no man's man--" with a defiant gesture toward +Shaughnessy that awakened tremendous enthusiasm,--"the man whose +nomination here today means victory. Gentlemen, it is with pleasure that +I nominate for the mayoralty of this city a man known to you all for +years, for years the trusted, honored servant of our people; a man of +achievement, of renown, of probity, of independence, of superb ability; +a man who, under God, will rule for righteousness' sake and wear no +man's collar; in a word, that distinguished jurist and gentleman, Judge +Rufus Atwell Boynton!" + +A roar like many waters followed, a roar like thunderous, storm-driven +breakers upon a lonely beach, a roar of exultation. Lulling for a +moment, the deafening din broke out afresh, again and again, as if it +would never cease. Men cheered till they could no longer cheer, but +squawked like chickens; standing with empurpled faces, brandishing their +arms, cackling strangely, with ludicrous effort and with distended, +bloodshot eyes. The gavel fell in vain; only a cannonade could have been +heard in that babel of sound. As soon as the noise abated, through sheer +force of physical exhaustion, a vote was railroaded through, the hostile +chairman being helpless before the fierce faces and voices of this mob, +for such it had become under the electrifying lash of Grady's words. +Judge Boynton was nominated by an overwhelming majority, even drawing +from the forces pledged to the fortunes of the Shaughnessy candidate. +The tumult broke out again. + +It was suddenly stilled. O'Byrn, from his chair near the rear, saw a +thin white hand raised deprecatingly, marked a sardonic white face and +inscrutable eyes, whose owner silently demanded attention. It was +yielded with a promptness that was uncanny. Then Shaughnessy, erect in +the midst of his ward delegation, spoke. His thin voice with a cold, +underlying sneer, cut the air like a knife, penetrating to every corner +of the hall. + +"The majority rules," said Shaughnessy. "It is customary, in similar +case, to move a unanimous nomination. I so move." The deposed boss sat +down. The resultant applause was rather faint. Shaughnessy had somehow +chilled the enthusiasm. + +To Micky O'Byrn, sitting with knitted brows as the other nominations, +involving a complete demolition of the Shaughnessy ticket, were hurried +through, there was food for much serious thought and conjecturing. He +noted the new candidate as he was brought before the convention and +introduced, amid great enthusiasm, by Hon. Thomas Grady. He was older +than Micky had imagined and he seemed wearied, almost ill. Still, +reflected O'Byrn,--as he listened to the candidate's short speech of +appreciation and of assurances for the future, in the event of +election,--it seemed strange that the Judge should not display more +enthusiasm over an honor which had come to him so signally. Then he fell +again to pondering, striving to put two and two together. + +That the outcome seriously threatened the Fusionist movement was +undeniable. In fact, that ticket was as good as defeated already, for it +was robbed of an issue. Judge Boynton was a strong candidate, every whit +as strong as Theodore Packard and in similar ways. Incredible as it +might seem, Shaughnessy had been humiliated, practically kicked out by +his party. But how had it happened? Micky frowned. "There's a nigger +somewhere," he reflected, "if the coon could only be found." + +At the close of the convention Micky was walking thoughtfully down the +street toward the office. It was then dusk and the lamps were being +lighted. Someone joined Micky and quietly fell into pace with him. +O'Byrn glanced up. It was Slade. + +"Funny thing that, over at the convention," remarked Micky. "I should +have thought Shaughnessy was solid." + +"Yes," answered Slade, placidly. "I should have naturally thought he +was." + +"Were you there?" + +"You bet." + +"Then tell me whether Shaughnessy gave Tom Grady the wink to spiel this +afternoon," pursued Micky, "or is it my eyes?" + +Slade looked at him keenly, then laughed quietly. "I'm sayin' +nothing--yet," said he, "but your eyes seem O. K. to me." + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE LITTLE RED DEVIL + + +Harkins looked up from his loaded desk, glancing at the clock. It was +after ten. The city editor frowned heavily and called to Fatty, who was +just passing him on his way out. + +"Stearns," he inquired, "have you seen O'Byrn? He has not reported, nor +did he ask off for this evening." + +"Perhaps he's sick, sir," nervously volunteered Fatty, who knew better +but did not intend to give his co-worker away. "Seems to me he looked +kind o' peaked yesterday." + +"He could easily have sent word," doubtfully rejoined Harkins. "However, +you might inquire and let me know. Or, if you see him, send him in +here," and he turned to his desk. + +Fatty went out. "Send him in here!" he chuckled grimly. "If he's stayed +with that bunch he was with at six o'clock, Harkins would pass him on to +the gold cure." + +All the staff, save Harkins, knew it by this time. Micky, after a season +of well doing that was protracted for him, had broken out again in one +of his periodical sprees. It was not of the innocuous variety of +indulgence that affords satiety in a single evening, leaving the victim +remorseful and fortified against another lapse for an indefinite time. +Of such are the fortunate, who are immune from the wiles of a sleepless, +diabolical appetite. With Micky it was different. To resist a craving +which never really slumbered meant real effort and unceasing vigilance. +To succumb meant usually an unrecking debauch of days, while the little +red devil worked its sweet will with him, to finally leave him spent and +shaken, a temporary sodden wreck. This was the grim enemy, coupled with +an unreasoning love of roving, that had made him, rarely talented as he +was, a shifting vagrant of the news. It had landed him, ragged and +unkempt, at the door of the Courier office. Now it bade fair to cast him +forth again, shipwrecked at this most prosperous point of his fortunes, +to try once more a dreary, uncertain future, with the gibing ghosts of +lost opportunities ever at his elbow; with the maddening memory of a +forfeited love, the truest he would ever know, mocking him. + +Fatty did not inquire for Micky at his lodgings, nor did he attempt to +find him and give him Harkins' message. He omitted the first because he +was well aware that Micky would not be found there for some time, the +second because he did not care to meet O'Byrn and his crew, for fear +that he would be drawn into the maelstrom. He knew Micky's insistence +and Fatty was cautious. Thirdly, he felt assured that Harkins would be +advised of the cause of Micky's absence in due time, and Stearns had no +desire to figure as a bird of ill omen. So he went about his tasks and +discreetly dodged places that might perchance hold the uproarious O'Byrn +and his riotous cronies. + +Fortune was against Stearns, however, for it led him, in quest of an +elusive item, into the rotunda of the Palace hotel. He met his man +there, hastily secured his story, and started out. The entrance to the +wine room was at one side. There was the sound of revelry within. + +As Stearns was about to pass out, the swinging doors of the wine room +were flung open and there appeared, flushed and disheveled, the riotous +O'Byrn. At sight of Fatty, who gasped and made a wild bolt to escape, +Micky emitted a whoop of triumph and swooped down upon him. He captured +him handily and despite his desperate struggles propelled him in +headlong fashion into the wine room, for the Irishman was as wiry as he +was slender. Stearns found himself in the center of a bibulous throng +which included newspaper men, speedy young sports and a few odd bits of +_débris_, picked up on the rising flood. They crowded about Fatty, some +clamoring for introductions, some making facetious comment on the manner +of his entrance, still others rendering him tribute in dubious song. For +a moment the din was indescribable, while the "chemist" made ineffectual +appeals for order. Then Micky managed to make himself heard above the +babel in a demand for quiet. + +"Fatness," said he, with a wave of his hand, "these are the Indians. +Indians, this are Fatty. Fatty, the Indians are drunk. Indians, Fatty +ain't drunk now but he must be made so. Does it go?" A chorus of +affirmative yells made answer. + +"Now, Fatty," continued O'Byrn earnestly, "in meeting this little wish +of ours for your subsequent comfort, be a gentleman. Don't show a +grasping spirit, like the two meanest men on record. Never heard of 'em? +Well, one of 'em was asked by a friend to have a drink. Asked what he'd +take he waited till the buyer had ordered a whisky and then says, 'Gimme +two beers,' so as to get his ten cents' worth. Other one of 'em was +worse 'n that. Friend asked him what he'd have, an' says he, 'If you +don't mind, I'd rather have the money.' No, Indians, Fatty ain't like +that. Ask him what he'll have, and the modesty of his demands would put +those graspin' dubs to shame." + +"Gee, Micky," gurgled Stearns, trying to squirm away, "I ain't got time, +honest I ain't. I've got an assignment." + +The crowd closed in, holding him securely. Micky mused with corrugated +brow. Thus far the only evidences of his indulgence were an unusual +sparkle of the eye, a crimsoned countenance and a bewildering flow of +language. + +"'Assignment,'" cogitated Micky, "what does that mean? Where have I +heard that word? Let me forget before I remember already. Let us drink +to forget. Vat iss, Fatty?" + +Fatty gulped despairingly. There was no hope. "Birch beer," he murmured +resignedly. There sounded a universal groan. + +"Birch beer!" echoed O'Byrn, in a positive squeal. "I wonder if the +mixer hasn't got some Mellin's food? Siphon some milk into him; do, the +sweet thing! No, I'll tell you what you'll drink, Fatty. It'll be a +Mamie Taylor, with me!" + +There was unanimous approval registered in a strident roar. Despite +Stearns' protest the "chemist" was urged to mix him a Mamie, Fatty +finally becoming silenced in meek submission. Resolving to "shake the +bunch" at the first favorable moment, he gazed doubtfully at the +seductive mixture in his glass. Micky held up his Mamie and +soliloquized. + +"This Mamie is a jade," he remarked, with an air of finality that +effectually settled the matter. "She's that smooth and insinuating, so +agreeable, that it seems as if you could drink her all night, so you +generally do. Plain whisky's more honest. It's got that old, shivery +yah-yah taste to it that keeps warnin' you all the time to sidetrack, so +you're apt to do it before you get telescoped by the D T's. But these +blamed fancy flips are what play the devil with a fellow. They're +come-ons, clear from champagne to ginger ale splits. They taste so +pretty that the next is a necessity, and after that, in the pleasant +salve to the palate, you lose count. Take Mamie here. She's the worst in +the push. You can gauge your capacity in any other line except on her. +She figures her own capacity and the figures always lie, as you realize +next morning. Much is a sufficiency, always. More is a superfluperosity. + +"In this connection, Mamie reminds me of a story of an old man up north +who had slipped from grace for some years and never thought any more of +the religious teachings of childhood till trouble switched in, though +that's common enough. But along came a famine time and everyone was +livin' on short commons. The old man was urged to make a family prayer +for some of the necessities. He wasn't used to it and shied +considerable, but it was need that egged him on. Well, he got started O. +K. with 'O Lord, send us a bar'l o' pork. Send us a bar'l o' sugar. Send +us a bar'l o'--o'--pepper--Oh, hell! that's too much pepper!' was the +way he rang off. + +"Now that's what I'll be sayin' about Mamie, too much of her, when I +come to, but such is her infernal fascination that--" He broke off with +a wild clutch at Fatty's receding coat tail. Stearns had seized the +favorable moment to escape. He got out before Micky could catch him. As +O'Byrn was about to shoot through the door in pursuit of him, it swung +inward and a familiar figure confronted the little Irishman. + +"Well, Micky," remarked Dick dryly, "don't you think you've had enough? +Better come along." + +For answer O'Byrn tried to drag Dick to the bar. "Come on, old man," he +shouted. "Get in! There's Mamies to burn." + +Dick had heard of his co-worker's outbreak and hurried from the office +in quest of him, chancing to learn where he was. Micky had talked with +him previously, regarding his weakness, and Dick knew what its +uninterrupted continuance would mean. + +"Come home, Micky," he urged, "before you get maudlin. Bunk in and get a +good night's rest and you'll be all right for work tomorrow." He led +Micky insistently out of the wine room, unmindful of the protests of +O'Byrn's companions. They passed through the office to the street. + +Micky had been quiet for a moment but now his libations reasserted their +influence. He struggled with Dick, voicing sundry curses. + +"What d' ye mean?" he demanded. "Let me go, I'm going back. Mind your +own business, can't you?" + +"Shut up!" growled Dick fiercely. "Can't you see people are looking at +us? Close your face and come along like a gentleman, for, I tell you, +you're going home!" + +Then something happened. Before Micky's haggard eyes appeared mistily, +taking swift and tangible substance, a girl's face, young and lovely, +just now convulsed with horror. Then it was gone, leaving a leaden +weight in Micky's breast, while the vapors rose sluggishly from his +benumbed brain. Reason, shrinking and ashamed, looked out from his hot +eyes. He braced defiantly though hopelessly. + +"It's all right, Dick, I'll go home," he said in a strange low tone and +they walked in silence down the street. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +IN THE MORNING + + +Micky awoke late that morning with a persistent, painful throbbing in +his head, fevered eyes and a parched throat. The symptoms held an arid +familiarity which was swiftly allied with self contempt, as sleep +yielded full place to awakened consciousness. For O'Byrn would never be +calloused. As he once expressed it, his career was best epitomized in +Ade's graphic epigram, "Life is a series of relapses and recoveries." +The inherent manliness would always wage war against the little red +devil that sought malevolently to wither it. It would be a pitifully +checkered fight, but whatever the issue,--even should the world, which +never understands, write him down a wreck at the end,--a few who knew +him best, and understood, would know that Micky tried. Who will +question, in a world where so many drift, that in the simple will to try +lies victory? + +Micky lay quiet for some moments after awaking, palms pressed to his +burning temples, swollen eyes gazing sombrely up at the ceiling of his +small, plainly furnished room. The hot sun poured in at the window, +before which the shade had not been drawn. The boy, for he was scarcely +more, wandered in dreary retrospect through a world of gray memories. +How gray, how bleak, to be sure! At the very outset the recollection of +a childhood saddened by the frequent sight of a woman in tears; a woman +with a pale, worn face and eyes that held the inexpressible pathos of a +forlorn hope deferred, his mother. His father, did the world still hold +him? O'Byrn told himself fiercely that it could not be, that earth must +long since have wearied of such an excrescence and cast it forth to +annihilation. + +To the woman with the pale, worn face and tired eyes, the woman who was +now at rest, he owed his upbringing. From the time that he could not +remember, when she and her baby were deserted by the husband and father, +till the hour when she lay wasted in her final illness, she had toiled +for the boy, to give him clothes, sustenance, schooling. Micky +remembered with a dull ache at his heart how in the supreme hour the +poor tired eyes had watched in vain for one who came not, how the wan +lips had in delirium whispered a dishonored name. Then the end, and the +ensuing picture of a little newsvender, led sobbing from the new-filled +grave of the truest friend he would ever know. + +And this other, the being who had left a frail weakling to bear the +brunt alone, for what must the son thank him? For the inherited fiend's +appetite that marred him, no more. The son well knew that the craving +was the intensified replica of the father's crowning vice. He had +learned, moreover, that the parent had deemed it a witty thing to ply +the son with toddy while in his cradle. The son took to it with an +avidity of grave presage, but which delighted the tippling parent. This +was the heritage from his father, a heritage that held in fee wastes of +black bog and hungry mire, with death squatting grimly in the midst. +Ah, what a goodly patrimony he had left, this absent one; what wealth +indeed! + +The boy in the bed winced as beneath the impact of a blow. He struck +clenched hands together fiercely. "Oh, God!" he breathed, the tone +combining the bitter venom of a curse with the agonized entreaty of a +prayer. + +A moment more he lay in silence, vague eyes fixed on a gray and +resurrected past. He stirred uneasily. "Ah, well, this won't do!" he +muttered, and flinging off the coverings he rolled off upon the floor. +The sunlight dazzled his eyes and he blinked like a bat as he drew the +shade. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, wincing as a sharp pain +stabbed his throbbing head, dying in needle-like prickings just behind +the eyes. With a discouraged groan he made his way to the wash stand, +and emptying the pitcher into the bowl, plunged his fevered head into +the refreshing contents and held it there. It was very pleasant, the +coolness, and a brisk rubbing with a crash towel added decidedly to the +relief. Dressing with shaking fingers, he was finally ready and left the +house, blinking swollen eyes owlishly in the clear sunlight. He stopped +at a restaurant just long enough to swallow a cupful of black coffee in +order to neutralize a bevy of differing tastes that tenanted his mouth, +vying in stale mustiness. Again he sought the open air, wandering +aimlessly. + +Clearly the coffee was not enough, for his head throbbed worse than +before. Involuntarily he steadied it with one hand, to keep it on, while +he put into Kelly's drug store for a bromo. Kelly's was popular with the +boys. It was open nights and they could buy whisky in the back room, +after all the other places were closed, and secure bromo over the soda +water fountain in the morning. + +Micky absorbed his bromo in a gloomy, introspective mood. The bracer, as +it is generally understood, he was minded this morning to avoid as if it +had been a pestilence. He was wont to say that a bracer was to him but a +limited stop-over, that he would be sure to be traveling again before +noon. He had travelled far enough this trip, far enough to menace a +future, which had never seemed so bright. Disquieting recollections +gnawed at Micky's mind. A girl's face, eloquent with horror and disgust, +seen as through a mist in the lighted street, confronted his shamed, +wakened consciousness, while he writhed inwardly. And, too, his post +with the Courier? Had he lost it? How much latitude would they extend to +drunkards? + +A drunkard! He shuddered at the repellent thought, yet what else was he? +What else any man who allowed the infernal appetite to lure him from +duty to be performed? Not once but many times had he, O'Byrn, fallen by +this standard. Repeatedly had he been cast off, with the goal of +reputation and success in sight, because of the little red devil, who +journeyed with him the broad land over, making its hateful presence +known at riotous intervals that resulted in swift changes and shifts of +scene for the little Irishman. If, indeed, he had not lost his post with +the Courier, it was due to the fortunate interruption of a spree that +might otherwise have lasted a week. O'Byrn's soul went out in gratitude +to Dick. Even though it should prove that he had lost both his place and +his lady, it was a melancholy pleasure to Micky to have sobered so soon. +He thought with deep self-disgust of prior orgies; of wild days and +wilder nights, piling deliriously upon each other while sleep was +unknown, a stranger to be banished; when all things loomed distorted, +unreal, through a red haze. So it would go until, with abused nature +exhausted, he would sink into a sodden stupor. From this he would +finally emerge a shaking wreck, with the blackest of memories and +usually with the blankest of futures, for his job usually went with his +spree. The latter was always of inconvenient length for the demands of a +newspaper office. + +Something of these horrors he had communicated to Dick some time before. +"This thing has played the devil with me, Dick," he had said. "I want +excitement. Drinking is a means to the end. Then, first I know, it's an +end to my means. That and my infernal itch for shifting have made me a +scoffing and a byword. If I could get chained down, and lost my thirst, +I might make good. I've come near it a lot of times and then the cussed +coupling would break and I'd go slidin' down the grade again. Then it +would be the bumpers out. I guess it'll be that way till I'm backed onto +the siding for good. But I'm headed right now, and, if you ever catch me +toyin' with the lush, I want you to joyously jack my jeans clear to my +lodgings. Knock me down, pick me up and knock me down again." + +"That's all very well, Micky," Dick had replied with a remonstrating +bellow of a laugh, "but I'm not enough of a pharisee for that, you know, +for I'm no total abstainer myself." + +"Yes, but you're about two-thirds of a one," replied the other. "You +don't know what an appetite means. You drink, when you drink at all, +for good fellowship, because someone asks you to. Left to yourself, +you'd never think of it. If you ever take too much, it means you're on +the water wagon for a number of months, because you dread the feeling of +the morning after. You're one of those lucky devils that can monkey with +the stuff for a lifetime and never acquire the faintest vestige of a +thirst. Now as for me, I can't coquette with it. I have to walk sideways +past a saloon with my face turned the other way, across the street to +the undertaker's. I've simply got to let it alone. Why? Because a lot of +hard jolts have taught me that it's a lot stronger than I am unless it's +held down with both hands. Sometimes I can take a glass and let it +alone, but oftener the first glass is only a drop in the bucket that +starts a demand to annex the whole well. Then there's a roaring Rip Van +Winkle that I come out of a week or two later to find my job miles +behind and me countin' ties and waitin' for a freight. That's the worst +of it, Dick," with a red flush of shame. "It's thinkin' that you're just +as liable to fall asleep at the switch, when you're on duty. Now that's +what I'm carrying over the country with me. That's what I'm fightin'. +First one on top, then the other. But whichever way, Dick, it's hell!" + +There had ensued a silence, broken by Dick's voice, unwontedly sober. + +"The gold cure, Micky, did you ever try it?" + +"No!" with vigor, "and I never will! If I can't stand I'll go down, but +it'll be alone. If I can't weather it without that, why then me to the +dip-house, that's all. No artificial vacations in mine!" + +Which, if perhaps wrong-headed, at least bespoke a plenitude of grit. + +Dick had remembered Micky's request to deliver him, if need be, from the +fascinations of the grape, and had complied with it in spirit, if not in +letter, the night previous. O'Byrn had been firmly torn from the +bibulous bevy with which he had started that afternoon and been escorted +home. And though the prospect was dismal enough to the boy who stood, +hands in pockets, on the curb, staring moodily at the asphalt, he was +glad that Dick had looked him up. It might have been worse. + +How bad was it, anyway? Micky drew a long breath, squared his shoulders +and started for the office. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +WHY SHE CRIED + + +Mickey was not dismissed, though the city editor had a heart to heart +talk with him. "We are not exactly sticklers for total abstinence here, +O'Byrn," he said. "I am free to confess that I am ineligible to +membership in the I. O. G. T. myself. But one thing the Courier does +insist upon, which is that a man's indulgence must not be allowed to +interfere with his work. I had important assignments for you last night +and had to place them in other hands. Besides, we were short of men. +When I accidentally learned, near press-time, of the real reason for +your non-appearance, I was minded to let you go. But from what I learn I +gather that it is something of a disease in your case. Cure yourself, my +boy, for you're a good man and I've decided to give you another chance." + +Micky stood quietly, his freckled face a queer study of mingled relief +and misery. "It's more than I deserve, Mr. Harkins," he replied. "I'm a +pup when I start drinkin'. You're right, it's a disease with me. I won't +promise that it's a final attack, for I don't know, but I will promise," +with meaning, "that you'll never have to jack me up for it again. If I +can't hold on, why I'll quietly let go." He walked out. + +Micky worked feverishly for a couple of days after that, his heart full +of misgiving. His place was assured, true enough, but there was another +matter, even more vital, which was rife with uncertainty. A girl's face, +eloquent of horror and dismay, swam mistily before his eyes, as in the +lighted street in front of the hotel when he was struggling with +Glenwood. He closed his eyes with a shiver, but still saw the face, +known for whose it was. Would she ever receive him, even nod to him +again? Never, probably, and why should she? This was a new attitude for +the ordinarily rollicking, independent O'Byrn. It remains for the lover +to sound the nethermost depths of humility. + +He watched his mail those two days with apprehensive eyes, fearing to +receive a note which should administer his _coup de grace_. None came, +and, as a natural sequence, his suspense increased. It is the axe +suspended that the fowl fears; with its fall subsequent proceedings fail +to interest the bird. + +Finally there arrived O'Byrn's night off. It could be employed but in +one way; he must become definitely acquainted with his fate. Behold him, +with set teeth and an air of impending martyrdom, at the Muldoons' door +at eight of the evening. It was a Friday evening, but Micky was +desperate. He breathed hard for a moment, wavered, then rang the bell +heroically. There was a soft stir inside, the door opened. It was dark +in the hall. Micky leaned forward. + +"Is that you, Maisie?" he breathed. "I--" + +"Naw," piped a childish treble, "it ain't Maisie. It's her brudder, +Terence." + +"Sure," murmured Micky confusedly. "Would've known from your general +cut, Terence, but I can't see you. Where's the folks?" + +"All out, Mister Micky," rejoined the youngster, thrusting his tousled +head out of the doorway to inspect the visitor. "Ain't no one to home +but me." + +"Where's Maisie?" Micky demanded in a tone which indicated that Terence +would fill no particular gap as far as he was concerned. + +"Out to a dance," grinned Terence. "Gone with Billy Ryan." Micky's brow +darkened, while Terence's grin grew wider. Billy Ryan! The cavalier who +left a Manhattan to go out for beers! Micky's mind swiftly reverted to +the Ironworkers' ball, to which Ryan had brought the lady and from which +O'Byrn had escorted her home. And now--in a brief second Micky gathered +some luminous ideas in evolution. He pulled himself together. + +"Say, Terence," he murmured, with a cajoling wink, "take this and don't +speak of my havin' called, see?" Terence nodded solemnly and closed the +door, richer by a quarter. Micky strode savagely away, rich in a fund of +swift-risen jealousy and in an empty, aimless night off. + +"Ryan!" he ruminated with a groan. "I could stand for most anyone else. +But a soak like him! Blast it! Can't a girl get next to anything +nowadays but what drinks?" + +And indeed, in these degenerate days, with teetotalers well nigh outside +her ken, many a maiden has had often ample occasion to ask herself that +question. + +The pot having apostrophized the kettle, Micky felt easier, though the +thought of Ryan was productive of inward profanity through all of that +singularly tedious and empty evening. + +There ensued a miserable week for Micky, though it was a fortunate one +for the Courier. Misery produces a wide diversity of results, depending +upon the makeup of the afflicted subject. The one it can render +absolutely useless to the needs of the workaday grind. The other, +beneath its bitter lash, becomes a human dynamo, plunging into the +nepenthe of toil. Of such was Micky, and a nervously brilliant week was +credited to him in consequence. + +But though the course was eminently more beneficial to him and his +endangered journalistic prospects than bootless brooding would have +been, it was a sorry week for him. Moreover, it was an interminably long +one. He would not have believed that such a week, filled with a restless +whirl of work, could have passed so slowly. Conflicting emotions +disquieted him, played pranks with an appetite for meals ordinarily as +reliably fixed as sea tides, filled his days with a wan restlessness and +troubled his sleep. For Micky, though the soft impeachment would have +probably won from him a picturesque denial, was in love, and misery is a +privilege of lovers. + +He watched the mails and the postman. The latter never stopped and Micky +anathematized him in his heart, also a privilege of lovers whenever +thorns and nettles spring up in Arcady. It is curious, this universal +mental arraignment of the postman for the non-delivery of matter never +sent. Why, in all reason, should he be forced to figure as a buffer? Yet +he is, and the rancor against him felt by the disappointed is all the +more bitter because of the absolute necessity for its repression. One +would acquire only merited ridicule and punishment for thrashing the +postman, though one would often like to. One may only glare, and, if the +postman notices it, he doesn't mind. He has grown cynical in service. So +to revert, as the days passed so also did the postman; and Micky, while +feeling quite murderous, simply glared. + +Why didn't she write, and again, why should she? Micky writhed upon the +twin horns of his dilemma. If she wrote, what in reason could she write +except a definite sentence of banishment? If she did not write, what +could the implied message naturally mean but the same? Oh, of course, he +was out of it anyway. But in that case, what of Ryan? Was it possible +that Ryan was considered preferable to him? When that query introduced +itself Micky usually swore. Altogether it was a hard week. + +On one thing, however, he was determined. The matter should be settled, +once for all, on his next night off. Perhaps Terence had been indiscreet +and revealed the secret of his previous fruitless call. Maisie might +expect him on the following Friday night and be away. Well, he would fix +that. So he arranged for Thursday night. A little cunning might insure +at least an audience. + +Behold him, then, on the fateful evening at the Muldoons' door, +heroically despairing. A soft glow shone through the curtained parlor +windows. Within he heard the soft chords of her little organ. She might +have company, Ryan perhaps. O'Byrn clenched his teeth and rang the bell. + +The organ was suddenly silent. To the boy waiting outside, the +succeeding moment of suspense was filled with a tumult of loud heart +beats, with strange throbbings at the temples. Then the door slowly +opened. "Who is there?" asked a voice. + +He stepped inside without a word, laying his hat on the hall table. +Forbiddingly silent, she gazed an instant into his face, glacial blue +eyes searching his own hungry ones, her face so cold as to cause him an +inward shiver. Then without speaking, she entered the little parlor, he +following. + +They sat far apart. Her manner increased the gap immeasurably. Micky +felt dimly that speech would partake of the nature of transmission over +a long-distance telephone to the Klondike. However, he cleared his +throat with some diffidence. It was something of an odd sensation for +him. + +"You were playin'," he ventured. + +"Yes," somewhat pointedly. "I was." + +"Well," he continued, "don't let me interrupt you. I like music." + +"Oh, do you?" indifferently. "Sorry, but the pieces I was playin' are +new ones. I don't know 'em well enough to play 'em before company." + +"So?" he continued, calmly ignoring the reiterated hint. "Well, try some +of the old ones. They're good enough for me." He watched her face +eagerly. + +It did not relax. "I think I've forgotten the old ones, Mr. O'Byrn," she +said slowly. + +"But I haven't," somewhat wistfully. "And it was not so long ago." + +"Not so long ago!" her blue eyes brightening. "Mr. O'Byrn, it was longer +ago than you seem to think." + +"Yes, I guess it was," dejectedly. "It's a long way from 'Micky' to +'Mister' after all." + +The girl's lip curled. "It's your own fault." she retorted. Then with a +sudden burst of hurt resentment, "I couldn't believe it at first," with +an involuntary little shiver, "when I saw you that night. My brother was +pretty mad, I can tell you, said I ought to shake you. Such a sight!" + +"So your brother was with you," exclaimed Micky, half to himself. One +maddening surmise had been set at rest. The thought of Ryan had haunted +him of late. + +"Yes, who did you think it was? Couldn't you see him?" with sarcasm. + +"I'm afraid I couldn't," with a humility strange in him, "but I could +see you, Maisie, and it sobered me." + +"High time!" she flashed. "But then," with an impatient gesture, "It +ain't pleasant to talk about, so cut it out. What did you come here for, +anyway?" + +He straightened. "To apologize, Maisie, that's all," he said simply. +"Just that and to ask for another chance. I sha'n't whine or excuse +myself. Only this. They gave me another chance at the office. Do I get +one here?" + +She tapped the carpet with an impatient foot. Her eyes were downcast, +her cheeks flushed. Micky watched her wistfully. Suddenly she stole a +swift glance at him, her blue eyes brimming with tears. + +"Oh," she burst out, a pitiful break in her voice, "if I hadn't seen +you--that way. It nearly killed me. And every time I've thought of you +since--I've seen you--like that! Oh, Micky--" Her voice was lost in +sobs, stifled in her handkerchief. + +He sprang from his chair, kneeling at her side, stroking her hair with +trembling fingers, pouring out his soul in broken, incoherent words. + +"I'm a beast, Maisie, a beast! Don't cry so--dear. It's always been so, +it's what's done for me all my life. My mother's dead, thank God! She +died before she knew. But my father," striking his clenched hand on the +arm of her chair, "he's got it to answer for, wherever he is, living or +dead! He was a devil, Maisie, and he made me one. He fed me the stuff +when I was a baby and I took to it like milk; it was his cursed blood in +me, I suppose. It's driven me from pillar to post, from a job to the +gutter, time and again. It's been up one minute and down the next with +me. Oh, I'm not fit to touch you, Maisie, I'm a dog to ask it, but I +tell you that, if I play out the game alone, this thing will drive me to +hell! Would you--stand by me, help me? It's always been stronger than I +am, perhaps it always will be, but Maisie, I think I can beat it out, +can be a man--with you!" + +It was out at last, the sum of his passionate longing, poured out +despairingly in a flood of wild unrecking words; without forethought, +wrung from him by the sudden yearning born of the sight of the girl in +tears. Now that it was over he remained silent a moment, still torn by +his emotion and by hers. Then, slowly and fearfully, his stinging eyes +sought her face. It was buried in her little hands. Tears trickled +through her clasped fingers. + +He rose heavily to his feet. What madness had possessed him, what +presumption! He had asked her to marry--a drunkard. He laughed with +bitter brevity. The sound brought the sight of a startled face with +tear-wet eyes. + +"Overlook it, Maisie," he asked desolately, as he turned away, "and +good-by. I don't know how I came to do it--but you cried." + +He was half way to the hall. There was a soft step behind him, a light +touch upon his arm. He turned swiftly, the ghost of a wan hope in his +haggard eyes. + +"Ah, Micky," she whispered, with a smile whose tender memory would live +for him in endless summer through autumn's falling leaves till winter's +winding sheets,--"don't you--don't you know--why--I cried?" + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +A WAGER + + +Micky told Dick about it one evening, for his heart was full. His +engagement was a serious thing to him, and something like fear mingled +with his hope of the future. He was deeply sensible of his past +mistakes, but he knew himself too well to look to the coming days with +unshrinking confidence. He hoped, very humbly; that was all. + +Dick was sympathetic, he understood. His was one of those rare natures +that invite, comprehend and respect confidences. "You know my record, +Dick," Micky had said. "There isn't much in it of a domestic tinge. But +just the same, when I happen to get a night off and sit in the little +parlor with her, it seems--" with a queer little break in his +voice,--"why Dick, it seems as if I had at last--got home!" + +And Dick had wrung Micky's hand until it ached, and assured him in his +deep bass voice, eloquent with fervent earnestness, that he was all +right, and poor Micky had begun to hope that, after a long and checkered +season, he was. + +The city was now fully roused to the contest that was being waged for +its control between the Fusionists and Democrats, and, as a natural +sequence, they were busy in the newspaper offices. One thing was quite +evident, however, which was that the unexpected _coup_ made by the +opponents of Shaughnessy, at the Democratic convention, had rendered the +chances of the Fusionist ticket dubious, to say the least. In fact, the +Fusionists had been robbed, to a large extent, of their thunder. The +spectacular repudiation of Shaughnessy by his own convention, the +nomination of a man for the mayoralty against whom no word of civil or +political taint had ever been breathed, had greatly lessened the +Fusionists' chances of success. Where they had expected to be able to +deal mighty blows, by pointing to the shameless effrontery of +Shaughnessy in forcing a malodorous city ticket through his convention, +they were now compelled to take another tack. The situation had been +made the subject of an earnest conference between Colonel Westlake and +the men controlling other pro-Fusionist newspapers directly after the +Democratic convention and its surprising results. + +So, in the assaults which the opposing newspapers, led by the Courier, +were making upon the Democracy there was no hint of detraction of the +Judge. How could there be? They contented themselves with the assumption +that the respected and able jurist had been imposed upon. To be sure, +Shaughnessy, having become notorious, had been sacrificed by his keen +associates in their own interest. Should they be successful at the +polls, the argument was made that Judge Boynton and some of his well +meaning associates upon the ticket, despite their good intentions, would +be powerless to cleanse the Augean stables because they would be +prevented from so doing by forces within their own party. Fusion would +furnish a new broom, guaranteed to sweep clean. + +This was strong and logical reasoning, but there were signs that it was +ineffective. There was a strong retort to be made, which was that the +purifying movement in the Democracy had come from within. The leaders +named were above suspicion; some of them were recognized bitter enemies +of Shaughnessy. Men of influence who had joined the Fusionists, though +Democrats, openly returned, holding that the necessity for Fusion no +longer existed. As the Democrats had a natural ascendency in the city, +the outlook for Fusion was on the whole growing rather depressing. + +Following his humiliation in the convention, Shaughnessy had left the +city for several days. Upon returning, he apparently took up the life of +a recluse. He confined himself strictly to the affairs of his wholesale +house, dividing his time equally between the office and his lodgings. He +was no longer at headquarters, where the sight of him was once so +familiar; he had apparently dropped all interest in politics, though +nobody dared to ask him anything about it. When Shaughnessy first struck +the town, said the old stagers, he was quite decently approachable, but +he had ceased so to be for years past. It was noted, however, by some +who chanced to meet him upon the street and glanced curiously at him, +that he was ghastlier than ever, with sunken cheeks and dull eyes. He +looked ill. + +But there was one who had not ceased to regard Mr. Shaughnessy with +suspicion, a suspicion that grew day by day, and that was Micky O'Byrn. +When Shaughnessy left town after his rout, O'Byrn muttered, "Up to more +deviltry. Wonder what it is now?" When he returned, and quietly forsook +his old political haunts, Micky's sandy eyebrows were skeptically +elevated and he murmured, "Underground! He'll come up somewhere." For +Micky relied upon the evidence of his keen Irish eyes. Whether the act +was committed through arrangement or involuntarily, Shaughnessy had +winked. O'Byrn reasoned that winks by a man of Shaughnessy's calibre +were not wasted. Curious that a "slick duck" like Grady, as Micky +characterized that smooth orator, had required a wink. Perhaps he +hadn't, perhaps Shaughnessy had simply grown over-anxious during the +short interval between the speeches. Well, if Shaughnessy had grown +unwittingly careless, that was his look-out, his and O'Byrn's. O'Byrn +was looking out. He had said nothing and he was devoutly hopeful that he +would have a chance to saw wood. + +He was at Maisie's one evening, one of his customary "off-nights." These +nights were coming to him of late as oases in the deserts of weeks. They +had chatted, talked seriously of their plans, sung together to Maisie's +accompaniment on the little organ, and now Micky regretfully rose, with +a glance at his watch. "Well, girl," said he, "I've got to slide. It's +gettin' late. Your pa'll be assistin' me." + +She watched him with wistful blue eyes, loth that he leave, though she +knew the hour beckoned his departure. He stood near the big lamp with +its red shade, his queer features being mellowed, so to speak, in the +ruddy glow. He grinned benignly at her as he reached for his coat. +Anticipating him, she helped him into it. + +"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed rebelliously, "isn't it the worst ever, this +newspaper business! And a morning paper at that, with your hours turned +wrong side out and a night off only once in an age! Micky, dear, why +don't you get into something civilized?" + +"You know, Maisie, the Constitution says all men were created equal," he +observed soberly. + +"Sure it does, but what's that got to do with it? What are you up to +now?" + +"Why, nothin'," he replied, an impish twinkle in his eye, "only it +depends. One man may be as good as another, but it's up to him to prove +it. A bunch of Socialist Democrats, in a town I was in once, put up a +hostler for city judge against a couple of old lawyers on the regular +tickets. Said a hostler was as good as a lawyer in this free country. +True enough, in a limited sense. I know a lot of hostlers that are +better hostlers than a lot of lawyers that are lawyers. I suppose you +follow me? But, all the same, these fellows were lame in their argument +for this reason. Their hostler candidate might have had horse sense to +burn, but he hadn't read law. There's a lot of difference between horse +sense and the law, Maisie. They finally took the hostler off and put a +cobbler on, who came in last. Now don't strike me, Maisie, that last was +accidental. Really, I didn't intend it." + +"I should hope not!" with sincerity. "But I don't see what all this +rigmarole has to do with what we are saying, or were. Have you lost your +mind?" + +"If ever I did, the finder would return it," he retorted whimsically. +"It would make him dizzy. But to return to cases, what I said has got +everything to do with what we said. Can't see it? Well, men may be +created equal but most of 'em never learn arithmetic. The fellow who +does has got 'em stopped. He keeps on addin', while they--oh, they're +just multiplyin' every minute. They're all around you, I'm one of 'em +myself. The mathematical sharp, who made a specialty on finance and +knows the idiosyncrasies of a dollar better than a mother knows her +child, keeps on subtractin' the other fellows from their money. When it +comes to the division, why they're all workin' for him. That's +Rockefeller, and by the same token, that's me. We're the limit on the +extremes. He's got everything and I'm livin' on the rest. I've got +nothin' and he's got it. See? + +"There's a happy medium, but it doesn't help the majority much, for most +of us are on pay rolls. For instance, one man owns the Courier and the +rest of us are working for him. If I changed to something else, I'd +still be workin' for someone. Why? Because the only line in arithmetic +in which I could make good was a sequence of ciphers with no bigger +figure before it. You catch the point, don't you? It's due to the +mercenary age. Nominally I'm free and equal. Actually I'm about a +'steenth of one per cent. See? But what's the dif'? What you need in +this dizzy old world is philosophy. I've got it to burn, but Standard +Oil can't scorch it. Here's a motto for you, Maisie, and you can paste +it in that funny new jigger you call a hat. It'll keep you smilin' on +wash day, and that's a test for a woman. It's just this: take it as it +comes, and, if it doesn't come, don't take it." + +He was gone, this queer little man-gamin of vagrant moods, shifting as +the winds, yet for the most bubbling with reckless cheeriness. Humor was +the predominant note of his being. Its broad grace mellowed him; would +keep him sound and sweet at heart, whatever the sum of the coming years. +Did the winds blow fair or ill, he had within him the essence of logical +living; a whimsical sense of proportion that enabled him to view himself +impartially with all others, one of myriad puppets in the show. A +success or a failure he might become, as the world judges, but until the +end he would be too large for that littleness which is too often a +hallmark of success, the littleness of petty vanity. So, with this +greatest gift the Creator can give one of his children, the humorous +sense of proportion that can make if need be a joke of futility, Micky +would go on to the end, to success or failure; alike with heart +uncankered and a laugh on his lips. There would never transpire a +misanthropic Micky. + +For a long time after O'Byrn's departure, Maisie sat still in the Morris +chair, a pensive look on her pretty face, with vague eyes bent dreamily +on the flaming wood in the tiny fireplace; for the nights had grown +chill with the first presage of winter and the fenders glowed with warm +hospitality on company nights. The busy flames licked the blackened +slabs; hurrying over the charred, desolate spaces; leaping in triumph as +a conquered fragment fell, under the espionage of a shower of +scintillant sparks. The tongues of flame, with redoubled energy, again +lapped the wood, eating into its vitals, withering its fibres with fiery +breath, crumbling it piecemeal in a crematory of elemental ashes. At +last, always working upward, the flames burst exultantly from scorched +fissures in the topmost slab and curled in weird shapes above it; shapes +that now approached a certain sane coherence; that again were +indeterminate and distorted, vaguely writhing in a dim haze, like one's +future. Finally the fire, spending its force, dulled and died, the ruddy +flames slowly paling like the fading roses of a summer sunset. Then +there was the black, desolate end; all light extinguished save for the +baleful, red-eyed glare of a few scattered embers, dying on the hearth. +Maisie sat erect with a sudden start, stealing an apprehensive glance at +the clock. With a long sigh and a little shiver, she rose slowly, +extinguished the low-turned lamp and departed for bed. + +Meanwhile, Micky, a red-eyed cigar in a corner of his mouth, had walked +leisurely and thoughtfully toward the city. His hands thrust deep in his +overcoat pockets, he strode unheedingly on, lost in a wistful reverie. +What a flower was this little girl of his, to be sure! And he--what had +he done to deserve her? A little self-examination is good for a man, +especially if it be followed by a little proper self-disgust. O'Byrn +walked on in singularly chastened mood. The past? Ah, it was done; why +waste time in regrets when one is young? The present was of sunshine in +a blue sky; the future-- + +O'Byrn's shoulders rose in a little, involuntary, uneasy shrug. He +turned a corner just then and looked up. The next instant he had retired +unobtrusively into a dark hallway, where he stood, staring across the +street. + +O'Byrn could scarcely have explained his definite impulse for doing +this. It was simply the half-unconscious manifestation of the news +instinct. Without any needed pause for reasoning, Micky's news faculty +had connected two apparently irrelevant facts as significantly allied +with each other, prompting him to remain in the hope of securing +something worth while. The wholesale liquor establishment of Shaughnessy +stood just across the street. The curtains of the office were drawn, +but O'Byrn saw the reflection of a light behind them. Furthermore, the +sound which had brought Micky to a realization of his surroundings, a +moment before, was that of a carriage, which had been halted a little +way up the dark street, the corner of which O'Byrn had just turned. So +O'Byrn stood in the shadow, watching Shaughnessy's office. + +He had not long to wait. A few moments and he beheld the corner of one +of the office window shades drawn slightly to one side. Somebody was +evidently looking out. Nobody was in sight, for the street was a quiet +one and was deserted at that hour. The next moment the door was opened +cautiously and a man emerged. Crossing the street swiftly he passed by +O'Byrn so closely that the reporter could have touched him, and turned +the corner. Then was soon audible the sound of receding wheels. + +O'Byrn whistled softly as he resumed his walk toward the city. The light +of the aroused news instinct was in his eyes. Here was something +tangible, bearing out surmises that had seemed wild to himself. What +need had Judge Boynton, the esteemed Democratic candidate for mayor, to +be secretly in the office of the deposed boss, Shaughnessy? Deposed, +indeed! Micky laughed softly, then clenched his hands. + +"Oh, if I can only get onto it!" he breathed savagely. "Whew! Lord! +Lord! What a story!" + +Had Micky chanced to look around at that moment he might have seen a man +following him, who, had O'Byrn known it, could have given him some +interesting and definite pointers on that desired story. The man had +emerged from around the corner of Shaughnessy's building a moment after +Judge Boynton left and Micky had started down the street. Gaining the +opposite side of the thoroughfare, the fellow, who had evidently been +eavesdropping, followed O'Byrn, keeping some distance in the rear, until +a point was reached where Micky turned to go toward the Courier office. +The other man kept straight on. + +A little later, as he had figured upon doing, Micky met some of the boys +in a lunch room which they were wont to visit at that hour. Dick was +there, and Mead and Fatty Stearns. The latter was talking. + +"Gee!" exclaimed Fatty, breathlessly, while the expletive blew a +formidable charge of bread crumbs toward the shrinking company, "but +there'll be doin's this election! There'll be doin's! Watcha think, +Micky?" + +"I think you need an interpreter, Fatty, when you try to talk with your +mouth full," replied O'Byrn. "Don't talk, Fatty. You sound like a dog +that's trying to breathe in July; you do, really. One of those +expectorating dogs." + +"Gee! What's those?" demanded Fatty, helplessly. "Spitz!" replied Micky, +and dodged a crust launched by the justly indignant Glenwood. + +"Cheese it, fellows," put in Mead. "About this election. Fusion's got no +chance now. Judge Boynton'll win in a walk." + +"For how much?" in a flash. O'Byrn's hand was in his pocket. + +"Well," remarked Mead, reflectively, "I'm not exactly lined with dough, +but I'll put an X on it. Have to stipulate that it's a futurity, though; +for, needless to say, I haven't as much as that in my clothes three +days after pay day." + +"Neither have I," laughed O'Byrn. "This diggin' down was a bluff. But +I'll see your ten all right. This bum line of witnesses will take +notice. Loser touches someone to pay the winner. All fine 'nd dandy." + +Mead acquiesced, albeit with an implied something of uncertainty in his +demeanor. The rotund Stearns voiced it in nervous words. + +"Gee! Mead," he exclaimed, "you're a chump to bet your stuff on another +fellow's game." + +"Go die somewhere, Fatty," suggested Micky. "There's no game yet, but," +with a queer grin at Mead, "there's going to be before this thing's +over. Want to renig, Mead? Can if you want to." + +"No!" indignantly rejoined Mead. "I'll see it through. If you really +have something in your Irish sleeve, O'Byrn, I'll bet it's worth the +money." + +"Nothin' yet," murmured Micky, as they prepared to depart, "but I tell +you, boys, that sleeve's a Christmas stockin' just now, and I'm gettin' +eye-strain watchin' for Santa Claus." + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +A DISCREDITED HENCHMAN + + +Micky strolled into the Courier's local room one evening, and, after +hanging up his overcoat and hat, removed also his under coat and +unbuttoned his vest. He then leisurely detached his cuffs and rolled up +his shirt sleeves, to get arm-room, as he used to term it. Then, having +indulged a taste for preliminaries which he was fond of observing, +whenever he had the time, he sailed in. A half hour later he had +finished his task and turned in the copy. There was a temporary lull, +and O'Byrn leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his red +head, and dreamily watched the rings of smoke wreathing upward from the +tip of his cigar. + +"Wherever did you get a gash like that?" inquired a voice behind him, +and Micky felt a finger touch his wrist. Mead, who also chanced to be +disengaged at the moment, took an adjacent chair and stretched himself +out comfortably for a chat. + +Micky lazily extended his right arm and bestowed a curious glance upon a +long, livid scar, just above the wrist. "Oh, that?" he answered. "That +was an accident. Got it when I was too young to remember. Beastly night, +eh?" + +"Yes, trying to blow up a nasty rain, I guess. Where've you been +tonight?" + +"Oh, out in society," grinned Micky. "Harkins sent me to do that Van +Courts' recep' 'nd ball. Careless servants, though. I was glad to get +away alive." + +"Why?" + +"Well, I was discreetly in the background, of course, and was edging +across to get a better view when I fell over a pile of things on the +floor that they'd failed to brush up. Hostess gave 'em the glacial eye." + +"I should think she would," warmly commented Mead. "What was the stuff?" + +"Why, a bunch of ultras had just been standing there," demurely +explained O'Byrn, "and I fell over the dropped r's, that's all." + +Mead viewed him darkly. "You ought to be killed," he remarked. "Such +cheap and unseemly levity is unworthy of one who is pursuing this +honorable, elevating, expanding career of journalism." This with an +oratorical flourish. + +A shadow of seriousness crept into O'Byrn's twinkling eyes. "Of course +you're in fun, in a way," he told Mead, "but, just the same, you're +inclined to take your 'mission' seriously. My boy, you're due to shed a +raft of illusions. You'll find this 'career,' as you call it, is a good +deal like a hobby horse. Pleasant motion, but doesn't land you anywhere. +There's nothin' to it. I heard you talking the other day about 'the +great equipment it gives a fellow for a start in life.' That's all right +if taken in time, like the measles, but let me tell you something. You +stick at this, and stick and stick, and by the time you're ready for +that start, you'll be backin' up. + +"You were a cub a while ago, Mead, and you made good. Naturally you +feel good about that, for a lot of 'em don't. Well, you needn't feel +good. You've got the germ, and it's fatal. You're to be pitied, for +you're thoroughly _en rapport_ with the job." + +O'Byrn had warmed to his subject; his cigar stub described wild +flourishes. "I knew a young fellow once, in the middle west, who went +into the reporting line. Brighter'n a dollar and full of ambition and +the opportunity hop. Tried hard, but hadn't the nose, couldn't make good +nohow. Old man called him up on the carpet one day. Old man went it for +a while and then the gosling got a chance for a squawk. + +"'Why,' says he in an injured way, 'I cover my assignments.' + +"'Oh, yes,' snaps the old man,--and he was one of the best in the +business,--'you're all right on the stereotype, tellin' the people what +they already know about. Any lunkhead can report a baby show. The +mothers are there to tell him about it. But that's only half the game. +The other and the hardest half is in diggin' out and tellin' 'em what +they don't know about. That's what you're for and it's where you fall +down.' + +"Well, the old man fired him. He was lucky. He's gettin' the salary of +three of us now and he's gettin' it out of straight life. Manages a +district. The old man who fired him died a while ago. Next time my +friend passed through that town he stopped off, just to shed some tears +of gratitude on the old man's grave. + +"Oh, you grin now, Mead, and you're thinkin' to yourself 'Old Carrots, +the senile cynic.' But just you stick at it, and fail to sidestep the +Juggernaut, and in years to come you'll remember the words your Uncle +Mike is now addressin' to you and you'll feel the same sentiment the +old farmer from up north wrote on the back of a check. + +"Never heard of it? Well, it's true. Old fellow was from Clayville +Corners. Got a check one day for something. Never saw anything like that +before; always took his money straight. Someone told him to take it into +town and get it cashed at the bank. So he blows in and shoves the slip +in front of the cashier. Cashier says, 'You'll have to indorse this.' +Old man was rather rattled but stayed game. Took it over to the desk and +scribbled on the back this sentiment: + + "'i hartily Indors this Chek.' + +"That'll be you, Mead, in the coming days. You'll think what Micky told +you and you'll heartily indorse. But it won't be checks. The only checks +you get in this cussed business are over-draws." + +"Nice, roseate view you take of your calling," sarcastically remarked +Mead. "Why in thunder don't you get out of it?" + +Micky's grin was illuminating and forgiving. "Because I can't do +anything else," he admitted frankly. "But you can. Why don't you? Try +politics. It's the graft these days. Then bimeby you can retire, like +Shaughnessy, and will never have to work anybody any more. But just you +stick at this newspaper stunt, and after a while you find, to your +surprise, that 'the zest and thrill of news gettin' which is the fillip +of the reporter's jaded life' is gettin' a dull edge. Of course, you're +older than you used to be, and that explains most things, includin' the +multiplyin' of troubles that come to you while you wait. The chiefest +one is in your speed. It's O. K. when you're young and your blood is +boundin'. You feel like that brute owned by the enthusiastic French +Canadian. He was workin' a horse trade, and says: 'Dat hoss, she trot +half-past two. He no trot half-past two, I give you to it!' + +"Now, the trouble with the vet reporter is that by the time he gets to +an age that is considered the prime of life in any other line, why, he +can't half trot past anybody, and he gets scratched. And I think that +will hold you for a while, Mead. Think it over." + +O'Byrn yawned, glanced at the clock, and rose. "Well," said he, airily, +"I'm off, don't you know, to see if I can find something to make me +forget that society shindy. Oh, ya-a-s! Bubbles! you rude fellah; there +now, Bubbles! Go 'way, Mead. You're not so bad, you know, but you don't +belong. Tra, la! old chap, be good. What a pity you have to work for a +living!" With which parting arrant nonsense O'Byrn considerately took +himself off. + +Arrived at the street, Micky's jovial grin faded and he walked along +with a serious air that had been far more frequent with him of late. +There was a sober-sided Micky that few of his mates knew. Often now, +when the little Irishman was alone, the reckless light would fade in the +blue eyes, leaving them unwontedly serious; the jovial grin would quit +the freckled face, to be replaced by that pensive shadow that tells of +wistful, wondering speculation regarding the veiled mystery of futurity. +Such the spell of introspection that is cast when love comes to one, +leading to grave heart-searchings, to the tentative facing of one's +soul. There is as much of shadow as of sunlight in the path of true +love, but there is substance in the shadow. + +Micky was walking swiftly along, oblivious to his animated +surroundings, when a touch upon an elbow arrested his attention. He +glanced up, somewhat bewildered, and stopped. One of Maisie's brothers, +Tom, was facing him. + +"Hello, O'Byrn," abruptly remarked Muldoon. "Saw you passing me, lookin' +dreamy-eyed, so I stopped you. Thought you might want to know. Maisie's +sick." + +"Sick!" echoed Micky, a scared look in his face. "Why, what--" + +"Oh, don't worry like that." reassuringly. "We called in the doctor; he +says there's no danger. She'll be all right." + +"Yes," Micky returned anxiously, "but what's the matter, man? Why, she +was all right Friday evening. I was there." + +"Yes," returned her brother, "it came on real sudden. It's that fever +that's going around; she came down last night. But she's got it mild, so +don't you worry. It's too late now, she's asleep, but run in tomorrow +for a minute sometime, can't you? It'll do her good. And don't worry, +old man." With a hearty slap on Micky's shoulder Tom passed on. + +Micky continued on his way, his heart heavy with the news. Of course, +she was not in danger, but illness in itself is depressing to the young. +They hate the sound of the word; the sight of suffering inspires in them +an odd, rebellious impatience. The sun is needed to brighten the gray +old world; why is it so often behind a cloud? "Poor little girl!" +murmured Micky, the tears starting to his eyes. Why, only last Friday +night she had been the picture of health and happiness, and they had sat +side by side on the little sofa and talked of their modest plans. Yes, +and he had run into the store the next day and chatted with her for a +moment. And now she lay sick and helpless at home. A great wave of +tenderness suffused O'Byrn's warm Irish heart. Would he call to see her +for a moment on the morrow? Would he? + +Micky pressed on at a furious pace, impatiently winking smarting eyes, +puffing like a locomotive at a cigar whose end flared like a headlight. +For the moment he was oblivious to his surroundings, though hurrying +through a crowded, brilliantly lighted street. Mechanically he turned a +corner into a darker one. A moment more and he was recalled to earth by +a dry, remembered voice, a voice that broke disagreeably in upon his +reverie. + +"Can you give me a light?" it inquired, as Micky halted. "You seem to +have enough." + +Micky proffered his raging cigar and watched the man curiously as he +lighted it. Oddly enough, considering O'Byrn's wide acquaintance since +his brief stay in town, the two had never met. Under the dim radiance of +an adjacent old street lamp, Shaughnessy's face gleamed ghastly white, +the black moustache had an odd, limp droop. His weed lighted, he handed +Micky's cigar back with a slight nod of acknowledgment and was about to +turn away. + +O'Byrn's deviltry, irrepressible and eternal, asserted itself. "You're +lookin' bad, Mr. Shaughnessy," he remarked with impudent solicitude. +"'Tain't good for you, this night air. Don't you go to them; you don't +have to. Make 'em come to you." + +For once Shaughnessy's impassive mask was disturbed, which Micky noted +with impish satisfaction. To be sure, it was not much. Where many a face +would have been curiously distorted, the basilisk eyes of Shaughnessy +just widened and glared a moment, that was all. Then they narrowed and +became expressionless, while Shaughnessy deliberately removed his cigar +from his mouth and thoughtfully emitted a cloud of smoke. + +"Who are you?" he inquired casually. + +Micky had recourse to his card case. "Allow me," he remarked politely. + +Shaughnessy glanced at it and thrust it in his vest pocket. "I've heard +of you," he acknowledged. "Fine night, eh? Good evening." He moved +leisurely away. O'Byrn hailed him and he turned. + +"I haven't one of your cards, Mr. Shaughnessy," suggested Micky, +grinning wickedly. + +Shaughnessy vouchsafed him a slight, sneering smile. "I don't think you +need it," he retorted, "but I'm glad, I'm sure, that you gave me yours." +He passed on and turned the corner. + +Micky was a veteran newsgetter, which means that he was also a good +detective. Wary as Shaughnessy was, he could not have known that he was +being shadowed, though O'Byrn noticed him several times casting +apprehensive glances to the rear. He smiled grimly at the implied +tribute to his reputation and discreetly kept out of sight. In the +meantime he had necessarily dropped some distance behind the boss, +though carefully following him as he traversed successive streets. +Suddenly, however, he turned sharply at a cross-alley, and when O'Byrn, +hurrying his pace, reached there, Shaughnessy was nowhere to be seen. + +Micky stood perplexed, cursing softly. He hurried to the end of the +alley to Lawrence Street and looked up and down it, without result. He +walked aimlessly here and there about the section, but no glad sight of +Shaughnessy rewarded his keen eyes. + +After some little time, however, O'Byrn saw a familiar figure crossing +Lawrence Street, a block from the point where the alley intersected. The +Irishman was instantly alert, for the man was former Alderman Goldberg. +"Gad!" muttered Micky, "the woods seem to be full of 'retired' +politicians." Gaining the opposite side of the street, Goldberg turned +west and walked about two blocks, with O'Byrn discreetly behind, across +the way. Suddenly Goldberg disappeared within a doorway. Micky chuckled +softly. + +"Up over Hogan's, eh?" he muttered. "So that's the trysting place." He +must investigate, surely, but not just now. Perhaps there were other +birds of the sinister brood to arrive. O'Byrn, with the canny discretion +born of long reportorial experience, lurked for the present in a +shadowed doorway. In a little while his caution was justified, for there +arrived simultaneously at the "trysting place" the lanky Dick Peterson +and the rotund Willie Shute, known to Micky for the precious pair of +political rascals they were. "That fake convention! Oh, what a bluff!" +breathed the Irishman, with a definite admiration in his subdued tones. +One could honestly admire a masterly _coup_ like that, nor could he +withhold a certain tribute to the ability of the scoundrel responsible +for it. Shaughnessy was a genius, burrowing in the dark places; where +the searching sunlight would have been fatal. + +Micky waited a little longer, but the circle was evidently complete. +They would not naturally keep the boss waiting long, for O'Byrn made no +doubt that he was with them. The Irishman was fired with an intense +desire to hear that conference. Already he knew that Shaughnessy was +there, and matters were proceeding under the same masterly hand as of +yore; only it was "the hidden hand" now, and all the more deadly for +that reason. O'Byrn was convinced that he ought to be an unnoted auditor +of that meeting, though he knew there were difficulties in the way. It +was not probable that Hogan neglected precautions against any possible +disturbance of these little conferences, for it was a natural +supposition that he had his orders to that effect. + +However, nothing was to be gained by standing and speculating about it. +So Micky, with sundry unspoken prayers for immunity from a broken head, +crossed the street and approached the doorway. He opened the door +cautiously and slipped inside. By a single gas light, turned religiously +low, he saw the white aproned form of a waiter standing at the head of +the flight of stairs. In that moment the man started down stairs. + +The way to the cafe was through a long, dark passage, at the end of +which the dim gas light did not penetrate. In an instant the wily O'Byrn +had retreated into this passage, where he flattened against the wall. +The sleeve of the waiter brushed his body as that worthy passed on into +the cafe. A gust of boisterous talk and tipsy laughter sounded from the +saloon as the door was opened. Then it was closed, and Micky, without a +second's hesitation, made for the stairs and crept softly up, trusting +to luck. + +He heard a murmur of voices from the larger of the two rooms that faced +a narrow hall, which in turn looked out upon a side street through its +two small windows. Between the two rooms there was a narrow passage, +terminating in a flight of steep stairs which led down into Hogan's +kitchen. These stairs were seldom used. The building, an architectural +anomaly in the first place, had been further mangled by the odd ideas of +Hogan. + +Micky slipped around into this friendly little passageway just as the +waiter came up stairs with a loaded tray. Micky heard him knock, enter +the room, and shortly return. To his disgust the Irishman failed to hear +the waiter's descending footsteps. Evidently he was supposed to stand +guard and see that the coast was kept clear. + +Micky swore silently. Then he made a discovery which filled him with +glee. The light streamed from the all-important room through an aperture +high in the wall; evidently a disused stovepipe hole, which Hogan had +carelessly forgotten to cover after he put in his furnace. More than +this, Micky noted, in the dim light of other gas jets in the hall +outside, that directly under this hole stood a small but substantial +table, on exceptionally high legs. + +To noiselessly gain the top of the table occupied but an instant for the +agile Irishman. His eager, freckled face was thrust close to the +observatory. He had a swift glimpse of that precious group, the charmed +circle complete, and then occurred a thing that froze his blood. + +Suddenly Goldberg, Goldberg of the illimitable brow, sprang to his feet +with shaking fist and crimsoned face. He extended his arm; the swollen +fist resolved itself into a single accusing finger, pointed straight at +O'Byrn. Goldberg's little pig eyes shot fire, he glared murderously at +the stove pipe hole. "Oh, you spy! you damned spy!" he yelled. Micky +waited to hear no more. + +He gained the floor at a jump and swung around the corner. The +unsuspecting waiter stood directly between him and the front stairs. +Micky lowered his head and charged like a lively little bull. The dazed +waiter crashed to the floor and Micky gained the bottom of the stairs in +three bounds. + +In that very instant, however, the sound of a loud commotion, a volley +of curses, came from above. Instead of gaining the street, O'Byrn +instinctively retreated into the dark passage between the stairs and the +cafe, where he crouched and waited. The next moment, with a succession +of bumps, some object came thudding down the stairs and reached the +bottom with a deep groan. There was a rush of feet on the landing above, +eager to follow. + +In a flash O'Byrn had sprung forward, turning off the single gas jet, +flinging the door wide open. Then, as a second heavy body came tumbling +down the stairs, evidently through a stumble in the darkness, O'Byrn +stooped, and gathering a limp, senseless form in his arms, gained the +street. Dragging his burden, he wheeled into the adjoining alley. He +heard swift footsteps in the street. Goldberg hurried by, limping and +cursing. He it was who had fallen down stairs. + +Micky chuckled. "'Twasn't me they were after, at all," he muttered. Then +he bent low, gazing sharply into the white face of his senseless burden. +He gave a start of surprise. + +It was Slade. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +USEFUL INFORMATION + + +O'Byrn's eyes glistened. Here were possibilities, to be sure, but the +first thing to do was to get out of that quarter, which might be too +warm for comfort in a few minutes. Even as the reflection struck him, +Micky backed close against the wall, in the deepest shadows, as a man +rushed past him through the alley. It was Dick Peterson. The whole gang +must be out looking for Slade. To add to the discomfort of the +situation, the weather made good its threat of many hours' standing and +it began to rain. Slade lay inert, still unconscious from the fall. +Micky scratched his head in deep perplexity. He had no intention of +leaving the fellow, but what should he do with him? + +Fortune was kind. At that moment a cab swung into the alley from +Lawrence Street at a leisurely pace. The driver was evidently taking a +short cut to more travelled thoroughfares. O'Byrn halted him and invoked +his assistance in loading Slade into the vehicle. "My friend's drunk," +he laconically explained, to which the cabby grunted a gruff assent. + +Slade had recovered his jarred senses by the time the cab arrived at a +point near Micky's lodging, and the Irishman prudently stopped the +driver, and paying him, dismissed him. It would never do to leave a +clear trail for Shaughnessy's gang, should they chance to stumble upon +it at all. He asked the still dazed Slade to wait for him a few minutes +in an adjacent drug store while he hurried over to the city hall, which +was near at hand, and telephoned the Courier office, informing Mr. +Harkins that he had a chance for a future "beat" that would have to be +improved at once, and he wouldn't be back. "All right, keep at work on +it. We won't need you," Harkins telephoned, and Micky rejoined Slade. + +He piloted Slade to his lodgings, took him to his room, lighted his gas +heater and the two jets and installed his guest in the big easy chair +which the room boasted. He took the rocker himself, drawing it +confidentially close to Slade's chair. He then produced cigars, holding +a match for Slade to light his weed. "Smoke up, old man," remarked +Micky, cordially. "It'll be comfortably warm here in a few minutes. +Stretch out and pull yourself together. You got a nasty fall." Slade +smiled slightly, without words, and arranged himself luxuriously in the +big chair, puffing thoughtfully at his weed. A pleasant glow stole +through the room. Micky, also puffing methodically, was silent as his +companion, philosophically waiting for the spirit to move. Cautiously +watching Slade, he was gratified to see a sullen, smouldering fire in +the queer black eyes, ordinarily as indifferent as a Chinaman's. Slade +would evidently be in a confidential mood in a few moments, and Micky +could well afford to wait. + +Not many newspaper men could have expected Nick Slade, accredited heeler +for the Shaughnessy gang, to wax confidential, under any circumstances, +to a representative of the press. His very presence at that moment, in +the room of a reporter of the Courier, of all papers, was anomalous. But +O'Byrn was shrewd. He had learned early that success for the reporter on +a daily newspaper depends on his being all things to all men. Tact is +the little key that unlocks all doors. A hundred different plans of +campaign are needed for a hundred different men, yet every man must be +met on a broad and common field of friendliness. Anything short of that +curtails the reporter's field of usefulness. One shorter sighted than +Micky would perhaps have avoided making Slade's acquaintance in the +beginning, on the ground that he was not a respectable person. To be +sure he was not. Slade himself would be the last to question the +impeachment. Because of this very lack of respectability, Slade's good +graces were valuable to Micky, for a large proportion of the news that +the public revels in is garnered from the ranks of the non-respectable. +There is little in the life of your ordinary, respectable citizen to +keep the typesetters busy, for there is nothing sensational in virtue +unless it be possessed by a politician. Then it is inexplicable. But the +record of the ordinary esteemed citizen can usually be summed up in the +horns of life's trilemma: birth, marriage and death, unless, indeed, he +excels at golf. The newspapers still devote considerable space to it. + +Slade knew the men who made much of the real news of the town, the news +with fat head-lines. To be sure, many of them figured in it unwillingly, +but that was a minor consideration, for their doings often made and sold +extras. Chance had thrown Slade in Micky's way early in the Irishman's +career in the town, and the reporter's trained journalistic sense told +him that Slade's confidence would be valuable. So it had been. The +episode in Goldberg's saloon, when Slade evaded wrath that fell upon the +luckless head of O'Byrn, had not ended their acquaintance. Micky had +found occasion to do Slade some good turns since then. And now +Slade,--from ambuscade, to be sure, but none the less effectively,--was +destined to reciprocate tenfold. + +Slade had been a heeler for the gang. It was not an important post, +affording a pose in the limelight, but that fact had its compensations. +Evidently Slade, in trying, perhaps, to fit himself surreptitiously for +larger responsibilities, had come to grief. And, as Micky watched him, +smoking in the big chair, he noted a fire of sullen resentment kindling +in Slade's eyes. + +"Say, old man," inquired Slade suddenly, "where'd you pick me up +tonight? How'd you happen to connect with me, anyway?" + +Micky grinned. "Why, I was up to the same game you were, I guess," he +explained. "Shaughnessy passed me tonight, and, though I'd never met +him, I couldn't help throwin' the con' into him a little, just for luck. +I'd seen some things, you know, and I guess he was next to what I was +drivin' at, all right. But he never turned a hair and went on, with me +doin' a quick sneak after him. I missed him finally, but some of his +gang blew along, and after a while I was up stairs in Hogan's, perched +on a table and rubberin' through a hole in the wall. All of a sudden up +jumps Goldberg, yellin' something about a spy, and I thought I was +copped for fair. I was down stairs in three shakes, and I went through a +waiter like a halfback to do it. I was just about to breathe the open +when you bumped along down. You were dead to the world when I dragged +you out, I guess, and I kept you out of sight of the gang,--which was +looking for you, my boy,--till I got the cab. And here you are. +Goldberg's as good a bouncer as his man Mulligan, ain't he?" + +"Goldberg?" echoed Slade. "Nit, young feller, he never touched me. They +were all grabbin' for me at once, and I shook the whole bunch, just as I +did in that session at Goldberg's. I wound around like a gimlet for a +minute and I was goin' some when I went through the door. Then," in a +tone of deep disgust, "I had to miss my bearin's, of course, and when I +brought my hoof down for the first stair I must have hit about the last +one, I guess. Anyway, the lights went out." He shook his head +mournfully, while O'Byrn chuckled. + +"Don't you mind," said he soothingly, "Goldberg got a worse one than +you. He bumped along down after you, and afterward he was hoppin' around +on one leg lookin' for Nicky, who was just then safe in the arms of +Micky. And then along blew the dear old cab. I told the cabby you were +drunk, you know." + +"Oh, you did, did you?" without enthusiasm. "No such luck this time. Oh, +it's all right; it was a good bluff. Now about the rough-house. It was a +funny stunt, your happenin' to be there at the same time I was. You've +got your nerve with you, all right. As for yours truly, I'd been there +so often before, without any trouble, that I must have got careless. +Anyway, their talk was interesting and I shoved my face out from behind +the sideboard a little too far, and up jumps that bald-headed dog of a +Goldberg. And now my goose is cooked." + +He sat silent for a few moments, moodily puffing his cigar and scowling +blackly. O'Byrn critically watched him, without words. The sullen glow +returned to Slade's eyes, his sallow cheeks flushed slightly. Then, with +a savage oath, he leaped to his feet, facing the waiting Irishman. + +"See here!" he exclaimed fiercely, "I owe you for more than one good +turn, and I guess if you hadn't happened to be on deck tonight those +dogs would have killed me. You're a good feller and they're a bunch of +yellow curs. I've worked for 'em for all I was worth for a long while, +done dirty work for 'em, and what have I got? Just promises and a run +around the rim, that's all, when I've got enough in me to be helpin' to +work the calliope in the inside. And they know it, too,--they know I +ain't no fool. Many's the time has Dick Peterson, the rotten liar, said +to me: 'Slade, my boy, you're the stuff; we're goin' to take care of +you.' Promises, promises to burn! And it's all I've had. + +"Well, that's the way it went, while they kept on playin' me for a +sucker. Many's the job I've done for Peterson that he didn't have the +sand for to do himself. I was always willin'." Micky suppressed a smile +at the injured sorrow in Slade's tones. The ex-heeler shrugged his +shoulders wearily and resumed his seat. The savagery had departed from +his demeanor, replaced by an air of dogged malice. + +"Why, that gang of lepers," he resumed impressively, "that bunch of +hard-hearted slobs would have dumped me in a minute, after that little +scrape me and you was mixed up in at Goldberg's, if it hadn't been for +Peterson, and he ain't used me right to any extent since then, either. +But if it hadn't been for him I'd have got t'run down then, with never a +thought for what I'd done for 'em. You're always pure wool while you can +be used, then you're cheap crash; remember that, my boy. I was kin' o' +hangin' on by my teeth, though, till tonight. Now it's some other burg +for mine, or likely get killed. Well, that's all right, too. They're +racin' in other burgs as well as this, and I guess Slade can make a few +other little pick-ups, too, just to keep the wolf away." He smiled +cunningly. + +"But before I take the choo-choos out," he continued, his eyes alive +with malice as he bent toward Micky, "there's a score to settle with +this lovely old Shaughnessy gang that I'm thinkin' will jar more than +one of 'em clear behind the bars. You know this Shaughnessy. He's a deep +one, though I notice you was onto him the very day of the convention. +Nobody knows what he's drivin' at except his own little ring, the ring +that everyone in this buncoed town, barrin' me and you and a mighty few +others, thinks has turned him down. Turned him down!" Slade laughed +dryly. "Why, he's got every mother's son of 'em by the neck; could jail +every cursed one of 'em and crawl out of the muss himself. Oh, I believe +he could, he's the devil himself. + +"But there's one that's fooled him," exultantly, "and he won't know how +much till election day. Sure, they caught me tonight, but do you think +for a minute they'll find out that I've been attendin' their devilish +little seances for months, unbeknown to 'em? Well, I have. I was at the +meetin' that decided this whole funny programme that is givin' Fusion +black eyes every minute, and Fusion would have won out in a canter if it +had anyone else than this devil of a Shaughnessy to buck against. I was +at that meetin', and I thought I knew a thing or two, but say, feller, +the nerve of that proposition got my alley. When Shaughnessy sprung it +on the bunch I came near dyin' prematoorly on the spot by wantin' to +jump out from behind the sideboard and tellin' Shaughnessy he was a +gilt-edged dandy; which he is, if he ain't got no soul. 'But,' says the +gang, when he sprung it, 'it won't work. They won't follow us when we +talk of throwin' you down. The party'll get hacked to pieces in its own +convention.' 'Gentlemen,' says he, 'I never mixed with the hoi-polloi +anyway, didn't have to. You have. They don't like me and they do like +you. Work this thing slick, as I tell you to, and you'll have 'em all +marking time to your music.' And it was so. Remember the convention? The +reformers thought it meant a clean bill; the grafters thought it would +be a gang more lavish than Shaughnessy had been. Oh, it was a lovely +move. And he's on top yet, and they don't know it." + +He gave Micky a lingering look. "I'm for gettin' even," he said. "You've +been trying to get onto the trail ever since the convention; you've had +your suspicions. I saw you myself the other night; walked from +Shaughnessy's office back of you, after that old whitewashed graveyard +of a nominee for mayor had left there. I was there, just as I'd been at +others, though Mr. Shaughnessy never invited me. Of course, they're +careful about windows, etc., but I can always make good somehow on a +still hunt. What do I know? I know the whole rotten business. The circle +always goes into particulars and there have been some beautiful +give-and-takes between Shaughnessy and old Graveyard-Whiskers. Whiskers +don't want to stand, not for a minute, you know, but Shaughnessy holds +him to the gaff because he's _respectable_." This with a grim laugh. +"Shaughnessy got his hooks on him years ago; it's a funny story, I +guess. The old man hates to give up living decent; he knows if he's +elected it'll be the worst administration of graft this city or any +other ever saw. He can't help himself; Shaughnessy's claws are in him." + +Micky was bending forward. Imagined possibilities were assuming definite +shape. "Is it Consolidated Gas?" he asked, eagerly. + +"Consolidated Gas!" Slade echoed. "Why, son, that's only the beginning. +It's a long, hard story, a bigger one than you'll want to believe, but I +know where you can get the proofs for it. I've been busy for a long +time. When I saw the gang wasn't goin' to do anything for me, I began to +find out about things on my own hook, and I've got a way of doin' it and +I remember what I hear. When this thing was over and Fusion was knocked +out, I was goin' to diplomatically introduce myself into a better thing, +and then I'd have got it. But that's all changed now. When I remember +that those lepers I've done so much for would have liked to murder me +tonight, I get hell-hot. I want to see 'em downed now. I'm tired of the +rotten town anyway. Now, I put you on, see? You have to do the work, for +I've got to keep out of sight. 'Twon't be safe for me to be floatin' +around the old diggin's, for I'm a 'traitor' now, you know, and a 'dirty +spy.' But don't you care, it's a rich thing for you. You'll be at the +top of the newspaper heap. I'll stay around here on the q. t. long +enough to see the fun, and then it's me quietly out. There's an Indian +streak in me, I guess, and it's doing double duty just now." His +malevolent face looked it. + +For the next hour Micky listened to a recital that filled him with +gaping amazement at a revelation of municipal iniquity, spreading to the +State-house and even beyond, that was undreamed of by the general +public. It thrilled him with the lust to secure as big, pulsing, +astounding chapters in a vital news story as were ever written. At the +close, and when some talk had been devoted to his plan of procedure, +Slade arose to depart. "I've got some friends, in a quiet place, that +won't give me away," he announced. + +Micky accompanied him to the front door. "Good night, Santa Claus," he +said, with twinkling eyes, and Slade, somewhat mystified, unobtrusively +departed. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +HIS BETTER SIDE + + +When he had seen Slade safely off, Micky returned to the office and +reported to Harkins, receiving a late assignment of a night police story +which they desired "fixed up" in the style which was peculiarly O'Byrn's +own. He contented himself just now with telling Harkins that he had been +after something which promised well, but "wasn't ripe enough yet to +spring." He felt that the thing was so surprisingly big that it would be +better not to mention it officially till he could be sure of being able +to secure it. Slade's narrative had opened up thrilling possibilities; +it remained for O'Byrn to secure the proofs before he could venture to +say anything, much less to write a single line. This would take hard +work and subtlety, but Micky looked forward confidently to the prospect +of scoring the most brilliant _coup_ in the history of newspaperdom in +that town. + +It would have to be done quickly, too, for the time was growing short. +The Courier, and the papers which united with it in the support of +Fusion, were pounding away on a forlorn hope, thanks to Shaughnessy's +masterly checkmate. They were confined to inveighing against the past; +which was black enough, to be sure. But the Democracy, having apparently +reformed from within, was evidently preparing for a regenerated future. +This called back many who had been temporarily alienated, and Fusion's +chances daily grew slimmer. If the proof could be adduced for Slade's +revelations, O'Byrn knew that a very simoon of public wrath would at the +eleventh hour sweep over Shaughnessy and his crew. His eyes sparkled. +The simoon should be forthcoming. + +His work kept him late, and the gray dawn was breaking when he walked +wearily back to his lodgings and tumbled into bed. It was long ere he +could sleep, for the glittering possibilities of that story whirled +through his brain. At last, however, he fell into slumber that was +disturbed by dreams in which he engaged continuously in fantastic +warfare with Shaughnessy, and in which he continually got the worst of +it. It was in the nature of a relief to Micky, on awaking about noon, to +reflect a little upon the good old adage that dreams go by contraries. + +Having had breakfast at an hour even unfashionably late, Micky sauntered +over to the office. He moved with unwonted deliberation, for this was to +be his night off. He had thought many times of Maisie, who was ill, and +had decided that late in the afternoon would be the best time to make +the call her brother had suggested. He must kill a little time till +then. So he took his way instinctively to the office, being one of those +unquiet newspaper spirits that hover uneasily about the hive, even when +they have a brief breathing space in which to drone a little. + +Now that the first shock of the announcement of the girl's illness was +over, Micky viewed the situation with more composure. Her brother had +said it was not serious, and Micky knew that the fever to which Maisie +had fallen a victim, and which was quite prevalent in the city, existed +in a mild form. She would be out in a few days, but--ah! it was too bad, +anyway. Micky sought indignantly to blink away the moisture that +treacherously gathered in his eyes. + +Reaching the office, he hung around aimlessly for a while, watching the +rest of them work. He was more silent than usual and made rather brief +replies to their greetings and subsequent comments. It was rather odd to +see him mooning in this way, and they conspired together to "jounce" him +out of it. + +It chanced that a certain old gentleman from a near-by village was +prowling about the office that afternoon. He was a relative of the +business manager, who had asked the boys up stairs to "tell him +about things." As he was of a very curious turn of mind, and very +unsophisticated to boot, the boys soon saw they were in for it. They +spied Micky, moodily gazing out of the window, and swiftly hatched a +plan whereby the venerable visitor was soon introduced to Micky with the +understanding that O'Byrn should "put him next." + +Micky would not allow his mates, who hovered near in expectation of the +fun, the satisfaction of any visible annoyance on his part. He grinned +affably at the aged seeker after knowledge, and ceremoniously drew up a +chair. "I can tell you all about it easier than I can show you," he +explained innocently, then launched forth. + +In ten minutes he had told the visitor more about the newspaper business +than there really is. "Oh, what a pipe!" enthusiastically whispered the +delighted listeners, whose presence Micky minded not at all. He dwelt +particularly and pathetically upon the amount of work which is expected +from a newspaper man by his unfeeling editors. Not content with +ascribing to the luckless reporter a stint of forty-eight hours' work in +every twenty-four, he calmly outlined an imaginary daily programme for +himself that staggered even the credulous old gentleman. + +"But, young man," said he vaguely, when Micky had finished and sat +regarding him with owlish gravity, "what--er--what do you do in your +spare time?" + +The boys, knowing what weakness was Micky's crowning handicap, were in a +position to appreciate the reply, which might have somewhat puzzled the +old gentleman. + +"My spare time?" mused Micky. "Well, let me see; what do I do in my +spare time? Oh, yes," with a relieved expression, "to be sure. In my +spare time I hunt for another job." And he walked out, followed by a +roar of laughter in which the bewildered old gentleman did not join. + +"What's the matter with me? I'm gettin' to be a woman!" muttered Micky a +few moments later, as he turned southward from the avenue to go to +Maisie's. For Micky had caught himself, to his disgust, bestowing +remorseful thought upon the bewildered old gentleman. Why should Micky +have "strung" him, why have made him the sport of his mates? Had he not +gray hairs, were not his years of eld? + +Now ordinarily these considerations would have troubled Micky not at +all, and he might readily be pardoned his dismay at evidences of the +growth of a crop of nice scruples, entirely new and perplexing. O'Byrn +was not used to the subtleties of conscience. It was not so long ago +that he could have dismissed the thought of the gaping old fellow with +the moment of parting. But now the wondering blue eyes, the blank old +face, dismayed at the concerted burst of shrill laughter, troubled +O'Byrn. It would not have done so in former days; why now? + +Why, it was the girl, of course. Micky's freckled face softened, his +eyes grew wistful as the explanation occurred to him. Could he not +trace, in a thousand and one little ways, a change in his life since she +came into it? Assuredly, and for the better. Micky acknowledged frankly +to himself that his love for her, and hers for him, was Christianizing +him; not in a concrete sense, to be sure, for O'Byrn's thoughts were +little concerned with religion, as such. Thrown upon his own resources +at an early age, he was essentially a world-product; but now, through +this love for a girl,--a new experience for him,--the little Irishman +was undergoing a refining process that surprised even himself. No +startling change was there, but in a multitude of little ways was shown +the gentle influence of this new element in Micky's life. More of +tenderness; more potent impulses to kindliness; free-flowing charity +toward all. For, in the beatific dawn of love, is a summons for the best +in poor, dross-ridden human nature to arise; and, at least temporarily, +the happy lover radiates peace and good will toward all mankind. + +So Micky, sauntering thoughtfully along, continued superfluously to +reflect upon his irreverence to the poor old man,--who probably had not +minded it half as much as O'Byrn did,--until the recurrent thoughts of +Maisie banished the incident from his mind. He was dancing with her at +the Ironworkers' ball, he sat with her in the little parlor, he heard +the sweet voice of her--and it was with a distinct sense of bewilderment +that he awoke to find himself halted mechanically before the little +house in which she lay. + +Advancing doubtfully, half fearfully, he rang the bell. The door opened +and Maisie's mother greeted him. No, she said, Maisie was not seriously +ill, was quite comfortable. She had been asking for him, would be glad +he had come. Indeed, said Mrs. Muldoon, she had been wondering if he +would come. + +"Come?" echoed Micky, as he followed her in. "Come? Why, I've been +thinkin' of her ever since I heard it. Gee! I'm glad she's feelin' so +well. Hello, Terence!" He clutched playfully, in a rush of relieved +feeling, at the thick thatch of the youngest Muldoon, who stood agape in +the doorway, eyeing him. Terence grinned and took to his heels. + +Maisie's mother ushered Micky upstairs. A light streamed through a +partially opened door at the end of the hall. It was from Maisie's room, +and Micky entered slowly, timidly,--as a devotee would approach a +shrine. + +As it had been through a mist, for the blood rushed tumultuously to his +head, he saw her sweet face, radiant with welcome and love for him; saw +the little white hands, eagerly outstretched toward him. In an instant +they were lost to sight within his trembling own; he bent over her, +murmuring broken words, with an odd choke in his throat and big tears +gathering in his eyes. He winked them indignantly, strove to clear his +burred throat. The attempt ended dismally in a strangling gasp. + +The girl laughed tremulously; but the tears, summoned by the sight of +the lad's emotion, were very near her own eyes. "Why, Micky!" she said +softly. "What's the matter? Why, I'm not really sick, you know; that +is, not bad. Only--" + +"Yes, little girl, I know," he interrupted, recovering himself. "I +didn't mean to go up in the air like that, honest I didn't. But seein' +you laid up like this, why, it just hit me where I live, that's all." +His lip quivered. + +"There, there!" Maisie's mother, good old soul, was patting him on his +meagre shoulder. "Of course it hit ye where ye live; in yer warm Irish +heart, to be sure. But ye needn't worry, for the doctor says Maisie has +a mild case and will be out soon. Well, I'll leave ye now, she's been +lookin' for ye. Of course, ye can't stay long, for the doctor says she's +got to be quiet. But have a little chat wid her, an' I'm glad ye came +up, me boy." And she bustled out, radiating hearty, wholesome, everyday +motherliness. + +For some moments after she had gone the boy and girl were silent. O'Byrn +had drawn a chair close to the small white bed and sat quietly, her hand +in his. It was hot, the little hand, and fevered roses bloomed in her +soft cheeks. Her beautiful eyes, alight with joy at his coming, gazed +happily into his own for a moment, then closed, a little wearily, as she +lay content. + +Softly pressing the little answering hand, Micky looked dreamily about +the room. It spoke eloquently of her, small and modest and instinct with +peaceful purity. It was appointed simply in white, from the pretty +curtains at the two small windows to dresser and bureau and quaint +old-fashioned chairs. On a small stand a lamp burned dimly, for the +outer dusk had turned into early autumn night. The tiny clock struck the +half-hour. + +Her eyes opened. "I'm glad you're here, Micky," she said softly. "I've +been hopin' you'd come. I hate to lie here all day long. 'Tisn't +natural," with a rueful laugh. "But I don't want you to feel bad, Micky. +You don't need to, I'm all right." + +"I know you are, girl," he answered heartily. "But it struck me all of a +heap, somehow, seeing you stretched out like this. I knew you would be +laid up, of course; but, don't you know, you can think about a thing all +right, but it's different when you actually run up against it." + +She laughed gaily. "Does anyone else say things just like you?" she +wondered. "That sounds just like your dear old slangy self, Micky. But +anyway, you hit the nail on the head, every time." + +"And drive it through." He grinned joyfully at her. "Talk some more like +that, Maisie," he urged her. "You sound like yourself. Oh, we'll have +you on your pins in no time." + +"You bet!" She smiled back at him. "Oh, I hadn't ought to complain, I +know. Others are having it worse than me. There's poor Julia Orr, worked +in the store with me once. She died yesterday--" + +"Don't, Maisie!" His voice was unsteady. "Don't speak of dying--anybody! +I can't stand it! I hate the thought of it!" + +"Why, Micky!" Her blue eyes were solemn. "We all die, don't we? You've +known it almost since you were born. You've got to get used to it." + +He forced a smile. "Well, we won't talk about it now," he declared. +"It's depressing. How'd you like your flowers?" + +"Oh!" she cried, in distress. "And I meant to thank you for 'em when +you first came in, and I forgot it. You ought to feel complimented. You +drove 'em out of my mind. Bring 'em here." + +"Match the room," he commented, as he complied. She smiled assent, and, +selecting one of the white roses, raised herself upon her pillows and +pinned it upon his coat lapel. "There!" said she, admiring the effect. +"You'll do, now." + +Again his wide grin cleft his freckled face. "The whole conservatory +wouldn't help much," he observed. + +"'Tis a homely boy you picked out, Maisie." + +"My boy is good enough for me," she returned gently, "as long as he +keeps on trying, and does the best he can." + +His face grew shadowed. "That's just it, girl," he said, rather sadly. +"Someone said once that 'the best is bad enough,' and if that's so, what +of my worst?" + +"Your worst is for you to fight," answered this young sibyl. "Your worst +is never as bad as it seems to you, just as long as you keep on fightin' +it. And you will, Micky, won't you?" Her arms were stretched impulsively +toward him. + +He caught her hands, his eyes burning. "Till hell freezes over!" he told +her, grimly. "Oh, excuse me!" he added confusedly. "I didn't mean--" + +"Never mind, Micky, never mind!" she told him, with a laugh in her eyes. +"I know how you feel." + +"Yes, I guess you do!" he muttered. "If I could only blot out some +things--if I'd been different from the beginning--if I'd had some +chance--if I amounted to something now--ah! dreams--dreams!" + +"Keep on dreaming, Micky," she said softly. "They'll take you on the +right road--you're on it now--and they'll come true!" + +There was a hesitant step outside. He arose, bending and taking her in +his arms. + +"I hope--I guess--I'm on the right road," he breathed. "And you've shown +me the way, little girl; you have, for fair. Well, I must be going, I +hear your mother outside. I've stayed too long now; I mustn't tire you. +Well, good night, dear." + +He withdrew, to walk home with the dear shrined image of her in his +swelling heart; with her tender words of faith in him to summon a maze +of happy dreams. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE COUP IN SIGHT + + +The succeeding fortnight found the Fusionists much exercised in mind. Do +what they could, the trend was steadily, and with gathering impetus, the +other way; the way of the devil, as the Fusion leaders firmly believed, +but they could not induce the balance of voting power to think likewise. +With the election now but a few days off, the chances for the Reform +ticket looked hopeless. + +"Oh!" groaned Colonel Westlake, in a conversation with the Courier's +managing editor one evening, "if only we could nail 'em somewhere! But +there was never a time when everything was locked up as it is now. You +can't get anything. We've whaled all the chaff out of the old straw, but +it doesn't do any good. It's a different proposition from what it looked +to be in the first place, isn't it? I'm convinced, though, that if we +could only dig up what's beneath the surface on this deal, we'd win out +yet, late as it is. It's a forlorn hope, but everybody must keep his +eyes open, that's all. I'll tell you one thing, the man that happened to +turn the trick would have no occasion to regret it, and don't you forget +it!" + +Unknown to the Colonel, as it was unknown also to the managing editor +and to Harkins, the man who was to turn the trick was steadily forging +ahead in the process. Micky, however, had kept his own counsel. This +was not a matter to be bawled from the house-tops, or even whispered in +secret, until the moment came in which he might confidently warn his +superiors to prepare to exploit the story. The task was one to be +prosecuted with infinite caution, and he was pursuing it alone. It would +be time to speak of it when he had it so flanked by facts, and fortified +by proof, that the town should read it aghast and rally at the eleventh +hour to save itself. + +Meanwhile O'Byrn was not idle. He had already satisfied himself, by +actual proof, of the value of Slade's tips. The time spent by that +worthy in subterranean research had evidently been well expended. There +was, clinched and ready for publication, much that was startling. The +information had been gained, moreover, from various sources involving +difficulties in handling, yet Micky had proceeded thus far without +causing a ripple of uneasiness in the turbid waters, and the knaves +whose undoing he sought were in blissful ignorance of the formidable net +that was closing about them. The layman will wonder how this could be, +but the trained newspaper man will readily understand how a "star" +worker like O'Byrn, gifted with far more than ordinary subtlety, could +accomplish a result which a good reporter, in less degree perhaps, has +frequently to negotiate in his arduous calling. + +The crowning fact, however, must be nailed home before the Irishman +could spring his story; the fact to which all other things led and upon +which they were dependent. The sublimely audacious hoax of the +Democratic convention, the spectacle of hordes of unconscious puppets of +Shaughnessy in the background, the exposure of masterly effrontery +hitherto unparalleled in the history of political bossism; these were +the culminating, dramatic features of the story, without which it would +be as Samson shorn of power. To use these features, and invest them with +facts to insure public credence, a difficult proposition presented +itself. Judge Boynton must be revealed to the people as he had been, +and, no matter how unwillingly, in case of his election would have to be +again; an abject tool of Shaughnessy's ring. + +Slade and O'Byrn both knew that the Democratic candidate for the +mayoralty was running unwillingly; that he revolted from the ignoble +part he would be forced to play. They knew also that he was compelled to +"stand the gaff," as Slade expressed it, through some sinister, secret +hold which Shaughnessy had upon him. But what was this hold? Whatever it +was, upon its revelation rested the whole superstructure of O'Byrn's +story. The Democratic party had nominated for the mayoralty a jurist of +high reputation, during his years upon the bench, and in his retirement +the recipient of general public esteem. Micky realized fully that an +attack, through mere inference of wrong-doing, upon such a man, would be +not only libelous but abortive in its effect upon the public. The +people, judging from externals, looked upon the candidate as a true, +untrammeled reformer. Micky knew that he was,--perhaps originally by +choice and now assuredly of necessity,--a servile tool of the most +corrupt political ring in the country; but the public statement of the +Irishman to that effect would have to be backed up by incontrovertible +proof. + +It was truly a formidable difficulty, and one that O'Byrn chafed under +as the swift days passed, bringing the election uncomfortably close, +with not an effective blow as yet to stay the victorious progress of the +"regenerated" Democracy. Micky had exerted himself to the utmost, +continuously yet cautiously, in the attempt to possess himself, by hook +or crook, of that hidden secret which was the still unlocated fibre of +his story; but without success. With everything else practically +"clinched," was he to fail with the goal in sight? + +Micky returned from a brief call at Maisie's one evening. It happened to +be his night off, and he repaired to his room relieved in mind. He had +found Maisie sitting with the family, with only unaccustomed pallor and +thinness to bespeak her recent illness. O'Byrn was very tired, as he had +devoted the day to still-hunting on the big story, for which purpose he +had risen early after a mere snatch of sleep. Now from thought of +Maisie, he passed to puzzling reflections over the story, for still the +maddening kernel of it all eluded him. + +Suddenly a cautious knock sounded at his door, as he sat with his red +head sunk disconsolately between his freckled hands. Ere he could rise, +the portal opened to admit Slade. + +"Good!" ejaculated the ex-heeler. "Glad I've found you. Sent a kid up to +the office for you, but he said you was off tonight. So I chanced it up +here, sneaking along in the shade. I'm not gettin' under any electric +lamps now," with a grim chuckle. "But say, get your hat 'nd coat. +There's a little confab on tonight, 'nd we've missed too much of it +already." + +Micky was already getting into his overcoat. "What's up?" he inquired +laconically, the old flame kindling in his eyes. He reached for his hat +and extinguished his gas heater. Slade fully appreciated the crowning +difficulty Micky had to deal with, and the Irishman knew the little tout +was not there for any idle purpose. + +"Shaughnessy 'nd His Whiskers are chewin' the rag again," explained +Slade, as they went down stairs. "They're in Shaughnessy's office, as +usual. Been there some time; hope we ain't too late. I know what you're +after. Can't never tell, maybe they'll spit up somethin' worth while." + +Micky knew Slade well enough to neglect needless inquiry as to how they +were to manage to hear this private conversation. He had ample evidence +of the former heeler's eavesdropping powers, and followed him in perfect +confidence to the conference. + +Gaining the street on which Shaughnessy's establishment was located, +they proceeded cautiously, looking about to be sure the coast was clear. +The reflection of a light gleamed dully behind the closely curtained +office windows. "They're here yet," murmured Slade. + +The street was deserted. With a warning gesture, Slade made his way +noiselessly through a little driveway toward the rear of the building, +Micky following. Slade paused a moment. O'Byrn heard him chuckle in the +darkness. + +"A man is always one kind of a fool," he whispered, "and most of us are +most kinds. Shaughnessy, he's just one kind, but it's bad. He won't hire +a night watchman. Do you mind coal dust?" + +"Nit!" replied Micky. + +"Then follow me," said Slade, "and mind you don't make any noise about +it, either." He stooped, fumbling at a cellar window. "There's a broken +pane here," he whispered, "but they're always careful to keep the casing +hooked." He chuckled as he pushed the window inward and cautiously +thrust the hook into the staple in the timber beyond. He then prepared +to descend. + +"But the coal, won't it rattle?" asked Micky apprehensively, as he drew +near the window in readiness to follow Slade down. + +"No," grinned the little tout. "They don't use this bin no more, but +they used to. You'll know when you wash up afterwards. Well, come on, +and be quiet." He disappeared. + +Micky bent to follow him. Gingerly insinuating himself backward through +the window, his legs were grasped from below and Slade piloted him +easily to the floor. "Good!" breathed the guide. "Now come along, and +just shuffle, or you'll be falling over things. I'll keep you in the +open. The cellar's full of things." Manifestly Slade had been there +before. + +The obedient Micky "shuffled" cautiously along and the two proceeded +without mishap to a flight of stairs, which they ascended cautiously. It +was pitch dark. In Micky's strained ears the scuttling of a rat, across +the floor beneath them, sounded unnaturally loud. + +"Wait a minute," whispered Slade, as they gained the top. "Sometimes +this door is locked and sometimes it ain't. If it is, I've got a key." + +It was not, and the eavesdroppers stepped softly out into the big +wareroom. Here showed the dim outlines of innumerable casks and cases, +for the radiance of some distant electric lights struggled through the +small, old-fashioned windows. A subdued sound of voices came from the +office at the upper end of the room. Micky turned involuntarily in that +direction. + +"Wait a minute," whispered Slade, and tiptoed back toward the rear, +O'Byrn following. Slade bent over a small cask, duly spigoted and with a +couple of small glasses setting near it. "All the comforts of home," he +grinned. He drew a couple of generous draughts and held one of the +glasses toward Micky. "I know where they keep everything," he whispered, +with a leer. + +The fiery aroma was in Micky's nostrils. He hesitated, but drew back. "I +guess not--" he began doubtfully. + +"Take it, man," urged Slade. "A little whisky won't hurt you. Besides, +it's a joke. Here's hopin' worse luck to Shaughnessy in his own stuff." +Micky grinned, faltered a moment, and then lightly touched glasses with +Slade and downed the liquor. + +"Tastes like another," whispered Slade, and proceeded to fill up the +glasses again. Micky drank without further protest. The pleasant glow at +his stomach infused itself into his veins, mounted benignly toward his +brain. Always abnormally quick to respond to the spur of stimulants, he +was conscious almost instantly of added zest for the adventure. + +"Come on and be mighty quiet," murmured Slade, and the pair made their +way on tiptoe toward the office. Slade approached the door, the upper +part of which enclosed a wide glass, behind which hung a screening +yellow shade. There was a narrow space below it, however, through which +a view of the interior could be obtained, the shade being a little too +short to quite reach the length of the glass. Through an open transom +overhead the speech of those inside was clearly audible. + +The eavesdroppers bent, looking into the office. Shaughnessy sat in his +big leather chair, indolently puffing a black cigar, dreamily gazing +toward the ceiling. Near him, in an attitude of deep dejection, sat +Judge Boynton. The venerable candidate was speaking, while the boss +might have been a thousand miles away. But the watchers knew that the +jurist had the honor of his chief's undivided attention. It was a secret +of Shaughnessy's success, the veil of icy indifference that hid so +potently the dark workings of his own mind while he probed unerringly +into the recesses of others. + +"Why did you drag me in again?" the Judge was inquiring. "Were there not +others; less tired, more calloused? For I was never calloused. You got +your talons into me by a trick!" He clenched impotent hands. "I did--as +I had to--for years, and, when the time came, I went thankfully enough +into retirement. I thought I had done with you forever. And now--isn't +the memory of the past enough without such a future as you have marked +out for me--far worse than the past? It's not to be borne!" + +Shaughnessy lowered his eyes. His cold, snaky gaze met the other's +fairly. "You talk like an old woman," he sneered. "You sound like a +paper-covered novel. I got hold of you by a trick, eh? Now you know how +I got you, well enough. I put out bait that always lands supposedly +honest men, like yourself, and you swallowed it, hook and all, just like +a lot of other respectable suckers before you, and since. Well, what are +you kicking about? You put yourself where you had to be useful to me, +didn't you? Well, it's paid you, hasn't it? And this little programme +we've got mapped out for the next two years, it's going to pay you, and +all of us, so we can retire for good." He chuckled insolently. + +The old man's lips set in a grim line. "I'm praying that I may be +defeated," he said, "but if not, I'll be mayor of this town. I may--" + +Shaughnessy straightened in his chair. His mouth grew repellently cruel, +his eyes assumed the fixed glare of a serpent about to strike. "Now see +here!" He spat out the words like venom. "I'll be elected next week, and +I'll be mayor these two years coming. You're a decoy just now, and +nothing more; but after the first of January you'll be a live duck, with +a string on you, that's all. You must be getting into your second +childhood to play the damn fool as you have been playing it ever since +this thing started. You can't squeal, you can't afford to. If you ever +did, it would be all up with me and a lot of others--but you'd go with +us, so help me God! Now just you cast your eye on this bunch of teasers +for a minute, and get sensible!" Reaching into a secret compartment of +his desk he slapped down a bundle of documents. + +The gray discouragement crept back into the old man's face. Shaughnessy +smiled cruelly. Outside the office O'Byrn eagerly clutched Slade's arm. +"We've got to have them!" he breathed in the tout's ear. "After they +go," returned Slade. + +The next moment brought dismay to the watchers. "I think I'll deposit +these elsewhere," observed Shaughnessy casually, with a glance toward +the badgered Judge. "I don't think they're safe here." He slipped them +into an inner pocket of his coat. + +Micky's blank stare of dismay was instantly succeeded by a sudden +inspiration, a plan daring but desperate. He plucked at Slade's sleeve, +drawing him away from the window. "He mustn't leave here with 'em," he +whispered, and proceeded briefly to unfold his plan. Slade, who was of +kin with O'Byrn in recklessness, was enthusiastic. + +"All right if they stay long enough," he muttered. "Let's take a look." +A glance through the glass showed the two occupants of the office, with +chairs close together, conversing in low tones. Shaughnessy was +evidently elaborating his programme. + +"You stay here and keep watch," whispered Slade. "I can get over and +back quick. There's a drug store two blocks away, and I've got an awful +toothache," with a nudge. "Matches? No, I can get around here like a +cat, and as still." He glided silently away. Micky resumed his watch at +the office door. + +The moments dragged by slowly. Micky grew impatient. What if Slade +should return too late? And now the Judge was rising, donning his coat +and hat. Shaughnessy was seeing him to the door; it opened--he was gone. +Micky strained his ears, no sounds of a returning Slade. + +Shaughnessy walked leisurely to his desk. Ah! it was all right, he was +going to sit down. But no, he closed the lid of his desk; donned his +hat, took down his coat from the hook, was leisurely getting into it. + +Then Micky with difficulty repressed a startled cry. Out of nowhere, +without a sound in the intense stillness, Slade materialized from +darkness at his side. + +"Quick!" gasped Micky, "he's going!" But for Slade's restraining hand he +would have thrown himself bodily against the door. + +"Hold on! do you want him to see us?" he whispered savagely. "Here! +quick, put this on." He thrust an object into Micky's hand. "It's a +mask," he explained, adjusting one of his own. "Gettin' 'em is what kept +me." + +The masks were of the grotesque little variety affected alike by house +breakers and masqueraders. Micky learned afterward that Slade had a +dubious friend in the vicinity who possessed such conveniences. After +leaving the office he had bethought himself of the awkwardness of +Shaughnessy's recognizing them in the prospective encounter. Slade had a +long head. + +The plotters took another look at the interior. Shaughnessy was standing +with his back to them, leisurely selecting a cigar from his case, +preparatory to going. "Now for it!" whispered Slade, and the two, +looking like two simon-pure burglars, crept forward. Slade's hand fell +upon the handle of the office door. Contrary to his expectations, it was +unlocked. He nudged Micky, immediately behind, to impose caution, and +softly opened the door. + +The two passed inside as stealthily as Indians and crept slowly toward +the unsuspecting Shaughnessy. Even in the silence his keen ear caught +some sound--perhaps the repressed breathing of his assailants. At all +events, he half-turned. As he did so, however, Micky leaped forward and +pinioned his arms from the rear. The wiry Irishman drew the struggling +boss backward, throwing him into the chair he had lately vacated and +holding him there helpless. With a lithe spring, like a cat's, Slade was +at his side, his hand over Shaughnessy's mouth, stifling a gurgling +outcry in its infancy. With the free hand he applied a saturated +handkerchief to the struggling man's face and held it there. The deathly +odor of chloroform filled the air. + +After a little, Slade removed the handkerchief. "I guess he'll do," he +muttered. O'Byrn thrust his hand into the inner pocket of the boss' coat +and extracted the papers, carefully transferring them to his own. With +an afterthought, he also possessed himself of the unconscious man's +keys. + +He grinned. "It's us out through the front door," he said. "I'll keep +the keys. He needs exercise, this fellow. He can get it chasin' round, +when they let him out tomorrow, gettin' some more made." + +They surveyed the inert boss, huddled horribly in his chair, his eyes +closed in his ghastly face. "God!" breathed Micky, a creeping chill in +his spine, "he looks like a corpse! Do you suppose you gave him too +much?" + +"Naw!" returned Slade, disgustedly. "Was I born yesterday? It's only his +damned eyes. When they're shut, he looks like a dead one, for fair. +Let's get out before he has us countin' our fingers." + +They opened the door cautiously and looked out. The coast was clear. +Extinguishing the lights in the office, they emerged, locked the door +and departed. Huddled in the darkness sat Shaughnessy, his chin sunk on +his breast, his hands clenched convulsively upon the arms of his chair. + + * * * * * + +A little later, Micky, with crimsoned face and eyes unnaturally bright, +approached Harkins' desk in the Courier office. He bent confidentially +toward his chief with an electrifying communication. + +"Get ready," said Micky, "for the damnedest feature story for the next +issue that was ever sprung in this town. Yes sir, absolutely the +damnedest. The lines are all out. I'm due for about five hours' sleep, +and then I'll begin to gather 'em in, and there'll be a bouquet of +suckers on every hook. I've got a lot of finishin' touches to get +tomorrow, and I'll be able to begin grindin' it out early in the +evenin', not before. Yes, I'll have it all. What is it? It's a +slaughter, slaughter of the gang. Shaughnessy'll be wearin' stripes +unless he ducks, and a lot more with him, includin' Old Whiskers +Boynton. Not in time? Election only three days off? Wait till you read +the story! Wait till the town reads it! They'll all be champin' the bit +of Fusion and frothin' at the mouth. I've been at this for weeks, but +the main stuffin' I only got tonight. It comes late, but it's a winner, +and Shaughnessy, he's a dead one!" + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +A COUNTER MOVE + + +Shaughnessy stirred uneasily in his chair. Then, with a convulsive +shudder, he sat erect, one hand instinctively pressed against his left +side. His head reeled, his bewildered eyes strove to pierce the gloom. +With a swift intake of breath the deathly smell of the drug crept into +his nostrils. Then he remembered. + +With a snarling curse he sprang to his feet, drawing a match from his +vest pocket with shaking fingers. He lighted the gas and glanced toward +the safe, expecting to find it forced open. All seemed to be in order. +The boss was perplexed. What had they wanted, those mysterious visitors? + +With a sudden apprehension he thrust his hand swiftly into an inner +pocket and found it empty. Then Shaughnessy, momentarily beyond oaths, +collapsed helplessly into his chair. There was expression enough in his +white face now, and it was of fear. + +The papers were gone, filched from him in open assault, in a way of +which the boss had never dreamed. He could have groaned in bitterness of +spirit as he remembered what zealous care he had taken of those damning +documents, veritable blood pacts of dark, unprincipled deeds, through +which Shaughnessy held the wretched signers in the hollow of his hand. +Though cunningly giving the impression that they were kept in his +office, Shaughnessy generally had them in safe keeping elsewhere and +disturbed them only when it was expedient that they serve some purpose +like the cruel intimidation to which Judge Boynton had been subjected. +And now they were gone. Shaughnessy cursed in his heart the fatal +weakness for melodramatic effect, in which he was prone to indulge, that +had exposed him to this fatal risk. + +But who had them? Shaughnessy sprang up and paced the floor. He clenched +his fists as he thought of Judge Boynton. Was it a plot of his? He +dismissed the thought with a sneer. Such a desperate expedient was +beyond the nerveless old jurist. + +He felt mechanically for his keys and started to find them gone. What +new deviltry was this? Then, for a moment, the impassive mask was +utterly discarded. The white face of the baited boss grew absolutely +diabolical, and he cursed as best he knew, and he was not an indifferent +expert. Finally, with a weary shrug, he ceased and walked to a drawer in +the bookkeeper's desk. He wrenched it open and took out two keys he kept +there for emergency's sake. One was for the office door and the other +would admit him to his lodgings. + +Shaughnessy picked up his hat, which had fallen off in the recent melee, +dusted it and replaced it. He kicked the cigar, from whose enjoyment he +had been riotously debarred, into a corner and drew a fresh one from his +case. Reaching into his vest pocket for a match, his fingers encountered +something. Drawing it forth, his eyes rested upon the card which +O'Byrn, on a recent evening, had with easy insolence handed him. + +The boss' eyes, indifferent at first, stared fixedly at the card. Slowly +kindling into the interest born of sudden recollection of the incident, +the sparks deepened till they glowed like the orbs of an angry cat. +Shaughnessy pondered, his face an evil thing to see. + +"Damn you!" muttered Shaughnessy, at last, still staring balefully at +the card, "I believe one of 'em was you, God help you!" + + * * * * * + +Micky went straight from Shaughnessy's to the Courier office that night, +and, after his brief communication with Harkins, he repaired to his +lodgings. He lighted his heater, and, with a fresh cigar between his +teeth, sat down to peruse at leisure the documents he had previously +glanced over sufficiently to warrant him in making his triumphant +prediction to the city editor. A damning array of evidence was marshaled +in them, illustrating at once Shaughnessy's ruthless manner of binding a +cabal to his interests and his weakness in recording in black and white +such condemnatory proofs of the infamy of the forces of which he was the +leader, and for whose deeds he was responsible. It was a quixotic idea +of the boss', effective to bend his tools to his desires, but fatal if +the accredited proofs ever became public property. Perhaps, Micky +reflected, he had intended them for use if treachery ever compelled him +to leave in a hurry, in which case the traitors would suffer while the +arch-conspirator went scot-free. If this was the intent, events had +anticipated it. + +The most important exposure, for O'Byrn's purpose, was the one, duly +fortified with proof in the papers before him, that Judge Boynton was a +hypocrite. He could only conjecture how the Judge had placed himself in +Shaughnessy's power, but that he had long since done so, through some +official act of weakness or worse, was evident. For the papers proved +that the old jurist, supposed to be a power for good, had been for years +a power for evil. It was as a secret instigator of lobbies at the State +House that he had shone, while the world remained in ignorance. Not +alone notorious Consolidated Gas, but many another nefarious movement +had owed its progress in no small degree to his secret machinations, and +he had been well aided. Micky opened his eyes at some names which +appeared in that damning record, as well he might, for they were those +of the elect. Indeed, the evidence utterly condemned one of the pillars +of the present Fusion movement. Oh, it would be a slaughter, in very +truth; one of whose extent the optimistic Micky had not dreamed. + +As he read the record, O'Byrn marvelled at one salient fact. These men, +of brains and influence, of power and standing, were after all but the +tools of Shaughnessy, the liquor dealer, the local boss. Local boss! +Micky could have laughed. Why, this genius of the slums had his pallid +hand at the throat of the State, and his snaky eyes were even now fixed +on victims in higher places, even beyond its too-confined borders. +O'Byrn was lost in admiration of the man whose power was the greater +because unsuspected by the great public. He moved with much sinuous +subtlety, like a serpent wriggling through the grass. He tempted through +the cupidity of men worth while, and when they were in his coils they +were held there irrevocably. He was a Napoleon of graft, and his +ambition was as boundless as that of the Corsican. + +There were in the record, too, the hints of several matters that would +bear amplifying; stupendous election frauds, fraudulent registration +lists and corrupt local deals. Micky knew where to get them, but it +would be a strenuous day. It was with a mingled thrill and a sigh that +he finally tumbled into bed for a little sleep before the deluge to +come. + +He awoke unrefreshed, his sleep having been disturbed by wild dreams of +conflict with Shaughnessy in which the boss was invariably the victor. +Despite the reassuring presence of the materials for a sensation, Micky +felt depressed while dressing. There was still much to do, there were +some hard propositions to solve during the day, and there might yet be a +fatal slip somewhere. Besides, he felt physically wretched. He had +caught cold in some way and his head ached miserably. Then, too, in the +depths of his heart there was a sick, unacknowledged apprehension; for +the old enemy, after too brief a period of quiescence, was returning. + +Micky finished dressing, and left the house for the restaurant, at which +he was accustomed to obtain his meals. On the way he passed an +attractive door. He hesitated, halted and turned back. "One won't hurt," +he muttered, as he disappeared inside. "Just for an appetizer." + +Breakfast finished, Micky, with a renewed sparkle in his eyes, plunged +headlong into his self-appointed task, and it was a formidable one. +There were sundry peculiar documents to scan. Obstacles in getting at +them had to be surmounted, either through subtlety or a bluff, and +O'Byrn was a past master in both departments. There were some men to +see. Some could be handled with a convenient disguising of the real +intention. Others, made to admit damaging matters through cowardly +fears, were left in the hope that they had secured immunity for +themselves. There was also the omnipresent danger, most dreaded by +newspaper men on the track of a big story, of competitors who must be +sedulously avoided. O'Byrn dodged them all, though with some narrow +escapes, and it became evident that the story, in every detail, was to +be his and his alone. + +As Micky pursued his perilous though fascinating task, the story grew, +gathering black force and sinister proportions. As the busy hours swept +on, crowded with strained effort, the Irishman felt to the full the +strange, breathless zest felt only by the veteran newsgetter; hot on the +trail of a big story, warned constantly by the remorseless ticks of his +watch of fast slipping time that waits for no man. The hungry presses +must be fed at the appointed hour. Brain, hand, resource and tireless +effort must combine to furnish the monster's food. So O'Byrn rushed +through the teeming hours. He cut out luncheon, gulping down a glass of +whisky in place of it. He had been dramming at intervals since +breakfast, and he no longer approached the bar with hesitancy. The +excitement of his quest made him reckless and the stuff served as an +exhilarant, though he had not yet begun to seriously feel its effects. + +He was completely engrossed in his story. He scurried here and there, as +need required, gathering force like a machine under the quickening beat +of the controlling engine. He was driven resistlessly on by that +steadiest, most unfaltering of human impulses, the quickened news +instinct. It was a task before which many a veteran would have quailed, +but O'Byrn did not know how to lie down. He had, too, a distinct +advantage in his wonderful memory. It enabled him to carry away valuable +material gained in conversations where the producing of a notebook would +have been fatal. + +It was well toward evening that Slade met him unostentatiously in a +quiet place. "What luck?" he inquired eagerly. + +"Got the whole business," answered Micky, in a low tone. "I'm just +finished, and I'm all in. Knees jackin' some and nerves gone up. But +anyone that's worth doin' at all is worth doin' well, and Shaughnessy's +well done. Now I'll tell you what, let's have a cocktail or two, and +then some supper. Time enough to grind this out after that." + +Slade glanced at him sharply, noting the flushed cheeks and unnaturally +bright eyes. "Haven't you had enough?" he inquired. + +"Enough?" echoed Micky, with a reckless laugh. "Why, I haven't begun +yet. But I'll cut it out for tonight, after supper, and tomorrow, when +the job's done, I'll celebrate." He led the way to the bar, and Slade, +with a little head-shake, followed. He recollected an episode in +Shaughnessy's place, the night before, with distinct regret. + +Neither of them had noticed a man sitting at a small table, in a dark +corner, not far from where they had been talking. He slipped quietly out +as the two ordered their drinks. It was Shaughnessy's lieutenant, Dick +Peterson. + +Slade succeeded in inducing Micky to content himself with a couple of +rounds and lured him away to supper. Much to his disgust, O'Byrn +insisted upon going to a place with which a saloon was connected. There +was another appetizer, and O'Byrn ate heartily, the food apparently +serving to restore him to sense. All might have been well, but on +passing out through the saloon, O'Byrn intending to go directly to the +Courier office, he met a party of friends. Despite Slade's protestations +he decided that he had time for "one or two more." + +A few more draughts of the stuff produced the result that was usual with +him when indulging. Clear-headed at the first, the stimulant suddenly +fired his brain, rendering him deaf to protests or the voice of reason. +It was the way in which many a debauch of days or even weeks had been +ushered in. He sought only to quench a fiendish thirst, to indulge a +mad, grotesque merriment. He was hazily conscious of Slade's pleadings +for him to come away, of his attempts several times to do so, of dimly +hearing the imperious call of duty; of being dragged back for another +round by his boisterous companions. After a time he missed Slade, and +forgot about him for a while. + +Some time afterward, while gazing blankly at the clock in some saloon or +other, he did not know where, a swift terror seized him. There was grim +accusation in the clock's face. Micky took advantage of the momentarily +diverted attention of his companions to slip quietly out. His story; +yes, he must surely get to writing it. Ought to have started it before, +he reflected confusedly. + +Well, here was luck. A carriage stood near the cafe. Micky advanced +toward it, and the driver jumped down and flung open the door. O'Byrn +entered, with a drowsy order to drive to the Courier office. Then, ere +the door closed, he felt a vague curiosity as two additional passengers +followed him into the vehicle. The door was slammed shut, the driver +mounted his box and the rolling wheels lulled Micky into drowsiness that +was not disturbed by his silent companions. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +SUSPENSE + + +Colonel Westlake, the principal owner of the Courier and the man who +actively dictated its policy, sat in the library of his home that night +with a look upon his face different than he had worn of late. As the +leader of the Fusion movement, for which he had expended much labor and +time, things had looked black to him until today, and his face had worn +the expression that belongs to him who is fighting a grim, losing +battle. He saw the opposition forging ahead with a resistless sweep +which he and his co-workers could not stop, and it had been maddening. + +But tonight a bright gleam of hope had dispelled the gloom of the +Colonel's face. He had visited the office that afternoon and had a talk +with the managing editor, who had told him of the effort that was in +progress to checkmate the plans of the ring. He could tell the Colonel +but few particulars, for Micky had not confided many of them to his +superiors as yet. Indeed, he had had no time to do so. But the +information was cheering enough to cause the Colonel to smoke his cigar +that evening with an easier mind. "That fellow can get it if anybody +can," he had been told, and the assurance fanned his dying hope into +renewed flame. + +The Courier's editorial rooms were unusually replete of life that +night. To be sure, it was an old story, that record of life and death +and the things that go between, called news; ground out there three +hundred and sixty-five nights in the year. One night, generally +speaking, was very like another to the various cogs in the human +machine. Most of them were past cubhood, and the shifts of scene +entailed by succeeding assignments, that once held a fresh charm of +novelty, now spelled grim duty. Most men have illusions, but the jaded +newsgetter loses them first of all. Most men may dream of what they may +become; the newsgetter only of what he did not become. However, there is +a compensation. The newsgetter has acquired philosophy, the real salt of +the earth. It is better to watch one's Rome burning with philosophy than +to collect the insurance thereon without it. + +However, on this night there was a brooding excitement in the air. The +big room fairly throbbed with it; the sense of an impending something +whose significance but few of the force divined, but which they all +felt. The harassed, anxious expressions on the faces of Harkins and a +few others of the editorial force; their frequent glances at the big +clock, their nervous onslaughts upon the mass of work, for it was a +teeming night, revealed to every rushed reporter in the great room that +there was something on and that it was something big. They stole covert +glances at their chiefs and at each other, wondering what it was. + +Time wore on while the tension grew. The big calm clock reeled off the +flying minutes with exasperating insistence. The clock is the merciless +monitor of the newspaper office. Men watch it, fear it, serve it as +they must. They hurl the forces of head and hand, when the need calls, +in a desperate fight against it, till its tickings are drowned in the +roar of the presses that hold the dearly bought triumph; while the +toiler sits spent and worn, body and brain full of the numb weariness of +the reaction. Even as the roar of the presses dies in silence, there is +again audible the eternal ticking of the clock, unresting through it +all; registering in one breath the death of a day of labor, the birth of +another in the next. Always the grim spectre with the scythe stands at +the elbows of the men who write the news. + +So the Courier's clock ticked on, while the hidden undercurrent of +unrest, so patent even to those ignorant of the reason for it, grew in a +fierce, irritating tug that was made manifest in disagreeable ways. +Harkins' nerves were worn to shreds. His usual urbanity withered like +dry grass in the fire of his hot impatience. The office fairly throbbed +now, for it was an extraordinarily busy night. Election was close at +hand, the entire city was wrought up over it, everything else had +seemingly happened and was all coming in at once. Still there was that +hungry gap, waiting to be filled with the story of a lifetime. Where was +the story? + +It was exasperating. Everywhere men were rushing like mad and Harkins +helped them rush the more. His orders were snapped with the venom of a +cracking whip lash, accompanied by black frowns that caused backs to +bend and fingers to fly the more, or legs to hurry the faster, as his +behest might be. It became a drive, a dizzy whirl of effort, torn with +conflicting sights and sounds. There materialized hurrying figures, +sharp orders, the jingle of telephone bells, the slamming of doors, the +sleet-like rattle of typewriters, the soft rush of many pencils and the +crackle of paper; the hundred and one distractions that contribute in +the compilation of the record of a day of news. And constantly, as the +whirl gained in volume like a rising wind, Harkins' tortured eyes +re-sought the clock, and they held all the miserable apprehension of a +miser for precious, fleeting gold. + +"Gee!" exclaimed Kirk to Peters, as he passed that worthy at the end of +the room, and paused a moment to wipe his moist forehead, "it's fierce, +ain't it? Harkins is getting crazy. There's something up. What is it?" + +"No," replied Peters, with an apprehensive glance toward Harkins, +"there's nothing up, I guess. I think there's something ought to be up +that isn't. That's the rub. Never saw Hark' so worked up in my life." + +"Yes, but what is it?" reiterated Kirk. "It's something big, that's +sure." + +"I don't know anything more about it than you do, but I've noticed one +thing. O'Byrn hasn't shown up tonight. I think Hark' expected him, and +with something." He nodded meaningly and they separated. + +Suddenly Harkins summoned Glenwood, who had the week previous been made +his assistant. Dick had been also growing nervous for the last +half-hour, his eyes constantly seeking the door, hopeful of a desired +arrival which was strangely delayed. The story should have been well +under way by then. Dick guessed how formidable an undertaking it had +undoubtedly proved and had at first explained Micky's delay in appearing +by the assumed magnitude of the little Irishman's task. But now Dick +had grown painfully anxious. + +He hurried to Harkins' desk. The city editor looked up with a black +scowl, viciously chewing a cigar stub. His uneasy fingers drummed a +tattoo upon his desk. + +"For God's sake, Glenwood," he burst out, "what's the matter? It's ten +o'clock. Have you heard anything?" + +"Only that telephone message he sent me early this afternoon," replied +Dick. "It was short but significant. You know I told you." + +Harkins groaned. "Yes," he assented, "he said he'd need the whole paper +tomorrow and a few extras. And now where the devil is he, anyway? Where +was he when he sent you that message?" + +"I don't know," Dick answered. "Richards called me to the 'phone, said +someone wanted me. I recognized Micky's voice. He just blurted out that +information and broke away before I could reply. I tried to get him to +ask him if he needed any help and when he would get here, but he had +gone." + +Harkins' eyes contracted. "Dick, do you think--" he began meaningly. + +"No!" interrupted Dick vehemently, "not at a time like this! Still--Oh, +the poor devil!" he broke off, for the remembrance swept over him of a +certain shamed admission to him of O'Byrn's own, the acknowledgment of +the reason for a bootless career. + +There was a brief silence, broken by Harkins' voice, raised in loud +summons. "Has anyone seen O'Byrn tonight?" he asked. + +Peters glanced significantly at Kirk. There was no immediate answer, +but a fat figure, waddling on its way from the elevator to the desk, +hesitated and finally halted. An odd breathless voice broke the sudden +silence, the voice of Fatty Stearns. + +"O'Byrn?" he queried, "did you say O'Byrn, Mr. Harkins?" + +"Yes," exploded Harkins, frowning heavily upon the quailing Stearns. +"Have you seen him?" + +"Why, yes," assented Fatty faintly, while fidgeting upon his chubby +feet. "That is, I did," explosively, "about eight o'clock." + +"Well," fairly shouted his irritated chief, "where was he? What's the +matter with you?" + +"Why, nothin'," ejaculated Fatty desperately. "I wasn't with him! I kept +out of sight so he and the gang wouldn't see me. They were heading for +O'Sullivan's saloon." + +There was a moment's silence. "Stearns," said Harkins finally, his tone +now one of quiet resignation, "why didn't you tell me this before?" + +"You didn't ask me," Fatty answered in an injured way, sidling toward +his desk. "And besides," as an afterthought, "you couldn't, for I wasn't +here. You'd sent me out on that armory business, don't you know?" + +Harkins and Glenwood looked hopelessly at each other. "No telling where +he is now," said the city editor wearily, "or the shape he's in. It's +all up, I guess." + +Dick's fist rapped his desk smartly, his lips met in a grim line. "Not +yet!" he exclaimed. "It's worth a try, anyway. I'm going to see if I can +find him." + +He turned away, nearly colliding with a meagre little man who was +hurrying toward him from the elevator. "You're Mr. Glenwood?" asked this +worthy. + +"Yes," assented Dick, with a glance of inquiry. + +"I know you by sight," rapidly pursued the visitor. "I was mixed up once +in a little deal at Goldberg's with a friend of yours, Micky O'Byrn. You +came on after I slid," with a dry grin. "But that's nothin' to do with +this. You fellows are waitin' for somethin'," with a shrewd glance at +Harkins' worried face, "and the man who's got it is gettin' drunker +every minute. I thought you ought to know." + +"Do you know where he is?" exclaimed Dick, grasping Slade's arm in his +eagerness. The ex-heeler winced. + +"Sure," he assented. "I've got a pal watchin' 'em so as to cop whether +they do a duck into another joint." + +"What shape is he in?" asked Glenwood. + +"Bad," replied Slade dubiously. Then, with a ready grasp of the +situation, "I know a medicine cove that I'll bet could put him right in +short order, that is for while you'd need him. Makes a regular specialty +of it, one of his own patients in fact. But you'd have to hurry. I'm +with you on the deal, for between us I've got a bone to pick with +Shaughnessy myself and I want to see that story in tomorrow's paper. +Why, I put O'Byrn onto it." + +Dick turned sharply to Harkins. "Get everything ready, I'll have him +here," he said confidently. "We'll fix him up some way. Hang it, we've +got to! Of course, it'll have to be dictation. I'll 'phone you outlook +just as soon as I can," he added, seizing coat and hat, "and you clear +the decks. Now, Slade," and the two hurried to the elevator. + +Dick hailed a cab. "To Lawrence's saloon, on Forty-Fifth, and be quick +about it!" directed Slade, and the two sprang in. + +"I had supper with him," explained Slade, as the cab rolled rapidly +northward, "and he insisted on a couple of drinks. He'd had several +then, I guess. Then he was going to start for the office, but a gang +blew along. Then it was all off," with an expressive shrug. "Stuff +seemed to go to his head all in a flash, and he wouldn't listen to +anything. I kept along for a while and tried to sneak him away. He'd +start all right, but the gang would drag him back and play rough-house +with me and chuck me out. About eight we came near running into some +parties I didn't want to see and I simply had to duck for a while. He +was in a gin-mill near the City Hall then, and I lost him some way. It +was two hours, pretty near, before I copped him again, this time in +Lawrence's. I got a friend o' mine to watch the place, then I caught a +car for your office." + +The cab stopped before a brilliantly lighted cafe and the men tumbled +out. A young fellow, loitering about, approached Slade. "Well, he's +gone," said he. + +"Gone!" echoed Slade. "Where?" + +"I dunno. No call for me buttin' in. He got in a carriage with Dick +Peterson and another fellow and they drove off." + +"Shaughnessy!" exclaimed Slade, with a livid oath. "Come on, there's no +time to lose!" He dragged Dick toward the cab. "Shaughnessy's rooms, you +know 'em--drive like hell!" he told the driver, and they were off like +the wind. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +OUT OF THE PAST + + +The carriage stopped, unheeded by O'Byrn, who drowsed, huddled in a +corner. "Come on," said a gruff voice, "we're there." An ungentle +hand shook the Irishman rudely. + +Confused and dazed, Micky stumbled out. With a man at each arm, he was +whisked through a doorway and up a flight of stairs that led to a suite +of rooms over a corner grocery. Shaughnessy was unostentatious in his +manner of living, as he was in matters of political procedure. + +Before the befuddled O'Byrn had gathered his deadened wits sufficiently +to decide that his would-be friends had mistaken his intended +destination, the trio halted before a door which opened without any +preliminary formality of knocking. "Ah, come in, gentlemen," said a +remembered voice, which brought Micky to wavering attention. Then he was +pushed inside, into the presence of Shaughnessy. He stared for a moment +about the plainly but comfortably furnished room, then into the black +eyes of his host. Just now they were alight with triumphant gleams. +Micky sat down in sudden hopeless, though rather hazy, despair. + +"All right, boys; a good job," said Shaughnessy, a certain insistence in +his tone. Peterson took the hint. He plucked his companion by the +sleeve and the two withdrew. Their footsteps died in silence down the +stairs, followed in a moment by the diminishing roll of wheels. + +"Well, Mr. O'Byrn," said Shaughnessy, suavely, "I'd like my keys if +you're through with them, and I rather guess you are." + +"Keys?" echoed Micky, a vague and rueful grin reluctantly visiting his +face, "yes, I guess so. Took 'em for a joke. You can have 'em and be +hanged!" He threw them violently on the floor and continued to stare +rather helplessly about the room. Shaughnessy, unruffled, bent to pick +up his property, stepped for a moment to the door, then seated himself +on a chair, facing Micky, who sprawled supinely on a sofa. + +"Who was with you in my office last night?" he inquired casually. "You +know--when you got these?" + +"Don't you know?" Micky's utterance was rather thick, but there was a +cunning gleam in his eye. No amount of intoxicants, that the Irishman +had ever taken at any time in his checkered career, had even temporarily +robbed him of his sharp wits. Even though he might not be able to +remember it afterward, the busy brain was in evidence throughout the +spree; and the sub-conscious intelligence of the fellow, even when he +was nearly physically helpless from over-indulgence, had often staggered +his associates. + +Shaughnessy was now to have a taste of this. "Don't you know?" O'Byrn +had asked innocently and very thickly. Shaughnessy smiled dryly. The +fellow was sufficiently drunk to be as wax in the boss' hands. + +"No, I don't," mildly replied Shaughnessy, and waited for the desired +information. + +"Well," answered Micky, with a tipsy laugh, "I'm mighty glad you don't. +And now see here, let me out of here. I've got business--business to +attend to." + +"Yes," assented Shaughnessy softly, "you want to go to the Courier +office. But hold on a minute first, I want to have a little chat with +you, and it will be to your advantage to listen to reason. I suppose +you're wondering why you're here. Well, when I got out from the +influence of your dope last night, I happened to pull out of my pocket +the card you gave me. Without bothering to ask just why, I knew I had +you to thank for that little job. I don't know who was with you, but +I'll find out. Anyway, there've been good sharp eyes lookin' for you all +day, but, as the cursed luck would have it, they didn't cop you till +tonight. You were getting drunk then, making it easier for us. Much +obliged to you. Now, where are those papers?" + +O'Byrn leered with impish eyes. "Gimme a cigar," he suggested. The boss +handed him one with a scowl. O'Byrn lighted it uncertainly and began +unevenly to puff at it. + +The boss waited silently a moment, then a smouldering fire crept into +his eyes. He brought his fist down upon the arm of his chair with an +oath. O'Byrn's wandering glance shifted lazily to Shaughnessy. + +"Aha! my smart young rooster," growled the boss, "I know who was with +you last night. I'm getting dippy, or I'd have thought of it sooner. I +forgot who Peterson said was with you when he first set eyes on you +tonight. So it's Nick Slade, is it, that helped you with your little job +last night?" + +"Lemme out and I'll ask him for you," suggested the Irishman. "I haven't +got time to talk to you." + +"Now see here," urged Shaughnessy, "I want those papers. I suppose +you've got 'em on you." Micky made a mock gesture of alarm which the +boss evidently believed was genuine, for he permitted himself a slight, +sneering smile of triumph. "Well," he continued, "I'm on the level, I +am. I'm not playing any dirty stab-in-the-back games like that little +one of yours last night. If you'd used those papers as you meant to do, +why, there wouldn't have been any use in talking things over now. But I +know well enough, for I've been fairly busy today, that you haven't done +anything yet and tonight's pretty near your last chance to scribble. +Scribble? You're in good shape for the job, ain't you? Why, I'll bet you +don't get the sense of twenty words I've said. But listen, you can get +this." Shaughnessy bent toward him. "Turn those papers over to me, and +do a quiet sneak out of town for good, and I'll make it worth your +while." + +"Yes," muttered O'Byrn, "I get that." His body swayed a moment, then +straightened. His head wagged slowly from side to side, for the heat of +the apartment was oppressive and the room began to whirl uncannily. +Micky leaned his throbbing head upon his clasped hands. Shaughnessy +smiled sardonically, believing him to be thinking it over. + +O'Byrn lifted his head. "Say, is your name Shaughnessy?" he suddenly +inquired. The question went home like a shot. Even through the mists +that obscured his vision, the little Irishman chuckled as he saw +Shaughnessy start violently, saw his white face go whiter. "No," pursued +O'Byrn, with a momentary rally of his faculties, "I don't know what +your name used to be, and I don't care. I was just guessin', somehow. +But I'll tell you somethin'. My name ain't O'Byrn any more than yours is +Shaughnessy. Here's the difference. I took the name of an honest man, an +old fellow that was a friend to me after my mother died. I took it +because it was an honest name, and my father's wasn't. I was only a kid, +but I was old enough to hate the old man right, and try to change my +luck by shedding his rotten name like a snake's skin. Since then I've +rubbed along, but I've managed to keep honest, thank God, for I was born +that way. Now I'll tell you the difference between you and me. I changed +my name to get rid of one that wasn't honest, but someone else was to +blame. You changed from one rascal's name to another, that's all, and +you're gettin' worse every minute. No, old man, we won't make a deal for +any papers, not this evening." + +The fire faded in his eyes. With a spasmodic hiccough he fell back upon +the sofa. The whirling room, which he had conveniently forgotten during +his flat statement to Shaughnessy, swung once more in rhythmic, +disconcerting circles before his swollen eyes. "Open a window!" he +demanded. "It's roasting in here!" + +Shaughnessy had remained silent since O'Byrn's outburst, regarding him +balefully. "The window can wait," he said deliberately, "and so can you, +unless you listen to reason. Now, you produce those papers, agreeing to +keep your mouth shut and get out of town, for value received, of course. +Either that or I'll promise you you'll be kept quiet till after +election, anyway, and maybe longer. Things are ripe now and we can't +afford to have you loose." + +The fire was rekindled in O'Byrn's eyes. Clenching his hands he half +rose from the sofa, only to again fall back helplessly upon it, with a +curse, anathematizing his unsteady legs while he pressed his palms +against his whirling head. Shaughnessy watched him with malicious +satisfaction. + +Suddenly the recurrent hazy thought disturbed Micky, the accusing +whisper of duty unperformed. Where it had lain dormant with faint +stirrings, it was now imperious. O'Byrn sat bolt upright, groping for +his watch. Snapping the timepiece open, he stared at the dial. Even +through the mists, which he could not blink away, the significance of +the hour smote him like a lash. For a moment he sat inert, a growing +horror in his eyes that stared straight ahead. The open watch slipped +unheeded from his nerveless hand to the floor, striking the rug with a +muffled thud. + +The sound roused O'Byrn. He pitched forward, gaining his feet, and +reeled toward the door, which he shook impotently. He turned to confront +Shaughnessy's sneer. + +"The key--give me the key!" O'Byrn's steps toward Shaughnessy were +unsteady but his face was eloquent with settled purpose. The boss +thoughtfully moved so as to put a heavy table, standing in the center of +the room, between him and the angry Irishman. His sneer faded, his look +spoke of uneasy apprehension. Shaughnessy was not a coward, but he was +not over-strong; and, to do him justice, his fear came more from the +possibility that the strangely rallied Irishman might, after all, +escape, than from any worry over possible damage to himself in the +process. + +Now O'Byrn was opposite him, his hands resting on the table, his blue +eyes staring straight into the uneasy black ones of the boss. For the +present at least, O'Byrn's will, intent upon a definite object, would +control his wavering limbs. "Give me the key!" he repeated softly. The +tone was clear, the freckled face grim with determination, the glaze of +the eyes had been burned away in flame. It was an uncanny +transformation. + +Shaughnessy, watching the other warily, tried to temporize. "Those +papers," he suggested, "they're all I want. Give them to me and--" + +O'Byrn hurled the table to one side, where it fell with a crash. He +leaped forward, extended arms hungry for Shaughnessy. Now they were +reeling about the room, locked together in desperate, voiceless struggle +for the mastery. A chair fell heavily. Now they fell against the +prostrate table, but recovered themselves with an effort and fought on. + +Shaughnessy had been no stranger to either physical science or +rough-and-tumble, in the days before ill-health assailed him; but older +muscles, further handicapped by acquired weakness and long disuse, were +not a match for those of the wiry young man, even in his present +intoxicated condition. Shaughnessy, his breath coming in gasps and his +face grown ghastly, tried by every recollected trick to trip O'Byrn, but +the latter wriggled instinctively out of every snare. Now he forced +Shaughnessy once more toward the fallen table, the boss resisting +doggedly. But he was weakening, and Micky, with a sudden twist, threw +him backward over one of the protruding legs of the table and fell +heavily upon him. + +The Irishman's breath, heavy with whisky, smote the fallen boss full in +the face. Shaughnessy, gasping and nearly senseless, lay with his hand +gripped hard at his left side. As though he had dreamed it in his agony, +he felt his opponent's hand groping in a lower pocket of his coat. There +was a faint jingle--the keys! O'Byrn rose with a tipsy laugh, swayed a +moment and turned toward the door. Then, with a supreme effort, +Shaughnessy threw himself to one side, reaching out a hand and catching +Micky about the right ankle. A sharp wrench jerked him from his feet and +he fell heavily, striking his head against the table leg which had +previously served for the downfall of the boss. + +After a few moments, Shaughnessy struggled weakly to his feet and stood +grimly regarding the Irishman, who lay unconscious, with closed eyes, +the freckles staring strangely from his pallid face. After a time +Shaughnessy bent down and examined the reporter's hurt. "Nothing +serious," he muttered, noting a crimson abrasion at the right side of +the scalp. Then he thrust his hand confidently into the inner pocket of +O'Byrn's coat. His look of complacency changed to concern. He made a +thorough examination of the pockets, then rose with a bitter oath. + +"Bluffed me!" he muttered furiously. "He hasn't got 'em." He felt +strangely weak, as the result of the late encounter, and moved languidly +over to the sofa whereon Micky had lately been. Shaughnessy sat down, +with a heavy sigh, to think. + +His moody eyes noted an object lying on the rug. Leaning over, he picked +up Micky's watch. The back cover swung open in his hands, owing to the +defective spring, which Micky had never had repaired. + +Shaughnessy turned over the timepiece idly, noting on the inner cover a +woman's picture. And in that moment the dead-white face, ordinarily an +inscrutable mask, became startling to see. His black eyes, in which +there grew a slow, consuming horror, stared at the picture as if +hypnotized by it, and on his face was the look which the living might +wear if confronted, without warning, by the resurrected dead. + +After a time Shaughnessy withdrew his gaze, and, with a convulsive +movement, snapped the watch shut. Slowly, fearfully, he approached the +prostrate young fellow on the floor, afraid of what he should see. Now +he bent on one knee over the senseless O'Byrn, peering strangely into +his face. He thrust the watch into the little Irishman's pocket, as if +anxious to hide it from his own vision. Then, timidly, he raised the +inert right arm of his victim and slipped the sleeve up from the wrist. +There was the scar. + +A deep groan burst from Shaughnessy's lips; in his eyes gloomed, with +added intensity, the horror that was the heritage of the past. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +THE LASH + + +In the breadth and the depth of evil in the man whom the world had long +known as John Shaughnessy there was one wicked act whose memory was +torment. Unprincipled, ruthless, cruel as he was, this thing, perhaps in +inevitable reprisal for outraged higher laws, had long haunted him; +disturbing his sleep, embittering his waking hours. For it was only just +that a man base enough to leave, in far worse case than the widow and +the orphan, those he was morally and legally bound to protect, should be +disturbed by ghosts. It was remorse, it had long been remorse, from +which this calloused devil was suffering. His evil, white face was a +mask to hide much that the masquerader would have given all at times to +have forgotten. + +For a long time Shaughnessy bent over the silent figure on the floor; +crouching, motionless as if cut in stone. His eyes, unnaturally +brilliant, repellent in their fixed glare, rested long on the reporter's +unconscious face. That face--how freckled, how grotesquely homely! Why, +he had been a handsome baby! Still, the same mop of red, curly hair; +and, after all, did he but open his eyes Shaughnessy thought there would +be a definite resemblance to another. Shaughnessy recollected having +been vaguely troubled once or twice before by this half-sensed +similitude of the young fellow to someone he had known. He knew now. +Why, the boy looked like his mother, of course; though there was only a +pathetic hint of it, for his mother had been very pretty. This +Shaughnessy could vouch for. Poor unfortunate, had she not been his +wife? + +And his son, lying on the floor; the son Shaughnessy had thought dead; +was it not a joyful reunion? Shaughnessy groaned aloud, for he had long +writhed under the lash of conscience for this one thing. The rest of his +ill-doing did not trouble him; it was for the blackest crime of all, +alone, that he paid the penalty. And a bitter penalty he paid, for, +whatever the seeming, outraged nature generally exacts her due. This man +had heartlessly deserted a wife who had been devoted to him, despite his +deviltry, and his helpless baby; deserted them more indifferently than +most men would leave a dog. It was slow in coming, the time of +reckoning, but the day came when the black heart and soul of Shaughnessy +quivered under the lash. And the lash bit the deeper because of the need +for repression, for the man writhed in secret. It was Shaughnessy who +lived; the other man was dead; yet his foul ghost, with the memory of +the foul deed he wrought, would not be laid. + +Shaughnessy, with a haggard glance at the motionless form on the floor, +rose and walked uncertainly to an easy chair. He sat limply, a thin, +white hand shading his eyes. He was oblivious to his surroundings, for +the tumult of the past pounded in his brain. + +The tumult of the past! What a record had been his, this white-faced man +with hunted eyes that now stared with a weird, fixed horror back into +the past. They saw again another man than the Shaughnessy of vile +political power; a younger man, in whom was no repression; the slave of +wayward passions which marred lives other than his own. But what were +wife and child? Merely incumbrances then, and, toward the last, hardly +to be borne. + +And at the beginning? Why, the young man had once been respectable, and +of the type to be pointed out as one destined to make his mark. Starting +at the lowest round of a big business house, in a far-off city, it had +not taken him long to prove his rare mettle, and at twenty-five he had +reached a point further than most men attain in a lifetime. He had +married a girl who believed in him as she believed in God--and she had +been his dupe almost from the first. + +Supremely selfish, treacherous by nature and with a stealthy leaning +toward the fleshpots, he began early to betray her trust in cold blood. +She did not know of this; she knew only of his indulgence in liquor, +increasing alarmingly, and his growing taste for cards. He had drammed +moderately from a very early age; now he had a fiend's appetite, while +his passion for the gaming table grew accordingly. She used to plead +pitifully with him to eschew the practices. At first he laughed; later +he sneered. Meanwhile his dissipation had not affected his business +prospects as yet. Often rioting through a sleepless night, he was +invariably at his desk in the morning, and his house was glad to command +his services, for he was a veritable business genius. + +His wife, poor soul, hoped that the baby's coming would influence him to +better things. It grew worse. His appetite for liquor, which was +evidently inherited from some bibulous ancestor, grew tyrannous, and he +was a willing slave. Lucky at cards, ordinary gambling became too tame +for him. He fell to speculating, cannily at first, but with success and +increasing indulgence in liquor came recklessness. The man's naturally +cool business judgment was clouded, for he was never wholly sober now. +Yet his business prospects were still of the best, for he succeeded +marvellously in retaining his strong hold on affairs. The dawn was more +than likely to find him reeling, but the opening of the day's business +invariably found him at his desk, alert, coldly inscrutable, his wits +more than a match for the sharpest ones that might oppose him. +Dissipated as he was in those days, he engineered some brilliant +_coups_ which benefited his concern and increased his own prestige, +to his material advantage. He was already pointed out as a man of +power. He could have figured as a Napoleon of honorable business, +as he later figured as a Napoleon of graft. Of splendid intellectual +endowment, he chose to mar himself. + +Their home-life, because of his course, had grown unspeakably wretched. +They lived simply; the bulk of the man's income was expended away from +home. The wife did not reproach him and she had ceased to plead, but she +was pale and silent and sad-eyed. She knew all now, and she lived only +for her baby. + +Like many an infinitely better man, the husband's worst side was +reserved for his family. The inevitable reaction of tippling, in a +nature like his, rendered him fairly diabolic at times in his home; and +the cruel spirit was the fiercer by reason of the need for its +repression elsewhere. He remembered one morning when he stood shaving +before his mirror, shaking from the effect of a debauch. It was several +months after his son was born. His wife, in pitiful appeal to his better +side, of whose existence she still dreamed, had softly entered the room, +carrying the baby. She thoughtlessly approached from the side, and he +neither heard nor saw her. A soft little hand, the baby's, crept into +his neck. Shaken as he was, it startled him; his razor slipped and the +blood spurted from a gash in his cheek. Blind with swift, unreasoning +rage, he whirled with a curse and a murderous, involuntary swoop of his +razor. She had sprung back with a sharp cry, but just too late. He heard +again the sudden, shrill cry of the baby; saw the swift blood rimming an +ugly gash above its little wrist; saw himself shriveling, before the +horror in his wife's eyes, into a loathsome thing. + +"My God!" he had stammered, "I--I didn't mean--" + +She had recoiled, the flame in her eyes repelling him. Ever afterward +her burning eyes, accusing him in memory, had caused his own to close +spasmodically in swift desire to escape her gaze; had caused him to dig +his nails into his palms in temporary agonized abasement. The grim mills +of the gods, indeed! + +The poor woman annoyed him no more after that, but she grew like a +voiceless, accusing ghost. She was thin and pale now and her beauty was +fading pathetically. As for him, his course grew madder, he plunged into +dissipation as it had been an enveloping sea. By and by things began to +go wrong with him; wild speculations turned out poorly, his resources +began seriously to dwindle. With his old, clear head he could have +repaired his fortunes, but now he saw things through a red haze, and in +endeavoring to right himself with one reckless stroke, he lost +everything. + +Well, it was time to leave. But he would not go alone, he sullenly +decided. There was a siren to whom he had long been devoted, a creature +of sensuous mould designed to hold enmeshed such evil souls as his. Nor, +he fiercely told himself, would they go empty-handed. And he fortified +his nerve with more whisky. + +The newspapers accordingly had a sensation. One of the city's most +brilliant and most trusted young business men was a defaulter to the +extent of thousands of dollars, and he was gone. This startling fact, +coupled with the simultaneous departure of the siren and the revelations +of the defaulter's double life, made an attractive tit-bit. The wife and +child, being of minor importance in this sensational tale, were quickly +forgotten. The memory of the defaulter remained, and men confidently +believed at first that one day they would welcome his return, shackled +to an officer of the law. But it was not to be, though once the man, +driven by the lash of belated remorse, had ventured to cross a continent +and steal furtively into the scene of his early crime, on a bootless +quest. + +It seemed to him later that, following his flight with his siren, he had +been drunk for years. The furtive sting was at work; he drank to deaden +it. At times he would shiver and the cold perspiration would bead his +forehead, for he saw again the horror in her eyes as she sought to +stanch the blood that flowed from her baby's arm. More, he saw himself +again, with hideous humor, repeatedly when he was in his cups, tearing +her baby from her arms and plying it with toddy. The boy would take it +like milk, he remembered; and the father was wont to laugh, with all the +sardonic mirth of a hyena, at the anguish in the mother's eyes, and +finally to hand back the infant with ironical courtesy and the +observation "that he was a chip off the old block." + +Yes, pleasant memories had the fugitive, while drifting from place to +place with his paramour. The money was soon gone and he had recourse to +the gaming table, with fluctuating luck. Quarrels were frequent now, and +finally, after an exceptionally fierce one, in which two calloused, +coarsened natures revealed themselves in all their hideousness, the +precious pair parted. That particular weakness disturbed the current of +the man's life no more, for Shaughnessy was done with sirens and their +influence. With a revival of his old calculation, shrewd and cold, he +decided that it didn't pay. + +At the same time, too, he decided that whisky didn't pay. He had a will +like iron, whether toward evil or against it. Returning reason bade him +to be against anything that marred his self-interest, so +Shaughnessy--which name he adopted after his flight of years +before--said one day, "I'm done," and suffered ensuing torments of +thirst like an imperturbable Indian. It was years before he again tasted +liquor, though he never lost the craving for it; and even then, he +severely confined himself to its use as a medicine, necessitated by his +failing health. + +After the siren had gone her way, and Shaughnessy took occasion to +survey the situation with something of his old-time critical analysis, +he resolved upon his future campaign. His honest name he had forfeited; +it could not be resumed. Moreover, his natural cynicism had deepened +with the years. It was the dishonest who prospered most, thought he. He +had the brains, so let him scheme to prosper. Politics attracted him. He +studied it for the science that it is, and he also studied men. He +chose an excellent field in which to operate; he established his small +liquor store, which was destined to grow larger; he made his modest +entry into the political arena which he was to dominate. With infinite +subtlety, by the power of a remarkable brain, he had grown into the +sinister force he was today; nor did his evil success trouble him. It +was the memory of his wife and child that haunted him; a memory that bit +deep as a sword. + +It was years before he risked detection by a visit to his old city to +ascertain regarding them, for of course he dared not write. Time was +generous and changed him much, however, in appearance, so finally he +traversed the continent and furtively, fearfully, entered his old +haunts. He did not stay long; there was no need. His wife was dead; he +found her humble grave in an old cemetery. The boy had been entirely +lost sight of; he had drifted away and might be dead for all that +anybody knew or apparently cared. We poor worldlings might perchance be +more sympathetic, more solicitous one of the other, if we had more time. +But self-interest in the grim old world demands and receives the initial +consideration of self. Shaughnessy turned back with a heart none the +lighter because of the fruitlessness of his quest; back to the old +search in dark places for pelf and power. There was nothing else left, +and, as his ideals had never been high, his course suited him and +satisfied his ambition. + +The boss rose, swaying, from his chair; a strange weakness was upon him. +He made his way toward the spot where his unconscious son lay prone on +the floor, and he tottered like an old man. He stood looking down upon +the boy, and for his most monstrous sin of all there was grim reprisal +visible in his eyes. The boy was as he had made him--as he himself had +been--a drunkard. Of brilliant mental endowment, as the father knew to +his cost, the son's career was clouded by this bitter heritage; would be +clouded to the end, for he lacked his father's iron will. And the agency +through which the boss' black course had been menaced; that menaced it +still; the son against the sire, unknowing and till now unknown! What a +hell-born irony it was, matter for mirth of gibbering fiends. Truly, at +last Shaughnessy drank the bitter lees. + +He stood there, swaying slightly, his gaunt face bloodless, his eyes +horrible. Mechanically he pulled out his watch, starting violently. Why, +it could be no more than five minutes since the struggle. Five +minutes--and in them Shaughnessy had lived long and bitter years! And +now-- + +"_For God's sake! For--God's--sake!_" + +The old, old prayer of agony, of deadly fear, wrung at the last from +lips which perhaps had long ceased to frame that Awful Name except in +blasphemy; the cry of the ages; the wail of the wicked as it is the hope +of the blessed; the cry of despair which rends the throat of the pariah +when face to face with Death. + +What was it? Ah! Shaughnessy knew; while his face went gray, while he +gasped for breath, while his hands sought and pressed convulsively his +breast, through which throbbed swift, keen stabs of exquisite pain. The +mists swam before his staring eyes as he reeled blindly, now with +outstretched hands, toward the door of his den. It was the ancient enemy +returned--and this time not to be denied. + +Shaughnessy lurched through the door, and with groping hands, grasped +the bottle. The fiery draught of brandy seared his throat; he strangled +and the bottle fell from his nerveless fingers and broke upon the floor. +The strong smell of the spilled contents oppressed the heated air. + +No use--no use! Shaughnessy collapsed in the chair before his desk, his +breast afire with suffocating pain. The gray pallor deepened; the eyes +glazed. For a moment he lay inert, his form twitching. Then a sudden +torturing thought brought him instinctively erect in his chair. It was +like a dead man rising from his grave. + +The money--the property! Why, who would get it? How had _he_ gotten it? +Never mind, it was his; they could not take it away. It should be his +son's--who had tried to destroy him. Would he take it? Perhaps not, he +might be that kind of a fool. Well, if not, why he could give it to +charity. Charity! Shaughnessy laughed horribly, deep in his throat. + +There might--there might yet be time. He made as if to brush away the +mists that deepened before his eyes. He groped for paper--a pen, and +drew them toward him. He plunged the pen into the ink well, overturning +it, but he did not heed. He was going blind; there was a strange, +rhythmic thudding in his ears. + +"I--" + +The single letter, grotesquely lonely, sprawled crazily, black and ugly, +upon the sheet. The world would remember Shaughnessy as--Shaughnessy. + + * * * * * + +O'Byrn stirred uneasily, for the noise of resounding blows was in his +ears. He struggled to a sitting posture, and as he did so the door +crashed in. Dick and Slade bounded into the room. + +"Ah! there you are," exclaimed Glenwood, striding over to Micky and +pulling him to his feet. "There's been a rough-house. But where's +Shaughnessy?" His eyes swept the apartment vengefully. + +"Must have gone out," returned Slade. Neither he nor Dick noticed the +partially open door of the den. "Better be gettin' out. He may be back, +with more like him, and we ain't got no time to lose." + +Between them they guided the stupefied O'Byrn outside and to the waiting +carriage. Inside the den, crumpled horridly in his chair, with gaunt, +ghastly jaw agape and with a look of terror frozen in his staring eyes, +rested Shaughnessy; as he would sit through the night, as he would be +sitting when they should seek him on the morrow. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +THE STORY + + +A half-hour later a telephone bell pealed in the office of the Courier. +"You're wanted, Mr. Harkins," called an assistant. The city editor +hurried to the instrument. "Hello!" he called. + +"Hello! That you, Harkins? All right, this is Glenwood. Well, we've got +him. Working on him now. Be there by twelve, sooner if possible. Have +everything ready. Good-by." + +The office of Dr. Erastus Wentworth was a scene of animation. By rare +good luck, Slade had found the medical gentleman in an adjacent +restaurant immediately after the cab drew up at the building which +contained his office. Dick and Slade had assisted the dazed O'Byrn +upstairs, when Slade, fuming with impatience, set out on a search for +the physician, which was fortunately soon rewarded. + +They placed O'Byrn on a sofa and he immediately lapsed into dreamland. +"Doctor," said Dick, "this man has a job to turn out tonight that would +feaze many a fellow in his sober senses. He's simply got to do it +tonight. It will take an hour, perhaps a half or so more. It must be +started at midnight. I know it looks hopeless, but you don't know the +man. If you only start his brain half-working it's worth a couple of +normal ones under full head. What do you think?" He was pacing the +floor in keen excitement. Slade stood near, silent, with burning eyes. + +"Bad!" commented the doctor, dryly. "How much has he had?" + +"Not so much," returned Slade. "He got a nasty bump; it helped." + +"Well, we'll try," said the doctor, and was soon busy. Micky was +sufficiently oblivious not to wince at the sting of the hypodermic +needle, piercing his bared arm, forcing into his system the powerful +solution of strychnine, the influence of which must be invoked to +reinforce the mechanism of the numbed brain. Dick looked at the +Irishman, sprawled supine upon the office sofa, still with closed +eyes. It looked hopeless enough and Dick despaired. + +A little later the physician was preparing with infinite care a mixture +which he finally seemed to have ready to his satisfaction. He approached +the prostrate man. + +"Rank poison," he said grimly to Glenwood, "but desperate cases require +desperate remedies. I fancy this will complete the job of galvanizing +your friend for the time you require. Probably he won't exactly +scintillate, but I think he will do." He administered the stuff to +O'Byrn, who, half-conscious already despite his relaxed attitude, +swallowed it obediently. + +"Now in a few minutes," said the doctor, "you can start with him. But +remember one thing," he cautioned Glenwood, "this brace is wholly +artificial. It won't last. A little later and I couldn't have done much +for you anyway. He'll run along like a machine for a while, that's all. +Get all you can from him while you can, for there'll be a reaction." + +"That's what we've got to do anyway," replied Dick grimly. "It's a case +of racing the clock with us from now on." + +A little later they descended the stairs, O'Byrn stumbling heedlessly +down, assisted by Glenwood. The cabman had waited under instructions. +"The Courier office in a hurry," Dick ordered, and assisted Micky +inside. Slade followed. He had resolved to be in at the death. + +As the cab rolled rapidly south, Dick spoke to the man opposite him, now +rousing to a dull consciousness of his surroundings. + +"Micky," he demanded, "have you got that story, all of it?" There was an +assenting nod. + +"Now listen to me, Micky," continued Dick, leaning forward in the +dimness, fixing the other's stolid eyes with his own dominant ones, +"you're going to turn out that story and it's going to be the story of +your life. You won't feel like it, but you're going to do it and it's +going to be a dandy. Now get your brain working. Think of that story, +every stage of it, from the time you first started out for it till you +finished. Fix it in your head, and when the time comes, just spout it. +_Don't-think-of-anything-but-that-story!_ Do you understand?" + +There was but a single word of response, a little thick, but inspiring +of confidence. "Sure." + +Dick sat back with a long sigh. His hands were trembling with +excitement. A moment later the cab drew up in front of the Courier +office. + +The elevator sprang upward. As its door was flung back for the trio to +emerge, the big editorial clock chimed the hour of midnight. Harkins +met them with white face and eyes that revealed the strain of the long +hours of suspense. Behind him stared many other eyes, in which shone an +overwrought glitter that came of the infectious tension of the +situation. + +"Well, O'Byrn!" Harkins' voice crackled with acrid authority. "Where's +your story?" + +The tone had the effect of a whip lash, awakening the habit of swift +obedience born of long training. Micky had stood dumb with blank eyes, +to which the scene and the actors seemed strangely remote, like a vague +dream. But his chief's question pierced his numbed brain like sharp +steel. There was an instinctive attempt to gather his deadened forces. +His hand swiftly sought an outer pocket and produced a few penciled +fragments which he threw upon a table. "There," he said. + +"These!" exclaimed Harkins, hastily scanning them. "Well, where are the +rest? Did you lose them?" + +Dick interposed. "You forget, Mr. Harkins," he suggested. "He doesn't +have to carry a notebook. Micky, where's the rest of it?" + +"Why," he answered confusedly, "I remembered it." + +"Well, do you remember it now?" persisted Harkins. + +"No," wearily, "not just now." Then, again with that strange gathering +of struggling forces, though the words came as if he talked in his +sleep, "I'll remember it--after I get started." And he walked straight +to his desk, eyes dead ahead like a somnambulist's, unheedful of the men +who watched him silently with drawn, anxious faces. It is doubtful if he +saw them. Dropping limply into his chair he reached mechanically for his +copy paper. + +"Not that way, Micky," said Dick softly, interposing his hand. "There +isn't time. You must dictate it. Here's a man waiting for you." + +Micky turned dull eyes toward the stenographer who sat nearby in +readiness, pencil in hand. An expression of helplessness replaced the +apathy in O'Byrn's face, as his gaze shifted to Dick. In his trance-like +state he could not comprehend. They wanted the story, yet would not let +him write it. There was a pathetic questioning in his look. + +"Listen, Micky," said Dick very distinctly, bending over him. "It's not +far from press-time. We've got to hurry. There's a relay of +stenographers waiting for you. Now you go ahead and dictate your story +just as if you were writing it yourself. Get your mind right on it. Talk +your introduction, covering the main points, then start at the beginning +and go through to the finish. Get everything in and talk it as it comes +to you, but have it right. Don't be afraid of going too fast. They'll +get it all. Talk it just as you'd talk it to me and get it all. You +understand? Now, boy, _get into it_!" He placed the packet of +Shaughnessy's papers, which O'Byrn had entrusted to him, in his hand. + +Dick stepped back, raising his hand to quiet them all as they crowded +around, staring at the motionless man in the chair. "Get back!" Dick +whispered fiercely. "Get him rattled now and it's all up. Can't you +see?" They softly moved aside and intense quiet fell, in which the +measured ticking of the big clock sounded unbelievably loud. They +watched the meagre figure in the chair with an odd fascination. O'Byrn, +as if fairly hypnotized by Glenwood's words, was bending forward, hands +pressed tightly against his temples, eyes closed and brow contracted in +the supreme effort to marshal the dormant resources of his brain. So he +sat, without word or motion, while the moments crawled by and the +suspense grew into actual pain for every watcher in that great room. +Once Harkins, with an expression of keen torture, slowly lifted a +clenched hand and let it fall silently, an impetuous word restrained by +a warning gesture from Glenwood, who had not once taken his piercing +eyes from O'Byrn's face. Even as he gazed, the face of the other seemed +curiously to change, as if a dead thing were stirring into life. It was +as if Glenwood's iron will reinforced O'Byrn's weaker one, infusing into +it the power of concentration, helping it to rise superior to deadening +influences, to assert itself in a hard-won triumph of mind over matter. + +At last Micky raised his head, looking straight into Dick's eyes, which +shone with satisfaction, for they read coherence in O'Byrn's own. The +day was saved and there was a universal sigh of relief. O'Byrn extended +his hand. Reading the gesture aright, Dick placed in it the notes which +shortly before had been produced for Harkins' inspection. Micky looked +them over briefly, scanned the damning packet a moment, and turned to +the waiting stenographer. + +Then came the story which swept the town that morning in a mighty wind +that drove a monstrous tidal wave of public indignation thundering over +an illicit crew and blotted out a corrupt municipal history. Yes and +more, for the waters encroached even to foul halls in the capitol and +washed them clean. It was a story involving so scathing an arraignment +of those in high places that hardened veterans in the great room, +listening to its steady flow from the lips of the drowsy man in the +chair, gasped and looked at each other in momentary incredulity; +momentary, because every astounding disclosure was fortified by the most +incontrovertible of proofs. Micky had been a veritable sleuth hound on +the track of that story. His scent had been unerring and in the +marshaling of his verified facts he had shown positive genius. There was +nothing asserted that collected statements and figures did not prove; no +man arraigned, from Judge Boynton down, who was not pilloried in the +proof. Noisome legislative deals, heretofore blanketed by +respectability, were laid bare in exposed horror. The city government +was savagely assailed. The vesture of fair seeming in the present +campaign was torn away and there was revealed rottenness. The growth of +graft, in repulsive forms, under the sinister genius of Shaughnessy, was +claimed and proved and the telling ruined some flourishing careers. So +on to the end, the arraignment transcending the expectation of all in +its ugly features, as indeed it had Micky's own. It left no doubt of the +swift dynamic effect upon the election, now close at hand. Truly it was +the story of a lifetime. + +He told it from beginning to end always in that strange, monotonous +voice, as if he were muttering in his sleep, his eyes at times fixed +absently on the stenographer, at others half-closed or turning blankly +toward the ceiling. He seemed wholly unconscious of his surroundings +after his task was begun, being absorbed in dreamy contemplation of his +theme. As the physician had said, his brain was working like an +insensate machine, driven for a while by the force of powerful +stimulants. Yet always his wonderful memory, an instinctive force with +him, was a potent line that led his groping mind unerringly through the +gloomy labyrinth of the brain. At times he would falter for a moment, +but once more grasping the thread was off again. So, unmindful of +anything save the task he was mechanically pursuing, he swept on toward +the end. Stenographers quietly relieved one another, typewriters rattled +madly at the other end of the room, Harkins and an assistant fairly flew +in the preparation of the copy; boys hurried by with it, take by take, +everywhere was the sharp hum of the belated machinery, at last in +motion. O'Byrn never noticed, but went serenely, logically, sleepily on, +dictating as he would have written it. One might imagine he saw himself, +as one detached, writing as he proceeded. + +But now the fuel had spent its force. He was growing horribly drowsy, +yet struggled on, impelled by a latent sense of duty. At last he +faltered in the middle of a sentence and stopped short. His chin sank on +his breast. + +Someone was shaking him, he numbly felt a dash of something cold and wet +in his face and opened his eyes. He tried to wipe away the water that +trickled down his cheeks, when somebody's handkerchief was passed over +them and he heard a voice, familiar yet far away. + +"Wake up, Micky!" it appealed. "You can't give up now, you're almost +through!" + +"All right, Dick," he sighed wearily. "Where was I?" + +Dick prompted him and he resumed at the break, still in the same even, +expressionless monotone, and continued until the dark shadows again +gathered before his eyes and he swayed in his chair. Dick's voice again +rang its sharp rally in his ears and he braced desperately, dictating +the closing paragraphs. "That's all," he murmured. The receding +footfalls of the stenographer sounded. Then came Dick's voice, a ghost +of a voice from the other side of the world. + +"Now you can sleep," it said. + +Then returned again the shadows and silence. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +WANDERLUST + + +O'Byrn reeled to and fro, in fierce combat with Shaughnessy. Again and +again, while his breath came in gasps and his temples throbbed with his +efforts, he had nearly gained the advantage, but the boss as often +slipped from his hold with an ugly sneer, eluding him. And now occurred +a grisly thing, for before his horrified eyes his enemy's body suddenly +lengthened and changed into a monstrous, writhing serpent, wriggling +sinuously toward him. He strove to scream, but could not, and the +creature coiled itself in triumph near him. Upreared above its horrid +neck was the swaying head, the ghastly face of Shaughnessy, who leered +with his black serpent's eyes and darted a forked tongue. Now the +creature crawled sluggishly toward him--coiled its horrid folds about +him--and he could not move. The last coil tightened above his neck, +while he gazed upward, strangling, into dead, unwinking, awful eyes, the +eyes of Shaughnessy. Now he was borne backward; the creature was +shattering his head upon the floor. Thud!--thud!--thud! + +O'Byrn fairly shot out of bed, groaning as the impact of his feet upon +the floor sent a diabolical thrust of pain through his aching head. He +pressed his temples convulsively and closed his eyes, blinded by the +glare of sunlight through the window. Why, what was that? Somebody was +pounding insistently at his door. It was this which had awakened him. + +"What is it?" he called. + +His landlady answered him. "There's a telegram for you, Mr. O'Byrn. A +young fellow just brought it in from the Courier office. He said they'd +sent him right over here with it." + +"Thanks," he mumbled indifferently. "Just shove it under the door, will +you?" + +A small yellow envelope was thrust beneath the portal, the woman's +footsteps receded down the stairs. Inside his room stood O'Byrn with his +splitting head between shaking hands, his bloodshot eyes closing in +sheer physical misery. The meagre form in the flamboyant pajamas winced +perceptibly as stabs of cruel pain continued to pierce Micky's temples. +The freckled face went gray as the overwrought stomach writhed in +sickening nausea. + +It was with a long, shuddering sigh that he turned at last to his +ablutions. He dressed mechanically, his memory groping through the mists +of the preceding night, mists that reeked with misery, with shameful +groveling, with manhood profaned. + +Ah, God! he had fallen again, again! Numbly he glanced at the mirror. +The glass reflected heavy, unnatural eyes in which despair brooded like +a cloud, a haggard face from which the freckles stared strangely forth +from unaccustomed pallor. Slowly, painfully, his mind wrestled with the +problem of the night before, a night unreal, peopled with phantoms that +gibbered and peered from enshrouding blackness. + +Dominated by another's master will, had he indeed emerged through +shadows to victory, or was the episode in the Courier office merely a +grateful, fleeting dream to accentuate the misery of waking? O'Byrn +looked at his watch, it marked the hour of two. He had slept long, it +seemed. How had he reached home, had he been in the Courier office at +all the previous night? + +However, what mattered it? What mattered anything in the shadow of this +appalling thing which mastered him, which dogged him in times of fancied +security, only to spring upon him unaware and rend him, leaving him +sorely wounded again to painfully traverse for a season the path of +duty? What mattered anything to one whose stumbling steps laid hold on +hell? + +Seizing hat and coat O'Byrn started for the door. His downcast gaze fell +upon the yellow envelope. Absently he stooped and dropped the message, +unopened, into his coat pocket. The landlady met him at the foot of the +stairs and inquired kindly if he would eat something. He replied only +with a gesture of utter repugnance. She looked after him as he went out, +shaking her head sadly. + +O'Byrn stumbled blindly out upon the street, blurred eyes blinking in +dazzling sunshine of an ideal Indian summer afternoon. The warm, +fragrant air was incense to the nostrils, the sky was of a heavenly +blue. Micky closed miserable eyes to the glories of the day. The +villainous old feelings, so well remembered, racked him cruelly. The odd +depression which always followed his indulgence was bad enough, but +now-- + +A dumb terror seized him. He hurried up the quiet street toward a busier +thoroughfare, his ears strained for the cries of newsboys, even as the +spirit within him grew sick for fear of disappointment. + +In another moment his shoulders squared, his red head lifted with +assurance in part renewed. For he could now see a thronged street; from +afar he could fairly snuff the air of unwonted excitement. Now he beheld +newsboys running here and there with early editions of the evening +papers, their wares disappearing fast as April snows. The burden of +their shrill cries was the exposure of the gang, with "follow-up" +details upon the Courier's story. O'Byrn drew a long breath of relief. + +Well, he should now be communicating with the office. He looked +longingly toward a saloon. Throat and mouth were parched dry as desert +sands. Resolutely turning away, he entered a drug store instead, +purchased a bromide and then stepped into a telephone booth. + +Securing Harkins' ear at the Courier office, he told the city editor +that he felt pretty "shaky," and inquired if he were needed there. +Harkins replied that it was expected he would rest for a couple of days +and added some warm congratulatory words. O'Byrn thanked him, and with a +bitter smile, hung up the receiver. + +Stepping into a tobacco store he purchased some cigars, and as he handed +the salesman a coin he remembered that he had not drawn his salary, due +the day before. Walking to the Courier's business office he secured his +money, accepting, with an odd indifference, the congratulations of some +fellow employes there upon his brilliant coup. + +Next, although at the moment he could not have told just why, he stopped +at the bank where, through the influence of a warm dream near his +heart, he had been of late depositing a portion of his wages each week, +and called for his money. Placing the little bundle of bills carefully +in his pocket book, he left the building and sauntered slowly down the +crowded street. + +Everything told of a triumph which it seemed should have had the little +Irishman walking upon air. Everything pointed to as impressive a climax +as he could have wished. Everywhere were knots of excited men, with +strident voices and brandished fists. The clubs and hotels were teeming +with the story, the curbs proclaimed it. Newsboys were reaping harvests +and the news stands could hardly supply the hungry demand. + +Public opinion, at first stunned by the sensational exposure of a system +of wholesale corruption well nigh unbelievable, was gathering force like +a mighty, overwhelming wave, which was to sweep down in vengeance upon +the trembling, illicit crew, now leaderless. This, however, was not yet +known, nor was it destined to become so until the evening. There would +be another rich morsel for the Courier in the early morning, though none +knew it now. + +Shaughnessy had been wont to live in seclusion that was undisturbed save +when he was minded to summon one or another of his crew. His lodgings +occupied the upper floor of a small, two-story building, with +unpretentious stores below, and few ascended the stairs that had not +business with Shaughnessy and been called thither. Also, the boss had +invariably taken his meals outside and so managed in all respects that +once in his retreat, when he so willed, he was in unbroken seclusion. + +So it transpired that Shaughnessy, limp in the chair before the desk in +his den, sat in grisly silence through the long night till the dawn +which heralded his exposure; sat through the long day, with the sun's +rays beating through the window upon his glazed, unwinking eyes; sat +quietly, while men throughout the city cursed him for the masterly knave +he had been, conferring together in plans of futile reprisal. So he sat, +deaf, unheeding, beyond it all; while some men watched others whom they +thought harbored him and others thought him gone. + +And so he was--to a far country, where they could not follow him. Even +now, as he sat waiting for them, there was a sardonic look about his +grim, relaxed jaws which might tell them, when they were finally +come--summoned through the veriest accident to get him--that they were +welcome to what was left. + +As O'Byrn walked along the crowded street, he passed some members of the +gang, hurrying by with white faces and furtive eyes, cringing in the +glare of publicity as if a lash bit deep into quivering flesh. Others he +met who affected an exaggerated boldness which failed to hide their +uneasiness. Some who knew O'Byrn shot glances at him that were white-hot +with hate, one breathed a livid curse as they touched elbows. + +To all the tumult, the strident clamor of indignation, the scurrying +hither and yon of scared, branded rats of men, O'Byrn remained curiously +indifferent. As during his dictation of the previous night, he proceeded +as if in a maze, with the air of a sleep walker, gaze dead ahead; no +triumph in the eyes, only infinite weariness. + +For O'Byrn was confronted by the merciless logic of his fate, feeling +the strangling grip of the enemy upon his soul. At times like these +there was given him cruel realization at its full, the grim, prophetic +knowledge that he must fight a losing battle to the end. Without knowing +the source, he recognized the deadly taint of heredity in his blood. A +hard road was his to travel, and--supremest sacrifice!--now he knew that +in simple justice he must pursue it--alone. And the winds are bleak that +howl about a solitary way. + +So, on this beautiful autumn afternoon, walking in the midst of a public +upheaval which he had produced, the cup of success held only bitter +lees. Face to face with inevitable renunciation of his dearest hope, the +present moment held no thrill. There was no rose, only the pallid gray; +wan, cold ashes of endeavor. Through this damning thing he was doomed to +walk alone in arid places, a soul cut off from Israel. + +A voice hailed him, recalling him to pulsing actualities. It was that of +Mead, his fellow-worker upon the staff of the Courier. + +"Hello!" remarked Mead, shaking O'Byrn's hand. "Great story! You've won +that bet, all right." + +"What bet?" returned Micky, listlessly. + +"Why, that Santa Claus bet about Shaughnessy," rejoined the other, +producing a ten dollar bill. "You know, in the lunch room that time; +that he'd get his. Well, you're a wizard and here you are. It's a little +early, but Boynton's grave is waitin'. Don't be bashful. I've made twice +the stuff already with outside specials on your story. Thought I'd pay +you right up, maybe you could use it." + +"Thanks, Mead," replied Micky, wearily. "Why, yes, I can use it." + +"They're holdin' a pow-wow at the office," pursued Mead. "Harkins, he's +walkin' on air. Everyone's speculatin' on how much they'll boost your +pay. Wish I'd get half of it. But I'm a dub. Say, Glenwood's out of +town. They sent him off on something growin' out of your yarn." + +"Sorry he's gone," replied Micky, moving on. "Give him my regards. So +long, Mead." + +"Ain't he the foolish frost?" wondered Mead, staring curiously after the +Irishman. "Doesn't seem to give a damn. Worryin' over his bat, likely. +Why, bat or no bat, if I'd turned out that story, I'd--but I couldn't. +Switch off!" He shook his head mournfully as he hurried up the street. + +O'Byrn proceeded to the writing room of a hotel where he penned three +notes, sealed and stamped the envelopes, and slipped them into his +pocket. Returning to the street he walked to the corner, stared absently +about for a moment and then boarded a street car, harbor bound. + +A little later he sat upon the edge of the wharves, his feet dangling +above the restless surface of the waters. The workaday bustle and +confusion, the shrill cries of roustabouts mingling with the thumping +din of manhandled freight, the clatter of trucks, the tramp of countless +feet, the shrieks of whistles and hoarse growl of gongs; all these were +as if they had not been to a mind capable of such absorption that it +could, did occasion demand, work undisturbed in the thunderous roar of a +rolling mill. + +So the lonely, meagre figure rested motionless in the midst of +unrealized tumult, the sombre eyes gazed past the vessels thronging the +waterway to some dim goal far beyond the humming ken of commerce, +straight into the realm of dreams. The ears drank in only the murmur of +lazy waters whispering about the piers in the wash of a falling tide, +bearing the message of the sea. + +The message of the sea! Softly low, like the love note of a mother, it +whispered to the alien brooding spirit, whispered of spindrift whipped +to showers of briny spray in the sweep of unleashed winds, whispered of +illimitable, splendid unrest. Out beyond the land-locked haven of the +ships the great waves rolled league on league, in unfettered freedom, to +annoint the feet of a far world. + +Low in the west, the sun crimsoned the distant sky line and tinged with +rose the gray of wan, far-flung billows. The balm of a soft breeze, +instinct with the latent fragrance of the passing year, breathed over +the tossing waters of the harbor, lately rent by a strong wind, and +lulled them to cradled peace. High overhead a flock of gulls wheeled +with harsh cries, winging straight out to the sky line of gray and rose +that hemmed the sweep of the restless sea. + +Mechanically the man on the wharf rose to his feet, standing with hands +in his coat pockets, watching the soaring gulls. Like the wind they +flew, straight out to the rose and gray and beyond, white specks +swallowed in the mists of distance. Even yet the eyes of the man's mind +followed them, atoms that swooped triumphantly into the teeth of +stinging winds; atoms fiercely clamorous, mad with the mere ecstasy of +life, with wild, aimless wandering, the zest of battle with wind and +wave. + +O'Byrn drew a long, shuddering breath. It had gripped him again, this +compelling ghost that could never be laid for long. In his eyes blazed +the old, restless light, the wild will-o'-the-wisp which lures the born +wanderer the wide world over in erratic flight till set o' sun. His +tired brain, his sick heart, alike craved the old nepenthe of unrest. + +Reborn of the whispered message of wide-flung tides, the sight of the +screaming gulls, the old longing of his nature sought vent in a strident +inward cry. Once more, bringing the sharp, exquisite pain he feared, yet +loved, the lash came hurtling out of the unknown, driving him on to new +scenes that all too soon were old, to dream houses built on crumbling +sands. The strange light of his eyes grew brighter, the wine of +quickened wanderlust mounted in deepening glow upward to heart and +brain. + +O'Byrn became conscious of a small, square object in his pocket. +Absently he drew forth a yellow envelope. Tearing it open he read the +message. With eyes darkened with concentration he read it again. A +little later he walked into a telegraph office. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +THE LONG ROAD + + +Night had fallen, the lights of the city flared under a calm clear sky +that was studded with stars. A soft wind from the south had worked its +will, the night was warmer than had been the day. The air was fragrant +with the mystic scent of Indian summer, of green things in fields and +forests, the land over, that were changing to rose and gold ere the +pitiful withering to shriveled gray. + +Through a quiet street leading toward Mulberry Avenue walked a man, +haggard of face, misty of eye. He was a small man, almost a youth, of +meagre frame and rather pronounced garb. He carried a rusty satchel, +grimy and battered, like the scarred veteran of a long and strenuous +campaign. + +Now he was passing a dusky corner; one he had good cause to remember, +but his thoughts were far away. So he failed to associate the low, +two-story building with the significant words of the scared woman, +frowsy and unkempt, who clattered down the stairs and across the walk, +halting and startling him. + +"Mercy o' God, sir, what'll I do?" she cried. "He's dead, sir, a-sittin' +in his chair. Sure, I do his work for him an' I went over to see when +he'd want me agin an' the door was open--I lit a light to see what was +the matter--Ah! the dead, white, grinnin' face of him!--an' what'll I +do?" She wrung her hands. + +He had listened impatiently--what concern was it of his? "Policeman on +the corner," he told her, with a backward jerk of his thumb. The +charwoman ran toward the approaching officer. O'Byrn passed on, +dismissing the incident instantly from his pre-occupied mind. He was +done forever with the affairs of his unknown father. + +A little later he paused at a corner intersecting Mulberry Avenue and +set his satchel upon the curb. He gazed down the street toward the dim +outlines of an humble frame house, a solitary light shining from a lower +window. Long he stood silently regarding the little dwelling. + +Then slowly from his pocket he drew three letters which he had written +at a hotel hours before. In the wavering radiance of an adjacent +electric light he scanned the addresses upon the envelopes. He stepped +to a nearby letter box and consigned to it the notes prepared for +Harkins and Glenwood. The third he held hesitantly for a moment, +regarding it through a briny mist. So this was the end--the miserable, +heart-breaking end. It was now for him the long road--alone. + +"Micky!" + +Swiftly he wheeled, his face alight with a trembling incredulity of joy. +His startled eyes looked straight into hers that were mystically dark in +the night shadows intruding upon the shimmering arc from the street lamp +nearby. Dressed simply in coat and gown of the brown hue he liked so +well, with a hat of the same shade, she made a picture to rest his +wearied eyes. + +"It's good to see you, girlie," he exclaimed, a break in his voice. +"But it isn't wise, is it, when you're just over being so ill? Where +have you been?" + +"Only walking about, Micky. You know I grew stronger real fast. Don't +you know, you were surprised to find me so much better? I've been about +the house for a week, even helped mother a little the last two or three +days. And tonight I couldn't rest indoors, somehow, I had to be out in +this glorious air. You needn't scowl that way, I had the doctor's +permission this afternoon to go out if I wanted to. Today I've heard of +nothing but your story. It was grand work, Micky." + +"Don't, girlie!" His tone was as if she had struck him. + +One little white hand touched his arm. With quick divination her +searching look read the tale told in his drawn face, in the sight of the +satchel upon the curb, the letter in his hand. She gently took it from +him. + +"For me?" + +He nodded, he could not have spoken just then. He swallowed hard while +his eyes hungrily devoured the rare, fair sight of her, the slightly +sharpened outlines of her lovely face, the pallor that was the heritage +of illness, the sweetness of her eyes. + +His letter in her hand, she moved a little away from him, then turned +and walked to the curb. She rent the envelope straight across, and +tearing the residue into tiny fragments, tossed the pieces like +snowflakes upon the pavement. Retracing her steps, she confronted +O'Byrn. + +"Tell me all about it," she suggested, very gently. + +With a low, bitter cry he clasped her little hand in both his own, +stammering that he was unfit, that there was another blot, a repetition +of the old, wretched story. She understood, and there was only a low +exclamation of sympathy as she looked into his tortured face with eyes +that were wonderful with forgiveness and love. For she had known +instinctively long since that it must always be so, and with her woman's +devotion, had resolved to help him, notwithstanding, to the end. + +"What did I tell you once, dear?" she asked him low. "It's for you to +always try, Micky, and what credit's for those who don't have to try? +You have tried, my boy, and you must keep on trying--for my sake. +Remember, dear, you can never fail while you try--and it's trying--it's +trying that brings us--where dreams--where dreams--come--true." + +The low voice was lost in a stifled sob. Her little hands, her poor, +thin hands, sought her face. The tears trickled from between her clasped +fingers. + +Miserably he sought gently to draw her hands from her wet eyes. "Don't +cry, Maisie," he begged, fighting with his constricted throat, winking +blurred eyes. "Why do you? It--it kills me!" + +A solitary pedestrian, passing upon the opposite side of the quiet +street, gazed at them curiously, without pausing. Neither of them +noticed him and he disappeared around a corner. Meanwhile, eyes searched +eyes; presently O'Byrn's turned away. They held so much of the +desolation and shame of his soul, hers only love. + +"Why do I cry?" she questioned sadly. "Do you remember a night--it seems +so long ago!--when you asked me that? Do you need to ask me again? Only +now it is so different, so--so horrible. God help me! then it was the +beginning, now you mean it for the end. You are going away?" + +"Yes." She could scarcely hear the word. + +"Why?" + +He turned upon her a face she scarcely knew, in which warred fiercely +the stormy elements of his strangely complex nature. Mingling oddly with +a numb, gray misery, there was something else, a troubled light like a +clouded dawn. Full in the radiance from the street lamp, his eyes burned +with the fire lighted from the dying, crimson embers of an autumn sunset +upon a hearth of gray, and behind the flame brooded the deep shadows of +despair. His voice was bitterly harsh, dissonant; a challenge to tearing +winds and thunderous seas of life, like the wild note of the winging +gulls. + +"Why? Why not? Girl, I'm down again, I'm not fit to touch you. I've just +told you. This thing was born with me, it'll die with me--I hope. If +I've got to carry it--beyond--I pray God will snuff out my soul--like a +candle! Can't you see it's the only way? To go--alone,--to bear +it--alone,--to fight--alone,--to lie down--alone,--at the end of the +long road!" + +"You leave tonight?" + +"Yes, dear." + +"Where are you going?" + +"Oh, I'm not tramping, not this time," he answered wearily. "The letters +I've just mailed are for Harkins and Glenwood. I've told them I'm sorry, +and God knows I mean it. But the old fever is burning my brain, girl. +I've stayed my stay here. I've gone down twice and it's too much. I've +lost the right to inflict myself further on the town. If I stayed it +would mean better things for me on the paper, but I can't stay. It's +queer--you can't understand it--I can't myself,--but the time has come +and I must be moving. It's the old voice calling. This afternoon I was +looking out over the harbor--that old something came rushing out of +nowhere and took me by the neck--sometimes I think I'm crazy. I put my +hand in my pocket, there was a message I hadn't opened. I'm called to +Denver--an old associate--something bigger than I've ever had. They're +in a hurry. I wired them I'd leave tonight. I'll be with them for a +while, then the trail once more." + +He told it wholly without animation, the fruits of success as ashes upon +his lips, only a dull hopelessness in his haggard face as he looked full +in renunciation of her. + +She moved a little nearer him, eyes holding his own in solemn +questioning. + +"What did it say--the letter--out there?" She waved her hand toward the +pavement. + +"What I have just told you--that I loved you too much to drag you +through--what I will have to bear. I begged you to forgive--and +forget--a cur." + +"Micky,--do you want--to go--alone?" + +He had to bend his head to catch the whispered words, though the +beautiful eyes gazed in divine fearlessness straight into his own, +searching his shadowed, storm-swept soul. A breathless moment his brain +groped for her meaning, grasped it with incredulous joy. The hot blood +pounded in his veins, his eyes implored while fearing her. + +"Oh, girl, you don't mean--Ah, you don't know what you're saying. No! +I'm a dog--a dog--I'm not fit--" + +Their hands entwined, her clasp tightened upon his trembling fingers. +His halting words died in his throat, he only watched her mutely, his +face a queer mixture of misery and joy. Her wet eyes, twin load-stars +lighting the path to Eden, smiled into his own. + +"Listen!" she said. "Where you go--I'll go--whatever comes--I'm with +you--clear to the white stone and the cross--and beyond--for _I love +you--I love you_!" + +He reeled where he stood. Ah, this love of woman, this grace of the gray +world that makes for the glory of God! + +For wistful thought of her he sought still to put her from him, weakly +tried while every fibre of his being called for her who was always to +rule his warm heart, whatever the vagaries of his foolish head. + +"It's a long road--a road rainy with tears--you must travel with me." + +"I love you." + +There grew in her low tone an odd, wondering exaltation, as if through +the domination of his vagabond personality, something heretofore +sleeping in her soul woke and stretched its wings, longing for freedom, +for the riot of mad winds and tumbling seas. + +"There's not a soul near to you that won't grieve for you--with me. Not +because I want it so, but because it was meant to be, it'll be gray +skies, it'll be often an aching heart; it'll be from pillar to post, now +here, now yonder; sometimes it will be--in hell--with me." + +"I love you." + +Now her tone held in its full the divine finality of choice, for weal or +woe. Gravely sweet, solemn with the sublimity of unselfish consecration, +it told many things to the man who stood finally silenced and +overwhelmed, clasping her in reverent arms close to his lonely heart. It +told of gardens flowering in deserts, of splendid heights beyond that +pierced the blue. It told him of the white grace of self sacrifice, of +God-sent, sustaining hands. And finally it told of calm after storm, of +the haven under the hill, of ultimate and abiding peace at the end of +the long road, where dreams come true. + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + +Punctuation has been standardised. Alternatives have been retained for +débris/debris near-by/nearby. Spelling and punctuation has been retained +as it appears in the original publication except as follows: + + Page 11 + no bettter judged _changed to_ + no better judged + + Page 32 + stunt or it 'll _changed to_ + stunt or it'll + + Page 63 + heavy-lided eyes _changed to_ + heavy-lidded eyes + + Page 79 + you think Shaugnessy 'll get _changed to_ + you think Shaughnessy'll get + + Page 99 + CHAPTR X _changed to_ + CHAPTER X + + Page 107 + wearied of such an excresence _changed to_ + wearied of such an excrescence + + Page 119 + sh'an't whine or excuse _changed to_ + sha'n't whine or excuse + + Page 131 + Judge Boynton 'll win _changed to_ + Judge Boynton'll win + + Page 139 + Tain't good for you _changed to_ + 'Tain't good for you + + Page 140 + leisurely away O'Byrn hailed _changed to_ + leisurely away. O'Byrn hailed + + Page 153 + Is is Consolidated Gas _changed to_ + Is it Consolidated Gas + + Page 153 + 'T won't be safe _changed to_ + 'Twon't be safe + + Page 155 + posibilities; it remained _changed to_ + possibilities; it remained + + Page 171 + whispered Slade, "and proceeded _changed to_ + whispered Slade, and proceeded + + Page 182 + period of quiesence _changed to_ + period of quiescence + + Page 195 + said a gruff voice, we're there _changed to_ + said a gruff voice, "we're there + + Page 210 + he was a chip of the old block _changed to_ + he was a chip off the old block + + Page 216 + solution of strychinine _changed to_ + solution of strychnine + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lash, by Olin L. 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Lyman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Lash + +Author: Olin L. Lyman + +Release Date: December 19, 2011 [EBook #38341] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LASH *** + + + + +Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<hr /> + +<h1>The Lash</h1> + +<hr class="hr2" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="601" alt="Cover" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="400" height="616" alt="Haskins quizzically looked him over" title="" /> +<span class="caption">"<em>Haskins quizzically looked him over</em>"</span> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p class="center noi"><span class="heading">The Lash</span><br /> +<br /><br /> +<span class="big">OLIN L. LYMAN</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">Author of "The Trail of the Grand Seigneur"</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/logo.jpg" width="200" height="261" alt="Logo" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="center">BOSTON<br /> +<span class="big">RICHARD G. BADGER</span><br /> +THE GORHAM PRESS<br /> +1909</p> + +<hr class="hr2" /> + +<p class="center mt8">Copyright 1909 by RICHARD G. BADGER</p> + +<hr class="hrsmall" /> + +<p class="center">All Rights Reserved_</p> + +<p class="center mt8">Printed at The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.</p> + + + + +<hr class="hr2" /> + +<p class="center big">TO C. E. A</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><a name="contents" id="contents"></a>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="Contents"> +<tr> +<th class="thr1">CHAPTER</th> +<th class="thr2" colspan="2">PAGE</th> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">I</td> +<td class="tdl">A Star Chamber Session</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#i">9</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">II</td> +<td class="tdl"> An Arrival</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#ii">18</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">III</td> +<td class="tdl"> Micky</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#iii">29</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">IV</td> +<td class="tdl"> Fists and the Man</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#iv">36</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">V</td> +<td class="tdl"> The Ironworkers' Ball—and Maisie</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#v">47</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">VI</td> +<td class="tdl"> The Web</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#vi">61</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">VII</td> +<td class="tdl"> Loneliness</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#vii">67</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">VIII</td> +<td class="tdl"> An Evening Call</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#viii">77</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">IX</td> +<td class="tdl"> Not on the Programme</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#ix">87</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">X</td> +<td class="tdl"> The Little Red Devil</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#x">99</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XI</td> +<td class="tdl"> In the Morning</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xi">106</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XII</td> +<td class="tdl"> Why She Cried</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xii">113</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XIII</td> +<td class="tdl"> A Wager</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xiii">122</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XIV</td> +<td class="tdl"> A Discredited Henchman</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xiv">133</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XV</td> +<td class="tdl"> Useful Information</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xv">145</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XVI</td> +<td class="tdl"> His Better Side</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xvi">155</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XVII</td> +<td class="tdl"> The Coup in Sight</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xvii">165</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XVIII</td> +<td class="tdl"> A Counter Move</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xviii">178</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XIX</td> +<td class="tdl"> Suspense</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xix">187</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XX</td> +<td class="tdl"> Out of the Past</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xx">195</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XXI</td> +<td class="tdl"> The Lash</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xxi">204</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XXII</td> +<td class="tdl"> The Story</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xxii">215</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XXIII</td> +<td class="tdl"> Wanderlust</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xxiii">224</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr1">XXIV</td> +<td class="tdl"> The Long Road</td> +<td class="tdr2"><a href="#xxiv">234</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a> +<a name="i" id="i"></a>THE LASH</h2> + +<hr class="hr3" /> + +<h2>CHAPTER I<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">A STAR CHAMBER SESSION</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">THE speaker paused for a moment to pass his handkerchief over his +fevered brow. Up from the ugly, leering, little eyes swept the swabbing +linen, traversing the smooth top of the round head and disappearing +mysteriously at the rear. The reason for this was obvious. The teeth of +time take kindly to the hirsute and the speaker was very bald. Only a +narrow fringe of reddish hair divided the rear depression of his fevered +brow from the nape of his fat red neck.</p> + +<p>A plump and hairy fist smote the table and the glasses jingled. "Don't +fool yourselves, you young fellows," advised the bald gentleman, in a +curious gusty voice. "I've been all through it, clean to the retired +list," with a wicked wink, "and I know, that's all. You've got to work +harder this year than you did the first; you've got to a point where +there ain't no layin' down for you if you want to keep on fodderin'. +'Cause why? 'Cause they're on, or think they are, and they're gettin' +uneasy. You think everything's lovely, do you? Well, take a little +advice from the old man that's now on the sideline, and aim to get busy +from now on."</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a>He again swabbed his illimitable brow, peering cunningly at them with +wicked little eyes that gleamed unpleasantly on either side of a +bulbous, crimsoned nose, while he chewed complacently at a black cigar. +In common with the rest of the small company he was in his +shirt-sleeves, for it was very hot. A mere ghost of a breeze stole in +through the window screen, against which foiled moths, attracted by the +light within, bumped in vain. A white-aproned waiter, summoned by an +electric bell, entered, removed the empty glasses and received a fresh +order. With his departure the bald gentleman was again heard from.</p> + +<p>"Well," he snorted aggressively, "what's eatin' you? Don't you believe +me?"</p> + +<p>"Why," drawled a lank, middle-aged gentleman with a generally +unsophisticated look that increased the efficiency of his talents for +the peculiar use to which he devoted them; "I suppose it's safe to be on +the safe side, but there's no use in borrowin' trouble any more than you +have to. Everything looks smooth to me."</p> + +<p>"Pals," remarked the bald gentleman impressively, "remember this. The +only way to stave off the foreclosure is to keep borrowin', and it's the +smoothest whisky that gives you the rockiest head the next morning. +'Cause why? 'Cause you get enthused and hit it up too hard. Now that's +where our danger flag's out. We've found this an easy town, we've worked +it for all it's worth, puttin' it in plain English; the reformers ain't +never woke up and you're takin' the attitude that they never will. Boys, +it's a mistake. They do, sometimes. You don't want to plan on no sleepy +campaign, if you'll<a class="pagenum" name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a> take it from a sideliner that's 'retired' but +wishes you well."</p> + +<p>"That's all very well, Alderman." said a plump, moon-faced fellow across +the table, "but we've had these scares before and they've been for +nothing. Two years ago Fusion thought it had us beat and we was afraid +it was going to turn the trick. Remember the vote? Why, we got the laugh +from our own men. We needn't have hustled ourselves. It was a dead +open-and-shut."</p> + +<p>"It's because the town don't believe half it hears," interpolated the +lank gentleman. "I'll say this, that the old man—drink to him, +boys!—is the best organizer in this country today, and he leaves the +blindest trail. They can't bring anything home, not while we're in +control."</p> + +<p>"That's what I'm tellin' you," remarked the bald one grimly. "You've got +to hang on to the control. Let it slip away from you while you're +nappin' and how long would it be before the town was next? What would +the hide of any man in this room be worth?" His voice had instinctively +lowered; his head was thrust forward, his little eyes were piercing. "I +tell you it always pays to keep busy all the time."</p> + +<p>There was a moment's silence. The half dozen companions of the speaker +surveyed him minutely but with visible respect. After all, he could give +any and all of them pointers in the gentle art of grafting and they knew +it. Moreover, his words had at last struck home, had awakened them from +a false sense of security. Alderman Goldberg had been through the mill, +and had fed at the public crib at intervals no +<a name="better" id="better"></a><ins title="Original has bettter">better</ins> judged than times +when he elected to remain in discreet retirement, in his cyclone cellar, +until ominous signs on the municipal weather<a class="pagenum" name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a> horizon had disappeared. +So, because they knew that he spoke by the card, his companions now paid +him the tribute of uneasy silence.</p> + +<p>The lanky individual, Dick Peterson by name, finally resumed the +conversation. "Well," said he, "this is only a preliminary to the main +event anyway. Wonder what's keepin' the old man? Here we've been waitin' +an hour. We'll see what he says. I haven't mentioned 'campaign' to him +myself."</p> + +<p>"I know what he'll say," retorted Goldberg. "Just what I've been tellin' +you, to get busy. That's why he called you here tonight, to dig in the +spurs a little. The old man's no fool. Hark! I guess he's comin' now."</p> + +<p>There was a soft tread outside, a door opened and a man entered the +room. Nodding slightly in response to their greeting, he seated himself +in a chair, at the head of the table, which had evidently been reserved +for him. Peterson pushed some cigars toward him, at the same time +thrusting an interrogative finger toward the electric bell. The newcomer +shook his head, and selecting one of the cigars, leaned back in his +chair as he leisurely lighted it.</p> + +<p>John Shaughnessy was as unlike the cartooned type of political boss as +could be imagined. He looked decidedly ordinary, and might have been +taken for anything from a dejected clerk of middle age to an +unostentatious gambler. His garb was quiet; there was an utter absence +of vociferous jewelry. In person he was lank and slightly over middle +height. The face was singularly impassive; that of a gambler to whom +nothing apparently mattered. A hawk nose and small black moustache had +Shaughnessy, also a pair of +<a name="heavy-lidded" id="heavy-lidded"></a><ins title="Original has heavy-lided">heavy-lidded</ins> eyes.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a>These eyes, when they glanced casually at you, held a lustreless, +ennuied expression that impressed you, did you trouble to entertain any +impression at all, with a definite idea of somnolence in Shaughnessy. A +discouraged gambler, you might think casually, had you not the honor of +his acquaintance. But did you happen to kindle Shaughnessy's interest in +any way, lo! a startling change. The heavy lids contracted ever so +little about the black eyes, which shot forth gleams that revealed +Shaughnessy in a new and sinister light. They bared a sleepless +vigilance, an unpleasant concentration, which inspired the person +regarded with a nervousness that was justified. For when those eyes, but +a moment before lustreless and dead, lightened with that strange gleam, +the dispirited clerk or discouraged gambler vanished. In his stead, +regarding you with a cold, basilisk, snaky stare that pierced you +through and through, there was revealed—Shaughnessy.</p> + +<p>It was his wonted mask of impassive features and lustreless eyes that +long caused Shaughnessy to be surprisingly and generally underestimated. +Men chose not to believe that one whose general appearance so lacked +significance was capable of the stealth and finesse in large, dark +matters that a portion of the press emphatically but rather gropingly +attributed to Shaughnessy. So it was Shaughnessy's good fortune, for his +nefarious ends, that most men refused to take him too seriously. The +majority chanced never to rouse his interest; hence, never saw the +optical gleam. For the minority who did, Shaughnessy was a man +transformed, invested with power, genuine and unmistakable.</p> + +<p>Following the leader's entrance, the company waited silently for him to +speak. He favored them with a moment's<a class="pagenum" name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a> reflective stare, puffing +billowing smoke clouds. Then he spoke, and his voice was as cold and +impersonal as his white face.</p> + +<p>"I called you together, boys," said he, "because there's work ahead for +us." There was a significant nod from Goldberg. "It doesn't look bad at +a first glance," continued Shaughnessy, "but a look-in will show you +that it will pay to hump some. There's nothing open yet, but we've got +to face the hottest fight we have had. Well," with a grim smile, "we'll +do it and we'll win out. We've got to."</p> + +<p>"Yes," remarked Peterson, with a deep sigh. "We've got to, all right, +governor."</p> + +<p>"That's what I was tellin' 'em, Shaughnessy," put in Goldberg, rolling +his cigar to the lee corner of his mouth. "They wanted to give me the +laugh. Thought everything was lovely. They'll know when they've +sidestepped the shivers as often as we have. I tell you, the clearest +day is the one you want to have your umbrella ready for, and that's no +lie."</p> + +<p>"No," assented Shaughnessy, "that's no lie. It's going to rain votes +this fall and we've got to get busy in mortgaging the majority of 'em. +If we don't, we get caught napping, that's all, and it's us to the +woods. I needn't tell you, of course, that as late as a year ago we +could have defied 'em to put the hooks on us, even if they'd got a +look-in at the polls. We had things tied up so they couldn't have +touched us; we could have stayed right on. But there've been some bad +mistakes made; some instructions exceeded and some things we couldn't +help, being forced into 'em. Truth is, boys, that if through any chance +we're done up in this coming election, we're<a class="pagenum" name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a> caught right out in the +open with a wagonload of goods, and there's no time to hide 'em. That's +the situation we're facing and it's one that calls for cutting out sleep +till after election day."</p> + +<p>"Well, we've done it before," remarked Willie Shute, the moon-faced +gentleman, as he pressed the button for another round of drinks. "What +the devil is sleep, anyway? Waste of time."</p> + +<p>"It's a waste of time in politics," assented the leader, "unless you +want to wake up to find you've been buried alive with no air tube." +Willie Shute, following the laughter which greeted this grisly +pleasantry, was discovered looking about him with vague apprehension.</p> + +<p>"Thought I heard someone snickerin'," he explained. "Before we did."</p> + +<p>Peterson glanced significantly at Shute's whisky glass. "Preliminary to +the main event," he commented. "Saw off, or you'll be hearing bands of +music in the morning."</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy leaned forward upon the table. "Well, let's get down to +business," he remarked. "Let's talk things over, look at all we've got +to buck against and plan to buck it in the good old way. Give us another +whack at this and in the next two years we'll be ready to retire with a +trail blinder than an eyeless fish in the Mammoth Cave. But it would be +all day with us to lose just now; we can't afford it. In some ways we're +better fixed for the fight than we've been before. We own one newspaper +body and soul, though we're not advertising it. We've practically +clinched another of 'em, there's a couple that don't count anyway, and +then, there's that damned Courier."</p> + +<p>"What figure does it cut?" sneered Goldberg. "What<a class="pagenum" name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a> do you care? You've +got good organs of your own."</p> + +<p>"I'd give the lot of 'em, pro and con," responded Shaughnessy +reflectively, "if I could either switch that sheet onto my line or work +it for a neutral sidetrack. It's got more real, solid influence than the +lot of 'em put together. It's always been against me, more or less, said +I was 'some' back in the days when the other papers gave it the laugh. +Last election it let up a little. I was beginning to get in. Then old +Westlake bought up the controlling interest unexpectedly a while ago, +and they're getting ready to lam it to us this fall, boys, and don't you +forget it. We can't do anything with Westlake. You know I was trying, +through sources that ought to have been influential, to get in an +entering wedge by practically throwing the whole batch of city printing +at Westlake's head. Well, what do you think? Westlake was on all right +and it's a case of no compromise. Matter went to the business office and +was referred directly to him, as a matter of course. He sent back word +that the Courier was planning to print a great deal about the city +"gov." during the next few months that it wouldn't charge anything for."</p> + +<p>"Well," inquired Goldberg, after a moment's silence, "what good is that +going to do him?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing yet," replied Shaughnessy, the light of battle kindling in his +strange eyes. "He's got nothing that'll do us any real harm, and I think +we can see to it that there'll be no leaking on anything that will. It's +up to us just to pull down the blinds, and keep 'em pulled, and then let +Westlake howl about what he suspects; he won't know anything. We've got +respectable papers," with an ugly sneer, "controlled by respectable men +on our side,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a> too. If Westlake or any man of Westlake's can dig up +anything after we've nailed it down, why, he's welcome to it. But now +let's get busy and talk things over."</p> + +<p>A colloquy followed which would have electrified the citizens of this +community, could they have heard it. Ancient, mysterious skeletons were +exhumed in that talk, skeletons which had been in the flesh the source +of much speculation. There were recent dark issues, too, and there was a +murky present and a future that would be murkier, did things go well. +All told, an opportunity to listen to that conversation would have +benefited the adherents of municipal decency.</p> + +<p>After two hours of reminiscence, of planning for the campaign and +speculating on the future, Shaughnessy rose with a yawn. "Get a good +night's sleep, boys," he suggested dryly, "and then don't sleep again +till the day after we do the old ladies at the polls." They laughed as +they followed him out of the private room and down stairs.</p> + +<p>There was a slight stir in a corner of the room. It subsided as a waiter +entered to clear and tidy the table. With the receding steps of the +servitor down the stairs, from behind the sideboard in the corner softly +stepped a man. He looked cautiously about him, then, walking to the +window, he quietly withdrew the screen, and, gaining a convenient roof +outside, replaced the screen carefully. Upon the roof his stealthily +receding footsteps were audible.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a> +<a name="ii" id="ii"></a>CHAPTER II<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">AN ARRIVAL</span></h2> + +<div class="figcap"> +<img src="images/quote.png" width="8" height="7" alt="open quote" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="cap2">AMBITION is an itch for something you haven't got and never expect to +get," remarked Peters, rapping his pipe bowl against the edge of the +desk and reaching for Mead's tobacco box. He owned none of his own and +the rest of the force formed a convenient and interminable tobacco trust +for him.</p> + +<p>"You might add to that observation the clause 'but others have,' Pete," +put in Charlie Kirk, while Mead resignedly watched Peters jamming an +unwieldy wad of the weed into the bowl with his thumb, to brazenly reach +for more the next instant. "Besides, that remark isn't original. It's +gone the rounds of the papers. I don't know where they pinched it, but +I'll bet it wasn't from you."</p> + +<p>"Your observation does you credit, Sherlock," retorted Peters, +undisturbed. "If you would exercise a little of that faculty on the job, +maybe the old man would raise your attenuated wage."</p> + +<p>The quiet voice of the city editor broke in upon the amiable colloquy. +"Here, Kirk," said he, "and you, Peters, I want you. Go and relieve +Smallwood and Lynn at that visiting convention and tell them to hurry +here with their stuff. They've been there since seven. I thought the +thing would be over by now."</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a> +Kirk and Peters left Mead's desk, where they had been loafing for a few +spare moments, and, slipping on their coats, walked to the elevator and +sank streetward. The city editor delved again into the debris on his +groaning desk. It was a rush night. The few men in the great room, for +most of the reporters were still out, were bent over portly pads or +pecked busily at typewriters.</p> + +<p>Mead scrawled away at the lecture story to which he had been assigned +that evening. Warming to his work he rounded out many of the professor's +periods for him and added some good things of his own. Now and then he +read a paragraph with complacency and sifted in a few more adjectives. +He had heard the old fairy tale of speakers giving reporters credit for +improving their efforts. Moreover, he was but lately hatched from the +high school and was nearing the end of his probationary period upon +the Courier. As with the _debut_ of most of the boys, coherence was +smothered in verbiage. Mead's written words flowed on like rivers to the +sea. You who speak by the card will well remember the turbid freshets +you handed in, long ago, with a sort of awe to think you had penned +them. You looked for a little corresponding awe on the part of the city +editor. He merely grunted, and the next morning it was a wise father +that knew his brain-child. The anxious parent looked twice through the +pages, finally finding the changeling, dwarfed and subdued, in a modest +corner next the patent medicine "ads." Stripped of the gauzy gewgaws of +fancy with which you had complacently adorned it, it lay in its stark +cerements of staring simplicity, a hard, terse, graphic, uncompromising +fact. That salient bar, the editorial pencil, had dammed the winding, +sunlit<a class="pagenum" name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a> stream at its very source, forcing it home by a short cut that +skipped much romantic scenery but saved time for the navigator. You read +the mangled remnant of that early flight and cursed the city editor's +lack of literary appreciation. Afterward, when the years had brought you +wisdom, you wondered why he had kept you at all. Yet you knew, after +all,—for the veterans were tyros once.</p> + +<p>Mead toiled on, the mirage of an achieved literary gem on his mental +horizon. It was the same mirage, old yet ever young, that flashes in +transient glory and fades as often and as miserably before the wistful +eyes of the veteran in letters as with the tyro: the dream of an +unattainable ideal, which mocks and melts away, a phantom of the sands.</p> + +<p>His task completed, Mead brought his masterpiece to the city editor's +desk. "The lecture, Mr. Harkins," said he, with a thrill of secret +pride. A sense of polished erudition welled strong within him. Harkins +might now see what the real thing in literary skill could do with the +most prosaic of assignments.</p> + +<p>Harkins had cleared his desk pretty well in the past few minutes and his +assistants were busy in consequence. He slapped the masterpiece +irreverently on the desk. Like a withering blast his trained eyes swept +the first page, which was heavily laden with elaborate introduction. +There were a few fierce swoops of a blue pencil. Words fell in the ranks +like scattered skirmishers, then platoons of phrases were swept away. +The enfiladed page fell face down on the desk. Another, similarly +mangled, followed. Only a few gallant remnants of that imposing array +remained. It was the survival of the fittest, the obliteration<a class="pagenum" name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a> of the +superfluous; but it was hard. Mead watched the sacrifice in slow, +gathering horror.</p> + +<p>Harkins looked up. "Busy night!" said he abruptly but not unkindly. +"Anyway, this won't do. Cultivate the newspaper style. Get brevity, +terseness. Cut out excess baggage. Get the right word and fit it in +right. You're voluminous. Make it luminous."</p> + +<p>Harkins resumed the massacre and Mead, poor innocent, walked +disconsolately to his desk to digest the bitter pill that must +invariably be administered to the newspaper novice. At Mead's age the +simultaneous discovery that there are things to learn and things to +unlearn is disconcerting. He sat discouraged, his pinions drooping, and +stared gloomily at some gyrating millers about the electric bulb over +his desk. Presently he tried to catch them, with a half-acknowledged +desire to pluck off their wings in a little game of "pass it on." But +they were elusive and evaded him.</p> + +<p>Several men came in from assignments, and removing their coats, for a +hot wave was grilling the late days of June, set to work. Smallwood and +Lynn, back from the convention, left thick wads of copy on the city +editor's desk and went out for a late lunch. More reporters entered +hurriedly and fell to. The dramatic editor entered with deliberation, as +became the great, and leisurely set about the roasting of a "first +night." Copy boys scurried like scampering ants. The editors bent to +their tasks, the reporters' fingers rushed over the pads or jingled the +typewriter keys. Everybody hit up the pace but the dramatic critic. He +sat, pencil poised like a poniard, deliberating whether he should slay +the piece and principals by slow torture, like an Indian, or perform +the<a class="pagenum" name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a> deed with one murderous lunge. The proprietors of this particular +theatre had fallen out with the business office of the Courier. They did +not advertise in the Courier now, so when the dramatic critic attended +their house he paid for his seat and charged it to expense account. +Naturally, what the Courier said about the attractions at that house, +during the season in question, was not what it would have said had the +brethren been dwelling together in amity.</p> + +<p>This was a particularly auspicious occasion. The other houses had been +closed for several weeks, owing to the advent of warm weather. This +theatre had opened to accommodate a troupe which, in stage parlance, was +trying it on the dog before venturing to launch a new summer attraction +in the metropolis. After due reflection the Courier's dramatic critic +savagely gripped his pencil and proceeded to use it as a bowie in the +interest of the suffering dog.</p> + +<p>There had been nothing more for Mead to do and he sat at his desk, +sucking disconsolately at a short pipe. It being a new accomplishment, +he found difficulty in keeping it lighted. He viewed the moths with +malice, their fluttering wings fanning his resentment. He was again +reaching cautiously for them when a voice sounded at his elbow; an odd +voice, unlike other voices.</p> + +<p>"Say, kid," it inquired, "where's the head push?"</p> + +<p>Mead turned, somewhat confused by the unexpected interruption. "Huh?" he +asked.</p> + +<p>"Why, the main squeeze, the first fiddle!" was the impatient rejoinder. +Then, as an afterthought, "the city editor."</p> + +<p>Mead indicated. "Over there," he said. "His name's<a class="pagenum" name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a> Harkins." He turned +in his chair to watch the stranger, who shuffled over to Harkins' desk.</p> + +<p>"Say, Mr. Harkins, I need a job. And that's no lie," was how he put it.</p> + +<p>Harkins whirled in his chair. His keen glance swept the visitor from +head to foot. "No, I guess it isn't," was his quiet verdict. "You need a +lot of things, don't you?"</p> + +<p>"You've hit it, sir," grinned the guest, "right behind the ear. But a +job will bring 'em and my face won't. It's been overworked lately, that +face, and I'm restin' it. I'd hock it, but it's all I've got, and +besides I guess I've got all it'll bring already."</p> + +<p>"Shouldn't wonder," grinned Harkins in reply, surveying with growing +interest the traveller, for such his appearance bespoke him. "Did it +bring you here?"</p> + +<p>"No, they didn't see it," laughed the stranger. "I came by freight from +Cleveland. It was a pork train—and I'm on it yet," with a sweeping +gesture that indicated the ensemble of his frayed and dusty habiliments. +"No low bridge for me that trip," he continued. "The brakemen rode on +top, but the bumpers were good enough for me. Ain't so risky."</p> + +<p>Harkins quizzically looked him over. He was uniquely worth the trouble. +A battered cap, tipped rakishly over one ear, topped a mat of curly red +hair of the peculiar bricky hue that hisses a sibilant Celtic brogue in +whilom wind-stirrings. Beneath a broad forehead there danced and rioted +two Irish eyes, pale blue pools in an environing forest of freckles. +Nature had been generous with mouths when he transpired and had given +him enough for two. He had further distended it with much smiling. His +cheeks and chin were rough with a sandy stubble; not<a class="pagenum" name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a> over-coarse, for +he was young. He was slender and of medium height. His garments, in an +advanced state of senility, exuded cinders at every pore. As for his +shoes, the poor devil was literally on his uppers.</p> + +<p>"I guess," said Harkins, not unkindly, "I guess, my boy, we're full."</p> + +<p>"You're lucky," murmured the stranger, gray discouragement in his face. +"Wish I was. I'm a hollow tube just now."</p> + +<p>He turned suddenly toward Harkins, despair in the eyes grown dark with +trouble, the light and the laughter fled.</p> + +<p>"My God!" he gulped, "I haven't eaten a morsel for hours! I want to earn +my livin'! I know I look like a hobo,—I am one, I suppose,—but I'm a +workin' one. I'm a bum tramp reporter, it's true enough, you only have +to look at me. But try me, Mr. Harkins, just give me a chance to make +good, for I tell you I can get the news!"</p> + +<p>Harkins involuntarily thrust his hand into his trousers pocket. A +gesture restrained him.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Harkins," said the visitor, with an odd dignity, grotesque enough +in his shabby garb, "no hand-outs. When I can't earn what I eat, I'll +cut the game."</p> + +<p>Harkins reflectively looked him over, now with a little concern. Pride +in such tatters, that would not accept alms, merited consideration. +Then, too, Dodds had just been dismissed and someone must replace him. +But the stranger! He was hardly an acceptable candidate. Still, there +was a frankness in the mottled face and twinkling eyes, an odd note in +the voice just tinged with an Anglicized brogue, that appealed to +Harkins. In the ensuing<a class="pagenum" name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a> moment of hesitancy the question was decided +for him.</p> + +<p>A telephone bell sounded at the city editor's elbow. He turned in his +chair, clapped the receiver to his ear, listened a moment, replied +briefly, hung up the receiver and turned to the stranger. Mead, the only +one of the force at liberty, had leaned forward in his chair as the city +editor answered the 'phone. Now he settled back again in deep disgust as +Harkins addressed the disreputable visitor.</p> + +<p>"I'll try you," he said briefly. "Know the town at all?"</p> + +<p>"No, but I can find it," was the reply.</p> + +<p>"There's a big row on at the corner of Elm and Market streets," said +Harkins. "Beer and brickbats, tough locality. Rival nests of low +foreigners. You'll have to step lively, forms close early tonight. By +the way, take Mead with you and you take charge. It's a job if you win +out. If not, you can travel."</p> + +<p>The stranger grabbed his hat and vanished, the resentful cub at his +heels. The city editor glanced at the big clock in the corner and +returned to his task. More men came in, including Kirk and Peters, the +convention having finally adjourned. The manuscripts multiplied on the +readers' desks. On all sides men were laboring furiously.</p> + +<p>Three-quarters of an hour had elapsed when there was an upward whisk of +the elevator and into the big room hurried the seedy stranger. Mead, no +longer resentful, followed him. Indeed, there was something of homage in +Mead's tribute toward the other, the involuntary tribute that any honest +tyro must pay, in any trade, to the experienced<a class="pagenum" name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a> hand who knows his +business. Mead was perspiring. So was the stranger, who had evidently +kept himself and his force moving. Straight to Mead's desk strode the +new arrival, tearing off his shabby coat as he went, Mead heeling. The +leader flung himself into Mead's chair, waving his hand toward the +vacant desk next to it, where the cub meekly seated himself and fell to +writing. He had been assigned to his part of the tale by the vagrant +journalist as the two were rushed back to the office in a cab from the +scene of the trouble.</p> + +<p>The stranger drew from his vest pocket the stub of a soft-leaded pencil +about three inches long. The point was inserted for a thoughtful instant +in his mouth, then was slapped swiftly upon a pad. Sprawled forward, +with elbows on the desk, he wrapped his calves securely around the legs +of his chair. Thus he began the strewing of words upon the paper, in the +execrable handwriting and at the phenomenal speed which have become +traditions of that office, where each has remained unrivaled in the +paper's annals. Oblivious of his surroundings, he bent over his desk +like a jockey in the saddle, eyes glued on the pad whose leaves he was +covering at lightning speed. As he proceeded he tossed the finished +sheets carelessly aside without pausing. Mead, too, under the benign +influence of time-pressure, took a long stride forward in newspaper +requirements by forgetting to "pad" uselessly. Meanwhile the city +editor's assistants gathered up the finished sheets and carried them +away to be hastily edited and shot upward to the compositors.</p> + +<p>It was, in reportorial parlance, "hot stuff." A man had been killed in +this battle of the slums and the criminal was somewhere in hiding. Many +men were injured,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a> some seriously. Extra policemen had been summoned. +The detail had charged the mob with sanguinary results, both to the mob +and the bluecoats. As usual some non-combatants had suffered. There had +been a number of arrests. The patrol wagons had been busy, the gongs of +the hospital ambulances had sounded their warning as they dashed to the +relief of the injured. It was the big story of that issue, grim and +formidable, dwarfing even the stormy convention in its dramatic +features, which partook of the sombre dignity of the tragic under the +masterly treatment of the tattered scribe. It was, too, a chaotic story, +with a certain swirl, a swift rush of events that had piled one upon the +other with a cyclonic swiftness that must have staggered a neophyte and +taxed to the utmost the highest resources of brain and nerve, together +with the most feverish energy of the veteran.</p> + +<p>In a full, rounded entirety, dwarfing the efforts of the rival morning +dailies,—though some of them had several experienced men on the +story,—the parish of the Courier read of the memorable riot in that +issue. It was actually impressive to watch the story pouring from the +point of that flying, disreputable pencil, flowing down the sheets in a +mad torrent, the scenes brought before the reader's eyes with an +irresistible force that made them visible in graphic word pictures, as +if actually photographed. The stub rushed on, weaving the main web of +the tale, while Mead's pencil picked up the loose ends in the form of +minor details. Harkins marveled as he watched the story's development. +Its size surpassed his expectations. Had he fully understood its scope, +several of his best men would have been taken summarily from their tasks +and sent post-haste to the scene. Not till this tattered knight<a class="pagenum" name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a> of the +road returned, with the cub in tow, had Harkins known of the snowball's +growth. Yet here it was at last, the final sheet of what Harkins' +trained journalistic sense told him was a superb handling of an +unusually difficult assignment. He sent the last sheets upstairs and +turned to the stranger and his faithful cub, who were mopping fevered +faces.</p> + +<p>"Great!" quoth Harkins, including the cub, who felt his oats in +consequence and began filling his pipe with due seriousness. "You will +do," added the editor, turning to the new man. "Come on tomorrow +afternoon."</p> + +<p>The new man rose to leave but hesitated, crimsoning a little. Harkins +eyed him inquiringly. The stranger grinned rather ruefully.</p> + +<p>"Object to my sleeping on this table?" he asked. "The rate is cheaper. +Besides, I'm hollower even than I was."</p> + +<p>Harkins laughed, but it was a sympathetic laugh. "I had forgotten," said +he. "You'll find a bed softer than the table, I imagine, and there is a +filling restaurant in the next block." He proceeded to make an advance +on the new man's salary. The latter thanked him and was off.</p> + +<p>The boys crowded around, curious and interested. "He's no Albert Edward +on wardrobe," commented the dramatic critic, "but he's a pippin just the +same. Who is he, Harkins?"</p> + +<p>"Hang it!" replied Harkins dubiously, "I forgot to ask him. What's his +name, Mead?"</p> + +<p>"Gee, I don't know," replied the cub, sucking contentedly at his pipe. +"He didn't give me any time to ask."</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a> +<a name="iii" id="iii"></a>CHAPTER III<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">MICKY</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">MICHAEL O'BYRN, picturesquely Irish, so his name appeared on the +payroll, but from the cases to the press room they called him Micky. +Mike would have been a misfit, for its tang suggests a burly, +bull-necked son of Erin with fists like hams and a brogue of gravy-like +thickness, a boisterous, beefy, big-hearted broth of a boy of blows and +budge. Micky had the Irish heart, but he was short on fists and beef and +possessed the mere ghost of a brogue. Besides, O'Byrn's pseudonym +suggests juvenility, and Micky's four and twenty years, with their +palpable vicissitudes, had not robbed him of that saving grace. Indeed, +on meeting him, light-hearted and laughter-loving as he was in youth, +your imagination would experience little effort in leaping a long leap +into futurity to behold him a generation on, white-polled and with the +olden freckles faded in his wrinkled face; still the laugh on his lips, +the light of quizzical humor in his blue eyes. Glad he would always be, +because there would always bubble in his heart the fountain of eternal +youth.</p> + +<p>The newspaper spirit had its embodiment in Micky O'Byrn, the tattered +knight of the road whose first story electrified the city editor of the +Courier. The spirit shone out of the portals of the twinkling Irish +eyes, eternally<a class="pagenum" name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a> questioning. It reconnoitred the field from the bridge +of the nose that twitched with eagerness at the scent of a story, as a +pointer snuffs grouse. Within the mouth, that was always distended with +an ingratiating smile, dwelt in amity those heavenly twins, guile and +blarney. They served as forceful means to the eternal end of +news-seeking, and they were backed by ramparts of cheerful impudence +that flanked the whole freckled face. The chin was round, but a bump +peered forth that bespoke tenacity. He ordinarily displayed a guileless +expression that hid an unfathomed depth of resource. Once on the trail, +he could never be turned away. When one route to information failed, he +had a dozen others in readiness, leading by devious paths to the desired +end.</p> + +<p>O'Byrn's appearance, when he had selected and donned his new ready-made +suit, rakish derby and vociferating shirt, was decidedly tracky. This +transformation occurred soon after he joined the Courier's staff. The +suit was checked in a pattern which cried aloud to heaven, the new +crimson tie adding its insistent clamor. The derby was done off in a +delicate drab. As for shoes, he selected tan oxfords with red ties. The +ensemble, to use a word that found much favor with Micky, "jibed" +harmoniously with his thick fell of lurid hair and his staring freckles. +In dress, as in all else, Micky was a pronounced radical.</p> + +<p>Micky entered upon his service for the Courier with a vim which +abundantly realized his promise to "make good" if given the chance. In +him energy was wedded with tenacity. He had an inexhaustible fund of +subtle resource, an ingratiating impudence. Altogether, he was well +adapted to his strenuous trade, the trade that sifts out so much of +chaff and leaves so little wheat—and<a class="pagenum" name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a> finally withers the wheat till it +follows the chaff. Micky had a positive genius for coping with +obstacles. If he could not "sidestep" them he climbed over, crawled +under or wriggled through them. Harkins steered him up against nearly +everything in those first few days and he never fell down. Harkins began +to grow self-complacent regarding his discernment. He had discovered +this pearl, or to put it more literally, this speckled ruby of +journalism. As a matter of fact, the ruby had discovered himself, but +Harkins had helped. He was entitled to congratulate himself, for the new +arrival was amply demonstrating his services to be valuable.</p> + +<p>Micky had been with the Courier a fortnight. The voice of his new +apparel had been heard on the land and also on the waters. For only the +previous day he had boarded a tug steaming out to the quarantine +station, casually absorbed a mine of information without the suicidal +flashing of a notebook and scooped the field with a harrowing chapter of +abuses by those in power. His prestige was increased. A little bird +slyly twittered in his ear that they had started him low in the wage +line. He would better strike for more while the iron was hot, for it was +like to cool quickly in this uncertain calling.</p> + +<p>He pondered over the matter, his feet reposing on his desk, a red-eyed +cigar stub in the corner of his mouth. It was midnight. He had handed in +a warm political column, happened upon by accident that evening. He was +always stumbling upon such accidents, that spelled spice for the reader +in the morning.</p> + +<p>Micky ceased ruminating, with a mental vow to strike 'em next day. He +rose, yawned, stretched himself and strolled over to the sporting +editor's desk. O'Byrn sank<a class="pagenum" name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a> into an adjoining chair as his neighbor +administered the finishing touches to an intercollegiate field meet of +that afternoon.</p> + +<p>"How 're ye, Fatty?" inquired Micky amiably, prodding his co-laborer in +the ample excuse for his nickname.</p> + +<p>"Fine 'nd dandy, Irish," replied the rotund Stearns rather absently, as +he pensively rubbed his prodded abdomen. "Say, Irish," he burst out in +an odd breathless way—Fatty's fits were a joke in the office and +startling to newcomers—"good hammer throw, that. Fell short two feet, +though." He shoved a written sheet over to Micky.</p> + +<p>Micky had jumped in his chair at the onslaught, spilling cigar ashes +over his noisy shirt bosom. "Short of what?" he demanded with sarcasm, +blowing the ashes into Stearns' rubicund face. "Fatty, have you got 'em +again?"</p> + +<p>"Got nothin'," retorted Fatty, rubbing an ashy eye. "They'll never beat +it, never," he murmured, more to himself than to Micky, with a slow +shake of his fat head. "Not on your pajamas! They can't touch him."</p> + +<p>"Cut it out, Fatty," exhorted Micky with concern. "Quit the pill cookin' +stunt or +<a name="it" id="it"></a><ins title="Original has it 'll">it'll</ins> land you in the dip-house for sure. Why, you spit when +you talk now! Of whom are you dreaming?"</p> + +<p>Fatty came back to earth. "That's so, you weren't here then," he +vouchsafed pityingly.</p> + +<p>"When?" retorted Micky pugnaciously. "When wasn't I here?"</p> + +<p>"Three years ago," replied Stearns, the tremolo of a tender memory +throbbing in his tone.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a> +"And if I wasn't here," demanded Micky, unmollified, "who was, you sofa +pillow?"</p> + +<p>The sofa pillow, like most such, was good natured. He grinned +forgivingly at the freckled features opposite him.</p> + +<p>"Dick Glenwood was!" he answered with firm finality. "Yes 'r! And when +he got through there was nothin' else. The rest of 'em were hangin' on +the clothes line. It was three years ago, Speckles, and I was helpin' do +the intercollegiate meet for the News. Cubbin' it then, you know. All +the colleges, Hale, Pittston and the rest were there. I knew Dick; best +man Hale ever had, bar none. Knew what was comin'. Came from the same +town as I did. Brought up together; he's licked me more than once," with +pardonable pride. "Came out just as I expected and he scooped +everything. It was his last appearance, graduation year, big rep. Had to +make good and he did, won everything in sight. That is, everything he +went into, and he was in everything worth while. Made some records that +stand today. And that hammer throw! Say," gurgled Fatty, his face +apoplectic, "that man Myers came the closest to it today of any meet +since then, and he's got two feet comin' to touch it!"</p> + +<p>"Dick Glenwood," mused Dicky. "I've heard the name around the office."</p> + +<p>"And why not?" exploded Stearns. His little eyes, lurking beneath folds +of fat, peeled like round agate marbles. "Why, man, don't you know?"</p> + +<p>"Know what?" snapped O'Byrn, reaching for a convenient paper-weight. +"Now, Fatty!" poising the weapon.</p> + +<p>"Know he works here, of course," replied Stearns, viewing the weight +apprehensively. "Say, Irish, don't talk to me! You'd better come out of +it yourself."</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a> +"Works here?" repeated Micky, putting down the weight. "I haven't seen +him."</p> + +<p>"On his vacation," explained Fatty. "Expect him back tomorrow. My last +whack at this stunt."</p> + +<p>"So he does sports," observed Micky, taking a fresh cigar from Stearns' +vest pocket. "I thought you did 'em right along."</p> + +<p>"Me?" exploded Fatty, in incredulous oblivion of slaughtered grammar. +His fat face expressed ludicrous amaze at the impression. "Why, man, +he's the best sporting writer in town or anywhere else! I'm just +supplyin'. Ordinarily I do odds and ends. I've done everything but time. +Sometimes, when we're specially busy, I act as his assistant. He got me +my job here when the News fired me."</p> + +<p>Fatty was nothing if not ingenuous. Micky did not try to hide his grin, +for it would make no difference with Fatty.</p> + +<p>"Why, yes, I've read of that fellow," assented Micky, transferring a +generous portion of the contents of Stearns' match box to his own +pocket. "So he went into this rotten business, did he?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes, he's stuck on it," explained Fatty. "You see he's got money."</p> + +<p>"Got money!" echoed Micky amazedly. "Gee whiz! then why—? Excuse me, +Fatty, I'm asleep at the switch for fair."</p> + +<p>"I don't know," floundered Fatty helplessly, "but anyway, his father's +got money. But Dick likes this business just the same. Been at it since +he left college."</p> + +<p>"Then it is because he's got money, or his father has," agreed Micky. "I +couldn't see it before, but you have<a class="pagenum" name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a> made it very clear, Fatty. It's +because he's got money or his father has. How stupid of me to be wingin' +on that proposition! But if he didn't have money, or his father didn't, +and he was doing this for a living like the rest of us instead of for +the fun of it, he'd say to the devil with it, like the rest of us—and +probably keep right at it, like the rest of us." In which words Micky +gave utterance to a philosophic, universal truth.</p> + +<p>The voice of the city editor broke in upon the conference. "Say, +Stearns," it called, "where's that meet?"</p> + +<p>"Most done, Mr. Harkins," responded Fatty in a panic, diving into his +copy like a greased swimmer off the side of a yacht.</p> + +<p>"O'Byrn," called Harkins. "Here's word of a row down at Goldberg's +saloon on Ash street, pretty serious. Thuggery. Slide down and get it +quietly. You know they don't like the looks of notebooks around there," +with a grim laugh.</p> + +<p>So Micky, whose memory was his notebook and a wonderfully accurate one +when caution and cunning were demanded, hurried to the elevator.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a> +<a name="iv" id="iv"></a>CHAPTER IV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">FISTS AND THE MAN</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">BETWEEN Goldberg's and the polite in indulgence there was a great gulf +fixed. From the north side, with its glittering palaces of Bacchus +dispensing varied decoctions served by irreproachable chemists, you +travelled south through a scattered series of lessening liquid glories. +Finally you came to Goldberg's, where they took it straight in draughts +of cheap, blistering stuff which maddened and incited to crime. +Goldberg's was the dive of last resort for the submerged tenth. Its maw +gaped hungrily, gorging upon the dregs it gathered in. Finally, when the +victims were stripped of their miserable resources, they were spewed +forth, with brains inflamed with the liquid damnation purveyed there. +Ripe for any crime, they were foul fruit for the gaoler and a menace to +men.</p> + +<p>Goldberg's existed by grace of the modern god of money. Goldberg was a +tool of the autocratic Shaughnessy, who contrived to head and manage a +corrupt city government. Goldberg captained his ward, which was one of +Shaughnessy's gilt-edged assets. The ward had become Shaughnessy's by +right of Goldberg's conquest. It was a ward of thugs and human jugs and +brutal, elementary mugs; all American sovereigns, equalized with<a class="pagenum" name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a> +decency under the deathless document of American independence. Born +sovereigns, or having taken out papers, the adult males in this ward had +lined up one day, now far in the past. One hand of each proudly clutched +a ballot, the badge of his sovereignty. The other hand was greedily +extended for the accompanying cash. Into the grimy palms had dropped +more cash from Shaughnessy via Goldberg, than could be afforded by any +of their rivals. So the ballots poured into the boxes for Goldberg, +whose bull-faced lieutenants flanked the line to see that the bargain +was carried out. Goldberg was the choice of his people for alderman. He +was theirs, and through his rude genius, under Shaughnessy, it +transpired that they were his forever.</p> + +<p>He did not sit with the council now. He had long since relinquished even +the higher posts of confidence with which Shaughnessy had honored him +after his aldermanic career. Truth to tell, Goldberg had become +sufficiently notorious to convince Shaughnessy that it would be politic +to remove him from under the direct glare of the public eye. He could +perform better service from the wings. So Goldberg had apparently +retired from all connection with the politics of the city and even his +own ward, though Shaughnessy and the retired gentleman could have told +better. They now picked their puppets to run, invariably routing the +forces of law and order on election day with the tremendous majorities +for license and disorder rolled up in their several wards. There was +subsequent increment, which someone got, gathered in shady subways of a +peculiar municipal government; presenting the situation which makes the +indifferent voter a byword and reproach in many cities of<a class="pagenum" name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a> this broad +and extremely hospitable land. On these triumphal election nights, too, +joy overflowed at Goldberg's place,—albeit he was "no longer interested +in politics,"—and fell like strong dew upon the unjust. There were free +draughts of the cheap in beverages flowing fast into the faces of the +unlaved, unshaved crew. The godless exulted and Goldberg continued to +hold them for Shaughnessy in the hollow of his hand.</p> + +<p>As Micky was whirled southward, in an open trolley car, he reflected +upon his dubious assignment. How should he conduct his campaign? It will +be readily gathered that newspaper men were not especially popular at +Goldberg's. Most of the representative city sheets, irrespective of +political leanings, had for years been flaying the fifth ward king, +seeking to uncrown him. Thus far it had been without avail. Not yet had +the decent element been able to throw off the thrall. This was because +they had been indulging in that practice which so universally blocks the +wheels of progress in most lines, the pastime of quarreling among +themselves in regard to the most desirable means to the end. So +Shaughnessy and Goldberg, their colleagues and all they represented and +misrepresented, were still in control, and buying larger burglar-proof +safes. The newspapers had kept the quarreling factions of the +perennially defeated party informed as to this growing prosperity, as +well as they were able to ascertain regarding it. Naturally the gang's +leaders and their mates resented this, for it favored the chances of the +opposing party's factions finally getting together and putting the whole +evil crew out of commission. When a man has begun to make easy money,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a> +he mourns to break off the habit; nor does he view with pleasure +attempts to compel him to do so.</p> + +<p>Micky hoped he could get his story quietly, for discovery of his errand +in that unfriendly atmosphere would probably mean failure and perhaps a +broken head. However, he hardly thought he would encounter anyone he +knew there, so would trust to luck.</p> + +<p>Alighting from the car at the end of South Avenue, he made his way +through a tangle of dark, rank thoroughfares, which grew dingier and +more disreputable as he continued, till he came to the street, little +more than an alley, where Goldberg's flourished like a green bay +tree,—late in season, for the structure needed painting. Low and dingy, +squat and ugly, it crouched between a couple of cheap brick tenements +like a stolid, sullen beast of prey; its few small windows alight with a +dull red glow, like vengeful eyes. From within there came the discordant +brawling of a cracked phonograph. A couple of red-eyed human derelicts, +stupid with drink, lounged against the portal as Micky entered.</p> + +<p>It was quiet enough now. There were no signs of a disturbance. Micky was +chagrined. He had hoped to arrive before the trouble, whatever it had +been, was over; if not in the thick of it, at least before the +participants had dispersed. He could then follow some of the interested +parties and secure the details, for he knew his game too well to have +meditated seriously the idea of making any pointed inquiries in the dive +itself. That would mean an instant awakening on the part of the +questioned to the fact that a newspaper man was present. If he +persisted, there might ensue rough treatment and a swift and painful +exodus. However, he found it as quiet<a class="pagenum" name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a> as the grave. It was apt to be so +at Goldberg's after a rumpus. Micky shrewdly guessed that the end of the +trouble had been the signal for a general discretionary scattering. +There were present only the bartender and two men who stood against the +bar, their backs to him. Micky noticed with relief that Goldberg was not +present. It was as well, for Micky and he had met.</p> + +<p>Micky walked slowly to the end of the big low-ceilinged room and seated +himself at a small beer-splashed table. He chafed inwardly. What had +happened? Had the police arrived and gone, if indeed they knew anything +about it? Or, worse luck, had some man from a rival paper anticipated +him?</p> + +<p>These disturbing reflections came simultaneously with O'Byrn's seating +himself. As he did so, a step sounded behind him and a form sank into a +chair at his left, facing his own table.</p> + +<p>Micky's heart bounded. Luck was with him after all. "How 're ye, Slade?" +he sang out, with cordiality tempered with a sly wink. "I just got in +from the Speedway track. Just enough left to save hitting the ties +home." Micky's horsy clothes bore out the bluff.</p> + +<p>Nick Slade was no fool. He caught the situation at a glance. Micky had +rendered him a service only a week before, the little Irishman's blarney +rescuing him from a prospective entanglement with the talons of a +policeman. Slade was a shred of a fellow, with a lean dark face and +black eyes that were as impersonal as a Chinaman's, as they gazed into +Micky's warning blue ones.</p> + +<p>"To the bad, eh?" he rejoined, with a dry grin in the direction of the +men at the other end of the room, whom he was facing while Micky's back +was toward<a class="pagenum" name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a> them. "If you'd cut out layin' your own coin, and stick to +business in tippin' off the guys who can afford to lose it, you'd be +better off. I told you not to go up against that bum line of +selling-platers."</p> + +<p>"Well, I've got enough left to have a drink on it anyway," replied +Micky, with reckless prodigality, rapping on the table for the +bartender. "Lap up with me. Say what."</p> + +<p>"Spivins water," answered Slade, his synonym for whisky. Micky ordered +ale, for ordinarily he avoided the little red devil. When he did not, +the little red devil played ducks and drakes with him and his prospects.</p> + +<p>When the bartender had set down the glasses and gone, Micky said +quietly, "Slade, you know why I'm here. Do you know that story?"</p> + +<p>"Sure," said Slade, "but you don't want to ask for it here."</p> + +<p>"I know it," acquiesced Micky, producing cigars. "That's the reason I +just rang the bluff of a cheap sport. I know I'm one anyway, but I don't +want 'em to tumble to the fact that I write when I'm not sportin'."</p> + +<p>"Sure not," agreed Slade. "If they did, Irish, someone would get hurt, +and it wouldn't be the sidewalk. Mulligan, the bartender, is soitinly a +baby bouncer."</p> + +<p>"Well now, Nick," said Micky, "I want that story, and I want it right. +It's gettin' early. Now you do a heart-to-heart Uncle Tom and Little Eva +talk with me about the races, and by and by I'll go away. You're not in +it, you know; I flash no paper and mum's the word. I just keep it in my +nut, understand? Now spill it out."</p> + +<p>So Nick spilled it out and Micky absorbed his facts,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a> sans comment; +mentally registering the full details of a story that proved interesting +the next day, well besprinkled with gore and full of the zest which made +life worth living in the realm that was Goldberg's. Micky gave a subdued +grunt of satisfaction as it was finished, his restored complacency being +heightened by Nick's assurance that so far he was the sole reporter on +the scene. Harkins' tip must have been a private one. Micky gloated over +the prospective beat.</p> + +<p>He had it all now, and time was forging pressward. He shoved what cigars +he had with him toward Nick, with an eloquent look of gratitude, and +rose, moving nonchalantly toward the door, Slade following.</p> + +<p>All had been well, but one of the imbibing pair fronting the bar chanced +to turn, eyeing Micky squarely. He was a gent of agility. With a couple +of bounds he sentineled the doorway, barring the intended exodus. +Wrathful fire gleamed in his bleared eyes; the stubble of his crimsoned +face seemed not unlike the rising hackles of an enraged dog.</p> + +<p>"Speedway track, eh?" he roared. "Busted sport, eh? You little baboon, +youse will be busted afore youse gets out o' here, an' dat ain't no lie +neither! Mulligan, d'ye know who dis is?"</p> + +<p>"Naw!" replied Mulligan, the laconic, thrusting out an angled chin and +screwing his vicious little eyes into gimlet points. "Who t' 'ell?"</p> + +<p>"He's dat new Irish Courier pup!" bellowed the obstacle, "de speckled +sneak wot done my game for me last week. I told youse about it."</p> + +<p>"Youse did, Cullinan," admitted the bartender and deliberately rolled up +his shirt sleeves. Cullinan's companion,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a> too, had slouched up and +scowlingly flanked his irate pard at guard. Mulligan thoughtfully +emerged from behind the bar. In the sinister situation, the forcible +tribute that Cullinan had just paid O'Byrn upon his professional ability +failed wholly to arouse a gentle glow of satisfaction in Micky's +disturbed breast. The recognition between him and Cullinan, general +blackleg, had been mutual.</p> + +<p>There was an instant's silence. Mulligan broke it with salvos of +scientific and finished profanity.</p> + +<p>"Yer here for a story," he concluded, "a hot one. An' ye've got it. But +how de 'ell—" with puzzled head scratchings. His venomous little eyes +fell upon the instinctively shrinking Slade. They flamed luridly.</p> + +<p>"Youse little yellow leper!" he growled. "It's youse dat coughed it up!" +He lunged at Slade.</p> + +<p>Now between the two guards at the open door there was a thin gap to +liberty. Thin it was, but enough for Slade, who had worldly matters yet +to put in order. He ducked Mulligan's hungry hands, and with a swift +spring of a body whose attenuated bulk was a decided advantage in this +time of stress, he shot like a meteor between the disconcerted guards +and landed in a heap upon the sidewalk outside. Bounding to his feet +like a rubber ball, he darted up the alley. The furious guards, +overturned by the sudden onslaught, scrambled up.</p> + +<p>"Follow him, Dinneen!" shouted Mulligan, and Cullinan's partner obeyed, +the room echoing with his curses as he rushed out.</p> + +<p>As Slade achieved his liberty, Micky had tried to follow suit. He had +nearly reached the door when the brawny hand of Mulligan shot out and +connected with<a class="pagenum" name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a> his collar. There was a backward jerk and the choking +journalist landed in the middle of the room, falling over a table amid +jangling beer glasses. Picking himself up rather dazedly he grinned +amiably into the two scowling faces opposite him. His left hand was cut +slightly by a broken glass. He drew out his handkerchief, stanching the +flow of blood.</p> + +<p>"Do you mugs provide free ambulance service for your customers," he +inquired airily, "or is that extra?"</p> + +<p>"Shut your face!" remarked Mulligan savagely. "Now ye've got that story +all right, which ain't none of yer business nor yer cursed paper's, +neither. Youse done up a pal o' mine here good and proper last week 'nd +we bote otter lick de stuffin' outer you. But I bets as you didn't come +here of yer own accord, an' I tells ye wot we'll do. You tell de man wot +sent yer dat dere wasn't nuttin' doin', an' you couldn't cop nuttin', +an' we lets you go. Eider dat or—" and his swollen fist fanned the +acrid air an inch from Micky's nose.</p> + +<p>Micky's keen Irish eyes weighed the ruffianly odds. A weaker spirit +would have temporized or lied. However, Micky was a man. His answer left +nothing to be arbitrated. It was a mere suggestion, but it held +finality.</p> + +<p>"You go to hell!" he said. The next instant his eyes, strangely +distended, saw curious vivid, whirling flashes of crimson and orange and +violet. His tongue, curled fantastically, writhed outward like an ant +eater's. His slender hands tore futilely at brutal, strangling fists +clenched upon his throat. He was simultaneously sensible of dull +thudding blows about the lower part of his body, judging hazily but +quite correctly that Cullinan<a class="pagenum" name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a> was kicking him. For a moment so, while +the vivid colors faded and resolved themselves gradually into jetty +black, and consciousness waned. Then he heard dimly a rush of feet, felt +a swift relief as the stifling hands were torn from his throat. Gasping, +he rolled weakly to one side while the shadows slowly lifted from his +protruding eyes. They saw what brought Micky staggering to his feet with +trembling interest.</p> + +<p>For the tables were turned, not by a relieving cordon of policemen, but +by one man with vengeance in his hands. A splendid young figure, over +six feet tall, he was in the center of the room, dealing it. A swift +vision of yellow tousled hair, gleaming blue eyes and grim square jaw, +flashed before Micky's bewildered sight. A distinct appreciation welled +within him of the power behind a blow which at that instant knocked Mr. +Cullinan into a corner, where he lay and shuddered. The newcomer now +faced Mr. Mulligan, who, with malice burrowing in his gimlet eyes, at +once fell into approved position. The rescuer laughed a great mellow, +resounding laugh full into Mr. Mulligan's unlovely face. Then, dropping +suddenly, he charged into the bartender in bruising gridiron style, a +brawny shoulder heaving that gentleman in a disorganized heap near his +annihilated partner.</p> + +<p>The athlete straightened with another booming laugh. "Come on, kid," he +shouted, "it'll be warm here in a minute." He dragged the still dazed +Micky out of the door. Up to the corner they ran to a cab in waiting. +They sprang in. "Courier office!" directed the stranger, then drew out +his watch.</p> + +<p>"You'll have plenty of time for your story," he observed.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a> "I know +Goldberg's, so when I happened around the office just now and Fatty told +me, among other things, what was up, I didn't know as it would do any +harm to drive over, seeing I'd nothing else to do. Makes a fellow feel +restless to get out of the grind for a couple of weeks. You get rusty +for exercise." He laughed again.</p> + +<p>Micky remembered his talk with Stearns. "You must be—" he ventured.</p> + +<p>"Dick Glenwood," returned the other, as they shook hands. "And you, I +think I know you. Fatty told me, all in three minutes. You know he +generally does."</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a> +<a name="v" id="v"></a>CHAPTER V<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">THE IRONWORKERS' BALL—AND MAISIE</span></h2> + +<div class="figcap2"> +<img src="images/quote.png" width="8" height="7" alt="open quote" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="cap2">YOU fool!" remarked former Alderman Goldberg to his man, Mulligan, when +he learned a little later that night of the spirited occurrence in his +bar room. "You fool! Don't you know no better than to put it onto a +newspaper guy? Don't you know he can make all kinds of trouble for us if +he wants to? Don't you know nothin'? Just because he did up a pal of +yours,—and God knows he had it comin' to him!—is that any reason +you've got to pitch into the bloke and set a lot of bees stingin' us? +You're a bright one, ain't you? You're a rotten stiff!" fulminated +Goldberg, while his assistant scowled and said nothing. "I'll tell you +one thing," concluded Goldberg, "if they make any trouble for me out of +your fool break, you get the run, see?"</p> + +<p>But no trouble ensued and Mulligan remained. Micky, having come out +ahead, laughed at his rough treatment as a part of a good joke, being no +whiner. There was no disposition at the Courier office to cause Goldberg +any more trouble than it was hoped was due him after the next election, +along with his mates. All the Courier's hopes were centered on that +pleasing goal.</p> + +<p>Micky's night off, a little later in the week, fell uneventfully, and it +was with distinct boredom that he<a class="pagenum" name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a> tried to kill time. He was invariably +uneasy at these brief intervals of respite from the grind, and it might +be said that he enjoyed himself in discontent. It was with a generally +ennuied air that he sauntered at midnight into a night lunch room much +frequented by the Courier staff and encountered Dick there, whom he +greeted with enthusiasm. It happened that Dick was through especially +early that evening.</p> + +<p>An odd friendship had arisen between these two, so dissimilar and yet so +like in the welding quality of good fellowship and thorough bohemianism. +It was this restless spirit, the arch-enemy of commercial routine, that +had drawn Dick into journalism after leaving college. The step was a +disappointment to his father, who had hoped that Dick would elect to +enter the parent's office and learn the business from the ground up. He +did not oppose Dick's inclinations, however, thinking that a little +experience would weary him of his idea. Thus far, however, there seemed +little likelihood that Dick would leave the fascinating grind for the +more substantial though more prosaic office desk. He had taken naturally +to journalism, was a ready and pleasing writer, and he liked it.</p> + +<p>It was the same restless spirit, too, linked with an inborn, luring love +of roving and shift of scene, that fired O'Byrn. A happy vagabond, his +eyes were filled ever with the charm of new scenes that all too soon +grew old. Always were fair mirages to glow on his horizon, bringing him +hurrying on—to find them faded. Dream-houses, built on barren sands, +dissolving in mists of tears as the years spell the bitter, brutal thing +that we call wisdom! Always for him, strange little Irishman, the luring +whisper<a class="pagenum" name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a> from afar and the mad dash thither, to find as before only +chill mists and brooding shadows; and so on, over the wastes, to silence +and the end.</p> + +<p>"What have you done with yourself?" inquired Dick, as the two settled +themselves comfortably before their sandwiches and coffee. "Find +anything worth while?"</p> + +<p class="mb0">"Oh, early in the evenin' I dropped into Ryan's roof garden," replied +Micky. "The first stunt wasn't so bad; then they rang in one of those +cockney carolers from dear ol' Lunnon. He got off a yowl about—</p> + +<div class="block"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Wipe no more, my lidy,</span><br /> +<span class="i0">Oh, wipe no more to die—'</span><br /> +</div></div></div> + +<p class="noindent mt0">and I got out. Suggested a scullery strike and business, and it was my +night off.</p> + +<p>"Blew along and met a bunch of the boys at the Gold Coin. They had +started in early and were left-handed in both feet and hangin' onto the +bar like a freighter in a recedin' tide. They tried to annex me, but I +faded away. I'm through. The budge-mixer's the natural enemy of the +profesh. He gets your money and you get next, but it's never till the +next morning. I knew a district attorney once, up north, who had been +prosecutin' a gang of cheap thieves from a bum district of the county. +He was gettin' off his final spiel, and it was a beaut'. 'Gentlemen of +the jury,' he yells, 'they don't raise anything on the Pine Plains but +hell and huckleberries!' and it was no lie.</p> + +<p>"Now on whisky the product's even more limited. You just raise hell. No +more for me, I'm stickin' to suds. It's popular, the red-eye, but it +doesn't last and then it does. There's nothing in it but a pneumatic +head<a class="pagenum" name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a> and a nimbus of cracked ice in the mornin'. Your Uncle Mike—Why, +hello, Fatty!"</p> + +<p>Fatty Stearns had ambled in and stood regarding them with a tender +smile. Glenwood pulled him into a chair and invited him to order what he +wanted. Stearns was soon busy.</p> + +<p>"Just ran out for lunch," came from him in muffled tones. "I'm up to my +neck in that golf game you didn't have time to do," he told Glenwood +with a reproachful glance. "It's got me wingin'."</p> + +<p>There were strange gurglings from Micky, grown suddenly wild-eyed. +"Fatty, Fatty!" he moaned. "Did you say 'game?'"</p> + +<p>"Sure he did!" answered Dick truculently. "What's the matter with it, +you little ape? I play it."</p> + +<p>Micky dissolved in simulated sobs. "He plays it!" he groaned. "Oh, why +was he ever born, Eliza? Better never have been born than born a slave!"</p> + +<p>"We will listen, Micky," remarked Dick deliberately, "to any objections +you have to the greatest, most healthful—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, fudge!" interrupted Micky. "I was there once and it's a wonder I +didn't turn out a lush for life. Honest, I'd done everything in my time, +but that assignment got me wingin'. I get cross-eyed yet every time I +think about it and I talk really maudlin. I can't tell what I say those +times but the boys say it's fierce. Say I murmur fool talk about putting +it onto the green and bawling on the bunkers. I don't know. I guess I +got it all in my head that time, but somehow I never could make it jibe.</p> + +<p>"You see it was when I was on the Signal in Gulf<a class="pagenum" name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a> City. Old man sent for +me one day and says, 'There's a three-day golf meet starts tomorrow +morning and it's up to you.'</p> + +<p>"Now ordinarily I'm the last to buck at any assignment, but I'd seen a +fellow dislocate his jaw once on some of the vocabulary of that game, so +I sparred for wind.</p> + +<p>"'I don't know anything about it,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'Neither does anyone else,' says he.</p> + +<p>"'Do the players?' I asks him.</p> + +<p>"'Damfino!' he came back at me. 'Ask 'em. That's what you're for.'</p> + +<p>"So behold your Uncle Mike, Dick, about nine the next morning looping +the links. I had done a fuss stunt and was got up regardless. Had one of +those long cutaways that dallied with my ankles; they hadn't gone out in +Gulf City. I saw a bunch of busy boys humped up around a dinky flag and +started for 'em to ask 'em about it. One of 'em, I judged, was gettin' +ready to whale a toad or somethin' with an umbrella handle. He'd hocked +his hat and hadn't kept much more than his shirt on anyway; barrin' a +pair of pants that had got elephant-tiss-siss-siss, or whatever you call +it, and looked like they came off the pile way back in the happy +hitherto. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his arms were the color +of sun-cured tobacco, or the mud pies that sister used to bake. Oh, he +was a beam-baked child of nature all right. Well, he sees me comin' +toward him, and straightens up and gives me the cold storage stare.</p> + +<p>"'Here, you!' he yells, 'I can't drive over you!'</p> + +<p>"'No, you bet you can't!' I yells back. 'Ain't it scandalous you can't? +Why can't you? Did you hock<a class="pagenum" name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a> the horse along with the hat? Here, go buy +yourself a new one of both!' and I tosses him a dime.</p> + +<p>"They didn't say anything but it grew kind o' chilly, so I turns up my +coat collar and wanders along and by and by I came to the club house.</p> + +<p>"It was gorgeous enough around there, looked like the short end at the +surrender of Yorktown. My fuss stunt looked like mourning in that color +scheme. I drifted around, feelin' lonesome and like a drab tassel on a +red fringe. It was a new one on me, but by and by I got a look-in on the +pools. They had a set of cards tacked on the board.</p> + +<p>"There was a big geezer in a sunrise coat goin' by just then. I annexed +him. 'What's those?' I asked him, pointin' to the cards.</p> + +<p>"'Why, the scores, of course,' says he, tryin' to jerk away.</p> + +<p>"'Well, how many times do they score before they start?' I asks, hangin' +on. And honestly, Dick, I didn't know. I was one up in the air with the +parachute busted, and it certainly looked slow to me.</p> + +<p>"He broke away, wouldn't answer me at all. It was no way to treat a +lonesome tassel. He deserved to be censured for turning me adrift.</p> + +<p>"Well, after awhile I struck a pretty decent guy, if he did wear a horse +blanket for a vest. He said he'd help me out, that the scorers were +busy. I suppose they were flaggin' the bad actors.</p> + +<p>"This accommodatin' chap began to go over the cards with me. I got along +all right for a while till I got to an X mark. 'What's this?' I asked +him.</p> + +<p>"'Oh,' says he, 'that's because he struck his caddy.'</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a> +"'For how much?' I asks. 'Besides, I supposed the caddies were the ones +to strike. They need the money. What races has this bloke been playin' +lately? Must have bet on some brute that ran like cold molasses.'</p> + +<p>"'You don't understand,' says he. 'He struck his caddy with the ball. It +knocks him out.'</p> + +<p>"'I should think it would,' says I, running my finger down the list. +'Here's a fellow with two X's. That's two down, ain't it? I should think +a ten-strike would make a caddy feel sore for fair.'</p> + +<p>"'It makes a player use language when he does that,' says the +accommodatin' chap, starin' at the board and lookin' reminiscent.</p> + +<p>"'Does the caddy contribute?' I asked him.</p> + +<p>"He didn't pay any attention to that, but kept on lookin' dreamy-eyed. +But I wanted to find out about things, so I kept at him.</p> + +<p>"'Say,' I says, 'I notice every once in a while one of those guys yells +'Fore!' That means he's just hit the caddy four times, doesn't it? The +caddy gets all that's comin' to him, doesn't he?'</p> + +<p>"And with that he came to and gave me a sad look-over. Then he faded +away and I floated around lonesome again, lookin' for some one to put me +wise. After a while I heard a couple of swell dames talkin'.</p> + +<p>"'Theah,' one of 'em says, 'my deah, see those two young men? They ah +the Sherrod twins. I declaiah, they ah so much alike that I cawn't tell +one from the othah. One of them's an expert golfah, but I declaiah, I +cawn't tell which one he is. I cawn't guess why he isn't playing today. +The othah one doesn't play at all.'</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a> +"I took a look, and sure enough, they were as near alike as campaign +promises. My move was cut out for me all right and I made a stab at it. +I steered up against one of 'em and buttonholed him.</p> + +<p>"'Say,' says I, 'are you you or your brother?'</p> + +<p>"He looked kind of wild for a minute, but steadied. 'Why, I guess I'm +me,' he says, as if he wasn't sure of it.</p> + +<p>"'Well, you're the man I'm lookin' for,' says I. 'The other one doesn't +play.' Sure enough, he was the right one. He was all right, barrin' the +mashie microbe, and he started in to put me next. It would have been all +hunk, only he was the soul of hospitality and I always hate to say no. +Besides, I wanted to forget it.</p> + +<p>"It was highballs till sunset and then I went away after sticking out +both fins for farewell shakes with him both, for he looked like both him +and his twin to me. It must have been a mistake, for I have a hazy +recollection that the one who didn't play left early. Anyway, my friend +might have been a sextette or a full chorus choir, for they all looked +alike to me about that time. I got down town, thinkin' about writin' my +story every now and then, and I fell in with a gang.</p> + +<p>"The last I remember of that story I was in the backroom of a saloon +tryin' to write it. I was writin' about two words to a page about then, +though once in a while I would make an extra brace and get in three. It +was 'steen down and a bluff to play with me and I was foozled for fair. +My stuff wouldn't make sense. It just gibbered. I don't know just when I +called it off, but I think it was just after I had scrawled a screed to +the effect that 'Willie Van Hackensack, instead of approaching<a class="pagenum" name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a> the tea +as he should, had bunked hazardous highballs till he was batty in his +loft.' It was no lie, either, only it didn't belong in the story.</p> + +<p>"That story never got to the Signal, Fatty, and I didn't either. It got +lost somewhere and so did I. I came out of it about a week later, with +Gulf City 'way back beyant the blue and me sitting by the old familiar +track, waiting for a freight.</p> + +<p>"No golf in mine, Dick, it holed me for fair. It's an excuse, that's +all. When you aren't out huntin' low balls you're inside huntin' +highballs. After a while you can't tell a mashie from a ball bat. I +don't know what a mashie is, but I do know what a highball bat is. It's +generally a job, unless you break it off in the middle. Do you follow +me, Fatty? If you do, I'm sorry for you."</p> + +<p>It was with a windy sigh and a look of added dejection that Fatty +Stearns rose to return to the office and finish his account of the golf +tourney. "Just forget what Micky told you," called Dick after him, "or +you'll get all mixed up and get the run in the morning." Then he +surveyed Micky with that smile, so exasperating in golfers, the smile of +forgiving pity for the man outside.</p> + +<p>"Of course, you never played, Micky," he remarked. "If you ever had—"</p> + +<p>"Forget it, Dick," said Micky briskly. "I want to. Say, do you dance?"</p> + +<p>"Why, I don't know," answered Dick doubtfully, taken aback by the swift +change of subject. "Ask some of my partners. I'm in doubt myself and +aching to know."</p> + +<p>"And they know and are aching," grinned Micky. "Well, we'll try you out. +Come on," he added, rising,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a> "let's go over to the Ironworkers' ball. +They'll be going for an hour yet." They left the cafe, and after a +little bolted up the wide stairway of a big brick block. Encountering a +stalwart young fellow behind a ticket table on a landing, Dick's hand +sought his pocket. Micky restrained him, and nodding to the sentry, who +knew him, they passed up to the final landing, where a burst of music +saluted them. A number of couples were "cooling off" there. Dick peered +curiously inside. "How do they dance in such a crush?" he inquired.</p> + +<p>"Why, when these husky guys are dancin' with 'em," explained Micky, +"their feet don't touch the floor at all, and the men don't count."</p> + +<p>Indeed, the brawny cavaliers were well nigh making Micky's comment good. +The prompter, a big red-faced fellow with a bull's voice, just then +roared, "Swing your partners!" It was the relished order, for every +ironworker there had from earliest dancing days devoted himself without +mercy to the mastery of the art of swinging. At the welcome call, each +swain, an arm encircling his partner's waist gently but firmly, placed +one calloused paw against the lady's back, just below the shoulder +blades, while her palm sought his arm. His other hand sought her free +one and extended it out sideways and a little upward. This served a +double purpose, sufficing to fend off danger from colliding circlers and +to add impetus to the ensuing maelstrom. Then, while the fiddlers bent +to their work, there whizzed a general centrifugal whirl, with a soft +scuff of pivoting feet and the swish of agitated lingerie. That it was +as delightful as dizzying was evidenced by the appreciative comments of +the breathless<a class="pagenum" name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a> fair, as the spinning knights halted them, preparatory +to starting the next figure.</p> + +<p>"I'm a thirty-third on that," announced Micky complacently. "Can you do +it, Dick?"</p> + +<p>Dick was dubious. "Well, probably they'll have a waltz or two-step +next," proceeded Micky reassuringly. "They sandwich in round ones after +every square deal lately. Gettin' what Bill Nye called ray-sher-shay. +Come on, here's one I know. I'll put you next for the next." He dragged +Dick over to a big blonde and left them introduced and waiting for a +two-step.</p> + +<p>The quadrille ended and Micky watched the dancers scrambling for seats, +of which there were an insufficiency. The overflow billowed out upon the +landing, laughing and demanding room at the open windows. Micky, from +the doorway, beheld with sudden interest a vision seated across the +hall. He grasped an acquaintance by the arm.</p> + +<p>"Say, Lacy," he demanded impetuously, "if you know that, knock me down +to it, will you?"</p> + +<p>So Micky was conveyed across the room and formally knocked down to Miss +Maisie Muldoon. The end was well worth his enterprise. Small and +prettily formed, with eyes of truest Irish blue, the loveliest shade of +brown hair extant and a complexion of milk and roses, she was charming. +She was simply gowned in duck skirt and an airy confection of diaphanous +white waist, which revealed tantalizing glimpses of sweet white neck and +arms. Micky mentally registered her "a dream."</p> + +<p>"Will you dance?" he asked, crowding into a seat beside her.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know, Mr.—er—O'Byrn," she answered.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a> "My card seems to be +full already. I might give you an extra, if they have one," with a +mischievous glance.</p> + +<p>"You might scratch half a dozen of those names," suggested Micky easily, +"and substitute mine. It looks prettier."</p> + +<p>"I believe you're a newspaper man, aren't you?" freezingly. "Seems to me +I've heard so."</p> + +<p>"How do you like 'em?" he demanded, his impudent eyes twinkling.</p> + +<p>"If you're any sample, they seem to have a crust," witheringly.</p> + +<p>"So does any good thing," he chuckled. "Don't you like pie?"</p> + +<p>She laughed in spite of herself. "Say," she acknowledged, turning her +charming face toward his freckled one with decided interest, "you ain't +so worse! I almost wish I had a dance for you."</p> + +<p>"Maybe one of 'em will die," said Micky hopefully. "If I can be of any +help—"</p> + +<p>"The music's starting," she interrupted. "It's a two-step and I've got +it with Billy Ryan. He's rotten on that. Are you?"</p> + +<p>"I'm probably the ripest peach of a two-stepper," averred Micky, "that +ever triangled down a floor. I'm a pippin. Where is your gazabe?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," she replied, looking about frowningly. "Maybe he won't +come." Micky waxed complacent at the discreet hope lingering in her +tone.</p> + +<p>The dance was well under way. Dick shuffled past, the big blonde in his +arms. He seemed enjoying himself. Micky grew impatient.</p> + +<p>"Went out for another drink, I guess," remarked Miss<a class="pagenum" name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a> Maisie +disgustedly, in another moment. "Come on, I sha'n't wait for him," and +she rose.</p> + +<p>"Went a block for a beer with a Manhattan right inside," murmured Micky, +as they prepared to start. "Oh, you g'wan!" she laughed, and they swung +into the revolving circle.</p> + +<p>Micky's boast of terpsichorean ability made good, (he had picked up the +art long before, as readily as he did everything else,) he was rewarded +with two more regulars and an extra before the affair ended. One of the +regulars was originally scheduled with the recreant Ryan, who appeared +for it in due course and retired congealed, with a black look at the +grinning O'Byrn. The other regular had originally been Miss Muldoon's +cousin's. She transferred it airily, but the cousin bore it with the +equanimity of a mere relative.</p> + +<p>"I suppose you've got company home?" inquired Micky, with a certain +mournful hesitation, as they were finishing the last dance.</p> + +<p>"Not yet," she answered demurely. "That is," with a flash of blue eyes, +"Mr. Ryan brought me but he sha'n't take me back. He's too thirsty. That +first dance you got was the second he'd missed with me."</p> + +<p>"Forget him!" breathed Micky ecstatically. "I'm in luck." He invariably +took things for granted.</p> + +<p>"But," she recollected, chilling somewhat, "I haven't accepted your +escort yet, Mr.—er—O'Byrn. I never met you till tonight."</p> + +<p>"O, happy night!" he retorted, with the impudence that time would never +wither nor custom stale. "Aren't you glad you came?"</p> + +<p>She laughed again, a girlish, joyous laugh that warmed<a class="pagenum" name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a> the heart in the +hearing. "I'm it," she averred. "You are certainly the limit. But you +aren't in such luck as you think. It's a long way home."</p> + +<p>"Never too long with you for a pacemaker," he assured her. "And luck—I +know the varieties. I've had all kinds." So, as the last waltz ceased +and the dancers prepared for departure, he hastened to the door, where +Dick was waiting for him, and dismissed that gentleman. Glenwood raised +his eyebrows comprehensively and departed alone.</p> + +<p>The way was short to Mulberry Avenue, all too short for Micky, and as +for the lady—well, it would have seemed longer had the discredited Ryan +been in her company. There was the first faint hint of dawn in the +shrouded sky as Micky left the girl at her door and turned away, with +her gracious permission to call on his next night off. So Micky turned +to retrace the way now suddenly grown long; agitated stirrings in his +warm Irish heart that he could not have explained, those first faint +harbingers that come to us all, poor children of fleeting youth, and are +stilled ere we can understand.</p> + +<p>Ah, youth! with its thrilled pulses and fragrant, unspoiled heart, its +mysteries divine—and the arid waste beyond, when dreams are done! It's +a long way home, indeed!</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a> +<a name="vi" id="vi"></a>CHAPTER VI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">THE WEB</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">A WHOLESALE liquor establishment supplied a portion of Shaughnessy's +income. Time was, some years before, when it had demanded all of its +proprietor's time and undeniable talents, but now a gradually increasing +if reprehensible sphere of usefulness had made it a side-issue. However, +it continued to yield its owner a satisfying revenue and the wicked +prospered, after the fashion of this good old world.</p> + +<p>The fourth ward, contiguous to Goldberg's, while free and easy enough, +in very truth, was respectable in comparison with the notorious fifth. +It was in this fourth ward, in the quietest district, that Shaughnessy's +wholesale house was located. It was in the dingy office of this old +brick building that the dark schemes were matured which, with the aid of +the worst elements in the city, dominated its affairs. Here Shaughnessy +reigned supreme, an unobtrusive king.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy sat at his desk one warm evening holding converse with his +two faithful satellites, Abe Goldberg and Dick Peterson. The office was +carefully closed to chance encroachment and the men talked in subdued +tones. As usual, the cabal's plans had been carefully discussed, then +the conversation shifted to a minor matter.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a> It was the offense of which +Nick Slade had been guilty, in aiding the journalistic enemy by telling +O'Byrn of the row at Goldberg's saloon. Slade, by the way, was a heeler +under the direct charge of Peterson, and he had done work which had +commended him to that astute though apparently unsophisticated worthy.</p> + +<p>"He ought to get the run," Goldberg growled. "What use is a man to us +that don't stand by the gang? Of course, that row wasn't exactly mixed +up with our doings, but a lot of our men was mixed up in it, and it +ain't the kind of advertising that's goin' to do us any good. Then this +Slade goes and tips off the whole business. He ought to be kicked out."</p> + +<p>"Hold on, Goldberg," said Peterson. "I know all about the deal. I've +talked with Slade. Now you know Slade is shady with the police. Of +course, there are others, but they've got it in for Slade for more than +one reason and he ain't important enough to be immune. As luck would +have it, they were going to nab him the other night for a piece of +light-fingered work that he didn't happen to be concerned with. This +Courier chap, who seems to be a corker anyway, had picked up +acquaintance with Slade in some way, and, more than that, he happened to +know the right party the police were after and he got Slade off. Well, +what could Slade do when the fellow asked for the tip at your place? Of +course, he could have turned him down flat, but that wouldn't have been +natural, would it?"</p> + +<p>Before Goldberg could reply, Shaughnessy's cold voice cut in. "Is he +worth while?" he asked of Peterson.</p> + +<p>"He's O. K.," replied that worthy, with conviction. "One of the best—"</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a> +Shaughnessy turned to Goldberg. "Then forget it," he said dryly. "Keep +on using him, if he's any good. He's hardly worth firing. Exercise your +firing privilege for the officers' quarters; you need the men in the +ranks."</p> + +<p>With which characteristic bit of philosophy, Shaughnessy stretched his +arms and yawned. The others rose, the conference having been closed, and +lighting fresh cigars, left the office. Shaughnessy was left alone. He +leaned back lazily in his office chair, his thin hands clasped behind +his head, his expressionless eyes watching the smoke that curled upward +leisurely from the tip of his cigar. His white face would hold no more +of immobility when he should lie dead. Under the gaslight he reclined at +ease, staring upward. In the eyes, the queer, black, heavy-lidded eyes, +there was a momentary lack alike of definite scrutiny or the soft, +impalpable veil that is drawn by transitory dreams of better things. +Rather were they like a sluggish serpent's; lustreless, foreboding, +unwinking and infinitely, sleeplessly sinister. They stared with a +reptilian fixedness, seeing nothing. Thus for a space, and then they +lighted with a gleam of strange malevolence, as the thin, grim lips of +Shaughnessy relaxed under the small black moustache in a smile that was +not good to see. Some secret reflection had evidently pleased the boss.</p> + +<p>He suddenly leaned forward in his chair and turned to his desk, +extracting some papers which he surveyed with quiet satisfaction and +replaced. As he did so he started violently, then sank back in his +chair, his face drawn lugubriously with sudden pain; the natural pallor +giving place to a ghastly gray. His hands were clasped at his left side +and he gasped for breath. In a moment<a class="pagenum" name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a> the paroxysm passed, and +Shaughnessy sat limp in his chair with sprawling legs and nerveless +hands, his head bent forward. Presently he sought his handkerchief with +shaking fingers and wiped the cold beads of perspiration from his +forehead. Then he rose slowly, and with trembling knees tottered to a +small cupboard and produced a flask and glass. Pouring out a stiff +draught of brandy, he swallowed it at a gulp, replaced the bottle and +glass and walked back to his chair. His eyes, again inscrutable, sought +the clock; his face, once more an impassive mask, was turned toward the +door. Shaughnessy was game.</p> + +<p>A moment more and there was the sound of footsteps outside, then a +cautious tapping summoned at the door. Shaughnessy stepped forward and +released the spring lock which had confined it, standing aside to allow +his visitor's entrance, then snapped the door shut. Placing a chair +conveniently, he motioned his caller into it and resumed his own seat.</p> + +<p>The caller sat regarding Shaughnessy with an odd nervousness. He was +plainly ill at ease. An old man he was, with gray hair and beard and +faded blue eyes, whose wonted amiability was just now shadowed by an +unmistakable expression of helplessness. A pair of gold-bowed eyeglasses +dangled at the end of a silken cord looped about his collar; the cut and +texture of his black garb indicated prosperity as well as solid +respectability. The impression was heightened by the old-fashioned high +collar and the white lawn tie. The thin white hands, on which the blue +veins showed prominently, nervously fumbled a black slouch hat. +Shaughnessy's eyes rested an instant upon the headgear.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a> +"You ordinarily wear a silk hat, don't you, Judge?" he asked. "What's +the matter? Isn't this part of the town good enough for it, or does this +one help to shade your eyes from the light?" The visitor winced and the +boss smiled cruelly.</p> + +<p>"One has to be careful,—" began the old man, and hesitated.</p> + +<p>"Sure," acquiesced the leader, grimly. "A good many eyes would open to +see you in here with me. And I suppose you left your carriage a few +blocks back and walked? Your discretion does you credit. Well, you can +afford to come here better than you can afford to have me go to your +house, which I should have done if you had not wisely concluded to +accept my polite invitation to call. Some of your holy neighbors would +have been surprised, wouldn't they? Well, Judge, saving your venerable +presence, they generally have to come to me,—because I know things."</p> + +<p>The spare form fidgeted, the faded blue eyes sought waveringly +Shaughnessy's black ones that were now quickened with a baleful fire. +"What do you want?" asked the visitor. "I am an old man,—I was through +long since—"</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy bent forward. "No, you are not through," he said with a +softness that was metallic. "You are not through while you live and I +need you. Understand that! You served me on the bench; you shall serve +me now! Else—" He paused significantly while his companion's face +whitened. "Now listen. I am coming to be known; you are not. You are +respectable!" with an ugly sneer. "Now this is the programme, and it'll +feaze the yelping fools that are after me, just as<a class="pagenum" name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a> it'll feaze you, my +dear friend, in a minute. The Democratic convention will be held just +before the 'Cits' hold theirs. The 'Cits' are inconveniently in earnest +this year and they're talking of putting up a man who'll cause us +trouble. Now there'll be a dummy candidate, a machine man, in the +Democratic convention, who'll be mine. Well, he'll be knocked out; +decency will give the old Democracy heart disease by swooping down on +her out of a clear sky; there'll be an honored name proposed that'll +sweep the convention off its feet, and that honored name, my dear Judge, +will be your own!"</p> + +<p>The old man sprang to his feet, shivering as with the ague. He shook +impotent, furious fists, his pale eyes glaring. "Damn you!" he cried, "I +won't do it! Never! never! do you understand,—you—devil?"</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy's hand closed on an object on his desk. He rose, shaking a +bundle of documents in his caller's face. "I understand," he muttered +menacingly, "and—you understand. You understand that you will serve as +the next mayor of this city—or you will serve time!"</p> + +<p>The old man fell into his chair and buried his face in his hands, while +Shaughnessy smiled, his eyes alight with malice.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a> +<a name="vii" id="vii"></a>CHAPTER VII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">LONELINESS</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">A BIG figure arose from a desk at the opposite side of the room. +Glenwood handed in a bulky wad of matter to be read and strolled over to +O'Byrn's desk. Throwing himself into a convenient chair, he produced his +cigar case. They lighted weeds and sat for a time in congenial if smoky +silence.</p> + +<p>It was Micky's night off, but it was early. He was loitering about the +office for a few moments before leaving to fulfill an engagement that +had become usual. He now sat regarding Glenwood appreciatively. What a +man he was, to be sure! He sat at indolent ease, his feet on Micky's +desk, hands clasped behind his handsome blonde head, staring dreamily +far beyond the littered room. He wore no coat. Micky marked the deep +chest, the swell of the splendid muscles outlined beneath the folds of +the soft outing shirt, the well set neck. There was the suggestion, none +the less strong in repose, of mingled virility and grace. Strength of +great scope was here, strength that had once against odds rescued him, +O'Byrn, from an unpleasant predicament.</p> + +<p>How puny was he, O'Byrn, by contrast, physically—and morally. Ah, but +that last thought stung! For here was a man who was thoroughly master of +himself,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a> without being a milksop. His was no pedestal. He was one of +the boys, yet liberty did not spell license with him. There was for him +no painful crawl up a slippery toboggan of renewed intentions, following +a wild, shooting descent that had left him gasping and breathless at the +bottom. Glenwood's was the absolutely perfect mechanism of the normal. +Tough fibred, richly endowed in mental, moral and physical equipment +from long generations of right livers, how different was his lot from +O'Byrn's, cursed at the outset with a vicious appetite which had been +fostered from the beginning by the man who had bequeathed it; hampered, +too, with an indifferent physique that rendered the more hopeless the +boy's struggles with his mastering vice. True, after all, mused Micky +bitterly, that men are created equal in only limited senses.</p> + +<p>He rose abruptly and walked to the window, staring out into the soft +night, for the ebon had settled down. Close by loomed the shadowy bulk +of the city hall, dwarfing the stark ambitious blocks that were its +lesser neighbors. Under the luminous moon glittered an adjacent church +spire; stars peppered the curtained sky. Far down, amid the glare of +myriad electric lights, there arose the faint roll of carriage wheels, +drowned the next moment in the rumble of passing street cars. Within +there sounded the sharp click of typewriters; in a sudden lull there was +audible the ticking of a telegraph key at the end of the room. A man +entered hastily, seated himself before a desk and began to write like +mad. Another young fellow, after a few brief words from the city editor, +seized his hat and hurried on a mission. The room was unwontedly busy +for so early an hour.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a> Copy boys scurried, telephone bells rang, editors +summoned and reporters scuttled. Always there poured into the great +room, in strange and turbulent contrast to the wideflung peace of dead +white moon and watching stars in the black night sky outside, the +unresting flood, the formidable torrent of life and death and the joys +and ills that lurk between, called News.</p> + +<p>Micky stared out of the window, oblivious to the whirl within. It would +have distracted a novice. To the veteran it meant only the inevitable +environment of effort. Many such find it difficult to write in the midst +of quietude. Of such was Micky, and so it was that, with no scribbling +to do, he could lose himself in vague, sad contemplation of moon and +stars and black night sky, with the roar of the flood no louder in his +unheeding ears than the ripple of a little river through June meadows. +It was with a start that he was recalled to earth with a violent slap +upon his thin shoulder. He turned, eyes still wool-gathering, to +confront Dick.</p> + +<p>"What's the dream?" demanded that worthy, smiling down at him. "Isn't +this something new?"</p> + +<p>"Why," answered Micky, a little confusedly, "I was thinking. Yes," with +a laugh but with sober eyes, "it's something new, Dick, I guess. It +would be better if it were oftener," a little wistfully.</p> + +<p>Dick, staring out of the window, readily fell in with his mood. +"Thinking? Yes, it's a good thing,—sometimes. But you don't have much +time for it in this business."</p> + +<p>"No," rejoined Micky thoughtfully. "You need to put in all your hustling +on the job, and it don't give you time for a heavy load under your +roof." He glanced at<a class="pagenum" name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a> the clock. "Well, I must be going. Didn't know it +was so late. Gimme a cigar."</p> + +<p>Dick produced one and Micky proceeded to light up. Dick surveyed the +other's unwonted immaculateness with an air of understanding. "Give her +my regards," he said.</p> + +<p>"Her?" repeated Micky, in simulated amazement. "Nit; you're off. I'm +going to cut coupons tonight; they're accumulating on me." He vanished +with a grin and Dick sauntered back to his desk.</p> + +<p>Micky descended in the elevator and stepped forth into the cool night +air. He stood for a moment in indecision, debating whether he should +take a car. Too fine a night to ride, he decided, and started down the +street at a brisk pace. Presently leaving the crowded thoroughfare for a +quieter side street, he proceeded southward. After a half an hour's walk +he turned a final corner and was on Mulberry Avenue. Down the street he +went to a modest little dwelling, with a light shining from the shaded +parlor windows. He ascended the steps and rang the bell. The door +opened. Micky stepped inside and they entered the tiny parlor.</p> + +<p>The door communicating with the sitting room opened ever so cautiously. +A freckled, inquisitive face appeared unobtrusively in the gap, but +Maisie saw it. "Terence!" she exclaimed, and the face disappeared. +Maisie slammed the door shut with asperity, then, taking a seat near it, +turned her pretty face toward her caller. "You're late, Micky," said she +reprovingly. Micky was progressive. It had not taken him long to induce +her to address him by his Christian name.</p> + +<p>"Yes," admitted Micky. "I didn't know it was so late.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a> I forgot to wind +my watch, anyway. What time is it?" He moved toward her, his timepiece +in his hand. It was an old silver hunting-case affair. In fumbling with +the spring to open it, the rear cover opened, disclosing the faded +picture of a woman. Micky held it out to the girl.</p> + +<p>"My mother," he said simply. "She died when I was little." Maisie looked +at the sweet face and patient eyes a moment, then her look sought +Micky's face. It held an unwonted gravity, the blue eyes were a little +misty. He leaned over her, his gaze bent upon the dial of her smart +little watch.</p> + +<p>"Eight forty-five, eh?" he exclaimed. "Whew! it is late." He set his +watch and then began winding it. "That case is loose, I must get it +fixed," he pursued. He glanced again at the girl's timepiece, then +whimsically shook his own. "Not much like yours, is it?" he said, with a +sorry smile. "Poor little turnip! But it'll be buried with me, Maisie, +I'll never have another. I don't want another. You see,—she gave it to +me."</p> + +<p>He sank into a chair, his face in the shadow. "I can see it now," he +pursued in a low voice, "just as if it was yesterday. How tickled I was! +and so was she, to see me so. There were just us two, and now—I'm +alone. Oh! it's years ago, but it's one of those things that'll hurt +every time I remember it—now she's gone—will hurt till I go, too! Of +course it didn't cost her much, poor little woman. It couldn't; she +didn't have it. How she managed to save the few poor dollars for it, God +knows; I can't figure it. But she did, and one day when I got in from +selling my papers, she met me and gave it to me. And I was only a kid, +Maisie, and I up and bellered like a<a class="pagenum" name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a> calf, with my arms around +her,—and she cried, too; and it wasn't very long,—" his voice broke +for a moment,—"it wasn't very long after that,—it was dark and cold I +remember, and snowflakes in the air,—and I was crying and trying to +pull away from them while they were leading me away—from—her grave."</p> + +<p>It was very still. The girl averted her eyes; they were full of tears. +O'Byrn sat in the shadow, his head bent. In a moment he resumed.</p> + +<p>"I've knocked around from pillar to post since then, Maisie, from one +end of the land to the other. I've lived high and low, from glad rags to +just plain rags. I could always get a job—and I could always lose it. +Oh, yes, I might as well be frank," with a bitter laugh. "It's whisky—a +heritage. Not all the time—fits that I can't help—every now and +then—like bad dreams, only worse—they're real! It's at those times +that the old feeling grips me, too,—to keep movin'. Why, I usually wake +up where everything's strange—and I have to ask 'em where I am. I've +been on the road to something worth while so often—and always kicked it +over. And it cropped out in me so young! You'd be surprised—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't!" she cried. He stared at her mutely. "What makes you say +such horrible things about yourself?" she pursued passionately, a quiver +in her voice. "Do you want me to believe—"</p> + +<p>"The truth," he interrupted, gently. "Only the truth. Of course, I +haven't known you long, but it seems like all my life. I'd feel like a +yellow dog, somehow, if I shouldn't tell you. But then, we won't say +anything more about it. I'm not to blame, exactly; it was a present. +We'll go back, there isn't much to tell. It's<a class="pagenum" name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a> always been the newspaper +business with me. Odds and ends at first, then they found I could write, +and I've been at it ever since. I wasn't much on education, but I've +picked up quite a lot, and I've seen the country. Oh, I've had my +dreams. Maybe I could do something sometime—if—" He broke off +abruptly.</p> + +<p>She sprang up, coming quickly to him. Her little hand sought his arm. +"Micky," she breathed softly, with shining eyes, "do it! You can; it's +in you; if you will only leave off—and you can—you must! Think of her, +Micky,—she cried over you—perhaps she's crying yet! Make her smile, +instead! Oh, what makes me talk to you like this, only knowing you a few +weeks? What right—"</p> + +<p>He caught her hand as she moved slowly away and drew her back. "What +right?" he echoed warmly. "The best in the world! It does me good! +You're a true friend, you are, and you can see what a mess I've made of +my life and how I could do better if I would—or could, for you don't +know what I have to fight against, Maisie." He drew a chair for her +close to his own. "But then, I'm young yet," he pursued, with a rather +sorry smile. "Time yet, perhaps, for dreams. Dreams!" he repeated, with +a queer, half-shamed look, "how the fellows at the office would laugh to +hear me say that! They'd say I'd gone bug-house."</p> + +<p>"Dreams?" she repeated softly, a divine smile in her wistful eyes, "why, +Micky, we're all dreamers. Between here and the store—the store and +here, day after day, don't you suppose they help me; the dreams? Doesn't +it help your work—your old humdrum work, whatever it is, without any +beginning or ending—doesn't<a class="pagenum" name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a> it help to mix a little dreaming with it? +Of course, it doesn't really help me—I'm a poor, silly little +thing—but it can help you, Micky—it can help you!"</p> + +<p>"'Poor, silly little thing!'" he repeated after her, his eyes +moistening. "Don't, Maisie, it makes me feel like a fool! Why, I'm not +fit to speak to you, girl! The life I've lived—Oh, the road is where I +belong, after all! And the dreams—why, they're just dreams, that's all. +I'd only have to try to realize them to prove it—and I'm afraid. Yes, +when I haven't been drunk, I've been afraid."</p> + +<p>She winced at the word, while he, unheeding, stared gloomily at the +carpet. "What—" she began hesitantly, and stopped. He looked up, +comprehending.</p> + +<p>"To write," he said simply. "To write instead of scribble. Oh, I can see +things—and I can feel 'em. Seems to me that I could do it—but it looms +up so that I don't dare try. And sometimes I get into the proper mood, +and get squared away—and then—" He broke off with a despairing +gesture.</p> + +<p>"I don't know much about those things, of course," she said, "but I like +to read what I can, and it seems to me that feelin' like you do about +it—I mean it's lookin' so big to you—that you ought to be all the more +able to do it."</p> + +<p>He stared at her. This subtle viewpoint had never struck him before. "By +George, it takes a girl, after all, to hit the nail square," he told +her. "I never thought of it. But say,—why—it's encouraging, it is!"</p> + +<p>"Sure it is." She smiled at him. "You want to get busy."</p> + +<p>He stared wide-eyed in sudden reverie, his eyes wistful, his freckled +face softened with something that contrasted<a class="pagenum" name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a> oddly enough with his +ordinary reckless, devil-may-care attitude toward the world. His better +side was uppermost; somehow this girl could always summon it. But now, +as she watched him mutely, a swift shadow darkened his face.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he told her, "perhaps I ought to be encouraged by the way I feel +about it, and get busy. I could if I was built right, but I'm not, +Maisie. I can't get settled and I haven't any balance wheel. It's 'off +again, on again, gone again' with me. I can't get fairly into a place +before the old itch to keep moving bothers me, and with the other, the +combination keeps me shifting. Why, I seem to be a whole bunch of +fellows mixed up in a free-for-all, sometimes," he added, with a forlorn +smile. "Other fellows can get down to a steady grind and climb; I can't. +God knows I want to, sometimes." He gave her a queer look; she did not +seem to notice.</p> + +<p>"And then," he pursued, "I've never had a home, you know, not since the +poor little mother died. Of course, that wasn't much of a home to look +at, but she was there, and I've never had one since. Oh, it's been so +lonesome sometimes; you don't know. It's the man who goes jumping over +the world alone, here today and there tomorrow, that knows what +lonesomeness is. It's that, I tell you, that's raised the devil with me. +Perhaps I'm wrong, but it seems to me that if it had been with me like +it is with others I'd have been different. I've known fellows inclined +the same way as I am, but they settled down and got homes, and now—why, +they've got me beat out of sight."</p> + +<p>"Well," she queried eagerly, "why don't you—" and stopped suddenly, her +cheeks crimsoning, for Micky's<a class="pagenum" name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a> disturbed face had with her unthinking +words grown suddenly tense with purpose. A flash of realization had +revealed to him his great need, the influence to anchor him and hold him +fast against the restless, turbid tide that sought to sweep him away. +Why, he needed—her! On the word of this slip of a girl hung his +opportunity for a new and better world; a world for two, two who might +work, one for the other,—and climb; a world in which dreams might come +true. In a moment it would have all been poured forth in broken, +incoherent phrase, the sum of Micky's illumining dream and his desire. +But the girl, with the unerring instinct of her sex, divined the +situation and in quick alarm frustrated O'Byrn's intention, though very +gently.</p> + +<p>"Well," she said, smiling at him brightly, "we've had a good talk, +haven't we? I'm glad you told me about—everything. I know you'll win, +it's in you. And now—I know you won't mind—but it's gettin' late, and +I have to get up early, you know."</p> + +<p>So Micky, effectually forestalled, went away with settled gloom +shadowing his freckled face. For a long time after he had gone the girl +sat by the window, the light turned low; young eyes staring sombrely out +upon the darkened street; young, fearful soul oppressed by the soft +encroaching shadow of the divinest of life's mysteries.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a> +<a name="viii" id="viii"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">AN EVENING CALL</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">IT was early in the evening and some of the Courier's reportorial staff +were in the office, waiting for late assignments. As often happened when +a few moments of leisure allowed, there was an animated group in the +corner, with O'Byrn occupying the center. The political situation was +beginning to grow warmer, so it naturally followed that Shaughnessy was +the subject of conversation.</p> + +<p>Micky had just been indulging in what Dick Glenwood called one of his +"bursts of indiscriminate philosophy." "This game of politics," he +declared, "is getting to be a science in solitaire. It's up to you to +play it alone and use the rest of 'em for pawns, if you want to win out. +Now, look at Shaughnessy. He fools his bowers, right and left. He +annexes the whole graft. His gang of four-flushers think it's a divvy, +but the boss has the wad and they're gettin' one-half of one per cent +handouts. What a graft it is! I read in a paper the other day of a sign +in front of an eat-joint in a Western boom town. It read:</p> + +<p class="center">MEALS, 25 CENTS.<br /><br /> +SQUARE MEALS, 50 CENTS.<br /><br /> +GORGE, 75 CENTS.</p> + +<p>But Shaughnessy's doin' a lot better than that. He's gettin' gorged +without payin' for it."</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a> +"Where did he hail from?" asked Peters. "Isn't indigenous, is he?"</p> + +<p>"Please remember, Pete," remarked Dick, in a pained tone, "that kind of +vocabulary is barred outside your copy writing, and even then must never +be used unless you've lost your book of synonyms. You positively must +never throw verbal lugs into us like that. As for Shaughnessy, he isn't +whatever you call it. He came here from the devil knows where a dozen +years ago and annexed Goldberg, the gentleman that's so popular with +Micky. Mr. Shaughnessy had enjoyed a good ward training somewhere and +was quick to catch onto the possibilities of that section of the town. +His connection with politics has always been of the quietest nature, but +he's popularly supposed to rule the roost. They say, too, he's long on +aspirations and hopes humbly for the ultimate possession of the state."</p> + +<p>"Newspapers are dead against him," observed Mead; "at least, all that +count."</p> + +<p>"Two of 'em weren't till lately," responded Dick dryly. "He had 'em +bought, body and soul, till they had a row with him on a question of +patronage and did a chameleon change for political virtue. He's got his +own Messenger—good name for that organ. He's the owner of that sheet, +though he doesn't figure in the firm name. There's the Courier, of +course, and our rival over the way must have fought him from the first, +but the good in this city mostly died young, I guess."</p> + +<p>"'Tisn't that," put in Micky, from the midst of a placid cloud of cigar +smoke. "There's enough of the decent element in this place to shelve +Shaughnessy, if you could rouse it. But it's doing a Rip Van Winkle<a class="pagenum" name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a> +that it's going to take a big gob of dynamite to jar it out of. Some day +that will happen, and the decent element will be on top for a year or +two. Then it will fall asleep at the switch and do another century, +while the gang rings in again. Oh, it'll happen, for a little while, the +reform stunt. It always does. But it won't last long, and then it's the +gang that we have always with us. Boss rule? It's explained easily +enough. Your decent element is troubled with trances; the gang's got +insomnia."</p> + +<p>"So you think +<a name="Shaughnessy" id="Shaughnessy"></a><ins title="Original has Shaughnessy 'll">Shaughnessy'll</ins> get what's coming to him some day?" mused +Dick. "Where's your dynamite?"</p> + +<p>"Right here!" asserted O'Byrn, bracing in his chair and vigorously +banging his desk. "Here or in some other good newspaper office in this +town. Do you know the reason of Shaughnessy's success here? It's because +he never shows his hand. He's a gilt-edged daisy, that fellow. If he had +been doing his business in the open they'd have had him behind bars long +ago. But he's doing his directing from the wings. You and I know that if +we pick out a reputable man, hap-hazard, from the decent element we've +been speaking of, and begin talking to him of Shaughnessy, he'll laugh +and chase up the street, saying that the papers have Shaughnessy on the +brain. It's a fact that a lot of people don't look on that Irish +scoundrel as anything more than a cheap ward boss, with little influence +in the city at large. There's reason enough for the view. The newspapers +have poured out columns of abuse of Shaughnessy in the past few years, +but sum it all up and it's composed wholly of vague generalities. +They've never brought anything home to him that was worth the bringing, +never a thing that would jug him for a minute. The average voter here +holds him too cheap.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a> That fact, coupled with the natural majority he +controls, always tips his scales right. Tell your voter-at-large that it +was Shaughnessy who engineered the queer, rotten deals that have figured +in this town—yes, and the legislature,—deals whose parentage they +can't trace, and the voter would give you the laugh."</p> + +<p>"He'd have a right to," commented Kirk. "Go slow, Micky. Shaughnessy's a +good organizer, and maybe he's put some cheap ones through, but he's +limited."</p> + +<p>"So is the flyer," retorted Micky, "but it'll jerk you along some. Don't +you foolish yourself about that mick, Andy. He's a deep one. He's got a +side to him that's working overtime. It's an underground system, and any +lucky guy in this business that tumbles into it will see things that'll +fill his paper next day with facts, not surmises, facts that'll set 'em +all gapin'. That's the dynamite that'll explode some day and it'll blow +Shaughnessy into stripes and behind the bars. Of course, there'll be a +new boss after a while, but it won't be Shaughnessy."</p> + +<p>The city editor summoned them just then and the conference was abruptly +terminated. Soon afterward Micky and Dick descended together in the +elevator and walked up the avenue toward the point where their paths +separated. They were still talking of Shaughnessy.</p> + +<p>"He's an odd genius," Dick was saying, "and I think you have sized him +up about right. I've studied him more or less, and I gave him credit +from the first of having a lot more under his hat than a good many think +he has. He strikes me as a sort of a cross between a hyena and a +bulldog. From his start here he's never let go—and there's the stench +about him of a political charnel house. After he got his start, +everything that would be likely to<a class="pagenum" name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a> hamper him went by the board. You +know he runs a wholesale liquor house. It used to be a little saloon +when he first struck here, and they tell me he used to drink up most of +his stock himself. Very secretive fellow, nobody knew anything about +him. Then, all of a sudden, he got started on his career. Alderman at +first, I believe, but wasn't in public life long, didn't need to be. +He's a wonder. They tell me that from the time of his first canvass for +office he cut out the booze and doesn't touch it at all. Wiped out his +own handicap. Well, you see what he's done; he's well fixed. They all +know it's there, but they can't prove where he got it. And say, speak of +the devil—there he is now."</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy passed them, with a slight nod of recognition to Glenwood. +His face gleamed ghastly under the flood of electric light, there were +blue shadows under his black eyes. While he walked briskly enough, his +face, in addition to its usual lack of animation, held utter weariness.</p> + +<p>"Looks bad, doesn't he?" remarked Dick, as they separated on the corner. +"Something must be the matter with him. Looks to be all in."</p> + +<p>"No," grinned Micky; "it just makes him thin every campaign figuring to +keep his job." Then he added unsmilingly, "He makes me feel as tired as +he looks, Dick. I don't know what it is, but there's something about +that geezer that makes a fellow feel like crape on the knob."</p> + +<p>A little later, seated in the library of his handsome residence on +Morley Street, Colonel John Westlake heard his door bell ringing and was +manifestly apprehensive. The closed oak desk in the corner, the sight of +the Colonel stretched contentedly in his easy chair, a fragrant<a class="pagenum" name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a> cigar +between his lips and a favorite book in his hand, indicated a quiet, +enjoyable evening which the gentleman regretted to have disturbed. So it +was with suppressed irritation that the Colonel looked up, warned by the +rustle of feminine skirts, to find the maid standing in the doorway.</p> + +<p>"A gentleman to see you, sir," said she. "He didn't give any card. He +said to tell you that Mr. Shaughnessy wanted to see you a minute."</p> + +<p>The Colonel's smile was grimly questioning, while he reflectively +stroked his sandy beard, which was faintly streaked with gray. Then he +cogitated for a moment, while he abandoned his whiskers for a small, +round bald spot on his crown, which he thoughtfully rubbed. "Well," said +he finally, "show him in, Mary."</p> + +<p>Left to himself the Colonel took a couple of long thoughtful puffs at +his cigar, while he chuckled audibly. The look of irritation had +vanished; it had given place to one of piqued and peppery curiosity.</p> + +<p>The look with which Colonel Westlake greeted his visitor, as the boss +entered the library, was one of eager aggressiveness. The Colonel was a +fighter and a gallant one; he itched for any fray that would allow him +to glory in honorable combat, for it was always honorable on his side. +His eyes were blue and stormy, but they always looked straight at you +and the fire of awakened antagonism in them had often caused the +dishonorable to quail. But at this particular moment, the black, +sinister eyes of Shaughnessy, the unbidden, sullenly impassive as an +Indian's, stared straight into the sharp, challenging ones of the +Colonel without a sign of wavering, and the even, expressionless voice +of Shaughnessy<a class="pagenum" name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a> anticipated any words of dubious welcome the Colonel +might have spoken.</p> + +<p>"You need not ask regarding the occasion for the honor of my visit, +Colonel," he said, as his host rose, "for I know well enough that you do +not regard it as an honor." He smiled sardonically.</p> + +<p>The Colonel smiled also, quite broadly. This was not so bad. "You are +quite right, Mr. Shaughnessy," he acknowledged. "I know you well enough +to know that you're here on business. Well, take a chair and state it." +There was an underlying something in the Colonel's tone, a peremptory +note that spelled, "Be brief as possible and get out."</p> + +<p>It failed to disturb the nonchalance of Shaughnessy. He leisurely seated +himself in a chair opposite that of the Colonel, the large oak table +being between them. Then, with half-closed eyes dreamily searching the +ceiling, he proceeded to apparently forget his host's presence in a +sudden fit of abstraction which was, under the circumstances, superb.</p> + +<p>The Colonel waited a moment, his choler rising perceptibly. "Well, sir?" +he finally queried, and there was menace in his tone.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy lazily lowered his eyes till they rested level with those of +his host. The Colonel thought instinctively, as he gazed into them, of +the fixed beady stare of a serpent.</p> + +<p>"You are at present the principal owner of the Courier, having purchased +the controlling interest early the past summer, aren't you, Colonel?" +asked Shaughnessy.</p> + +<p>"Most certainly. What of it?"</p> + +<p>"You are not at present in favor of taking a contract<a class="pagenum" name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a> for any or all of +the official city printing?" pursued Shaughnessy.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" demanded the Colonel, his gorge rising. "You have +had my answer—"</p> + +<p>"Wait a moment," interrupted the boss, raising a deprecating thin hand. +"Let's get at this logically. Keep cool, Colonel. And now, another +thing. Do I understand that you intend to pound what you are pleased to +call my machine during the present campaign?"</p> + +<p>The Colonel's eyes lighted up with the battle fire, but his voice was +mellow with an ominous softness as he answered, "Pound you? As hard as +God will let me, my dear sir. Yes, you bet your life!"</p> + +<p>"Well, now, let's see about that," pursued Shaughnessy, his voice as +soft and menacing as the other's. "I'm told by a friend of mine, +Colonel, that you're a heavy holder of this Consolidated Gas that is +arousing so much speculation just now." His voice had grown insolent. +His face remained impassive, but his eyes, beginning to burn with evil +exultation, searched the Colonel's own.</p> + +<p>For his part, the host leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and +stared straight across at Shaughnessy. "Well," he inquired, still +softly, "what if I am, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Well, if you are," retorted Shaughnessy, also leaning forward, his lips +set cruelly under his small black moustache, "if you are—not to please +me, for I'm getting out of the small share I've had in local politics, +but for your own good—don't you think you'd better reconsider that city +printing matter?"</p> + +<p>"And if I should," suggested the Colonel, his tone even quieter, "why, +you'd expect the Courier—of course—"</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy leaned back with a cynical, assured smile.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a> His tone was now +arrogant. "The Courier," he sneered, "why, of course, the Courier will +get in line."</p> + +<p>Colonel Westlake looked away for a moment. "Yes, the Courier will get in +line," he murmured. He slowly removed his still lighted cigar from his +mouth and placed it carefully on the corner of the table. Shaughnessy +silently exulted with evil eyes, which then again indifferently, +dreamily, sought the ceiling.</p> + +<p>"The Courier will get in line!" There was a difference in the tone, a +ringing note which in a flash recalled Shaughnessy's wandering gaze. He +found the Colonel standing opposite him, his hands grasping the edge of +the table, his face crimson with rage. "You hound!" growled the Colonel, +"you crawling snake! I've drawn you out; I only wish it was far enough +for me to get my heel on you. But I'll do it yet. The Courier will get +in line, you leper, don't you doubt it, but it will be to crush you and +your dirty brood, for the forces of decency are going to stamp you out +this November as sure as there's a God in heaven! We've got to dig to do +it, thanks to your devilish ingenuity, but it'll be done. The Citizens' +Fusion ticket, with an honest man at the head, is going through, and +your ward heeler list will be wiped out at the polls, mark me. We're +going to clean this cesspool, but we'll drown you in it first! And now +let me tell you just how much of a cursed fool you made of yourself just +now in trying to intimidate me. Your solicitous friend didn't pry long +enough, it seems. I was the holder of a big block of Consolidated Gas +for just three days, solely through the blunder of an agent. It's an +infamous thing, which nobody should know better than yourself, and if +your sneaking lieutenant<a class="pagenum" name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a> had been worth his salt, he'd have found that +I haven't had a dollar in that highway robbery combine for four months; +that I was not personally responsible for being in it in the first +place, and that I was at pains to get out of it at the expense of a +personal loss the moment I learned of it. Moreover, I suspect that it +was a cunning plan made months ago to compromise me in the belief that +the love of revenue would keep me in it and allow interests of which you +well know, you scoundrel, to get control of me. It's worked with others, +but I'm not built that way. You've shown your hand for nothing, and if +your heeler had been possessed of a penny's worth of brains, he'd have +found out about things and saved you unnecessary trouble. Let me assure +you that the Courier will put in double time to smash you, Shaughnessy, +and now I will ask you to leave before you are put out."</p> + +<p>The Colonel ceased, his hands trembling with rage, his blazing eyes +fixed on Shaughnessy, who had sat with averted face and without a word +during Westlake's fiery denunciation. Now he rose, ever so leisurely, +and turned slowly, facing the owner of the Courier. The white face was +unruffled by any trace of emotion, the black, sinister eyes stared +unwaveringly as a reptile's into the Colonel's fiery blue ones. +Shaughnessy fumbled in an upper pocket of his vest.</p> + +<p>"Pardon, Colonel, have you a match?" he inquired. His voice had all the +serenity of a mild June day. The dazed Westlake mechanically produced +one. Shaughnessy lazily lighted a cigar and sauntered out.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a> +<a name="ix" id="ix"></a>CHAPTER IX<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">NOT ON THE PROGRAMME</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">IN a few days occurred the Citizens' convention. A formidable array of +men was there; business and professional men, leaders in the city's +activities. It was an array which might well set the forces that +controlled the city government to worrying. Moreover, real enthusiasm +ruled the assemblage, and when Colonel Westlake, in a fiery nominating +speech, named Theodore Packard, one of the city's leading merchants, for +the mayoralty, thunderous demonstrations attested the temper of the +delegates.</p> + +<p>Under the aggressive leadership of Colonel Westlake, the Fusionists had +taken time by the forelock and were first in the field with a strong +ticket. Warm hopes were entertained for it this year. Republicans, who +were greatly in the minority in the city, had taken the initiative in +starting the Fusion movement, which was strengthened by the open avowal +of some of the community's best known men, of Democratic allegiance, +that they were done with Shaughnessy and his methods. The movement +appeared to be gaining in force and bulk, like a snowball rolling down +hill, as the hour approached for the Democratic convention, toward which +all eyes were now turning.</p> + +<p>There were indications that the entrenched, corrupt<a class="pagenum" name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a> forces which +dominated the city were getting ready to invite their own destruction. +Was it not Shaughnessy who held the whip hand, and was not Shaughnessy +going crazy? Verily, it seemed so, and Shaughnessy, apparently drunk +with the power invested in his acquired authority, seemed likely to +exercise it to his own destruction. "The man is mad," remarked the +leaders of the Citizens' movement, one to the other, and rubbed their +hands. For Shaughnessy's candidate for the nomination, the man for whom, +as he calmly stated, the convention would, at his word, vote as one man, +was so notoriously inadequate, so miserably unfit, that the prospect of +his nomination set a resentful growl to circulating even among many of +the chosen delegates to the Democratic, otherwise the Shaughnessy, +convention. Dare Shaughnessy, so cocksure of his evil hold upon the +city, thrust such a candidate upon his party? Certain of Shaughnessy's +supporters grumbled, while the leaders of the Citizens' movement ground +their teeth and figuratively removed their coats.</p> + +<p>True to his promise to Shaughnessy, on the occasion of that worthy's +call upon the owner of the Courier, Colonel Westlake's paper was firing +hot shot at the local boss. The effrontery and callous indifference to +all considerations, save his own sweet will, which Shaughnessy was +displaying in his choice of a candidate for the mayoralty, was dished up +daily, in attractive and toothsome guise, for the Courier's readers. +Westlake was certainly pounding Shaughnessy.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, strange whispers began circulating around the town, things +that savored of disloyalty to Shaughnessy. The unpopularity of the +candidate, whose fortunes<a class="pagenum" name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a> he had espoused, was evidently breeding a +revolt among Shaughnessy's followers, of which he seemed strangely +oblivious. At all events, he was wholly indifferent to it. To add +seriousness to the situation, some of the boss' most trusted lieutenants +had been heard to utter words that sounded strangely from the lips of +faithful followers. These little seeds of dissension were sown +cautiously, but they fell where they seemed sure to bring forth the +fruit of contention. When ex-Alderman Goldberg, supposed to be retired +from politics, the lanky Dick Peterson, and the moon-faced Willie Shute, +men known to have been for years identified with Shaughnessy's +interests, began treacherously knifing him, the Fusionists pricked up +their ears and polished their eyeglasses. Might there not be a +disastrous factional Democratic fight?</p> + +<p>The day before the convention occurred there was a tense, growing +expectancy through the city, a vague, intangible premonition of an +unguessed something on the morrow. What is was to be nobody knew, but +that there was a rift in the Shaughnessy lute,—or "loot," as one +Fusionist wag expressed it,—was now plainly apparent to all parties. +The existence of a plot against him was recognized, yet Shaughnessy made +no sign. His insolent programme was known; he proposed on the morrow to +thrust his preposterously unfit candidate for the mayoralty, together +with a few other objectionable nominees for divers offices, down the +throat of the convention. The programme of the opposition was not known, +but Goldberg, Peterson and Shute, with others whose fidelity to the +interests of the boss had hitherto been unquestioned, had been busy. +They had toward<a class="pagenum" name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a> the end thrown off the pretense of secrecy and had +declared the boss' programme to be suicidal to the chances of Democratic +success. The array of malcontents grew larger and more formidable. It +was increased by the well circulated report that Goldberg had tried to +remonstrate with the boss and been freezingly turned down.</p> + +<p>"The delegates won't stand for it, Shaughnessy," Goldberg had said. +"It's out of all reason."</p> + +<p>The sneer in Shaughnessy's reply had inflamed an army of hitherto +faithful adherents against him. "The delegates will do as I dictate," he +had said. "This convention, let me tell you, will name my ticket, and +the kickers will be kicked out of the party."</p> + +<p>Surely Shaughnessy was going mad. "I understand he said lately that he +didn't intend to figure in local politics much longer," said Colonel +Westlake one day to the Fusionist candidate for the mayoralty, Theodore +Packard, though without apprising him of the circumstances under which +the boss made that statement. "Well, do you know, I begin to believe +this dissension in their ranks has been brewing for some time. 'When +thieves fall out,' you know. I think he foresaw this scrap and is +risking the issue on a last desperate game, which he is growing rather +afraid of losing."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but why is he espousing such a notorious ticket?" inquired +Packard. "It seems to me that he is beaten in advance, with a handicap +like that, and ought to have sense enough to know it."</p> + +<p>"He probably had his programme laid out months ago," replied the +Colonel, "when he felt more secure than he does now. His opponents are +cunning. They played<a class="pagenum" name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a> foxy Judas till the last moment, and then they +began to knife him. It's a slick game. He can't back down now, he's got +to stand by his guns. To knuckle would be a confession of weakness, and +that would be fatal. It looks to me as if he had a Waterloo coming in +his own camp. They've got something up their sleeve, depend upon it. I +wish I knew what it was."</p> + +<p>Decidedly, the ordinary expressionless face of Shaughnessy, could he +have heard this conversation, would have been worth seeing.</p> + +<p>The momentous autumn day, peaceful and delightful, was in strong +contrast to the turbulent scene within the hall, just before the +Democratic convention was called to order. The galleries were packed +with a nervous crowd, ripe for anticipated excitement. That something +big, not on the card, was about to happen, everyone was confident. And +once and again the eyes of the massed, fitful throng of spectators +searched out Shaughnessy, standing unobtrusively in a corner of the +great hall, always surrounded by excited, gesticulating delegates. +Shaughnessy was evidently saying little and his dead black eyes and +ghastly face expressed less. Yet the thousands of eyes turned hungrily +to him again and again, for the impression had gone forth that in some +way the mute, mysterious boss was to be offered as a sacrifice, to the +ends of treacherous associates, on the altar of his own unscrupulous +ambition.</p> + +<p>Micky O'Byrn, of the Courier, detailed to do the descriptive touches of +the convention, viewed Shaughnessy curiously from his position at the +rear of the hall. "He looks like his own funeral," thought Micky, "but +then, that's chronic with him." His gaze wandered interestedly<a class="pagenum" name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a> over the +mass of excited delegates swarming about the floor; his ears sought +instinctively to gather something definite from the swelling babel of +speech. Suddenly a low-toned voice sounded at his elbow in a +communication evidently intended for a single ear, and that not Micky's. +O'Byrn's rapid sidelong glance verified his supposition. It was +Goldberg, speaking softly to a delegate.</p> + +<p>"Tom Grady, he'll do the trick," said Goldberg, and the two moved away. +Micky whistled softly. "Good move!" he remarked quietly to himself. +"He'll take 'em by storm." For it was evident that it was Tom Grady, the +city's youngest and most fiery Democratic orator, who was to nominate +the opponent to Shaughnessy's man. But who was this opponent? Micky +wrinkled his brows, and, like the crowd in the galleries and many of the +delegates themselves, fell to speculating, for the extraordinary thing +about the situation was that while everybody was sure an opponent would +be produced, nobody knew who he would be.</p> + +<p>But now the convention was rapped to order, and delegates and audience +alike fell into uneasy silence. The roll was called, the credentials +were handed in, and in due time the temporary chairman retired in favor +of the permanent incumbent. His selection had been railroaded through +before it dawned upon the gathering that he was one of Shaughnessy's +strongest adherents. So the boss had scored one. Dave Mulhill could be +relied upon to look after him.</p> + +<p>With the chair's call for nominations the excitement increased. It had +rather been expected that, at this critical point of his political +fortunes, Shaughnessy would<a class="pagenum" name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a> decide to speak for himself, though he had +never done so. He did not, however, and his man, Dennis Burns, was +placed in nomination by Charles Heferman, a young lawyer who had of late +dulled a formerly bright reputation by known dealings with the gang that +ruled the city. Heferman's effort was able, though no enthusiasm was +evident. No one could have grown enthusiastic over Shaughnessy's +candidate.</p> + +<p>Heferman finished and sat down, amid a ripple of perfunctory applause +that boded ill for the boss' prospects. At that moment Micky O'Byrn +chanced to be looking across the hall straight at Shaughnessy. The +sinister face was unmoved, but the black eyes, momentarily alight with +unwonted fire, were fixed intently at a point about midway of the hall. +In that instant Micky's keen vision beheld something that acted upon his +intelligence like a galvanic battery, swiftly launching his wits upon +previously unguessed channels of absorbing and profitable speculation.</p> + +<p>"Next in order, nominations of President of the Council," announced Dave +Mulhill from the chair, even before the faint applause which had greeted +Heferman's speech had died away. The chairman's words produced an angry +hubbub, and his evident reluctance to recognize a gentleman who was on +his feet, demanding attention, had the effect of fanning the latent +antagonism against the machine to a brighter blaze. Not until sundry +groans and cries of "Gag!" and "Fair play!" were heard did Chairman +Mulhill deign to recognize Hon. Thomas Grady, now known to all as the +spokesman of the opposition.</p> + +<p>Intense silence prevailed as Mr. Grady, recognized<a class="pagenum" name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a> already as one of +the leaders of the legislature, was reluctantly accorded the privilege +of the floor. A silver tongue he had indeed, and a voice like the +mellow, dulcet notes of an organ. Over six feet in height and with the +bulk and carriage of a Viking, his handsome face flushed and his blue +eyes alight with battle, he was a figure to command admiration. Added to +these a splendid gift of oratory, the whole produced a combination of +magnetic charm which they used to say was fairly hypnotizing to an +audience.</p> + +<p>The howl of delight with which the assemblage received the ironical +acknowledgment of the speaker to the chairman, for the privilege of the +floor, indicated its temper toward Shaughnessy. The words of the orator +flowed on, gathering fire as he warmed to the subject of the hopes and +prospects of the city Democracy. He warned them that it was a critical +moment, that the Fusionists had nominated a strong ticket. "It is one +that we must reckon with," he declared. "You and I, secure in the +knowledge of the good our party has done our beloved municipality, will +utterly disclaim the necessity for this absurdly mistaken movement on +the part of our friends, the visionary enemy. But even if that enemy be +composed of so many wild-eyed Don Quixotes, mounted on their hobbies and +fighting windmills, yet, friends, the issue, however ridiculous, is +here." He turned and looked straight at Shaughnessy. "Gentlemen, it is +as yet unmet. This is not a moment for any false and perhaps fatal step. +We owe it to ourselves to meet the enemy with a front that shall be +utterly unassailable to his assaults."</p> + +<p>Pausing imperturbably till the resultant applause had<a class="pagenum" name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a> died away, the +orator proceeded, in glowing periods, to discourse of the sovereignty of +the people, of their right to choose their leaders, of the moment which +had now arrived to reaffirm their convictions and pursue the highest of +party ideals. While the address continued some clever, covert digs at +Shaughnessy, the speaker, after the manner of his suave tribe, avoided +the quagmires of ugly suspicions and half-guessed corruption that had +characterized his party's administration of affairs during recent years. +With consummate tact he rather confined himself to broad generalities +that fired the blood of his auditors and did not remind them of things +that would chill enthusiasm. Mr. Grady urged them only to take the right +step in time, to meet strength with strength,—this with another +challenging look at Shaughnessy,—to enter the battle equipped for +victory rather than defeat.</p> + +<p>Now he was approaching the end of his discourse and had not named his +candidate. They had hung upon every word, had drunk in the golden +sentences that thrilled, that satisfied, yet did not reveal the name of +the mysterious champion whose candidacy the orator was advocating. As he +swung into his peroration, the piqued curiosity of the people had become +almost pain. They were ripe for a shrieking chaos of enthusiasm, and he +knew it. So, with gathered forces, with flashing eyes and voice that +rang like a trumpet, he figuratively fired the powder train.</p> + +<p>"And now," he cried, "you are awaiting the announcement of the man whose +name among men is one to conjure with; the man, strong, able and of good +repute, the man who is no man's man—" with a defiant gesture<a class="pagenum" name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a> toward +Shaughnessy that awakened tremendous enthusiasm,—"the man whose +nomination here today means victory. Gentlemen, it is with pleasure that +I nominate for the mayoralty of this city a man known to you all for +years, for years the trusted, honored servant of our people; a man of +achievement, of renown, of probity, of independence, of superb ability; +a man who, under God, will rule for righteousness' sake and wear no +man's collar; in a word, that distinguished jurist and gentleman, Judge +Rufus Atwell Boynton!"</p> + +<p>A roar like many waters followed, a roar like thunderous, storm-driven +breakers upon a lonely beach, a roar of exultation. Lulling for a +moment, the deafening din broke out afresh, again and again, as if it +would never cease. Men cheered till they could no longer cheer, but +squawked like chickens; standing with empurpled faces, brandishing their +arms, cackling strangely, with ludicrous effort and with distended, +bloodshot eyes. The gavel fell in vain; only a cannonade could have been +heard in that babel of sound. As soon as the noise abated, through sheer +force of physical exhaustion, a vote was railroaded through, the hostile +chairman being helpless before the fierce faces and voices of this mob, +for such it had become under the electrifying lash of Grady's words. +Judge Boynton was nominated by an overwhelming majority, even drawing +from the forces pledged to the fortunes of the Shaughnessy candidate. +The tumult broke out again.</p> + +<p>It was suddenly stilled. O'Byrn, from his chair near the rear, saw a +thin white hand raised deprecatingly, marked a sardonic white face and +inscrutable eyes, whose owner silently demanded attention. It was +yielded<a class="pagenum" name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a> with a promptness that was uncanny. Then Shaughnessy, erect in +the midst of his ward delegation, spoke. His thin voice with a cold, +underlying sneer, cut the air like a knife, penetrating to every corner +of the hall.</p> + +<p>"The majority rules," said Shaughnessy. "It is customary, in similar +case, to move a unanimous nomination. I so move." The deposed boss sat +down. The resultant applause was rather faint. Shaughnessy had somehow +chilled the enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>To Micky O'Byrn, sitting with knitted brows as the other nominations, +involving a complete demolition of the Shaughnessy ticket, were hurried +through, there was food for much serious thought and conjecturing. He +noted the new candidate as he was brought before the convention and +introduced, amid great enthusiasm, by Hon. Thomas Grady. He was older +than Micky had imagined and he seemed wearied, almost ill. Still, +reflected O'Byrn,—as he listened to the candidate's short speech of +appreciation and of assurances for the future, in the event of +election,—it seemed strange that the Judge should not display more +enthusiasm over an honor which had come to him so signally. Then he fell +again to pondering, striving to put two and two together.</p> + +<p>That the outcome seriously threatened the Fusionist movement was +undeniable. In fact, that ticket was as good as defeated already, for it +was robbed of an issue. Judge Boynton was a strong candidate, every whit +as strong as Theodore Packard and in similar ways. Incredible as it +might seem, Shaughnessy had been humiliated, practically kicked out by +his party. But how had it happened? Micky frowned. "There's a nigger<a class="pagenum" name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a> +somewhere," he reflected, "if the coon could only be found."</p> + +<p>At the close of the convention Micky was walking thoughtfully down the +street toward the office. It was then dusk and the lamps were being +lighted. Someone joined Micky and quietly fell into pace with him. +O'Byrn glanced up. It was Slade.</p> + +<p>"Funny thing that, over at the convention," remarked Micky. "I should +have thought Shaughnessy was solid."</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Slade, placidly. "I should have naturally thought he +was."</p> + +<p>"Were you there?"</p> + +<p>"You bet."</p> + +<p>"Then tell me whether Shaughnessy gave Tom Grady the wink to spiel this +afternoon," pursued Micky, "or is it my eyes?"</p> + +<p>Slade looked at him keenly, then laughed quietly. "I'm sayin' +nothing—yet," said he, "but your eyes seem O. K. to me."</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a> +<a name="x" id="x"></a> +<a name="CHAPTER" id="CHAPTER"></a><ins title="Original has CHAPTR">CHAPTER</ins> X<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">THE LITTLE RED DEVIL</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">HARKINS looked up from his loaded desk, glancing at the clock. It was +after ten. The city editor frowned heavily and called to Fatty, who was +just passing him on his way out.</p> + +<p>"Stearns," he inquired, "have you seen O'Byrn? He has not reported, nor +did he ask off for this evening."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he's sick, sir," nervously volunteered Fatty, who knew better +but did not intend to give his co-worker away. "Seems to me he looked +kind o' peaked yesterday."</p> + +<p>"He could easily have sent word," doubtfully rejoined Harkins. "However, +you might inquire and let me know. Or, if you see him, send him in +here," and he turned to his desk.</p> + +<p>Fatty went out. "Send him in here!" he chuckled grimly. "If he's stayed +with that bunch he was with at six o'clock, Harkins would pass him on to +the gold cure."</p> + +<p>All the staff, save Harkins, knew it by this time. Micky, after a season +of well doing that was protracted for him, had broken out again in one +of his periodical sprees. It was not of the innocuous variety of +indulgence that affords satiety in a single evening, leaving the victim +remorseful and fortified against another lapse<a class="pagenum" name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a> for an indefinite time. +Of such are the fortunate, who are immune from the wiles of a sleepless, +diabolical appetite. With Micky it was different. To resist a craving +which never really slumbered meant real effort and unceasing vigilance. +To succumb meant usually an unrecking debauch of days, while the little +red devil worked its sweet will with him, to finally leave him spent and +shaken, a temporary sodden wreck. This was the grim enemy, coupled with +an unreasoning love of roving, that had made him, rarely talented as he +was, a shifting vagrant of the news. It had landed him, ragged and +unkempt, at the door of the Courier office. Now it bade fair to cast him +forth again, shipwrecked at this most prosperous point of his fortunes, +to try once more a dreary, uncertain future, with the gibing ghosts of +lost opportunities ever at his elbow; with the maddening memory of a +forfeited love, the truest he would ever know, mocking him.</p> + +<p>Fatty did not inquire for Micky at his lodgings, nor did he attempt to +find him and give him Harkins' message. He omitted the first because he +was well aware that Micky would not be found there for some time, the +second because he did not care to meet O'Byrn and his crew, for fear +that he would be drawn into the maelstrom. He knew Micky's insistence +and Fatty was cautious. Thirdly, he felt assured that Harkins would be +advised of the cause of Micky's absence in due time, and Stearns had no +desire to figure as a bird of ill omen. So he went about his tasks and +discreetly dodged places that might perchance hold the uproarious O'Byrn +and his riotous cronies.</p> + +<p>Fortune was against Stearns, however, for it led<a class="pagenum" name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a> him, in quest of an +elusive item, into the rotunda of the Palace hotel. He met his man +there, hastily secured his story, and started out. The entrance to the +wine room was at one side. There was the sound of revelry within.</p> + +<p>As Stearns was about to pass out, the swinging doors of the wine room +were flung open and there appeared, flushed and disheveled, the riotous +O'Byrn. At sight of Fatty, who gasped and made a wild bolt to escape, +Micky emitted a whoop of triumph and swooped down upon him. He captured +him handily and despite his desperate struggles propelled him in +headlong fashion into the wine room, for the Irishman was as wiry as he +was slender. Stearns found himself in the center of a bibulous throng +which included newspaper men, speedy young sports and a few odd bits of +_débris_, picked up on the rising flood. They crowded about Fatty, some +clamoring for introductions, some making facetious comment on the manner +of his entrance, still others rendering him tribute in dubious song. For +a moment the din was indescribable, while the "chemist" made ineffectual +appeals for order. Then Micky managed to make himself heard above the +babel in a demand for quiet.</p> + +<p>"Fatness," said he, with a wave of his hand, "these are the Indians. +Indians, this are Fatty. Fatty, the Indians are drunk. Indians, Fatty +ain't drunk now but he must be made so. Does it go?" A chorus of +affirmative yells made answer.</p> + +<p>"Now, Fatty," continued O'Byrn earnestly, "in meeting this little wish +of ours for your subsequent comfort, be a gentleman. Don't show a +grasping spirit, like the two meanest men on record. Never heard of 'em? +Well,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a> one of 'em was asked by a friend to have a drink. Asked what he'd +take he waited till the buyer had ordered a whisky and then says, 'Gimme +two beers,' so as to get his ten cents' worth. Other one of 'em was +worse 'n that. Friend asked him what he'd have, an' says he, 'If you +don't mind, I'd rather have the money.' No, Indians, Fatty ain't like +that. Ask him what he'll have, and the modesty of his demands would put +those graspin' dubs to shame."</p> + +<p>"Gee, Micky," gurgled Stearns, trying to squirm away, "I ain't got time, +honest I ain't. I've got an assignment."</p> + +<p>The crowd closed in, holding him securely. Micky mused with corrugated +brow. Thus far the only evidences of his indulgence were an unusual +sparkle of the eye, a crimsoned countenance and a bewildering flow of +language.</p> + +<p>"'Assignment,'" cogitated Micky, "what does that mean? Where have I +heard that word? Let me forget before I remember already. Let us drink +to forget. Vat iss, Fatty?"</p> + +<p>Fatty gulped despairingly. There was no hope. "Birch beer," he murmured +resignedly. There sounded a universal groan.</p> + +<p>"Birch beer!" echoed O'Byrn, in a positive squeal. "I wonder if the +mixer hasn't got some Mellin's food? Siphon some milk into him; do, the +sweet thing! No, I'll tell you what you'll drink, Fatty. It'll be a +Mamie Taylor, with me!"</p> + +<p>There was unanimous approval registered in a strident roar. Despite +Stearns' protest the "chemist" was urged to mix him a Mamie, Fatty +finally becoming silenced<a class="pagenum" name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a> in meek submission. Resolving to "shake the +bunch" at the first favorable moment, he gazed doubtfully at the +seductive mixture in his glass. Micky held up his Mamie and +soliloquized.</p> + +<p>"This Mamie is a jade," he remarked, with an air of finality that +effectually settled the matter. "She's that smooth and insinuating, so +agreeable, that it seems as if you could drink her all night, so you +generally do. Plain whisky's more honest. It's got that old, shivery +yah-yah taste to it that keeps warnin' you all the time to sidetrack, so +you're apt to do it before you get telescoped by the D T's. But these +blamed fancy flips are what play the devil with a fellow. They're +come-ons, clear from champagne to ginger ale splits. They taste so +pretty that the next is a necessity, and after that, in the pleasant +salve to the palate, you lose count. Take Mamie here. She's the worst in +the push. You can gauge your capacity in any other line except on her. +She figures her own capacity and the figures always lie, as you realize +next morning. Much is a sufficiency, always. More is a superfluperosity.</p> + +<p>"In this connection, Mamie reminds me of a story of an old man up north +who had slipped from grace for some years and never thought any more of +the religious teachings of childhood till trouble switched in, though +that's common enough. But along came a famine time and everyone was +livin' on short commons. The old man was urged to make a family prayer +for some of the necessities. He wasn't used to it and shied +considerable, but it was need that egged him on. Well, he got started O. +K. with 'O Lord, send us a bar'l o' pork. Send us a bar'l o' sugar. Send +us a bar'l o'—o'—pepper—Oh,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a> hell! that's too much pepper!' was the +way he rang off.</p> + +<p>"Now that's what I'll be sayin' about Mamie, too much of her, when I +come to, but such is her infernal fascination that—" He broke off with +a wild clutch at Fatty's receding coat tail. Stearns had seized the +favorable moment to escape. He got out before Micky could catch him. As +O'Byrn was about to shoot through the door in pursuit of him, it swung +inward and a familiar figure confronted the little Irishman.</p> + +<p>"Well, Micky," remarked Dick dryly, "don't you think you've had enough? +Better come along."</p> + +<p>For answer O'Byrn tried to drag Dick to the bar. "Come on, old man," he +shouted. "Get in! There's Mamies to burn."</p> + +<p>Dick had heard of his co-worker's outbreak and hurried from the office +in quest of him, chancing to learn where he was. Micky had talked with +him previously, regarding his weakness, and Dick knew what its +uninterrupted continuance would mean.</p> + +<p>"Come home, Micky," he urged, "before you get maudlin. Bunk in and get a +good night's rest and you'll be all right for work tomorrow." He led +Micky insistently out of the wine room, unmindful of the protests of +O'Byrn's companions. They passed through the office to the street.</p> + +<p>Micky had been quiet for a moment but now his libations reasserted their +influence. He struggled with Dick, voicing sundry curses.</p> + +<p>"What d' ye mean?" he demanded. "Let me go, I'm going back. Mind your +own business, can't you?"</p> + +<p>"Shut up!" growled Dick fiercely. "Can't you see<a class="pagenum" name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a> people are looking at +us? Close your face and come along like a gentleman, for, I tell you, +you're going home!"</p> + +<p>Then something happened. Before Micky's haggard eyes appeared mistily, +taking swift and tangible substance, a girl's face, young and lovely, +just now convulsed with horror. Then it was gone, leaving a leaden +weight in Micky's breast, while the vapors rose sluggishly from his +benumbed brain. Reason, shrinking and ashamed, looked out from his hot +eyes. He braced defiantly though hopelessly.</p> + +<p>"It's all right, Dick, I'll go home," he said in a strange low tone and +they walked in silence down the street.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a> +<a name="xi" id="xi"></a>CHAPTER XI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">IN THE MORNING</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">MICKY awoke late that morning with a persistent, painful throbbing in +his head, fevered eyes and a parched throat. The symptoms held an arid +familiarity which was swiftly allied with self contempt, as sleep +yielded full place to awakened consciousness. For O'Byrn would never be +calloused. As he once expressed it, his career was best epitomized in +Ade's graphic epigram, "Life is a series of relapses and recoveries." +The inherent manliness would always wage war against the little red +devil that sought malevolently to wither it. It would be a pitifully +checkered fight, but whatever the issue,—even should the world, which +never understands, write him down a wreck at the end,—a few who knew +him best, and understood, would know that Micky tried. Who will +question, in a world where so many drift, that in the simple will to try +lies victory?</p> + +<p>Micky lay quiet for some moments after awaking, palms pressed to his +burning temples, swollen eyes gazing sombrely up at the ceiling of his +small, plainly furnished room. The hot sun poured in at the window, +before which the shade had not been drawn. The boy, for he was scarcely +more, wandered in dreary retrospect through a world of gray memories. +How gray, how<a class="pagenum" name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a> bleak, to be sure! At the very outset the recollection of +a childhood saddened by the frequent sight of a woman in tears; a woman +with a pale, worn face and eyes that held the inexpressible pathos of a +forlorn hope deferred, his mother. His father, did the world still hold +him? O'Byrn told himself fiercely that it could not be, that earth must +long since have wearied of such an +<a name="excrescence" id="excrescence"></a><ins title="Original has excresence">excrescence</ins> and cast it forth to +annihilation.</p> + +<p>To the woman with the pale, worn face and tired eyes, the woman who was +now at rest, he owed his upbringing. From the time that he could not +remember, when she and her baby were deserted by the husband and father, +till the hour when she lay wasted in her final illness, she had toiled +for the boy, to give him clothes, sustenance, schooling. Micky +remembered with a dull ache at his heart how in the supreme hour the +poor tired eyes had watched in vain for one who came not, how the wan +lips had in delirium whispered a dishonored name. Then the end, and the +ensuing picture of a little newsvender, led sobbing from the new-filled +grave of the truest friend he would ever know.</p> + +<p>And this other, the being who had left a frail weakling to bear the +brunt alone, for what must the son thank him? For the inherited fiend's +appetite that marred him, no more. The son well knew that the craving +was the intensified replica of the father's crowning vice. He had +learned, moreover, that the parent had deemed it a witty thing to ply +the son with toddy while in his cradle. The son took to it with an +avidity of grave presage, but which delighted the tippling parent. This +was the heritage from his father, a heritage that held in fee wastes of +black bog and hungry mire, with death squatting<a class="pagenum" name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a> grimly in the midst. +Ah, what a goodly patrimony he had left, this absent one; what wealth +indeed!</p> + +<p>The boy in the bed winced as beneath the impact of a blow. He struck +clenched hands together fiercely. "Oh, God!" he breathed, the tone +combining the bitter venom of a curse with the agonized entreaty of a +prayer.</p> + +<p>A moment more he lay in silence, vague eyes fixed on a gray and +resurrected past. He stirred uneasily. "Ah, well, this won't do!" he +muttered, and flinging off the coverings he rolled off upon the floor. +The sunlight dazzled his eyes and he blinked like a bat as he drew the +shade. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, wincing as a sharp pain +stabbed his throbbing head, dying in needle-like prickings just behind +the eyes. With a discouraged groan he made his way to the wash stand, +and emptying the pitcher into the bowl, plunged his fevered head into +the refreshing contents and held it there. It was very pleasant, the +coolness, and a brisk rubbing with a crash towel added decidedly to the +relief. Dressing with shaking fingers, he was finally ready and left the +house, blinking swollen eyes owlishly in the clear sunlight. He stopped +at a restaurant just long enough to swallow a cupful of black coffee in +order to neutralize a bevy of differing tastes that tenanted his mouth, +vying in stale mustiness. Again he sought the open air, wandering +aimlessly.</p> + +<p>Clearly the coffee was not enough, for his head throbbed worse than +before. Involuntarily he steadied it with one hand, to keep it on, while +he put into Kelly's drug store for a bromo. Kelly's was popular with the +boys. It was open nights and they could buy whisky in the back room, +after all the other places were closed, and<a class="pagenum" name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a> secure bromo over the soda +water fountain in the morning.</p> + +<p>Micky absorbed his bromo in a gloomy, introspective mood. The bracer, as +it is generally understood, he was minded this morning to avoid as if it +had been a pestilence. He was wont to say that a bracer was to him but a +limited stop-over, that he would be sure to be traveling again before +noon. He had travelled far enough this trip, far enough to menace a +future, which had never seemed so bright. Disquieting recollections +gnawed at Micky's mind. A girl's face, eloquent with horror and disgust, +seen as through a mist in the lighted street, confronted his shamed, +wakened consciousness, while he writhed inwardly. And, too, his post +with the Courier? Had he lost it? How much latitude would they extend to +drunkards?</p> + +<p>A drunkard! He shuddered at the repellent thought, yet what else was he? +What else any man who allowed the infernal appetite to lure him from +duty to be performed? Not once but many times had he, O'Byrn, fallen by +this standard. Repeatedly had he been cast off, with the goal of +reputation and success in sight, because of the little red devil, who +journeyed with him the broad land over, making its hateful presence +known at riotous intervals that resulted in swift changes and shifts of +scene for the little Irishman. If, indeed, he had not lost his post with +the Courier, it was due to the fortunate interruption of a spree that +might otherwise have lasted a week. O'Byrn's soul went out in gratitude +to Dick. Even though it should prove that he had lost both his place and +his lady, it was a melancholy pleasure to Micky to have sobered so soon. +He<a class="pagenum" name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a> thought with deep self-disgust of prior orgies; of wild days and +wilder nights, piling deliriously upon each other while sleep was +unknown, a stranger to be banished; when all things loomed distorted, +unreal, through a red haze. So it would go until, with abused nature +exhausted, he would sink into a sodden stupor. From this he would +finally emerge a shaking wreck, with the blackest of memories and +usually with the blankest of futures, for his job usually went with his +spree. The latter was always of inconvenient length for the demands of a +newspaper office.</p> + +<p>Something of these horrors he had communicated to Dick some time before. +"This thing has played the devil with me, Dick," he had said. "I want +excitement. Drinking is a means to the end. Then, first I know, it's an +end to my means. That and my infernal itch for shifting have made me a +scoffing and a byword. If I could get chained down, and lost my thirst, +I might make good. I've come near it a lot of times and then the cussed +coupling would break and I'd go slidin' down the grade again. Then it +would be the bumpers out. I guess it'll be that way till I'm backed onto +the siding for good. But I'm headed right now, and, if you ever catch me +toyin' with the lush, I want you to joyously jack my jeans clear to my +lodgings. Knock me down, pick me up and knock me down again."</p> + +<p>"That's all very well, Micky," Dick had replied with a remonstrating +bellow of a laugh, "but I'm not enough of a pharisee for that, you know, +for I'm no total abstainer myself."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but you're about two-thirds of a one," replied the other. "You +don't know what an appetite means.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a> You drink, when you drink at all, +for good fellowship, because someone asks you to. Left to yourself, +you'd never think of it. If you ever take too much, it means you're on +the water wagon for a number of months, because you dread the feeling of +the morning after. You're one of those lucky devils that can monkey with +the stuff for a lifetime and never acquire the faintest vestige of a +thirst. Now as for me, I can't coquette with it. I have to walk sideways +past a saloon with my face turned the other way, across the street to +the undertaker's. I've simply got to let it alone. Why? Because a lot of +hard jolts have taught me that it's a lot stronger than I am unless it's +held down with both hands. Sometimes I can take a glass and let it +alone, but oftener the first glass is only a drop in the bucket that +starts a demand to annex the whole well. Then there's a roaring Rip Van +Winkle that I come out of a week or two later to find my job miles +behind and me countin' ties and waitin' for a freight. That's the worst +of it, Dick," with a red flush of shame. "It's thinkin' that you're just +as liable to fall asleep at the switch, when you're on duty. Now that's +what I'm carrying over the country with me. That's what I'm fightin'. +First one on top, then the other. But whichever way, Dick, it's hell!"</p> + +<p>There had ensued a silence, broken by Dick's voice, unwontedly sober.</p> + +<p>"The gold cure, Micky, did you ever try it?"</p> + +<p>"No!" with vigor, "and I never will! If I can't stand I'll go down, but +it'll be alone. If I can't weather it without that, why then me to the +dip-house, that's all. No artificial vacations in mine!"</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a> +Which, if perhaps wrong-headed, at least bespoke a plenitude of grit.</p> + +<p>Dick had remembered Micky's request to deliver him, if need be, from the +fascinations of the grape, and had complied with it in spirit, if not in +letter, the night previous. O'Byrn had been firmly torn from the +bibulous bevy with which he had started that afternoon and been escorted +home. And though the prospect was dismal enough to the boy who stood, +hands in pockets, on the curb, staring moodily at the asphalt, he was +glad that Dick had looked him up. It might have been worse.</p> + +<p>How bad was it, anyway? Micky drew a long breath, squared his shoulders +and started for the office.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a> +<a name="xii" id="xii"></a>CHAPTER XII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">WHY SHE CRIED</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">MICKEY was not dismissed, though the city editor had a heart to heart +talk with him. "We are not exactly sticklers for total abstinence here, +O'Byrn," he said. "I am free to confess that I am ineligible to +membership in the I. O. G. T. myself. But one thing the Courier does +insist upon, which is that a man's indulgence must not be allowed to +interfere with his work. I had important assignments for you last night +and had to place them in other hands. Besides, we were short of men. +When I accidentally learned, near press-time, of the real reason for +your non-appearance, I was minded to let you go. But from what I learn I +gather that it is something of a disease in your case. Cure yourself, my +boy, for you're a good man and I've decided to give you another chance."</p> + +<p>Micky stood quietly, his freckled face a queer study of mingled relief +and misery. "It's more than I deserve, Mr. Harkins," he replied. "I'm a +pup when I start drinkin'. You're right, it's a disease with me. I won't +promise that it's a final attack, for I don't know, but I will promise," +with meaning, "that you'll never have to jack me up for it again. If I +can't hold on, why I'll quietly let go." He walked out.</p> + +<p>Micky worked feverishly for a couple of days after<a class="pagenum" name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a> that, his heart full +of misgiving. His place was assured, true enough, but there was another +matter, even more vital, which was rife with uncertainty. A girl's face, +eloquent of horror and dismay, swam mistily before his eyes, as in the +lighted street in front of the hotel when he was struggling with +Glenwood. He closed his eyes with a shiver, but still saw the face, +known for whose it was. Would she ever receive him, even nod to him +again? Never, probably, and why should she? This was a new attitude for +the ordinarily rollicking, independent O'Byrn. It remains for the lover +to sound the nethermost depths of humility.</p> + +<p>He watched his mail those two days with apprehensive eyes, fearing to +receive a note which should administer his _coup de grace_. None came, +and, as a natural sequence, his suspense increased. It is the axe +suspended that the fowl fears; with its fall subsequent proceedings fail +to interest the bird.</p> + +<p>Finally there arrived O'Byrn's night off. It could be employed but in +one way; he must become definitely acquainted with his fate. Behold him, +with set teeth and an air of impending martyrdom, at the Muldoons' door +at eight of the evening. It was a Friday evening, but Micky was +desperate. He breathed hard for a moment, wavered, then rang the bell +heroically. There was a soft stir inside, the door opened. It was dark +in the hall. Micky leaned forward.</p> + +<p>"Is that you, Maisie?" he breathed. "I—"</p> + +<p>"Naw," piped a childish treble, "it ain't Maisie. It's her brudder, +Terence."</p> + +<p>"Sure," murmured Micky confusedly. "Would've<a class="pagenum" name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a> known from your general +cut, Terence, but I can't see you. Where's the folks?"</p> + +<p>"All out, Mister Micky," rejoined the youngster, thrusting his tousled +head out of the doorway to inspect the visitor. "Ain't no one to home +but me."</p> + +<p>"Where's Maisie?" Micky demanded in a tone which indicated that Terence +would fill no particular gap as far as he was concerned.</p> + +<p>"Out to a dance," grinned Terence. "Gone with Billy Ryan." Micky's brow +darkened, while Terence's grin grew wider. Billy Ryan! The cavalier who +left a Manhattan to go out for beers! Micky's mind swiftly reverted to +the Ironworkers' ball, to which Ryan had brought the lady and from which +O'Byrn had escorted her home. And now—in a brief second Micky gathered +some luminous ideas in evolution. He pulled himself together.</p> + +<p>"Say, Terence," he murmured, with a cajoling wink, "take this and don't +speak of my havin' called, see?" Terence nodded solemnly and closed the +door, richer by a quarter. Micky strode savagely away, rich in a fund of +swift-risen jealousy and in an empty, aimless night off.</p> + +<p>"Ryan!" he ruminated with a groan. "I could stand for most anyone else. +But a soak like him! Blast it! Can't a girl get next to anything +nowadays but what drinks?"</p> + +<p>And indeed, in these degenerate days, with teetotalers well nigh outside +her ken, many a maiden has had often ample occasion to ask herself that +question.</p> + +<p>The pot having apostrophized the kettle, Micky felt easier, though the +thought of Ryan was productive of<a class="pagenum" name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a> inward profanity through all of that +singularly tedious and empty evening.</p> + +<p>There ensued a miserable week for Micky, though it was a fortunate one +for the Courier. Misery produces a wide diversity of results, depending +upon the makeup of the afflicted subject. The one it can render +absolutely useless to the needs of the workaday grind. The other, +beneath its bitter lash, becomes a human dynamo, plunging into the +nepenthe of toil. Of such was Micky, and a nervously brilliant week was +credited to him in consequence.</p> + +<p>But though the course was eminently more beneficial to him and his +endangered journalistic prospects than bootless brooding would have +been, it was a sorry week for him. Moreover, it was an interminably long +one. He would not have believed that such a week, filled with a restless +whirl of work, could have passed so slowly. Conflicting emotions +disquieted him, played pranks with an appetite for meals ordinarily as +reliably fixed as sea tides, filled his days with a wan restlessness and +troubled his sleep. For Micky, though the soft impeachment would have +probably won from him a picturesque denial, was in love, and misery is a +privilege of lovers.</p> + +<p>He watched the mails and the postman. The latter never stopped and Micky +anathematized him in his heart, also a privilege of lovers whenever +thorns and nettles spring up in Arcady. It is curious, this universal +mental arraignment of the postman for the non-delivery of matter never +sent. Why, in all reason, should he be forced to figure as a buffer? Yet +he is, and the rancor against him felt by the disappointed is all the +more bitter because of the absolute necessity for its repression.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a> One +would acquire only merited ridicule and punishment for thrashing the +postman, though one would often like to. One may only glare, and, if the +postman notices it, he doesn't mind. He has grown cynical in service. So +to revert, as the days passed so also did the postman; and Micky, while +feeling quite murderous, simply glared.</p> + +<p>Why didn't she write, and again, why should she? Micky writhed upon the +twin horns of his dilemma. If she wrote, what in reason could she write +except a definite sentence of banishment? If she did not write, what +could the implied message naturally mean but the same? Oh, of course, he +was out of it anyway. But in that case, what of Ryan? Was it possible +that Ryan was considered preferable to him? When that query introduced +itself Micky usually swore. Altogether it was a hard week.</p> + +<p>On one thing, however, he was determined. The matter should be settled, +once for all, on his next night off. Perhaps Terence had been indiscreet +and revealed the secret of his previous fruitless call. Maisie might +expect him on the following Friday night and be away. Well, he would fix +that. So he arranged for Thursday night. A little cunning might insure +at least an audience.</p> + +<p>Behold him, then, on the fateful evening at the Muldoons' door, +heroically despairing. A soft glow shone through the curtained parlor +windows. Within he heard the soft chords of her little organ. She might +have company, Ryan perhaps. O'Byrn clenched his teeth and rang the bell.</p> + +<p>The organ was suddenly silent. To the boy waiting outside, the +succeeding moment of suspense was filled<a class="pagenum" name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a> with a tumult of loud heart +beats, with strange throbbings at the temples. Then the door slowly +opened. "Who is there?" asked a voice.</p> + +<p>He stepped inside without a word, laying his hat on the hall table. +Forbiddingly silent, she gazed an instant into his face, glacial blue +eyes searching his own hungry ones, her face so cold as to cause him an +inward shiver. Then without speaking, she entered the little parlor, he +following.</p> + +<p>They sat far apart. Her manner increased the gap immeasurably. Micky +felt dimly that speech would partake of the nature of transmission over +a long-distance telephone to the Klondike. However, he cleared his +throat with some diffidence. It was something of an odd sensation for +him.</p> + +<p>"You were playin'," he ventured.</p> + +<p>"Yes," somewhat pointedly. "I was."</p> + +<p>"Well," he continued, "don't let me interrupt you. I like music."</p> + +<p>"Oh, do you?" indifferently. "Sorry, but the pieces I was playin' are +new ones. I don't know 'em well enough to play 'em before company."</p> + +<p>"So?" he continued, calmly ignoring the reiterated hint. "Well, try some +of the old ones. They're good enough for me." He watched her face +eagerly.</p> + +<p>It did not relax. "I think I've forgotten the old ones, Mr. O'Byrn," she +said slowly.</p> + +<p>"But I haven't," somewhat wistfully. "And it was not so long ago."</p> + +<p>"Not so long ago!" her blue eyes brightening. "Mr. O'Byrn, it was longer +ago than you seem to think."</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a> +"Yes, I guess it was," dejectedly. "It's a long way from 'Micky' to +'Mister' after all."</p> + +<p>The girl's lip curled. "It's your own fault." she retorted. Then with a +sudden burst of hurt resentment, "I couldn't believe it at first," with +an involuntary little shiver, "when I saw you that night. My brother was +pretty mad, I can tell you, said I ought to shake you. Such a sight!"</p> + +<p>"So your brother was with you," exclaimed Micky, half to himself. One +maddening surmise had been set at rest. The thought of Ryan had haunted +him of late.</p> + +<p>"Yes, who did you think it was? Couldn't you see him?" with sarcasm.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid I couldn't," with a humility strange in him, "but I could +see you, Maisie, and it sobered me."</p> + +<p>"High time!" she flashed. "But then," with an impatient gesture, "It +ain't pleasant to talk about, so cut it out. What did you come here for, +anyway?"</p> + +<p>He straightened. "To apologize, Maisie, that's all," he said simply. +"Just that and to ask for another chance. I +<a name="shant" id="shant"></a><ins title="Original has sh'an't">sha'n't</ins> whine or excuse +myself. Only this. They gave me another chance at the office. Do I get +one here?"</p> + +<p>She tapped the carpet with an impatient foot. Her eyes were downcast, +her cheeks flushed. Micky watched her wistfully. Suddenly she stole a +swift glance at him, her blue eyes brimming with tears.</p> + +<p>"Oh," she burst out, a pitiful break in her voice, "if I hadn't seen +you—that way. It nearly killed me. And every time I've thought of you +since—I've seen you—like that! Oh, Micky—" Her voice was lost in +sobs, stifled in her handkerchief.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a> +He sprang from his chair, kneeling at her side, stroking her hair with +trembling fingers, pouring out his soul in broken, incoherent words.</p> + +<p>"I'm a beast, Maisie, a beast! Don't cry so—dear. It's always been so, +it's what's done for me all my life. My mother's dead, thank God! She +died before she knew. But my father," striking his clenched hand on the +arm of her chair, "he's got it to answer for, wherever he is, living or +dead! He was a devil, Maisie, and he made me one. He fed me the stuff +when I was a baby and I took to it like milk; it was his cursed blood in +me, I suppose. It's driven me from pillar to post, from a job to the +gutter, time and again. It's been up one minute and down the next with +me. Oh, I'm not fit to touch you, Maisie, I'm a dog to ask it, but I +tell you that, if I play out the game alone, this thing will drive me to +hell! Would you—stand by me, help me? It's always been stronger than I +am, perhaps it always will be, but Maisie, I think I can beat it out, +can be a man—with you!"</p> + +<p>It was out at last, the sum of his passionate longing, poured out +despairingly in a flood of wild unrecking words; without forethought, +wrung from him by the sudden yearning born of the sight of the girl in +tears. Now that it was over he remained silent a moment, still torn by +his emotion and by hers. Then, slowly and fearfully, his stinging eyes +sought her face. It was buried in her little hands. Tears trickled +through her clasped fingers.</p> + +<p>He rose heavily to his feet. What madness had possessed him, what +presumption! He had asked her to marry—a drunkard. He laughed with +bitter brevity.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a> The sound brought the sight of a startled face with +tear-wet eyes.</p> + +<p>"Overlook it, Maisie," he asked desolately, as he turned away, "and +good-by. I don't know how I came to do it—but you cried."</p> + +<p>He was half way to the hall. There was a soft step behind him, a light +touch upon his arm. He turned swiftly, the ghost of a wan hope in his +haggard eyes.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Micky," she whispered, with a smile whose tender memory would live +for him in endless summer through autumn's falling leaves till winter's +winding sheets,—"don't you—don't you know—why—I cried?"</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a> +<a name="xiii" id="xiii"></a>CHAPTER XIII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">A WAGER</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">MICKY told Dick about it one evening, for his heart was full. His +engagement was a serious thing to him, and something like fear mingled +with his hope of the future. He was deeply sensible of his past +mistakes, but he knew himself too well to look to the coming days with +unshrinking confidence. He hoped, very humbly; that was all.</p> + +<p>Dick was sympathetic, he understood. His was one of those rare natures +that invite, comprehend and respect confidences. "You know my record, +Dick," Micky had said. "There isn't much in it of a domestic tinge. But +just the same, when I happen to get a night off and sit in the little +parlor with her, it seems—" with a queer little break in his +voice,—"why Dick, it seems as if I had at last—got home!"</p> + +<p>And Dick had wrung Micky's hand until it ached, and assured him in his +deep bass voice, eloquent with fervent earnestness, that he was all +right, and poor Micky had begun to hope that, after a long and checkered +season, he was.</p> + +<p>The city was now fully roused to the contest that was being waged for +its control between the Fusionists and Democrats, and, as a natural +sequence, they were busy in the newspaper offices. One thing was quite +evident,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a> however, which was that the unexpected _coup_ made by the +opponents of Shaughnessy, at the Democratic convention, had rendered the +chances of the Fusionist ticket dubious, to say the least. In fact, the +Fusionists had been robbed, to a large extent, of their thunder. The +spectacular repudiation of Shaughnessy by his own convention, the +nomination of a man for the mayoralty against whom no word of civil or +political taint had ever been breathed, had greatly lessened the +Fusionists' chances of success. Where they had expected to be able to +deal mighty blows, by pointing to the shameless effrontery of +Shaughnessy in forcing a malodorous city ticket through his convention, +they were now compelled to take another tack. The situation had been +made the subject of an earnest conference between Colonel Westlake and +the men controlling other pro-Fusionist newspapers directly after the +Democratic convention and its surprising results.</p> + +<p>So, in the assaults which the opposing newspapers, led by the Courier, +were making upon the Democracy there was no hint of detraction of the +Judge. How could there be? They contented themselves with the assumption +that the respected and able jurist had been imposed upon. To be sure, +Shaughnessy, having become notorious, had been sacrificed by his keen +associates in their own interest. Should they be successful at the +polls, the argument was made that Judge Boynton and some of his well +meaning associates upon the ticket, despite their good intentions, would +be powerless to cleanse the Augean stables because they would be +prevented from so doing by forces within their own party.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a> Fusion would +furnish a new broom, guaranteed to sweep clean.</p> + +<p>This was strong and logical reasoning, but there were signs that it was +ineffective. There was a strong retort to be made, which was that the +purifying movement in the Democracy had come from within. The leaders +named were above suspicion; some of them were recognized bitter enemies +of Shaughnessy. Men of influence who had joined the Fusionists, though +Democrats, openly returned, holding that the necessity for Fusion no +longer existed. As the Democrats had a natural ascendency in the city, +the outlook for Fusion was on the whole growing rather depressing.</p> + +<p>Following his humiliation in the convention, Shaughnessy had left the +city for several days. Upon returning, he apparently took up the life of +a recluse. He confined himself strictly to the affairs of his wholesale +house, dividing his time equally between the office and his lodgings. He +was no longer at headquarters, where the sight of him was once so +familiar; he had apparently dropped all interest in politics, though +nobody dared to ask him anything about it. When Shaughnessy first struck +the town, said the old stagers, he was quite decently approachable, but +he had ceased so to be for years past. It was noted, however, by some +who chanced to meet him upon the street and glanced curiously at him, +that he was ghastlier than ever, with sunken cheeks and dull eyes. He +looked ill.</p> + +<p>But there was one who had not ceased to regard Mr. Shaughnessy with +suspicion, a suspicion that grew day by day, and that was Micky O'Byrn. +When Shaughnessy left town after his rout, O'Byrn muttered, "Up<a class="pagenum" name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a> to more +deviltry. Wonder what it is now?" When he returned, and quietly forsook +his old political haunts, Micky's sandy eyebrows were skeptically +elevated and he murmured, "Underground! He'll come up somewhere." For +Micky relied upon the evidence of his keen Irish eyes. Whether the act +was committed through arrangement or involuntarily, Shaughnessy had +winked. O'Byrn reasoned that winks by a man of Shaughnessy's calibre +were not wasted. Curious that a "slick duck" like Grady, as Micky +characterized that smooth orator, had required a wink. Perhaps he +hadn't, perhaps Shaughnessy had simply grown over-anxious during the +short interval between the speeches. Well, if Shaughnessy had grown +unwittingly careless, that was his look-out, his and O'Byrn's. O'Byrn +was looking out. He had said nothing and he was devoutly hopeful that he +would have a chance to saw wood.</p> + +<p>He was at Maisie's one evening, one of his customary "off-nights." These +nights were coming to him of late as oases in the deserts of weeks. They +had chatted, talked seriously of their plans, sung together to Maisie's +accompaniment on the little organ, and now Micky regretfully rose, with +a glance at his watch. "Well, girl," said he, "I've got to slide. It's +gettin' late. Your pa'll be assistin' me."</p> + +<p>She watched him with wistful blue eyes, loth that he leave, though she +knew the hour beckoned his departure. He stood near the big lamp with +its red shade, his queer features being mellowed, so to speak, in the +ruddy glow. He grinned benignly at her as he reached for his coat. +Anticipating him, she helped him into it.</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed rebelliously, "isn't it the<a class="pagenum" name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a> worst ever, this +newspaper business! And a morning paper at that, with your hours turned +wrong side out and a night off only once in an age! Micky, dear, why +don't you get into something civilized?"</p> + +<p>"You know, Maisie, the Constitution says all men were created equal," he +observed soberly.</p> + +<p>"Sure it does, but what's that got to do with it? What are you up to +now?"</p> + +<p>"Why, nothin'," he replied, an impish twinkle in his eye, "only it +depends. One man may be as good as another, but it's up to him to prove +it. A bunch of Socialist Democrats, in a town I was in once, put up a +hostler for city judge against a couple of old lawyers on the regular +tickets. Said a hostler was as good as a lawyer in this free country. +True enough, in a limited sense. I know a lot of hostlers that are +better hostlers than a lot of lawyers that are lawyers. I suppose you +follow me? But, all the same, these fellows were lame in their argument +for this reason. Their hostler candidate might have had horse sense to +burn, but he hadn't read law. There's a lot of difference between horse +sense and the law, Maisie. They finally took the hostler off and put a +cobbler on, who came in last. Now don't strike me, Maisie, that last was +accidental. Really, I didn't intend it."</p> + +<p>"I should hope not!" with sincerity. "But I don't see what all this +rigmarole has to do with what we are saying, or were. Have you lost your +mind?"</p> + +<p>"If ever I did, the finder would return it," he retorted whimsically. +"It would make him dizzy. But to return to cases, what I said has got +everything to do with what we said. Can't see it? Well, men may be +created equal<a class="pagenum" name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a> but most of 'em never learn arithmetic. The fellow who +does has got 'em stopped. He keeps on addin', while they—oh, they're +just multiplyin' every minute. They're all around you, I'm one of 'em +myself. The mathematical sharp, who made a specialty on finance and +knows the idiosyncrasies of a dollar better than a mother knows her +child, keeps on subtractin' the other fellows from their money. When it +comes to the division, why they're all workin' for him. That's +Rockefeller, and by the same token, that's me. We're the limit on the +extremes. He's got everything and I'm livin' on the rest. I've got +nothin' and he's got it. See?</p> + +<p>"There's a happy medium, but it doesn't help the majority much, for most +of us are on pay rolls. For instance, one man owns the Courier and the +rest of us are working for him. If I changed to something else, I'd +still be workin' for someone. Why? Because the only line in arithmetic +in which I could make good was a sequence of ciphers with no bigger +figure before it. You catch the point, don't you? It's due to the +mercenary age. Nominally I'm free and equal. Actually I'm about a +'steenth of one per cent. See? But what's the dif'? What you need in +this dizzy old world is philosophy. I've got it to burn, but Standard +Oil can't scorch it. Here's a motto for you, Maisie, and you can paste +it in that funny new jigger you call a hat. It'll keep you smilin' on +wash day, and that's a test for a woman. It's just this: take it as it +comes, and, if it doesn't come, don't take it."</p> + +<p>He was gone, this queer little man-gamin of vagrant moods, shifting as +the winds, yet for the most bubbling with reckless cheeriness. Humor was +the predominant<a class="pagenum" name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a> note of his being. Its broad grace mellowed him; would +keep him sound and sweet at heart, whatever the sum of the coming years. +Did the winds blow fair or ill, he had within him the essence of logical +living; a whimsical sense of proportion that enabled him to view himself +impartially with all others, one of myriad puppets in the show. A +success or a failure he might become, as the world judges, but until the +end he would be too large for that littleness which is too often a +hallmark of success, the littleness of petty vanity. So, with this +greatest gift the Creator can give one of his children, the humorous +sense of proportion that can make if need be a joke of futility, Micky +would go on to the end, to success or failure; alike with heart +uncankered and a laugh on his lips. There would never transpire a +misanthropic Micky.</p> + +<p>For a long time after O'Byrn's departure, Maisie sat still in the Morris +chair, a pensive look on her pretty face, with vague eyes bent dreamily +on the flaming wood in the tiny fireplace; for the nights had grown +chill with the first presage of winter and the fenders glowed with warm +hospitality on company nights. The busy flames licked the blackened +slabs; hurrying over the charred, desolate spaces; leaping in triumph as +a conquered fragment fell, under the espionage of a shower of +scintillant sparks. The tongues of flame, with redoubled energy, again +lapped the wood, eating into its vitals, withering its fibres with fiery +breath, crumbling it piecemeal in a crematory of elemental ashes. At +last, always working upward, the flames burst exultantly from scorched +fissures in the topmost slab and curled in weird shapes above it; shapes +that now approached a certain sane coherence; that again were +indeterminate and distorted, vaguely writhing in a dim<a class="pagenum" name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a> haze, like one's +future. Finally the fire, spending its force, dulled and died, the ruddy +flames slowly paling like the fading roses of a summer sunset. Then +there was the black, desolate end; all light extinguished save for the +baleful, red-eyed glare of a few scattered embers, dying on the hearth. +Maisie sat erect with a sudden start, stealing an apprehensive glance at +the clock. With a long sigh and a little shiver, she rose slowly, +extinguished the low-turned lamp and departed for bed.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Micky, a red-eyed cigar in a corner of his mouth, had walked +leisurely and thoughtfully toward the city. His hands thrust deep in his +overcoat pockets, he strode unheedingly on, lost in a wistful reverie. +What a flower was this little girl of his, to be sure! And he—what had +he done to deserve her? A little self-examination is good for a man, +especially if it be followed by a little proper self-disgust. O'Byrn +walked on in singularly chastened mood. The past? Ah, it was done; why +waste time in regrets when one is young? The present was of sunshine in +a blue sky; the future—</p> + +<p>O'Byrn's shoulders rose in a little, involuntary, uneasy shrug. He +turned a corner just then and looked up. The next instant he had retired +unobtrusively into a dark hallway, where he stood, staring across the +street.</p> + +<p>O'Byrn could scarcely have explained his definite impulse for doing +this. It was simply the half-unconscious manifestation of the news +instinct. Without any needed pause for reasoning, Micky's news faculty +had connected two apparently irrelevant facts as significantly allied +with each other, prompting him to remain in the hope of securing +something worth while. The wholesale liquor establishment of Shaughnessy +stood just across the street. The<a class="pagenum" name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a> curtains of the office were drawn, +but O'Byrn saw the reflection of a light behind them. Furthermore, the +sound which had brought Micky to a realization of his surroundings, a +moment before, was that of a carriage, which had been halted a little +way up the dark street, the corner of which O'Byrn had just turned. So +O'Byrn stood in the shadow, watching Shaughnessy's office.</p> + +<p>He had not long to wait. A few moments and he beheld the corner of one +of the office window shades drawn slightly to one side. Somebody was +evidently looking out. Nobody was in sight, for the street was a quiet +one and was deserted at that hour. The next moment the door was opened +cautiously and a man emerged. Crossing the street swiftly he passed by +O'Byrn so closely that the reporter could have touched him, and turned +the corner. Then was soon audible the sound of receding wheels.</p> + +<p>O'Byrn whistled softly as he resumed his walk toward the city. The light +of the aroused news instinct was in his eyes. Here was something +tangible, bearing out surmises that had seemed wild to himself. What +need had Judge Boynton, the esteemed Democratic candidate for mayor, to +be secretly in the office of the deposed boss, Shaughnessy? Deposed, +indeed! Micky laughed softly, then clenched his hands.</p> + +<p>"Oh, if I can only get onto it!" he breathed savagely. "Whew! Lord! +Lord! What a story!"</p> + +<p>Had Micky chanced to look around at that moment he might have seen a man +following him, who, had O'Byrn known it, could have given him some +interesting and definite pointers on that desired story. The man had +emerged from around the corner of Shaughnessy's building<a class="pagenum" name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a> a moment after +Judge Boynton left and Micky had started down the street. Gaining the +opposite side of the thoroughfare, the fellow, who had evidently been +eavesdropping, followed O'Byrn, keeping some distance in the rear, until +a point was reached where Micky turned to go toward the Courier office. +The other man kept straight on.</p> + +<p>A little later, as he had figured upon doing, Micky met some of the boys +in a lunch room which they were wont to visit at that hour. Dick was +there, and Mead and Fatty Stearns. The latter was talking.</p> + +<p>"Gee!" exclaimed Fatty, breathlessly, while the expletive blew a +formidable charge of bread crumbs toward the shrinking company, "but +there'll be doin's this election! There'll be doin's! Watcha think, +Micky?"</p> + +<p>"I think you need an interpreter, Fatty, when you try to talk with your +mouth full," replied O'Byrn. "Don't talk, Fatty. You sound like a dog +that's trying to breathe in July; you do, really. One of those +expectorating dogs."</p> + +<p>"Gee! What's those?" demanded Fatty, helplessly. "Spitz!" replied Micky, +and dodged a crust launched by the justly indignant Glenwood.</p> + +<p>"Cheese it, fellows," put in Mead. "About this election. Fusion's got no +chance now. Judge +<a name="Boynton" id="Boynton"></a><ins title="Original has Boynton 'll">Boynton'll</ins> win in a walk."</p> + +<p>"For how much?" in a flash. O'Byrn's hand was in his pocket.</p> + +<p>"Well," remarked Mead, reflectively, "I'm not exactly lined with dough, +but I'll put an X on it. Have to stipulate that it's a futurity, though; +for, needless to say,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a> I haven't as much as that in my clothes three +days after pay day."</p> + +<p>"Neither have I," laughed O'Byrn. "This diggin' down was a bluff. But +I'll see your ten all right. This bum line of witnesses will take +notice. Loser touches someone to pay the winner. All fine 'nd dandy."</p> + +<p>Mead acquiesced, albeit with an implied something of uncertainty in his +demeanor. The rotund Stearns voiced it in nervous words.</p> + +<p>"Gee! Mead," he exclaimed, "you're a chump to bet your stuff on another +fellow's game."</p> + +<p>"Go die somewhere, Fatty," suggested Micky. "There's no game yet, but," +with a queer grin at Mead, "there's going to be before this thing's +over. Want to renig, Mead? Can if you want to."</p> + +<p>"No!" indignantly rejoined Mead. "I'll see it through. If you really +have something in your Irish sleeve, O'Byrn, I'll bet it's worth the +money."</p> + +<p>"Nothin' yet," murmured Micky, as they prepared to depart, "but I tell +you, boys, that sleeve's a Christmas stockin' just now, and I'm gettin' +eye-strain watchin' for Santa Claus."</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a> +<a name="xiv" id="xiv"></a>CHAPTER XIV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">A DISCREDITED HENCHMAN</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">MICKY strolled into the Courier's local room one evening, and, after +hanging up his overcoat and hat, removed also his under coat and +unbuttoned his vest. He then leisurely detached his cuffs and rolled up +his shirt sleeves, to get arm-room, as he used to term it. Then, having +indulged a taste for preliminaries which he was fond of observing, +whenever he had the time, he sailed in. A half hour later he had +finished his task and turned in the copy. There was a temporary lull, +and O'Byrn leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his red +head, and dreamily watched the rings of smoke wreathing upward from the +tip of his cigar.</p> + +<p>"Wherever did you get a gash like that?" inquired a voice behind him, +and Micky felt a finger touch his wrist. Mead, who also chanced to be +disengaged at the moment, took an adjacent chair and stretched himself +out comfortably for a chat.</p> + +<p>Micky lazily extended his right arm and bestowed a curious glance upon a +long, livid scar, just above the wrist. "Oh, that?" he answered. "That +was an accident. Got it when I was too young to remember. Beastly night, +eh?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, trying to blow up a nasty rain, I guess. Where've you been +tonight?"</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a> +"Oh, out in society," grinned Micky. "Harkins sent me to do that Van +Courts' recep' 'nd ball. Careless servants, though. I was glad to get +away alive."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I was discreetly in the background, of course, and was edging +across to get a better view when I fell over a pile of things on the +floor that they'd failed to brush up. Hostess gave 'em the glacial eye."</p> + +<p>"I should think she would," warmly commented Mead. "What was the stuff?"</p> + +<p>"Why, a bunch of ultras had just been standing there," demurely +explained O'Byrn, "and I fell over the dropped r's, that's all."</p> + +<p>Mead viewed him darkly. "You ought to be killed," he remarked. "Such +cheap and unseemly levity is unworthy of one who is pursuing this +honorable, elevating, expanding career of journalism." This with an +oratorical flourish.</p> + +<p>A shadow of seriousness crept into O'Byrn's twinkling eyes. "Of course +you're in fun, in a way," he told Mead, "but, just the same, you're +inclined to take your 'mission' seriously. My boy, you're due to shed a +raft of illusions. You'll find this 'career,' as you call it, is a good +deal like a hobby horse. Pleasant motion, but doesn't land you anywhere. +There's nothin' to it. I heard you talking the other day about 'the +great equipment it gives a fellow for a start in life.' That's all right +if taken in time, like the measles, but let me tell you something. You +stick at this, and stick and stick, and by the time you're ready for +that start, you'll be backin' up.</p> + +<p>"You were a cub a while ago, Mead, and you made<a class="pagenum" name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a> good. Naturally you +feel good about that, for a lot of 'em don't. Well, you needn't feel +good. You've got the germ, and it's fatal. You're to be pitied, for +you're thoroughly _en rapport_ with the job."</p> + +<p>O'Byrn had warmed to his subject; his cigar stub described wild +flourishes. "I knew a young fellow once, in the middle west, who went +into the reporting line. Brighter'n a dollar and full of ambition and +the opportunity hop. Tried hard, but hadn't the nose, couldn't make good +nohow. Old man called him up on the carpet one day. Old man went it for +a while and then the gosling got a chance for a squawk.</p> + +<p>"'Why,' says he in an injured way, 'I cover my assignments.'</p> + +<p>"'Oh, yes,' snaps the old man,—and he was one of the best in the +business,—'you're all right on the stereotype, tellin' the people what +they already know about. Any lunkhead can report a baby show. The +mothers are there to tell him about it. But that's only half the game. +The other and the hardest half is in diggin' out and tellin' 'em what +they don't know about. That's what you're for and it's where you fall +down.'</p> + +<p>"Well, the old man fired him. He was lucky. He's gettin' the salary of +three of us now and he's gettin' it out of straight life. Manages a +district. The old man who fired him died a while ago. Next time my +friend passed through that town he stopped off, just to shed some tears +of gratitude on the old man's grave.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you grin now, Mead, and you're thinkin' to yourself 'Old Carrots, +the senile cynic.' But just you stick at it, and fail to sidestep the +Juggernaut, and in years to come you'll remember the words your Uncle +Mike is now<a class="pagenum" name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a> addressin' to you and you'll feel the same sentiment the +old farmer from up north wrote on the back of a check.</p> + +<p>"Never heard of it? Well, it's true. Old fellow was from Clayville +Corners. Got a check one day for something. Never saw anything like that +before; always took his money straight. Someone told him to take it into +town and get it cashed at the bank. So he blows in and shoves the slip +in front of the cashier. Cashier says, 'You'll have to indorse this.' +Old man was rather rattled but stayed game. Took it over to the desk and +scribbled on the back this sentiment:</p> + +<p class="center">"'i hartily Indors this Chek.'</p> + +<p>"That'll be you, Mead, in the coming days. You'll think what Micky told +you and you'll heartily indorse. But it won't be checks. The only checks +you get in this cussed business are over-draws."</p> + +<p>"Nice, roseate view you take of your calling," sarcastically remarked +Mead. "Why in thunder don't you get out of it?"</p> + +<p>Micky's grin was illuminating and forgiving. "Because I can't do +anything else," he admitted frankly. "But you can. Why don't you? Try +politics. It's the graft these days. Then bimeby you can retire, like +Shaughnessy, and will never have to work anybody any more. But just you +stick at this newspaper stunt, and after a while you find, to your +surprise, that 'the zest and thrill of news gettin' which is the fillip +of the reporter's jaded life' is gettin' a dull edge. Of course, you're +older than you used to be, and that explains most things, includin' the +multiplyin' of troubles that come to you while you wait. The chiefest +one is in your speed. It's O. K. when you're young and your blood is +boundin'. You feel like that<a class="pagenum" name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a> brute owned by the enthusiastic French +Canadian. He was workin' a horse trade, and says: 'Dat hoss, she trot +half-past two. He no trot half-past two, I give you to it!'</p> + +<p>"Now, the trouble with the vet reporter is that by the time he gets to +an age that is considered the prime of life in any other line, why, he +can't half trot past anybody, and he gets scratched. And I think that +will hold you for a while, Mead. Think it over."</p> + +<p>O'Byrn yawned, glanced at the clock, and rose. "Well," said he, airily, +"I'm off, don't you know, to see if I can find something to make me +forget that society shindy. Oh, ya-a-s! Bubbles! you rude fellah; there +now, Bubbles! Go 'way, Mead. You're not so bad, you know, but you don't +belong. Tra, la! old chap, be good. What a pity you have to work for a +living!" With which parting arrant nonsense O'Byrn considerately took +himself off.</p> + +<p>Arrived at the street, Micky's jovial grin faded and he walked along +with a serious air that had been far more frequent with him of late. +There was a sober-sided Micky that few of his mates knew. Often now, +when the little Irishman was alone, the reckless light would fade in the +blue eyes, leaving them unwontedly serious; the jovial grin would quit +the freckled face, to be replaced by that pensive shadow that tells of +wistful, wondering speculation regarding the veiled mystery of futurity. +Such the spell of introspection that is cast when love comes to one, +leading to grave heart-searchings, to the tentative facing of one's +soul. There is as much of shadow as of sunlight in the path of true +love, but there is substance in the shadow.</p> + +<p>Micky was walking swiftly along, oblivious to his<a class="pagenum" name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a> animated +surroundings, when a touch upon an elbow arrested his attention. He +glanced up, somewhat bewildered, and stopped. One of Maisie's brothers, +Tom, was facing him.</p> + +<p>"Hello, O'Byrn," abruptly remarked Muldoon. "Saw you passing me, lookin' +dreamy-eyed, so I stopped you. Thought you might want to know. Maisie's +sick."</p> + +<p>"Sick!" echoed Micky, a scared look in his face. "Why, what—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't worry like that." reassuringly. "We called in the doctor; he +says there's no danger. She'll be all right."</p> + +<p>"Yes," Micky returned anxiously, "but what's the matter, man? Why, she +was all right Friday evening. I was there."</p> + +<p>"Yes," returned her brother, "it came on real sudden. It's that fever +that's going around; she came down last night. But she's got it mild, so +don't you worry. It's too late now, she's asleep, but run in tomorrow +for a minute sometime, can't you? It'll do her good. And don't worry, +old man." With a hearty slap on Micky's shoulder Tom passed on.</p> + +<p>Micky continued on his way, his heart heavy with the news. Of course, +she was not in danger, but illness in itself is depressing to the young. +They hate the sound of the word; the sight of suffering inspires in them +an odd, rebellious impatience. The sun is needed to brighten the gray +old world; why is it so often behind a cloud? "Poor little girl!" +murmured Micky, the tears starting to his eyes. Why, only last Friday +night she had been the picture of health and happiness, and they had sat +side by side on the little sofa and talked of their modest plans.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a> Yes, +and he had run into the store the next day and chatted with her for a +moment. And now she lay sick and helpless at home. A great wave of +tenderness suffused O'Byrn's warm Irish heart. Would he call to see her +for a moment on the morrow? Would he?</p> + +<p>Micky pressed on at a furious pace, impatiently winking smarting eyes, +puffing like a locomotive at a cigar whose end flared like a headlight. +For the moment he was oblivious to his surroundings, though hurrying +through a crowded, brilliantly lighted street. Mechanically he turned a +corner into a darker one. A moment more and he was recalled to earth by +a dry, remembered voice, a voice that broke disagreeably in upon his +reverie.</p> + +<p>"Can you give me a light?" it inquired, as Micky halted. "You seem to +have enough."</p> + +<p>Micky proffered his raging cigar and watched the man curiously as he +lighted it. Oddly enough, considering O'Byrn's wide acquaintance since +his brief stay in town, the two had never met. Under the dim radiance of +an adjacent old street lamp, Shaughnessy's face gleamed ghastly white, +the black moustache had an odd, limp droop. His weed lighted, he handed +Micky's cigar back with a slight nod of acknowledgment and was about to +turn away.</p> + +<p>O'Byrn's deviltry, irrepressible and eternal, asserted itself. "You're +lookin' bad, Mr. Shaughnessy," he remarked with impudent solicitude. +"<a name="Taint" id="Taint"></a><ins title="Original has Tain't">'Tain't</ins> good for you, this night air. Don't you go to them; you don't +have to. Make 'em come to you."</p> + +<p>For once Shaughnessy's impassive mask was disturbed, which Micky noted +with impish satisfaction. To be sure, it was not much. Where many a face +would have been<a class="pagenum" name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a> curiously distorted, the basilisk eyes of Shaughnessy +just widened and glared a moment, that was all. Then they narrowed and +became expressionless, while Shaughnessy deliberately removed his cigar +from his mouth and thoughtfully emitted a cloud of smoke.</p> + +<p>"Who are you?" he inquired casually.</p> + +<p>Micky had recourse to his card case. "Allow me," he remarked politely.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy glanced at it and thrust it in his vest pocket. "I've heard +of you," he acknowledged. "Fine night, eh? Good evening." He moved +leisurely +<a name="away" id="away"></a><ins title="No fullstop in original">away.</ins> O'Byrn hailed him and he turned.</p> + +<p>"I haven't one of your cards, Mr. Shaughnessy," suggested Micky, +grinning wickedly.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy vouchsafed him a slight, sneering smile. "I don't think you +need it," he retorted, "but I'm glad, I'm sure, that you gave me yours." +He passed on and turned the corner.</p> + +<p>Micky was a veteran newsgetter, which means that he was also a good +detective. Wary as Shaughnessy was, he could not have known that he was +being shadowed, though O'Byrn noticed him several times casting +apprehensive glances to the rear. He smiled grimly at the implied +tribute to his reputation and discreetly kept out of sight. In the +meantime he had necessarily dropped some distance behind the boss, +though carefully following him as he traversed successive streets. +Suddenly, however, he turned sharply at a cross-alley, and when O'Byrn, +hurrying his pace, reached there, Shaughnessy was nowhere to be seen.</p> + +<p>Micky stood perplexed, cursing softly. He hurried to the end of the +alley to Lawrence Street and looked up and<a class="pagenum" name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a> down it, without result. He +walked aimlessly here and there about the section, but no glad sight of +Shaughnessy rewarded his keen eyes.</p> + +<p>After some little time, however, O'Byrn saw a familiar figure crossing +Lawrence Street, a block from the point where the alley intersected. The +Irishman was instantly alert, for the man was former Alderman Goldberg. +"Gad!" muttered Micky, "the woods seem to be full of 'retired' +politicians." Gaining the opposite side of the street, Goldberg turned +west and walked about two blocks, with O'Byrn discreetly behind, across +the way. Suddenly Goldberg disappeared within a doorway. Micky chuckled +softly.</p> + +<p>"Up over Hogan's, eh?" he muttered. "So that's the trysting place." He +must investigate, surely, but not just now. Perhaps there were other +birds of the sinister brood to arrive. O'Byrn, with the canny discretion +born of long reportorial experience, lurked for the present in a +shadowed doorway. In a little while his caution was justified, for there +arrived simultaneously at the "trysting place" the lanky Dick Peterson +and the rotund Willie Shute, known to Micky for the precious pair of +political rascals they were. "That fake convention! Oh, what a bluff!" +breathed the Irishman, with a definite admiration in his subdued tones. +One could honestly admire a masterly _coup_ like that, nor could he +withhold a certain tribute to the ability of the scoundrel responsible +for it. Shaughnessy was a genius, burrowing in the dark places; where +the searching sunlight would have been fatal.</p> + +<p>Micky waited a little longer, but the circle was evidently complete. +They would not naturally keep the boss waiting long, for O'Byrn made no +doubt that he was<a class="pagenum" name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a> with them. The Irishman was fired with an intense +desire to hear that conference. Already he knew that Shaughnessy was +there, and matters were proceeding under the same masterly hand as of +yore; only it was "the hidden hand" now, and all the more deadly for +that reason. O'Byrn was convinced that he ought to be an unnoted auditor +of that meeting, though he knew there were difficulties in the way. It +was not probable that Hogan neglected precautions against any possible +disturbance of these little conferences, for it was a natural +supposition that he had his orders to that effect.</p> + +<p>However, nothing was to be gained by standing and speculating about it. +So Micky, with sundry unspoken prayers for immunity from a broken head, +crossed the street and approached the doorway. He opened the door +cautiously and slipped inside. By a single gas light, turned religiously +low, he saw the white aproned form of a waiter standing at the head of +the flight of stairs. In that moment the man started down stairs.</p> + +<p>The way to the cafe was through a long, dark passage, at the end of +which the dim gas light did not penetrate. In an instant the wily O'Byrn +had retreated into this passage, where he flattened against the wall. +The sleeve of the waiter brushed his body as that worthy passed on into +the cafe. A gust of boisterous talk and tipsy laughter sounded from the +saloon as the door was opened. Then it was closed, and Micky, without a +second's hesitation, made for the stairs and crept softly up, trusting +to luck.</p> + +<p>He heard a murmur of voices from the larger of the two rooms that faced +a narrow hall, which in turn looked out upon a side street through its +two small windows.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a> Between the two rooms there was a narrow passage, +terminating in a flight of steep stairs which led down into Hogan's +kitchen. These stairs were seldom used. The building, an architectural +anomaly in the first place, had been further mangled by the odd ideas of +Hogan.</p> + +<p>Micky slipped around into this friendly little passageway just as the +waiter came up stairs with a loaded tray. Micky heard him knock, enter +the room, and shortly return. To his disgust the Irishman failed to hear +the waiter's descending footsteps. Evidently he was supposed to stand +guard and see that the coast was kept clear.</p> + +<p>Micky swore silently. Then he made a discovery which filled him with +glee. The light streamed from the all-important room through an aperture +high in the wall; evidently a disused stovepipe hole, which Hogan had +carelessly forgotten to cover after he put in his furnace. More than +this, Micky noted, in the dim light of other gas jets in the hall +outside, that directly under this hole stood a small but substantial +table, on exceptionally high legs.</p> + +<p>To noiselessly gain the top of the table occupied but an instant for the +agile Irishman. His eager, freckled face was thrust close to the +observatory. He had a swift glimpse of that precious group, the charmed +circle complete, and then occurred a thing that froze his blood.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Goldberg, Goldberg of the illimitable brow, sprang to his feet +with shaking fist and crimsoned face. He extended his arm; the swollen +fist resolved itself into a single accusing finger, pointed straight at +O'Byrn. Goldberg's little pig eyes shot fire, he glared murderously at +the stove pipe hole. "Oh, you spy! you damned spy!" he yelled. Micky +waited to hear no more.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a> +He gained the floor at a jump and swung around the corner. The +unsuspecting waiter stood directly between him and the front stairs. +Micky lowered his head and charged like a lively little bull. The dazed +waiter crashed to the floor and Micky gained the bottom of the stairs in +three bounds.</p> + +<p>In that very instant, however, the sound of a loud commotion, a volley +of curses, came from above. Instead of gaining the street, O'Byrn +instinctively retreated into the dark passage between the stairs and the +cafe, where he crouched and waited. The next moment, with a succession +of bumps, some object came thudding down the stairs and reached the +bottom with a deep groan. There was a rush of feet on the landing above, +eager to follow.</p> + +<p>In a flash O'Byrn had sprung forward, turning off the single gas jet, +flinging the door wide open. Then, as a second heavy body came tumbling +down the stairs, evidently through a stumble in the darkness, O'Byrn +stooped, and gathering a limp, senseless form in his arms, gained the +street. Dragging his burden, he wheeled into the adjoining alley. He +heard swift footsteps in the street. Goldberg hurried by, limping and +cursing. He it was who had fallen down stairs.</p> + +<p>Micky chuckled. "'Twasn't me they were after, at all," he muttered. Then +he bent low, gazing sharply into the white face of his senseless burden. +He gave a start of surprise.</p> + +<p>It was Slade.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a> +<a name="xv" id="xv"></a>CHAPTER XV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">USEFUL INFORMATION</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">O<span class="normal">'</span>BYRN'S eyes glistened. Here were possibilities, to be sure, but the +first thing to do was to get out of that quarter, which might be too +warm for comfort in a few minutes. Even as the reflection struck him, +Micky backed close against the wall, in the deepest shadows, as a man +rushed past him through the alley. It was Dick Peterson. The whole gang +must be out looking for Slade. To add to the discomfort of the +situation, the weather made good its threat of many hours' standing and +it began to rain. Slade lay inert, still unconscious from the fall. +Micky scratched his head in deep perplexity. He had no intention of +leaving the fellow, but what should he do with him?</p> + +<p>Fortune was kind. At that moment a cab swung into the alley from +Lawrence Street at a leisurely pace. The driver was evidently taking a +short cut to more travelled thoroughfares. O'Byrn halted him and invoked +his assistance in loading Slade into the vehicle. "My friend's drunk," +he laconically explained, to which the cabby grunted a gruff assent.</p> + +<p>Slade had recovered his jarred senses by the time the cab arrived at a +point near Micky's lodging, and the Irishman prudently stopped the +driver, and paying him, dismissed<a class="pagenum" name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a> him. It would never do to leave a +clear trail for Shaughnessy's gang, should they chance to stumble upon +it at all. He asked the still dazed Slade to wait for him a few minutes +in an adjacent drug store while he hurried over to the city hall, which +was near at hand, and telephoned the Courier office, informing Mr. +Harkins that he had a chance for a future "beat" that would have to be +improved at once, and he wouldn't be back. "All right, keep at work on +it. We won't need you," Harkins telephoned, and Micky rejoined Slade.</p> + +<p>He piloted Slade to his lodgings, took him to his room, lighted his gas +heater and the two jets and installed his guest in the big easy chair +which the room boasted. He took the rocker himself, drawing it +confidentially close to Slade's chair. He then produced cigars, holding +a match for Slade to light his weed. "Smoke up, old man," remarked +Micky, cordially. "It'll be comfortably warm here in a few minutes. +Stretch out and pull yourself together. You got a nasty fall." Slade +smiled slightly, without words, and arranged himself luxuriously in the +big chair, puffing thoughtfully at his weed. A pleasant glow stole +through the room. Micky, also puffing methodically, was silent as his +companion, philosophically waiting for the spirit to move. Cautiously +watching Slade, he was gratified to see a sullen, smouldering fire in +the queer black eyes, ordinarily as indifferent as a Chinaman's. Slade +would evidently be in a confidential mood in a few moments, and Micky +could well afford to wait.</p> + +<p>Not many newspaper men could have expected Nick Slade, accredited heeler +for the Shaughnessy gang, to wax confidential, under any circumstances, +to a representative<a class="pagenum" name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a> of the press. His very presence at that moment, in +the room of a reporter of the Courier, of all papers, was anomalous. But +O'Byrn was shrewd. He had learned early that success for the reporter on +a daily newspaper depends on his being all things to all men. Tact is +the little key that unlocks all doors. A hundred different plans of +campaign are needed for a hundred different men, yet every man must be +met on a broad and common field of friendliness. Anything short of that +curtails the reporter's field of usefulness. One shorter sighted than +Micky would perhaps have avoided making Slade's acquaintance in the +beginning, on the ground that he was not a respectable person. To be +sure he was not. Slade himself would be the last to question the +impeachment. Because of this very lack of respectability, Slade's good +graces were valuable to Micky, for a large proportion of the news that +the public revels in is garnered from the ranks of the non-respectable. +There is little in the life of your ordinary, respectable citizen to +keep the typesetters busy, for there is nothing sensational in virtue +unless it be possessed by a politician. Then it is inexplicable. But the +record of the ordinary esteemed citizen can usually be summed up in the +horns of life's trilemma: birth, marriage and death, unless, indeed, he +excels at golf. The newspapers still devote considerable space to it.</p> + +<p>Slade knew the men who made much of the real news of the town, the news +with fat head-lines. To be sure, many of them figured in it unwillingly, +but that was a minor consideration, for their doings often made and sold +extras. Chance had thrown Slade in Micky's way early in the Irishman's +career in the town, and the reporter's<a class="pagenum" name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a> trained journalistic sense told +him that Slade's confidence would be valuable. So it had been. The +episode in Goldberg's saloon, when Slade evaded wrath that fell upon the +luckless head of O'Byrn, had not ended their acquaintance. Micky had +found occasion to do Slade some good turns since then. And now +Slade,—from ambuscade, to be sure, but none the less effectively,—was +destined to reciprocate tenfold.</p> + +<p>Slade had been a heeler for the gang. It was not an important post, +affording a pose in the limelight, but that fact had its compensations. +Evidently Slade, in trying, perhaps, to fit himself surreptitiously for +larger responsibilities, had come to grief. And, as Micky watched him, +smoking in the big chair, he noted a fire of sullen resentment kindling +in Slade's eyes.</p> + +<p>"Say, old man," inquired Slade suddenly, "where'd you pick me up +tonight? How'd you happen to connect with me, anyway?"</p> + +<p>Micky grinned. "Why, I was up to the same game you were, I guess," he +explained. "Shaughnessy passed me tonight, and, though I'd never met +him, I couldn't help throwin' the con' into him a little, just for luck. +I'd seen some things, you know, and I guess he was next to what I was +drivin' at, all right. But he never turned a hair and went on, with me +doin' a quick sneak after him. I missed him finally, but some of his +gang blew along, and after a while I was up stairs in Hogan's, perched +on a table and rubberin' through a hole in the wall. All of a sudden up +jumps Goldberg, yellin' something about a spy, and I thought I was +copped for fair. I was down stairs in three shakes, and I went through a +waiter like a halfback to do it. I was just about to<a class="pagenum" name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a> breathe the open +when you bumped along down. You were dead to the world when I dragged +you out, I guess, and I kept you out of sight of the gang,—which was +looking for you, my boy,—till I got the cab. And here you are. +Goldberg's as good a bouncer as his man Mulligan, ain't he?"</p> + +<p>"Goldberg?" echoed Slade. "Nit, young feller, he never touched me. They +were all grabbin' for me at once, and I shook the whole bunch, just as I +did in that session at Goldberg's. I wound around like a gimlet for a +minute and I was goin' some when I went through the door. Then," in a +tone of deep disgust, "I had to miss my bearin's, of course, and when I +brought my hoof down for the first stair I must have hit about the last +one, I guess. Anyway, the lights went out." He shook his head +mournfully, while O'Byrn chuckled.</p> + +<p>"Don't you mind," said he soothingly, "Goldberg got a worse one than +you. He bumped along down after you, and afterward he was hoppin' around +on one leg lookin' for Nicky, who was just then safe in the arms of +Micky. And then along blew the dear old cab. I told the cabby you were +drunk, you know."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you did, did you?" without enthusiasm. "No such luck this time. Oh, +it's all right; it was a good bluff. Now about the rough-house. It was a +funny stunt, your happenin' to be there at the same time I was. You've +got your nerve with you, all right. As for yours truly, I'd been there +so often before, without any trouble, that I must have got careless. +Anyway, their talk was interesting and I shoved my face out from behind +the sideboard a little too far, and up jumps that bald-headed dog of a +Goldberg. And now my goose is cooked."</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a> +He sat silent for a few moments, moodily puffing his cigar and scowling +blackly. O'Byrn critically watched him, without words. The sullen glow +returned to Slade's eyes, his sallow cheeks flushed slightly. Then, with +a savage oath, he leaped to his feet, facing the waiting Irishman.</p> + +<p>"See here!" he exclaimed fiercely, "I owe you for more than one good +turn, and I guess if you hadn't happened to be on deck tonight those +dogs would have killed me. You're a good feller and they're a bunch of +yellow curs. I've worked for 'em for all I was worth for a long while, +done dirty work for 'em, and what have I got? Just promises and a run +around the rim, that's all, when I've got enough in me to be helpin' to +work the calliope in the inside. And they know it, too,—they know I +ain't no fool. Many's the time has Dick Peterson, the rotten liar, said +to me: 'Slade, my boy, you're the stuff; we're goin' to take care of +you.' Promises, promises to burn! And it's all I've had.</p> + +<p>"Well, that's the way it went, while they kept on playin' me for a +sucker. Many's the job I've done for Peterson that he didn't have the +sand for to do himself. I was always willin'." Micky suppressed a smile +at the injured sorrow in Slade's tones. The ex-heeler shrugged his +shoulders wearily and resumed his seat. The savagery had departed from +his demeanor, replaced by an air of dogged malice.</p> + +<p>"Why, that gang of lepers," he resumed impressively, "that bunch of +hard-hearted slobs would have dumped me in a minute, after that little +scrape me and you was mixed up in at Goldberg's, if it hadn't been for +Peterson, and he ain't used me right to any extent since then,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a> either. +But if it hadn't been for him I'd have got t'run down then, with never a +thought for what I'd done for 'em. You're always pure wool while you can +be used, then you're cheap crash; remember that, my boy. I was kin' o' +hangin' on by my teeth, though, till tonight. Now it's some other burg +for mine, or likely get killed. Well, that's all right, too. They're +racin' in other burgs as well as this, and I guess Slade can make a few +other little pick-ups, too, just to keep the wolf away." He smiled +cunningly.</p> + +<p>"But before I take the choo-choos out," he continued, his eyes alive +with malice as he bent toward Micky, "there's a score to settle with +this lovely old Shaughnessy gang that I'm thinkin' will jar more than +one of 'em clear behind the bars. You know this Shaughnessy. He's a deep +one, though I notice you was onto him the very day of the convention. +Nobody knows what he's drivin' at except his own little ring, the ring +that everyone in this buncoed town, barrin' me and you and a mighty few +others, thinks has turned him down. Turned him down!" Slade laughed +dryly. "Why, he's got every mother's son of 'em by the neck; could jail +every cursed one of 'em and crawl out of the muss himself. Oh, I believe +he could, he's the devil himself.</p> + +<p>"But there's one that's fooled him," exultantly, "and he won't know how +much till election day. Sure, they caught me tonight, but do you think +for a minute they'll find out that I've been attendin' their devilish +little seances for months, unbeknown to 'em? Well, I have. I was at the +meetin' that decided this whole funny programme that is givin' Fusion +black eyes every minute, and Fusion would have won out in a canter if it +had<a class="pagenum" name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a> anyone else than this devil of a Shaughnessy to buck against. I was +at that meetin', and I thought I knew a thing or two, but say, feller, +the nerve of that proposition got my alley. When Shaughnessy sprung it +on the bunch I came near dyin' prematoorly on the spot by wantin' to +jump out from behind the sideboard and tellin' Shaughnessy he was a +gilt-edged dandy; which he is, if he ain't got no soul. 'But,' says the +gang, when he sprung it, 'it won't work. They won't follow us when we +talk of throwin' you down. The party'll get hacked to pieces in its own +convention.' 'Gentlemen,' says he, 'I never mixed with the hoi-polloi +anyway, didn't have to. You have. They don't like me and they do like +you. Work this thing slick, as I tell you to, and you'll have 'em all +marking time to your music.' And it was so. Remember the convention? The +reformers thought it meant a clean bill; the grafters thought it would +be a gang more lavish than Shaughnessy had been. Oh, it was a lovely +move. And he's on top yet, and they don't know it."</p> + +<p>He gave Micky a lingering look. "I'm for gettin' even," he said. "You've +been trying to get onto the trail ever since the convention; you've had +your suspicions. I saw you myself the other night; walked from +Shaughnessy's office back of you, after that old whitewashed graveyard +of a nominee for mayor had left there. I was there, just as I'd been at +others, though Mr. Shaughnessy never invited me. Of course, they're +careful about windows, etc., but I can always make good somehow on a +still hunt. What do I know? I know the whole rotten business. The circle +always goes into particulars and there have been some beautiful +give-and-takes between Shaughnessy and old Graveyard-Whiskers. Whiskers<a class="pagenum" name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a> +don't want to stand, not for a minute, you know, but Shaughnessy holds +him to the gaff because he's _respectable_." This with a grim laugh. +"Shaughnessy got his hooks on him years ago; it's a funny story, I +guess. The old man hates to give up living decent; he knows if he's +elected it'll be the worst administration of graft this city or any +other ever saw. He can't help himself; Shaughnessy's claws are in him."</p> + +<p>Micky was bending forward. Imagined possibilities were assuming definite +shape. "Is +<a name="is" id="is"></a><ins title="Original has is">it</ins> Consolidated Gas?" he asked, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Consolidated Gas!" Slade echoed. "Why, son, that's only the beginning. +It's a long, hard story, a bigger one than you'll want to believe, but I +know where you can get the proofs for it. I've been busy for a long +time. When I saw the gang wasn't goin' to do anything for me, I began to +find out about things on my own hook, and I've got a way of doin' it and +I remember what I hear. When this thing was over and Fusion was knocked +out, I was goin' to diplomatically introduce myself into a better thing, +and then I'd have got it. But that's all changed now. When I remember +that those lepers I've done so much for would have liked to murder me +tonight, I get hell-hot. I want to see 'em downed now. I'm tired of the +rotten town anyway. Now, I put you on, see? You have to do the work, for +I've got to keep out of sight. <a name="Twont" id="Twont"></a><ins title="Original has 'T won't">'Twon't</ins> be safe for me to be floatin' +around the old diggin's, for I'm a 'traitor' now, you know, and a 'dirty +spy.' But don't you care, it's a rich thing for you. You'll be at the +top of the newspaper heap. I'll stay around here on the q. t. long +enough to see the fun, and then it's me quietly out. There's an Indian +streak in me, I guess,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a> and it's doing double duty just now." His +malevolent face looked it.</p> + +<p>For the next hour Micky listened to a recital that filled him with +gaping amazement at a revelation of municipal iniquity, spreading to the +State-house and even beyond, that was undreamed of by the general +public. It thrilled him with the lust to secure as big, pulsing, +astounding chapters in a vital news story as were ever written. At the +close, and when some talk had been devoted to his plan of procedure, +Slade arose to depart. "I've got some friends, in a quiet place, that +won't give me away," he announced.</p> + +<p>Micky accompanied him to the front door. "Good night, Santa Claus," he +said, with twinkling eyes, and Slade, somewhat mystified, unobtrusively +departed.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a> +<a name="xvi" id="xvi"></a>CHAPTER XVI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">HIS BETTER SIDE</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">WHEN he had seen Slade safely off, Micky returned to the office and +reported to Harkins, receiving a late assignment of a night police story +which they desired "fixed up" in the style which was peculiarly O'Byrn's +own. He contented himself just now with telling Harkins that he had been +after something which promised well, but "wasn't ripe enough yet to +spring." He felt that the thing was so surprisingly big that it would be +better not to mention it officially till he could be sure of being able +to secure it. Slade's narrative had opened up thrilling +<a name="possibilities" id="possibilities"></a><ins title="Original has posibilities">possibilities</ins>; +it remained for O'Byrn to secure the proofs before he could venture to +say anything, much less to write a single line. This would take hard +work and subtlety, but Micky looked forward confidently to the prospect +of scoring the most brilliant _coup_ in the history of newspaperdom in +that town.</p> + +<p>It would have to be done quickly, too, for the time was growing short. +The Courier, and the papers which united with it in the support of +Fusion, were pounding away on a forlorn hope, thanks to Shaughnessy's +masterly checkmate. They were confined to inveighing against the past; +which was black enough, to be sure. But the Democracy, having apparently +reformed from within, was<a class="pagenum" name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a> evidently preparing for a regenerated future. +This called back many who had been temporarily alienated, and Fusion's +chances daily grew slimmer. If the proof could be adduced for Slade's +revelations, O'Byrn knew that a very simoon of public wrath would at the +eleventh hour sweep over Shaughnessy and his crew. His eyes sparkled. +The simoon should be forthcoming.</p> + +<p>His work kept him late, and the gray dawn was breaking when he walked +wearily back to his lodgings and tumbled into bed. It was long ere he +could sleep, for the glittering possibilities of that story whirled +through his brain. At last, however, he fell into slumber that was +disturbed by dreams in which he engaged continuously in fantastic +warfare with Shaughnessy, and in which he continually got the worst of +it. It was in the nature of a relief to Micky, on awaking about noon, to +reflect a little upon the good old adage that dreams go by contraries.</p> + +<p>Having had breakfast at an hour even unfashionably late, Micky sauntered +over to the office. He moved with unwonted deliberation, for this was to +be his night off. He had thought many times of Maisie, who was ill, and +had decided that late in the afternoon would be the best time to make +the call her brother had suggested. He must kill a little time till +then. So he took his way instinctively to the office, being one of those +unquiet newspaper spirits that hover uneasily about the hive, even when +they have a brief breathing space in which to drone a little.</p> + +<p>Now that the first shock of the announcement of the girl's illness was +over, Micky viewed the situation with more composure. Her brother had +said it was not serious, and Micky knew that the fever to which Maisie<a class="pagenum" name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a> +had fallen a victim, and which was quite prevalent in the city, existed +in a mild form. She would be out in a few days, but—ah! it was too bad, +anyway. Micky sought indignantly to blink away the moisture that +treacherously gathered in his eyes.</p> + +<p>Reaching the office, he hung around aimlessly for a while, watching the +rest of them work. He was more silent than usual and made rather brief +replies to their greetings and subsequent comments. It was rather odd to +see him mooning in this way, and they conspired together to "jounce" him +out of it.</p> + +<p>It chanced that a certain old gentleman from a near-by village was +prowling about the office that afternoon. He was a relative of the +business manager, who had asked the boys up stairs to "tell him +about things." As he was of a very curious turn of mind, and very +unsophisticated to boot, the boys soon saw they were in for it. They +spied Micky, moodily gazing out of the window, and swiftly hatched a +plan whereby the venerable visitor was soon introduced to Micky with the +understanding that O'Byrn should "put him next."</p> + +<p>Micky would not allow his mates, who hovered near in expectation of the +fun, the satisfaction of any visible annoyance on his part. He grinned +affably at the aged seeker after knowledge, and ceremoniously drew up a +chair. "I can tell you all about it easier than I can show you," he +explained innocently, then launched forth.</p> + +<p>In ten minutes he had told the visitor more about the newspaper business +than there really is. "Oh, what a pipe!" enthusiastically whispered the +delighted listeners, whose presence Micky minded not at all. He dwelt +particularly and pathetically upon the amount of work which<a class="pagenum" name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a> is expected +from a newspaper man by his unfeeling editors. Not content with +ascribing to the luckless reporter a stint of forty-eight hours' work in +every twenty-four, he calmly outlined an imaginary daily programme for +himself that staggered even the credulous old gentleman.</p> + +<p>"But, young man," said he vaguely, when Micky had finished and sat +regarding him with owlish gravity, "what—er—what do you do in your +spare time?"</p> + +<p>The boys, knowing what weakness was Micky's crowning handicap, were in a +position to appreciate the reply, which might have somewhat puzzled the +old gentleman.</p> + +<p>"My spare time?" mused Micky. "Well, let me see; what do I do in my +spare time? Oh, yes," with a relieved expression, "to be sure. In my +spare time I hunt for another job." And he walked out, followed by a +roar of laughter in which the bewildered old gentleman did not join.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with me? I'm gettin' to be a woman!" muttered Micky a +few moments later, as he turned southward from the avenue to go to +Maisie's. For Micky had caught himself, to his disgust, bestowing +remorseful thought upon the bewildered old gentleman. Why should Micky +have "strung" him, why have made him the sport of his mates? Had he not +gray hairs, were not his years of eld?</p> + +<p>Now ordinarily these considerations would have troubled Micky not at +all, and he might readily be pardoned his dismay at evidences of the +growth of a crop of nice scruples, entirely new and perplexing. O'Byrn +was not used to the subtleties of conscience. It was not so long ago +that he could have dismissed the thought of the gaping old fellow with +the moment of parting. But now<a class="pagenum" name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a> the wondering blue eyes, the blank old +face, dismayed at the concerted burst of shrill laughter, troubled +O'Byrn. It would not have done so in former days; why now?</p> + +<p>Why, it was the girl, of course. Micky's freckled face softened, his +eyes grew wistful as the explanation occurred to him. Could he not +trace, in a thousand and one little ways, a change in his life since she +came into it? Assuredly, and for the better. Micky acknowledged frankly +to himself that his love for her, and hers for him, was Christianizing +him; not in a concrete sense, to be sure, for O'Byrn's thoughts were +little concerned with religion, as such. Thrown upon his own resources +at an early age, he was essentially a world-product; but now, through +this love for a girl,—a new experience for him,—the little Irishman +was undergoing a refining process that surprised even himself. No +startling change was there, but in a multitude of little ways was shown +the gentle influence of this new element in Micky's life. More of +tenderness; more potent impulses to kindliness; free-flowing charity +toward all. For, in the beatific dawn of love, is a summons for the best +in poor, dross-ridden human nature to arise; and, at least temporarily, +the happy lover radiates peace and good will toward all mankind.</p> + +<p>So Micky, sauntering thoughtfully along, continued superfluously to +reflect upon his irreverence to the poor old man,—who probably had not +minded it half as much as O'Byrn did,—until the recurrent thoughts of +Maisie banished the incident from his mind. He was dancing with her at +the Ironworkers' ball, he sat with her in the little parlor, he heard +the sweet voice of her—and it was with a distinct sense of bewilderment +that he awoke to<a class="pagenum" name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a> find himself halted mechanically before the little +house in which she lay.</p> + +<p>Advancing doubtfully, half fearfully, he rang the bell. The door opened +and Maisie's mother greeted him. No, she said, Maisie was not seriously +ill, was quite comfortable. She had been asking for him, would be glad +he had come. Indeed, said Mrs. Muldoon, she had been wondering if he +would come.</p> + +<p>"Come?" echoed Micky, as he followed her in. "Come? Why, I've been +thinkin' of her ever since I heard it. Gee! I'm glad she's feelin' so +well. Hello, Terence!" He clutched playfully, in a rush of relieved +feeling, at the thick thatch of the youngest Muldoon, who stood agape in +the doorway, eyeing him. Terence grinned and took to his heels.</p> + +<p>Maisie's mother ushered Micky upstairs. A light streamed through a +partially opened door at the end of the hall. It was from Maisie's room, +and Micky entered slowly, timidly,—as a devotee would approach a +shrine.</p> + +<p>As it had been through a mist, for the blood rushed tumultuously to his +head, he saw her sweet face, radiant with welcome and love for him; saw +the little white hands, eagerly outstretched toward him. In an instant +they were lost to sight within his trembling own; he bent over her, +murmuring broken words, with an odd choke in his throat and big tears +gathering in his eyes. He winked them indignantly, strove to clear his +burred throat. The attempt ended dismally in a strangling gasp.</p> + +<p>The girl laughed tremulously; but the tears, summoned by the sight of +the lad's emotion, were very near her own eyes. "Why, Micky!" she said +softly. "What's the<a class="pagenum" name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a> matter? Why, I'm not really sick, you know; that +is, not bad. Only—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, little girl, I know," he interrupted, recovering himself. "I +didn't mean to go up in the air like that, honest I didn't. But seein' +you laid up like this, why, it just hit me where I live, that's all." +His lip quivered.</p> + +<p>"There, there!" Maisie's mother, good old soul, was patting him on his +meagre shoulder. "Of course it hit ye where ye live; in yer warm Irish +heart, to be sure. But ye needn't worry, for the doctor says Maisie has +a mild case and will be out soon. Well, I'll leave ye now, she's been +lookin' for ye. Of course, ye can't stay long, for the doctor says she's +got to be quiet. But have a little chat wid her, an' I'm glad ye came +up, me boy." And she bustled out, radiating hearty, wholesome, everyday +motherliness.</p> + +<p>For some moments after she had gone the boy and girl were silent. O'Byrn +had drawn a chair close to the small white bed and sat quietly, her hand +in his. It was hot, the little hand, and fevered roses bloomed in her +soft cheeks. Her beautiful eyes, alight with joy at his coming, gazed +happily into his own for a moment, then closed, a little wearily, as she +lay content.</p> + +<p>Softly pressing the little answering hand, Micky looked dreamily about +the room. It spoke eloquently of her, small and modest and instinct with +peaceful purity. It was appointed simply in white, from the pretty +curtains at the two small windows to dresser and bureau and quaint +old-fashioned chairs. On a small stand a lamp burned dimly, for the +outer dusk had turned into early autumn night. The tiny clock struck the +half-hour.</p> + +<p>Her eyes opened. "I'm glad you're here, Micky," she<a class="pagenum" name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a> said softly. "I've +been hopin' you'd come. I hate to lie here all day long. 'Tisn't +natural," with a rueful laugh. "But I don't want you to feel bad, Micky. +You don't need to, I'm all right."</p> + +<p>"I know you are, girl," he answered heartily. "But it struck me all of a +heap, somehow, seeing you stretched out like this. I knew you would be +laid up, of course; but, don't you know, you can think about a thing all +right, but it's different when you actually run up against it."</p> + +<p>She laughed gaily. "Does anyone else say things just like you?" she +wondered. "That sounds just like your dear old slangy self, Micky. But +anyway, you hit the nail on the head, every time."</p> + +<p>"And drive it through." He grinned joyfully at her. "Talk some more like +that, Maisie," he urged her. "You sound like yourself. Oh, we'll have +you on your pins in no time."</p> + +<p>"You bet!" She smiled back at him. "Oh, I hadn't ought to complain, I +know. Others are having it worse than me. There's poor Julia Orr, worked +in the store with me once. She died yesterday—"</p> + +<p>"Don't, Maisie!" His voice was unsteady. "Don't speak of dying—anybody! +I can't stand it! I hate the thought of it!"</p> + +<p>"Why, Micky!" Her blue eyes were solemn. "We all die, don't we? You've +known it almost since you were born. You've got to get used to it."</p> + +<p>He forced a smile. "Well, we won't talk about it now," he declared. +"It's depressing. How'd you like your flowers?"</p> + +<p>"Oh!" she cried, in distress. "And I meant to thank<a class="pagenum" name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a> you for 'em when +you first came in, and I forgot it. You ought to feel complimented. You +drove 'em out of my mind. Bring 'em here."</p> + +<p>"Match the room," he commented, as he complied. She smiled assent, and, +selecting one of the white roses, raised herself upon her pillows and +pinned it upon his coat lapel. "There!" said she, admiring the effect. +"You'll do, now."</p> + +<p>Again his wide grin cleft his freckled face. "The whole conservatory +wouldn't help much," he observed.</p> + +<p>"'Tis a homely boy you picked out, Maisie."</p> + +<p>"My boy is good enough for me," she returned gently, "as long as he +keeps on trying, and does the best he can."</p> + +<p>His face grew shadowed. "That's just it, girl," he said, rather sadly. +"Someone said once that 'the best is bad enough,' and if that's so, what +of my worst?"</p> + +<p>"Your worst is for you to fight," answered this young sibyl. "Your worst +is never as bad as it seems to you, just as long as you keep on fightin' +it. And you will, Micky, won't you?" Her arms were stretched impulsively +toward him.</p> + +<p>He caught her hands, his eyes burning. "Till hell freezes over!" he told +her, grimly. "Oh, excuse me!" he added confusedly. "I didn't mean—"</p> + +<p>"Never mind, Micky, never mind!" she told him, with a laugh in her eyes. +"I know how you feel."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I guess you do!" he muttered. "If I could only blot out some +things—if I'd been different from the beginning—if I'd had some +chance—if I amounted to something now—ah! dreams—dreams!"</p> + +<p>"Keep on dreaming, Micky," she said softly. "They'll<a class="pagenum" name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a> take you on the +right road—you're on it now—and they'll come true!"</p> + +<p>There was a hesitant step outside. He arose, bending and taking her in +his arms.</p> + +<p>"I hope—I guess—I'm on the right road," he breathed. "And you've shown +me the way, little girl; you have, for fair. Well, I must be going, I +hear your mother outside. I've stayed too long now; I mustn't tire you. +Well, good night, dear."</p> + +<p>He withdrew, to walk home with the dear shrined image of her in his +swelling heart; with her tender words of faith in him to summon a maze +of happy dreams.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a> +<a name="xvii" id="xvii"></a>CHAPTER XVII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">THE COUP IN SIGHT</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">THE succeeding fortnight found the Fusionists much exercised in mind. Do +what they could, the trend was steadily, and with gathering impetus, the +other way; the way of the devil, as the Fusion leaders firmly believed, +but they could not induce the balance of voting power to think likewise. +With the election now but a few days off, the chances for the Reform +ticket looked hopeless.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" groaned Colonel Westlake, in a conversation with the Courier's +managing editor one evening, "if only we could nail 'em somewhere! But +there was never a time when everything was locked up as it is now. You +can't get anything. We've whaled all the chaff out of the old straw, but +it doesn't do any good. It's a different proposition from what it looked +to be in the first place, isn't it? I'm convinced, though, that if we +could only dig up what's beneath the surface on this deal, we'd win out +yet, late as it is. It's a forlorn hope, but everybody must keep his +eyes open, that's all. I'll tell you one thing, the man that happened to +turn the trick would have no occasion to regret it, and don't you forget +it!"</p> + +<p>Unknown to the Colonel, as it was unknown also to the managing editor +and to Harkins, the man who was to turn the trick was steadily forging +ahead in the process.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a> Micky, however, had kept his own counsel. This +was not a matter to be bawled from the house-tops, or even whispered in +secret, until the moment came in which he might confidently warn his +superiors to prepare to exploit the story. The task was one to be +prosecuted with infinite caution, and he was pursuing it alone. It would +be time to speak of it when he had it so flanked by facts, and fortified +by proof, that the town should read it aghast and rally at the eleventh +hour to save itself.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile O'Byrn was not idle. He had already satisfied himself, by +actual proof, of the value of Slade's tips. The time spent by that +worthy in subterranean research had evidently been well expended. There +was, clinched and ready for publication, much that was startling. The +information had been gained, moreover, from various sources involving +difficulties in handling, yet Micky had proceeded thus far without +causing a ripple of uneasiness in the turbid waters, and the knaves +whose undoing he sought were in blissful ignorance of the formidable net +that was closing about them. The layman will wonder how this could be, +but the trained newspaper man will readily understand how a "star" +worker like O'Byrn, gifted with far more than ordinary subtlety, could +accomplish a result which a good reporter, in less degree perhaps, has +frequently to negotiate in his arduous calling.</p> + +<p>The crowning fact, however, must be nailed home before the Irishman +could spring his story; the fact to which all other things led and upon +which they were dependent. The sublimely audacious hoax of the +Democratic convention, the spectacle of hordes of unconscious puppets of +Shaughnessy in the background, the exposure of masterly effrontery +hitherto unparalleled in<a class="pagenum" name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a> the history of political bossism; these were +the culminating, dramatic features of the story, without which it would +be as Samson shorn of power. To use these features, and invest them with +facts to insure public credence, a difficult proposition presented +itself. Judge Boynton must be revealed to the people as he had been, +and, no matter how unwillingly, in case of his election would have to be +again; an abject tool of Shaughnessy's ring.</p> + +<p>Slade and O'Byrn both knew that the Democratic candidate for the +mayoralty was running unwillingly; that he revolted from the ignoble +part he would be forced to play. They knew also that he was compelled to +"stand the gaff," as Slade expressed it, through some sinister, secret +hold which Shaughnessy had upon him. But what was this hold? Whatever it +was, upon its revelation rested the whole superstructure of O'Byrn's +story. The Democratic party had nominated for the mayoralty a jurist of +high reputation, during his years upon the bench, and in his retirement +the recipient of general public esteem. Micky realized fully that an +attack, through mere inference of wrong-doing, upon such a man, would be +not only libelous but abortive in its effect upon the public. The +people, judging from externals, looked upon the candidate as a true, +untrammeled reformer. Micky knew that he was,—perhaps originally by +choice and now assuredly of necessity,—a servile tool of the most +corrupt political ring in the country; but the public statement of the +Irishman to that effect would have to be backed up by incontrovertible +proof.</p> + +<p>It was truly a formidable difficulty, and one that<a class="pagenum" name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a> O'Byrn chafed under +as the swift days passed, bringing the election uncomfortably close, +with not an effective blow as yet to stay the victorious progress of the +"regenerated" Democracy. Micky had exerted himself to the utmost, +continuously yet cautiously, in the attempt to possess himself, by hook +or crook, of that hidden secret which was the still unlocated fibre of +his story; but without success. With everything else practically +"clinched," was he to fail with the goal in sight?</p> + +<p>Micky returned from a brief call at Maisie's one evening. It happened to +be his night off, and he repaired to his room relieved in mind. He had +found Maisie sitting with the family, with only unaccustomed pallor and +thinness to bespeak her recent illness. O'Byrn was very tired, as he had +devoted the day to still-hunting on the big story, for which purpose he +had risen early after a mere snatch of sleep. Now from thought of +Maisie, he passed to puzzling reflections over the story, for still the +maddening kernel of it all eluded him.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a cautious knock sounded at his door, as he sat with his red +head sunk disconsolately between his freckled hands. Ere he could rise, +the portal opened to admit Slade.</p> + +<p>"Good!" ejaculated the ex-heeler. "Glad I've found you. Sent a kid up to +the office for you, but he said you was off tonight. So I chanced it up +here, sneaking along in the shade. I'm not gettin' under any electric +lamps now," with a grim chuckle. "But say, get your hat 'nd coat. +There's a little confab on tonight, 'nd we've missed too much of it +already."</p> + +<p>Micky was already getting into his overcoat. "What's up?" he inquired +laconically, the old flame kindling in<a class="pagenum" name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a> his eyes. He reached for his hat +and extinguished his gas heater. Slade fully appreciated the crowning +difficulty Micky had to deal with, and the Irishman knew the little tout +was not there for any idle purpose.</p> + +<p>"Shaughnessy 'nd His Whiskers are chewin' the rag again," explained +Slade, as they went down stairs. "They're in Shaughnessy's office, as +usual. Been there some time; hope we ain't too late. I know what you're +after. Can't never tell, maybe they'll spit up somethin' worth while."</p> + +<p>Micky knew Slade well enough to neglect needless inquiry as to how they +were to manage to hear this private conversation. He had ample evidence +of the former heeler's eavesdropping powers, and followed him in perfect +confidence to the conference.</p> + +<p>Gaining the street on which Shaughnessy's establishment was located, +they proceeded cautiously, looking about to be sure the coast was clear. +The reflection of a light gleamed dully behind the closely curtained +office windows. "They're here yet," murmured Slade.</p> + +<p>The street was deserted. With a warning gesture, Slade made his way +noiselessly through a little driveway toward the rear of the building, +Micky following. Slade paused a moment. O'Byrn heard him chuckle in the +darkness.</p> + +<p>"A man is always one kind of a fool," he whispered, "and most of us are +most kinds. Shaughnessy, he's just one kind, but it's bad. He won't hire +a night watchman. Do you mind coal dust?"</p> + +<p>"Nit!" replied Micky.</p> + +<p>"Then follow me," said Slade, "and mind you don't make any noise about +it, either." He stooped, fumbling<a class="pagenum" name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a> at a cellar window. "There's a broken +pane here," he whispered, "but they're always careful to keep the casing +hooked." He chuckled as he pushed the window inward and cautiously +thrust the hook into the staple in the timber beyond. He then prepared +to descend.</p> + +<p>"But the coal, won't it rattle?" asked Micky apprehensively, as he drew +near the window in readiness to follow Slade down.</p> + +<p>"No," grinned the little tout. "They don't use this bin no more, but +they used to. You'll know when you wash up afterwards. Well, come on, +and be quiet." He disappeared.</p> + +<p>Micky bent to follow him. Gingerly insinuating himself backward through +the window, his legs were grasped from below and Slade piloted him +easily to the floor. "Good!" breathed the guide. "Now come along, and +just shuffle, or you'll be falling over things. I'll keep you in the +open. The cellar's full of things." Manifestly Slade had been there +before.</p> + +<p>The obedient Micky "shuffled" cautiously along and the two proceeded +without mishap to a flight of stairs, which they ascended cautiously. It +was pitch dark. In Micky's strained ears the scuttling of a rat, across +the floor beneath them, sounded unnaturally loud.</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute," whispered Slade, as they gained the top. "Sometimes +this door is locked and sometimes it ain't. If it is, I've got a key."</p> + +<p>It was not, and the eavesdroppers stepped softly out into the big +wareroom. Here showed the dim outlines of innumerable casks and cases, +for the radiance of some distant electric lights struggled through the +small, old-fashioned windows. A subdued sound of voices came<a class="pagenum" name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a> from the +office at the upper end of the room. Micky turned involuntarily in that +direction.</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute," whispered Slade, and tiptoed back toward the rear, +O'Byrn following. Slade bent over a small cask, duly spigoted and with a +couple of small glasses setting near it. "All the comforts of home," he +grinned. He drew a couple of generous draughts and held one of the +glasses toward Micky. "I know where they keep everything," he whispered, +with a leer.</p> + +<p>The fiery aroma was in Micky's nostrils. He hesitated, but drew back. "I +guess not—" he began doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"Take it, man," urged Slade. "A little whisky won't hurt you. Besides, +it's a joke. Here's hopin' worse luck to Shaughnessy in his own stuff." +Micky grinned, faltered a moment, and then lightly touched glasses with +Slade and downed the liquor.</p> + +<p>"Tastes like another," whispered Slade, +<a name="and" id="and"></a><ins title="Original has opening quotation before and">and</ins> proceeded to fill up the +glasses again. Micky drank without further protest. The pleasant glow at +his stomach infused itself into his veins, mounted benignly toward his +brain. Always abnormally quick to respond to the spur of stimulants, he +was conscious almost instantly of added zest for the adventure.</p> + +<p>"Come on and be mighty quiet," murmured Slade, and the pair made their +way on tiptoe toward the office. Slade approached the door, the upper +part of which enclosed a wide glass, behind which hung a screening +yellow shade. There was a narrow space below it, however, through which +a view of the interior could be obtained, the shade being a little too +short to quite reach the length of the glass. Through an open transom<a class="pagenum" name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a> +overhead the speech of those inside was clearly audible.</p> + +<p>The eavesdroppers bent, looking into the office. Shaughnessy sat in his +big leather chair, indolently puffing a black cigar, dreamily gazing +toward the ceiling. Near him, in an attitude of deep dejection, sat +Judge Boynton. The venerable candidate was speaking, while the boss +might have been a thousand miles away. But the watchers knew that the +jurist had the honor of his chief's undivided attention. It was a secret +of Shaughnessy's success, the veil of icy indifference that hid so +potently the dark workings of his own mind while he probed unerringly +into the recesses of others.</p> + +<p>"Why did you drag me in again?" the Judge was inquiring. "Were there not +others; less tired, more calloused? For I was never calloused. You got +your talons into me by a trick!" He clenched impotent hands. "I did—as +I had to—for years, and, when the time came, I went thankfully enough +into retirement. I thought I had done with you forever. And now—isn't +the memory of the past enough without such a future as you have marked +out for me—far worse than the past? It's not to be borne!"</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy lowered his eyes. His cold, snaky gaze met the other's +fairly. "You talk like an old woman," he sneered. "You sound like a +paper-covered novel. I got hold of you by a trick, eh? Now you know how +I got you, well enough. I put out bait that always lands supposedly +honest men, like yourself, and you swallowed it, hook and all, just like +a lot of other respectable suckers before you, and since. Well, what are +you kicking about? You put yourself where you had to be useful to me, +didn't you? Well, it's paid you, hasn't<a class="pagenum" name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a> it? And this little programme +we've got mapped out for the next two years, it's going to pay you, and +all of us, so we can retire for good." He chuckled insolently.</p> + +<p>The old man's lips set in a grim line. "I'm praying that I may be +defeated," he said, "but if not, I'll be mayor of this town. I may—"</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy straightened in his chair. His mouth grew repellently cruel, +his eyes assumed the fixed glare of a serpent about to strike. "Now see +here!" He spat out the words like venom. "I'll be elected next week, and +I'll be mayor these two years coming. You're a decoy just now, and +nothing more; but after the first of January you'll be a live duck, with +a string on you, that's all. You must be getting into your second +childhood to play the damn fool as you have been playing it ever since +this thing started. You can't squeal, you can't afford to. If you ever +did, it would be all up with me and a lot of others—but you'd go with +us, so help me God! Now just you cast your eye on this bunch of teasers +for a minute, and get sensible!" Reaching into a secret compartment of +his desk he slapped down a bundle of documents.</p> + +<p>The gray discouragement crept back into the old man's face. Shaughnessy +smiled cruelly. Outside the office O'Byrn eagerly clutched Slade's arm. +"We've got to have them!" he breathed in the tout's ear. "After they +go," returned Slade.</p> + +<p>The next moment brought dismay to the watchers. "I think I'll deposit +these elsewhere," observed Shaughnessy casually, with a glance toward +the badgered Judge.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a> "I don't think they're safe here." He slipped them +into an inner pocket of his coat.</p> + +<p>Micky's blank stare of dismay was instantly succeeded by a sudden +inspiration, a plan daring but desperate. He plucked at Slade's sleeve, +drawing him away from the window. "He mustn't leave here with 'em," he +whispered, and proceeded briefly to unfold his plan. Slade, who was of +kin with O'Byrn in recklessness, was enthusiastic.</p> + +<p>"All right if they stay long enough," he muttered. "Let's take a look." +A glance through the glass showed the two occupants of the office, with +chairs close together, conversing in low tones. Shaughnessy was +evidently elaborating his programme.</p> + +<p>"You stay here and keep watch," whispered Slade. "I can get over and +back quick. There's a drug store two blocks away, and I've got an awful +toothache," with a nudge. "Matches? No, I can get around here like a +cat, and as still." He glided silently away. Micky resumed his watch at +the office door.</p> + +<p>The moments dragged by slowly. Micky grew impatient. What if Slade +should return too late? And now the Judge was rising, donning his coat +and hat. Shaughnessy was seeing him to the door; it opened—he was gone. +Micky strained his ears, no sounds of a returning Slade.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy walked leisurely to his desk. Ah! it was all right, he was +going to sit down. But no, he closed the lid of his desk; donned his +hat, took down his coat from the hook, was leisurely getting into it.</p> + +<p>Then Micky with difficulty repressed a startled cry.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a> Out of nowhere, +without a sound in the intense stillness, Slade materialized from +darkness at his side.</p> + +<p>"Quick!" gasped Micky, "he's going!" But for Slade's restraining hand he +would have thrown himself bodily against the door.</p> + +<p>"Hold on! do you want him to see us?" he whispered savagely. "Here! +quick, put this on." He thrust an object into Micky's hand. "It's a +mask," he explained, adjusting one of his own. "Gettin' 'em is what kept +me."</p> + +<p>The masks were of the grotesque little variety affected alike by house +breakers and masqueraders. Micky learned afterward that Slade had a +dubious friend in the vicinity who possessed such conveniences. After +leaving the office he had bethought himself of the awkwardness of +Shaughnessy's recognizing them in the prospective encounter. Slade had a +long head.</p> + +<p>The plotters took another look at the interior. Shaughnessy was standing +with his back to them, leisurely selecting a cigar from his case, +preparatory to going. "Now for it!" whispered Slade, and the two, +looking like two simon-pure burglars, crept forward. Slade's hand fell +upon the handle of the office door. Contrary to his expectations, it was +unlocked. He nudged Micky, immediately behind, to impose caution, and +softly opened the door.</p> + +<p>The two passed inside as stealthily as Indians and crept slowly toward +the unsuspecting Shaughnessy. Even in the silence his keen ear caught +some sound—perhaps the repressed breathing of his assailants. At all +events, he half-turned. As he did so, however, Micky leaped forward and +pinioned his arms from the rear. The wiry<a class="pagenum" name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a> Irishman drew the struggling +boss backward, throwing him into the chair he had lately vacated and +holding him there helpless. With a lithe spring, like a cat's, Slade was +at his side, his hand over Shaughnessy's mouth, stifling a gurgling +outcry in its infancy. With the free hand he applied a saturated +handkerchief to the struggling man's face and held it there. The deathly +odor of chloroform filled the air.</p> + +<p>After a little, Slade removed the handkerchief. "I guess he'll do," he +muttered. O'Byrn thrust his hand into the inner pocket of the boss' coat +and extracted the papers, carefully transferring them to his own. With +an afterthought, he also possessed himself of the unconscious man's +keys.</p> + +<p>He grinned. "It's us out through the front door," he said. "I'll keep +the keys. He needs exercise, this fellow. He can get it chasin' round, +when they let him out tomorrow, gettin' some more made."</p> + +<p>They surveyed the inert boss, huddled horribly in his chair, his eyes +closed in his ghastly face. "God!" breathed Micky, a creeping chill in +his spine, "he looks like a corpse! Do you suppose you gave him too +much?"</p> + +<p>"Naw!" returned Slade, disgustedly. "Was I born yesterday? It's only his +damned eyes. When they're shut, he looks like a dead one, for fair. +Let's get out before he has us countin' our fingers."</p> + +<p>They opened the door cautiously and looked out. The coast was clear. +Extinguishing the lights in the office, they emerged, locked the door +and departed. Huddled in the darkness sat Shaughnessy, his chin sunk on +his<a class="pagenum" name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a> breast, his hands clenched convulsively upon the arms of his chair.</p> + +<p class="center ws big">* * * * * * * *</p> + +<p>A little later, Micky, with crimsoned face and eyes unnaturally bright, +approached Harkins' desk in the Courier office. He bent confidentially +toward his chief with an electrifying communication.</p> + +<p>"Get ready," said Micky, "for the damnedest feature story for the next +issue that was ever sprung in this town. Yes sir, absolutely the +damnedest. The lines are all out. I'm due for about five hours' sleep, +and then I'll begin to gather 'em in, and there'll be a bouquet of +suckers on every hook. I've got a lot of finishin' touches to get +tomorrow, and I'll be able to begin grindin' it out early in the +evenin', not before. Yes, I'll have it all. What is it? It's a +slaughter, slaughter of the gang. Shaughnessy'll be wearin' stripes +unless he ducks, and a lot more with him, includin' Old Whiskers +Boynton. Not in time? Election only three days off? Wait till you read +the story! Wait till the town reads it! They'll all be champin' the bit +of Fusion and frothin' at the mouth. I've been at this for weeks, but +the main stuffin' I only got tonight. It comes late, but it's a winner, +and Shaughnessy, he's a dead one!"</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a> +<a name="xviii" id="xviii"></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">A COUNTER MOVE</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">SHAUGHNESSY stirred uneasily in his chair. Then, with a convulsive +shudder, he sat erect, one hand instinctively pressed against his left +side. His head reeled, his bewildered eyes strove to pierce the gloom. +With a swift intake of breath the deathly smell of the drug crept into +his nostrils. Then he remembered.</p> + +<p>With a snarling curse he sprang to his feet, drawing a match from his +vest pocket with shaking fingers. He lighted the gas and glanced toward +the safe, expecting to find it forced open. All seemed to be in order. +The boss was perplexed. What had they wanted, those mysterious visitors?</p> + +<p>With a sudden apprehension he thrust his hand swiftly into an inner +pocket and found it empty. Then Shaughnessy, momentarily beyond oaths, +collapsed helplessly into his chair. There was expression enough in his +white face now, and it was of fear.</p> + +<p>The papers were gone, filched from him in open assault, in a way of +which the boss had never dreamed. He could have groaned in bitterness of +spirit as he remembered what zealous care he had taken of those damning +documents, veritable blood pacts of dark, unprincipled deeds, through +which Shaughnessy held the wretched<a class="pagenum" name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a> signers in the hollow of his hand. +Though cunningly giving the impression that they were kept in his +office, Shaughnessy generally had them in safe keeping elsewhere and +disturbed them only when it was expedient that they serve some purpose +like the cruel intimidation to which Judge Boynton had been subjected. +And now they were gone. Shaughnessy cursed in his heart the fatal +weakness for melodramatic effect, in which he was prone to indulge, that +had exposed him to this fatal risk.</p> + +<p>But who had them? Shaughnessy sprang up and paced the floor. He clenched +his fists as he thought of Judge Boynton. Was it a plot of his? He +dismissed the thought with a sneer. Such a desperate expedient was +beyond the nerveless old jurist.</p> + +<p>He felt mechanically for his keys and started to find them gone. What +new deviltry was this? Then, for a moment, the impassive mask was +utterly discarded. The white face of the baited boss grew absolutely +diabolical, and he cursed as best he knew, and he was not an indifferent +expert. Finally, with a weary shrug, he ceased and walked to a drawer in +the bookkeeper's desk. He wrenched it open and took out two keys he kept +there for emergency's sake. One was for the office door and the other +would admit him to his lodgings.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy picked up his hat, which had fallen off in the recent melee, +dusted it and replaced it. He kicked the cigar, from whose enjoyment he +had been riotously debarred, into a corner and drew a fresh one from his +case. Reaching into his vest pocket for a match, his fingers encountered +something. Drawing it forth, his<a class="pagenum" name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a> eyes rested upon the card which +O'Byrn, on a recent evening, had with easy insolence handed him.</p> + +<p>The boss' eyes, indifferent at first, stared fixedly at the card. Slowly +kindling into the interest born of sudden recollection of the incident, +the sparks deepened till they glowed like the orbs of an angry cat. +Shaughnessy pondered, his face an evil thing to see.</p> + +<p>"Damn you!" muttered Shaughnessy, at last, still staring balefully at +the card, "I believe one of 'em was you, God help you!"</p> + +<p class="center ws big">* * * * * * * *</p> + +<p>Micky went straight from Shaughnessy's to the Courier office that night, +and, after his brief communication with Harkins, he repaired to his +lodgings. He lighted his heater, and, with a fresh cigar between his +teeth, sat down to peruse at leisure the documents he had previously +glanced over sufficiently to warrant him in making his triumphant +prediction to the city editor. A damning array of evidence was marshaled +in them, illustrating at once Shaughnessy's ruthless manner of binding a +cabal to his interests and his weakness in recording in black and white +such condemnatory proofs of the infamy of the forces of which he was the +leader, and for whose deeds he was responsible. It was a quixotic idea +of the boss', effective to bend his tools to his desires, but fatal if +the accredited proofs ever became public property. Perhaps, Micky +reflected, he had intended them for use if treachery ever compelled him +to leave in a hurry, in which case the traitors would suffer while the +arch-conspirator went scot-free. If this was the intent, events had +anticipated it.</p> + +<p>The most important exposure, for O'Byrn's purpose,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a> was the one, duly +fortified with proof in the papers before him, that Judge Boynton was a +hypocrite. He could only conjecture how the Judge had placed himself in +Shaughnessy's power, but that he had long since done so, through some +official act of weakness or worse, was evident. For the papers proved +that the old jurist, supposed to be a power for good, had been for years +a power for evil. It was as a secret instigator of lobbies at the State +House that he had shone, while the world remained in ignorance. Not +alone notorious Consolidated Gas, but many another nefarious movement +had owed its progress in no small degree to his secret machinations, and +he had been well aided. Micky opened his eyes at some names which +appeared in that damning record, as well he might, for they were those +of the elect. Indeed, the evidence utterly condemned one of the pillars +of the present Fusion movement. Oh, it would be a slaughter, in very +truth; one of whose extent the optimistic Micky had not dreamed.</p> + +<p>As he read the record, O'Byrn marvelled at one salient fact. These men, +of brains and influence, of power and standing, were after all but the +tools of Shaughnessy, the liquor dealer, the local boss. Local boss! +Micky could have laughed. Why, this genius of the slums had his pallid +hand at the throat of the State, and his snaky eyes were even now fixed +on victims in higher places, even beyond its too-confined borders. +O'Byrn was lost in admiration of the man whose power was the greater +because unsuspected by the great public. He moved with much sinuous +subtlety, like a serpent wriggling through the grass. He tempted through +the cupidity of men worth while, and when they were in<a class="pagenum" name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a> his coils they +were held there irrevocably. He was a Napoleon of graft, and his +ambition was as boundless as that of the Corsican.</p> + +<p>There were in the record, too, the hints of several matters that would +bear amplifying; stupendous election frauds, fraudulent registration +lists and corrupt local deals. Micky knew where to get them, but it +would be a strenuous day. It was with a mingled thrill and a sigh that +he finally tumbled into bed for a little sleep before the deluge to +come.</p> + +<p>He awoke unrefreshed, his sleep having been disturbed by wild dreams of +conflict with Shaughnessy in which the boss was invariably the victor. +Despite the reassuring presence of the materials for a sensation, Micky +felt depressed while dressing. There was still much to do, there were +some hard propositions to solve during the day, and there might yet be a +fatal slip somewhere. Besides, he felt physically wretched. He had +caught cold in some way and his head ached miserably. Then, too, in the +depths of his heart there was a sick, unacknowledged apprehension; for +the old enemy, after too brief a period of +<a name="quiescence" id="quiescence"></a><ins title="Original has quiesence,">quiescence</ins> was returning.</p> + +<p>Micky finished dressing, and left the house for the restaurant, at which +he was accustomed to obtain his meals. On the way he passed an +attractive door. He hesitated, halted and turned back. "One won't hurt," +he muttered, as he disappeared inside. "Just for an appetizer."</p> + +<p>Breakfast finished, Micky, with a renewed sparkle in his eyes, plunged +headlong into his self-appointed task, and it was a formidable one. +There were sundry peculiar documents to scan. Obstacles in getting at<a class="pagenum" name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a> +them had to be surmounted, either through subtlety or a bluff, and +O'Byrn was a past master in both departments. There were some men to +see. Some could be handled with a convenient disguising of the real +intention. Others, made to admit damaging matters through cowardly +fears, were left in the hope that they had secured immunity for +themselves. There was also the omnipresent danger, most dreaded by +newspaper men on the track of a big story, of competitors who must be +sedulously avoided. O'Byrn dodged them all, though with some narrow +escapes, and it became evident that the story, in every detail, was to +be his and his alone.</p> + +<p>As Micky pursued his perilous though fascinating task, the story grew, +gathering black force and sinister proportions. As the busy hours swept +on, crowded with strained effort, the Irishman felt to the full the +strange, breathless zest felt only by the veteran newsgetter; hot on the +trail of a big story, warned constantly by the remorseless ticks of his +watch of fast slipping time that waits for no man. The hungry presses +must be fed at the appointed hour. Brain, hand, resource and tireless +effort must combine to furnish the monster's food. So O'Byrn rushed +through the teeming hours. He cut out luncheon, gulping down a glass of +whisky in place of it. He had been dramming at intervals since +breakfast, and he no longer approached the bar with hesitancy. The +excitement of his quest made him reckless and the stuff served as an +exhilarant, though he had not yet begun to seriously feel its effects.</p> + +<p>He was completely engrossed in his story. He scurried here and there, as +need required, gathering force like<a class="pagenum" name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a> a machine under the quickening beat +of the controlling engine. He was driven resistlessly on by that +steadiest, most unfaltering of human impulses, the quickened news +instinct. It was a task before which many a veteran would have quailed, +but O'Byrn did not know how to lie down. He had, too, a distinct +advantage in his wonderful memory. It enabled him to carry away valuable +material gained in conversations where the producing of a notebook would +have been fatal.</p> + +<p>It was well toward evening that Slade met him unostentatiously in a +quiet place. "What luck?" he inquired eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Got the whole business," answered Micky, in a low tone. "I'm just +finished, and I'm all in. Knees jackin' some and nerves gone up. But +anyone that's worth doin' at all is worth doin' well, and Shaughnessy's +well done. Now I'll tell you what, let's have a cocktail or two, and +then some supper. Time enough to grind this out after that."</p> + +<p>Slade glanced at him sharply, noting the flushed cheeks and unnaturally +bright eyes. "Haven't you had enough?" he inquired.</p> + +<p>"Enough?" echoed Micky, with a reckless laugh. "Why, I haven't begun +yet. But I'll cut it out for tonight, after supper, and tomorrow, when +the job's done, I'll celebrate." He led the way to the bar, and Slade, +with a little head-shake, followed. He recollected an episode in +Shaughnessy's place, the night before, with distinct regret.</p> + +<p>Neither of them had noticed a man sitting at a small table, in a dark +corner, not far from where they had been talking. He slipped quietly out +as the two ordered<a class="pagenum" name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a> their drinks. It was Shaughnessy's lieutenant, Dick +Peterson.</p> + +<p>Slade succeeded in inducing Micky to content himself with a couple of +rounds and lured him away to supper. Much to his disgust, O'Byrn +insisted upon going to a place with which a saloon was connected. There +was another appetizer, and O'Byrn ate heartily, the food apparently +serving to restore him to sense. All might have been well, but on +passing out through the saloon, O'Byrn intending to go directly to the +Courier office, he met a party of friends. Despite Slade's protestations +he decided that he had time for "one or two more."</p> + +<p>A few more draughts of the stuff produced the result that was usual with +him when indulging. Clear-headed at the first, the stimulant suddenly +fired his brain, rendering him deaf to protests or the voice of reason. +It was the way in which many a debauch of days or even weeks had been +ushered in. He sought only to quench a fiendish thirst, to indulge a +mad, grotesque merriment. He was hazily conscious of Slade's pleadings +for him to come away, of his attempts several times to do so, of dimly +hearing the imperious call of duty; of being dragged back for another +round by his boisterous companions. After a time he missed Slade, and +forgot about him for a while.</p> + +<p>Some time afterward, while gazing blankly at the clock in some saloon or +other, he did not know where, a swift terror seized him. There was grim +accusation in the clock's face. Micky took advantage of the momentarily +diverted attention of his companions to slip quietly out. His story; +yes, he must surely get to writing<a class="pagenum" name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a> it. Ought to have started it before, +he reflected confusedly.</p> + +<p>Well, here was luck. A carriage stood near the cafe. Micky advanced +toward it, and the driver jumped down and flung open the door. O'Byrn +entered, with a drowsy order to drive to the Courier office. Then, ere +the door closed, he felt a vague curiosity as two additional passengers +followed him into the vehicle. The door was slammed shut, the driver +mounted his box and the rolling wheels lulled Micky into drowsiness that +was not disturbed by his silent companions.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a> +<a name="xix" id="xix"></a>CHAPTER XIX<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">SUSPENSE</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">COLONEL WESTLAKE, the principal owner of the Courier and the man who +actively dictated its policy, sat in the library of his home that night +with a look upon his face different than he had worn of late. As the +leader of the Fusion movement, for which he had expended much labor and +time, things had looked black to him until today, and his face had worn +the expression that belongs to him who is fighting a grim, losing +battle. He saw the opposition forging ahead with a resistless sweep +which he and his co-workers could not stop, and it had been maddening.</p> + +<p>But tonight a bright gleam of hope had dispelled the gloom of the +Colonel's face. He had visited the office that afternoon and had a talk +with the managing editor, who had told him of the effort that was in +progress to checkmate the plans of the ring. He could tell the Colonel +but few particulars, for Micky had not confided many of them to his +superiors as yet. Indeed, he had had no time to do so. But the +information was cheering enough to cause the Colonel to smoke his cigar +that evening with an easier mind. "That fellow can get it if anybody +can," he had been told, and the assurance fanned his dying hope into +renewed flame.</p> + +<p>The Courier's editorial rooms were unusually replete<a class="pagenum" name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a> of life that +night. To be sure, it was an old story, that record of life and death +and the things that go between, called news; ground out there three +hundred and sixty-five nights in the year. One night, generally +speaking, was very like another to the various cogs in the human +machine. Most of them were past cubhood, and the shifts of scene +entailed by succeeding assignments, that once held a fresh charm of +novelty, now spelled grim duty. Most men have illusions, but the jaded +newsgetter loses them first of all. Most men may dream of what they may +become; the newsgetter only of what he did not become. However, there is +a compensation. The newsgetter has acquired philosophy, the real salt of +the earth. It is better to watch one's Rome burning with philosophy than +to collect the insurance thereon without it.</p> + +<p>However, on this night there was a brooding excitement in the air. The +big room fairly throbbed with it; the sense of an impending something +whose significance but few of the force divined, but which they all +felt. The harassed, anxious expressions on the faces of Harkins and a +few others of the editorial force; their frequent glances at the big +clock, their nervous onslaughts upon the mass of work, for it was a +teeming night, revealed to every rushed reporter in the great room that +there was something on and that it was something big. They stole covert +glances at their chiefs and at each other, wondering what it was.</p> + +<p>Time wore on while the tension grew. The big calm clock reeled off the +flying minutes with exasperating insistence. The clock is the merciless +monitor of the newspaper office. Men watch it, fear it, serve it as +they<a class="pagenum" name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a> must. They hurl the forces of head and hand, when the need calls, +in a desperate fight against it, till its tickings are drowned in the +roar of the presses that hold the dearly bought triumph; while the +toiler sits spent and worn, body and brain full of the numb weariness of +the reaction. Even as the roar of the presses dies in silence, there is +again audible the eternal ticking of the clock, unresting through it +all; registering in one breath the death of a day of labor, the birth of +another in the next. Always the grim spectre with the scythe stands at +the elbows of the men who write the news.</p> + +<p>So the Courier's clock ticked on, while the hidden undercurrent of +unrest, so patent even to those ignorant of the reason for it, grew in a +fierce, irritating tug that was made manifest in disagreeable ways. +Harkins' nerves were worn to shreds. His usual urbanity withered like +dry grass in the fire of his hot impatience. The office fairly throbbed +now, for it was an extraordinarily busy night. Election was close at +hand, the entire city was wrought up over it, everything else had +seemingly happened and was all coming in at once. Still there was that +hungry gap, waiting to be filled with the story of a lifetime. Where was +the story?</p> + +<p>It was exasperating. Everywhere men were rushing like mad and Harkins +helped them rush the more. His orders were snapped with the venom of a +cracking whip lash, accompanied by black frowns that caused backs to +bend and fingers to fly the more, or legs to hurry the faster, as his +behest might be. It became a drive, a dizzy whirl of effort, torn with +conflicting sights and sounds. There materialized hurrying figures, +sharp orders, the jingle of telephone bells, the slamming of<a class="pagenum" name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a> doors, the +sleet-like rattle of typewriters, the soft rush of many pencils and the +crackle of paper; the hundred and one distractions that contribute in +the compilation of the record of a day of news. And constantly, as the +whirl gained in volume like a rising wind, Harkins' tortured eyes +re-sought the clock, and they held all the miserable apprehension of a +miser for precious, fleeting gold.</p> + +<p>"Gee!" exclaimed Kirk to Peters, as he passed that worthy at the end of +the room, and paused a moment to wipe his moist forehead, "it's fierce, +ain't it? Harkins is getting crazy. There's something up. What is it?"</p> + +<p>"No," replied Peters, with an apprehensive glance toward Harkins, +"there's nothing up, I guess. I think there's something ought to be up +that isn't. That's the rub. Never saw Hark' so worked up in my life."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but what is it?" reiterated Kirk. "It's something big, that's +sure."</p> + +<p>"I don't know anything more about it than you do, but I've noticed one +thing. O'Byrn hasn't shown up tonight. I think Hark' expected him, and +with something." He nodded meaningly and they separated.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Harkins summoned Glenwood, who had the week previous been made +his assistant. Dick had been also growing nervous for the last +half-hour, his eyes constantly seeking the door, hopeful of a desired +arrival which was strangely delayed. The story should have been well +under way by then. Dick guessed how formidable an undertaking it had +undoubtedly proved and had at first explained Micky's delay in appearing +by<a class="pagenum" name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a> the assumed magnitude of the little Irishman's task. But now Dick +had grown painfully anxious.</p> + +<p>He hurried to Harkins' desk. The city editor looked up with a black +scowl, viciously chewing a cigar stub. His uneasy fingers drummed a +tattoo upon his desk.</p> + +<p>"For God's sake, Glenwood," he burst out, "what's the matter? It's ten +o'clock. Have you heard anything?"</p> + +<p>"Only that telephone message he sent me early this afternoon," replied +Dick. "It was short but significant. You know I told you."</p> + +<p>Harkins groaned. "Yes," he assented, "he said he'd need the whole paper +tomorrow and a few extras. And now where the devil is he, anyway? Where +was he when he sent you that message?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," Dick answered. "Richards called me to the 'phone, said +someone wanted me. I recognized Micky's voice. He just blurted out that +information and broke away before I could reply. I tried to get him to +ask him if he needed any help and when he would get here, but he had +gone."</p> + +<p>Harkins' eyes contracted. "Dick, do you think—" he began meaningly.</p> + +<p>"No!" interrupted Dick vehemently, "not at a time like this! Still—Oh, +the poor devil!" he broke off, for the remembrance swept over him of a +certain shamed admission to him of O'Byrn's own, the acknowledgment of +the reason for a bootless career.</p> + +<p>There was a brief silence, broken by Harkins' voice, raised in loud +summons. "Has anyone seen O'Byrn tonight?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Peters glanced significantly at Kirk. There was no<a class="pagenum" name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a> immediate answer, +but a fat figure, waddling on its way from the elevator to the desk, +hesitated and finally halted. An odd breathless voice broke the sudden +silence, the voice of Fatty Stearns.</p> + +<p>"O'Byrn?" he queried, "did you say O'Byrn, Mr. Harkins?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," exploded Harkins, frowning heavily upon the quailing Stearns. +"Have you seen him?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes," assented Fatty faintly, while fidgeting upon his chubby +feet. "That is, I did," explosively, "about eight o'clock."</p> + +<p>"Well," fairly shouted his irritated chief, "where was he? What's the +matter with you?"</p> + +<p>"Why, nothin'," ejaculated Fatty desperately. "I wasn't with him! I kept +out of sight so he and the gang wouldn't see me. They were heading for +O'Sullivan's saloon."</p> + +<p>There was a moment's silence. "Stearns," said Harkins finally, his tone +now one of quiet resignation, "why didn't you tell me this before?"</p> + +<p>"You didn't ask me," Fatty answered in an injured way, sidling toward +his desk. "And besides," as an afterthought, "you couldn't, for I wasn't +here. You'd sent me out on that armory business, don't you know?"</p> + +<p>Harkins and Glenwood looked hopelessly at each other. "No telling where +he is now," said the city editor wearily, "or the shape he's in. It's +all up, I guess."</p> + +<p>Dick's fist rapped his desk smartly, his lips met in a grim line. "Not +yet!" he exclaimed. "It's worth a try, anyway. I'm going to see if I can +find him."</p> + +<p>He turned away, nearly colliding with a meagre little<a class="pagenum" name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a> man who was +hurrying toward him from the elevator. "You're Mr. Glenwood?" asked this +worthy.</p> + +<p>"Yes," assented Dick, with a glance of inquiry.</p> + +<p>"I know you by sight," rapidly pursued the visitor. "I was mixed up once +in a little deal at Goldberg's with a friend of yours, Micky O'Byrn. You +came on after I slid," with a dry grin. "But that's nothin' to do with +this. You fellows are waitin' for somethin'," with a shrewd glance at +Harkins' worried face, "and the man who's got it is gettin' drunker +every minute. I thought you ought to know."</p> + +<p>"Do you know where he is?" exclaimed Dick, grasping Slade's arm in his +eagerness. The ex-heeler winced.</p> + +<p>"Sure," he assented. "I've got a pal watchin' 'em so as to cop whether +they do a duck into another joint."</p> + +<p>"What shape is he in?" asked Glenwood.</p> + +<p>"Bad," replied Slade dubiously. Then, with a ready grasp of the +situation, "I know a medicine cove that I'll bet could put him right in +short order, that is for while you'd need him. Makes a regular specialty +of it, one of his own patients in fact. But you'd have to hurry. I'm +with you on the deal, for between us I've got a bone to pick with +Shaughnessy myself and I want to see that story in tomorrow's paper. +Why, I put O'Byrn onto it."</p> + +<p>Dick turned sharply to Harkins. "Get everything ready, I'll have him +here," he said confidently. "We'll fix him up some way. Hang it, we've +got to! Of course, it'll have to be dictation. I'll 'phone you outlook +just as soon as I can," he added, seizing coat and hat, "and you clear +the decks. Now, Slade," and the two hurried to the elevator.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a> +Dick hailed a cab. "To Lawrence's saloon, on Forty-Fifth, and be quick +about it!" directed Slade, and the two sprang in.</p> + +<p>"I had supper with him," explained Slade, as the cab rolled rapidly +northward, "and he insisted on a couple of drinks. He'd had several +then, I guess. Then he was going to start for the office, but a gang +blew along. Then it was all off," with an expressive shrug. "Stuff +seemed to go to his head all in a flash, and he wouldn't listen to +anything. I kept along for a while and tried to sneak him away. He'd +start all right, but the gang would drag him back and play rough-house +with me and chuck me out. About eight we came near running into some +parties I didn't want to see and I simply had to duck for a while. He +was in a gin-mill near the City Hall then, and I lost him some way. It +was two hours, pretty near, before I copped him again, this time in +Lawrence's. I got a friend o' mine to watch the place, then I caught a +car for your office."</p> + +<p>The cab stopped before a brilliantly lighted cafe and the men tumbled +out. A young fellow, loitering about, approached Slade. "Well, he's +gone," said he.</p> + +<p>"Gone!" echoed Slade. "Where?"</p> + +<p>"I dunno. No call for me buttin' in. He got in a carriage with Dick +Peterson and another fellow and they drove off."</p> + +<p>"Shaughnessy!" exclaimed Slade, with a livid oath. "Come on, there's no +time to lose!" He dragged Dick toward the cab. "Shaughnessy's rooms, you +know 'em—drive like hell!" he told the driver, and they were off like +the wind.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a> +<a name="xx" id="xx"></a>CHAPTER XX<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">OUT OF THE PAST</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">THE carriage stopped, unheeded by O'Byrn, who drowsed, huddled in a +corner. "Come on," said a gruff voice, +<a name="we" id="we"></a><ins title="Original has we're with no opening quotation mark">"we're</ins> there." An ungentle +hand shook the Irishman rudely.</p> + +<p>Confused and dazed, Micky stumbled out. With a man at each arm, he was +whisked through a doorway and up a flight of stairs that led to a suite +of rooms over a corner grocery. Shaughnessy was unostentatious in his +manner of living, as he was in matters of political procedure.</p> + +<p>Before the befuddled O'Byrn had gathered his deadened wits sufficiently +to decide that his would-be friends had mistaken his intended +destination, the trio halted before a door which opened without any +preliminary formality of knocking. "Ah, come in, gentlemen," said a +remembered voice, which brought Micky to wavering attention. Then he was +pushed inside, into the presence of Shaughnessy. He stared for a moment +about the plainly but comfortably furnished room, then into the black +eyes of his host. Just now they were alight with triumphant gleams. +Micky sat down in sudden hopeless, though rather hazy, despair.</p> + +<p>"All right, boys; a good job," said Shaughnessy, a certain insistence in +his tone. Peterson took the hint.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a> He plucked his companion by the +sleeve and the two withdrew. Their footsteps died in silence down the +stairs, followed in a moment by the diminishing roll of wheels.</p> + +<p>"Well, Mr. O'Byrn," said Shaughnessy, suavely, "I'd like my keys if +you're through with them, and I rather guess you are."</p> + +<p>"Keys?" echoed Micky, a vague and rueful grin reluctantly visiting his +face, "yes, I guess so. Took 'em for a joke. You can have 'em and be +hanged!" He threw them violently on the floor and continued to stare +rather helplessly about the room. Shaughnessy, unruffled, bent to pick +up his property, stepped for a moment to the door, then seated himself +on a chair, facing Micky, who sprawled supinely on a sofa.</p> + +<p>"Who was with you in my office last night?" he inquired casually. "You +know—when you got these?"</p> + +<p>"Don't you know?" Micky's utterance was rather thick, but there was a +cunning gleam in his eye. No amount of intoxicants, that the Irishman +had ever taken at any time in his checkered career, had even temporarily +robbed him of his sharp wits. Even though he might not be able to +remember it afterward, the busy brain was in evidence throughout the +spree; and the sub-conscious intelligence of the fellow, even when he +was nearly physically helpless from over-indulgence, had often staggered +his associates.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy was now to have a taste of this. "Don't you know?" O'Byrn +had asked innocently and very thickly. Shaughnessy smiled dryly. The +fellow was sufficiently drunk to be as wax in the boss' hands.</p> + +<p>"No, I don't," mildly replied Shaughnessy, and waited for the desired +information.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a> +"Well," answered Micky, with a tipsy laugh, "I'm mighty glad you don't. +And now see here, let me out of here. I've got business—business to +attend to."</p> + +<p>"Yes," assented Shaughnessy softly, "you want to go to the Courier +office. But hold on a minute first, I want to have a little chat with +you, and it will be to your advantage to listen to reason. I suppose +you're wondering why you're here. Well, when I got out from the +influence of your dope last night, I happened to pull out of my pocket +the card you gave me. Without bothering to ask just why, I knew I had +you to thank for that little job. I don't know who was with you, but +I'll find out. Anyway, there've been good sharp eyes lookin' for you all +day, but, as the cursed luck would have it, they didn't cop you till +tonight. You were getting drunk then, making it easier for us. Much +obliged to you. Now, where are those papers?"</p> + +<p>O'Byrn leered with impish eyes. "Gimme a cigar," he suggested. The boss +handed him one with a scowl. O'Byrn lighted it uncertainly and began +unevenly to puff at it.</p> + +<p>The boss waited silently a moment, then a smouldering fire crept into +his eyes. He brought his fist down upon the arm of his chair with an +oath. O'Byrn's wandering glance shifted lazily to Shaughnessy.</p> + +<p>"Aha! my smart young rooster," growled the boss, "I know who was with +you last night. I'm getting dippy, or I'd have thought of it sooner. I +forgot who Peterson said was with you when he first set eyes on you +tonight. So it's Nick Slade, is it, that helped you with your little job +last night?"</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a> +"Lemme out and I'll ask him for you," suggested the Irishman. "I haven't +got time to talk to you."</p> + +<p>"Now see here," urged Shaughnessy, "I want those papers. I suppose +you've got 'em on you." Micky made a mock gesture of alarm which the +boss evidently believed was genuine, for he permitted himself a slight, +sneering smile of triumph. "Well," he continued, "I'm on the level, I +am. I'm not playing any dirty stab-in-the-back games like that little +one of yours last night. If you'd used those papers as you meant to do, +why, there wouldn't have been any use in talking things over now. But I +know well enough, for I've been fairly busy today, that you haven't done +anything yet and tonight's pretty near your last chance to scribble. +Scribble? You're in good shape for the job, ain't you? Why, I'll bet you +don't get the sense of twenty words I've said. But listen, you can get +this." Shaughnessy bent toward him. "Turn those papers over to me, and +do a quiet sneak out of town for good, and I'll make it worth your +while."</p> + +<p>"Yes," muttered O'Byrn, "I get that." His body swayed a moment, then +straightened. His head wagged slowly from side to side, for the heat of +the apartment was oppressive and the room began to whirl uncannily. +Micky leaned his throbbing head upon his clasped hands. Shaughnessy +smiled sardonically, believing him to be thinking it over.</p> + +<p>O'Byrn lifted his head. "Say, is your name Shaughnessy?" he suddenly +inquired. The question went home like a shot. Even through the mists +that obscured his vision, the little Irishman chuckled as he saw +Shaughnessy start violently, saw his white face go whiter. "No," pursued +O'Byrn, with a momentary rally of his faculties,<a class="pagenum" name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a> "I don't know what +your name used to be, and I don't care. I was just guessin', somehow. +But I'll tell you somethin'. My name ain't O'Byrn any more than yours is +Shaughnessy. Here's the difference. I took the name of an honest man, an +old fellow that was a friend to me after my mother died. I took it +because it was an honest name, and my father's wasn't. I was only a kid, +but I was old enough to hate the old man right, and try to change my +luck by shedding his rotten name like a snake's skin. Since then I've +rubbed along, but I've managed to keep honest, thank God, for I was born +that way. Now I'll tell you the difference between you and me. I changed +my name to get rid of one that wasn't honest, but someone else was to +blame. You changed from one rascal's name to another, that's all, and +you're gettin' worse every minute. No, old man, we won't make a deal for +any papers, not this evening."</p> + +<p>The fire faded in his eyes. With a spasmodic hiccough he fell back upon +the sofa. The whirling room, which he had conveniently forgotten during +his flat statement to Shaughnessy, swung once more in rhythmic, +disconcerting circles before his swollen eyes. "Open a window!" he +demanded. "It's roasting in here!"</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy had remained silent since O'Byrn's outburst, regarding him +balefully. "The window can wait," he said deliberately, "and so can you, +unless you listen to reason. Now, you produce those papers, agreeing to +keep your mouth shut and get out of town, for value received, of course. +Either that or I'll promise you you'll be kept quiet till after +election, anyway, and maybe longer. Things are ripe now and we can't +afford to have you loose."</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a> +The fire was rekindled in O'Byrn's eyes. Clenching his hands he half +rose from the sofa, only to again fall back helplessly upon it, with a +curse, anathematizing his unsteady legs while he pressed his palms +against his whirling head. Shaughnessy watched him with malicious +satisfaction.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the recurrent hazy thought disturbed Micky, the accusing +whisper of duty unperformed. Where it had lain dormant with faint +stirrings, it was now imperious. O'Byrn sat bolt upright, groping for +his watch. Snapping the timepiece open, he stared at the dial. Even +through the mists, which he could not blink away, the significance of +the hour smote him like a lash. For a moment he sat inert, a growing +horror in his eyes that stared straight ahead. The open watch slipped +unheeded from his nerveless hand to the floor, striking the rug with a +muffled thud.</p> + +<p>The sound roused O'Byrn. He pitched forward, gaining his feet, and +reeled toward the door, which he shook impotently. He turned to confront +Shaughnessy's sneer.</p> + +<p>"The key—give me the key!" O'Byrn's steps toward Shaughnessy were +unsteady but his face was eloquent with settled purpose. The boss +thoughtfully moved so as to put a heavy table, standing in the center of +the room, between him and the angry Irishman. His sneer faded, his look +spoke of uneasy apprehension. Shaughnessy was not a coward, but he was +not over-strong; and, to do him justice, his fear came more from the +possibility that the strangely rallied Irishman might, after all, +escape, than from any worry over possible damage to himself in the +process.</p> + +<p>Now O'Byrn was opposite him, his hands resting on<a class="pagenum" name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a> the table, his blue +eyes staring straight into the uneasy black ones of the boss. For the +present at least, O'Byrn's will, intent upon a definite object, would +control his wavering limbs. "Give me the key!" he repeated softly. The +tone was clear, the freckled face grim with determination, the glaze of +the eyes had been burned away in flame. It was an uncanny +transformation.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy, watching the other warily, tried to temporize. "Those +papers," he suggested, "they're all I want. Give them to me and—"</p> + +<p>O'Byrn hurled the table to one side, where it fell with a crash. He +leaped forward, extended arms hungry for Shaughnessy. Now they were +reeling about the room, locked together in desperate, voiceless struggle +for the mastery. A chair fell heavily. Now they fell against the +prostrate table, but recovered themselves with an effort and fought on.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy had been no stranger to either physical science or +rough-and-tumble, in the days before ill-health assailed him; but older +muscles, further handicapped by acquired weakness and long disuse, were +not a match for those of the wiry young man, even in his present +intoxicated condition. Shaughnessy, his breath coming in gasps and his +face grown ghastly, tried by every recollected trick to trip O'Byrn, but +the latter wriggled instinctively out of every snare. Now he forced +Shaughnessy once more toward the fallen table, the boss resisting +doggedly. But he was weakening, and Micky, with a sudden twist, threw +him backward over one of the protruding legs of the table and fell +heavily upon him.</p> + +<p>The Irishman's breath, heavy with whisky, smote the fallen boss full in +the face. Shaughnessy, gasping and<a class="pagenum" name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a> nearly senseless, lay with his hand +gripped hard at his left side. As though he had dreamed it in his agony, +he felt his opponent's hand groping in a lower pocket of his coat. There +was a faint jingle—the keys! O'Byrn rose with a tipsy laugh, swayed a +moment and turned toward the door. Then, with a supreme effort, +Shaughnessy threw himself to one side, reaching out a hand and catching +Micky about the right ankle. A sharp wrench jerked him from his feet and +he fell heavily, striking his head against the table leg which had +previously served for the downfall of the boss.</p> + +<p>After a few moments, Shaughnessy struggled weakly to his feet and stood +grimly regarding the Irishman, who lay unconscious, with closed eyes, +the freckles staring strangely from his pallid face. After a time +Shaughnessy bent down and examined the reporter's hurt. "Nothing +serious," he muttered, noting a crimson abrasion at the right side of +the scalp. Then he thrust his hand confidently into the inner pocket of +O'Byrn's coat. His look of complacency changed to concern. He made a +thorough examination of the pockets, then rose with a bitter oath.</p> + +<p>"Bluffed me!" he muttered furiously. "He hasn't got 'em." He felt +strangely weak, as the result of the late encounter, and moved languidly +over to the sofa whereon Micky had lately been. Shaughnessy sat down, +with a heavy sigh, to think.</p> + +<p>His moody eyes noted an object lying on the rug. Leaning over, he picked +up Micky's watch. The back cover swung open in his hands, owing to the +defective spring, which Micky had never had repaired.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy turned over the timepiece idly, noting on<a class="pagenum" name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a> the inner cover a +woman's picture. And in that moment the dead-white face, ordinarily an +inscrutable mask, became startling to see. His black eyes, in which +there grew a slow, consuming horror, stared at the picture as if +hypnotized by it, and on his face was the look which the living might +wear if confronted, without warning, by the resurrected dead.</p> + +<p>After a time Shaughnessy withdrew his gaze, and, with a convulsive +movement, snapped the watch shut. Slowly, fearfully, he approached the +prostrate young fellow on the floor, afraid of what he should see. Now +he bent on one knee over the senseless O'Byrn, peering strangely into +his face. He thrust the watch into the little Irishman's pocket, as if +anxious to hide it from his own vision. Then, timidly, he raised the +inert right arm of his victim and slipped the sleeve up from the wrist. +There was the scar.</p> + +<p>A deep groan burst from Shaughnessy's lips; in his eyes gloomed, with +added intensity, the horror that was the heritage of the past.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a> +<a name="xxi" id="xxi"></a>CHAPTER XXI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">THE LASH</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">IN the breadth and the depth of evil in the man whom the world had long +known as John Shaughnessy there was one wicked act whose memory was +torment. Unprincipled, ruthless, cruel as he was, this thing, perhaps in +inevitable reprisal for outraged higher laws, had long haunted him; +disturbing his sleep, embittering his waking hours. For it was only just +that a man base enough to leave, in far worse case than the widow and +the orphan, those he was morally and legally bound to protect, should be +disturbed by ghosts. It was remorse, it had long been remorse, from +which this calloused devil was suffering. His evil, white face was a +mask to hide much that the masquerader would have given all at times to +have forgotten.</p> + +<p>For a long time Shaughnessy bent over the silent figure on the floor; +crouching, motionless as if cut in stone. His eyes, unnaturally +brilliant, repellent in their fixed glare, rested long on the reporter's +unconscious face. That face—how freckled, how grotesquely homely! Why, +he had been a handsome baby! Still, the same mop of red, curly hair; +and, after all, did he but open his eyes Shaughnessy thought there would +be a definite resemblance to another. Shaughnessy recollected having +been vaguely troubled once or twice before by this half-sensed<a class="pagenum" name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a> +similitude of the young fellow to someone he had known. He knew now. +Why, the boy looked like his mother, of course; though there was only a +pathetic hint of it, for his mother had been very pretty. This +Shaughnessy could vouch for. Poor unfortunate, had she not been his +wife?</p> + +<p>And his son, lying on the floor; the son Shaughnessy had thought dead; +was it not a joyful reunion? Shaughnessy groaned aloud, for he had long +writhed under the lash of conscience for this one thing. The rest of his +ill-doing did not trouble him; it was for the blackest crime of all, +alone, that he paid the penalty. And a bitter penalty he paid, for, +whatever the seeming, outraged nature generally exacts her due. This man +had heartlessly deserted a wife who had been devoted to him, despite his +deviltry, and his helpless baby; deserted them more indifferently than +most men would leave a dog. It was slow in coming, the time of +reckoning, but the day came when the black heart and soul of Shaughnessy +quivered under the lash. And the lash bit the deeper because of the need +for repression, for the man writhed in secret. It was Shaughnessy who +lived; the other man was dead; yet his foul ghost, with the memory of +the foul deed he wrought, would not be laid.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy, with a haggard glance at the motionless form on the floor, +rose and walked uncertainly to an easy chair. He sat limply, a thin, +white hand shading his eyes. He was oblivious to his surroundings, for +the tumult of the past pounded in his brain.</p> + +<p>The tumult of the past! What a record had been his, this white-faced man +with hunted eyes that now stared with a weird, fixed horror back into +the past. They saw<a class="pagenum" name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a> again another man than the Shaughnessy of vile +political power; a younger man, in whom was no repression; the slave of +wayward passions which marred lives other than his own. But what were +wife and child? Merely incumbrances then, and, toward the last, hardly +to be borne.</p> + +<p>And at the beginning? Why, the young man had once been respectable, and +of the type to be pointed out as one destined to make his mark. Starting +at the lowest round of a big business house, in a far-off city, it had +not taken him long to prove his rare mettle, and at twenty-five he had +reached a point further than most men attain in a lifetime. He had +married a girl who believed in him as she believed in God—and she had +been his dupe almost from the first.</p> + +<p>Supremely selfish, treacherous by nature and with a stealthy leaning +toward the fleshpots, he began early to betray her trust in cold blood. +She did not know of this; she knew only of his indulgence in liquor, +increasing alarmingly, and his growing taste for cards. He had drammed +moderately from a very early age; now he had a fiend's appetite, while +his passion for the gaming table grew accordingly. She used to plead +pitifully with him to eschew the practices. At first he laughed; later +he sneered. Meanwhile his dissipation had not affected his business +prospects as yet. Often rioting through a sleepless night, he was +invariably at his desk in the morning, and his house was glad to command +his services, for he was a veritable business genius.</p> + +<p>His wife, poor soul, hoped that the baby's coming would influence him to +better things. It grew worse. His appetite for liquor, which was +evidently inherited from some bibulous ancestor, grew tyrannous, and he +was<a class="pagenum" name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a> a willing slave. Lucky at cards, ordinary gambling became too tame +for him. He fell to speculating, cannily at first, but with success and +increasing indulgence in liquor came recklessness. The man's naturally +cool business judgment was clouded, for he was never wholly sober now. +Yet his business prospects were still of the best, for he succeeded +marvellously in retaining his strong hold on affairs. The dawn was more +than likely to find him reeling, but the opening of the day's business +invariably found him at his desk, alert, coldly inscrutable, his wits +more than a match for the sharpest ones that might oppose him. +Dissipated as he was in those days, he engineered some brilliant +_coups_ which benefited his concern and increased his own prestige, +to his material advantage. He was already pointed out as a man of +power. He could have figured as a Napoleon of honorable business, +as he later figured as a Napoleon of graft. Of splendid intellectual +endowment, he chose to mar himself.</p> + +<p>Their home-life, because of his course, had grown unspeakably wretched. +They lived simply; the bulk of the man's income was expended away from +home. The wife did not reproach him and she had ceased to plead, but she +was pale and silent and sad-eyed. She knew all now, and she lived only +for her baby.</p> + +<p>Like many an infinitely better man, the husband's worst side was +reserved for his family. The inevitable reaction of tippling, in a +nature like his, rendered him fairly diabolic at times in his home; and +the cruel spirit was the fiercer by reason of the need for its +repression elsewhere. He remembered one morning when he stood shaving +before his mirror, shaking from the effect of a<a class="pagenum" name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a> debauch. It was several +months after his son was born. His wife, in pitiful appeal to his better +side, of whose existence she still dreamed, had softly entered the room, +carrying the baby. She thoughtlessly approached from the side, and he +neither heard nor saw her. A soft little hand, the baby's, crept into +his neck. Shaken as he was, it startled him; his razor slipped and the +blood spurted from a gash in his cheek. Blind with swift, unreasoning +rage, he whirled with a curse and a murderous, involuntary swoop of his +razor. She had sprung back with a sharp cry, but just too late. He heard +again the sudden, shrill cry of the baby; saw the swift blood rimming an +ugly gash above its little wrist; saw himself shriveling, before the +horror in his wife's eyes, into a loathsome thing.</p> + +<p>"My God!" he had stammered, "I—I didn't mean—"</p> + +<p>She had recoiled, the flame in her eyes repelling him. Ever afterward +her burning eyes, accusing him in memory, had caused his own to close +spasmodically in swift desire to escape her gaze; had caused him to dig +his nails into his palms in temporary agonized abasement. The grim mills +of the gods, indeed!</p> + +<p>The poor woman annoyed him no more after that, but she grew like a +voiceless, accusing ghost. She was thin and pale now and her beauty was +fading pathetically. As for him, his course grew madder, he plunged into +dissipation as it had been an enveloping sea. By and by things began to +go wrong with him; wild speculations turned out poorly, his resources +began seriously to dwindle. With his old, clear head he could have +repaired his fortunes, but now he saw things through a red haze, and in +endeavoring to right himself with one reckless stroke, he lost +everything.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a> +Well, it was time to leave. But he would not go alone, he sullenly +decided. There was a siren to whom he had long been devoted, a creature +of sensuous mould designed to hold enmeshed such evil souls as his. Nor, +he fiercely told himself, would they go empty-handed. And he fortified +his nerve with more whisky.</p> + +<p>The newspapers accordingly had a sensation. One of the city's most +brilliant and most trusted young business men was a defaulter to the +extent of thousands of dollars, and he was gone. This startling fact, +coupled with the simultaneous departure of the siren and the revelations +of the defaulter's double life, made an attractive tit-bit. The wife and +child, being of minor importance in this sensational tale, were quickly +forgotten. The memory of the defaulter remained, and men confidently +believed at first that one day they would welcome his return, shackled +to an officer of the law. But it was not to be, though once the man, +driven by the lash of belated remorse, had ventured to cross a continent +and steal furtively into the scene of his early crime, on a bootless +quest.</p> + +<p>It seemed to him later that, following his flight with his siren, he had +been drunk for years. The furtive sting was at work; he drank to deaden +it. At times he would shiver and the cold perspiration would bead his +forehead, for he saw again the horror in her eyes as she sought to +stanch the blood that flowed from her baby's arm. More, he saw himself +again, with hideous humor, repeatedly when he was in his cups, tearing +her baby from her arms and plying it with toddy. The boy would take it +like milk, he remembered; and the father was wont to laugh, with all the +sardonic mirth of a hyena, at the anguish in the mother's eyes, and +finally to hand back the infant with<a class="pagenum" name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a> ironical courtesy and the +observation "that he was a chip +<a name="off" id="off"></a><ins title="Original has of">off</ins> the old block."</p> + +<p>Yes, pleasant memories had the fugitive, while drifting from place to +place with his paramour. The money was soon gone and he had recourse to +the gaming table, with fluctuating luck. Quarrels were frequent now, and +finally, after an exceptionally fierce one, in which two calloused, +coarsened natures revealed themselves in all their hideousness, the +precious pair parted. That particular weakness disturbed the current of +the man's life no more, for Shaughnessy was done with sirens and their +influence. With a revival of his old calculation, shrewd and cold, he +decided that it didn't pay.</p> + +<p>At the same time, too, he decided that whisky didn't pay. He had a will +like iron, whether toward evil or against it. Returning reason bade him +to be against anything that marred his self-interest, so +Shaughnessy—which name he adopted after his flight of years +before—said one day, "I'm done," and suffered ensuing torments of +thirst like an imperturbable Indian. It was years before he again tasted +liquor, though he never lost the craving for it; and even then, he +severely confined himself to its use as a medicine, necessitated by his +failing health.</p> + +<p>After the siren had gone her way, and Shaughnessy took occasion to +survey the situation with something of his old-time critical analysis, +he resolved upon his future campaign. His honest name he had forfeited; +it could not be resumed. Moreover, his natural cynicism had deepened +with the years. It was the dishonest who prospered most, thought he. He +had the brains, so let him scheme to prosper. Politics attracted him. He +studied it for the science that it is, and he also studied men. He +chose<a class="pagenum" name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a> an excellent field in which to operate; he established his small +liquor store, which was destined to grow larger; he made his modest +entry into the political arena which he was to dominate. With infinite +subtlety, by the power of a remarkable brain, he had grown into the +sinister force he was today; nor did his evil success trouble him. It +was the memory of his wife and child that haunted him; a memory that bit +deep as a sword.</p> + +<p>It was years before he risked detection by a visit to his old city to +ascertain regarding them, for of course he dared not write. Time was +generous and changed him much, however, in appearance, so finally he +traversed the continent and furtively, fearfully, entered his old +haunts. He did not stay long; there was no need. His wife was dead; he +found her humble grave in an old cemetery. The boy had been entirely +lost sight of; he had drifted away and might be dead for all that +anybody knew or apparently cared. We poor worldlings might perchance be +more sympathetic, more solicitous one of the other, if we had more time. +But self-interest in the grim old world demands and receives the initial +consideration of self. Shaughnessy turned back with a heart none the +lighter because of the fruitlessness of his quest; back to the old +search in dark places for pelf and power. There was nothing else left, +and, as his ideals had never been high, his course suited him and +satisfied his ambition.</p> + +<p>The boss rose, swaying, from his chair; a strange weakness was upon him. +He made his way toward the spot where his unconscious son lay prone on +the floor, and he tottered like an old man. He stood looking down upon +the boy, and for his most monstrous sin of all there was grim reprisal +visible in his eyes. The boy was as he had<a class="pagenum" name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a> made him—as he himself had +been—a drunkard. Of brilliant mental endowment, as the father knew to +his cost, the son's career was clouded by this bitter heritage; would be +clouded to the end, for he lacked his father's iron will. And the agency +through which the boss' black course had been menaced; that menaced it +still; the son against the sire, unknowing and till now unknown! What a +hell-born irony it was, matter for mirth of gibbering fiends. Truly, at +last Shaughnessy drank the bitter lees.</p> + +<p>He stood there, swaying slightly, his gaunt face bloodless, his eyes +horrible. Mechanically he pulled out his watch, starting violently. Why, +it could be no more than five minutes since the struggle. Five +minutes—and in them Shaughnessy had lived long and bitter years! And +now—</p> + +<p>"_For God's sake! For—God's—sake!_"</p> + +<p>The old, old prayer of agony, of deadly fear, wrung at the last from +lips which perhaps had long ceased to frame that Awful Name except in +blasphemy; the cry of the ages; the wail of the wicked as it is the hope +of the blessed; the cry of despair which rends the throat of the pariah +when face to face with Death.</p> + +<p>What was it? Ah! Shaughnessy knew; while his face went gray, while he +gasped for breath, while his hands sought and pressed convulsively his +breast, through which throbbed swift, keen stabs of exquisite pain. The +mists swam before his staring eyes as he reeled blindly, now with +outstretched hands, toward the door of his den. It was the ancient enemy +returned—and this time not to be denied.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy lurched through the door, and with groping hands, grasped +the bottle. The fiery draught of<a class="pagenum" name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a> brandy seared his throat; he strangled +and the bottle fell from his nerveless fingers and broke upon the floor. +The strong smell of the spilled contents oppressed the heated air.</p> + +<p>No use—no use! Shaughnessy collapsed in the chair before his desk, his +breast afire with suffocating pain. The gray pallor deepened; the eyes +glazed. For a moment he lay inert, his form twitching. Then a sudden +torturing thought brought him instinctively erect in his chair. It was +like a dead man rising from his grave.</p> + +<p>The money—the property! Why, who would get it? How had _he_ gotten it? +Never mind, it was his; they could not take it away. It should be his +son's—who had tried to destroy him. Would he take it? Perhaps not, he +might be that kind of a fool. Well, if not, why he could give it to +charity. Charity! Shaughnessy laughed horribly, deep in his throat.</p> + +<p>There might—there might yet be time. He made as if to brush away the +mists that deepened before his eyes. He groped for paper—a pen, and +drew them toward him. He plunged the pen into the ink well, overturning +it, but he did not heed. He was going blind; there was a strange, +rhythmic thudding in his ears.</p> + +<p>"I—"</p> + +<p>The single letter, grotesquely lonely, sprawled crazily, black and ugly, +upon the sheet. The world would remember Shaughnessy as—Shaughnessy.</p> + +<p class="center ws big">* * * * * * * *</p> + +<p>O'Byrn stirred uneasily, for the noise of resounding blows was in his +ears. He struggled to a sitting posture, and as he did so the door +crashed in. Dick and Slade bounded into the room.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a> +"Ah! there you are," exclaimed Glenwood, striding over to Micky and +pulling him to his feet. "There's been a rough-house. But where's +Shaughnessy?" His eyes swept the apartment vengefully.</p> + +<p>"Must have gone out," returned Slade. Neither he nor Dick noticed the +partially open door of the den. "Better be gettin' out. He may be back, +with more like him, and we ain't got no time to lose."</p> + +<p>Between them they guided the stupefied O'Byrn outside and to the waiting +carriage. Inside the den, crumpled horridly in his chair, with gaunt, +ghastly jaw agape and with a look of terror frozen in his staring eyes, +rested Shaughnessy; as he would sit through the night, as he would be +sitting when they should seek him on the morrow.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a> +<a name="xxii" id="xxii"></a>CHAPTER XXII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">THE STORY</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">A HALF-HOUR later a telephone bell pealed in the office of the Courier. +"You're wanted, Mr. Harkins," called an assistant. The city editor +hurried to the instrument. "Hello!" he called.</p> + +<p>"Hello! That you, Harkins? All right, this is Glenwood. Well, we've got +him. Working on him now. Be there by twelve, sooner if possible. Have +everything ready. Good-by."</p> + +<p>The office of Dr. Erastus Wentworth was a scene of animation. By rare +good luck, Slade had found the medical gentleman in an adjacent +restaurant immediately after the cab drew up at the building which +contained his office. Dick and Slade had assisted the dazed O'Byrn +upstairs, when Slade, fuming with impatience, set out on a search for +the physician, which was fortunately soon rewarded.</p> + +<p>They placed O'Byrn on a sofa and he immediately lapsed into dreamland. +"Doctor," said Dick, "this man has a job to turn out tonight that would +feaze many a fellow in his sober senses. He's simply got to do it +tonight. It will take an hour, perhaps a half or so more. It must be +started at midnight. I know it looks hopeless, but you don't know the +man. If you only start his brain half-working it's worth a couple of +normal ones<a class="pagenum" name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a> under full head. What do you think?" He was pacing the +floor in keen excitement. Slade stood near, silent, with burning eyes.</p> + +<p>"Bad!" commented the doctor, dryly. "How much has he had?"</p> + +<p>"Not so much," returned Slade. "He got a nasty bump; it helped."</p> + +<p>"Well, we'll try," said the doctor, and was soon busy. Micky was +sufficiently oblivious not to wince at the sting of the hypodermic +needle, piercing his bared arm, forcing into his system the powerful +solution of +<a name="strychnine" id="strychnine"></a><ins title="Original has strychinine">strychnine</ins>, the influence of which must be invoked to +reinforce the mechanism of the numbed brain. Dick looked at the +Irishman, sprawled supine upon the office sofa, still with closed +eyes. It looked hopeless enough and Dick despaired.</p> + +<p>A little later the physician was preparing with infinite care a mixture +which he finally seemed to have ready to his satisfaction. He approached +the prostrate man.</p> + +<p>"Rank poison," he said grimly to Glenwood, "but desperate cases require +desperate remedies. I fancy this will complete the job of galvanizing +your friend for the time you require. Probably he won't exactly +scintillate, but I think he will do." He administered the stuff to +O'Byrn, who, half-conscious already despite his relaxed attitude, +swallowed it obediently.</p> + +<p>"Now in a few minutes," said the doctor, "you can start with him. But +remember one thing," he cautioned Glenwood, "this brace is wholly +artificial. It won't last. A little later and I couldn't have done much +for you anyway. He'll run along like a machine for a while, that's<a class="pagenum" name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a> all. +Get all you can from him while you can, for there'll be a reaction."</p> + +<p>"That's what we've got to do anyway," replied Dick grimly. "It's a case +of racing the clock with us from now on."</p> + +<p>A little later they descended the stairs, O'Byrn stumbling heedlessly +down, assisted by Glenwood. The cabman had waited under instructions. +"The Courier office in a hurry," Dick ordered, and assisted Micky +inside. Slade followed. He had resolved to be in at the death.</p> + +<p>As the cab rolled rapidly south, Dick spoke to the man opposite him, now +rousing to a dull consciousness of his surroundings.</p> + +<p>"Micky," he demanded, "have you got that story, all of it?" There was an +assenting nod.</p> + +<p>"Now listen to me, Micky," continued Dick, leaning forward in the +dimness, fixing the other's stolid eyes with his own dominant ones, +"you're going to turn out that story and it's going to be the story of +your life. You won't feel like it, but you're going to do it and it's +going to be a dandy. Now get your brain working. Think of that story, +every stage of it, from the time you first started out for it till you +finished. Fix it in your head, and when the time comes, just spout it. +_Don't-think-of-anything-but-that-story!_ Do you understand?"</p> + +<p>There was but a single word of response, a little thick, but inspiring +of confidence. "Sure."</p> + +<p>Dick sat back with a long sigh. His hands were trembling with +excitement. A moment later the cab drew up in front of the Courier +office.</p> + +<p>The elevator sprang upward. As its door was flung back for the trio to +emerge, the big editorial clock chimed<a class="pagenum" name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a> the hour of midnight. Harkins +met them with white face and eyes that revealed the strain of the long +hours of suspense. Behind him stared many other eyes, in which shone an +overwrought glitter that came of the infectious tension of the +situation.</p> + +<p>"Well, O'Byrn!" Harkins' voice crackled with acrid authority. "Where's +your story?"</p> + +<p>The tone had the effect of a whip lash, awakening the habit of swift +obedience born of long training. Micky had stood dumb with blank eyes, +to which the scene and the actors seemed strangely remote, like a vague +dream. But his chief's question pierced his numbed brain like sharp +steel. There was an instinctive attempt to gather his deadened forces. +His hand swiftly sought an outer pocket and produced a few penciled +fragments which he threw upon a table. "There," he said.</p> + +<p>"These!" exclaimed Harkins, hastily scanning them. "Well, where are the +rest? Did you lose them?"</p> + +<p>Dick interposed. "You forget, Mr. Harkins," he suggested. "He doesn't +have to carry a notebook. Micky, where's the rest of it?"</p> + +<p>"Why," he answered confusedly, "I remembered it."</p> + +<p>"Well, do you remember it now?" persisted Harkins.</p> + +<p>"No," wearily, "not just now." Then, again with that strange gathering +of struggling forces, though the words came as if he talked in his +sleep, "I'll remember it—after I get started." And he walked straight +to his desk, eyes dead ahead like a somnambulist's, unheedful of the men +who watched him silently with drawn, anxious faces. It is doubtful if he +saw them. Dropping limply into his chair he reached mechanically for his +copy paper.</p> + +<p>"Not that way, Micky," said Dick softly, interposing<a class="pagenum" name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a> his hand. "There +isn't time. You must dictate it. Here's a man waiting for you."</p> + +<p>Micky turned dull eyes toward the stenographer who sat nearby in +readiness, pencil in hand. An expression of helplessness replaced the +apathy in O'Byrn's face, as his gaze shifted to Dick. In his trance-like +state he could not comprehend. They wanted the story, yet would not let +him write it. There was a pathetic questioning in his look.</p> + +<p>"Listen, Micky," said Dick very distinctly, bending over him. "It's not +far from press-time. We've got to hurry. There's a relay of +stenographers waiting for you. Now you go ahead and dictate your story +just as if you were writing it yourself. Get your mind right on it. Talk +your introduction, covering the main points, then start at the beginning +and go through to the finish. Get everything in and talk it as it comes +to you, but have it right. Don't be afraid of going too fast. They'll +get it all. Talk it just as you'd talk it to me and get it all. You +understand? Now, boy, _get into it_!" He placed the packet of +Shaughnessy's papers, which O'Byrn had entrusted to him, in his hand.</p> + +<p>Dick stepped back, raising his hand to quiet them all as they crowded +around, staring at the motionless man in the chair. "Get back!" Dick +whispered fiercely. "Get him rattled now and it's all up. Can't you +see?" They softly moved aside and intense quiet fell, in which the +measured ticking of the big clock sounded unbelievably loud. They +watched the meagre figure in the chair with an odd fascination. O'Byrn, +as if fairly hypnotized by Glenwood's words, was bending forward, hands +pressed tightly against his temples, eyes closed and brow contracted<a class="pagenum" name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a> in +the supreme effort to marshal the dormant resources of his brain. So he +sat, without word or motion, while the moments crawled by and the +suspense grew into actual pain for every watcher in that great room. +Once Harkins, with an expression of keen torture, slowly lifted a +clenched hand and let it fall silently, an impetuous word restrained by +a warning gesture from Glenwood, who had not once taken his piercing +eyes from O'Byrn's face. Even as he gazed, the face of the other seemed +curiously to change, as if a dead thing were stirring into life. It was +as if Glenwood's iron will reinforced O'Byrn's weaker one, infusing into +it the power of concentration, helping it to rise superior to deadening +influences, to assert itself in a hard-won triumph of mind over matter.</p> + +<p>At last Micky raised his head, looking straight into Dick's eyes, which +shone with satisfaction, for they read coherence in O'Byrn's own. The +day was saved and there was a universal sigh of relief. O'Byrn extended +his hand. Reading the gesture aright, Dick placed in it the notes which +shortly before had been produced for Harkins' inspection. Micky looked +them over briefly, scanned the damning packet a moment, and turned to +the waiting stenographer.</p> + +<p>Then came the story which swept the town that morning in a mighty wind +that drove a monstrous tidal wave of public indignation thundering over +an illicit crew and blotted out a corrupt municipal history. Yes and +more, for the waters encroached even to foul halls in the capitol and +washed them clean. It was a story involving so scathing an arraignment +of those in high places that hardened veterans in the great room, +listening to its steady<a class="pagenum" name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a> flow from the lips of the drowsy man in the +chair, gasped and looked at each other in momentary incredulity; +momentary, because every astounding disclosure was fortified by the most +incontrovertible of proofs. Micky had been a veritable sleuth hound on +the track of that story. His scent had been unerring and in the +marshaling of his verified facts he had shown positive genius. There was +nothing asserted that collected statements and figures did not prove; no +man arraigned, from Judge Boynton down, who was not pilloried in the +proof. Noisome legislative deals, heretofore blanketed by +respectability, were laid bare in exposed horror. The city government +was savagely assailed. The vesture of fair seeming in the present +campaign was torn away and there was revealed rottenness. The growth of +graft, in repulsive forms, under the sinister genius of Shaughnessy, was +claimed and proved and the telling ruined some flourishing careers. So +on to the end, the arraignment transcending the expectation of all in +its ugly features, as indeed it had Micky's own. It left no doubt of the +swift dynamic effect upon the election, now close at hand. Truly it was +the story of a lifetime.</p> + +<p>He told it from beginning to end always in that strange, monotonous +voice, as if he were muttering in his sleep, his eyes at times fixed +absently on the stenographer, at others half-closed or turning blankly +toward the ceiling. He seemed wholly unconscious of his surroundings +after his task was begun, being absorbed in dreamy contemplation of his +theme. As the physician had said, his brain was working like an +insensate machine, driven for a while by the force of powerful +stimulants. Yet always his wonderful memory, an instinctive force with +him, was a<a class="pagenum" name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a> potent line that led his groping mind unerringly through the +gloomy labyrinth of the brain. At times he would falter for a moment, +but once more grasping the thread was off again. So, unmindful of +anything save the task he was mechanically pursuing, he swept on toward +the end. Stenographers quietly relieved one another, typewriters rattled +madly at the other end of the room, Harkins and an assistant fairly flew +in the preparation of the copy; boys hurried by with it, take by take, +everywhere was the sharp hum of the belated machinery, at last in +motion. O'Byrn never noticed, but went serenely, logically, sleepily on, +dictating as he would have written it. One might imagine he saw himself, +as one detached, writing as he proceeded.</p> + +<p>But now the fuel had spent its force. He was growing horribly drowsy, +yet struggled on, impelled by a latent sense of duty. At last he +faltered in the middle of a sentence and stopped short. His chin sank on +his breast.</p> + +<p>Someone was shaking him, he numbly felt a dash of something cold and wet +in his face and opened his eyes. He tried to wipe away the water that +trickled down his cheeks, when somebody's handkerchief was passed over +them and he heard a voice, familiar yet far away.</p> + +<p>"Wake up, Micky!" it appealed. "You can't give up now, you're almost +through!"</p> + +<p>"All right, Dick," he sighed wearily. "Where was I?"</p> + +<p>Dick prompted him and he resumed at the break, still in the same even, +expressionless monotone, and continued until the dark shadows again +gathered before his eyes and he swayed in his chair. Dick's voice again +rang its sharp rally in his ears and he braced desperately, dictating<a class="pagenum" name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a> +the closing paragraphs. "That's all," he murmured. The receding +footfalls of the stenographer sounded. Then came Dick's voice, a ghost +of a voice from the other side of the world.</p> + +<p>"Now you can sleep," it said.</p> + +<p>Then returned again the shadows and silence.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a> +<a name="xxiii" id="xxiii"></a>CHAPTER XXIII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">WANDERLUST</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap2">O<span class="normal">'</span>BYRN reeled to and fro, in fierce combat with Shaughnessy. Again and +again, while his breath came in gasps and his temples throbbed with his +efforts, he had nearly gained the advantage, but the boss as often +slipped from his hold with an ugly sneer, eluding him. And now occurred +a grisly thing, for before his horrified eyes his enemy's body suddenly +lengthened and changed into a monstrous, writhing serpent, wriggling +sinuously toward him. He strove to scream, but could not, and the +creature coiled itself in triumph near him. Upreared above its horrid +neck was the swaying head, the ghastly face of Shaughnessy, who leered +with his black serpent's eyes and darted a forked tongue. Now the +creature crawled sluggishly toward him—coiled its horrid folds about +him—and he could not move. The last coil tightened above his neck, +while he gazed upward, strangling, into dead, unwinking, awful eyes, the +eyes of Shaughnessy. Now he was borne backward; the creature was +shattering his head upon the floor. Thud!—thud!—thud!</p> + +<p>O'Byrn fairly shot out of bed, groaning as the impact of his feet upon +the floor sent a diabolical thrust of pain through his aching head. He +pressed his temples convulsively and closed his eyes, blinded by the +glare of<a class="pagenum" name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a> sunlight through the window. Why, what was that? Somebody was +pounding insistently at his door. It was this which had awakened him.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" he called.</p> + +<p>His landlady answered him. "There's a telegram for you, Mr. O'Byrn. A +young fellow just brought it in from the Courier office. He said they'd +sent him right over here with it."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," he mumbled indifferently. "Just shove it under the door, will +you?"</p> + +<p>A small yellow envelope was thrust beneath the portal, the woman's +footsteps receded down the stairs. Inside his room stood O'Byrn with his +splitting head between shaking hands, his bloodshot eyes closing in +sheer physical misery. The meagre form in the flamboyant pajamas winced +perceptibly as stabs of cruel pain continued to pierce Micky's temples. +The freckled face went gray as the overwrought stomach writhed in +sickening nausea.</p> + +<p>It was with a long, shuddering sigh that he turned at last to his +ablutions. He dressed mechanically, his memory groping through the mists +of the preceding night, mists that reeked with misery, with shameful +groveling, with manhood profaned.</p> + +<p>Ah, God! he had fallen again, again! Numbly he glanced at the mirror. +The glass reflected heavy, unnatural eyes in which despair brooded like +a cloud, a haggard face from which the freckles stared strangely forth +from unaccustomed pallor. Slowly, painfully, his mind wrestled with the +problem of the night before, a night unreal, peopled with phantoms that +gibbered and peered from enshrouding blackness.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a> +Dominated by another's master will, had he indeed emerged through +shadows to victory, or was the episode in the Courier office merely a +grateful, fleeting dream to accentuate the misery of waking? O'Byrn +looked at his watch, it marked the hour of two. He had slept long, it +seemed. How had he reached home, had he been in the Courier office at +all the previous night?</p> + +<p>However, what mattered it? What mattered anything in the shadow of this +appalling thing which mastered him, which dogged him in times of fancied +security, only to spring upon him unaware and rend him, leaving him +sorely wounded again to painfully traverse for a season the path of +duty? What mattered anything to one whose stumbling steps laid hold on +hell?</p> + +<p>Seizing hat and coat O'Byrn started for the door. His downcast gaze fell +upon the yellow envelope. Absently he stooped and dropped the message, +unopened, into his coat pocket. The landlady met him at the foot of the +stairs and inquired kindly if he would eat something. He replied only +with a gesture of utter repugnance. She looked after him as he went out, +shaking her head sadly.</p> + +<p>O'Byrn stumbled blindly out upon the street, blurred eyes blinking in +dazzling sunshine of an ideal Indian summer afternoon. The warm, +fragrant air was incense to the nostrils, the sky was of a heavenly +blue. Micky closed miserable eyes to the glories of the day. The +villainous old feelings, so well remembered, racked him cruelly. The odd +depression which always followed his indulgence was bad enough, but +now—</p> + +<p>A dumb terror seized him. He hurried up the quiet street toward a busier +thoroughfare, his ears strained<a class="pagenum" name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a> for the cries of newsboys, even as the +spirit within him grew sick for fear of disappointment.</p> + +<p>In another moment his shoulders squared, his red head lifted with +assurance in part renewed. For he could now see a thronged street; from +afar he could fairly snuff the air of unwonted excitement. Now he beheld +newsboys running here and there with early editions of the evening +papers, their wares disappearing fast as April snows. The burden of +their shrill cries was the exposure of the gang, with "follow-up" +details upon the Courier's story. O'Byrn drew a long breath of relief.</p> + +<p>Well, he should now be communicating with the office. He looked +longingly toward a saloon. Throat and mouth were parched dry as desert +sands. Resolutely turning away, he entered a drug store instead, +purchased a bromide and then stepped into a telephone booth.</p> + +<p>Securing Harkins' ear at the Courier office, he told the city editor +that he felt pretty "shaky," and inquired if he were needed there. +Harkins replied that it was expected he would rest for a couple of days +and added some warm congratulatory words. O'Byrn thanked him, and with a +bitter smile, hung up the receiver.</p> + +<p>Stepping into a tobacco store he purchased some cigars, and as he handed +the salesman a coin he remembered that he had not drawn his salary, due +the day before. Walking to the Courier's business office he secured his +money, accepting, with an odd indifference, the congratulations of some +fellow employes there upon his brilliant coup.</p> + +<p>Next, although at the moment he could not have told just why, he stopped +at the bank where, through the influence<a class="pagenum" name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a> of a warm dream near his +heart, he had been of late depositing a portion of his wages each week, +and called for his money. Placing the little bundle of bills carefully +in his pocket book, he left the building and sauntered slowly down the +crowded street.</p> + +<p>Everything told of a triumph which it seemed should have had the little +Irishman walking upon air. Everything pointed to as impressive a climax +as he could have wished. Everywhere were knots of excited men, with +strident voices and brandished fists. The clubs and hotels were teeming +with the story, the curbs proclaimed it. Newsboys were reaping harvests +and the news stands could hardly supply the hungry demand.</p> + +<p>Public opinion, at first stunned by the sensational exposure of a system +of wholesale corruption well nigh unbelievable, was gathering force like +a mighty, overwhelming wave, which was to sweep down in vengeance upon +the trembling, illicit crew, now leaderless. This, however, was not yet +known, nor was it destined to become so until the evening. There would +be another rich morsel for the Courier in the early morning, though none +knew it now.</p> + +<p>Shaughnessy had been wont to live in seclusion that was undisturbed save +when he was minded to summon one or another of his crew. His lodgings +occupied the upper floor of a small, two-story building, with +unpretentious stores below, and few ascended the stairs that had not +business with Shaughnessy and been called thither. Also, the boss had +invariably taken his meals outside and so managed in all respects that +once in his retreat, when he so willed, he was in unbroken seclusion.</p> + +<p>So it transpired that Shaughnessy, limp in the chair<a class="pagenum" name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a> before the desk in +his den, sat in grisly silence through the long night till the dawn +which heralded his exposure; sat through the long day, with the sun's +rays beating through the window upon his glazed, unwinking eyes; sat +quietly, while men throughout the city cursed him for the masterly knave +he had been, conferring together in plans of futile reprisal. So he sat, +deaf, unheeding, beyond it all; while some men watched others whom they +thought harbored him and others thought him gone.</p> + +<p>And so he was—to a far country, where they could not follow him. Even +now, as he sat waiting for them, there was a sardonic look about his +grim, relaxed jaws which might tell them, when they were finally +come—summoned through the veriest accident to get him—that they were +welcome to what was left.</p> + +<p>As O'Byrn walked along the crowded street, he passed some members of the +gang, hurrying by with white faces and furtive eyes, cringing in the +glare of publicity as if a lash bit deep into quivering flesh. Others he +met who affected an exaggerated boldness which failed to hide their +uneasiness. Some who knew O'Byrn shot glances at him that were white-hot +with hate, one breathed a livid curse as they touched elbows.</p> + +<p>To all the tumult, the strident clamor of indignation, the scurrying +hither and yon of scared, branded rats of men, O'Byrn remained curiously +indifferent. As during his dictation of the previous night, he proceeded +as if in a maze, with the air of a sleep walker, gaze dead ahead; no +triumph in the eyes, only infinite weariness.</p> + +<p>For O'Byrn was confronted by the merciless logic of his fate, feeling +the strangling grip of the enemy upon his soul. At times like these +there was given him cruel<a class="pagenum" name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a> realization at its full, the grim, prophetic +knowledge that he must fight a losing battle to the end. Without knowing +the source, he recognized the deadly taint of heredity in his blood. A +hard road was his to travel, and—supremest sacrifice!—now he knew that +in simple justice he must pursue it—alone. And the winds are bleak that +howl about a solitary way.</p> + +<p>So, on this beautiful autumn afternoon, walking in the midst of a public +upheaval which he had produced, the cup of success held only bitter +lees. Face to face with inevitable renunciation of his dearest hope, the +present moment held no thrill. There was no rose, only the pallid gray; +wan, cold ashes of endeavor. Through this damning thing he was doomed to +walk alone in arid places, a soul cut off from Israel.</p> + +<p>A voice hailed him, recalling him to pulsing actualities. It was that of +Mead, his fellow-worker upon the staff of the Courier.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" remarked Mead, shaking O'Byrn's hand. "Great story! You've won +that bet, all right."</p> + +<p>"What bet?" returned Micky, listlessly.</p> + +<p>"Why, that Santa Claus bet about Shaughnessy," rejoined the other, +producing a ten dollar bill. "You know, in the lunch room that time; +that he'd get his. Well, you're a wizard and here you are. It's a little +early, but Boynton's grave is waitin'. Don't be bashful. I've made twice +the stuff already with outside specials on your story. Thought I'd pay +you right up, maybe you could use it."</p> + +<p>"Thanks, Mead," replied Micky, wearily. "Why, yes, I can use it."</p> + +<p>"They're holdin' a pow-wow at the office," pursued<a class="pagenum" name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a> Mead. "Harkins, he's +walkin' on air. Everyone's speculatin' on how much they'll boost your +pay. Wish I'd get half of it. But I'm a dub. Say, Glenwood's out of +town. They sent him off on something growin' out of your yarn."</p> + +<p>"Sorry he's gone," replied Micky, moving on. "Give him my regards. So +long, Mead."</p> + +<p>"Ain't he the foolish frost?" wondered Mead, staring curiously after the +Irishman. "Doesn't seem to give a damn. Worryin' over his bat, likely. +Why, bat or no bat, if I'd turned out that story, I'd—but I couldn't. +Switch off!" He shook his head mournfully as he hurried up the street.</p> + +<p>O'Byrn proceeded to the writing room of a hotel where he penned three +notes, sealed and stamped the envelopes, and slipped them into his +pocket. Returning to the street he walked to the corner, stared absently +about for a moment and then boarded a street car, harbor bound.</p> + +<p>A little later he sat upon the edge of the wharves, his feet dangling +above the restless surface of the waters. The workaday bustle and +confusion, the shrill cries of roustabouts mingling with the thumping +din of manhandled freight, the clatter of trucks, the tramp of countless +feet, the shrieks of whistles and hoarse growl of gongs; all these were +as if they had not been to a mind capable of such absorption that it +could, did occasion demand, work undisturbed in the thunderous roar of a +rolling mill.</p> + +<p>So the lonely, meagre figure rested motionless in the midst of +unrealized tumult, the sombre eyes gazed past the vessels thronging the +waterway to some dim goal far beyond the humming ken of commerce, +straight into<a class="pagenum" name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a> the realm of dreams. The ears drank in only the murmur of +lazy waters whispering about the piers in the wash of a falling tide, +bearing the message of the sea.</p> + +<p>The message of the sea! Softly low, like the love note of a mother, it +whispered to the alien brooding spirit, whispered of spindrift whipped +to showers of briny spray in the sweep of unleashed winds, whispered of +illimitable, splendid unrest. Out beyond the land-locked haven of the +ships the great waves rolled league on league, in unfettered freedom, to +annoint the feet of a far world.</p> + +<p>Low in the west, the sun crimsoned the distant sky line and tinged with +rose the gray of wan, far-flung billows. The balm of a soft breeze, +instinct with the latent fragrance of the passing year, breathed over +the tossing waters of the harbor, lately rent by a strong wind, and +lulled them to cradled peace. High overhead a flock of gulls wheeled +with harsh cries, winging straight out to the sky line of gray and rose +that hemmed the sweep of the restless sea.</p> + +<p>Mechanically the man on the wharf rose to his feet, standing with hands +in his coat pockets, watching the soaring gulls. Like the wind they +flew, straight out to the rose and gray and beyond, white specks +swallowed in the mists of distance. Even yet the eyes of the man's mind +followed them, atoms that swooped triumphantly into the teeth of +stinging winds; atoms fiercely clamorous, mad with the mere ecstasy of +life, with wild, aimless wandering, the zest of battle with wind and +wave.</p> + +<p>O'Byrn drew a long, shuddering breath. It had gripped him again, this +compelling ghost that could never<a class="pagenum" name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a> be laid for long. In his eyes blazed +the old, restless light, the wild will-o'-the-wisp which lures the born +wanderer the wide world over in erratic flight till set o' sun. His +tired brain, his sick heart, alike craved the old nepenthe of unrest.</p> + +<p>Reborn of the whispered message of wide-flung tides, the sight of the +screaming gulls, the old longing of his nature sought vent in a strident +inward cry. Once more, bringing the sharp, exquisite pain he feared, yet +loved, the lash came hurtling out of the unknown, driving him on to new +scenes that all too soon were old, to dream houses built on crumbling +sands. The strange light of his eyes grew brighter, the wine of +quickened wanderlust mounted in deepening glow upward to heart and +brain.</p> + +<p>O'Byrn became conscious of a small, square object in his pocket. +Absently he drew forth a yellow envelope. Tearing it open he read the +message. With eyes darkened with concentration he read it again. A +little later he walked into a telegraph office.</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a> +<a name="xxiv" id="xxiv"></a>CHAPTER XXIV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="small">THE LONG ROAD</span></h2> + + +<p class="cap">NIGHT had fallen, the lights of the city flared under a calm clear sky +that was studded with stars. A soft wind from the south had worked its +will, the night was warmer than had been the day. The air was fragrant +with the mystic scent of Indian summer, of green things in fields and +forests, the land over, that were changing to rose and gold ere the +pitiful withering to shriveled gray.</p> + +<p>Through a quiet street leading toward Mulberry Avenue walked a man, +haggard of face, misty of eye. He was a small man, almost a youth, of +meagre frame and rather pronounced garb. He carried a rusty satchel, +grimy and battered, like the scarred veteran of a long and strenuous +campaign.</p> + +<p>Now he was passing a dusky corner; one he had good cause to remember, +but his thoughts were far away. So he failed to associate the low, +two-story building with the significant words of the scared woman, +frowsy and unkempt, who clattered down the stairs and across the walk, +halting and startling him.</p> + +<p>"Mercy o' God, sir, what'll I do?" she cried. "He's dead, sir, a-sittin' +in his chair. Sure, I do his work for him an' I went over to see when +he'd want me agin an' the door was open—I lit a light to see what was +the matter—Ah! the dead, white, grinnin' face of him!—an' what'll I +do?" She wrung her hands.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a> +He had listened impatiently—what concern was it of his? "Policeman on +the corner," he told her, with a backward jerk of his thumb. The +charwoman ran toward the approaching officer. O'Byrn passed on, +dismissing the incident instantly from his pre-occupied mind. He was +done forever with the affairs of his unknown father.</p> + +<p>A little later he paused at a corner intersecting Mulberry Avenue and +set his satchel upon the curb. He gazed down the street toward the dim +outlines of an humble frame house, a solitary light shining from a lower +window. Long he stood silently regarding the little dwelling.</p> + +<p>Then slowly from his pocket he drew three letters which he had written +at a hotel hours before. In the wavering radiance of an adjacent +electric light he scanned the addresses upon the envelopes. He stepped +to a nearby letter box and consigned to it the notes prepared for +Harkins and Glenwood. The third he held hesitantly for a moment, +regarding it through a briny mist. So this was the end—the miserable, +heart-breaking end. It was now for him the long road—alone.</p> + +<p>"Micky!"</p> + +<p>Swiftly he wheeled, his face alight with a trembling incredulity of joy. +His startled eyes looked straight into hers that were mystically dark in +the night shadows intruding upon the shimmering arc from the street lamp +nearby. Dressed simply in coat and gown of the brown hue he liked so +well, with a hat of the same shade, she made a picture to rest his +wearied eyes.</p> + +<p>"It's good to see you, girlie," he exclaimed, a break in<a class="pagenum" name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a> his voice. +"But it isn't wise, is it, when you're just over being so ill? Where +have you been?"</p> + +<p>"Only walking about, Micky. You know I grew stronger real fast. Don't +you know, you were surprised to find me so much better? I've been about +the house for a week, even helped mother a little the last two or three +days. And tonight I couldn't rest indoors, somehow, I had to be out in +this glorious air. You needn't scowl that way, I had the doctor's +permission this afternoon to go out if I wanted to. Today I've heard of +nothing but your story. It was grand work, Micky."</p> + +<p>"Don't, girlie!" His tone was as if she had struck him.</p> + +<p>One little white hand touched his arm. With quick divination her +searching look read the tale told in his drawn face, in the sight of the +satchel upon the curb, the letter in his hand. She gently took it from +him.</p> + +<p>"For me?"</p> + +<p>He nodded, he could not have spoken just then. He swallowed hard while +his eyes hungrily devoured the rare, fair sight of her, the slightly +sharpened outlines of her lovely face, the pallor that was the heritage +of illness, the sweetness of her eyes.</p> + +<p>His letter in her hand, she moved a little away from him, then turned +and walked to the curb. She rent the envelope straight across, and +tearing the residue into tiny fragments, tossed the pieces like +snowflakes upon the pavement. Retracing her steps, she confronted +O'Byrn.</p> + +<p>"Tell me all about it," she suggested, very gently.</p> + +<p>With a low, bitter cry he clasped her little hand in both his own, +stammering that he was unfit, that there was<a class="pagenum" name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a> another blot, a repetition +of the old, wretched story. She understood, and there was only a low +exclamation of sympathy as she looked into his tortured face with eyes +that were wonderful with forgiveness and love. For she had known +instinctively long since that it must always be so, and with her woman's +devotion, had resolved to help him, notwithstanding, to the end.</p> + +<p>"What did I tell you once, dear?" she asked him low. "It's for you to +always try, Micky, and what credit's for those who don't have to try? +You have tried, my boy, and you must keep on trying—for my sake. +Remember, dear, you can never fail while you try—and it's trying—it's +trying that brings us—where dreams—where dreams—come—true."</p> + +<p>The low voice was lost in a stifled sob. Her little hands, her poor, +thin hands, sought her face. The tears trickled from between her clasped +fingers.</p> + +<p>Miserably he sought gently to draw her hands from her wet eyes. "Don't +cry, Maisie," he begged, fighting with his constricted throat, winking +blurred eyes. "Why do you? It—it kills me!"</p> + +<p>A solitary pedestrian, passing upon the opposite side of the quiet +street, gazed at them curiously, without pausing. Neither of them +noticed him and he disappeared around a corner. Meanwhile, eyes searched +eyes; presently O'Byrn's turned away. They held so much of the +desolation and shame of his soul, hers only love.</p> + +<p>"Why do I cry?" she questioned sadly. "Do you remember a night—it seems +so long ago!—when you asked me that? Do you need to ask me again? Only +now it is so different, so—so horrible. God help me! then it was<a class="pagenum" name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a> the +beginning, now you mean it for the end. You are going away?"</p> + +<p>"Yes." She could scarcely hear the word.</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>He turned upon her a face she scarcely knew, in which warred fiercely +the stormy elements of his strangely complex nature. Mingling oddly with +a numb, gray misery, there was something else, a troubled light like a +clouded dawn. Full in the radiance from the street lamp, his eyes burned +with the fire lighted from the dying, crimson embers of an autumn sunset +upon a hearth of gray, and behind the flame brooded the deep shadows of +despair. His voice was bitterly harsh, dissonant; a challenge to tearing +winds and thunderous seas of life, like the wild note of the winging +gulls.</p> + +<p>"Why? Why not? Girl, I'm down again, I'm not fit to touch you. I've just +told you. This thing was born with me, it'll die with me—I hope. If +I've got to carry it—beyond—I pray God will snuff out my soul—like a +candle! Can't you see it's the only way? To go—alone,—to bear +it—alone,—to fight—alone,—to lie down—alone,—at the end of the +long road!"</p> + +<p>"You leave tonight?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear."</p> + +<p>"Where are you going?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm not tramping, not this time," he answered wearily. "The letters +I've just mailed are for Harkins and Glenwood. I've told them I'm sorry, +and God knows I mean it. But the old fever is burning my brain, girl. +I've stayed my stay here. I've gone down twice and it's too much. I've +lost the right to inflict myself further on the town. If I stayed it +would mean better things for<a class="pagenum" name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a> me on the paper, but I can't stay. It's +queer—you can't understand it—I can't myself,—but the time has come +and I must be moving. It's the old voice calling. This afternoon I was +looking out over the harbor—that old something came rushing out of +nowhere and took me by the neck—sometimes I think I'm crazy. I put my +hand in my pocket, there was a message I hadn't opened. I'm called to +Denver—an old associate—something bigger than I've ever had. They're +in a hurry. I wired them I'd leave tonight. I'll be with them for a +while, then the trail once more."</p> + +<p>He told it wholly without animation, the fruits of success as ashes upon +his lips, only a dull hopelessness in his haggard face as he looked full +in renunciation of her.</p> + +<p>She moved a little nearer him, eyes holding his own in solemn +questioning.</p> + +<p>"What did it say—the letter—out there?" She waved her hand toward the +pavement.</p> + +<p>"What I have just told you—that I loved you too much to drag you +through—what I will have to bear. I begged you to forgive—and +forget—a cur."</p> + +<p>"Micky,—do you want—to go—alone?"</p> + +<p>He had to bend his head to catch the whispered words, though the +beautiful eyes gazed in divine fearlessness straight into his own, +searching his shadowed, storm-swept soul. A breathless moment his brain +groped for her meaning, grasped it with incredulous joy. The hot blood +pounded in his veins, his eyes implored while fearing her.</p> + +<p>"Oh, girl, you don't mean—Ah, you don't know what you're saying. No! +I'm a dog—a dog—I'm not fit—"</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a> +Their hands entwined, her clasp tightened upon his trembling fingers. +His halting words died in his throat, he only watched her mutely, his +face a queer mixture of misery and joy. Her wet eyes, twin load-stars +lighting the path to Eden, smiled into his own.</p> + +<p>"Listen!" she said. "Where you go—I'll go—whatever comes—I'm with +you—clear to the white stone and the cross—and beyond—for _I love +you—I love you_!"</p> + +<p>He reeled where he stood. Ah, this love of woman, this grace of the gray +world that makes for the glory of God!</p> + +<p>For wistful thought of her he sought still to put her from him, weakly +tried while every fibre of his being called for her who was always to +rule his warm heart, whatever the vagaries of his foolish head.</p> + +<p>"It's a long road—a road rainy with tears—you must travel with me."</p> + +<p>"I love you."</p> + +<p>There grew in her low tone an odd, wondering exaltation, as if through +the domination of his vagabond personality, something heretofore +sleeping in her soul woke and stretched its wings, longing for freedom, +for the riot of mad winds and tumbling seas.</p> + +<p>"There's not a soul near to you that won't grieve for you—with me. Not +because I want it so, but because it was meant to be, it'll be gray +skies, it'll be often an aching heart; it'll be from pillar to post, now +here, now yonder; sometimes it will be—in hell—with me."</p> + +<p>"I love you."</p> + +<p>Now her tone held in its full the divine finality of choice, for weal or +woe. Gravely sweet, solemn with the sublimity of unselfish consecration, +it told many things<a class="pagenum" name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a> to the man who stood finally silenced and +overwhelmed, clasping her in reverent arms close to his lonely heart. It +told of gardens flowering in deserts, of splendid heights beyond that +pierced the blue. It told him of the white grace of self sacrifice, of +God-sent, sustaining hands. And finally it told of calm after storm, of +the haven under the hill, of ultimate and abiding peace at the end of +the long road, where dreams come true.</p> + + + + +<div class="box"> +<p class="center">Transcriber's Note:</p> + +<p class="noi">Punctuation has been standardised. Alternatives have been retained for +débris/debris near-by/nearby. Spelling and punctuation has been retained +as it appears in the original publication except as follows:</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 11<br /> +no bettter judged <em>changed to</em><br /> +no <a href="#better">better</a> judged</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 32<br /> +stunt or it 'll <em>changed to</em><br /> +stunt or <a href="#it">it'll</a></p> + +<p class="noi">Page 63<br /> +heavy-lided eyes <em>changed to</em><br /> +<a href="#heavy-lidded">heavy-lidded</a> eyes</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 79<br /> +you think Shaugnessy 'll get <em>changed to</em><br /> +you think <a href="#Shaughnessy">Shaughnessy'll</a> get</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 99<br /> +CHAPTR X <em>changed to</em><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER">CHAPTER</a> X</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 107<br /> +wearied of such an excresence <em>changed to</em><br /> +wearied of such an <a href="#excrescence">excrescence</a></p> + +<p class="noi">Page 119<br /> +sh'an't whine or excuse <em>changed to</em><br /> +<a href="#shant">sha'n't</a> whine or excuse</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 131<br /> +Judge Boynton 'll win <em>changed to</em><br /> +Judge <a href="#Boynton">Boynton'll</a> win</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 139<br /> +Tain't good for you <em>changed to</em><br /> +<a href="#Taint">'Tain't</a> good for you</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 140<br /> +leisurely away O'Byrn hailed <em>changed to</em><br /> +leisurely <a href="#away">away.</a> O'Byrn hailed</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 153<br /> +Is is Consolidated Gas <em>changed to</em><br /> +Is <a href="#is">it</a> Consolidated Gas</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 153<br /> +'T won't be safe <em>changed to</em><br /> +<a href="#Twont">'Twon't</a> be safe</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 155<br /> +posibilities; it remained <em>changed to</em><br /> +<a href="#possibilities">possibilities</a>; it remained</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 171<br /> +whispered Slade, "and proceeded <em>changed to</em><br /> +whispered Slade, <a href="#and">and</a> proceeded</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 182<br /> +period of quiesence <em>changed to</em><br /> +period of <a href="#quiescence">quiescence</a></p> + +<p class="noi">Page 195<br /> +said a gruff voice, we're there <em>changed to</em><br /> +said a gruff voice, <a href="#we">"we're</a> there</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 210<br /> +he was a chip of the old block <em>changed to</em><br /> +he was a chip <a href="#off">off</a> the old block</p> + +<p class="noi">Page 216<br /> +solution of strychinine <em>changed to</em><br /> +solution of <a href="#strychnine">strychnine</a></p> +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lash, by Olin L. 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Lyman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Lash + +Author: Olin L. Lyman + +Release Date: December 19, 2011 [EBook #38341] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LASH *** + + + + +Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + +[Illustration: "_Haskins quizzically looked him over_"] + + + + +THE LASH + +OLIN L. LYMAN + +Author of "The Trail of the Grand Seigneur" + +[Illustration] + + BOSTON + RICHARD G. BADGER + THE GORHAM PRESS + 1909 + + + Copyright 1909 by RICHARD G. BADGER + _All Rights Reserved_ + Printed at The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. + + + + +TO C. E. A + + + + +CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER PAGE + + I A Star Chamber Session 9 + + II An Arrival 18 + + III Micky 29 + + IV Fists and the Man 36 + + V The Ironworkers' Ball--and Maisie 47 + + VI The Web 61 + + VII Loneliness 67 + + VIII An Evening Call 77 + + IX Not on the Programme 87 + + X The Little Red Devil 99 + + XI In the Morning 106 + + XII Why She Cried 113 + + XIII A Wager 122 + + XIV A Discredited Henchman 133 + + XV Useful Information 145 + + XVI His Better Side 155 + + XVII The Coup in Sight 165 + + XVIII A Counter Move 178 + + XIX Suspense 187 + + XX Out of the Past 195 + + XXI The Lash 204 + + XXII The Story 215 + + XXIII Wanderlust 224 + + XXIV The Long Road 234 + + + + +THE LASH + +CHAPTER I + +A STAR CHAMBER SESSION + + +The speaker paused for a moment to pass his handkerchief over his +fevered brow. Up from the ugly, leering, little eyes swept the swabbing +linen, traversing the smooth top of the round head and disappearing +mysteriously at the rear. The reason for this was obvious. The teeth of +time take kindly to the hirsute and the speaker was very bald. Only a +narrow fringe of reddish hair divided the rear depression of his fevered +brow from the nape of his fat red neck. + +A plump and hairy fist smote the table and the glasses jingled. "Don't +fool yourselves, you young fellows," advised the bald gentleman, in a +curious gusty voice. "I've been all through it, clean to the retired +list," with a wicked wink, "and I know, that's all. You've got to work +harder this year than you did the first; you've got to a point where +there ain't no layin' down for you if you want to keep on fodderin'. +'Cause why? 'Cause they're on, or think they are, and they're gettin' +uneasy. You think everything's lovely, do you? Well, take a little +advice from the old man that's now on the sideline, and aim to get busy +from now on." + +He again swabbed his illimitable brow, peering cunningly at them with +wicked little eyes that gleamed unpleasantly on either side of a +bulbous, crimsoned nose, while he chewed complacently at a black cigar. +In common with the rest of the small company he was in his +shirt-sleeves, for it was very hot. A mere ghost of a breeze stole in +through the window screen, against which foiled moths, attracted by the +light within, bumped in vain. A white-aproned waiter, summoned by an +electric bell, entered, removed the empty glasses and received a fresh +order. With his departure the bald gentleman was again heard from. + +"Well," he snorted aggressively, "what's eatin' you? Don't you believe +me?" + +"Why," drawled a lank, middle-aged gentleman with a generally +unsophisticated look that increased the efficiency of his talents for +the peculiar use to which he devoted them; "I suppose it's safe to be on +the safe side, but there's no use in borrowin' trouble any more than you +have to. Everything looks smooth to me." + +"Pals," remarked the bald gentleman impressively, "remember this. The +only way to stave off the foreclosure is to keep borrowin', and it's the +smoothest whisky that gives you the rockiest head the next morning. +'Cause why? 'Cause you get enthused and hit it up too hard. Now that's +where our danger flag's out. We've found this an easy town, we've worked +it for all it's worth, puttin' it in plain English; the reformers ain't +never woke up and you're takin' the attitude that they never will. Boys, +it's a mistake. They do, sometimes. You don't want to plan on no sleepy +campaign, if you'll take it from a sideliner that's 'retired' but +wishes you well." + +"That's all very well, Alderman." said a plump, moon-faced fellow across +the table, "but we've had these scares before and they've been for +nothing. Two years ago Fusion thought it had us beat and we was afraid +it was going to turn the trick. Remember the vote? Why, we got the laugh +from our own men. We needn't have hustled ourselves. It was a dead +open-and-shut." + +"It's because the town don't believe half it hears," interpolated the +lank gentleman. "I'll say this, that the old man--drink to him, +boys!--is the best organizer in this country today, and he leaves the +blindest trail. They can't bring anything home, not while we're in +control." + +"That's what I'm tellin' you," remarked the bald one grimly. "You've got +to hang on to the control. Let it slip away from you while you're +nappin' and how long would it be before the town was next? What would +the hide of any man in this room be worth?" His voice had instinctively +lowered; his head was thrust forward, his little eyes were piercing. "I +tell you it always pays to keep busy all the time." + +There was a moment's silence. The half dozen companions of the speaker +surveyed him minutely but with visible respect. After all, he could give +any and all of them pointers in the gentle art of grafting and they knew +it. Moreover, his words had at last struck home, had awakened them from +a false sense of security. Alderman Goldberg had been through the mill, +and had fed at the public crib at intervals no better judged than times +when he elected to remain in discreet retirement, in his cyclone cellar, +until ominous signs on the municipal weather horizon had disappeared. +So, because they knew that he spoke by the card, his companions now paid +him the tribute of uneasy silence. + +The lanky individual, Dick Peterson by name, finally resumed the +conversation. "Well," said he, "this is only a preliminary to the main +event anyway. Wonder what's keepin' the old man? Here we've been waitin' +an hour. We'll see what he says. I haven't mentioned 'campaign' to him +myself." + +"I know what he'll say," retorted Goldberg. "Just what I've been tellin' +you, to get busy. That's why he called you here tonight, to dig in the +spurs a little. The old man's no fool. Hark! I guess he's comin' now." + +There was a soft tread outside, a door opened and a man entered the +room. Nodding slightly in response to their greeting, he seated himself +in a chair, at the head of the table, which had evidently been reserved +for him. Peterson pushed some cigars toward him, at the same time +thrusting an interrogative finger toward the electric bell. The newcomer +shook his head, and selecting one of the cigars, leaned back in his +chair as he leisurely lighted it. + +John Shaughnessy was as unlike the cartooned type of political boss as +could be imagined. He looked decidedly ordinary, and might have been +taken for anything from a dejected clerk of middle age to an +unostentatious gambler. His garb was quiet; there was an utter absence +of vociferous jewelry. In person he was lank and slightly over middle +height. The face was singularly impassive; that of a gambler to whom +nothing apparently mattered. A hawk nose and small black moustache had +Shaughnessy, also a pair of heavy-lidded eyes. + +These eyes, when they glanced casually at you, held a lustreless, +ennuied expression that impressed you, did you trouble to entertain any +impression at all, with a definite idea of somnolence in Shaughnessy. A +discouraged gambler, you might think casually, had you not the honor of +his acquaintance. But did you happen to kindle Shaughnessy's interest in +any way, lo! a startling change. The heavy lids contracted ever so +little about the black eyes, which shot forth gleams that revealed +Shaughnessy in a new and sinister light. They bared a sleepless +vigilance, an unpleasant concentration, which inspired the person +regarded with a nervousness that was justified. For when those eyes, but +a moment before lustreless and dead, lightened with that strange gleam, +the dispirited clerk or discouraged gambler vanished. In his stead, +regarding you with a cold, basilisk, snaky stare that pierced you +through and through, there was revealed--Shaughnessy. + +It was his wonted mask of impassive features and lustreless eyes that +long caused Shaughnessy to be surprisingly and generally underestimated. +Men chose not to believe that one whose general appearance so lacked +significance was capable of the stealth and finesse in large, dark +matters that a portion of the press emphatically but rather gropingly +attributed to Shaughnessy. So it was Shaughnessy's good fortune, for his +nefarious ends, that most men refused to take him too seriously. The +majority chanced never to rouse his interest; hence, never saw the +optical gleam. For the minority who did, Shaughnessy was a man +transformed, invested with power, genuine and unmistakable. + +Following the leader's entrance, the company waited silently for him to +speak. He favored them with a moment's reflective stare, puffing +billowing smoke clouds. Then he spoke, and his voice was as cold and +impersonal as his white face. + +"I called you together, boys," said he, "because there's work ahead for +us." There was a significant nod from Goldberg. "It doesn't look bad at +a first glance," continued Shaughnessy, "but a look-in will show you +that it will pay to hump some. There's nothing open yet, but we've got +to face the hottest fight we have had. Well," with a grim smile, "we'll +do it and we'll win out. We've got to." + +"Yes," remarked Peterson, with a deep sigh. "We've got to, all right, +governor." + +"That's what I was tellin' 'em, Shaughnessy," put in Goldberg, rolling +his cigar to the lee corner of his mouth. "They wanted to give me the +laugh. Thought everything was lovely. They'll know when they've +sidestepped the shivers as often as we have. I tell you, the clearest +day is the one you want to have your umbrella ready for, and that's no +lie." + +"No," assented Shaughnessy, "that's no lie. It's going to rain votes +this fall and we've got to get busy in mortgaging the majority of 'em. +If we don't, we get caught napping, that's all, and it's us to the +woods. I needn't tell you, of course, that as late as a year ago we +could have defied 'em to put the hooks on us, even if they'd got a +look-in at the polls. We had things tied up so they couldn't have +touched us; we could have stayed right on. But there've been some bad +mistakes made; some instructions exceeded and some things we couldn't +help, being forced into 'em. Truth is, boys, that if through any chance +we're done up in this coming election, we're caught right out in the +open with a wagonload of goods, and there's no time to hide 'em. That's +the situation we're facing and it's one that calls for cutting out sleep +till after election day." + +"Well, we've done it before," remarked Willie Shute, the moon-faced +gentleman, as he pressed the button for another round of drinks. "What +the devil is sleep, anyway? Waste of time." + +"It's a waste of time in politics," assented the leader, "unless you +want to wake up to find you've been buried alive with no air tube." +Willie Shute, following the laughter which greeted this grisly +pleasantry, was discovered looking about him with vague apprehension. + +"Thought I heard someone snickerin'," he explained. "Before we did." + +Peterson glanced significantly at Shute's whisky glass. "Preliminary to +the main event," he commented. "Saw off, or you'll be hearing bands of +music in the morning." + +Shaughnessy leaned forward upon the table. "Well, let's get down to +business," he remarked. "Let's talk things over, look at all we've got +to buck against and plan to buck it in the good old way. Give us another +whack at this and in the next two years we'll be ready to retire with a +trail blinder than an eyeless fish in the Mammoth Cave. But it would be +all day with us to lose just now; we can't afford it. In some ways we're +better fixed for the fight than we've been before. We own one newspaper +body and soul, though we're not advertising it. We've practically +clinched another of 'em, there's a couple that don't count anyway, and +then, there's that damned Courier." + +"What figure does it cut?" sneered Goldberg. "What do you care? You've +got good organs of your own." + +"I'd give the lot of 'em, pro and con," responded Shaughnessy +reflectively, "if I could either switch that sheet onto my line or work +it for a neutral sidetrack. It's got more real, solid influence than the +lot of 'em put together. It's always been against me, more or less, said +I was 'some' back in the days when the other papers gave it the laugh. +Last election it let up a little. I was beginning to get in. Then old +Westlake bought up the controlling interest unexpectedly a while ago, +and they're getting ready to lam it to us this fall, boys, and don't you +forget it. We can't do anything with Westlake. You know I was trying, +through sources that ought to have been influential, to get in an +entering wedge by practically throwing the whole batch of city printing +at Westlake's head. Well, what do you think? Westlake was on all right +and it's a case of no compromise. Matter went to the business office and +was referred directly to him, as a matter of course. He sent back word +that the Courier was planning to print a great deal about the city +"gov." during the next few months that it wouldn't charge anything for." + +"Well," inquired Goldberg, after a moment's silence, "what good is that +going to do him?" + +"Nothing yet," replied Shaughnessy, the light of battle kindling in his +strange eyes. "He's got nothing that'll do us any real harm, and I think +we can see to it that there'll be no leaking on anything that will. It's +up to us just to pull down the blinds, and keep 'em pulled, and then let +Westlake howl about what he suspects; he won't know anything. We've got +respectable papers," with an ugly sneer, "controlled by respectable men +on our side, too. If Westlake or any man of Westlake's can dig up +anything after we've nailed it down, why, he's welcome to it. But now +let's get busy and talk things over." + +A colloquy followed which would have electrified the citizens of this +community, could they have heard it. Ancient, mysterious skeletons were +exhumed in that talk, skeletons which had been in the flesh the source +of much speculation. There were recent dark issues, too, and there was a +murky present and a future that would be murkier, did things go well. +All told, an opportunity to listen to that conversation would have +benefited the adherents of municipal decency. + +After two hours of reminiscence, of planning for the campaign and +speculating on the future, Shaughnessy rose with a yawn. "Get a good +night's sleep, boys," he suggested dryly, "and then don't sleep again +till the day after we do the old ladies at the polls." They laughed as +they followed him out of the private room and down stairs. + +There was a slight stir in a corner of the room. It subsided as a waiter +entered to clear and tidy the table. With the receding steps of the +servitor down the stairs, from behind the sideboard in the corner softly +stepped a man. He looked cautiously about him, then, walking to the +window, he quietly withdrew the screen, and, gaining a convenient roof +outside, replaced the screen carefully. Upon the roof his stealthily +receding footsteps were audible. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +AN ARRIVAL + + +"Ambition is an itch for something you haven't got and never expect to +get," remarked Peters, rapping his pipe bowl against the edge of the +desk and reaching for Mead's tobacco box. He owned none of his own and +the rest of the force formed a convenient and interminable tobacco trust +for him. + +"You might add to that observation the clause 'but others have,' Pete," +put in Charlie Kirk, while Mead resignedly watched Peters jamming an +unwieldy wad of the weed into the bowl with his thumb, to brazenly reach +for more the next instant. "Besides, that remark isn't original. It's +gone the rounds of the papers. I don't know where they pinched it, but +I'll bet it wasn't from you." + +"Your observation does you credit, Sherlock," retorted Peters, +undisturbed. "If you would exercise a little of that faculty on the job, +maybe the old man would raise your attenuated wage." + +The quiet voice of the city editor broke in upon the amiable colloquy. +"Here, Kirk," said he, "and you, Peters, I want you. Go and relieve +Smallwood and Lynn at that visiting convention and tell them to hurry +here with their stuff. They've been there since seven. I thought the +thing would be over by now." + +Kirk and Peters left Mead's desk, where they had been loafing for a few +spare moments, and, slipping on their coats, walked to the elevator and +sank streetward. The city editor delved again into the debris on his +groaning desk. It was a rush night. The few men in the great room, for +most of the reporters were still out, were bent over portly pads or +pecked busily at typewriters. + +Mead scrawled away at the lecture story to which he had been assigned +that evening. Warming to his work he rounded out many of the professor's +periods for him and added some good things of his own. Now and then he +read a paragraph with complacency and sifted in a few more adjectives. +He had heard the old fairy tale of speakers giving reporters credit for +improving their efforts. Moreover, he was but lately hatched from the +high school and was nearing the end of his probationary period upon +the Courier. As with the _debut_ of most of the boys, coherence was +smothered in verbiage. Mead's written words flowed on like rivers to the +sea. You who speak by the card will well remember the turbid freshets +you handed in, long ago, with a sort of awe to think you had penned +them. You looked for a little corresponding awe on the part of the city +editor. He merely grunted, and the next morning it was a wise father +that knew his brain-child. The anxious parent looked twice through the +pages, finally finding the changeling, dwarfed and subdued, in a modest +corner next the patent medicine "ads." Stripped of the gauzy gewgaws of +fancy with which you had complacently adorned it, it lay in its stark +cerements of staring simplicity, a hard, terse, graphic, uncompromising +fact. That salient bar, the editorial pencil, had dammed the winding, +sunlit stream at its very source, forcing it home by a short cut that +skipped much romantic scenery but saved time for the navigator. You read +the mangled remnant of that early flight and cursed the city editor's +lack of literary appreciation. Afterward, when the years had brought you +wisdom, you wondered why he had kept you at all. Yet you knew, after +all,--for the veterans were tyros once. + +Mead toiled on, the mirage of an achieved literary gem on his mental +horizon. It was the same mirage, old yet ever young, that flashes in +transient glory and fades as often and as miserably before the wistful +eyes of the veteran in letters as with the tyro: the dream of an +unattainable ideal, which mocks and melts away, a phantom of the sands. + +His task completed, Mead brought his masterpiece to the city editor's +desk. "The lecture, Mr. Harkins," said he, with a thrill of secret +pride. A sense of polished erudition welled strong within him. Harkins +might now see what the real thing in literary skill could do with the +most prosaic of assignments. + +Harkins had cleared his desk pretty well in the past few minutes and his +assistants were busy in consequence. He slapped the masterpiece +irreverently on the desk. Like a withering blast his trained eyes swept +the first page, which was heavily laden with elaborate introduction. +There were a few fierce swoops of a blue pencil. Words fell in the ranks +like scattered skirmishers, then platoons of phrases were swept away. +The enfiladed page fell face down on the desk. Another, similarly +mangled, followed. Only a few gallant remnants of that imposing array +remained. It was the survival of the fittest, the obliteration of the +superfluous; but it was hard. Mead watched the sacrifice in slow, +gathering horror. + +Harkins looked up. "Busy night!" said he abruptly but not unkindly. +"Anyway, this won't do. Cultivate the newspaper style. Get brevity, +terseness. Cut out excess baggage. Get the right word and fit it in +right. You're voluminous. Make it luminous." + +Harkins resumed the massacre and Mead, poor innocent, walked +disconsolately to his desk to digest the bitter pill that must +invariably be administered to the newspaper novice. At Mead's age the +simultaneous discovery that there are things to learn and things to +unlearn is disconcerting. He sat discouraged, his pinions drooping, and +stared gloomily at some gyrating millers about the electric bulb over +his desk. Presently he tried to catch them, with a half-acknowledged +desire to pluck off their wings in a little game of "pass it on." But +they were elusive and evaded him. + +Several men came in from assignments, and removing their coats, for a +hot wave was grilling the late days of June, set to work. Smallwood and +Lynn, back from the convention, left thick wads of copy on the city +editor's desk and went out for a late lunch. More reporters entered +hurriedly and fell to. The dramatic editor entered with deliberation, as +became the great, and leisurely set about the roasting of a "first +night." Copy boys scurried like scampering ants. The editors bent to +their tasks, the reporters' fingers rushed over the pads or jingled the +typewriter keys. Everybody hit up the pace but the dramatic critic. He +sat, pencil poised like a poniard, deliberating whether he should slay +the piece and principals by slow torture, like an Indian, or perform +the deed with one murderous lunge. The proprietors of this particular +theatre had fallen out with the business office of the Courier. They did +not advertise in the Courier now, so when the dramatic critic attended +their house he paid for his seat and charged it to expense account. +Naturally, what the Courier said about the attractions at that house, +during the season in question, was not what it would have said had the +brethren been dwelling together in amity. + +This was a particularly auspicious occasion. The other houses had been +closed for several weeks, owing to the advent of warm weather. This +theatre had opened to accommodate a troupe which, in stage parlance, was +trying it on the dog before venturing to launch a new summer attraction +in the metropolis. After due reflection the Courier's dramatic critic +savagely gripped his pencil and proceeded to use it as a bowie in the +interest of the suffering dog. + +There had been nothing more for Mead to do and he sat at his desk, +sucking disconsolately at a short pipe. It being a new accomplishment, +he found difficulty in keeping it lighted. He viewed the moths with +malice, their fluttering wings fanning his resentment. He was again +reaching cautiously for them when a voice sounded at his elbow; an odd +voice, unlike other voices. + +"Say, kid," it inquired, "where's the head push?" + +Mead turned, somewhat confused by the unexpected interruption. "Huh?" he +asked. + +"Why, the main squeeze, the first fiddle!" was the impatient rejoinder. +Then, as an afterthought, "the city editor." + +Mead indicated. "Over there," he said. "His name's Harkins." He turned +in his chair to watch the stranger, who shuffled over to Harkins' desk. + +"Say, Mr. Harkins, I need a job. And that's no lie," was how he put it. + +Harkins whirled in his chair. His keen glance swept the visitor from +head to foot. "No, I guess it isn't," was his quiet verdict. "You need a +lot of things, don't you?" + +"You've hit it, sir," grinned the guest, "right behind the ear. But a +job will bring 'em and my face won't. It's been overworked lately, that +face, and I'm restin' it. I'd hock it, but it's all I've got, and +besides I guess I've got all it'll bring already." + +"Shouldn't wonder," grinned Harkins in reply, surveying with growing +interest the traveller, for such his appearance bespoke him. "Did it +bring you here?" + +"No, they didn't see it," laughed the stranger. "I came by freight from +Cleveland. It was a pork train--and I'm on it yet," with a sweeping +gesture that indicated the ensemble of his frayed and dusty habiliments. +"No low bridge for me that trip," he continued. "The brakemen rode on +top, but the bumpers were good enough for me. Ain't so risky." + +Harkins quizzically looked him over. He was uniquely worth the trouble. +A battered cap, tipped rakishly over one ear, topped a mat of curly red +hair of the peculiar bricky hue that hisses a sibilant Celtic brogue in +whilom wind-stirrings. Beneath a broad forehead there danced and rioted +two Irish eyes, pale blue pools in an environing forest of freckles. +Nature had been generous with mouths when he transpired and had given +him enough for two. He had further distended it with much smiling. His +cheeks and chin were rough with a sandy stubble; not over-coarse, for +he was young. He was slender and of medium height. His garments, in an +advanced state of senility, exuded cinders at every pore. As for his +shoes, the poor devil was literally on his uppers. + +"I guess," said Harkins, not unkindly, "I guess, my boy, we're full." + +"You're lucky," murmured the stranger, gray discouragement in his face. +"Wish I was. I'm a hollow tube just now." + +He turned suddenly toward Harkins, despair in the eyes grown dark with +trouble, the light and the laughter fled. + +"My God!" he gulped, "I haven't eaten a morsel for hours! I want to earn +my livin'! I know I look like a hobo,--I am one, I suppose,--but I'm a +workin' one. I'm a bum tramp reporter, it's true enough, you only have +to look at me. But try me, Mr. Harkins, just give me a chance to make +good, for I tell you I can get the news!" + +Harkins involuntarily thrust his hand into his trousers pocket. A +gesture restrained him. + +"Mr. Harkins," said the visitor, with an odd dignity, grotesque enough +in his shabby garb, "no hand-outs. When I can't earn what I eat, I'll +cut the game." + +Harkins reflectively looked him over, now with a little concern. Pride +in such tatters, that would not accept alms, merited consideration. +Then, too, Dodds had just been dismissed and someone must replace him. +But the stranger! He was hardly an acceptable candidate. Still, there +was a frankness in the mottled face and twinkling eyes, an odd note in +the voice just tinged with an Anglicized brogue, that appealed to +Harkins. In the ensuing moment of hesitancy the question was decided +for him. + +A telephone bell sounded at the city editor's elbow. He turned in his +chair, clapped the receiver to his ear, listened a moment, replied +briefly, hung up the receiver and turned to the stranger. Mead, the only +one of the force at liberty, had leaned forward in his chair as the city +editor answered the 'phone. Now he settled back again in deep disgust as +Harkins addressed the disreputable visitor. + +"I'll try you," he said briefly. "Know the town at all?" + +"No, but I can find it," was the reply. + +"There's a big row on at the corner of Elm and Market streets," said +Harkins. "Beer and brickbats, tough locality. Rival nests of low +foreigners. You'll have to step lively, forms close early tonight. By +the way, take Mead with you and you take charge. It's a job if you win +out. If not, you can travel." + +The stranger grabbed his hat and vanished, the resentful cub at his +heels. The city editor glanced at the big clock in the corner and +returned to his task. More men came in, including Kirk and Peters, the +convention having finally adjourned. The manuscripts multiplied on the +readers' desks. On all sides men were laboring furiously. + +Three-quarters of an hour had elapsed when there was an upward whisk of +the elevator and into the big room hurried the seedy stranger. Mead, no +longer resentful, followed him. Indeed, there was something of homage in +Mead's tribute toward the other, the involuntary tribute that any honest +tyro must pay, in any trade, to the experienced hand who knows his +business. Mead was perspiring. So was the stranger, who had evidently +kept himself and his force moving. Straight to Mead's desk strode the +new arrival, tearing off his shabby coat as he went, Mead heeling. The +leader flung himself into Mead's chair, waving his hand toward the +vacant desk next to it, where the cub meekly seated himself and fell to +writing. He had been assigned to his part of the tale by the vagrant +journalist as the two were rushed back to the office in a cab from the +scene of the trouble. + +The stranger drew from his vest pocket the stub of a soft-leaded pencil +about three inches long. The point was inserted for a thoughtful instant +in his mouth, then was slapped swiftly upon a pad. Sprawled forward, +with elbows on the desk, he wrapped his calves securely around the legs +of his chair. Thus he began the strewing of words upon the paper, in the +execrable handwriting and at the phenomenal speed which have become +traditions of that office, where each has remained unrivaled in the +paper's annals. Oblivious of his surroundings, he bent over his desk +like a jockey in the saddle, eyes glued on the pad whose leaves he was +covering at lightning speed. As he proceeded he tossed the finished +sheets carelessly aside without pausing. Mead, too, under the benign +influence of time-pressure, took a long stride forward in newspaper +requirements by forgetting to "pad" uselessly. Meanwhile the city +editor's assistants gathered up the finished sheets and carried them +away to be hastily edited and shot upward to the compositors. + +It was, in reportorial parlance, "hot stuff." A man had been killed in +this battle of the slums and the criminal was somewhere in hiding. Many +men were injured, some seriously. Extra policemen had been summoned. +The detail had charged the mob with sanguinary results, both to the mob +and the bluecoats. As usual some non-combatants had suffered. There had +been a number of arrests. The patrol wagons had been busy, the gongs of +the hospital ambulances had sounded their warning as they dashed to the +relief of the injured. It was the big story of that issue, grim and +formidable, dwarfing even the stormy convention in its dramatic +features, which partook of the sombre dignity of the tragic under the +masterly treatment of the tattered scribe. It was, too, a chaotic story, +with a certain swirl, a swift rush of events that had piled one upon the +other with a cyclonic swiftness that must have staggered a neophyte and +taxed to the utmost the highest resources of brain and nerve, together +with the most feverish energy of the veteran. + +In a full, rounded entirety, dwarfing the efforts of the rival morning +dailies,--though some of them had several experienced men on the +story,--the parish of the Courier read of the memorable riot in that +issue. It was actually impressive to watch the story pouring from the +point of that flying, disreputable pencil, flowing down the sheets in a +mad torrent, the scenes brought before the reader's eyes with an +irresistible force that made them visible in graphic word pictures, as +if actually photographed. The stub rushed on, weaving the main web of +the tale, while Mead's pencil picked up the loose ends in the form of +minor details. Harkins marveled as he watched the story's development. +Its size surpassed his expectations. Had he fully understood its scope, +several of his best men would have been taken summarily from their tasks +and sent post-haste to the scene. Not till this tattered knight of the +road returned, with the cub in tow, had Harkins known of the snowball's +growth. Yet here it was at last, the final sheet of what Harkins' +trained journalistic sense told him was a superb handling of an +unusually difficult assignment. He sent the last sheets upstairs and +turned to the stranger and his faithful cub, who were mopping fevered +faces. + +"Great!" quoth Harkins, including the cub, who felt his oats in +consequence and began filling his pipe with due seriousness. "You will +do," added the editor, turning to the new man. "Come on tomorrow +afternoon." + +The new man rose to leave but hesitated, crimsoning a little. Harkins +eyed him inquiringly. The stranger grinned rather ruefully. + +"Object to my sleeping on this table?" he asked. "The rate is cheaper. +Besides, I'm hollower even than I was." + +Harkins laughed, but it was a sympathetic laugh. "I had forgotten," said +he. "You'll find a bed softer than the table, I imagine, and there is a +filling restaurant in the next block." He proceeded to make an advance +on the new man's salary. The latter thanked him and was off. + +The boys crowded around, curious and interested. "He's no Albert Edward +on wardrobe," commented the dramatic critic, "but he's a pippin just the +same. Who is he, Harkins?" + +"Hang it!" replied Harkins dubiously, "I forgot to ask him. What's his +name, Mead?" + +"Gee, I don't know," replied the cub, sucking contentedly at his pipe. +"He didn't give me any time to ask." + + + + +CHAPTER III + +MICKY + + +Michael O'Byrn, picturesquely Irish, so his name appeared on the +payroll, but from the cases to the press room they called him Micky. +Mike would have been a misfit, for its tang suggests a burly, +bull-necked son of Erin with fists like hams and a brogue of gravy-like +thickness, a boisterous, beefy, big-hearted broth of a boy of blows and +budge. Micky had the Irish heart, but he was short on fists and beef and +possessed the mere ghost of a brogue. Besides, O'Byrn's pseudonym +suggests juvenility, and Micky's four and twenty years, with their +palpable vicissitudes, had not robbed him of that saving grace. Indeed, +on meeting him, light-hearted and laughter-loving as he was in youth, +your imagination would experience little effort in leaping a long leap +into futurity to behold him a generation on, white-polled and with the +olden freckles faded in his wrinkled face; still the laugh on his lips, +the light of quizzical humor in his blue eyes. Glad he would always be, +because there would always bubble in his heart the fountain of eternal +youth. + +The newspaper spirit had its embodiment in Micky O'Byrn, the tattered +knight of the road whose first story electrified the city editor of the +Courier. The spirit shone out of the portals of the twinkling Irish +eyes, eternally questioning. It reconnoitred the field from the bridge +of the nose that twitched with eagerness at the scent of a story, as a +pointer snuffs grouse. Within the mouth, that was always distended with +an ingratiating smile, dwelt in amity those heavenly twins, guile and +blarney. They served as forceful means to the eternal end of +news-seeking, and they were backed by ramparts of cheerful impudence +that flanked the whole freckled face. The chin was round, but a bump +peered forth that bespoke tenacity. He ordinarily displayed a guileless +expression that hid an unfathomed depth of resource. Once on the trail, +he could never be turned away. When one route to information failed, he +had a dozen others in readiness, leading by devious paths to the desired +end. + +O'Byrn's appearance, when he had selected and donned his new ready-made +suit, rakish derby and vociferating shirt, was decidedly tracky. This +transformation occurred soon after he joined the Courier's staff. The +suit was checked in a pattern which cried aloud to heaven, the new +crimson tie adding its insistent clamor. The derby was done off in a +delicate drab. As for shoes, he selected tan oxfords with red ties. The +ensemble, to use a word that found much favor with Micky, "jibed" +harmoniously with his thick fell of lurid hair and his staring freckles. +In dress, as in all else, Micky was a pronounced radical. + +Micky entered upon his service for the Courier with a vim which +abundantly realized his promise to "make good" if given the chance. In +him energy was wedded with tenacity. He had an inexhaustible fund of +subtle resource, an ingratiating impudence. Altogether, he was well +adapted to his strenuous trade, the trade that sifts out so much of +chaff and leaves so little wheat--and finally withers the wheat till it +follows the chaff. Micky had a positive genius for coping with +obstacles. If he could not "sidestep" them he climbed over, crawled +under or wriggled through them. Harkins steered him up against nearly +everything in those first few days and he never fell down. Harkins began +to grow self-complacent regarding his discernment. He had discovered +this pearl, or to put it more literally, this speckled ruby of +journalism. As a matter of fact, the ruby had discovered himself, but +Harkins had helped. He was entitled to congratulate himself, for the new +arrival was amply demonstrating his services to be valuable. + +Micky had been with the Courier a fortnight. The voice of his new +apparel had been heard on the land and also on the waters. For only the +previous day he had boarded a tug steaming out to the quarantine +station, casually absorbed a mine of information without the suicidal +flashing of a notebook and scooped the field with a harrowing chapter of +abuses by those in power. His prestige was increased. A little bird +slyly twittered in his ear that they had started him low in the wage +line. He would better strike for more while the iron was hot, for it was +like to cool quickly in this uncertain calling. + +He pondered over the matter, his feet reposing on his desk, a red-eyed +cigar stub in the corner of his mouth. It was midnight. He had handed in +a warm political column, happened upon by accident that evening. He was +always stumbling upon such accidents, that spelled spice for the reader +in the morning. + +Micky ceased ruminating, with a mental vow to strike 'em next day. He +rose, yawned, stretched himself and strolled over to the sporting +editor's desk. O'Byrn sank into an adjoining chair as his neighbor +administered the finishing touches to an intercollegiate field meet of +that afternoon. + +"How 're ye, Fatty?" inquired Micky amiably, prodding his co-laborer in +the ample excuse for his nickname. + +"Fine 'nd dandy, Irish," replied the rotund Stearns rather absently, as +he pensively rubbed his prodded abdomen. "Say, Irish," he burst out in +an odd breathless way--Fatty's fits were a joke in the office and +startling to newcomers--"good hammer throw, that. Fell short two feet, +though." He shoved a written sheet over to Micky. + +Micky had jumped in his chair at the onslaught, spilling cigar ashes +over his noisy shirt bosom. "Short of what?" he demanded with sarcasm, +blowing the ashes into Stearns' rubicund face. "Fatty, have you got 'em +again?" + +"Got nothin'," retorted Fatty, rubbing an ashy eye. "They'll never beat +it, never," he murmured, more to himself than to Micky, with a slow +shake of his fat head. "Not on your pajamas! They can't touch him." + +"Cut it out, Fatty," exhorted Micky with concern. "Quit the pill cookin' +stunt or it'll land you in the dip-house for sure. Why, you spit when +you talk now! Of whom are you dreaming?" + +Fatty came back to earth. "That's so, you weren't here then," he +vouchsafed pityingly. + +"When?" retorted Micky pugnaciously. "When wasn't I here?" + +"Three years ago," replied Stearns, the tremolo of a tender memory +throbbing in his tone. + +"And if I wasn't here," demanded Micky, unmollified, "who was, you sofa +pillow?" + +The sofa pillow, like most such, was good natured. He grinned +forgivingly at the freckled features opposite him. + +"Dick Glenwood was!" he answered with firm finality. "Yes 'r! And when +he got through there was nothin' else. The rest of 'em were hangin' on +the clothes line. It was three years ago, Speckles, and I was helpin' do +the intercollegiate meet for the News. Cubbin' it then, you know. All +the colleges, Hale, Pittston and the rest were there. I knew Dick; best +man Hale ever had, bar none. Knew what was comin'. Came from the same +town as I did. Brought up together; he's licked me more than once," with +pardonable pride. "Came out just as I expected and he scooped +everything. It was his last appearance, graduation year, big rep. Had to +make good and he did, won everything in sight. That is, everything he +went into, and he was in everything worth while. Made some records that +stand today. And that hammer throw! Say," gurgled Fatty, his face +apoplectic, "that man Myers came the closest to it today of any meet +since then, and he's got two feet comin' to touch it!" + +"Dick Glenwood," mused Dicky. "I've heard the name around the office." + +"And why not?" exploded Stearns. His little eyes, lurking beneath folds +of fat, peeled like round agate marbles. "Why, man, don't you know?" + +"Know what?" snapped O'Byrn, reaching for a convenient paper-weight. +"Now, Fatty!" poising the weapon. + +"Know he works here, of course," replied Stearns, viewing the weight +apprehensively. "Say, Irish, don't talk to me! You'd better come out of +it yourself." + +"Works here?" repeated Micky, putting down the weight. "I haven't seen +him." + +"On his vacation," explained Fatty. "Expect him back tomorrow. My last +whack at this stunt." + +"So he does sports," observed Micky, taking a fresh cigar from Stearns' +vest pocket. "I thought you did 'em right along." + +"Me?" exploded Fatty, in incredulous oblivion of slaughtered grammar. +His fat face expressed ludicrous amaze at the impression. "Why, man, +he's the best sporting writer in town or anywhere else! I'm just +supplyin'. Ordinarily I do odds and ends. I've done everything but time. +Sometimes, when we're specially busy, I act as his assistant. He got me +my job here when the News fired me." + +Fatty was nothing if not ingenuous. Micky did not try to hide his grin, +for it would make no difference with Fatty. + +"Why, yes, I've read of that fellow," assented Micky, transferring a +generous portion of the contents of Stearns' match box to his own +pocket. "So he went into this rotten business, did he?" + +"Why, yes, he's stuck on it," explained Fatty. "You see he's got money." + +"Got money!" echoed Micky amazedly. "Gee whiz! then why--? Excuse me, +Fatty, I'm asleep at the switch for fair." + +"I don't know," floundered Fatty helplessly, "but anyway, his father's +got money. But Dick likes this business just the same. Been at it since +he left college." + +"Then it is because he's got money, or his father has," agreed Micky. "I +couldn't see it before, but you have made it very clear, Fatty. It's +because he's got money or his father has. How stupid of me to be wingin' +on that proposition! But if he didn't have money, or his father didn't, +and he was doing this for a living like the rest of us instead of for +the fun of it, he'd say to the devil with it, like the rest of us--and +probably keep right at it, like the rest of us." In which words Micky +gave utterance to a philosophic, universal truth. + +The voice of the city editor broke in upon the conference. "Say, +Stearns," it called, "where's that meet?" + +"Most done, Mr. Harkins," responded Fatty in a panic, diving into his +copy like a greased swimmer off the side of a yacht. + +"O'Byrn," called Harkins. "Here's word of a row down at Goldberg's +saloon on Ash street, pretty serious. Thuggery. Slide down and get it +quietly. You know they don't like the looks of notebooks around there," +with a grim laugh. + +So Micky, whose memory was his notebook and a wonderfully accurate one +when caution and cunning were demanded, hurried to the elevator. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +FISTS AND THE MAN + + +Between Goldberg's and the polite in indulgence there was a great gulf +fixed. From the north side, with its glittering palaces of Bacchus +dispensing varied decoctions served by irreproachable chemists, you +travelled south through a scattered series of lessening liquid glories. +Finally you came to Goldberg's, where they took it straight in draughts +of cheap, blistering stuff which maddened and incited to crime. +Goldberg's was the dive of last resort for the submerged tenth. Its maw +gaped hungrily, gorging upon the dregs it gathered in. Finally, when the +victims were stripped of their miserable resources, they were spewed +forth, with brains inflamed with the liquid damnation purveyed there. +Ripe for any crime, they were foul fruit for the gaoler and a menace to +men. + +Goldberg's existed by grace of the modern god of money. Goldberg was a +tool of the autocratic Shaughnessy, who contrived to head and manage a +corrupt city government. Goldberg captained his ward, which was one of +Shaughnessy's gilt-edged assets. The ward had become Shaughnessy's by +right of Goldberg's conquest. It was a ward of thugs and human jugs and +brutal, elementary mugs; all American sovereigns, equalized with +decency under the deathless document of American independence. Born +sovereigns, or having taken out papers, the adult males in this ward had +lined up one day, now far in the past. One hand of each proudly clutched +a ballot, the badge of his sovereignty. The other hand was greedily +extended for the accompanying cash. Into the grimy palms had dropped +more cash from Shaughnessy via Goldberg, than could be afforded by any +of their rivals. So the ballots poured into the boxes for Goldberg, +whose bull-faced lieutenants flanked the line to see that the bargain +was carried out. Goldberg was the choice of his people for alderman. He +was theirs, and through his rude genius, under Shaughnessy, it +transpired that they were his forever. + +He did not sit with the council now. He had long since relinquished even +the higher posts of confidence with which Shaughnessy had honored him +after his aldermanic career. Truth to tell, Goldberg had become +sufficiently notorious to convince Shaughnessy that it would be politic +to remove him from under the direct glare of the public eye. He could +perform better service from the wings. So Goldberg had apparently +retired from all connection with the politics of the city and even his +own ward, though Shaughnessy and the retired gentleman could have told +better. They now picked their puppets to run, invariably routing the +forces of law and order on election day with the tremendous majorities +for license and disorder rolled up in their several wards. There was +subsequent increment, which someone got, gathered in shady subways of a +peculiar municipal government; presenting the situation which makes the +indifferent voter a byword and reproach in many cities of this broad +and extremely hospitable land. On these triumphal election nights, too, +joy overflowed at Goldberg's place,--albeit he was "no longer interested +in politics,"--and fell like strong dew upon the unjust. There were free +draughts of the cheap in beverages flowing fast into the faces of the +unlaved, unshaved crew. The godless exulted and Goldberg continued to +hold them for Shaughnessy in the hollow of his hand. + +As Micky was whirled southward, in an open trolley car, he reflected +upon his dubious assignment. How should he conduct his campaign? It will +be readily gathered that newspaper men were not especially popular at +Goldberg's. Most of the representative city sheets, irrespective of +political leanings, had for years been flaying the fifth ward king, +seeking to uncrown him. Thus far it had been without avail. Not yet had +the decent element been able to throw off the thrall. This was because +they had been indulging in that practice which so universally blocks the +wheels of progress in most lines, the pastime of quarreling among +themselves in regard to the most desirable means to the end. So +Shaughnessy and Goldberg, their colleagues and all they represented and +misrepresented, were still in control, and buying larger burglar-proof +safes. The newspapers had kept the quarreling factions of the +perennially defeated party informed as to this growing prosperity, as +well as they were able to ascertain regarding it. Naturally the gang's +leaders and their mates resented this, for it favored the chances of the +opposing party's factions finally getting together and putting the whole +evil crew out of commission. When a man has begun to make easy money, +he mourns to break off the habit; nor does he view with pleasure +attempts to compel him to do so. + +Micky hoped he could get his story quietly, for discovery of his errand +in that unfriendly atmosphere would probably mean failure and perhaps a +broken head. However, he hardly thought he would encounter anyone he +knew there, so would trust to luck. + +Alighting from the car at the end of South Avenue, he made his way +through a tangle of dark, rank thoroughfares, which grew dingier and +more disreputable as he continued, till he came to the street, little +more than an alley, where Goldberg's flourished like a green bay +tree,--late in season, for the structure needed painting. Low and dingy, +squat and ugly, it crouched between a couple of cheap brick tenements +like a stolid, sullen beast of prey; its few small windows alight with a +dull red glow, like vengeful eyes. From within there came the discordant +brawling of a cracked phonograph. A couple of red-eyed human derelicts, +stupid with drink, lounged against the portal as Micky entered. + +It was quiet enough now. There were no signs of a disturbance. Micky was +chagrined. He had hoped to arrive before the trouble, whatever it had +been, was over; if not in the thick of it, at least before the +participants had dispersed. He could then follow some of the interested +parties and secure the details, for he knew his game too well to have +meditated seriously the idea of making any pointed inquiries in the dive +itself. That would mean an instant awakening on the part of the +questioned to the fact that a newspaper man was present. If he +persisted, there might ensue rough treatment and a swift and painful +exodus. However, he found it as quiet as the grave. It was apt to be so +at Goldberg's after a rumpus. Micky shrewdly guessed that the end of the +trouble had been the signal for a general discretionary scattering. +There were present only the bartender and two men who stood against the +bar, their backs to him. Micky noticed with relief that Goldberg was not +present. It was as well, for Micky and he had met. + +Micky walked slowly to the end of the big low-ceilinged room and seated +himself at a small beer-splashed table. He chafed inwardly. What had +happened? Had the police arrived and gone, if indeed they knew anything +about it? Or, worse luck, had some man from a rival paper anticipated +him? + +These disturbing reflections came simultaneously with O'Byrn's seating +himself. As he did so, a step sounded behind him and a form sank into a +chair at his left, facing his own table. + +Micky's heart bounded. Luck was with him after all. "How 're ye, Slade?" +he sang out, with cordiality tempered with a sly wink. "I just got in +from the Speedway track. Just enough left to save hitting the ties +home." Micky's horsy clothes bore out the bluff. + +Nick Slade was no fool. He caught the situation at a glance. Micky had +rendered him a service only a week before, the little Irishman's blarney +rescuing him from a prospective entanglement with the talons of a +policeman. Slade was a shred of a fellow, with a lean dark face and +black eyes that were as impersonal as a Chinaman's, as they gazed into +Micky's warning blue ones. + +"To the bad, eh?" he rejoined, with a dry grin in the direction of the +men at the other end of the room, whom he was facing while Micky's back +was toward them. "If you'd cut out layin' your own coin, and stick to +business in tippin' off the guys who can afford to lose it, you'd be +better off. I told you not to go up against that bum line of +selling-platers." + +"Well, I've got enough left to have a drink on it anyway," replied +Micky, with reckless prodigality, rapping on the table for the +bartender. "Lap up with me. Say what." + +"Spivins water," answered Slade, his synonym for whisky. Micky ordered +ale, for ordinarily he avoided the little red devil. When he did not, +the little red devil played ducks and drakes with him and his prospects. + +When the bartender had set down the glasses and gone, Micky said +quietly, "Slade, you know why I'm here. Do you know that story?" + +"Sure," said Slade, "but you don't want to ask for it here." + +"I know it," acquiesced Micky, producing cigars. "That's the reason I +just rang the bluff of a cheap sport. I know I'm one anyway, but I don't +want 'em to tumble to the fact that I write when I'm not sportin'." + +"Sure not," agreed Slade. "If they did, Irish, someone would get hurt, +and it wouldn't be the sidewalk. Mulligan, the bartender, is soitinly a +baby bouncer." + +"Well now, Nick," said Micky, "I want that story, and I want it right. +It's gettin' early. Now you do a heart-to-heart Uncle Tom and Little Eva +talk with me about the races, and by and by I'll go away. You're not in +it, you know; I flash no paper and mum's the word. I just keep it in my +nut, understand? Now spill it out." + +So Nick spilled it out and Micky absorbed his facts, sans comment; +mentally registering the full details of a story that proved interesting +the next day, well besprinkled with gore and full of the zest which made +life worth living in the realm that was Goldberg's. Micky gave a subdued +grunt of satisfaction as it was finished, his restored complacency being +heightened by Nick's assurance that so far he was the sole reporter on +the scene. Harkins' tip must have been a private one. Micky gloated over +the prospective beat. + +He had it all now, and time was forging pressward. He shoved what cigars +he had with him toward Nick, with an eloquent look of gratitude, and +rose, moving nonchalantly toward the door, Slade following. + +All had been well, but one of the imbibing pair fronting the bar chanced +to turn, eyeing Micky squarely. He was a gent of agility. With a couple +of bounds he sentineled the doorway, barring the intended exodus. +Wrathful fire gleamed in his bleared eyes; the stubble of his crimsoned +face seemed not unlike the rising hackles of an enraged dog. + +"Speedway track, eh?" he roared. "Busted sport, eh? You little baboon, +youse will be busted afore youse gets out o' here, an' dat ain't no lie +neither! Mulligan, d'ye know who dis is?" + +"Naw!" replied Mulligan, the laconic, thrusting out an angled chin and +screwing his vicious little eyes into gimlet points. "Who t' 'ell?" + +"He's dat new Irish Courier pup!" bellowed the obstacle, "de speckled +sneak wot done my game for me last week. I told youse about it." + +"Youse did, Cullinan," admitted the bartender and deliberately rolled up +his shirt sleeves. Cullinan's companion, too, had slouched up and +scowlingly flanked his irate pard at guard. Mulligan thoughtfully +emerged from behind the bar. In the sinister situation, the forcible +tribute that Cullinan had just paid O'Byrn upon his professional ability +failed wholly to arouse a gentle glow of satisfaction in Micky's +disturbed breast. The recognition between him and Cullinan, general +blackleg, had been mutual. + +There was an instant's silence. Mulligan broke it with salvos of +scientific and finished profanity. + +"Yer here for a story," he concluded, "a hot one. An' ye've got it. But +how de 'ell--" with puzzled head scratchings. His venomous little eyes +fell upon the instinctively shrinking Slade. They flamed luridly. + +"Youse little yellow leper!" he growled. "It's youse dat coughed it up!" +He lunged at Slade. + +Now between the two guards at the open door there was a thin gap to +liberty. Thin it was, but enough for Slade, who had worldly matters yet +to put in order. He ducked Mulligan's hungry hands, and with a swift +spring of a body whose attenuated bulk was a decided advantage in this +time of stress, he shot like a meteor between the disconcerted guards +and landed in a heap upon the sidewalk outside. Bounding to his feet +like a rubber ball, he darted up the alley. The furious guards, +overturned by the sudden onslaught, scrambled up. + +"Follow him, Dinneen!" shouted Mulligan, and Cullinan's partner obeyed, +the room echoing with his curses as he rushed out. + +As Slade achieved his liberty, Micky had tried to follow suit. He had +nearly reached the door when the brawny hand of Mulligan shot out and +connected with his collar. There was a backward jerk and the choking +journalist landed in the middle of the room, falling over a table amid +jangling beer glasses. Picking himself up rather dazedly he grinned +amiably into the two scowling faces opposite him. His left hand was cut +slightly by a broken glass. He drew out his handkerchief, stanching the +flow of blood. + +"Do you mugs provide free ambulance service for your customers," he +inquired airily, "or is that extra?" + +"Shut your face!" remarked Mulligan savagely. "Now ye've got that story +all right, which ain't none of yer business nor yer cursed paper's, +neither. Youse done up a pal o' mine here good and proper last week 'nd +we bote otter lick de stuffin' outer you. But I bets as you didn't come +here of yer own accord, an' I tells ye wot we'll do. You tell de man wot +sent yer dat dere wasn't nuttin' doin', an' you couldn't cop nuttin', +an' we lets you go. Eider dat or--" and his swollen fist fanned the +acrid air an inch from Micky's nose. + +Micky's keen Irish eyes weighed the ruffianly odds. A weaker spirit +would have temporized or lied. However, Micky was a man. His answer left +nothing to be arbitrated. It was a mere suggestion, but it held +finality. + +"You go to hell!" he said. The next instant his eyes, strangely +distended, saw curious vivid, whirling flashes of crimson and orange and +violet. His tongue, curled fantastically, writhed outward like an ant +eater's. His slender hands tore futilely at brutal, strangling fists +clenched upon his throat. He was simultaneously sensible of dull +thudding blows about the lower part of his body, judging hazily but +quite correctly that Cullinan was kicking him. For a moment so, while +the vivid colors faded and resolved themselves gradually into jetty +black, and consciousness waned. Then he heard dimly a rush of feet, felt +a swift relief as the stifling hands were torn from his throat. Gasping, +he rolled weakly to one side while the shadows slowly lifted from his +protruding eyes. They saw what brought Micky staggering to his feet with +trembling interest. + +For the tables were turned, not by a relieving cordon of policemen, but +by one man with vengeance in his hands. A splendid young figure, over +six feet tall, he was in the center of the room, dealing it. A swift +vision of yellow tousled hair, gleaming blue eyes and grim square jaw, +flashed before Micky's bewildered sight. A distinct appreciation welled +within him of the power behind a blow which at that instant knocked Mr. +Cullinan into a corner, where he lay and shuddered. The newcomer now +faced Mr. Mulligan, who, with malice burrowing in his gimlet eyes, at +once fell into approved position. The rescuer laughed a great mellow, +resounding laugh full into Mr. Mulligan's unlovely face. Then, dropping +suddenly, he charged into the bartender in bruising gridiron style, a +brawny shoulder heaving that gentleman in a disorganized heap near his +annihilated partner. + +The athlete straightened with another booming laugh. "Come on, kid," he +shouted, "it'll be warm here in a minute." He dragged the still dazed +Micky out of the door. Up to the corner they ran to a cab in waiting. +They sprang in. "Courier office!" directed the stranger, then drew out +his watch. + +"You'll have plenty of time for your story," he observed. "I know +Goldberg's, so when I happened around the office just now and Fatty told +me, among other things, what was up, I didn't know as it would do any +harm to drive over, seeing I'd nothing else to do. Makes a fellow feel +restless to get out of the grind for a couple of weeks. You get rusty +for exercise." He laughed again. + +Micky remembered his talk with Stearns. "You must be--" he ventured. + +"Dick Glenwood," returned the other, as they shook hands. "And you, I +think I know you. Fatty told me, all in three minutes. You know he +generally does." + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE IRONWORKERS' BALL--AND MAISIE + + +"You fool!" remarked former Alderman Goldberg to his man, Mulligan, when +he learned a little later that night of the spirited occurrence in his +bar room. "You fool! Don't you know no better than to put it onto a +newspaper guy? Don't you know he can make all kinds of trouble for us if +he wants to? Don't you know nothin'? Just because he did up a pal of +yours,--and God knows he had it comin' to him!--is that any reason +you've got to pitch into the bloke and set a lot of bees stingin' us? +You're a bright one, ain't you? You're a rotten stiff!" fulminated +Goldberg, while his assistant scowled and said nothing. "I'll tell you +one thing," concluded Goldberg, "if they make any trouble for me out of +your fool break, you get the run, see?" + +But no trouble ensued and Mulligan remained. Micky, having come out +ahead, laughed at his rough treatment as a part of a good joke, being no +whiner. There was no disposition at the Courier office to cause Goldberg +any more trouble than it was hoped was due him after the next election, +along with his mates. All the Courier's hopes were centered on that +pleasing goal. + +Micky's night off, a little later in the week, fell uneventfully, and it +was with distinct boredom that he tried to kill time. He was invariably +uneasy at these brief intervals of respite from the grind, and it might +be said that he enjoyed himself in discontent. It was with a generally +ennuied air that he sauntered at midnight into a night lunch room much +frequented by the Courier staff and encountered Dick there, whom he +greeted with enthusiasm. It happened that Dick was through especially +early that evening. + +An odd friendship had arisen between these two, so dissimilar and yet so +like in the welding quality of good fellowship and thorough bohemianism. +It was this restless spirit, the arch-enemy of commercial routine, that +had drawn Dick into journalism after leaving college. The step was a +disappointment to his father, who had hoped that Dick would elect to +enter the parent's office and learn the business from the ground up. He +did not oppose Dick's inclinations, however, thinking that a little +experience would weary him of his idea. Thus far, however, there seemed +little likelihood that Dick would leave the fascinating grind for the +more substantial though more prosaic office desk. He had taken naturally +to journalism, was a ready and pleasing writer, and he liked it. + +It was the same restless spirit, too, linked with an inborn, luring love +of roving and shift of scene, that fired O'Byrn. A happy vagabond, his +eyes were filled ever with the charm of new scenes that all too soon +grew old. Always were fair mirages to glow on his horizon, bringing him +hurrying on--to find them faded. Dream-houses, built on barren sands, +dissolving in mists of tears as the years spell the bitter, brutal thing +that we call wisdom! Always for him, strange little Irishman, the luring +whisper from afar and the mad dash thither, to find as before only +chill mists and brooding shadows; and so on, over the wastes, to silence +and the end. + +"What have you done with yourself?" inquired Dick, as the two settled +themselves comfortably before their sandwiches and coffee. "Find +anything worth while?" + +"Oh, early in the evenin' I dropped into Ryan's roof garden," replied +Micky. "The first stunt wasn't so bad; then they rang in one of those +cockney carolers from dear ol' Lunnon. He got off a yowl about-- + + "'Wipe no more, my lidy, + Oh, wipe no more to die--' + +and I got out. Suggested a scullery strike and business, and it was my +night off. + +"Blew along and met a bunch of the boys at the Gold Coin. They had +started in early and were left-handed in both feet and hangin' onto the +bar like a freighter in a recedin' tide. They tried to annex me, but I +faded away. I'm through. The budge-mixer's the natural enemy of the +profesh. He gets your money and you get next, but it's never till the +next morning. I knew a district attorney once, up north, who had been +prosecutin' a gang of cheap thieves from a bum district of the county. +He was gettin' off his final spiel, and it was a beaut'. 'Gentlemen of +the jury,' he yells, 'they don't raise anything on the Pine Plains but +hell and huckleberries!' and it was no lie. + +"Now on whisky the product's even more limited. You just raise hell. No +more for me, I'm stickin' to suds. It's popular, the red-eye, but it +doesn't last and then it does. There's nothing in it but a pneumatic +head and a nimbus of cracked ice in the mornin'. Your Uncle Mike--Why, +hello, Fatty!" + +Fatty Stearns had ambled in and stood regarding them with a tender +smile. Glenwood pulled him into a chair and invited him to order what he +wanted. Stearns was soon busy. + +"Just ran out for lunch," came from him in muffled tones. "I'm up to my +neck in that golf game you didn't have time to do," he told Glenwood +with a reproachful glance. "It's got me wingin'." + +There were strange gurglings from Micky, grown suddenly wild-eyed. +"Fatty, Fatty!" he moaned. "Did you say 'game?'" + +"Sure he did!" answered Dick truculently. "What's the matter with it, +you little ape? I play it." + +Micky dissolved in simulated sobs. "He plays it!" he groaned. "Oh, why +was he ever born, Eliza? Better never have been born than born a slave!" + +"We will listen, Micky," remarked Dick deliberately, "to any objections +you have to the greatest, most healthful--" + +"Oh, fudge!" interrupted Micky. "I was there once and it's a wonder I +didn't turn out a lush for life. Honest, I'd done everything in my time, +but that assignment got me wingin'. I get cross-eyed yet every time I +think about it and I talk really maudlin. I can't tell what I say those +times but the boys say it's fierce. Say I murmur fool talk about putting +it onto the green and bawling on the bunkers. I don't know. I guess I +got it all in my head that time, but somehow I never could make it jibe. + +"You see it was when I was on the Signal in Gulf City. Old man sent for +me one day and says, 'There's a three-day golf meet starts tomorrow +morning and it's up to you.' + +"Now ordinarily I'm the last to buck at any assignment, but I'd seen a +fellow dislocate his jaw once on some of the vocabulary of that game, so +I sparred for wind. + +"'I don't know anything about it,' says I. + +"'Neither does anyone else,' says he. + +"'Do the players?' I asks him. + +"'Damfino!' he came back at me. 'Ask 'em. That's what you're for.' + +"So behold your Uncle Mike, Dick, about nine the next morning looping +the links. I had done a fuss stunt and was got up regardless. Had one of +those long cutaways that dallied with my ankles; they hadn't gone out in +Gulf City. I saw a bunch of busy boys humped up around a dinky flag and +started for 'em to ask 'em about it. One of 'em, I judged, was gettin' +ready to whale a toad or somethin' with an umbrella handle. He'd hocked +his hat and hadn't kept much more than his shirt on anyway; barrin' a +pair of pants that had got elephant-tiss-siss-siss, or whatever you call +it, and looked like they came off the pile way back in the happy +hitherto. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his arms were the color +of sun-cured tobacco, or the mud pies that sister used to bake. Oh, he +was a beam-baked child of nature all right. Well, he sees me comin' +toward him, and straightens up and gives me the cold storage stare. + +"'Here, you!' he yells, 'I can't drive over you!' + +"'No, you bet you can't!' I yells back. 'Ain't it scandalous you can't? +Why can't you? Did you hock the horse along with the hat? Here, go buy +yourself a new one of both!' and I tosses him a dime. + +"They didn't say anything but it grew kind o' chilly, so I turns up my +coat collar and wanders along and by and by I came to the club house. + +"It was gorgeous enough around there, looked like the short end at the +surrender of Yorktown. My fuss stunt looked like mourning in that color +scheme. I drifted around, feelin' lonesome and like a drab tassel on a +red fringe. It was a new one on me, but by and by I got a look-in on the +pools. They had a set of cards tacked on the board. + +"There was a big geezer in a sunrise coat goin' by just then. I annexed +him. 'What's those?' I asked him, pointin' to the cards. + +"'Why, the scores, of course,' says he, tryin' to jerk away. + +"'Well, how many times do they score before they start?' I asks, hangin' +on. And honestly, Dick, I didn't know. I was one up in the air with the +parachute busted, and it certainly looked slow to me. + +"He broke away, wouldn't answer me at all. It was no way to treat a +lonesome tassel. He deserved to be censured for turning me adrift. + +"Well, after awhile I struck a pretty decent guy, if he did wear a horse +blanket for a vest. He said he'd help me out, that the scorers were +busy. I suppose they were flaggin' the bad actors. + +"This accommodatin' chap began to go over the cards with me. I got along +all right for a while till I got to an X mark. 'What's this?' I asked +him. + +"'Oh,' says he, 'that's because he struck his caddy.' + +"'For how much?' I asks. 'Besides, I supposed the caddies were the ones +to strike. They need the money. What races has this bloke been playin' +lately? Must have bet on some brute that ran like cold molasses.' + +"'You don't understand,' says he. 'He struck his caddy with the ball. It +knocks him out.' + +"'I should think it would,' says I, running my finger down the list. +'Here's a fellow with two X's. That's two down, ain't it? I should think +a ten-strike would make a caddy feel sore for fair.' + +"'It makes a player use language when he does that,' says the +accommodatin' chap, starin' at the board and lookin' reminiscent. + +"'Does the caddy contribute?' I asked him. + +"He didn't pay any attention to that, but kept on lookin' dreamy-eyed. +But I wanted to find out about things, so I kept at him. + +"'Say,' I says, 'I notice every once in a while one of those guys yells +'Fore!' That means he's just hit the caddy four times, doesn't it? The +caddy gets all that's comin' to him, doesn't he?' + +"And with that he came to and gave me a sad look-over. Then he faded +away and I floated around lonesome again, lookin' for some one to put me +wise. After a while I heard a couple of swell dames talkin'. + +"'Theah,' one of 'em says, 'my deah, see those two young men? They ah +the Sherrod twins. I declaiah, they ah so much alike that I cawn't tell +one from the othah. One of them's an expert golfah, but I declaiah, I +cawn't tell which one he is. I cawn't guess why he isn't playing today. +The othah one doesn't play at all.' + +"I took a look, and sure enough, they were as near alike as campaign +promises. My move was cut out for me all right and I made a stab at it. +I steered up against one of 'em and buttonholed him. + +"'Say,' says I, 'are you you or your brother?' + +"He looked kind of wild for a minute, but steadied. 'Why, I guess I'm +me,' he says, as if he wasn't sure of it. + +"'Well, you're the man I'm lookin' for,' says I. 'The other one doesn't +play.' Sure enough, he was the right one. He was all right, barrin' the +mashie microbe, and he started in to put me next. It would have been all +hunk, only he was the soul of hospitality and I always hate to say no. +Besides, I wanted to forget it. + +"It was highballs till sunset and then I went away after sticking out +both fins for farewell shakes with him both, for he looked like both him +and his twin to me. It must have been a mistake, for I have a hazy +recollection that the one who didn't play left early. Anyway, my friend +might have been a sextette or a full chorus choir, for they all looked +alike to me about that time. I got down town, thinkin' about writin' my +story every now and then, and I fell in with a gang. + +"The last I remember of that story I was in the backroom of a saloon +tryin' to write it. I was writin' about two words to a page about then, +though once in a while I would make an extra brace and get in three. It +was 'steen down and a bluff to play with me and I was foozled for fair. +My stuff wouldn't make sense. It just gibbered. I don't know just when I +called it off, but I think it was just after I had scrawled a screed to +the effect that 'Willie Van Hackensack, instead of approaching the tea +as he should, had bunked hazardous highballs till he was batty in his +loft.' It was no lie, either, only it didn't belong in the story. + +"That story never got to the Signal, Fatty, and I didn't either. It got +lost somewhere and so did I. I came out of it about a week later, with +Gulf City 'way back beyant the blue and me sitting by the old familiar +track, waiting for a freight. + +"No golf in mine, Dick, it holed me for fair. It's an excuse, that's +all. When you aren't out huntin' low balls you're inside huntin' +highballs. After a while you can't tell a mashie from a ball bat. I +don't know what a mashie is, but I do know what a highball bat is. It's +generally a job, unless you break it off in the middle. Do you follow +me, Fatty? If you do, I'm sorry for you." + +It was with a windy sigh and a look of added dejection that Fatty +Stearns rose to return to the office and finish his account of the golf +tourney. "Just forget what Micky told you," called Dick after him, "or +you'll get all mixed up and get the run in the morning." Then he +surveyed Micky with that smile, so exasperating in golfers, the smile of +forgiving pity for the man outside. + +"Of course, you never played, Micky," he remarked. "If you ever had--" + +"Forget it, Dick," said Micky briskly. "I want to. Say, do you dance?" + +"Why, I don't know," answered Dick doubtfully, taken aback by the swift +change of subject. "Ask some of my partners. I'm in doubt myself and +aching to know." + +"And they know and are aching," grinned Micky. "Well, we'll try you out. +Come on," he added, rising, "let's go over to the Ironworkers' ball. +They'll be going for an hour yet." They left the cafe, and after a +little bolted up the wide stairway of a big brick block. Encountering a +stalwart young fellow behind a ticket table on a landing, Dick's hand +sought his pocket. Micky restrained him, and nodding to the sentry, who +knew him, they passed up to the final landing, where a burst of music +saluted them. A number of couples were "cooling off" there. Dick peered +curiously inside. "How do they dance in such a crush?" he inquired. + +"Why, when these husky guys are dancin' with 'em," explained Micky, +"their feet don't touch the floor at all, and the men don't count." + +Indeed, the brawny cavaliers were well nigh making Micky's comment good. +The prompter, a big red-faced fellow with a bull's voice, just then +roared, "Swing your partners!" It was the relished order, for every +ironworker there had from earliest dancing days devoted himself without +mercy to the mastery of the art of swinging. At the welcome call, each +swain, an arm encircling his partner's waist gently but firmly, placed +one calloused paw against the lady's back, just below the shoulder +blades, while her palm sought his arm. His other hand sought her free +one and extended it out sideways and a little upward. This served a +double purpose, sufficing to fend off danger from colliding circlers and +to add impetus to the ensuing maelstrom. Then, while the fiddlers bent +to their work, there whizzed a general centrifugal whirl, with a soft +scuff of pivoting feet and the swish of agitated lingerie. That it was +as delightful as dizzying was evidenced by the appreciative comments of +the breathless fair, as the spinning knights halted them, preparatory +to starting the next figure. + +"I'm a thirty-third on that," announced Micky complacently. "Can you do +it, Dick?" + +Dick was dubious. "Well, probably they'll have a waltz or two-step +next," proceeded Micky reassuringly. "They sandwich in round ones after +every square deal lately. Gettin' what Bill Nye called ray-sher-shay. +Come on, here's one I know. I'll put you next for the next." He dragged +Dick over to a big blonde and left them introduced and waiting for a +two-step. + +The quadrille ended and Micky watched the dancers scrambling for seats, +of which there were an insufficiency. The overflow billowed out upon the +landing, laughing and demanding room at the open windows. Micky, from +the doorway, beheld with sudden interest a vision seated across the +hall. He grasped an acquaintance by the arm. + +"Say, Lacy," he demanded impetuously, "if you know that, knock me down +to it, will you?" + +So Micky was conveyed across the room and formally knocked down to Miss +Maisie Muldoon. The end was well worth his enterprise. Small and +prettily formed, with eyes of truest Irish blue, the loveliest shade of +brown hair extant and a complexion of milk and roses, she was charming. +She was simply gowned in duck skirt and an airy confection of diaphanous +white waist, which revealed tantalizing glimpses of sweet white neck and +arms. Micky mentally registered her "a dream." + +"Will you dance?" he asked, crowding into a seat beside her. + +"Oh, I don't know, Mr.--er--O'Byrn," she answered. "My card seems to be +full already. I might give you an extra, if they have one," with a +mischievous glance. + +"You might scratch half a dozen of those names," suggested Micky easily, +"and substitute mine. It looks prettier." + +"I believe you're a newspaper man, aren't you?" freezingly. "Seems to me +I've heard so." + +"How do you like 'em?" he demanded, his impudent eyes twinkling. + +"If you're any sample, they seem to have a crust," witheringly. + +"So does any good thing," he chuckled. "Don't you like pie?" + +She laughed in spite of herself. "Say," she acknowledged, turning her +charming face toward his freckled one with decided interest, "you ain't +so worse! I almost wish I had a dance for you." + +"Maybe one of 'em will die," said Micky hopefully. "If I can be of any +help--" + +"The music's starting," she interrupted. "It's a two-step and I've got +it with Billy Ryan. He's rotten on that. Are you?" + +"I'm probably the ripest peach of a two-stepper," averred Micky, "that +ever triangled down a floor. I'm a pippin. Where is your gazabe?" + +"I don't know," she replied, looking about frowningly. "Maybe he won't +come." Micky waxed complacent at the discreet hope lingering in her +tone. + +The dance was well under way. Dick shuffled past, the big blonde in his +arms. He seemed enjoying himself. Micky grew impatient. + +"Went out for another drink, I guess," remarked Miss Maisie +disgustedly, in another moment. "Come on, I sha'n't wait for him," and +she rose. + +"Went a block for a beer with a Manhattan right inside," murmured Micky, +as they prepared to start. "Oh, you g'wan!" she laughed, and they swung +into the revolving circle. + +Micky's boast of terpsichorean ability made good, (he had picked up the +art long before, as readily as he did everything else,) he was rewarded +with two more regulars and an extra before the affair ended. One of the +regulars was originally scheduled with the recreant Ryan, who appeared +for it in due course and retired congealed, with a black look at the +grinning O'Byrn. The other regular had originally been Miss Muldoon's +cousin's. She transferred it airily, but the cousin bore it with the +equanimity of a mere relative. + +"I suppose you've got company home?" inquired Micky, with a certain +mournful hesitation, as they were finishing the last dance. + +"Not yet," she answered demurely. "That is," with a flash of blue eyes, +"Mr. Ryan brought me but he sha'n't take me back. He's too thirsty. That +first dance you got was the second he'd missed with me." + +"Forget him!" breathed Micky ecstatically. "I'm in luck." He invariably +took things for granted. + +"But," she recollected, chilling somewhat, "I haven't accepted your +escort yet, Mr.--er--O'Byrn. I never met you till tonight." + +"O, happy night!" he retorted, with the impudence that time would never +wither nor custom stale. "Aren't you glad you came?" + +She laughed again, a girlish, joyous laugh that warmed the heart in the +hearing. "I'm it," she averred. "You are certainly the limit. But you +aren't in such luck as you think. It's a long way home." + +"Never too long with you for a pacemaker," he assured her. "And luck--I +know the varieties. I've had all kinds." So, as the last waltz ceased +and the dancers prepared for departure, he hastened to the door, where +Dick was waiting for him, and dismissed that gentleman. Glenwood raised +his eyebrows comprehensively and departed alone. + +The way was short to Mulberry Avenue, all too short for Micky, and as +for the lady--well, it would have seemed longer had the discredited Ryan +been in her company. There was the first faint hint of dawn in the +shrouded sky as Micky left the girl at her door and turned away, with +her gracious permission to call on his next night off. So Micky turned +to retrace the way now suddenly grown long; agitated stirrings in his +warm Irish heart that he could not have explained, those first faint +harbingers that come to us all, poor children of fleeting youth, and are +stilled ere we can understand. + +Ah, youth! with its thrilled pulses and fragrant, unspoiled heart, its +mysteries divine--and the arid waste beyond, when dreams are done! It's +a long way home, indeed! + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE WEB + + +A wholesale liquor establishment supplied a portion of Shaughnessy's +income. Time was, some years before, when it had demanded all of its +proprietor's time and undeniable talents, but now a gradually increasing +if reprehensible sphere of usefulness had made it a side-issue. However, +it continued to yield its owner a satisfying revenue and the wicked +prospered, after the fashion of this good old world. + +The fourth ward, contiguous to Goldberg's, while free and easy enough, +in very truth, was respectable in comparison with the notorious fifth. +It was in this fourth ward, in the quietest district, that Shaughnessy's +wholesale house was located. It was in the dingy office of this old +brick building that the dark schemes were matured which, with the aid of +the worst elements in the city, dominated its affairs. Here Shaughnessy +reigned supreme, an unobtrusive king. + +Shaughnessy sat at his desk one warm evening holding converse with his +two faithful satellites, Abe Goldberg and Dick Peterson. The office was +carefully closed to chance encroachment and the men talked in subdued +tones. As usual, the cabal's plans had been carefully discussed, then +the conversation shifted to a minor matter. It was the offense of which +Nick Slade had been guilty, in aiding the journalistic enemy by telling +O'Byrn of the row at Goldberg's saloon. Slade, by the way, was a heeler +under the direct charge of Peterson, and he had done work which had +commended him to that astute though apparently unsophisticated worthy. + +"He ought to get the run," Goldberg growled. "What use is a man to us +that don't stand by the gang? Of course, that row wasn't exactly mixed +up with our doings, but a lot of our men was mixed up in it, and it +ain't the kind of advertising that's goin' to do us any good. Then this +Slade goes and tips off the whole business. He ought to be kicked out." + +"Hold on, Goldberg," said Peterson. "I know all about the deal. I've +talked with Slade. Now you know Slade is shady with the police. Of +course, there are others, but they've got it in for Slade for more than +one reason and he ain't important enough to be immune. As luck would +have it, they were going to nab him the other night for a piece of +light-fingered work that he didn't happen to be concerned with. This +Courier chap, who seems to be a corker anyway, had picked up +acquaintance with Slade in some way, and, more than that, he happened to +know the right party the police were after and he got Slade off. Well, +what could Slade do when the fellow asked for the tip at your place? Of +course, he could have turned him down flat, but that wouldn't have been +natural, would it?" + +Before Goldberg could reply, Shaughnessy's cold voice cut in. "Is he +worth while?" he asked of Peterson. + +"He's O. K.," replied that worthy, with conviction. "One of the best--" + +Shaughnessy turned to Goldberg. "Then forget it," he said dryly. "Keep +on using him, if he's any good. He's hardly worth firing. Exercise your +firing privilege for the officers' quarters; you need the men in the +ranks." + +With which characteristic bit of philosophy, Shaughnessy stretched his +arms and yawned. The others rose, the conference having been closed, and +lighting fresh cigars, left the office. Shaughnessy was left alone. He +leaned back lazily in his office chair, his thin hands clasped behind +his head, his expressionless eyes watching the smoke that curled upward +leisurely from the tip of his cigar. His white face would hold no more +of immobility when he should lie dead. Under the gaslight he reclined at +ease, staring upward. In the eyes, the queer, black, heavy-lidded eyes, +there was a momentary lack alike of definite scrutiny or the soft, +impalpable veil that is drawn by transitory dreams of better things. +Rather were they like a sluggish serpent's; lustreless, foreboding, +unwinking and infinitely, sleeplessly sinister. They stared with a +reptilian fixedness, seeing nothing. Thus for a space, and then they +lighted with a gleam of strange malevolence, as the thin, grim lips of +Shaughnessy relaxed under the small black moustache in a smile that was +not good to see. Some secret reflection had evidently pleased the boss. + +He suddenly leaned forward in his chair and turned to his desk, +extracting some papers which he surveyed with quiet satisfaction and +replaced. As he did so he started violently, then sank back in his +chair, his face drawn lugubriously with sudden pain; the natural pallor +giving place to a ghastly gray. His hands were clasped at his left side +and he gasped for breath. In a moment the paroxysm passed, and +Shaughnessy sat limp in his chair with sprawling legs and nerveless +hands, his head bent forward. Presently he sought his handkerchief with +shaking fingers and wiped the cold beads of perspiration from his +forehead. Then he rose slowly, and with trembling knees tottered to a +small cupboard and produced a flask and glass. Pouring out a stiff +draught of brandy, he swallowed it at a gulp, replaced the bottle and +glass and walked back to his chair. His eyes, again inscrutable, sought +the clock; his face, once more an impassive mask, was turned toward the +door. Shaughnessy was game. + +A moment more and there was the sound of footsteps outside, then a +cautious tapping summoned at the door. Shaughnessy stepped forward and +released the spring lock which had confined it, standing aside to allow +his visitor's entrance, then snapped the door shut. Placing a chair +conveniently, he motioned his caller into it and resumed his own seat. + +The caller sat regarding Shaughnessy with an odd nervousness. He was +plainly ill at ease. An old man he was, with gray hair and beard and +faded blue eyes, whose wonted amiability was just now shadowed by an +unmistakable expression of helplessness. A pair of gold-bowed eyeglasses +dangled at the end of a silken cord looped about his collar; the cut and +texture of his black garb indicated prosperity as well as solid +respectability. The impression was heightened by the old-fashioned high +collar and the white lawn tie. The thin white hands, on which the blue +veins showed prominently, nervously fumbled a black slouch hat. +Shaughnessy's eyes rested an instant upon the headgear. + +"You ordinarily wear a silk hat, don't you, Judge?" he asked. "What's +the matter? Isn't this part of the town good enough for it, or does this +one help to shade your eyes from the light?" The visitor winced and the +boss smiled cruelly. + +"One has to be careful,--" began the old man, and hesitated. + +"Sure," acquiesced the leader, grimly. "A good many eyes would open to +see you in here with me. And I suppose you left your carriage a few +blocks back and walked? Your discretion does you credit. Well, you can +afford to come here better than you can afford to have me go to your +house, which I should have done if you had not wisely concluded to +accept my polite invitation to call. Some of your holy neighbors would +have been surprised, wouldn't they? Well, Judge, saving your venerable +presence, they generally have to come to me,--because I know things." + +The spare form fidgeted, the faded blue eyes sought waveringly +Shaughnessy's black ones that were now quickened with a baleful fire. +"What do you want?" asked the visitor. "I am an old man,--I was through +long since--" + +Shaughnessy bent forward. "No, you are not through," he said with a +softness that was metallic. "You are not through while you live and I +need you. Understand that! You served me on the bench; you shall serve +me now! Else--" He paused significantly while his companion's face +whitened. "Now listen. I am coming to be known; you are not. You are +respectable!" with an ugly sneer. "Now this is the programme, and it'll +feaze the yelping fools that are after me, just as it'll feaze you, my +dear friend, in a minute. The Democratic convention will be held just +before the 'Cits' hold theirs. The 'Cits' are inconveniently in earnest +this year and they're talking of putting up a man who'll cause us +trouble. Now there'll be a dummy candidate, a machine man, in the +Democratic convention, who'll be mine. Well, he'll be knocked out; +decency will give the old Democracy heart disease by swooping down on +her out of a clear sky; there'll be an honored name proposed that'll +sweep the convention off its feet, and that honored name, my dear Judge, +will be your own!" + +The old man sprang to his feet, shivering as with the ague. He shook +impotent, furious fists, his pale eyes glaring. "Damn you!" he cried, "I +won't do it! Never! never! do you understand,--you--devil?" + +Shaughnessy's hand closed on an object on his desk. He rose, shaking a +bundle of documents in his caller's face. "I understand," he muttered +menacingly, "and--you understand. You understand that you will serve as +the next mayor of this city--or you will serve time!" + +The old man fell into his chair and buried his face in his hands, while +Shaughnessy smiled, his eyes alight with malice. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +LONELINESS + + +A big figure arose from a desk at the opposite side of the room. +Glenwood handed in a bulky wad of matter to be read and strolled over to +O'Byrn's desk. Throwing himself into a convenient chair, he produced his +cigar case. They lighted weeds and sat for a time in congenial if smoky +silence. + +It was Micky's night off, but it was early. He was loitering about the +office for a few moments before leaving to fulfill an engagement that +had become usual. He now sat regarding Glenwood appreciatively. What a +man he was, to be sure! He sat at indolent ease, his feet on Micky's +desk, hands clasped behind his handsome blonde head, staring dreamily +far beyond the littered room. He wore no coat. Micky marked the deep +chest, the swell of the splendid muscles outlined beneath the folds of +the soft outing shirt, the well set neck. There was the suggestion, none +the less strong in repose, of mingled virility and grace. Strength of +great scope was here, strength that had once against odds rescued him, +O'Byrn, from an unpleasant predicament. + +How puny was he, O'Byrn, by contrast, physically--and morally. Ah, but +that last thought stung! For here was a man who was thoroughly master of +himself, without being a milksop. His was no pedestal. He was one of +the boys, yet liberty did not spell license with him. There was for him +no painful crawl up a slippery toboggan of renewed intentions, following +a wild, shooting descent that had left him gasping and breathless at the +bottom. Glenwood's was the absolutely perfect mechanism of the normal. +Tough fibred, richly endowed in mental, moral and physical equipment +from long generations of right livers, how different was his lot from +O'Byrn's, cursed at the outset with a vicious appetite which had been +fostered from the beginning by the man who had bequeathed it; hampered, +too, with an indifferent physique that rendered the more hopeless the +boy's struggles with his mastering vice. True, after all, mused Micky +bitterly, that men are created equal in only limited senses. + +He rose abruptly and walked to the window, staring out into the soft +night, for the ebon had settled down. Close by loomed the shadowy bulk +of the city hall, dwarfing the stark ambitious blocks that were its +lesser neighbors. Under the luminous moon glittered an adjacent church +spire; stars peppered the curtained sky. Far down, amid the glare of +myriad electric lights, there arose the faint roll of carriage wheels, +drowned the next moment in the rumble of passing street cars. Within +there sounded the sharp click of typewriters; in a sudden lull there was +audible the ticking of a telegraph key at the end of the room. A man +entered hastily, seated himself before a desk and began to write like +mad. Another young fellow, after a few brief words from the city editor, +seized his hat and hurried on a mission. The room was unwontedly busy +for so early an hour. Copy boys scurried, telephone bells rang, editors +summoned and reporters scuttled. Always there poured into the great +room, in strange and turbulent contrast to the wideflung peace of dead +white moon and watching stars in the black night sky outside, the +unresting flood, the formidable torrent of life and death and the joys +and ills that lurk between, called News. + +Micky stared out of the window, oblivious to the whirl within. It would +have distracted a novice. To the veteran it meant only the inevitable +environment of effort. Many such find it difficult to write in the midst +of quietude. Of such was Micky, and so it was that, with no scribbling +to do, he could lose himself in vague, sad contemplation of moon and +stars and black night sky, with the roar of the flood no louder in his +unheeding ears than the ripple of a little river through June meadows. +It was with a start that he was recalled to earth with a violent slap +upon his thin shoulder. He turned, eyes still wool-gathering, to +confront Dick. + +"What's the dream?" demanded that worthy, smiling down at him. "Isn't +this something new?" + +"Why," answered Micky, a little confusedly, "I was thinking. Yes," with +a laugh but with sober eyes, "it's something new, Dick, I guess. It +would be better if it were oftener," a little wistfully. + +Dick, staring out of the window, readily fell in with his mood. +"Thinking? Yes, it's a good thing,--sometimes. But you don't have much +time for it in this business." + +"No," rejoined Micky thoughtfully. "You need to put in all your hustling +on the job, and it don't give you time for a heavy load under your +roof." He glanced at the clock. "Well, I must be going. Didn't know it +was so late. Gimme a cigar." + +Dick produced one and Micky proceeded to light up. Dick surveyed the +other's unwonted immaculateness with an air of understanding. "Give her +my regards," he said. + +"Her?" repeated Micky, in simulated amazement. "Nit; you're off. I'm +going to cut coupons tonight; they're accumulating on me." He vanished +with a grin and Dick sauntered back to his desk. + +Micky descended in the elevator and stepped forth into the cool night +air. He stood for a moment in indecision, debating whether he should +take a car. Too fine a night to ride, he decided, and started down the +street at a brisk pace. Presently leaving the crowded thoroughfare for a +quieter side street, he proceeded southward. After a half an hour's walk +he turned a final corner and was on Mulberry Avenue. Down the street he +went to a modest little dwelling, with a light shining from the shaded +parlor windows. He ascended the steps and rang the bell. The door +opened. Micky stepped inside and they entered the tiny parlor. + +The door communicating with the sitting room opened ever so cautiously. +A freckled, inquisitive face appeared unobtrusively in the gap, but +Maisie saw it. "Terence!" she exclaimed, and the face disappeared. +Maisie slammed the door shut with asperity, then, taking a seat near it, +turned her pretty face toward her caller. "You're late, Micky," said she +reprovingly. Micky was progressive. It had not taken him long to induce +her to address him by his Christian name. + +"Yes," admitted Micky. "I didn't know it was so late. I forgot to wind +my watch, anyway. What time is it?" He moved toward her, his timepiece +in his hand. It was an old silver hunting-case affair. In fumbling with +the spring to open it, the rear cover opened, disclosing the faded +picture of a woman. Micky held it out to the girl. + +"My mother," he said simply. "She died when I was little." Maisie looked +at the sweet face and patient eyes a moment, then her look sought +Micky's face. It held an unwonted gravity, the blue eyes were a little +misty. He leaned over her, his gaze bent upon the dial of her smart +little watch. + +"Eight forty-five, eh?" he exclaimed. "Whew! it is late." He set his +watch and then began winding it. "That case is loose, I must get it +fixed," he pursued. He glanced again at the girl's timepiece, then +whimsically shook his own. "Not much like yours, is it?" he said, with a +sorry smile. "Poor little turnip! But it'll be buried with me, Maisie, +I'll never have another. I don't want another. You see,--she gave it to +me." + +He sank into a chair, his face in the shadow. "I can see it now," he +pursued in a low voice, "just as if it was yesterday. How tickled I was! +and so was she, to see me so. There were just us two, and now--I'm +alone. Oh! it's years ago, but it's one of those things that'll hurt +every time I remember it--now she's gone--will hurt till I go, too! Of +course it didn't cost her much, poor little woman. It couldn't; she +didn't have it. How she managed to save the few poor dollars for it, God +knows; I can't figure it. But she did, and one day when I got in from +selling my papers, she met me and gave it to me. And I was only a kid, +Maisie, and I up and bellered like a calf, with my arms around +her,--and she cried, too; and it wasn't very long,--" his voice broke +for a moment,--"it wasn't very long after that,--it was dark and cold I +remember, and snowflakes in the air,--and I was crying and trying to +pull away from them while they were leading me away--from--her grave." + +It was very still. The girl averted her eyes; they were full of tears. +O'Byrn sat in the shadow, his head bent. In a moment he resumed. + +"I've knocked around from pillar to post since then, Maisie, from one +end of the land to the other. I've lived high and low, from glad rags to +just plain rags. I could always get a job--and I could always lose it. +Oh, yes, I might as well be frank," with a bitter laugh. "It's whisky--a +heritage. Not all the time--fits that I can't help--every now and +then--like bad dreams, only worse--they're real! It's at those times +that the old feeling grips me, too,--to keep movin'. Why, I usually wake +up where everything's strange--and I have to ask 'em where I am. I've +been on the road to something worth while so often--and always kicked it +over. And it cropped out in me so young! You'd be surprised--" + +"Oh, don't!" she cried. He stared at her mutely. "What makes you say +such horrible things about yourself?" she pursued passionately, a quiver +in her voice. "Do you want me to believe--" + +"The truth," he interrupted, gently. "Only the truth. Of course, I +haven't known you long, but it seems like all my life. I'd feel like a +yellow dog, somehow, if I shouldn't tell you. But then, we won't say +anything more about it. I'm not to blame, exactly; it was a present. +We'll go back, there isn't much to tell. It's always been the newspaper +business with me. Odds and ends at first, then they found I could write, +and I've been at it ever since. I wasn't much on education, but I've +picked up quite a lot, and I've seen the country. Oh, I've had my +dreams. Maybe I could do something sometime--if--" He broke off +abruptly. + +She sprang up, coming quickly to him. Her little hand sought his arm. +"Micky," she breathed softly, with shining eyes, "do it! You can; it's +in you; if you will only leave off--and you can--you must! Think of her, +Micky,--she cried over you--perhaps she's crying yet! Make her smile, +instead! Oh, what makes me talk to you like this, only knowing you a few +weeks? What right--" + +He caught her hand as she moved slowly away and drew her back. "What +right?" he echoed warmly. "The best in the world! It does me good! +You're a true friend, you are, and you can see what a mess I've made of +my life and how I could do better if I would--or could, for you don't +know what I have to fight against, Maisie." He drew a chair for her +close to his own. "But then, I'm young yet," he pursued, with a rather +sorry smile. "Time yet, perhaps, for dreams. Dreams!" he repeated, with +a queer, half-shamed look, "how the fellows at the office would laugh to +hear me say that! They'd say I'd gone bug-house." + +"Dreams?" she repeated softly, a divine smile in her wistful eyes, "why, +Micky, we're all dreamers. Between here and the store--the store and +here, day after day, don't you suppose they help me; the dreams? Doesn't +it help your work--your old humdrum work, whatever it is, without any +beginning or ending--doesn't it help to mix a little dreaming with it? +Of course, it doesn't really help me--I'm a poor, silly little +thing--but it can help you, Micky--it can help you!" + +"'Poor, silly little thing!'" he repeated after her, his eyes +moistening. "Don't, Maisie, it makes me feel like a fool! Why, I'm not +fit to speak to you, girl! The life I've lived--Oh, the road is where I +belong, after all! And the dreams--why, they're just dreams, that's all. +I'd only have to try to realize them to prove it--and I'm afraid. Yes, +when I haven't been drunk, I've been afraid." + +She winced at the word, while he, unheeding, stared gloomily at the +carpet. "What--" she began hesitantly, and stopped. He looked up, +comprehending. + +"To write," he said simply. "To write instead of scribble. Oh, I can see +things--and I can feel 'em. Seems to me that I could do it--but it looms +up so that I don't dare try. And sometimes I get into the proper mood, +and get squared away--and then--" He broke off with a despairing +gesture. + +"I don't know much about those things, of course," she said, "but I like +to read what I can, and it seems to me that feelin' like you do about +it--I mean it's lookin' so big to you--that you ought to be all the more +able to do it." + +He stared at her. This subtle viewpoint had never struck him before. "By +George, it takes a girl, after all, to hit the nail square," he told +her. "I never thought of it. But say,--why--it's encouraging, it is!" + +"Sure it is." She smiled at him. "You want to get busy." + +He stared wide-eyed in sudden reverie, his eyes wistful, his freckled +face softened with something that contrasted oddly enough with his +ordinary reckless, devil-may-care attitude toward the world. His better +side was uppermost; somehow this girl could always summon it. But now, +as she watched him mutely, a swift shadow darkened his face. + +"Yes," he told her, "perhaps I ought to be encouraged by the way I feel +about it, and get busy. I could if I was built right, but I'm not, +Maisie. I can't get settled and I haven't any balance wheel. It's 'off +again, on again, gone again' with me. I can't get fairly into a place +before the old itch to keep moving bothers me, and with the other, the +combination keeps me shifting. Why, I seem to be a whole bunch of +fellows mixed up in a free-for-all, sometimes," he added, with a forlorn +smile. "Other fellows can get down to a steady grind and climb; I can't. +God knows I want to, sometimes." He gave her a queer look; she did not +seem to notice. + +"And then," he pursued, "I've never had a home, you know, not since the +poor little mother died. Of course, that wasn't much of a home to look +at, but she was there, and I've never had one since. Oh, it's been so +lonesome sometimes; you don't know. It's the man who goes jumping over +the world alone, here today and there tomorrow, that knows what +lonesomeness is. It's that, I tell you, that's raised the devil with me. +Perhaps I'm wrong, but it seems to me that if it had been with me like +it is with others I'd have been different. I've known fellows inclined +the same way as I am, but they settled down and got homes, and now--why, +they've got me beat out of sight." + +"Well," she queried eagerly, "why don't you--" and stopped suddenly, her +cheeks crimsoning, for Micky's disturbed face had with her unthinking +words grown suddenly tense with purpose. A flash of realization had +revealed to him his great need, the influence to anchor him and hold him +fast against the restless, turbid tide that sought to sweep him away. +Why, he needed--her! On the word of this slip of a girl hung his +opportunity for a new and better world; a world for two, two who might +work, one for the other,--and climb; a world in which dreams might come +true. In a moment it would have all been poured forth in broken, +incoherent phrase, the sum of Micky's illumining dream and his desire. +But the girl, with the unerring instinct of her sex, divined the +situation and in quick alarm frustrated O'Byrn's intention, though very +gently. + +"Well," she said, smiling at him brightly, "we've had a good talk, +haven't we? I'm glad you told me about--everything. I know you'll win, +it's in you. And now--I know you won't mind--but it's gettin' late, and +I have to get up early, you know." + +So Micky, effectually forestalled, went away with settled gloom +shadowing his freckled face. For a long time after he had gone the girl +sat by the window, the light turned low; young eyes staring sombrely out +upon the darkened street; young, fearful soul oppressed by the soft +encroaching shadow of the divinest of life's mysteries. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +AN EVENING CALL + + +It was early in the evening and some of the Courier's reportorial staff +were in the office, waiting for late assignments. As often happened when +a few moments of leisure allowed, there was an animated group in the +corner, with O'Byrn occupying the center. The political situation was +beginning to grow warmer, so it naturally followed that Shaughnessy was +the subject of conversation. + +Micky had just been indulging in what Dick Glenwood called one of his +"bursts of indiscriminate philosophy." "This game of politics," he +declared, "is getting to be a science in solitaire. It's up to you to +play it alone and use the rest of 'em for pawns, if you want to win out. +Now, look at Shaughnessy. He fools his bowers, right and left. He +annexes the whole graft. His gang of four-flushers think it's a divvy, +but the boss has the wad and they're gettin' one-half of one per cent +handouts. What a graft it is! I read in a paper the other day of a sign +in front of an eat-joint in a Western boom town. It read: + + MEALS, 25 CENTS. + SQUARE MEALS, 50 CENTS. + GORGE, 75 CENTS. + +But Shaughnessy's doin' a lot better than that. He's gettin' gorged +without payin' for it." + +"Where did he hail from?" asked Peters. "Isn't indigenous, is he?" + +"Please remember, Pete," remarked Dick, in a pained tone, "that kind of +vocabulary is barred outside your copy writing, and even then must never +be used unless you've lost your book of synonyms. You positively must +never throw verbal lugs into us like that. As for Shaughnessy, he isn't +whatever you call it. He came here from the devil knows where a dozen +years ago and annexed Goldberg, the gentleman that's so popular with +Micky. Mr. Shaughnessy had enjoyed a good ward training somewhere and +was quick to catch onto the possibilities of that section of the town. +His connection with politics has always been of the quietest nature, but +he's popularly supposed to rule the roost. They say, too, he's long on +aspirations and hopes humbly for the ultimate possession of the state." + +"Newspapers are dead against him," observed Mead; "at least, all that +count." + +"Two of 'em weren't till lately," responded Dick dryly. "He had 'em +bought, body and soul, till they had a row with him on a question of +patronage and did a chameleon change for political virtue. He's got his +own Messenger--good name for that organ. He's the owner of that sheet, +though he doesn't figure in the firm name. There's the Courier, of +course, and our rival over the way must have fought him from the first, +but the good in this city mostly died young, I guess." + +"'Tisn't that," put in Micky, from the midst of a placid cloud of cigar +smoke. "There's enough of the decent element in this place to shelve +Shaughnessy, if you could rouse it. But it's doing a Rip Van Winkle +that it's going to take a big gob of dynamite to jar it out of. Some day +that will happen, and the decent element will be on top for a year or +two. Then it will fall asleep at the switch and do another century, +while the gang rings in again. Oh, it'll happen, for a little while, the +reform stunt. It always does. But it won't last long, and then it's the +gang that we have always with us. Boss rule? It's explained easily +enough. Your decent element is troubled with trances; the gang's got +insomnia." + +"So you think Shaughnessy'll get what's coming to him some day?" mused +Dick. "Where's your dynamite?" + +"Right here!" asserted O'Byrn, bracing in his chair and vigorously +banging his desk. "Here or in some other good newspaper office in this +town. Do you know the reason of Shaughnessy's success here? It's because +he never shows his hand. He's a gilt-edged daisy, that fellow. If he had +been doing his business in the open they'd have had him behind bars long +ago. But he's doing his directing from the wings. You and I know that if +we pick out a reputable man, hap-hazard, from the decent element we've +been speaking of, and begin talking to him of Shaughnessy, he'll laugh +and chase up the street, saying that the papers have Shaughnessy on the +brain. It's a fact that a lot of people don't look on that Irish +scoundrel as anything more than a cheap ward boss, with little influence +in the city at large. There's reason enough for the view. The newspapers +have poured out columns of abuse of Shaughnessy in the past few years, +but sum it all up and it's composed wholly of vague generalities. +They've never brought anything home to him that was worth the bringing, +never a thing that would jug him for a minute. The average voter here +holds him too cheap. That fact, coupled with the natural majority he +controls, always tips his scales right. Tell your voter-at-large that it +was Shaughnessy who engineered the queer, rotten deals that have figured +in this town--yes, and the legislature,--deals whose parentage they +can't trace, and the voter would give you the laugh." + +"He'd have a right to," commented Kirk. "Go slow, Micky. Shaughnessy's a +good organizer, and maybe he's put some cheap ones through, but he's +limited." + +"So is the flyer," retorted Micky, "but it'll jerk you along some. Don't +you foolish yourself about that mick, Andy. He's a deep one. He's got a +side to him that's working overtime. It's an underground system, and any +lucky guy in this business that tumbles into it will see things that'll +fill his paper next day with facts, not surmises, facts that'll set 'em +all gapin'. That's the dynamite that'll explode some day and it'll blow +Shaughnessy into stripes and behind the bars. Of course, there'll be a +new boss after a while, but it won't be Shaughnessy." + +The city editor summoned them just then and the conference was abruptly +terminated. Soon afterward Micky and Dick descended together in the +elevator and walked up the avenue toward the point where their paths +separated. They were still talking of Shaughnessy. + +"He's an odd genius," Dick was saying, "and I think you have sized him +up about right. I've studied him more or less, and I gave him credit +from the first of having a lot more under his hat than a good many think +he has. He strikes me as a sort of a cross between a hyena and a +bulldog. From his start here he's never let go--and there's the stench +about him of a political charnel house. After he got his start, +everything that would be likely to hamper him went by the board. You +know he runs a wholesale liquor house. It used to be a little saloon +when he first struck here, and they tell me he used to drink up most of +his stock himself. Very secretive fellow, nobody knew anything about +him. Then, all of a sudden, he got started on his career. Alderman at +first, I believe, but wasn't in public life long, didn't need to be. +He's a wonder. They tell me that from the time of his first canvass for +office he cut out the booze and doesn't touch it at all. Wiped out his +own handicap. Well, you see what he's done; he's well fixed. They all +know it's there, but they can't prove where he got it. And say, speak of +the devil--there he is now." + +Shaughnessy passed them, with a slight nod of recognition to Glenwood. +His face gleamed ghastly under the flood of electric light, there were +blue shadows under his black eyes. While he walked briskly enough, his +face, in addition to its usual lack of animation, held utter weariness. + +"Looks bad, doesn't he?" remarked Dick, as they separated on the corner. +"Something must be the matter with him. Looks to be all in." + +"No," grinned Micky; "it just makes him thin every campaign figuring to +keep his job." Then he added unsmilingly, "He makes me feel as tired as +he looks, Dick. I don't know what it is, but there's something about +that geezer that makes a fellow feel like crape on the knob." + +A little later, seated in the library of his handsome residence on +Morley Street, Colonel John Westlake heard his door bell ringing and was +manifestly apprehensive. The closed oak desk in the corner, the sight of +the Colonel stretched contentedly in his easy chair, a fragrant cigar +between his lips and a favorite book in his hand, indicated a quiet, +enjoyable evening which the gentleman regretted to have disturbed. So it +was with suppressed irritation that the Colonel looked up, warned by the +rustle of feminine skirts, to find the maid standing in the doorway. + +"A gentleman to see you, sir," said she. "He didn't give any card. He +said to tell you that Mr. Shaughnessy wanted to see you a minute." + +The Colonel's smile was grimly questioning, while he reflectively +stroked his sandy beard, which was faintly streaked with gray. Then he +cogitated for a moment, while he abandoned his whiskers for a small, +round bald spot on his crown, which he thoughtfully rubbed. "Well," said +he finally, "show him in, Mary." + +Left to himself the Colonel took a couple of long thoughtful puffs at +his cigar, while he chuckled audibly. The look of irritation had +vanished; it had given place to one of piqued and peppery curiosity. + +The look with which Colonel Westlake greeted his visitor, as the boss +entered the library, was one of eager aggressiveness. The Colonel was a +fighter and a gallant one; he itched for any fray that would allow him +to glory in honorable combat, for it was always honorable on his side. +His eyes were blue and stormy, but they always looked straight at you +and the fire of awakened antagonism in them had often caused the +dishonorable to quail. But at this particular moment, the black, +sinister eyes of Shaughnessy, the unbidden, sullenly impassive as an +Indian's, stared straight into the sharp, challenging ones of the +Colonel without a sign of wavering, and the even, expressionless voice +of Shaughnessy anticipated any words of dubious welcome the Colonel +might have spoken. + +"You need not ask regarding the occasion for the honor of my visit, +Colonel," he said, as his host rose, "for I know well enough that you do +not regard it as an honor." He smiled sardonically. + +The Colonel smiled also, quite broadly. This was not so bad. "You are +quite right, Mr. Shaughnessy," he acknowledged. "I know you well enough +to know that you're here on business. Well, take a chair and state it." +There was an underlying something in the Colonel's tone, a peremptory +note that spelled, "Be brief as possible and get out." + +It failed to disturb the nonchalance of Shaughnessy. He leisurely seated +himself in a chair opposite that of the Colonel, the large oak table +being between them. Then, with half-closed eyes dreamily searching the +ceiling, he proceeded to apparently forget his host's presence in a +sudden fit of abstraction which was, under the circumstances, superb. + +The Colonel waited a moment, his choler rising perceptibly. "Well, sir?" +he finally queried, and there was menace in his tone. + +Shaughnessy lazily lowered his eyes till they rested level with those of +his host. The Colonel thought instinctively, as he gazed into them, of +the fixed beady stare of a serpent. + +"You are at present the principal owner of the Courier, having purchased +the controlling interest early the past summer, aren't you, Colonel?" +asked Shaughnessy. + +"Most certainly. What of it?" + +"You are not at present in favor of taking a contract for any or all of +the official city printing?" pursued Shaughnessy. + +"What do you mean?" demanded the Colonel, his gorge rising. "You have +had my answer--" + +"Wait a moment," interrupted the boss, raising a deprecating thin hand. +"Let's get at this logically. Keep cool, Colonel. And now, another +thing. Do I understand that you intend to pound what you are pleased to +call my machine during the present campaign?" + +The Colonel's eyes lighted up with the battle fire, but his voice was +mellow with an ominous softness as he answered, "Pound you? As hard as +God will let me, my dear sir. Yes, you bet your life!" + +"Well, now, let's see about that," pursued Shaughnessy, his voice as +soft and menacing as the other's. "I'm told by a friend of mine, +Colonel, that you're a heavy holder of this Consolidated Gas that is +arousing so much speculation just now." His voice had grown insolent. +His face remained impassive, but his eyes, beginning to burn with evil +exultation, searched the Colonel's own. + +For his part, the host leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and +stared straight across at Shaughnessy. "Well," he inquired, still +softly, "what if I am, eh?" + +"Well, if you are," retorted Shaughnessy, also leaning forward, his lips +set cruelly under his small black moustache, "if you are--not to please +me, for I'm getting out of the small share I've had in local politics, +but for your own good--don't you think you'd better reconsider that city +printing matter?" + +"And if I should," suggested the Colonel, his tone even quieter, "why, +you'd expect the Courier--of course--" + +Shaughnessy leaned back with a cynical, assured smile. His tone was now +arrogant. "The Courier," he sneered, "why, of course, the Courier will +get in line." + +Colonel Westlake looked away for a moment. "Yes, the Courier will get in +line," he murmured. He slowly removed his still lighted cigar from his +mouth and placed it carefully on the corner of the table. Shaughnessy +silently exulted with evil eyes, which then again indifferently, +dreamily, sought the ceiling. + +"The Courier will get in line!" There was a difference in the tone, a +ringing note which in a flash recalled Shaughnessy's wandering gaze. He +found the Colonel standing opposite him, his hands grasping the edge of +the table, his face crimson with rage. "You hound!" growled the Colonel, +"you crawling snake! I've drawn you out; I only wish it was far enough +for me to get my heel on you. But I'll do it yet. The Courier will get +in line, you leper, don't you doubt it, but it will be to crush you and +your dirty brood, for the forces of decency are going to stamp you out +this November as sure as there's a God in heaven! We've got to dig to do +it, thanks to your devilish ingenuity, but it'll be done. The Citizens' +Fusion ticket, with an honest man at the head, is going through, and +your ward heeler list will be wiped out at the polls, mark me. We're +going to clean this cesspool, but we'll drown you in it first! And now +let me tell you just how much of a cursed fool you made of yourself just +now in trying to intimidate me. Your solicitous friend didn't pry long +enough, it seems. I was the holder of a big block of Consolidated Gas +for just three days, solely through the blunder of an agent. It's an +infamous thing, which nobody should know better than yourself, and if +your sneaking lieutenant had been worth his salt, he'd have found that +I haven't had a dollar in that highway robbery combine for four months; +that I was not personally responsible for being in it in the first +place, and that I was at pains to get out of it at the expense of a +personal loss the moment I learned of it. Moreover, I suspect that it +was a cunning plan made months ago to compromise me in the belief that +the love of revenue would keep me in it and allow interests of which you +well know, you scoundrel, to get control of me. It's worked with others, +but I'm not built that way. You've shown your hand for nothing, and if +your heeler had been possessed of a penny's worth of brains, he'd have +found out about things and saved you unnecessary trouble. Let me assure +you that the Courier will put in double time to smash you, Shaughnessy, +and now I will ask you to leave before you are put out." + +The Colonel ceased, his hands trembling with rage, his blazing eyes +fixed on Shaughnessy, who had sat with averted face and without a word +during Westlake's fiery denunciation. Now he rose, ever so leisurely, +and turned slowly, facing the owner of the Courier. The white face was +unruffled by any trace of emotion, the black, sinister eyes stared +unwaveringly as a reptile's into the Colonel's fiery blue ones. +Shaughnessy fumbled in an upper pocket of his vest. + +"Pardon, Colonel, have you a match?" he inquired. His voice had all the +serenity of a mild June day. The dazed Westlake mechanically produced +one. Shaughnessy lazily lighted a cigar and sauntered out. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +NOT ON THE PROGRAMME + + +In a few days occurred the Citizens' convention. A formidable array of +men was there; business and professional men, leaders in the city's +activities. It was an array which might well set the forces that +controlled the city government to worrying. Moreover, real enthusiasm +ruled the assemblage, and when Colonel Westlake, in a fiery nominating +speech, named Theodore Packard, one of the city's leading merchants, for +the mayoralty, thunderous demonstrations attested the temper of the +delegates. + +Under the aggressive leadership of Colonel Westlake, the Fusionists had +taken time by the forelock and were first in the field with a strong +ticket. Warm hopes were entertained for it this year. Republicans, who +were greatly in the minority in the city, had taken the initiative in +starting the Fusion movement, which was strengthened by the open avowal +of some of the community's best known men, of Democratic allegiance, +that they were done with Shaughnessy and his methods. The movement +appeared to be gaining in force and bulk, like a snowball rolling down +hill, as the hour approached for the Democratic convention, toward which +all eyes were now turning. + +There were indications that the entrenched, corrupt forces which +dominated the city were getting ready to invite their own destruction. +Was it not Shaughnessy who held the whip hand, and was not Shaughnessy +going crazy? Verily, it seemed so, and Shaughnessy, apparently drunk +with the power invested in his acquired authority, seemed likely to +exercise it to his own destruction. "The man is mad," remarked the +leaders of the Citizens' movement, one to the other, and rubbed their +hands. For Shaughnessy's candidate for the nomination, the man for whom, +as he calmly stated, the convention would, at his word, vote as one man, +was so notoriously inadequate, so miserably unfit, that the prospect of +his nomination set a resentful growl to circulating even among many of +the chosen delegates to the Democratic, otherwise the Shaughnessy, +convention. Dare Shaughnessy, so cocksure of his evil hold upon the +city, thrust such a candidate upon his party? Certain of Shaughnessy's +supporters grumbled, while the leaders of the Citizens' movement ground +their teeth and figuratively removed their coats. + +True to his promise to Shaughnessy, on the occasion of that worthy's +call upon the owner of the Courier, Colonel Westlake's paper was firing +hot shot at the local boss. The effrontery and callous indifference to +all considerations, save his own sweet will, which Shaughnessy was +displaying in his choice of a candidate for the mayoralty, was dished up +daily, in attractive and toothsome guise, for the Courier's readers. +Westlake was certainly pounding Shaughnessy. + +Meanwhile, strange whispers began circulating around the town, things +that savored of disloyalty to Shaughnessy. The unpopularity of the +candidate, whose fortunes he had espoused, was evidently breeding a +revolt among Shaughnessy's followers, of which he seemed strangely +oblivious. At all events, he was wholly indifferent to it. To add +seriousness to the situation, some of the boss' most trusted lieutenants +had been heard to utter words that sounded strangely from the lips of +faithful followers. These little seeds of dissension were sown +cautiously, but they fell where they seemed sure to bring forth the +fruit of contention. When ex-Alderman Goldberg, supposed to be retired +from politics, the lanky Dick Peterson, and the moon-faced Willie Shute, +men known to have been for years identified with Shaughnessy's +interests, began treacherously knifing him, the Fusionists pricked up +their ears and polished their eyeglasses. Might there not be a +disastrous factional Democratic fight? + +The day before the convention occurred there was a tense, growing +expectancy through the city, a vague, intangible premonition of an +unguessed something on the morrow. What is was to be nobody knew, but +that there was a rift in the Shaughnessy lute,--or "loot," as one +Fusionist wag expressed it,--was now plainly apparent to all parties. +The existence of a plot against him was recognized, yet Shaughnessy made +no sign. His insolent programme was known; he proposed on the morrow to +thrust his preposterously unfit candidate for the mayoralty, together +with a few other objectionable nominees for divers offices, down the +throat of the convention. The programme of the opposition was not known, +but Goldberg, Peterson and Shute, with others whose fidelity to the +interests of the boss had hitherto been unquestioned, had been busy. +They had toward the end thrown off the pretense of secrecy and had +declared the boss' programme to be suicidal to the chances of Democratic +success. The array of malcontents grew larger and more formidable. It +was increased by the well circulated report that Goldberg had tried to +remonstrate with the boss and been freezingly turned down. + +"The delegates won't stand for it, Shaughnessy," Goldberg had said. +"It's out of all reason." + +The sneer in Shaughnessy's reply had inflamed an army of hitherto +faithful adherents against him. "The delegates will do as I dictate," he +had said. "This convention, let me tell you, will name my ticket, and +the kickers will be kicked out of the party." + +Surely Shaughnessy was going mad. "I understand he said lately that he +didn't intend to figure in local politics much longer," said Colonel +Westlake one day to the Fusionist candidate for the mayoralty, Theodore +Packard, though without apprising him of the circumstances under which +the boss made that statement. "Well, do you know, I begin to believe +this dissension in their ranks has been brewing for some time. 'When +thieves fall out,' you know. I think he foresaw this scrap and is +risking the issue on a last desperate game, which he is growing rather +afraid of losing." + +"Yes, but why is he espousing such a notorious ticket?" inquired +Packard. "It seems to me that he is beaten in advance, with a handicap +like that, and ought to have sense enough to know it." + +"He probably had his programme laid out months ago," replied the +Colonel, "when he felt more secure than he does now. His opponents are +cunning. They played foxy Judas till the last moment, and then they +began to knife him. It's a slick game. He can't back down now, he's got +to stand by his guns. To knuckle would be a confession of weakness, and +that would be fatal. It looks to me as if he had a Waterloo coming in +his own camp. They've got something up their sleeve, depend upon it. I +wish I knew what it was." + +Decidedly, the ordinary expressionless face of Shaughnessy, could he +have heard this conversation, would have been worth seeing. + +The momentous autumn day, peaceful and delightful, was in strong +contrast to the turbulent scene within the hall, just before the +Democratic convention was called to order. The galleries were packed +with a nervous crowd, ripe for anticipated excitement. That something +big, not on the card, was about to happen, everyone was confident. And +once and again the eyes of the massed, fitful throng of spectators +searched out Shaughnessy, standing unobtrusively in a corner of the +great hall, always surrounded by excited, gesticulating delegates. +Shaughnessy was evidently saying little and his dead black eyes and +ghastly face expressed less. Yet the thousands of eyes turned hungrily +to him again and again, for the impression had gone forth that in some +way the mute, mysterious boss was to be offered as a sacrifice, to the +ends of treacherous associates, on the altar of his own unscrupulous +ambition. + +Micky O'Byrn, of the Courier, detailed to do the descriptive touches of +the convention, viewed Shaughnessy curiously from his position at the +rear of the hall. "He looks like his own funeral," thought Micky, "but +then, that's chronic with him." His gaze wandered interestedly over the +mass of excited delegates swarming about the floor; his ears sought +instinctively to gather something definite from the swelling babel of +speech. Suddenly a low-toned voice sounded at his elbow in a +communication evidently intended for a single ear, and that not Micky's. +O'Byrn's rapid sidelong glance verified his supposition. It was +Goldberg, speaking softly to a delegate. + +"Tom Grady, he'll do the trick," said Goldberg, and the two moved away. +Micky whistled softly. "Good move!" he remarked quietly to himself. +"He'll take 'em by storm." For it was evident that it was Tom Grady, the +city's youngest and most fiery Democratic orator, who was to nominate +the opponent to Shaughnessy's man. But who was this opponent? Micky +wrinkled his brows, and, like the crowd in the galleries and many of the +delegates themselves, fell to speculating, for the extraordinary thing +about the situation was that while everybody was sure an opponent would +be produced, nobody knew who he would be. + +But now the convention was rapped to order, and delegates and audience +alike fell into uneasy silence. The roll was called, the credentials +were handed in, and in due time the temporary chairman retired in favor +of the permanent incumbent. His selection had been railroaded through +before it dawned upon the gathering that he was one of Shaughnessy's +strongest adherents. So the boss had scored one. Dave Mulhill could be +relied upon to look after him. + +With the chair's call for nominations the excitement increased. It had +rather been expected that, at this critical point of his political +fortunes, Shaughnessy would decide to speak for himself, though he had +never done so. He did not, however, and his man, Dennis Burns, was +placed in nomination by Charles Heferman, a young lawyer who had of late +dulled a formerly bright reputation by known dealings with the gang that +ruled the city. Heferman's effort was able, though no enthusiasm was +evident. No one could have grown enthusiastic over Shaughnessy's +candidate. + +Heferman finished and sat down, amid a ripple of perfunctory applause +that boded ill for the boss' prospects. At that moment Micky O'Byrn +chanced to be looking across the hall straight at Shaughnessy. The +sinister face was unmoved, but the black eyes, momentarily alight with +unwonted fire, were fixed intently at a point about midway of the hall. +In that instant Micky's keen vision beheld something that acted upon his +intelligence like a galvanic battery, swiftly launching his wits upon +previously unguessed channels of absorbing and profitable speculation. + +"Next in order, nominations of President of the Council," announced Dave +Mulhill from the chair, even before the faint applause which had greeted +Heferman's speech had died away. The chairman's words produced an angry +hubbub, and his evident reluctance to recognize a gentleman who was on +his feet, demanding attention, had the effect of fanning the latent +antagonism against the machine to a brighter blaze. Not until sundry +groans and cries of "Gag!" and "Fair play!" were heard did Chairman +Mulhill deign to recognize Hon. Thomas Grady, now known to all as the +spokesman of the opposition. + +Intense silence prevailed as Mr. Grady, recognized already as one of +the leaders of the legislature, was reluctantly accorded the privilege +of the floor. A silver tongue he had indeed, and a voice like the +mellow, dulcet notes of an organ. Over six feet in height and with the +bulk and carriage of a Viking, his handsome face flushed and his blue +eyes alight with battle, he was a figure to command admiration. Added to +these a splendid gift of oratory, the whole produced a combination of +magnetic charm which they used to say was fairly hypnotizing to an +audience. + +The howl of delight with which the assemblage received the ironical +acknowledgment of the speaker to the chairman, for the privilege of the +floor, indicated its temper toward Shaughnessy. The words of the orator +flowed on, gathering fire as he warmed to the subject of the hopes and +prospects of the city Democracy. He warned them that it was a critical +moment, that the Fusionists had nominated a strong ticket. "It is one +that we must reckon with," he declared. "You and I, secure in the +knowledge of the good our party has done our beloved municipality, will +utterly disclaim the necessity for this absurdly mistaken movement on +the part of our friends, the visionary enemy. But even if that enemy be +composed of so many wild-eyed Don Quixotes, mounted on their hobbies and +fighting windmills, yet, friends, the issue, however ridiculous, is +here." He turned and looked straight at Shaughnessy. "Gentlemen, it is +as yet unmet. This is not a moment for any false and perhaps fatal step. +We owe it to ourselves to meet the enemy with a front that shall be +utterly unassailable to his assaults." + +Pausing imperturbably till the resultant applause had died away, the +orator proceeded, in glowing periods, to discourse of the sovereignty of +the people, of their right to choose their leaders, of the moment which +had now arrived to reaffirm their convictions and pursue the highest of +party ideals. While the address continued some clever, covert digs at +Shaughnessy, the speaker, after the manner of his suave tribe, avoided +the quagmires of ugly suspicions and half-guessed corruption that had +characterized his party's administration of affairs during recent years. +With consummate tact he rather confined himself to broad generalities +that fired the blood of his auditors and did not remind them of things +that would chill enthusiasm. Mr. Grady urged them only to take the right +step in time, to meet strength with strength,--this with another +challenging look at Shaughnessy,--to enter the battle equipped for +victory rather than defeat. + +Now he was approaching the end of his discourse and had not named his +candidate. They had hung upon every word, had drunk in the golden +sentences that thrilled, that satisfied, yet did not reveal the name of +the mysterious champion whose candidacy the orator was advocating. As he +swung into his peroration, the piqued curiosity of the people had become +almost pain. They were ripe for a shrieking chaos of enthusiasm, and he +knew it. So, with gathered forces, with flashing eyes and voice that +rang like a trumpet, he figuratively fired the powder train. + +"And now," he cried, "you are awaiting the announcement of the man whose +name among men is one to conjure with; the man, strong, able and of good +repute, the man who is no man's man--" with a defiant gesture toward +Shaughnessy that awakened tremendous enthusiasm,--"the man whose +nomination here today means victory. Gentlemen, it is with pleasure that +I nominate for the mayoralty of this city a man known to you all for +years, for years the trusted, honored servant of our people; a man of +achievement, of renown, of probity, of independence, of superb ability; +a man who, under God, will rule for righteousness' sake and wear no +man's collar; in a word, that distinguished jurist and gentleman, Judge +Rufus Atwell Boynton!" + +A roar like many waters followed, a roar like thunderous, storm-driven +breakers upon a lonely beach, a roar of exultation. Lulling for a +moment, the deafening din broke out afresh, again and again, as if it +would never cease. Men cheered till they could no longer cheer, but +squawked like chickens; standing with empurpled faces, brandishing their +arms, cackling strangely, with ludicrous effort and with distended, +bloodshot eyes. The gavel fell in vain; only a cannonade could have been +heard in that babel of sound. As soon as the noise abated, through sheer +force of physical exhaustion, a vote was railroaded through, the hostile +chairman being helpless before the fierce faces and voices of this mob, +for such it had become under the electrifying lash of Grady's words. +Judge Boynton was nominated by an overwhelming majority, even drawing +from the forces pledged to the fortunes of the Shaughnessy candidate. +The tumult broke out again. + +It was suddenly stilled. O'Byrn, from his chair near the rear, saw a +thin white hand raised deprecatingly, marked a sardonic white face and +inscrutable eyes, whose owner silently demanded attention. It was +yielded with a promptness that was uncanny. Then Shaughnessy, erect in +the midst of his ward delegation, spoke. His thin voice with a cold, +underlying sneer, cut the air like a knife, penetrating to every corner +of the hall. + +"The majority rules," said Shaughnessy. "It is customary, in similar +case, to move a unanimous nomination. I so move." The deposed boss sat +down. The resultant applause was rather faint. Shaughnessy had somehow +chilled the enthusiasm. + +To Micky O'Byrn, sitting with knitted brows as the other nominations, +involving a complete demolition of the Shaughnessy ticket, were hurried +through, there was food for much serious thought and conjecturing. He +noted the new candidate as he was brought before the convention and +introduced, amid great enthusiasm, by Hon. Thomas Grady. He was older +than Micky had imagined and he seemed wearied, almost ill. Still, +reflected O'Byrn,--as he listened to the candidate's short speech of +appreciation and of assurances for the future, in the event of +election,--it seemed strange that the Judge should not display more +enthusiasm over an honor which had come to him so signally. Then he fell +again to pondering, striving to put two and two together. + +That the outcome seriously threatened the Fusionist movement was +undeniable. In fact, that ticket was as good as defeated already, for it +was robbed of an issue. Judge Boynton was a strong candidate, every whit +as strong as Theodore Packard and in similar ways. Incredible as it +might seem, Shaughnessy had been humiliated, practically kicked out by +his party. But how had it happened? Micky frowned. "There's a nigger +somewhere," he reflected, "if the coon could only be found." + +At the close of the convention Micky was walking thoughtfully down the +street toward the office. It was then dusk and the lamps were being +lighted. Someone joined Micky and quietly fell into pace with him. +O'Byrn glanced up. It was Slade. + +"Funny thing that, over at the convention," remarked Micky. "I should +have thought Shaughnessy was solid." + +"Yes," answered Slade, placidly. "I should have naturally thought he +was." + +"Were you there?" + +"You bet." + +"Then tell me whether Shaughnessy gave Tom Grady the wink to spiel this +afternoon," pursued Micky, "or is it my eyes?" + +Slade looked at him keenly, then laughed quietly. "I'm sayin' +nothing--yet," said he, "but your eyes seem O. K. to me." + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE LITTLE RED DEVIL + + +Harkins looked up from his loaded desk, glancing at the clock. It was +after ten. The city editor frowned heavily and called to Fatty, who was +just passing him on his way out. + +"Stearns," he inquired, "have you seen O'Byrn? He has not reported, nor +did he ask off for this evening." + +"Perhaps he's sick, sir," nervously volunteered Fatty, who knew better +but did not intend to give his co-worker away. "Seems to me he looked +kind o' peaked yesterday." + +"He could easily have sent word," doubtfully rejoined Harkins. "However, +you might inquire and let me know. Or, if you see him, send him in +here," and he turned to his desk. + +Fatty went out. "Send him in here!" he chuckled grimly. "If he's stayed +with that bunch he was with at six o'clock, Harkins would pass him on to +the gold cure." + +All the staff, save Harkins, knew it by this time. Micky, after a season +of well doing that was protracted for him, had broken out again in one +of his periodical sprees. It was not of the innocuous variety of +indulgence that affords satiety in a single evening, leaving the victim +remorseful and fortified against another lapse for an indefinite time. +Of such are the fortunate, who are immune from the wiles of a sleepless, +diabolical appetite. With Micky it was different. To resist a craving +which never really slumbered meant real effort and unceasing vigilance. +To succumb meant usually an unrecking debauch of days, while the little +red devil worked its sweet will with him, to finally leave him spent and +shaken, a temporary sodden wreck. This was the grim enemy, coupled with +an unreasoning love of roving, that had made him, rarely talented as he +was, a shifting vagrant of the news. It had landed him, ragged and +unkempt, at the door of the Courier office. Now it bade fair to cast him +forth again, shipwrecked at this most prosperous point of his fortunes, +to try once more a dreary, uncertain future, with the gibing ghosts of +lost opportunities ever at his elbow; with the maddening memory of a +forfeited love, the truest he would ever know, mocking him. + +Fatty did not inquire for Micky at his lodgings, nor did he attempt to +find him and give him Harkins' message. He omitted the first because he +was well aware that Micky would not be found there for some time, the +second because he did not care to meet O'Byrn and his crew, for fear +that he would be drawn into the maelstrom. He knew Micky's insistence +and Fatty was cautious. Thirdly, he felt assured that Harkins would be +advised of the cause of Micky's absence in due time, and Stearns had no +desire to figure as a bird of ill omen. So he went about his tasks and +discreetly dodged places that might perchance hold the uproarious O'Byrn +and his riotous cronies. + +Fortune was against Stearns, however, for it led him, in quest of an +elusive item, into the rotunda of the Palace hotel. He met his man +there, hastily secured his story, and started out. The entrance to the +wine room was at one side. There was the sound of revelry within. + +As Stearns was about to pass out, the swinging doors of the wine room +were flung open and there appeared, flushed and disheveled, the riotous +O'Byrn. At sight of Fatty, who gasped and made a wild bolt to escape, +Micky emitted a whoop of triumph and swooped down upon him. He captured +him handily and despite his desperate struggles propelled him in +headlong fashion into the wine room, for the Irishman was as wiry as he +was slender. Stearns found himself in the center of a bibulous throng +which included newspaper men, speedy young sports and a few odd bits of +_debris_, picked up on the rising flood. They crowded about Fatty, some +clamoring for introductions, some making facetious comment on the manner +of his entrance, still others rendering him tribute in dubious song. For +a moment the din was indescribable, while the "chemist" made ineffectual +appeals for order. Then Micky managed to make himself heard above the +babel in a demand for quiet. + +"Fatness," said he, with a wave of his hand, "these are the Indians. +Indians, this are Fatty. Fatty, the Indians are drunk. Indians, Fatty +ain't drunk now but he must be made so. Does it go?" A chorus of +affirmative yells made answer. + +"Now, Fatty," continued O'Byrn earnestly, "in meeting this little wish +of ours for your subsequent comfort, be a gentleman. Don't show a +grasping spirit, like the two meanest men on record. Never heard of 'em? +Well, one of 'em was asked by a friend to have a drink. Asked what he'd +take he waited till the buyer had ordered a whisky and then says, 'Gimme +two beers,' so as to get his ten cents' worth. Other one of 'em was +worse 'n that. Friend asked him what he'd have, an' says he, 'If you +don't mind, I'd rather have the money.' No, Indians, Fatty ain't like +that. Ask him what he'll have, and the modesty of his demands would put +those graspin' dubs to shame." + +"Gee, Micky," gurgled Stearns, trying to squirm away, "I ain't got time, +honest I ain't. I've got an assignment." + +The crowd closed in, holding him securely. Micky mused with corrugated +brow. Thus far the only evidences of his indulgence were an unusual +sparkle of the eye, a crimsoned countenance and a bewildering flow of +language. + +"'Assignment,'" cogitated Micky, "what does that mean? Where have I +heard that word? Let me forget before I remember already. Let us drink +to forget. Vat iss, Fatty?" + +Fatty gulped despairingly. There was no hope. "Birch beer," he murmured +resignedly. There sounded a universal groan. + +"Birch beer!" echoed O'Byrn, in a positive squeal. "I wonder if the +mixer hasn't got some Mellin's food? Siphon some milk into him; do, the +sweet thing! No, I'll tell you what you'll drink, Fatty. It'll be a +Mamie Taylor, with me!" + +There was unanimous approval registered in a strident roar. Despite +Stearns' protest the "chemist" was urged to mix him a Mamie, Fatty +finally becoming silenced in meek submission. Resolving to "shake the +bunch" at the first favorable moment, he gazed doubtfully at the +seductive mixture in his glass. Micky held up his Mamie and +soliloquized. + +"This Mamie is a jade," he remarked, with an air of finality that +effectually settled the matter. "She's that smooth and insinuating, so +agreeable, that it seems as if you could drink her all night, so you +generally do. Plain whisky's more honest. It's got that old, shivery +yah-yah taste to it that keeps warnin' you all the time to sidetrack, so +you're apt to do it before you get telescoped by the D T's. But these +blamed fancy flips are what play the devil with a fellow. They're +come-ons, clear from champagne to ginger ale splits. They taste so +pretty that the next is a necessity, and after that, in the pleasant +salve to the palate, you lose count. Take Mamie here. She's the worst in +the push. You can gauge your capacity in any other line except on her. +She figures her own capacity and the figures always lie, as you realize +next morning. Much is a sufficiency, always. More is a superfluperosity. + +"In this connection, Mamie reminds me of a story of an old man up north +who had slipped from grace for some years and never thought any more of +the religious teachings of childhood till trouble switched in, though +that's common enough. But along came a famine time and everyone was +livin' on short commons. The old man was urged to make a family prayer +for some of the necessities. He wasn't used to it and shied +considerable, but it was need that egged him on. Well, he got started O. +K. with 'O Lord, send us a bar'l o' pork. Send us a bar'l o' sugar. Send +us a bar'l o'--o'--pepper--Oh, hell! that's too much pepper!' was the +way he rang off. + +"Now that's what I'll be sayin' about Mamie, too much of her, when I +come to, but such is her infernal fascination that--" He broke off with +a wild clutch at Fatty's receding coat tail. Stearns had seized the +favorable moment to escape. He got out before Micky could catch him. As +O'Byrn was about to shoot through the door in pursuit of him, it swung +inward and a familiar figure confronted the little Irishman. + +"Well, Micky," remarked Dick dryly, "don't you think you've had enough? +Better come along." + +For answer O'Byrn tried to drag Dick to the bar. "Come on, old man," he +shouted. "Get in! There's Mamies to burn." + +Dick had heard of his co-worker's outbreak and hurried from the office +in quest of him, chancing to learn where he was. Micky had talked with +him previously, regarding his weakness, and Dick knew what its +uninterrupted continuance would mean. + +"Come home, Micky," he urged, "before you get maudlin. Bunk in and get a +good night's rest and you'll be all right for work tomorrow." He led +Micky insistently out of the wine room, unmindful of the protests of +O'Byrn's companions. They passed through the office to the street. + +Micky had been quiet for a moment but now his libations reasserted their +influence. He struggled with Dick, voicing sundry curses. + +"What d' ye mean?" he demanded. "Let me go, I'm going back. Mind your +own business, can't you?" + +"Shut up!" growled Dick fiercely. "Can't you see people are looking at +us? Close your face and come along like a gentleman, for, I tell you, +you're going home!" + +Then something happened. Before Micky's haggard eyes appeared mistily, +taking swift and tangible substance, a girl's face, young and lovely, +just now convulsed with horror. Then it was gone, leaving a leaden +weight in Micky's breast, while the vapors rose sluggishly from his +benumbed brain. Reason, shrinking and ashamed, looked out from his hot +eyes. He braced defiantly though hopelessly. + +"It's all right, Dick, I'll go home," he said in a strange low tone and +they walked in silence down the street. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +IN THE MORNING + + +Micky awoke late that morning with a persistent, painful throbbing in +his head, fevered eyes and a parched throat. The symptoms held an arid +familiarity which was swiftly allied with self contempt, as sleep +yielded full place to awakened consciousness. For O'Byrn would never be +calloused. As he once expressed it, his career was best epitomized in +Ade's graphic epigram, "Life is a series of relapses and recoveries." +The inherent manliness would always wage war against the little red +devil that sought malevolently to wither it. It would be a pitifully +checkered fight, but whatever the issue,--even should the world, which +never understands, write him down a wreck at the end,--a few who knew +him best, and understood, would know that Micky tried. Who will +question, in a world where so many drift, that in the simple will to try +lies victory? + +Micky lay quiet for some moments after awaking, palms pressed to his +burning temples, swollen eyes gazing sombrely up at the ceiling of his +small, plainly furnished room. The hot sun poured in at the window, +before which the shade had not been drawn. The boy, for he was scarcely +more, wandered in dreary retrospect through a world of gray memories. +How gray, how bleak, to be sure! At the very outset the recollection of +a childhood saddened by the frequent sight of a woman in tears; a woman +with a pale, worn face and eyes that held the inexpressible pathos of a +forlorn hope deferred, his mother. His father, did the world still hold +him? O'Byrn told himself fiercely that it could not be, that earth must +long since have wearied of such an excrescence and cast it forth to +annihilation. + +To the woman with the pale, worn face and tired eyes, the woman who was +now at rest, he owed his upbringing. From the time that he could not +remember, when she and her baby were deserted by the husband and father, +till the hour when she lay wasted in her final illness, she had toiled +for the boy, to give him clothes, sustenance, schooling. Micky +remembered with a dull ache at his heart how in the supreme hour the +poor tired eyes had watched in vain for one who came not, how the wan +lips had in delirium whispered a dishonored name. Then the end, and the +ensuing picture of a little newsvender, led sobbing from the new-filled +grave of the truest friend he would ever know. + +And this other, the being who had left a frail weakling to bear the +brunt alone, for what must the son thank him? For the inherited fiend's +appetite that marred him, no more. The son well knew that the craving +was the intensified replica of the father's crowning vice. He had +learned, moreover, that the parent had deemed it a witty thing to ply +the son with toddy while in his cradle. The son took to it with an +avidity of grave presage, but which delighted the tippling parent. This +was the heritage from his father, a heritage that held in fee wastes of +black bog and hungry mire, with death squatting grimly in the midst. +Ah, what a goodly patrimony he had left, this absent one; what wealth +indeed! + +The boy in the bed winced as beneath the impact of a blow. He struck +clenched hands together fiercely. "Oh, God!" he breathed, the tone +combining the bitter venom of a curse with the agonized entreaty of a +prayer. + +A moment more he lay in silence, vague eyes fixed on a gray and +resurrected past. He stirred uneasily. "Ah, well, this won't do!" he +muttered, and flinging off the coverings he rolled off upon the floor. +The sunlight dazzled his eyes and he blinked like a bat as he drew the +shade. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, wincing as a sharp pain +stabbed his throbbing head, dying in needle-like prickings just behind +the eyes. With a discouraged groan he made his way to the wash stand, +and emptying the pitcher into the bowl, plunged his fevered head into +the refreshing contents and held it there. It was very pleasant, the +coolness, and a brisk rubbing with a crash towel added decidedly to the +relief. Dressing with shaking fingers, he was finally ready and left the +house, blinking swollen eyes owlishly in the clear sunlight. He stopped +at a restaurant just long enough to swallow a cupful of black coffee in +order to neutralize a bevy of differing tastes that tenanted his mouth, +vying in stale mustiness. Again he sought the open air, wandering +aimlessly. + +Clearly the coffee was not enough, for his head throbbed worse than +before. Involuntarily he steadied it with one hand, to keep it on, while +he put into Kelly's drug store for a bromo. Kelly's was popular with the +boys. It was open nights and they could buy whisky in the back room, +after all the other places were closed, and secure bromo over the soda +water fountain in the morning. + +Micky absorbed his bromo in a gloomy, introspective mood. The bracer, as +it is generally understood, he was minded this morning to avoid as if it +had been a pestilence. He was wont to say that a bracer was to him but a +limited stop-over, that he would be sure to be traveling again before +noon. He had travelled far enough this trip, far enough to menace a +future, which had never seemed so bright. Disquieting recollections +gnawed at Micky's mind. A girl's face, eloquent with horror and disgust, +seen as through a mist in the lighted street, confronted his shamed, +wakened consciousness, while he writhed inwardly. And, too, his post +with the Courier? Had he lost it? How much latitude would they extend to +drunkards? + +A drunkard! He shuddered at the repellent thought, yet what else was he? +What else any man who allowed the infernal appetite to lure him from +duty to be performed? Not once but many times had he, O'Byrn, fallen by +this standard. Repeatedly had he been cast off, with the goal of +reputation and success in sight, because of the little red devil, who +journeyed with him the broad land over, making its hateful presence +known at riotous intervals that resulted in swift changes and shifts of +scene for the little Irishman. If, indeed, he had not lost his post with +the Courier, it was due to the fortunate interruption of a spree that +might otherwise have lasted a week. O'Byrn's soul went out in gratitude +to Dick. Even though it should prove that he had lost both his place and +his lady, it was a melancholy pleasure to Micky to have sobered so soon. +He thought with deep self-disgust of prior orgies; of wild days and +wilder nights, piling deliriously upon each other while sleep was +unknown, a stranger to be banished; when all things loomed distorted, +unreal, through a red haze. So it would go until, with abused nature +exhausted, he would sink into a sodden stupor. From this he would +finally emerge a shaking wreck, with the blackest of memories and +usually with the blankest of futures, for his job usually went with his +spree. The latter was always of inconvenient length for the demands of a +newspaper office. + +Something of these horrors he had communicated to Dick some time before. +"This thing has played the devil with me, Dick," he had said. "I want +excitement. Drinking is a means to the end. Then, first I know, it's an +end to my means. That and my infernal itch for shifting have made me a +scoffing and a byword. If I could get chained down, and lost my thirst, +I might make good. I've come near it a lot of times and then the cussed +coupling would break and I'd go slidin' down the grade again. Then it +would be the bumpers out. I guess it'll be that way till I'm backed onto +the siding for good. But I'm headed right now, and, if you ever catch me +toyin' with the lush, I want you to joyously jack my jeans clear to my +lodgings. Knock me down, pick me up and knock me down again." + +"That's all very well, Micky," Dick had replied with a remonstrating +bellow of a laugh, "but I'm not enough of a pharisee for that, you know, +for I'm no total abstainer myself." + +"Yes, but you're about two-thirds of a one," replied the other. "You +don't know what an appetite means. You drink, when you drink at all, +for good fellowship, because someone asks you to. Left to yourself, +you'd never think of it. If you ever take too much, it means you're on +the water wagon for a number of months, because you dread the feeling of +the morning after. You're one of those lucky devils that can monkey with +the stuff for a lifetime and never acquire the faintest vestige of a +thirst. Now as for me, I can't coquette with it. I have to walk sideways +past a saloon with my face turned the other way, across the street to +the undertaker's. I've simply got to let it alone. Why? Because a lot of +hard jolts have taught me that it's a lot stronger than I am unless it's +held down with both hands. Sometimes I can take a glass and let it +alone, but oftener the first glass is only a drop in the bucket that +starts a demand to annex the whole well. Then there's a roaring Rip Van +Winkle that I come out of a week or two later to find my job miles +behind and me countin' ties and waitin' for a freight. That's the worst +of it, Dick," with a red flush of shame. "It's thinkin' that you're just +as liable to fall asleep at the switch, when you're on duty. Now that's +what I'm carrying over the country with me. That's what I'm fightin'. +First one on top, then the other. But whichever way, Dick, it's hell!" + +There had ensued a silence, broken by Dick's voice, unwontedly sober. + +"The gold cure, Micky, did you ever try it?" + +"No!" with vigor, "and I never will! If I can't stand I'll go down, but +it'll be alone. If I can't weather it without that, why then me to the +dip-house, that's all. No artificial vacations in mine!" + +Which, if perhaps wrong-headed, at least bespoke a plenitude of grit. + +Dick had remembered Micky's request to deliver him, if need be, from the +fascinations of the grape, and had complied with it in spirit, if not in +letter, the night previous. O'Byrn had been firmly torn from the +bibulous bevy with which he had started that afternoon and been escorted +home. And though the prospect was dismal enough to the boy who stood, +hands in pockets, on the curb, staring moodily at the asphalt, he was +glad that Dick had looked him up. It might have been worse. + +How bad was it, anyway? Micky drew a long breath, squared his shoulders +and started for the office. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +WHY SHE CRIED + + +Mickey was not dismissed, though the city editor had a heart to heart +talk with him. "We are not exactly sticklers for total abstinence here, +O'Byrn," he said. "I am free to confess that I am ineligible to +membership in the I. O. G. T. myself. But one thing the Courier does +insist upon, which is that a man's indulgence must not be allowed to +interfere with his work. I had important assignments for you last night +and had to place them in other hands. Besides, we were short of men. +When I accidentally learned, near press-time, of the real reason for +your non-appearance, I was minded to let you go. But from what I learn I +gather that it is something of a disease in your case. Cure yourself, my +boy, for you're a good man and I've decided to give you another chance." + +Micky stood quietly, his freckled face a queer study of mingled relief +and misery. "It's more than I deserve, Mr. Harkins," he replied. "I'm a +pup when I start drinkin'. You're right, it's a disease with me. I won't +promise that it's a final attack, for I don't know, but I will promise," +with meaning, "that you'll never have to jack me up for it again. If I +can't hold on, why I'll quietly let go." He walked out. + +Micky worked feverishly for a couple of days after that, his heart full +of misgiving. His place was assured, true enough, but there was another +matter, even more vital, which was rife with uncertainty. A girl's face, +eloquent of horror and dismay, swam mistily before his eyes, as in the +lighted street in front of the hotel when he was struggling with +Glenwood. He closed his eyes with a shiver, but still saw the face, +known for whose it was. Would she ever receive him, even nod to him +again? Never, probably, and why should she? This was a new attitude for +the ordinarily rollicking, independent O'Byrn. It remains for the lover +to sound the nethermost depths of humility. + +He watched his mail those two days with apprehensive eyes, fearing to +receive a note which should administer his _coup de grace_. None came, +and, as a natural sequence, his suspense increased. It is the axe +suspended that the fowl fears; with its fall subsequent proceedings fail +to interest the bird. + +Finally there arrived O'Byrn's night off. It could be employed but in +one way; he must become definitely acquainted with his fate. Behold him, +with set teeth and an air of impending martyrdom, at the Muldoons' door +at eight of the evening. It was a Friday evening, but Micky was +desperate. He breathed hard for a moment, wavered, then rang the bell +heroically. There was a soft stir inside, the door opened. It was dark +in the hall. Micky leaned forward. + +"Is that you, Maisie?" he breathed. "I--" + +"Naw," piped a childish treble, "it ain't Maisie. It's her brudder, +Terence." + +"Sure," murmured Micky confusedly. "Would've known from your general +cut, Terence, but I can't see you. Where's the folks?" + +"All out, Mister Micky," rejoined the youngster, thrusting his tousled +head out of the doorway to inspect the visitor. "Ain't no one to home +but me." + +"Where's Maisie?" Micky demanded in a tone which indicated that Terence +would fill no particular gap as far as he was concerned. + +"Out to a dance," grinned Terence. "Gone with Billy Ryan." Micky's brow +darkened, while Terence's grin grew wider. Billy Ryan! The cavalier who +left a Manhattan to go out for beers! Micky's mind swiftly reverted to +the Ironworkers' ball, to which Ryan had brought the lady and from which +O'Byrn had escorted her home. And now--in a brief second Micky gathered +some luminous ideas in evolution. He pulled himself together. + +"Say, Terence," he murmured, with a cajoling wink, "take this and don't +speak of my havin' called, see?" Terence nodded solemnly and closed the +door, richer by a quarter. Micky strode savagely away, rich in a fund of +swift-risen jealousy and in an empty, aimless night off. + +"Ryan!" he ruminated with a groan. "I could stand for most anyone else. +But a soak like him! Blast it! Can't a girl get next to anything +nowadays but what drinks?" + +And indeed, in these degenerate days, with teetotalers well nigh outside +her ken, many a maiden has had often ample occasion to ask herself that +question. + +The pot having apostrophized the kettle, Micky felt easier, though the +thought of Ryan was productive of inward profanity through all of that +singularly tedious and empty evening. + +There ensued a miserable week for Micky, though it was a fortunate one +for the Courier. Misery produces a wide diversity of results, depending +upon the makeup of the afflicted subject. The one it can render +absolutely useless to the needs of the workaday grind. The other, +beneath its bitter lash, becomes a human dynamo, plunging into the +nepenthe of toil. Of such was Micky, and a nervously brilliant week was +credited to him in consequence. + +But though the course was eminently more beneficial to him and his +endangered journalistic prospects than bootless brooding would have +been, it was a sorry week for him. Moreover, it was an interminably long +one. He would not have believed that such a week, filled with a restless +whirl of work, could have passed so slowly. Conflicting emotions +disquieted him, played pranks with an appetite for meals ordinarily as +reliably fixed as sea tides, filled his days with a wan restlessness and +troubled his sleep. For Micky, though the soft impeachment would have +probably won from him a picturesque denial, was in love, and misery is a +privilege of lovers. + +He watched the mails and the postman. The latter never stopped and Micky +anathematized him in his heart, also a privilege of lovers whenever +thorns and nettles spring up in Arcady. It is curious, this universal +mental arraignment of the postman for the non-delivery of matter never +sent. Why, in all reason, should he be forced to figure as a buffer? Yet +he is, and the rancor against him felt by the disappointed is all the +more bitter because of the absolute necessity for its repression. One +would acquire only merited ridicule and punishment for thrashing the +postman, though one would often like to. One may only glare, and, if the +postman notices it, he doesn't mind. He has grown cynical in service. So +to revert, as the days passed so also did the postman; and Micky, while +feeling quite murderous, simply glared. + +Why didn't she write, and again, why should she? Micky writhed upon the +twin horns of his dilemma. If she wrote, what in reason could she write +except a definite sentence of banishment? If she did not write, what +could the implied message naturally mean but the same? Oh, of course, he +was out of it anyway. But in that case, what of Ryan? Was it possible +that Ryan was considered preferable to him? When that query introduced +itself Micky usually swore. Altogether it was a hard week. + +On one thing, however, he was determined. The matter should be settled, +once for all, on his next night off. Perhaps Terence had been indiscreet +and revealed the secret of his previous fruitless call. Maisie might +expect him on the following Friday night and be away. Well, he would fix +that. So he arranged for Thursday night. A little cunning might insure +at least an audience. + +Behold him, then, on the fateful evening at the Muldoons' door, +heroically despairing. A soft glow shone through the curtained parlor +windows. Within he heard the soft chords of her little organ. She might +have company, Ryan perhaps. O'Byrn clenched his teeth and rang the bell. + +The organ was suddenly silent. To the boy waiting outside, the +succeeding moment of suspense was filled with a tumult of loud heart +beats, with strange throbbings at the temples. Then the door slowly +opened. "Who is there?" asked a voice. + +He stepped inside without a word, laying his hat on the hall table. +Forbiddingly silent, she gazed an instant into his face, glacial blue +eyes searching his own hungry ones, her face so cold as to cause him an +inward shiver. Then without speaking, she entered the little parlor, he +following. + +They sat far apart. Her manner increased the gap immeasurably. Micky +felt dimly that speech would partake of the nature of transmission over +a long-distance telephone to the Klondike. However, he cleared his +throat with some diffidence. It was something of an odd sensation for +him. + +"You were playin'," he ventured. + +"Yes," somewhat pointedly. "I was." + +"Well," he continued, "don't let me interrupt you. I like music." + +"Oh, do you?" indifferently. "Sorry, but the pieces I was playin' are +new ones. I don't know 'em well enough to play 'em before company." + +"So?" he continued, calmly ignoring the reiterated hint. "Well, try some +of the old ones. They're good enough for me." He watched her face +eagerly. + +It did not relax. "I think I've forgotten the old ones, Mr. O'Byrn," she +said slowly. + +"But I haven't," somewhat wistfully. "And it was not so long ago." + +"Not so long ago!" her blue eyes brightening. "Mr. O'Byrn, it was longer +ago than you seem to think." + +"Yes, I guess it was," dejectedly. "It's a long way from 'Micky' to +'Mister' after all." + +The girl's lip curled. "It's your own fault." she retorted. Then with a +sudden burst of hurt resentment, "I couldn't believe it at first," with +an involuntary little shiver, "when I saw you that night. My brother was +pretty mad, I can tell you, said I ought to shake you. Such a sight!" + +"So your brother was with you," exclaimed Micky, half to himself. One +maddening surmise had been set at rest. The thought of Ryan had haunted +him of late. + +"Yes, who did you think it was? Couldn't you see him?" with sarcasm. + +"I'm afraid I couldn't," with a humility strange in him, "but I could +see you, Maisie, and it sobered me." + +"High time!" she flashed. "But then," with an impatient gesture, "It +ain't pleasant to talk about, so cut it out. What did you come here for, +anyway?" + +He straightened. "To apologize, Maisie, that's all," he said simply. +"Just that and to ask for another chance. I sha'n't whine or excuse +myself. Only this. They gave me another chance at the office. Do I get +one here?" + +She tapped the carpet with an impatient foot. Her eyes were downcast, +her cheeks flushed. Micky watched her wistfully. Suddenly she stole a +swift glance at him, her blue eyes brimming with tears. + +"Oh," she burst out, a pitiful break in her voice, "if I hadn't seen +you--that way. It nearly killed me. And every time I've thought of you +since--I've seen you--like that! Oh, Micky--" Her voice was lost in +sobs, stifled in her handkerchief. + +He sprang from his chair, kneeling at her side, stroking her hair with +trembling fingers, pouring out his soul in broken, incoherent words. + +"I'm a beast, Maisie, a beast! Don't cry so--dear. It's always been so, +it's what's done for me all my life. My mother's dead, thank God! She +died before she knew. But my father," striking his clenched hand on the +arm of her chair, "he's got it to answer for, wherever he is, living or +dead! He was a devil, Maisie, and he made me one. He fed me the stuff +when I was a baby and I took to it like milk; it was his cursed blood in +me, I suppose. It's driven me from pillar to post, from a job to the +gutter, time and again. It's been up one minute and down the next with +me. Oh, I'm not fit to touch you, Maisie, I'm a dog to ask it, but I +tell you that, if I play out the game alone, this thing will drive me to +hell! Would you--stand by me, help me? It's always been stronger than I +am, perhaps it always will be, but Maisie, I think I can beat it out, +can be a man--with you!" + +It was out at last, the sum of his passionate longing, poured out +despairingly in a flood of wild unrecking words; without forethought, +wrung from him by the sudden yearning born of the sight of the girl in +tears. Now that it was over he remained silent a moment, still torn by +his emotion and by hers. Then, slowly and fearfully, his stinging eyes +sought her face. It was buried in her little hands. Tears trickled +through her clasped fingers. + +He rose heavily to his feet. What madness had possessed him, what +presumption! He had asked her to marry--a drunkard. He laughed with +bitter brevity. The sound brought the sight of a startled face with +tear-wet eyes. + +"Overlook it, Maisie," he asked desolately, as he turned away, "and +good-by. I don't know how I came to do it--but you cried." + +He was half way to the hall. There was a soft step behind him, a light +touch upon his arm. He turned swiftly, the ghost of a wan hope in his +haggard eyes. + +"Ah, Micky," she whispered, with a smile whose tender memory would live +for him in endless summer through autumn's falling leaves till winter's +winding sheets,--"don't you--don't you know--why--I cried?" + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +A WAGER + + +Micky told Dick about it one evening, for his heart was full. His +engagement was a serious thing to him, and something like fear mingled +with his hope of the future. He was deeply sensible of his past +mistakes, but he knew himself too well to look to the coming days with +unshrinking confidence. He hoped, very humbly; that was all. + +Dick was sympathetic, he understood. His was one of those rare natures +that invite, comprehend and respect confidences. "You know my record, +Dick," Micky had said. "There isn't much in it of a domestic tinge. But +just the same, when I happen to get a night off and sit in the little +parlor with her, it seems--" with a queer little break in his +voice,--"why Dick, it seems as if I had at last--got home!" + +And Dick had wrung Micky's hand until it ached, and assured him in his +deep bass voice, eloquent with fervent earnestness, that he was all +right, and poor Micky had begun to hope that, after a long and checkered +season, he was. + +The city was now fully roused to the contest that was being waged for +its control between the Fusionists and Democrats, and, as a natural +sequence, they were busy in the newspaper offices. One thing was quite +evident, however, which was that the unexpected _coup_ made by the +opponents of Shaughnessy, at the Democratic convention, had rendered the +chances of the Fusionist ticket dubious, to say the least. In fact, the +Fusionists had been robbed, to a large extent, of their thunder. The +spectacular repudiation of Shaughnessy by his own convention, the +nomination of a man for the mayoralty against whom no word of civil or +political taint had ever been breathed, had greatly lessened the +Fusionists' chances of success. Where they had expected to be able to +deal mighty blows, by pointing to the shameless effrontery of +Shaughnessy in forcing a malodorous city ticket through his convention, +they were now compelled to take another tack. The situation had been +made the subject of an earnest conference between Colonel Westlake and +the men controlling other pro-Fusionist newspapers directly after the +Democratic convention and its surprising results. + +So, in the assaults which the opposing newspapers, led by the Courier, +were making upon the Democracy there was no hint of detraction of the +Judge. How could there be? They contented themselves with the assumption +that the respected and able jurist had been imposed upon. To be sure, +Shaughnessy, having become notorious, had been sacrificed by his keen +associates in their own interest. Should they be successful at the +polls, the argument was made that Judge Boynton and some of his well +meaning associates upon the ticket, despite their good intentions, would +be powerless to cleanse the Augean stables because they would be +prevented from so doing by forces within their own party. Fusion would +furnish a new broom, guaranteed to sweep clean. + +This was strong and logical reasoning, but there were signs that it was +ineffective. There was a strong retort to be made, which was that the +purifying movement in the Democracy had come from within. The leaders +named were above suspicion; some of them were recognized bitter enemies +of Shaughnessy. Men of influence who had joined the Fusionists, though +Democrats, openly returned, holding that the necessity for Fusion no +longer existed. As the Democrats had a natural ascendency in the city, +the outlook for Fusion was on the whole growing rather depressing. + +Following his humiliation in the convention, Shaughnessy had left the +city for several days. Upon returning, he apparently took up the life of +a recluse. He confined himself strictly to the affairs of his wholesale +house, dividing his time equally between the office and his lodgings. He +was no longer at headquarters, where the sight of him was once so +familiar; he had apparently dropped all interest in politics, though +nobody dared to ask him anything about it. When Shaughnessy first struck +the town, said the old stagers, he was quite decently approachable, but +he had ceased so to be for years past. It was noted, however, by some +who chanced to meet him upon the street and glanced curiously at him, +that he was ghastlier than ever, with sunken cheeks and dull eyes. He +looked ill. + +But there was one who had not ceased to regard Mr. Shaughnessy with +suspicion, a suspicion that grew day by day, and that was Micky O'Byrn. +When Shaughnessy left town after his rout, O'Byrn muttered, "Up to more +deviltry. Wonder what it is now?" When he returned, and quietly forsook +his old political haunts, Micky's sandy eyebrows were skeptically +elevated and he murmured, "Underground! He'll come up somewhere." For +Micky relied upon the evidence of his keen Irish eyes. Whether the act +was committed through arrangement or involuntarily, Shaughnessy had +winked. O'Byrn reasoned that winks by a man of Shaughnessy's calibre +were not wasted. Curious that a "slick duck" like Grady, as Micky +characterized that smooth orator, had required a wink. Perhaps he +hadn't, perhaps Shaughnessy had simply grown over-anxious during the +short interval between the speeches. Well, if Shaughnessy had grown +unwittingly careless, that was his look-out, his and O'Byrn's. O'Byrn +was looking out. He had said nothing and he was devoutly hopeful that he +would have a chance to saw wood. + +He was at Maisie's one evening, one of his customary "off-nights." These +nights were coming to him of late as oases in the deserts of weeks. They +had chatted, talked seriously of their plans, sung together to Maisie's +accompaniment on the little organ, and now Micky regretfully rose, with +a glance at his watch. "Well, girl," said he, "I've got to slide. It's +gettin' late. Your pa'll be assistin' me." + +She watched him with wistful blue eyes, loth that he leave, though she +knew the hour beckoned his departure. He stood near the big lamp with +its red shade, his queer features being mellowed, so to speak, in the +ruddy glow. He grinned benignly at her as he reached for his coat. +Anticipating him, she helped him into it. + +"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed rebelliously, "isn't it the worst ever, this +newspaper business! And a morning paper at that, with your hours turned +wrong side out and a night off only once in an age! Micky, dear, why +don't you get into something civilized?" + +"You know, Maisie, the Constitution says all men were created equal," he +observed soberly. + +"Sure it does, but what's that got to do with it? What are you up to +now?" + +"Why, nothin'," he replied, an impish twinkle in his eye, "only it +depends. One man may be as good as another, but it's up to him to prove +it. A bunch of Socialist Democrats, in a town I was in once, put up a +hostler for city judge against a couple of old lawyers on the regular +tickets. Said a hostler was as good as a lawyer in this free country. +True enough, in a limited sense. I know a lot of hostlers that are +better hostlers than a lot of lawyers that are lawyers. I suppose you +follow me? But, all the same, these fellows were lame in their argument +for this reason. Their hostler candidate might have had horse sense to +burn, but he hadn't read law. There's a lot of difference between horse +sense and the law, Maisie. They finally took the hostler off and put a +cobbler on, who came in last. Now don't strike me, Maisie, that last was +accidental. Really, I didn't intend it." + +"I should hope not!" with sincerity. "But I don't see what all this +rigmarole has to do with what we are saying, or were. Have you lost your +mind?" + +"If ever I did, the finder would return it," he retorted whimsically. +"It would make him dizzy. But to return to cases, what I said has got +everything to do with what we said. Can't see it? Well, men may be +created equal but most of 'em never learn arithmetic. The fellow who +does has got 'em stopped. He keeps on addin', while they--oh, they're +just multiplyin' every minute. They're all around you, I'm one of 'em +myself. The mathematical sharp, who made a specialty on finance and +knows the idiosyncrasies of a dollar better than a mother knows her +child, keeps on subtractin' the other fellows from their money. When it +comes to the division, why they're all workin' for him. That's +Rockefeller, and by the same token, that's me. We're the limit on the +extremes. He's got everything and I'm livin' on the rest. I've got +nothin' and he's got it. See? + +"There's a happy medium, but it doesn't help the majority much, for most +of us are on pay rolls. For instance, one man owns the Courier and the +rest of us are working for him. If I changed to something else, I'd +still be workin' for someone. Why? Because the only line in arithmetic +in which I could make good was a sequence of ciphers with no bigger +figure before it. You catch the point, don't you? It's due to the +mercenary age. Nominally I'm free and equal. Actually I'm about a +'steenth of one per cent. See? But what's the dif'? What you need in +this dizzy old world is philosophy. I've got it to burn, but Standard +Oil can't scorch it. Here's a motto for you, Maisie, and you can paste +it in that funny new jigger you call a hat. It'll keep you smilin' on +wash day, and that's a test for a woman. It's just this: take it as it +comes, and, if it doesn't come, don't take it." + +He was gone, this queer little man-gamin of vagrant moods, shifting as +the winds, yet for the most bubbling with reckless cheeriness. Humor was +the predominant note of his being. Its broad grace mellowed him; would +keep him sound and sweet at heart, whatever the sum of the coming years. +Did the winds blow fair or ill, he had within him the essence of logical +living; a whimsical sense of proportion that enabled him to view himself +impartially with all others, one of myriad puppets in the show. A +success or a failure he might become, as the world judges, but until the +end he would be too large for that littleness which is too often a +hallmark of success, the littleness of petty vanity. So, with this +greatest gift the Creator can give one of his children, the humorous +sense of proportion that can make if need be a joke of futility, Micky +would go on to the end, to success or failure; alike with heart +uncankered and a laugh on his lips. There would never transpire a +misanthropic Micky. + +For a long time after O'Byrn's departure, Maisie sat still in the Morris +chair, a pensive look on her pretty face, with vague eyes bent dreamily +on the flaming wood in the tiny fireplace; for the nights had grown +chill with the first presage of winter and the fenders glowed with warm +hospitality on company nights. The busy flames licked the blackened +slabs; hurrying over the charred, desolate spaces; leaping in triumph as +a conquered fragment fell, under the espionage of a shower of +scintillant sparks. The tongues of flame, with redoubled energy, again +lapped the wood, eating into its vitals, withering its fibres with fiery +breath, crumbling it piecemeal in a crematory of elemental ashes. At +last, always working upward, the flames burst exultantly from scorched +fissures in the topmost slab and curled in weird shapes above it; shapes +that now approached a certain sane coherence; that again were +indeterminate and distorted, vaguely writhing in a dim haze, like one's +future. Finally the fire, spending its force, dulled and died, the ruddy +flames slowly paling like the fading roses of a summer sunset. Then +there was the black, desolate end; all light extinguished save for the +baleful, red-eyed glare of a few scattered embers, dying on the hearth. +Maisie sat erect with a sudden start, stealing an apprehensive glance at +the clock. With a long sigh and a little shiver, she rose slowly, +extinguished the low-turned lamp and departed for bed. + +Meanwhile, Micky, a red-eyed cigar in a corner of his mouth, had walked +leisurely and thoughtfully toward the city. His hands thrust deep in his +overcoat pockets, he strode unheedingly on, lost in a wistful reverie. +What a flower was this little girl of his, to be sure! And he--what had +he done to deserve her? A little self-examination is good for a man, +especially if it be followed by a little proper self-disgust. O'Byrn +walked on in singularly chastened mood. The past? Ah, it was done; why +waste time in regrets when one is young? The present was of sunshine in +a blue sky; the future-- + +O'Byrn's shoulders rose in a little, involuntary, uneasy shrug. He +turned a corner just then and looked up. The next instant he had retired +unobtrusively into a dark hallway, where he stood, staring across the +street. + +O'Byrn could scarcely have explained his definite impulse for doing +this. It was simply the half-unconscious manifestation of the news +instinct. Without any needed pause for reasoning, Micky's news faculty +had connected two apparently irrelevant facts as significantly allied +with each other, prompting him to remain in the hope of securing +something worth while. The wholesale liquor establishment of Shaughnessy +stood just across the street. The curtains of the office were drawn, +but O'Byrn saw the reflection of a light behind them. Furthermore, the +sound which had brought Micky to a realization of his surroundings, a +moment before, was that of a carriage, which had been halted a little +way up the dark street, the corner of which O'Byrn had just turned. So +O'Byrn stood in the shadow, watching Shaughnessy's office. + +He had not long to wait. A few moments and he beheld the corner of one +of the office window shades drawn slightly to one side. Somebody was +evidently looking out. Nobody was in sight, for the street was a quiet +one and was deserted at that hour. The next moment the door was opened +cautiously and a man emerged. Crossing the street swiftly he passed by +O'Byrn so closely that the reporter could have touched him, and turned +the corner. Then was soon audible the sound of receding wheels. + +O'Byrn whistled softly as he resumed his walk toward the city. The light +of the aroused news instinct was in his eyes. Here was something +tangible, bearing out surmises that had seemed wild to himself. What +need had Judge Boynton, the esteemed Democratic candidate for mayor, to +be secretly in the office of the deposed boss, Shaughnessy? Deposed, +indeed! Micky laughed softly, then clenched his hands. + +"Oh, if I can only get onto it!" he breathed savagely. "Whew! Lord! +Lord! What a story!" + +Had Micky chanced to look around at that moment he might have seen a man +following him, who, had O'Byrn known it, could have given him some +interesting and definite pointers on that desired story. The man had +emerged from around the corner of Shaughnessy's building a moment after +Judge Boynton left and Micky had started down the street. Gaining the +opposite side of the thoroughfare, the fellow, who had evidently been +eavesdropping, followed O'Byrn, keeping some distance in the rear, until +a point was reached where Micky turned to go toward the Courier office. +The other man kept straight on. + +A little later, as he had figured upon doing, Micky met some of the boys +in a lunch room which they were wont to visit at that hour. Dick was +there, and Mead and Fatty Stearns. The latter was talking. + +"Gee!" exclaimed Fatty, breathlessly, while the expletive blew a +formidable charge of bread crumbs toward the shrinking company, "but +there'll be doin's this election! There'll be doin's! Watcha think, +Micky?" + +"I think you need an interpreter, Fatty, when you try to talk with your +mouth full," replied O'Byrn. "Don't talk, Fatty. You sound like a dog +that's trying to breathe in July; you do, really. One of those +expectorating dogs." + +"Gee! What's those?" demanded Fatty, helplessly. "Spitz!" replied Micky, +and dodged a crust launched by the justly indignant Glenwood. + +"Cheese it, fellows," put in Mead. "About this election. Fusion's got no +chance now. Judge Boynton'll win in a walk." + +"For how much?" in a flash. O'Byrn's hand was in his pocket. + +"Well," remarked Mead, reflectively, "I'm not exactly lined with dough, +but I'll put an X on it. Have to stipulate that it's a futurity, though; +for, needless to say, I haven't as much as that in my clothes three +days after pay day." + +"Neither have I," laughed O'Byrn. "This diggin' down was a bluff. But +I'll see your ten all right. This bum line of witnesses will take +notice. Loser touches someone to pay the winner. All fine 'nd dandy." + +Mead acquiesced, albeit with an implied something of uncertainty in his +demeanor. The rotund Stearns voiced it in nervous words. + +"Gee! Mead," he exclaimed, "you're a chump to bet your stuff on another +fellow's game." + +"Go die somewhere, Fatty," suggested Micky. "There's no game yet, but," +with a queer grin at Mead, "there's going to be before this thing's +over. Want to renig, Mead? Can if you want to." + +"No!" indignantly rejoined Mead. "I'll see it through. If you really +have something in your Irish sleeve, O'Byrn, I'll bet it's worth the +money." + +"Nothin' yet," murmured Micky, as they prepared to depart, "but I tell +you, boys, that sleeve's a Christmas stockin' just now, and I'm gettin' +eye-strain watchin' for Santa Claus." + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +A DISCREDITED HENCHMAN + + +Micky strolled into the Courier's local room one evening, and, after +hanging up his overcoat and hat, removed also his under coat and +unbuttoned his vest. He then leisurely detached his cuffs and rolled up +his shirt sleeves, to get arm-room, as he used to term it. Then, having +indulged a taste for preliminaries which he was fond of observing, +whenever he had the time, he sailed in. A half hour later he had +finished his task and turned in the copy. There was a temporary lull, +and O'Byrn leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his red +head, and dreamily watched the rings of smoke wreathing upward from the +tip of his cigar. + +"Wherever did you get a gash like that?" inquired a voice behind him, +and Micky felt a finger touch his wrist. Mead, who also chanced to be +disengaged at the moment, took an adjacent chair and stretched himself +out comfortably for a chat. + +Micky lazily extended his right arm and bestowed a curious glance upon a +long, livid scar, just above the wrist. "Oh, that?" he answered. "That +was an accident. Got it when I was too young to remember. Beastly night, +eh?" + +"Yes, trying to blow up a nasty rain, I guess. Where've you been +tonight?" + +"Oh, out in society," grinned Micky. "Harkins sent me to do that Van +Courts' recep' 'nd ball. Careless servants, though. I was glad to get +away alive." + +"Why?" + +"Well, I was discreetly in the background, of course, and was edging +across to get a better view when I fell over a pile of things on the +floor that they'd failed to brush up. Hostess gave 'em the glacial eye." + +"I should think she would," warmly commented Mead. "What was the stuff?" + +"Why, a bunch of ultras had just been standing there," demurely +explained O'Byrn, "and I fell over the dropped r's, that's all." + +Mead viewed him darkly. "You ought to be killed," he remarked. "Such +cheap and unseemly levity is unworthy of one who is pursuing this +honorable, elevating, expanding career of journalism." This with an +oratorical flourish. + +A shadow of seriousness crept into O'Byrn's twinkling eyes. "Of course +you're in fun, in a way," he told Mead, "but, just the same, you're +inclined to take your 'mission' seriously. My boy, you're due to shed a +raft of illusions. You'll find this 'career,' as you call it, is a good +deal like a hobby horse. Pleasant motion, but doesn't land you anywhere. +There's nothin' to it. I heard you talking the other day about 'the +great equipment it gives a fellow for a start in life.' That's all right +if taken in time, like the measles, but let me tell you something. You +stick at this, and stick and stick, and by the time you're ready for +that start, you'll be backin' up. + +"You were a cub a while ago, Mead, and you made good. Naturally you +feel good about that, for a lot of 'em don't. Well, you needn't feel +good. You've got the germ, and it's fatal. You're to be pitied, for +you're thoroughly _en rapport_ with the job." + +O'Byrn had warmed to his subject; his cigar stub described wild +flourishes. "I knew a young fellow once, in the middle west, who went +into the reporting line. Brighter'n a dollar and full of ambition and +the opportunity hop. Tried hard, but hadn't the nose, couldn't make good +nohow. Old man called him up on the carpet one day. Old man went it for +a while and then the gosling got a chance for a squawk. + +"'Why,' says he in an injured way, 'I cover my assignments.' + +"'Oh, yes,' snaps the old man,--and he was one of the best in the +business,--'you're all right on the stereotype, tellin' the people what +they already know about. Any lunkhead can report a baby show. The +mothers are there to tell him about it. But that's only half the game. +The other and the hardest half is in diggin' out and tellin' 'em what +they don't know about. That's what you're for and it's where you fall +down.' + +"Well, the old man fired him. He was lucky. He's gettin' the salary of +three of us now and he's gettin' it out of straight life. Manages a +district. The old man who fired him died a while ago. Next time my +friend passed through that town he stopped off, just to shed some tears +of gratitude on the old man's grave. + +"Oh, you grin now, Mead, and you're thinkin' to yourself 'Old Carrots, +the senile cynic.' But just you stick at it, and fail to sidestep the +Juggernaut, and in years to come you'll remember the words your Uncle +Mike is now addressin' to you and you'll feel the same sentiment the +old farmer from up north wrote on the back of a check. + +"Never heard of it? Well, it's true. Old fellow was from Clayville +Corners. Got a check one day for something. Never saw anything like that +before; always took his money straight. Someone told him to take it into +town and get it cashed at the bank. So he blows in and shoves the slip +in front of the cashier. Cashier says, 'You'll have to indorse this.' +Old man was rather rattled but stayed game. Took it over to the desk and +scribbled on the back this sentiment: + + "'i hartily Indors this Chek.' + +"That'll be you, Mead, in the coming days. You'll think what Micky told +you and you'll heartily indorse. But it won't be checks. The only checks +you get in this cussed business are over-draws." + +"Nice, roseate view you take of your calling," sarcastically remarked +Mead. "Why in thunder don't you get out of it?" + +Micky's grin was illuminating and forgiving. "Because I can't do +anything else," he admitted frankly. "But you can. Why don't you? Try +politics. It's the graft these days. Then bimeby you can retire, like +Shaughnessy, and will never have to work anybody any more. But just you +stick at this newspaper stunt, and after a while you find, to your +surprise, that 'the zest and thrill of news gettin' which is the fillip +of the reporter's jaded life' is gettin' a dull edge. Of course, you're +older than you used to be, and that explains most things, includin' the +multiplyin' of troubles that come to you while you wait. The chiefest +one is in your speed. It's O. K. when you're young and your blood is +boundin'. You feel like that brute owned by the enthusiastic French +Canadian. He was workin' a horse trade, and says: 'Dat hoss, she trot +half-past two. He no trot half-past two, I give you to it!' + +"Now, the trouble with the vet reporter is that by the time he gets to +an age that is considered the prime of life in any other line, why, he +can't half trot past anybody, and he gets scratched. And I think that +will hold you for a while, Mead. Think it over." + +O'Byrn yawned, glanced at the clock, and rose. "Well," said he, airily, +"I'm off, don't you know, to see if I can find something to make me +forget that society shindy. Oh, ya-a-s! Bubbles! you rude fellah; there +now, Bubbles! Go 'way, Mead. You're not so bad, you know, but you don't +belong. Tra, la! old chap, be good. What a pity you have to work for a +living!" With which parting arrant nonsense O'Byrn considerately took +himself off. + +Arrived at the street, Micky's jovial grin faded and he walked along +with a serious air that had been far more frequent with him of late. +There was a sober-sided Micky that few of his mates knew. Often now, +when the little Irishman was alone, the reckless light would fade in the +blue eyes, leaving them unwontedly serious; the jovial grin would quit +the freckled face, to be replaced by that pensive shadow that tells of +wistful, wondering speculation regarding the veiled mystery of futurity. +Such the spell of introspection that is cast when love comes to one, +leading to grave heart-searchings, to the tentative facing of one's +soul. There is as much of shadow as of sunlight in the path of true +love, but there is substance in the shadow. + +Micky was walking swiftly along, oblivious to his animated +surroundings, when a touch upon an elbow arrested his attention. He +glanced up, somewhat bewildered, and stopped. One of Maisie's brothers, +Tom, was facing him. + +"Hello, O'Byrn," abruptly remarked Muldoon. "Saw you passing me, lookin' +dreamy-eyed, so I stopped you. Thought you might want to know. Maisie's +sick." + +"Sick!" echoed Micky, a scared look in his face. "Why, what--" + +"Oh, don't worry like that." reassuringly. "We called in the doctor; he +says there's no danger. She'll be all right." + +"Yes," Micky returned anxiously, "but what's the matter, man? Why, she +was all right Friday evening. I was there." + +"Yes," returned her brother, "it came on real sudden. It's that fever +that's going around; she came down last night. But she's got it mild, so +don't you worry. It's too late now, she's asleep, but run in tomorrow +for a minute sometime, can't you? It'll do her good. And don't worry, +old man." With a hearty slap on Micky's shoulder Tom passed on. + +Micky continued on his way, his heart heavy with the news. Of course, +she was not in danger, but illness in itself is depressing to the young. +They hate the sound of the word; the sight of suffering inspires in them +an odd, rebellious impatience. The sun is needed to brighten the gray +old world; why is it so often behind a cloud? "Poor little girl!" +murmured Micky, the tears starting to his eyes. Why, only last Friday +night she had been the picture of health and happiness, and they had sat +side by side on the little sofa and talked of their modest plans. Yes, +and he had run into the store the next day and chatted with her for a +moment. And now she lay sick and helpless at home. A great wave of +tenderness suffused O'Byrn's warm Irish heart. Would he call to see her +for a moment on the morrow? Would he? + +Micky pressed on at a furious pace, impatiently winking smarting eyes, +puffing like a locomotive at a cigar whose end flared like a headlight. +For the moment he was oblivious to his surroundings, though hurrying +through a crowded, brilliantly lighted street. Mechanically he turned a +corner into a darker one. A moment more and he was recalled to earth by +a dry, remembered voice, a voice that broke disagreeably in upon his +reverie. + +"Can you give me a light?" it inquired, as Micky halted. "You seem to +have enough." + +Micky proffered his raging cigar and watched the man curiously as he +lighted it. Oddly enough, considering O'Byrn's wide acquaintance since +his brief stay in town, the two had never met. Under the dim radiance of +an adjacent old street lamp, Shaughnessy's face gleamed ghastly white, +the black moustache had an odd, limp droop. His weed lighted, he handed +Micky's cigar back with a slight nod of acknowledgment and was about to +turn away. + +O'Byrn's deviltry, irrepressible and eternal, asserted itself. "You're +lookin' bad, Mr. Shaughnessy," he remarked with impudent solicitude. +"'Tain't good for you, this night air. Don't you go to them; you don't +have to. Make 'em come to you." + +For once Shaughnessy's impassive mask was disturbed, which Micky noted +with impish satisfaction. To be sure, it was not much. Where many a face +would have been curiously distorted, the basilisk eyes of Shaughnessy +just widened and glared a moment, that was all. Then they narrowed and +became expressionless, while Shaughnessy deliberately removed his cigar +from his mouth and thoughtfully emitted a cloud of smoke. + +"Who are you?" he inquired casually. + +Micky had recourse to his card case. "Allow me," he remarked politely. + +Shaughnessy glanced at it and thrust it in his vest pocket. "I've heard +of you," he acknowledged. "Fine night, eh? Good evening." He moved +leisurely away. O'Byrn hailed him and he turned. + +"I haven't one of your cards, Mr. Shaughnessy," suggested Micky, +grinning wickedly. + +Shaughnessy vouchsafed him a slight, sneering smile. "I don't think you +need it," he retorted, "but I'm glad, I'm sure, that you gave me yours." +He passed on and turned the corner. + +Micky was a veteran newsgetter, which means that he was also a good +detective. Wary as Shaughnessy was, he could not have known that he was +being shadowed, though O'Byrn noticed him several times casting +apprehensive glances to the rear. He smiled grimly at the implied +tribute to his reputation and discreetly kept out of sight. In the +meantime he had necessarily dropped some distance behind the boss, +though carefully following him as he traversed successive streets. +Suddenly, however, he turned sharply at a cross-alley, and when O'Byrn, +hurrying his pace, reached there, Shaughnessy was nowhere to be seen. + +Micky stood perplexed, cursing softly. He hurried to the end of the +alley to Lawrence Street and looked up and down it, without result. He +walked aimlessly here and there about the section, but no glad sight of +Shaughnessy rewarded his keen eyes. + +After some little time, however, O'Byrn saw a familiar figure crossing +Lawrence Street, a block from the point where the alley intersected. The +Irishman was instantly alert, for the man was former Alderman Goldberg. +"Gad!" muttered Micky, "the woods seem to be full of 'retired' +politicians." Gaining the opposite side of the street, Goldberg turned +west and walked about two blocks, with O'Byrn discreetly behind, across +the way. Suddenly Goldberg disappeared within a doorway. Micky chuckled +softly. + +"Up over Hogan's, eh?" he muttered. "So that's the trysting place." He +must investigate, surely, but not just now. Perhaps there were other +birds of the sinister brood to arrive. O'Byrn, with the canny discretion +born of long reportorial experience, lurked for the present in a +shadowed doorway. In a little while his caution was justified, for there +arrived simultaneously at the "trysting place" the lanky Dick Peterson +and the rotund Willie Shute, known to Micky for the precious pair of +political rascals they were. "That fake convention! Oh, what a bluff!" +breathed the Irishman, with a definite admiration in his subdued tones. +One could honestly admire a masterly _coup_ like that, nor could he +withhold a certain tribute to the ability of the scoundrel responsible +for it. Shaughnessy was a genius, burrowing in the dark places; where +the searching sunlight would have been fatal. + +Micky waited a little longer, but the circle was evidently complete. +They would not naturally keep the boss waiting long, for O'Byrn made no +doubt that he was with them. The Irishman was fired with an intense +desire to hear that conference. Already he knew that Shaughnessy was +there, and matters were proceeding under the same masterly hand as of +yore; only it was "the hidden hand" now, and all the more deadly for +that reason. O'Byrn was convinced that he ought to be an unnoted auditor +of that meeting, though he knew there were difficulties in the way. It +was not probable that Hogan neglected precautions against any possible +disturbance of these little conferences, for it was a natural +supposition that he had his orders to that effect. + +However, nothing was to be gained by standing and speculating about it. +So Micky, with sundry unspoken prayers for immunity from a broken head, +crossed the street and approached the doorway. He opened the door +cautiously and slipped inside. By a single gas light, turned religiously +low, he saw the white aproned form of a waiter standing at the head of +the flight of stairs. In that moment the man started down stairs. + +The way to the cafe was through a long, dark passage, at the end of +which the dim gas light did not penetrate. In an instant the wily O'Byrn +had retreated into this passage, where he flattened against the wall. +The sleeve of the waiter brushed his body as that worthy passed on into +the cafe. A gust of boisterous talk and tipsy laughter sounded from the +saloon as the door was opened. Then it was closed, and Micky, without a +second's hesitation, made for the stairs and crept softly up, trusting +to luck. + +He heard a murmur of voices from the larger of the two rooms that faced +a narrow hall, which in turn looked out upon a side street through its +two small windows. Between the two rooms there was a narrow passage, +terminating in a flight of steep stairs which led down into Hogan's +kitchen. These stairs were seldom used. The building, an architectural +anomaly in the first place, had been further mangled by the odd ideas of +Hogan. + +Micky slipped around into this friendly little passageway just as the +waiter came up stairs with a loaded tray. Micky heard him knock, enter +the room, and shortly return. To his disgust the Irishman failed to hear +the waiter's descending footsteps. Evidently he was supposed to stand +guard and see that the coast was kept clear. + +Micky swore silently. Then he made a discovery which filled him with +glee. The light streamed from the all-important room through an aperture +high in the wall; evidently a disused stovepipe hole, which Hogan had +carelessly forgotten to cover after he put in his furnace. More than +this, Micky noted, in the dim light of other gas jets in the hall +outside, that directly under this hole stood a small but substantial +table, on exceptionally high legs. + +To noiselessly gain the top of the table occupied but an instant for the +agile Irishman. His eager, freckled face was thrust close to the +observatory. He had a swift glimpse of that precious group, the charmed +circle complete, and then occurred a thing that froze his blood. + +Suddenly Goldberg, Goldberg of the illimitable brow, sprang to his feet +with shaking fist and crimsoned face. He extended his arm; the swollen +fist resolved itself into a single accusing finger, pointed straight at +O'Byrn. Goldberg's little pig eyes shot fire, he glared murderously at +the stove pipe hole. "Oh, you spy! you damned spy!" he yelled. Micky +waited to hear no more. + +He gained the floor at a jump and swung around the corner. The +unsuspecting waiter stood directly between him and the front stairs. +Micky lowered his head and charged like a lively little bull. The dazed +waiter crashed to the floor and Micky gained the bottom of the stairs in +three bounds. + +In that very instant, however, the sound of a loud commotion, a volley +of curses, came from above. Instead of gaining the street, O'Byrn +instinctively retreated into the dark passage between the stairs and the +cafe, where he crouched and waited. The next moment, with a succession +of bumps, some object came thudding down the stairs and reached the +bottom with a deep groan. There was a rush of feet on the landing above, +eager to follow. + +In a flash O'Byrn had sprung forward, turning off the single gas jet, +flinging the door wide open. Then, as a second heavy body came tumbling +down the stairs, evidently through a stumble in the darkness, O'Byrn +stooped, and gathering a limp, senseless form in his arms, gained the +street. Dragging his burden, he wheeled into the adjoining alley. He +heard swift footsteps in the street. Goldberg hurried by, limping and +cursing. He it was who had fallen down stairs. + +Micky chuckled. "'Twasn't me they were after, at all," he muttered. Then +he bent low, gazing sharply into the white face of his senseless burden. +He gave a start of surprise. + +It was Slade. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +USEFUL INFORMATION + + +O'Byrn's eyes glistened. Here were possibilities, to be sure, but the +first thing to do was to get out of that quarter, which might be too +warm for comfort in a few minutes. Even as the reflection struck him, +Micky backed close against the wall, in the deepest shadows, as a man +rushed past him through the alley. It was Dick Peterson. The whole gang +must be out looking for Slade. To add to the discomfort of the +situation, the weather made good its threat of many hours' standing and +it began to rain. Slade lay inert, still unconscious from the fall. +Micky scratched his head in deep perplexity. He had no intention of +leaving the fellow, but what should he do with him? + +Fortune was kind. At that moment a cab swung into the alley from +Lawrence Street at a leisurely pace. The driver was evidently taking a +short cut to more travelled thoroughfares. O'Byrn halted him and invoked +his assistance in loading Slade into the vehicle. "My friend's drunk," +he laconically explained, to which the cabby grunted a gruff assent. + +Slade had recovered his jarred senses by the time the cab arrived at a +point near Micky's lodging, and the Irishman prudently stopped the +driver, and paying him, dismissed him. It would never do to leave a +clear trail for Shaughnessy's gang, should they chance to stumble upon +it at all. He asked the still dazed Slade to wait for him a few minutes +in an adjacent drug store while he hurried over to the city hall, which +was near at hand, and telephoned the Courier office, informing Mr. +Harkins that he had a chance for a future "beat" that would have to be +improved at once, and he wouldn't be back. "All right, keep at work on +it. We won't need you," Harkins telephoned, and Micky rejoined Slade. + +He piloted Slade to his lodgings, took him to his room, lighted his gas +heater and the two jets and installed his guest in the big easy chair +which the room boasted. He took the rocker himself, drawing it +confidentially close to Slade's chair. He then produced cigars, holding +a match for Slade to light his weed. "Smoke up, old man," remarked +Micky, cordially. "It'll be comfortably warm here in a few minutes. +Stretch out and pull yourself together. You got a nasty fall." Slade +smiled slightly, without words, and arranged himself luxuriously in the +big chair, puffing thoughtfully at his weed. A pleasant glow stole +through the room. Micky, also puffing methodically, was silent as his +companion, philosophically waiting for the spirit to move. Cautiously +watching Slade, he was gratified to see a sullen, smouldering fire in +the queer black eyes, ordinarily as indifferent as a Chinaman's. Slade +would evidently be in a confidential mood in a few moments, and Micky +could well afford to wait. + +Not many newspaper men could have expected Nick Slade, accredited heeler +for the Shaughnessy gang, to wax confidential, under any circumstances, +to a representative of the press. His very presence at that moment, in +the room of a reporter of the Courier, of all papers, was anomalous. But +O'Byrn was shrewd. He had learned early that success for the reporter on +a daily newspaper depends on his being all things to all men. Tact is +the little key that unlocks all doors. A hundred different plans of +campaign are needed for a hundred different men, yet every man must be +met on a broad and common field of friendliness. Anything short of that +curtails the reporter's field of usefulness. One shorter sighted than +Micky would perhaps have avoided making Slade's acquaintance in the +beginning, on the ground that he was not a respectable person. To be +sure he was not. Slade himself would be the last to question the +impeachment. Because of this very lack of respectability, Slade's good +graces were valuable to Micky, for a large proportion of the news that +the public revels in is garnered from the ranks of the non-respectable. +There is little in the life of your ordinary, respectable citizen to +keep the typesetters busy, for there is nothing sensational in virtue +unless it be possessed by a politician. Then it is inexplicable. But the +record of the ordinary esteemed citizen can usually be summed up in the +horns of life's trilemma: birth, marriage and death, unless, indeed, he +excels at golf. The newspapers still devote considerable space to it. + +Slade knew the men who made much of the real news of the town, the news +with fat head-lines. To be sure, many of them figured in it unwillingly, +but that was a minor consideration, for their doings often made and sold +extras. Chance had thrown Slade in Micky's way early in the Irishman's +career in the town, and the reporter's trained journalistic sense told +him that Slade's confidence would be valuable. So it had been. The +episode in Goldberg's saloon, when Slade evaded wrath that fell upon the +luckless head of O'Byrn, had not ended their acquaintance. Micky had +found occasion to do Slade some good turns since then. And now +Slade,--from ambuscade, to be sure, but none the less effectively,--was +destined to reciprocate tenfold. + +Slade had been a heeler for the gang. It was not an important post, +affording a pose in the limelight, but that fact had its compensations. +Evidently Slade, in trying, perhaps, to fit himself surreptitiously for +larger responsibilities, had come to grief. And, as Micky watched him, +smoking in the big chair, he noted a fire of sullen resentment kindling +in Slade's eyes. + +"Say, old man," inquired Slade suddenly, "where'd you pick me up +tonight? How'd you happen to connect with me, anyway?" + +Micky grinned. "Why, I was up to the same game you were, I guess," he +explained. "Shaughnessy passed me tonight, and, though I'd never met +him, I couldn't help throwin' the con' into him a little, just for luck. +I'd seen some things, you know, and I guess he was next to what I was +drivin' at, all right. But he never turned a hair and went on, with me +doin' a quick sneak after him. I missed him finally, but some of his +gang blew along, and after a while I was up stairs in Hogan's, perched +on a table and rubberin' through a hole in the wall. All of a sudden up +jumps Goldberg, yellin' something about a spy, and I thought I was +copped for fair. I was down stairs in three shakes, and I went through a +waiter like a halfback to do it. I was just about to breathe the open +when you bumped along down. You were dead to the world when I dragged +you out, I guess, and I kept you out of sight of the gang,--which was +looking for you, my boy,--till I got the cab. And here you are. +Goldberg's as good a bouncer as his man Mulligan, ain't he?" + +"Goldberg?" echoed Slade. "Nit, young feller, he never touched me. They +were all grabbin' for me at once, and I shook the whole bunch, just as I +did in that session at Goldberg's. I wound around like a gimlet for a +minute and I was goin' some when I went through the door. Then," in a +tone of deep disgust, "I had to miss my bearin's, of course, and when I +brought my hoof down for the first stair I must have hit about the last +one, I guess. Anyway, the lights went out." He shook his head +mournfully, while O'Byrn chuckled. + +"Don't you mind," said he soothingly, "Goldberg got a worse one than +you. He bumped along down after you, and afterward he was hoppin' around +on one leg lookin' for Nicky, who was just then safe in the arms of +Micky. And then along blew the dear old cab. I told the cabby you were +drunk, you know." + +"Oh, you did, did you?" without enthusiasm. "No such luck this time. Oh, +it's all right; it was a good bluff. Now about the rough-house. It was a +funny stunt, your happenin' to be there at the same time I was. You've +got your nerve with you, all right. As for yours truly, I'd been there +so often before, without any trouble, that I must have got careless. +Anyway, their talk was interesting and I shoved my face out from behind +the sideboard a little too far, and up jumps that bald-headed dog of a +Goldberg. And now my goose is cooked." + +He sat silent for a few moments, moodily puffing his cigar and scowling +blackly. O'Byrn critically watched him, without words. The sullen glow +returned to Slade's eyes, his sallow cheeks flushed slightly. Then, with +a savage oath, he leaped to his feet, facing the waiting Irishman. + +"See here!" he exclaimed fiercely, "I owe you for more than one good +turn, and I guess if you hadn't happened to be on deck tonight those +dogs would have killed me. You're a good feller and they're a bunch of +yellow curs. I've worked for 'em for all I was worth for a long while, +done dirty work for 'em, and what have I got? Just promises and a run +around the rim, that's all, when I've got enough in me to be helpin' to +work the calliope in the inside. And they know it, too,--they know I +ain't no fool. Many's the time has Dick Peterson, the rotten liar, said +to me: 'Slade, my boy, you're the stuff; we're goin' to take care of +you.' Promises, promises to burn! And it's all I've had. + +"Well, that's the way it went, while they kept on playin' me for a +sucker. Many's the job I've done for Peterson that he didn't have the +sand for to do himself. I was always willin'." Micky suppressed a smile +at the injured sorrow in Slade's tones. The ex-heeler shrugged his +shoulders wearily and resumed his seat. The savagery had departed from +his demeanor, replaced by an air of dogged malice. + +"Why, that gang of lepers," he resumed impressively, "that bunch of +hard-hearted slobs would have dumped me in a minute, after that little +scrape me and you was mixed up in at Goldberg's, if it hadn't been for +Peterson, and he ain't used me right to any extent since then, either. +But if it hadn't been for him I'd have got t'run down then, with never a +thought for what I'd done for 'em. You're always pure wool while you can +be used, then you're cheap crash; remember that, my boy. I was kin' o' +hangin' on by my teeth, though, till tonight. Now it's some other burg +for mine, or likely get killed. Well, that's all right, too. They're +racin' in other burgs as well as this, and I guess Slade can make a few +other little pick-ups, too, just to keep the wolf away." He smiled +cunningly. + +"But before I take the choo-choos out," he continued, his eyes alive +with malice as he bent toward Micky, "there's a score to settle with +this lovely old Shaughnessy gang that I'm thinkin' will jar more than +one of 'em clear behind the bars. You know this Shaughnessy. He's a deep +one, though I notice you was onto him the very day of the convention. +Nobody knows what he's drivin' at except his own little ring, the ring +that everyone in this buncoed town, barrin' me and you and a mighty few +others, thinks has turned him down. Turned him down!" Slade laughed +dryly. "Why, he's got every mother's son of 'em by the neck; could jail +every cursed one of 'em and crawl out of the muss himself. Oh, I believe +he could, he's the devil himself. + +"But there's one that's fooled him," exultantly, "and he won't know how +much till election day. Sure, they caught me tonight, but do you think +for a minute they'll find out that I've been attendin' their devilish +little seances for months, unbeknown to 'em? Well, I have. I was at the +meetin' that decided this whole funny programme that is givin' Fusion +black eyes every minute, and Fusion would have won out in a canter if it +had anyone else than this devil of a Shaughnessy to buck against. I was +at that meetin', and I thought I knew a thing or two, but say, feller, +the nerve of that proposition got my alley. When Shaughnessy sprung it +on the bunch I came near dyin' prematoorly on the spot by wantin' to +jump out from behind the sideboard and tellin' Shaughnessy he was a +gilt-edged dandy; which he is, if he ain't got no soul. 'But,' says the +gang, when he sprung it, 'it won't work. They won't follow us when we +talk of throwin' you down. The party'll get hacked to pieces in its own +convention.' 'Gentlemen,' says he, 'I never mixed with the hoi-polloi +anyway, didn't have to. You have. They don't like me and they do like +you. Work this thing slick, as I tell you to, and you'll have 'em all +marking time to your music.' And it was so. Remember the convention? The +reformers thought it meant a clean bill; the grafters thought it would +be a gang more lavish than Shaughnessy had been. Oh, it was a lovely +move. And he's on top yet, and they don't know it." + +He gave Micky a lingering look. "I'm for gettin' even," he said. "You've +been trying to get onto the trail ever since the convention; you've had +your suspicions. I saw you myself the other night; walked from +Shaughnessy's office back of you, after that old whitewashed graveyard +of a nominee for mayor had left there. I was there, just as I'd been at +others, though Mr. Shaughnessy never invited me. Of course, they're +careful about windows, etc., but I can always make good somehow on a +still hunt. What do I know? I know the whole rotten business. The circle +always goes into particulars and there have been some beautiful +give-and-takes between Shaughnessy and old Graveyard-Whiskers. Whiskers +don't want to stand, not for a minute, you know, but Shaughnessy holds +him to the gaff because he's _respectable_." This with a grim laugh. +"Shaughnessy got his hooks on him years ago; it's a funny story, I +guess. The old man hates to give up living decent; he knows if he's +elected it'll be the worst administration of graft this city or any +other ever saw. He can't help himself; Shaughnessy's claws are in him." + +Micky was bending forward. Imagined possibilities were assuming definite +shape. "Is it Consolidated Gas?" he asked, eagerly. + +"Consolidated Gas!" Slade echoed. "Why, son, that's only the beginning. +It's a long, hard story, a bigger one than you'll want to believe, but I +know where you can get the proofs for it. I've been busy for a long +time. When I saw the gang wasn't goin' to do anything for me, I began to +find out about things on my own hook, and I've got a way of doin' it and +I remember what I hear. When this thing was over and Fusion was knocked +out, I was goin' to diplomatically introduce myself into a better thing, +and then I'd have got it. But that's all changed now. When I remember +that those lepers I've done so much for would have liked to murder me +tonight, I get hell-hot. I want to see 'em downed now. I'm tired of the +rotten town anyway. Now, I put you on, see? You have to do the work, for +I've got to keep out of sight. 'Twon't be safe for me to be floatin' +around the old diggin's, for I'm a 'traitor' now, you know, and a 'dirty +spy.' But don't you care, it's a rich thing for you. You'll be at the +top of the newspaper heap. I'll stay around here on the q. t. long +enough to see the fun, and then it's me quietly out. There's an Indian +streak in me, I guess, and it's doing double duty just now." His +malevolent face looked it. + +For the next hour Micky listened to a recital that filled him with +gaping amazement at a revelation of municipal iniquity, spreading to the +State-house and even beyond, that was undreamed of by the general +public. It thrilled him with the lust to secure as big, pulsing, +astounding chapters in a vital news story as were ever written. At the +close, and when some talk had been devoted to his plan of procedure, +Slade arose to depart. "I've got some friends, in a quiet place, that +won't give me away," he announced. + +Micky accompanied him to the front door. "Good night, Santa Claus," he +said, with twinkling eyes, and Slade, somewhat mystified, unobtrusively +departed. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +HIS BETTER SIDE + + +When he had seen Slade safely off, Micky returned to the office and +reported to Harkins, receiving a late assignment of a night police story +which they desired "fixed up" in the style which was peculiarly O'Byrn's +own. He contented himself just now with telling Harkins that he had been +after something which promised well, but "wasn't ripe enough yet to +spring." He felt that the thing was so surprisingly big that it would be +better not to mention it officially till he could be sure of being able +to secure it. Slade's narrative had opened up thrilling possibilities; +it remained for O'Byrn to secure the proofs before he could venture to +say anything, much less to write a single line. This would take hard +work and subtlety, but Micky looked forward confidently to the prospect +of scoring the most brilliant _coup_ in the history of newspaperdom in +that town. + +It would have to be done quickly, too, for the time was growing short. +The Courier, and the papers which united with it in the support of +Fusion, were pounding away on a forlorn hope, thanks to Shaughnessy's +masterly checkmate. They were confined to inveighing against the past; +which was black enough, to be sure. But the Democracy, having apparently +reformed from within, was evidently preparing for a regenerated future. +This called back many who had been temporarily alienated, and Fusion's +chances daily grew slimmer. If the proof could be adduced for Slade's +revelations, O'Byrn knew that a very simoon of public wrath would at the +eleventh hour sweep over Shaughnessy and his crew. His eyes sparkled. +The simoon should be forthcoming. + +His work kept him late, and the gray dawn was breaking when he walked +wearily back to his lodgings and tumbled into bed. It was long ere he +could sleep, for the glittering possibilities of that story whirled +through his brain. At last, however, he fell into slumber that was +disturbed by dreams in which he engaged continuously in fantastic +warfare with Shaughnessy, and in which he continually got the worst of +it. It was in the nature of a relief to Micky, on awaking about noon, to +reflect a little upon the good old adage that dreams go by contraries. + +Having had breakfast at an hour even unfashionably late, Micky sauntered +over to the office. He moved with unwonted deliberation, for this was to +be his night off. He had thought many times of Maisie, who was ill, and +had decided that late in the afternoon would be the best time to make +the call her brother had suggested. He must kill a little time till +then. So he took his way instinctively to the office, being one of those +unquiet newspaper spirits that hover uneasily about the hive, even when +they have a brief breathing space in which to drone a little. + +Now that the first shock of the announcement of the girl's illness was +over, Micky viewed the situation with more composure. Her brother had +said it was not serious, and Micky knew that the fever to which Maisie +had fallen a victim, and which was quite prevalent in the city, existed +in a mild form. She would be out in a few days, but--ah! it was too bad, +anyway. Micky sought indignantly to blink away the moisture that +treacherously gathered in his eyes. + +Reaching the office, he hung around aimlessly for a while, watching the +rest of them work. He was more silent than usual and made rather brief +replies to their greetings and subsequent comments. It was rather odd to +see him mooning in this way, and they conspired together to "jounce" him +out of it. + +It chanced that a certain old gentleman from a near-by village was +prowling about the office that afternoon. He was a relative of the +business manager, who had asked the boys up stairs to "tell him +about things." As he was of a very curious turn of mind, and very +unsophisticated to boot, the boys soon saw they were in for it. They +spied Micky, moodily gazing out of the window, and swiftly hatched a +plan whereby the venerable visitor was soon introduced to Micky with the +understanding that O'Byrn should "put him next." + +Micky would not allow his mates, who hovered near in expectation of the +fun, the satisfaction of any visible annoyance on his part. He grinned +affably at the aged seeker after knowledge, and ceremoniously drew up a +chair. "I can tell you all about it easier than I can show you," he +explained innocently, then launched forth. + +In ten minutes he had told the visitor more about the newspaper business +than there really is. "Oh, what a pipe!" enthusiastically whispered the +delighted listeners, whose presence Micky minded not at all. He dwelt +particularly and pathetically upon the amount of work which is expected +from a newspaper man by his unfeeling editors. Not content with +ascribing to the luckless reporter a stint of forty-eight hours' work in +every twenty-four, he calmly outlined an imaginary daily programme for +himself that staggered even the credulous old gentleman. + +"But, young man," said he vaguely, when Micky had finished and sat +regarding him with owlish gravity, "what--er--what do you do in your +spare time?" + +The boys, knowing what weakness was Micky's crowning handicap, were in a +position to appreciate the reply, which might have somewhat puzzled the +old gentleman. + +"My spare time?" mused Micky. "Well, let me see; what do I do in my +spare time? Oh, yes," with a relieved expression, "to be sure. In my +spare time I hunt for another job." And he walked out, followed by a +roar of laughter in which the bewildered old gentleman did not join. + +"What's the matter with me? I'm gettin' to be a woman!" muttered Micky a +few moments later, as he turned southward from the avenue to go to +Maisie's. For Micky had caught himself, to his disgust, bestowing +remorseful thought upon the bewildered old gentleman. Why should Micky +have "strung" him, why have made him the sport of his mates? Had he not +gray hairs, were not his years of eld? + +Now ordinarily these considerations would have troubled Micky not at +all, and he might readily be pardoned his dismay at evidences of the +growth of a crop of nice scruples, entirely new and perplexing. O'Byrn +was not used to the subtleties of conscience. It was not so long ago +that he could have dismissed the thought of the gaping old fellow with +the moment of parting. But now the wondering blue eyes, the blank old +face, dismayed at the concerted burst of shrill laughter, troubled +O'Byrn. It would not have done so in former days; why now? + +Why, it was the girl, of course. Micky's freckled face softened, his +eyes grew wistful as the explanation occurred to him. Could he not +trace, in a thousand and one little ways, a change in his life since she +came into it? Assuredly, and for the better. Micky acknowledged frankly +to himself that his love for her, and hers for him, was Christianizing +him; not in a concrete sense, to be sure, for O'Byrn's thoughts were +little concerned with religion, as such. Thrown upon his own resources +at an early age, he was essentially a world-product; but now, through +this love for a girl,--a new experience for him,--the little Irishman +was undergoing a refining process that surprised even himself. No +startling change was there, but in a multitude of little ways was shown +the gentle influence of this new element in Micky's life. More of +tenderness; more potent impulses to kindliness; free-flowing charity +toward all. For, in the beatific dawn of love, is a summons for the best +in poor, dross-ridden human nature to arise; and, at least temporarily, +the happy lover radiates peace and good will toward all mankind. + +So Micky, sauntering thoughtfully along, continued superfluously to +reflect upon his irreverence to the poor old man,--who probably had not +minded it half as much as O'Byrn did,--until the recurrent thoughts of +Maisie banished the incident from his mind. He was dancing with her at +the Ironworkers' ball, he sat with her in the little parlor, he heard +the sweet voice of her--and it was with a distinct sense of bewilderment +that he awoke to find himself halted mechanically before the little +house in which she lay. + +Advancing doubtfully, half fearfully, he rang the bell. The door opened +and Maisie's mother greeted him. No, she said, Maisie was not seriously +ill, was quite comfortable. She had been asking for him, would be glad +he had come. Indeed, said Mrs. Muldoon, she had been wondering if he +would come. + +"Come?" echoed Micky, as he followed her in. "Come? Why, I've been +thinkin' of her ever since I heard it. Gee! I'm glad she's feelin' so +well. Hello, Terence!" He clutched playfully, in a rush of relieved +feeling, at the thick thatch of the youngest Muldoon, who stood agape in +the doorway, eyeing him. Terence grinned and took to his heels. + +Maisie's mother ushered Micky upstairs. A light streamed through a +partially opened door at the end of the hall. It was from Maisie's room, +and Micky entered slowly, timidly,--as a devotee would approach a +shrine. + +As it had been through a mist, for the blood rushed tumultuously to his +head, he saw her sweet face, radiant with welcome and love for him; saw +the little white hands, eagerly outstretched toward him. In an instant +they were lost to sight within his trembling own; he bent over her, +murmuring broken words, with an odd choke in his throat and big tears +gathering in his eyes. He winked them indignantly, strove to clear his +burred throat. The attempt ended dismally in a strangling gasp. + +The girl laughed tremulously; but the tears, summoned by the sight of +the lad's emotion, were very near her own eyes. "Why, Micky!" she said +softly. "What's the matter? Why, I'm not really sick, you know; that +is, not bad. Only--" + +"Yes, little girl, I know," he interrupted, recovering himself. "I +didn't mean to go up in the air like that, honest I didn't. But seein' +you laid up like this, why, it just hit me where I live, that's all." +His lip quivered. + +"There, there!" Maisie's mother, good old soul, was patting him on his +meagre shoulder. "Of course it hit ye where ye live; in yer warm Irish +heart, to be sure. But ye needn't worry, for the doctor says Maisie has +a mild case and will be out soon. Well, I'll leave ye now, she's been +lookin' for ye. Of course, ye can't stay long, for the doctor says she's +got to be quiet. But have a little chat wid her, an' I'm glad ye came +up, me boy." And she bustled out, radiating hearty, wholesome, everyday +motherliness. + +For some moments after she had gone the boy and girl were silent. O'Byrn +had drawn a chair close to the small white bed and sat quietly, her hand +in his. It was hot, the little hand, and fevered roses bloomed in her +soft cheeks. Her beautiful eyes, alight with joy at his coming, gazed +happily into his own for a moment, then closed, a little wearily, as she +lay content. + +Softly pressing the little answering hand, Micky looked dreamily about +the room. It spoke eloquently of her, small and modest and instinct with +peaceful purity. It was appointed simply in white, from the pretty +curtains at the two small windows to dresser and bureau and quaint +old-fashioned chairs. On a small stand a lamp burned dimly, for the +outer dusk had turned into early autumn night. The tiny clock struck the +half-hour. + +Her eyes opened. "I'm glad you're here, Micky," she said softly. "I've +been hopin' you'd come. I hate to lie here all day long. 'Tisn't +natural," with a rueful laugh. "But I don't want you to feel bad, Micky. +You don't need to, I'm all right." + +"I know you are, girl," he answered heartily. "But it struck me all of a +heap, somehow, seeing you stretched out like this. I knew you would be +laid up, of course; but, don't you know, you can think about a thing all +right, but it's different when you actually run up against it." + +She laughed gaily. "Does anyone else say things just like you?" she +wondered. "That sounds just like your dear old slangy self, Micky. But +anyway, you hit the nail on the head, every time." + +"And drive it through." He grinned joyfully at her. "Talk some more like +that, Maisie," he urged her. "You sound like yourself. Oh, we'll have +you on your pins in no time." + +"You bet!" She smiled back at him. "Oh, I hadn't ought to complain, I +know. Others are having it worse than me. There's poor Julia Orr, worked +in the store with me once. She died yesterday--" + +"Don't, Maisie!" His voice was unsteady. "Don't speak of dying--anybody! +I can't stand it! I hate the thought of it!" + +"Why, Micky!" Her blue eyes were solemn. "We all die, don't we? You've +known it almost since you were born. You've got to get used to it." + +He forced a smile. "Well, we won't talk about it now," he declared. +"It's depressing. How'd you like your flowers?" + +"Oh!" she cried, in distress. "And I meant to thank you for 'em when +you first came in, and I forgot it. You ought to feel complimented. You +drove 'em out of my mind. Bring 'em here." + +"Match the room," he commented, as he complied. She smiled assent, and, +selecting one of the white roses, raised herself upon her pillows and +pinned it upon his coat lapel. "There!" said she, admiring the effect. +"You'll do, now." + +Again his wide grin cleft his freckled face. "The whole conservatory +wouldn't help much," he observed. + +"'Tis a homely boy you picked out, Maisie." + +"My boy is good enough for me," she returned gently, "as long as he +keeps on trying, and does the best he can." + +His face grew shadowed. "That's just it, girl," he said, rather sadly. +"Someone said once that 'the best is bad enough,' and if that's so, what +of my worst?" + +"Your worst is for you to fight," answered this young sibyl. "Your worst +is never as bad as it seems to you, just as long as you keep on fightin' +it. And you will, Micky, won't you?" Her arms were stretched impulsively +toward him. + +He caught her hands, his eyes burning. "Till hell freezes over!" he told +her, grimly. "Oh, excuse me!" he added confusedly. "I didn't mean--" + +"Never mind, Micky, never mind!" she told him, with a laugh in her eyes. +"I know how you feel." + +"Yes, I guess you do!" he muttered. "If I could only blot out some +things--if I'd been different from the beginning--if I'd had some +chance--if I amounted to something now--ah! dreams--dreams!" + +"Keep on dreaming, Micky," she said softly. "They'll take you on the +right road--you're on it now--and they'll come true!" + +There was a hesitant step outside. He arose, bending and taking her in +his arms. + +"I hope--I guess--I'm on the right road," he breathed. "And you've shown +me the way, little girl; you have, for fair. Well, I must be going, I +hear your mother outside. I've stayed too long now; I mustn't tire you. +Well, good night, dear." + +He withdrew, to walk home with the dear shrined image of her in his +swelling heart; with her tender words of faith in him to summon a maze +of happy dreams. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE COUP IN SIGHT + + +The succeeding fortnight found the Fusionists much exercised in mind. Do +what they could, the trend was steadily, and with gathering impetus, the +other way; the way of the devil, as the Fusion leaders firmly believed, +but they could not induce the balance of voting power to think likewise. +With the election now but a few days off, the chances for the Reform +ticket looked hopeless. + +"Oh!" groaned Colonel Westlake, in a conversation with the Courier's +managing editor one evening, "if only we could nail 'em somewhere! But +there was never a time when everything was locked up as it is now. You +can't get anything. We've whaled all the chaff out of the old straw, but +it doesn't do any good. It's a different proposition from what it looked +to be in the first place, isn't it? I'm convinced, though, that if we +could only dig up what's beneath the surface on this deal, we'd win out +yet, late as it is. It's a forlorn hope, but everybody must keep his +eyes open, that's all. I'll tell you one thing, the man that happened to +turn the trick would have no occasion to regret it, and don't you forget +it!" + +Unknown to the Colonel, as it was unknown also to the managing editor +and to Harkins, the man who was to turn the trick was steadily forging +ahead in the process. Micky, however, had kept his own counsel. This +was not a matter to be bawled from the house-tops, or even whispered in +secret, until the moment came in which he might confidently warn his +superiors to prepare to exploit the story. The task was one to be +prosecuted with infinite caution, and he was pursuing it alone. It would +be time to speak of it when he had it so flanked by facts, and fortified +by proof, that the town should read it aghast and rally at the eleventh +hour to save itself. + +Meanwhile O'Byrn was not idle. He had already satisfied himself, by +actual proof, of the value of Slade's tips. The time spent by that +worthy in subterranean research had evidently been well expended. There +was, clinched and ready for publication, much that was startling. The +information had been gained, moreover, from various sources involving +difficulties in handling, yet Micky had proceeded thus far without +causing a ripple of uneasiness in the turbid waters, and the knaves +whose undoing he sought were in blissful ignorance of the formidable net +that was closing about them. The layman will wonder how this could be, +but the trained newspaper man will readily understand how a "star" +worker like O'Byrn, gifted with far more than ordinary subtlety, could +accomplish a result which a good reporter, in less degree perhaps, has +frequently to negotiate in his arduous calling. + +The crowning fact, however, must be nailed home before the Irishman +could spring his story; the fact to which all other things led and upon +which they were dependent. The sublimely audacious hoax of the +Democratic convention, the spectacle of hordes of unconscious puppets of +Shaughnessy in the background, the exposure of masterly effrontery +hitherto unparalleled in the history of political bossism; these were +the culminating, dramatic features of the story, without which it would +be as Samson shorn of power. To use these features, and invest them with +facts to insure public credence, a difficult proposition presented +itself. Judge Boynton must be revealed to the people as he had been, +and, no matter how unwillingly, in case of his election would have to be +again; an abject tool of Shaughnessy's ring. + +Slade and O'Byrn both knew that the Democratic candidate for the +mayoralty was running unwillingly; that he revolted from the ignoble +part he would be forced to play. They knew also that he was compelled to +"stand the gaff," as Slade expressed it, through some sinister, secret +hold which Shaughnessy had upon him. But what was this hold? Whatever it +was, upon its revelation rested the whole superstructure of O'Byrn's +story. The Democratic party had nominated for the mayoralty a jurist of +high reputation, during his years upon the bench, and in his retirement +the recipient of general public esteem. Micky realized fully that an +attack, through mere inference of wrong-doing, upon such a man, would be +not only libelous but abortive in its effect upon the public. The +people, judging from externals, looked upon the candidate as a true, +untrammeled reformer. Micky knew that he was,--perhaps originally by +choice and now assuredly of necessity,--a servile tool of the most +corrupt political ring in the country; but the public statement of the +Irishman to that effect would have to be backed up by incontrovertible +proof. + +It was truly a formidable difficulty, and one that O'Byrn chafed under +as the swift days passed, bringing the election uncomfortably close, +with not an effective blow as yet to stay the victorious progress of the +"regenerated" Democracy. Micky had exerted himself to the utmost, +continuously yet cautiously, in the attempt to possess himself, by hook +or crook, of that hidden secret which was the still unlocated fibre of +his story; but without success. With everything else practically +"clinched," was he to fail with the goal in sight? + +Micky returned from a brief call at Maisie's one evening. It happened to +be his night off, and he repaired to his room relieved in mind. He had +found Maisie sitting with the family, with only unaccustomed pallor and +thinness to bespeak her recent illness. O'Byrn was very tired, as he had +devoted the day to still-hunting on the big story, for which purpose he +had risen early after a mere snatch of sleep. Now from thought of +Maisie, he passed to puzzling reflections over the story, for still the +maddening kernel of it all eluded him. + +Suddenly a cautious knock sounded at his door, as he sat with his red +head sunk disconsolately between his freckled hands. Ere he could rise, +the portal opened to admit Slade. + +"Good!" ejaculated the ex-heeler. "Glad I've found you. Sent a kid up to +the office for you, but he said you was off tonight. So I chanced it up +here, sneaking along in the shade. I'm not gettin' under any electric +lamps now," with a grim chuckle. "But say, get your hat 'nd coat. +There's a little confab on tonight, 'nd we've missed too much of it +already." + +Micky was already getting into his overcoat. "What's up?" he inquired +laconically, the old flame kindling in his eyes. He reached for his hat +and extinguished his gas heater. Slade fully appreciated the crowning +difficulty Micky had to deal with, and the Irishman knew the little tout +was not there for any idle purpose. + +"Shaughnessy 'nd His Whiskers are chewin' the rag again," explained +Slade, as they went down stairs. "They're in Shaughnessy's office, as +usual. Been there some time; hope we ain't too late. I know what you're +after. Can't never tell, maybe they'll spit up somethin' worth while." + +Micky knew Slade well enough to neglect needless inquiry as to how they +were to manage to hear this private conversation. He had ample evidence +of the former heeler's eavesdropping powers, and followed him in perfect +confidence to the conference. + +Gaining the street on which Shaughnessy's establishment was located, +they proceeded cautiously, looking about to be sure the coast was clear. +The reflection of a light gleamed dully behind the closely curtained +office windows. "They're here yet," murmured Slade. + +The street was deserted. With a warning gesture, Slade made his way +noiselessly through a little driveway toward the rear of the building, +Micky following. Slade paused a moment. O'Byrn heard him chuckle in the +darkness. + +"A man is always one kind of a fool," he whispered, "and most of us are +most kinds. Shaughnessy, he's just one kind, but it's bad. He won't hire +a night watchman. Do you mind coal dust?" + +"Nit!" replied Micky. + +"Then follow me," said Slade, "and mind you don't make any noise about +it, either." He stooped, fumbling at a cellar window. "There's a broken +pane here," he whispered, "but they're always careful to keep the casing +hooked." He chuckled as he pushed the window inward and cautiously +thrust the hook into the staple in the timber beyond. He then prepared +to descend. + +"But the coal, won't it rattle?" asked Micky apprehensively, as he drew +near the window in readiness to follow Slade down. + +"No," grinned the little tout. "They don't use this bin no more, but +they used to. You'll know when you wash up afterwards. Well, come on, +and be quiet." He disappeared. + +Micky bent to follow him. Gingerly insinuating himself backward through +the window, his legs were grasped from below and Slade piloted him +easily to the floor. "Good!" breathed the guide. "Now come along, and +just shuffle, or you'll be falling over things. I'll keep you in the +open. The cellar's full of things." Manifestly Slade had been there +before. + +The obedient Micky "shuffled" cautiously along and the two proceeded +without mishap to a flight of stairs, which they ascended cautiously. It +was pitch dark. In Micky's strained ears the scuttling of a rat, across +the floor beneath them, sounded unnaturally loud. + +"Wait a minute," whispered Slade, as they gained the top. "Sometimes +this door is locked and sometimes it ain't. If it is, I've got a key." + +It was not, and the eavesdroppers stepped softly out into the big +wareroom. Here showed the dim outlines of innumerable casks and cases, +for the radiance of some distant electric lights struggled through the +small, old-fashioned windows. A subdued sound of voices came from the +office at the upper end of the room. Micky turned involuntarily in that +direction. + +"Wait a minute," whispered Slade, and tiptoed back toward the rear, +O'Byrn following. Slade bent over a small cask, duly spigoted and with a +couple of small glasses setting near it. "All the comforts of home," he +grinned. He drew a couple of generous draughts and held one of the +glasses toward Micky. "I know where they keep everything," he whispered, +with a leer. + +The fiery aroma was in Micky's nostrils. He hesitated, but drew back. "I +guess not--" he began doubtfully. + +"Take it, man," urged Slade. "A little whisky won't hurt you. Besides, +it's a joke. Here's hopin' worse luck to Shaughnessy in his own stuff." +Micky grinned, faltered a moment, and then lightly touched glasses with +Slade and downed the liquor. + +"Tastes like another," whispered Slade, and proceeded to fill up the +glasses again. Micky drank without further protest. The pleasant glow at +his stomach infused itself into his veins, mounted benignly toward his +brain. Always abnormally quick to respond to the spur of stimulants, he +was conscious almost instantly of added zest for the adventure. + +"Come on and be mighty quiet," murmured Slade, and the pair made their +way on tiptoe toward the office. Slade approached the door, the upper +part of which enclosed a wide glass, behind which hung a screening +yellow shade. There was a narrow space below it, however, through which +a view of the interior could be obtained, the shade being a little too +short to quite reach the length of the glass. Through an open transom +overhead the speech of those inside was clearly audible. + +The eavesdroppers bent, looking into the office. Shaughnessy sat in his +big leather chair, indolently puffing a black cigar, dreamily gazing +toward the ceiling. Near him, in an attitude of deep dejection, sat +Judge Boynton. The venerable candidate was speaking, while the boss +might have been a thousand miles away. But the watchers knew that the +jurist had the honor of his chief's undivided attention. It was a secret +of Shaughnessy's success, the veil of icy indifference that hid so +potently the dark workings of his own mind while he probed unerringly +into the recesses of others. + +"Why did you drag me in again?" the Judge was inquiring. "Were there not +others; less tired, more calloused? For I was never calloused. You got +your talons into me by a trick!" He clenched impotent hands. "I did--as +I had to--for years, and, when the time came, I went thankfully enough +into retirement. I thought I had done with you forever. And now--isn't +the memory of the past enough without such a future as you have marked +out for me--far worse than the past? It's not to be borne!" + +Shaughnessy lowered his eyes. His cold, snaky gaze met the other's +fairly. "You talk like an old woman," he sneered. "You sound like a +paper-covered novel. I got hold of you by a trick, eh? Now you know how +I got you, well enough. I put out bait that always lands supposedly +honest men, like yourself, and you swallowed it, hook and all, just like +a lot of other respectable suckers before you, and since. Well, what are +you kicking about? You put yourself where you had to be useful to me, +didn't you? Well, it's paid you, hasn't it? And this little programme +we've got mapped out for the next two years, it's going to pay you, and +all of us, so we can retire for good." He chuckled insolently. + +The old man's lips set in a grim line. "I'm praying that I may be +defeated," he said, "but if not, I'll be mayor of this town. I may--" + +Shaughnessy straightened in his chair. His mouth grew repellently cruel, +his eyes assumed the fixed glare of a serpent about to strike. "Now see +here!" He spat out the words like venom. "I'll be elected next week, and +I'll be mayor these two years coming. You're a decoy just now, and +nothing more; but after the first of January you'll be a live duck, with +a string on you, that's all. You must be getting into your second +childhood to play the damn fool as you have been playing it ever since +this thing started. You can't squeal, you can't afford to. If you ever +did, it would be all up with me and a lot of others--but you'd go with +us, so help me God! Now just you cast your eye on this bunch of teasers +for a minute, and get sensible!" Reaching into a secret compartment of +his desk he slapped down a bundle of documents. + +The gray discouragement crept back into the old man's face. Shaughnessy +smiled cruelly. Outside the office O'Byrn eagerly clutched Slade's arm. +"We've got to have them!" he breathed in the tout's ear. "After they +go," returned Slade. + +The next moment brought dismay to the watchers. "I think I'll deposit +these elsewhere," observed Shaughnessy casually, with a glance toward +the badgered Judge. "I don't think they're safe here." He slipped them +into an inner pocket of his coat. + +Micky's blank stare of dismay was instantly succeeded by a sudden +inspiration, a plan daring but desperate. He plucked at Slade's sleeve, +drawing him away from the window. "He mustn't leave here with 'em," he +whispered, and proceeded briefly to unfold his plan. Slade, who was of +kin with O'Byrn in recklessness, was enthusiastic. + +"All right if they stay long enough," he muttered. "Let's take a look." +A glance through the glass showed the two occupants of the office, with +chairs close together, conversing in low tones. Shaughnessy was +evidently elaborating his programme. + +"You stay here and keep watch," whispered Slade. "I can get over and +back quick. There's a drug store two blocks away, and I've got an awful +toothache," with a nudge. "Matches? No, I can get around here like a +cat, and as still." He glided silently away. Micky resumed his watch at +the office door. + +The moments dragged by slowly. Micky grew impatient. What if Slade +should return too late? And now the Judge was rising, donning his coat +and hat. Shaughnessy was seeing him to the door; it opened--he was gone. +Micky strained his ears, no sounds of a returning Slade. + +Shaughnessy walked leisurely to his desk. Ah! it was all right, he was +going to sit down. But no, he closed the lid of his desk; donned his +hat, took down his coat from the hook, was leisurely getting into it. + +Then Micky with difficulty repressed a startled cry. Out of nowhere, +without a sound in the intense stillness, Slade materialized from +darkness at his side. + +"Quick!" gasped Micky, "he's going!" But for Slade's restraining hand he +would have thrown himself bodily against the door. + +"Hold on! do you want him to see us?" he whispered savagely. "Here! +quick, put this on." He thrust an object into Micky's hand. "It's a +mask," he explained, adjusting one of his own. "Gettin' 'em is what kept +me." + +The masks were of the grotesque little variety affected alike by house +breakers and masqueraders. Micky learned afterward that Slade had a +dubious friend in the vicinity who possessed such conveniences. After +leaving the office he had bethought himself of the awkwardness of +Shaughnessy's recognizing them in the prospective encounter. Slade had a +long head. + +The plotters took another look at the interior. Shaughnessy was standing +with his back to them, leisurely selecting a cigar from his case, +preparatory to going. "Now for it!" whispered Slade, and the two, +looking like two simon-pure burglars, crept forward. Slade's hand fell +upon the handle of the office door. Contrary to his expectations, it was +unlocked. He nudged Micky, immediately behind, to impose caution, and +softly opened the door. + +The two passed inside as stealthily as Indians and crept slowly toward +the unsuspecting Shaughnessy. Even in the silence his keen ear caught +some sound--perhaps the repressed breathing of his assailants. At all +events, he half-turned. As he did so, however, Micky leaped forward and +pinioned his arms from the rear. The wiry Irishman drew the struggling +boss backward, throwing him into the chair he had lately vacated and +holding him there helpless. With a lithe spring, like a cat's, Slade was +at his side, his hand over Shaughnessy's mouth, stifling a gurgling +outcry in its infancy. With the free hand he applied a saturated +handkerchief to the struggling man's face and held it there. The deathly +odor of chloroform filled the air. + +After a little, Slade removed the handkerchief. "I guess he'll do," he +muttered. O'Byrn thrust his hand into the inner pocket of the boss' coat +and extracted the papers, carefully transferring them to his own. With +an afterthought, he also possessed himself of the unconscious man's +keys. + +He grinned. "It's us out through the front door," he said. "I'll keep +the keys. He needs exercise, this fellow. He can get it chasin' round, +when they let him out tomorrow, gettin' some more made." + +They surveyed the inert boss, huddled horribly in his chair, his eyes +closed in his ghastly face. "God!" breathed Micky, a creeping chill in +his spine, "he looks like a corpse! Do you suppose you gave him too +much?" + +"Naw!" returned Slade, disgustedly. "Was I born yesterday? It's only his +damned eyes. When they're shut, he looks like a dead one, for fair. +Let's get out before he has us countin' our fingers." + +They opened the door cautiously and looked out. The coast was clear. +Extinguishing the lights in the office, they emerged, locked the door +and departed. Huddled in the darkness sat Shaughnessy, his chin sunk on +his breast, his hands clenched convulsively upon the arms of his chair. + + * * * * * + +A little later, Micky, with crimsoned face and eyes unnaturally bright, +approached Harkins' desk in the Courier office. He bent confidentially +toward his chief with an electrifying communication. + +"Get ready," said Micky, "for the damnedest feature story for the next +issue that was ever sprung in this town. Yes sir, absolutely the +damnedest. The lines are all out. I'm due for about five hours' sleep, +and then I'll begin to gather 'em in, and there'll be a bouquet of +suckers on every hook. I've got a lot of finishin' touches to get +tomorrow, and I'll be able to begin grindin' it out early in the +evenin', not before. Yes, I'll have it all. What is it? It's a +slaughter, slaughter of the gang. Shaughnessy'll be wearin' stripes +unless he ducks, and a lot more with him, includin' Old Whiskers +Boynton. Not in time? Election only three days off? Wait till you read +the story! Wait till the town reads it! They'll all be champin' the bit +of Fusion and frothin' at the mouth. I've been at this for weeks, but +the main stuffin' I only got tonight. It comes late, but it's a winner, +and Shaughnessy, he's a dead one!" + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +A COUNTER MOVE + + +Shaughnessy stirred uneasily in his chair. Then, with a convulsive +shudder, he sat erect, one hand instinctively pressed against his left +side. His head reeled, his bewildered eyes strove to pierce the gloom. +With a swift intake of breath the deathly smell of the drug crept into +his nostrils. Then he remembered. + +With a snarling curse he sprang to his feet, drawing a match from his +vest pocket with shaking fingers. He lighted the gas and glanced toward +the safe, expecting to find it forced open. All seemed to be in order. +The boss was perplexed. What had they wanted, those mysterious visitors? + +With a sudden apprehension he thrust his hand swiftly into an inner +pocket and found it empty. Then Shaughnessy, momentarily beyond oaths, +collapsed helplessly into his chair. There was expression enough in his +white face now, and it was of fear. + +The papers were gone, filched from him in open assault, in a way of +which the boss had never dreamed. He could have groaned in bitterness of +spirit as he remembered what zealous care he had taken of those damning +documents, veritable blood pacts of dark, unprincipled deeds, through +which Shaughnessy held the wretched signers in the hollow of his hand. +Though cunningly giving the impression that they were kept in his +office, Shaughnessy generally had them in safe keeping elsewhere and +disturbed them only when it was expedient that they serve some purpose +like the cruel intimidation to which Judge Boynton had been subjected. +And now they were gone. Shaughnessy cursed in his heart the fatal +weakness for melodramatic effect, in which he was prone to indulge, that +had exposed him to this fatal risk. + +But who had them? Shaughnessy sprang up and paced the floor. He clenched +his fists as he thought of Judge Boynton. Was it a plot of his? He +dismissed the thought with a sneer. Such a desperate expedient was +beyond the nerveless old jurist. + +He felt mechanically for his keys and started to find them gone. What +new deviltry was this? Then, for a moment, the impassive mask was +utterly discarded. The white face of the baited boss grew absolutely +diabolical, and he cursed as best he knew, and he was not an indifferent +expert. Finally, with a weary shrug, he ceased and walked to a drawer in +the bookkeeper's desk. He wrenched it open and took out two keys he kept +there for emergency's sake. One was for the office door and the other +would admit him to his lodgings. + +Shaughnessy picked up his hat, which had fallen off in the recent melee, +dusted it and replaced it. He kicked the cigar, from whose enjoyment he +had been riotously debarred, into a corner and drew a fresh one from his +case. Reaching into his vest pocket for a match, his fingers encountered +something. Drawing it forth, his eyes rested upon the card which +O'Byrn, on a recent evening, had with easy insolence handed him. + +The boss' eyes, indifferent at first, stared fixedly at the card. Slowly +kindling into the interest born of sudden recollection of the incident, +the sparks deepened till they glowed like the orbs of an angry cat. +Shaughnessy pondered, his face an evil thing to see. + +"Damn you!" muttered Shaughnessy, at last, still staring balefully at +the card, "I believe one of 'em was you, God help you!" + + * * * * * + +Micky went straight from Shaughnessy's to the Courier office that night, +and, after his brief communication with Harkins, he repaired to his +lodgings. He lighted his heater, and, with a fresh cigar between his +teeth, sat down to peruse at leisure the documents he had previously +glanced over sufficiently to warrant him in making his triumphant +prediction to the city editor. A damning array of evidence was marshaled +in them, illustrating at once Shaughnessy's ruthless manner of binding a +cabal to his interests and his weakness in recording in black and white +such condemnatory proofs of the infamy of the forces of which he was the +leader, and for whose deeds he was responsible. It was a quixotic idea +of the boss', effective to bend his tools to his desires, but fatal if +the accredited proofs ever became public property. Perhaps, Micky +reflected, he had intended them for use if treachery ever compelled him +to leave in a hurry, in which case the traitors would suffer while the +arch-conspirator went scot-free. If this was the intent, events had +anticipated it. + +The most important exposure, for O'Byrn's purpose, was the one, duly +fortified with proof in the papers before him, that Judge Boynton was a +hypocrite. He could only conjecture how the Judge had placed himself in +Shaughnessy's power, but that he had long since done so, through some +official act of weakness or worse, was evident. For the papers proved +that the old jurist, supposed to be a power for good, had been for years +a power for evil. It was as a secret instigator of lobbies at the State +House that he had shone, while the world remained in ignorance. Not +alone notorious Consolidated Gas, but many another nefarious movement +had owed its progress in no small degree to his secret machinations, and +he had been well aided. Micky opened his eyes at some names which +appeared in that damning record, as well he might, for they were those +of the elect. Indeed, the evidence utterly condemned one of the pillars +of the present Fusion movement. Oh, it would be a slaughter, in very +truth; one of whose extent the optimistic Micky had not dreamed. + +As he read the record, O'Byrn marvelled at one salient fact. These men, +of brains and influence, of power and standing, were after all but the +tools of Shaughnessy, the liquor dealer, the local boss. Local boss! +Micky could have laughed. Why, this genius of the slums had his pallid +hand at the throat of the State, and his snaky eyes were even now fixed +on victims in higher places, even beyond its too-confined borders. +O'Byrn was lost in admiration of the man whose power was the greater +because unsuspected by the great public. He moved with much sinuous +subtlety, like a serpent wriggling through the grass. He tempted through +the cupidity of men worth while, and when they were in his coils they +were held there irrevocably. He was a Napoleon of graft, and his +ambition was as boundless as that of the Corsican. + +There were in the record, too, the hints of several matters that would +bear amplifying; stupendous election frauds, fraudulent registration +lists and corrupt local deals. Micky knew where to get them, but it +would be a strenuous day. It was with a mingled thrill and a sigh that +he finally tumbled into bed for a little sleep before the deluge to +come. + +He awoke unrefreshed, his sleep having been disturbed by wild dreams of +conflict with Shaughnessy in which the boss was invariably the victor. +Despite the reassuring presence of the materials for a sensation, Micky +felt depressed while dressing. There was still much to do, there were +some hard propositions to solve during the day, and there might yet be a +fatal slip somewhere. Besides, he felt physically wretched. He had +caught cold in some way and his head ached miserably. Then, too, in the +depths of his heart there was a sick, unacknowledged apprehension; for +the old enemy, after too brief a period of quiescence, was returning. + +Micky finished dressing, and left the house for the restaurant, at which +he was accustomed to obtain his meals. On the way he passed an +attractive door. He hesitated, halted and turned back. "One won't hurt," +he muttered, as he disappeared inside. "Just for an appetizer." + +Breakfast finished, Micky, with a renewed sparkle in his eyes, plunged +headlong into his self-appointed task, and it was a formidable one. +There were sundry peculiar documents to scan. Obstacles in getting at +them had to be surmounted, either through subtlety or a bluff, and +O'Byrn was a past master in both departments. There were some men to +see. Some could be handled with a convenient disguising of the real +intention. Others, made to admit damaging matters through cowardly +fears, were left in the hope that they had secured immunity for +themselves. There was also the omnipresent danger, most dreaded by +newspaper men on the track of a big story, of competitors who must be +sedulously avoided. O'Byrn dodged them all, though with some narrow +escapes, and it became evident that the story, in every detail, was to +be his and his alone. + +As Micky pursued his perilous though fascinating task, the story grew, +gathering black force and sinister proportions. As the busy hours swept +on, crowded with strained effort, the Irishman felt to the full the +strange, breathless zest felt only by the veteran newsgetter; hot on the +trail of a big story, warned constantly by the remorseless ticks of his +watch of fast slipping time that waits for no man. The hungry presses +must be fed at the appointed hour. Brain, hand, resource and tireless +effort must combine to furnish the monster's food. So O'Byrn rushed +through the teeming hours. He cut out luncheon, gulping down a glass of +whisky in place of it. He had been dramming at intervals since +breakfast, and he no longer approached the bar with hesitancy. The +excitement of his quest made him reckless and the stuff served as an +exhilarant, though he had not yet begun to seriously feel its effects. + +He was completely engrossed in his story. He scurried here and there, as +need required, gathering force like a machine under the quickening beat +of the controlling engine. He was driven resistlessly on by that +steadiest, most unfaltering of human impulses, the quickened news +instinct. It was a task before which many a veteran would have quailed, +but O'Byrn did not know how to lie down. He had, too, a distinct +advantage in his wonderful memory. It enabled him to carry away valuable +material gained in conversations where the producing of a notebook would +have been fatal. + +It was well toward evening that Slade met him unostentatiously in a +quiet place. "What luck?" he inquired eagerly. + +"Got the whole business," answered Micky, in a low tone. "I'm just +finished, and I'm all in. Knees jackin' some and nerves gone up. But +anyone that's worth doin' at all is worth doin' well, and Shaughnessy's +well done. Now I'll tell you what, let's have a cocktail or two, and +then some supper. Time enough to grind this out after that." + +Slade glanced at him sharply, noting the flushed cheeks and unnaturally +bright eyes. "Haven't you had enough?" he inquired. + +"Enough?" echoed Micky, with a reckless laugh. "Why, I haven't begun +yet. But I'll cut it out for tonight, after supper, and tomorrow, when +the job's done, I'll celebrate." He led the way to the bar, and Slade, +with a little head-shake, followed. He recollected an episode in +Shaughnessy's place, the night before, with distinct regret. + +Neither of them had noticed a man sitting at a small table, in a dark +corner, not far from where they had been talking. He slipped quietly out +as the two ordered their drinks. It was Shaughnessy's lieutenant, Dick +Peterson. + +Slade succeeded in inducing Micky to content himself with a couple of +rounds and lured him away to supper. Much to his disgust, O'Byrn +insisted upon going to a place with which a saloon was connected. There +was another appetizer, and O'Byrn ate heartily, the food apparently +serving to restore him to sense. All might have been well, but on +passing out through the saloon, O'Byrn intending to go directly to the +Courier office, he met a party of friends. Despite Slade's protestations +he decided that he had time for "one or two more." + +A few more draughts of the stuff produced the result that was usual with +him when indulging. Clear-headed at the first, the stimulant suddenly +fired his brain, rendering him deaf to protests or the voice of reason. +It was the way in which many a debauch of days or even weeks had been +ushered in. He sought only to quench a fiendish thirst, to indulge a +mad, grotesque merriment. He was hazily conscious of Slade's pleadings +for him to come away, of his attempts several times to do so, of dimly +hearing the imperious call of duty; of being dragged back for another +round by his boisterous companions. After a time he missed Slade, and +forgot about him for a while. + +Some time afterward, while gazing blankly at the clock in some saloon or +other, he did not know where, a swift terror seized him. There was grim +accusation in the clock's face. Micky took advantage of the momentarily +diverted attention of his companions to slip quietly out. His story; +yes, he must surely get to writing it. Ought to have started it before, +he reflected confusedly. + +Well, here was luck. A carriage stood near the cafe. Micky advanced +toward it, and the driver jumped down and flung open the door. O'Byrn +entered, with a drowsy order to drive to the Courier office. Then, ere +the door closed, he felt a vague curiosity as two additional passengers +followed him into the vehicle. The door was slammed shut, the driver +mounted his box and the rolling wheels lulled Micky into drowsiness that +was not disturbed by his silent companions. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +SUSPENSE + + +Colonel Westlake, the principal owner of the Courier and the man who +actively dictated its policy, sat in the library of his home that night +with a look upon his face different than he had worn of late. As the +leader of the Fusion movement, for which he had expended much labor and +time, things had looked black to him until today, and his face had worn +the expression that belongs to him who is fighting a grim, losing +battle. He saw the opposition forging ahead with a resistless sweep +which he and his co-workers could not stop, and it had been maddening. + +But tonight a bright gleam of hope had dispelled the gloom of the +Colonel's face. He had visited the office that afternoon and had a talk +with the managing editor, who had told him of the effort that was in +progress to checkmate the plans of the ring. He could tell the Colonel +but few particulars, for Micky had not confided many of them to his +superiors as yet. Indeed, he had had no time to do so. But the +information was cheering enough to cause the Colonel to smoke his cigar +that evening with an easier mind. "That fellow can get it if anybody +can," he had been told, and the assurance fanned his dying hope into +renewed flame. + +The Courier's editorial rooms were unusually replete of life that +night. To be sure, it was an old story, that record of life and death +and the things that go between, called news; ground out there three +hundred and sixty-five nights in the year. One night, generally +speaking, was very like another to the various cogs in the human +machine. Most of them were past cubhood, and the shifts of scene +entailed by succeeding assignments, that once held a fresh charm of +novelty, now spelled grim duty. Most men have illusions, but the jaded +newsgetter loses them first of all. Most men may dream of what they may +become; the newsgetter only of what he did not become. However, there is +a compensation. The newsgetter has acquired philosophy, the real salt of +the earth. It is better to watch one's Rome burning with philosophy than +to collect the insurance thereon without it. + +However, on this night there was a brooding excitement in the air. The +big room fairly throbbed with it; the sense of an impending something +whose significance but few of the force divined, but which they all +felt. The harassed, anxious expressions on the faces of Harkins and a +few others of the editorial force; their frequent glances at the big +clock, their nervous onslaughts upon the mass of work, for it was a +teeming night, revealed to every rushed reporter in the great room that +there was something on and that it was something big. They stole covert +glances at their chiefs and at each other, wondering what it was. + +Time wore on while the tension grew. The big calm clock reeled off the +flying minutes with exasperating insistence. The clock is the merciless +monitor of the newspaper office. Men watch it, fear it, serve it as +they must. They hurl the forces of head and hand, when the need calls, +in a desperate fight against it, till its tickings are drowned in the +roar of the presses that hold the dearly bought triumph; while the +toiler sits spent and worn, body and brain full of the numb weariness of +the reaction. Even as the roar of the presses dies in silence, there is +again audible the eternal ticking of the clock, unresting through it +all; registering in one breath the death of a day of labor, the birth of +another in the next. Always the grim spectre with the scythe stands at +the elbows of the men who write the news. + +So the Courier's clock ticked on, while the hidden undercurrent of +unrest, so patent even to those ignorant of the reason for it, grew in a +fierce, irritating tug that was made manifest in disagreeable ways. +Harkins' nerves were worn to shreds. His usual urbanity withered like +dry grass in the fire of his hot impatience. The office fairly throbbed +now, for it was an extraordinarily busy night. Election was close at +hand, the entire city was wrought up over it, everything else had +seemingly happened and was all coming in at once. Still there was that +hungry gap, waiting to be filled with the story of a lifetime. Where was +the story? + +It was exasperating. Everywhere men were rushing like mad and Harkins +helped them rush the more. His orders were snapped with the venom of a +cracking whip lash, accompanied by black frowns that caused backs to +bend and fingers to fly the more, or legs to hurry the faster, as his +behest might be. It became a drive, a dizzy whirl of effort, torn with +conflicting sights and sounds. There materialized hurrying figures, +sharp orders, the jingle of telephone bells, the slamming of doors, the +sleet-like rattle of typewriters, the soft rush of many pencils and the +crackle of paper; the hundred and one distractions that contribute in +the compilation of the record of a day of news. And constantly, as the +whirl gained in volume like a rising wind, Harkins' tortured eyes +re-sought the clock, and they held all the miserable apprehension of a +miser for precious, fleeting gold. + +"Gee!" exclaimed Kirk to Peters, as he passed that worthy at the end of +the room, and paused a moment to wipe his moist forehead, "it's fierce, +ain't it? Harkins is getting crazy. There's something up. What is it?" + +"No," replied Peters, with an apprehensive glance toward Harkins, +"there's nothing up, I guess. I think there's something ought to be up +that isn't. That's the rub. Never saw Hark' so worked up in my life." + +"Yes, but what is it?" reiterated Kirk. "It's something big, that's +sure." + +"I don't know anything more about it than you do, but I've noticed one +thing. O'Byrn hasn't shown up tonight. I think Hark' expected him, and +with something." He nodded meaningly and they separated. + +Suddenly Harkins summoned Glenwood, who had the week previous been made +his assistant. Dick had been also growing nervous for the last +half-hour, his eyes constantly seeking the door, hopeful of a desired +arrival which was strangely delayed. The story should have been well +under way by then. Dick guessed how formidable an undertaking it had +undoubtedly proved and had at first explained Micky's delay in appearing +by the assumed magnitude of the little Irishman's task. But now Dick +had grown painfully anxious. + +He hurried to Harkins' desk. The city editor looked up with a black +scowl, viciously chewing a cigar stub. His uneasy fingers drummed a +tattoo upon his desk. + +"For God's sake, Glenwood," he burst out, "what's the matter? It's ten +o'clock. Have you heard anything?" + +"Only that telephone message he sent me early this afternoon," replied +Dick. "It was short but significant. You know I told you." + +Harkins groaned. "Yes," he assented, "he said he'd need the whole paper +tomorrow and a few extras. And now where the devil is he, anyway? Where +was he when he sent you that message?" + +"I don't know," Dick answered. "Richards called me to the 'phone, said +someone wanted me. I recognized Micky's voice. He just blurted out that +information and broke away before I could reply. I tried to get him to +ask him if he needed any help and when he would get here, but he had +gone." + +Harkins' eyes contracted. "Dick, do you think--" he began meaningly. + +"No!" interrupted Dick vehemently, "not at a time like this! Still--Oh, +the poor devil!" he broke off, for the remembrance swept over him of a +certain shamed admission to him of O'Byrn's own, the acknowledgment of +the reason for a bootless career. + +There was a brief silence, broken by Harkins' voice, raised in loud +summons. "Has anyone seen O'Byrn tonight?" he asked. + +Peters glanced significantly at Kirk. There was no immediate answer, +but a fat figure, waddling on its way from the elevator to the desk, +hesitated and finally halted. An odd breathless voice broke the sudden +silence, the voice of Fatty Stearns. + +"O'Byrn?" he queried, "did you say O'Byrn, Mr. Harkins?" + +"Yes," exploded Harkins, frowning heavily upon the quailing Stearns. +"Have you seen him?" + +"Why, yes," assented Fatty faintly, while fidgeting upon his chubby +feet. "That is, I did," explosively, "about eight o'clock." + +"Well," fairly shouted his irritated chief, "where was he? What's the +matter with you?" + +"Why, nothin'," ejaculated Fatty desperately. "I wasn't with him! I kept +out of sight so he and the gang wouldn't see me. They were heading for +O'Sullivan's saloon." + +There was a moment's silence. "Stearns," said Harkins finally, his tone +now one of quiet resignation, "why didn't you tell me this before?" + +"You didn't ask me," Fatty answered in an injured way, sidling toward +his desk. "And besides," as an afterthought, "you couldn't, for I wasn't +here. You'd sent me out on that armory business, don't you know?" + +Harkins and Glenwood looked hopelessly at each other. "No telling where +he is now," said the city editor wearily, "or the shape he's in. It's +all up, I guess." + +Dick's fist rapped his desk smartly, his lips met in a grim line. "Not +yet!" he exclaimed. "It's worth a try, anyway. I'm going to see if I can +find him." + +He turned away, nearly colliding with a meagre little man who was +hurrying toward him from the elevator. "You're Mr. Glenwood?" asked this +worthy. + +"Yes," assented Dick, with a glance of inquiry. + +"I know you by sight," rapidly pursued the visitor. "I was mixed up once +in a little deal at Goldberg's with a friend of yours, Micky O'Byrn. You +came on after I slid," with a dry grin. "But that's nothin' to do with +this. You fellows are waitin' for somethin'," with a shrewd glance at +Harkins' worried face, "and the man who's got it is gettin' drunker +every minute. I thought you ought to know." + +"Do you know where he is?" exclaimed Dick, grasping Slade's arm in his +eagerness. The ex-heeler winced. + +"Sure," he assented. "I've got a pal watchin' 'em so as to cop whether +they do a duck into another joint." + +"What shape is he in?" asked Glenwood. + +"Bad," replied Slade dubiously. Then, with a ready grasp of the +situation, "I know a medicine cove that I'll bet could put him right in +short order, that is for while you'd need him. Makes a regular specialty +of it, one of his own patients in fact. But you'd have to hurry. I'm +with you on the deal, for between us I've got a bone to pick with +Shaughnessy myself and I want to see that story in tomorrow's paper. +Why, I put O'Byrn onto it." + +Dick turned sharply to Harkins. "Get everything ready, I'll have him +here," he said confidently. "We'll fix him up some way. Hang it, we've +got to! Of course, it'll have to be dictation. I'll 'phone you outlook +just as soon as I can," he added, seizing coat and hat, "and you clear +the decks. Now, Slade," and the two hurried to the elevator. + +Dick hailed a cab. "To Lawrence's saloon, on Forty-Fifth, and be quick +about it!" directed Slade, and the two sprang in. + +"I had supper with him," explained Slade, as the cab rolled rapidly +northward, "and he insisted on a couple of drinks. He'd had several +then, I guess. Then he was going to start for the office, but a gang +blew along. Then it was all off," with an expressive shrug. "Stuff +seemed to go to his head all in a flash, and he wouldn't listen to +anything. I kept along for a while and tried to sneak him away. He'd +start all right, but the gang would drag him back and play rough-house +with me and chuck me out. About eight we came near running into some +parties I didn't want to see and I simply had to duck for a while. He +was in a gin-mill near the City Hall then, and I lost him some way. It +was two hours, pretty near, before I copped him again, this time in +Lawrence's. I got a friend o' mine to watch the place, then I caught a +car for your office." + +The cab stopped before a brilliantly lighted cafe and the men tumbled +out. A young fellow, loitering about, approached Slade. "Well, he's +gone," said he. + +"Gone!" echoed Slade. "Where?" + +"I dunno. No call for me buttin' in. He got in a carriage with Dick +Peterson and another fellow and they drove off." + +"Shaughnessy!" exclaimed Slade, with a livid oath. "Come on, there's no +time to lose!" He dragged Dick toward the cab. "Shaughnessy's rooms, you +know 'em--drive like hell!" he told the driver, and they were off like +the wind. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +OUT OF THE PAST + + +The carriage stopped, unheeded by O'Byrn, who drowsed, huddled in a +corner. "Come on," said a gruff voice, "we're there." An ungentle +hand shook the Irishman rudely. + +Confused and dazed, Micky stumbled out. With a man at each arm, he was +whisked through a doorway and up a flight of stairs that led to a suite +of rooms over a corner grocery. Shaughnessy was unostentatious in his +manner of living, as he was in matters of political procedure. + +Before the befuddled O'Byrn had gathered his deadened wits sufficiently +to decide that his would-be friends had mistaken his intended +destination, the trio halted before a door which opened without any +preliminary formality of knocking. "Ah, come in, gentlemen," said a +remembered voice, which brought Micky to wavering attention. Then he was +pushed inside, into the presence of Shaughnessy. He stared for a moment +about the plainly but comfortably furnished room, then into the black +eyes of his host. Just now they were alight with triumphant gleams. +Micky sat down in sudden hopeless, though rather hazy, despair. + +"All right, boys; a good job," said Shaughnessy, a certain insistence in +his tone. Peterson took the hint. He plucked his companion by the +sleeve and the two withdrew. Their footsteps died in silence down the +stairs, followed in a moment by the diminishing roll of wheels. + +"Well, Mr. O'Byrn," said Shaughnessy, suavely, "I'd like my keys if +you're through with them, and I rather guess you are." + +"Keys?" echoed Micky, a vague and rueful grin reluctantly visiting his +face, "yes, I guess so. Took 'em for a joke. You can have 'em and be +hanged!" He threw them violently on the floor and continued to stare +rather helplessly about the room. Shaughnessy, unruffled, bent to pick +up his property, stepped for a moment to the door, then seated himself +on a chair, facing Micky, who sprawled supinely on a sofa. + +"Who was with you in my office last night?" he inquired casually. "You +know--when you got these?" + +"Don't you know?" Micky's utterance was rather thick, but there was a +cunning gleam in his eye. No amount of intoxicants, that the Irishman +had ever taken at any time in his checkered career, had even temporarily +robbed him of his sharp wits. Even though he might not be able to +remember it afterward, the busy brain was in evidence throughout the +spree; and the sub-conscious intelligence of the fellow, even when he +was nearly physically helpless from over-indulgence, had often staggered +his associates. + +Shaughnessy was now to have a taste of this. "Don't you know?" O'Byrn +had asked innocently and very thickly. Shaughnessy smiled dryly. The +fellow was sufficiently drunk to be as wax in the boss' hands. + +"No, I don't," mildly replied Shaughnessy, and waited for the desired +information. + +"Well," answered Micky, with a tipsy laugh, "I'm mighty glad you don't. +And now see here, let me out of here. I've got business--business to +attend to." + +"Yes," assented Shaughnessy softly, "you want to go to the Courier +office. But hold on a minute first, I want to have a little chat with +you, and it will be to your advantage to listen to reason. I suppose +you're wondering why you're here. Well, when I got out from the +influence of your dope last night, I happened to pull out of my pocket +the card you gave me. Without bothering to ask just why, I knew I had +you to thank for that little job. I don't know who was with you, but +I'll find out. Anyway, there've been good sharp eyes lookin' for you all +day, but, as the cursed luck would have it, they didn't cop you till +tonight. You were getting drunk then, making it easier for us. Much +obliged to you. Now, where are those papers?" + +O'Byrn leered with impish eyes. "Gimme a cigar," he suggested. The boss +handed him one with a scowl. O'Byrn lighted it uncertainly and began +unevenly to puff at it. + +The boss waited silently a moment, then a smouldering fire crept into +his eyes. He brought his fist down upon the arm of his chair with an +oath. O'Byrn's wandering glance shifted lazily to Shaughnessy. + +"Aha! my smart young rooster," growled the boss, "I know who was with +you last night. I'm getting dippy, or I'd have thought of it sooner. I +forgot who Peterson said was with you when he first set eyes on you +tonight. So it's Nick Slade, is it, that helped you with your little job +last night?" + +"Lemme out and I'll ask him for you," suggested the Irishman. "I haven't +got time to talk to you." + +"Now see here," urged Shaughnessy, "I want those papers. I suppose +you've got 'em on you." Micky made a mock gesture of alarm which the +boss evidently believed was genuine, for he permitted himself a slight, +sneering smile of triumph. "Well," he continued, "I'm on the level, I +am. I'm not playing any dirty stab-in-the-back games like that little +one of yours last night. If you'd used those papers as you meant to do, +why, there wouldn't have been any use in talking things over now. But I +know well enough, for I've been fairly busy today, that you haven't done +anything yet and tonight's pretty near your last chance to scribble. +Scribble? You're in good shape for the job, ain't you? Why, I'll bet you +don't get the sense of twenty words I've said. But listen, you can get +this." Shaughnessy bent toward him. "Turn those papers over to me, and +do a quiet sneak out of town for good, and I'll make it worth your +while." + +"Yes," muttered O'Byrn, "I get that." His body swayed a moment, then +straightened. His head wagged slowly from side to side, for the heat of +the apartment was oppressive and the room began to whirl uncannily. +Micky leaned his throbbing head upon his clasped hands. Shaughnessy +smiled sardonically, believing him to be thinking it over. + +O'Byrn lifted his head. "Say, is your name Shaughnessy?" he suddenly +inquired. The question went home like a shot. Even through the mists +that obscured his vision, the little Irishman chuckled as he saw +Shaughnessy start violently, saw his white face go whiter. "No," pursued +O'Byrn, with a momentary rally of his faculties, "I don't know what +your name used to be, and I don't care. I was just guessin', somehow. +But I'll tell you somethin'. My name ain't O'Byrn any more than yours is +Shaughnessy. Here's the difference. I took the name of an honest man, an +old fellow that was a friend to me after my mother died. I took it +because it was an honest name, and my father's wasn't. I was only a kid, +but I was old enough to hate the old man right, and try to change my +luck by shedding his rotten name like a snake's skin. Since then I've +rubbed along, but I've managed to keep honest, thank God, for I was born +that way. Now I'll tell you the difference between you and me. I changed +my name to get rid of one that wasn't honest, but someone else was to +blame. You changed from one rascal's name to another, that's all, and +you're gettin' worse every minute. No, old man, we won't make a deal for +any papers, not this evening." + +The fire faded in his eyes. With a spasmodic hiccough he fell back upon +the sofa. The whirling room, which he had conveniently forgotten during +his flat statement to Shaughnessy, swung once more in rhythmic, +disconcerting circles before his swollen eyes. "Open a window!" he +demanded. "It's roasting in here!" + +Shaughnessy had remained silent since O'Byrn's outburst, regarding him +balefully. "The window can wait," he said deliberately, "and so can you, +unless you listen to reason. Now, you produce those papers, agreeing to +keep your mouth shut and get out of town, for value received, of course. +Either that or I'll promise you you'll be kept quiet till after +election, anyway, and maybe longer. Things are ripe now and we can't +afford to have you loose." + +The fire was rekindled in O'Byrn's eyes. Clenching his hands he half +rose from the sofa, only to again fall back helplessly upon it, with a +curse, anathematizing his unsteady legs while he pressed his palms +against his whirling head. Shaughnessy watched him with malicious +satisfaction. + +Suddenly the recurrent hazy thought disturbed Micky, the accusing +whisper of duty unperformed. Where it had lain dormant with faint +stirrings, it was now imperious. O'Byrn sat bolt upright, groping for +his watch. Snapping the timepiece open, he stared at the dial. Even +through the mists, which he could not blink away, the significance of +the hour smote him like a lash. For a moment he sat inert, a growing +horror in his eyes that stared straight ahead. The open watch slipped +unheeded from his nerveless hand to the floor, striking the rug with a +muffled thud. + +The sound roused O'Byrn. He pitched forward, gaining his feet, and +reeled toward the door, which he shook impotently. He turned to confront +Shaughnessy's sneer. + +"The key--give me the key!" O'Byrn's steps toward Shaughnessy were +unsteady but his face was eloquent with settled purpose. The boss +thoughtfully moved so as to put a heavy table, standing in the center of +the room, between him and the angry Irishman. His sneer faded, his look +spoke of uneasy apprehension. Shaughnessy was not a coward, but he was +not over-strong; and, to do him justice, his fear came more from the +possibility that the strangely rallied Irishman might, after all, +escape, than from any worry over possible damage to himself in the +process. + +Now O'Byrn was opposite him, his hands resting on the table, his blue +eyes staring straight into the uneasy black ones of the boss. For the +present at least, O'Byrn's will, intent upon a definite object, would +control his wavering limbs. "Give me the key!" he repeated softly. The +tone was clear, the freckled face grim with determination, the glaze of +the eyes had been burned away in flame. It was an uncanny +transformation. + +Shaughnessy, watching the other warily, tried to temporize. "Those +papers," he suggested, "they're all I want. Give them to me and--" + +O'Byrn hurled the table to one side, where it fell with a crash. He +leaped forward, extended arms hungry for Shaughnessy. Now they were +reeling about the room, locked together in desperate, voiceless struggle +for the mastery. A chair fell heavily. Now they fell against the +prostrate table, but recovered themselves with an effort and fought on. + +Shaughnessy had been no stranger to either physical science or +rough-and-tumble, in the days before ill-health assailed him; but older +muscles, further handicapped by acquired weakness and long disuse, were +not a match for those of the wiry young man, even in his present +intoxicated condition. Shaughnessy, his breath coming in gasps and his +face grown ghastly, tried by every recollected trick to trip O'Byrn, but +the latter wriggled instinctively out of every snare. Now he forced +Shaughnessy once more toward the fallen table, the boss resisting +doggedly. But he was weakening, and Micky, with a sudden twist, threw +him backward over one of the protruding legs of the table and fell +heavily upon him. + +The Irishman's breath, heavy with whisky, smote the fallen boss full in +the face. Shaughnessy, gasping and nearly senseless, lay with his hand +gripped hard at his left side. As though he had dreamed it in his agony, +he felt his opponent's hand groping in a lower pocket of his coat. There +was a faint jingle--the keys! O'Byrn rose with a tipsy laugh, swayed a +moment and turned toward the door. Then, with a supreme effort, +Shaughnessy threw himself to one side, reaching out a hand and catching +Micky about the right ankle. A sharp wrench jerked him from his feet and +he fell heavily, striking his head against the table leg which had +previously served for the downfall of the boss. + +After a few moments, Shaughnessy struggled weakly to his feet and stood +grimly regarding the Irishman, who lay unconscious, with closed eyes, +the freckles staring strangely from his pallid face. After a time +Shaughnessy bent down and examined the reporter's hurt. "Nothing +serious," he muttered, noting a crimson abrasion at the right side of +the scalp. Then he thrust his hand confidently into the inner pocket of +O'Byrn's coat. His look of complacency changed to concern. He made a +thorough examination of the pockets, then rose with a bitter oath. + +"Bluffed me!" he muttered furiously. "He hasn't got 'em." He felt +strangely weak, as the result of the late encounter, and moved languidly +over to the sofa whereon Micky had lately been. Shaughnessy sat down, +with a heavy sigh, to think. + +His moody eyes noted an object lying on the rug. Leaning over, he picked +up Micky's watch. The back cover swung open in his hands, owing to the +defective spring, which Micky had never had repaired. + +Shaughnessy turned over the timepiece idly, noting on the inner cover a +woman's picture. And in that moment the dead-white face, ordinarily an +inscrutable mask, became startling to see. His black eyes, in which +there grew a slow, consuming horror, stared at the picture as if +hypnotized by it, and on his face was the look which the living might +wear if confronted, without warning, by the resurrected dead. + +After a time Shaughnessy withdrew his gaze, and, with a convulsive +movement, snapped the watch shut. Slowly, fearfully, he approached the +prostrate young fellow on the floor, afraid of what he should see. Now +he bent on one knee over the senseless O'Byrn, peering strangely into +his face. He thrust the watch into the little Irishman's pocket, as if +anxious to hide it from his own vision. Then, timidly, he raised the +inert right arm of his victim and slipped the sleeve up from the wrist. +There was the scar. + +A deep groan burst from Shaughnessy's lips; in his eyes gloomed, with +added intensity, the horror that was the heritage of the past. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +THE LASH + + +In the breadth and the depth of evil in the man whom the world had long +known as John Shaughnessy there was one wicked act whose memory was +torment. Unprincipled, ruthless, cruel as he was, this thing, perhaps in +inevitable reprisal for outraged higher laws, had long haunted him; +disturbing his sleep, embittering his waking hours. For it was only just +that a man base enough to leave, in far worse case than the widow and +the orphan, those he was morally and legally bound to protect, should be +disturbed by ghosts. It was remorse, it had long been remorse, from +which this calloused devil was suffering. His evil, white face was a +mask to hide much that the masquerader would have given all at times to +have forgotten. + +For a long time Shaughnessy bent over the silent figure on the floor; +crouching, motionless as if cut in stone. His eyes, unnaturally +brilliant, repellent in their fixed glare, rested long on the reporter's +unconscious face. That face--how freckled, how grotesquely homely! Why, +he had been a handsome baby! Still, the same mop of red, curly hair; +and, after all, did he but open his eyes Shaughnessy thought there would +be a definite resemblance to another. Shaughnessy recollected having +been vaguely troubled once or twice before by this half-sensed +similitude of the young fellow to someone he had known. He knew now. +Why, the boy looked like his mother, of course; though there was only a +pathetic hint of it, for his mother had been very pretty. This +Shaughnessy could vouch for. Poor unfortunate, had she not been his +wife? + +And his son, lying on the floor; the son Shaughnessy had thought dead; +was it not a joyful reunion? Shaughnessy groaned aloud, for he had long +writhed under the lash of conscience for this one thing. The rest of his +ill-doing did not trouble him; it was for the blackest crime of all, +alone, that he paid the penalty. And a bitter penalty he paid, for, +whatever the seeming, outraged nature generally exacts her due. This man +had heartlessly deserted a wife who had been devoted to him, despite his +deviltry, and his helpless baby; deserted them more indifferently than +most men would leave a dog. It was slow in coming, the time of +reckoning, but the day came when the black heart and soul of Shaughnessy +quivered under the lash. And the lash bit the deeper because of the need +for repression, for the man writhed in secret. It was Shaughnessy who +lived; the other man was dead; yet his foul ghost, with the memory of +the foul deed he wrought, would not be laid. + +Shaughnessy, with a haggard glance at the motionless form on the floor, +rose and walked uncertainly to an easy chair. He sat limply, a thin, +white hand shading his eyes. He was oblivious to his surroundings, for +the tumult of the past pounded in his brain. + +The tumult of the past! What a record had been his, this white-faced man +with hunted eyes that now stared with a weird, fixed horror back into +the past. They saw again another man than the Shaughnessy of vile +political power; a younger man, in whom was no repression; the slave of +wayward passions which marred lives other than his own. But what were +wife and child? Merely incumbrances then, and, toward the last, hardly +to be borne. + +And at the beginning? Why, the young man had once been respectable, and +of the type to be pointed out as one destined to make his mark. Starting +at the lowest round of a big business house, in a far-off city, it had +not taken him long to prove his rare mettle, and at twenty-five he had +reached a point further than most men attain in a lifetime. He had +married a girl who believed in him as she believed in God--and she had +been his dupe almost from the first. + +Supremely selfish, treacherous by nature and with a stealthy leaning +toward the fleshpots, he began early to betray her trust in cold blood. +She did not know of this; she knew only of his indulgence in liquor, +increasing alarmingly, and his growing taste for cards. He had drammed +moderately from a very early age; now he had a fiend's appetite, while +his passion for the gaming table grew accordingly. She used to plead +pitifully with him to eschew the practices. At first he laughed; later +he sneered. Meanwhile his dissipation had not affected his business +prospects as yet. Often rioting through a sleepless night, he was +invariably at his desk in the morning, and his house was glad to command +his services, for he was a veritable business genius. + +His wife, poor soul, hoped that the baby's coming would influence him to +better things. It grew worse. His appetite for liquor, which was +evidently inherited from some bibulous ancestor, grew tyrannous, and he +was a willing slave. Lucky at cards, ordinary gambling became too tame +for him. He fell to speculating, cannily at first, but with success and +increasing indulgence in liquor came recklessness. The man's naturally +cool business judgment was clouded, for he was never wholly sober now. +Yet his business prospects were still of the best, for he succeeded +marvellously in retaining his strong hold on affairs. The dawn was more +than likely to find him reeling, but the opening of the day's business +invariably found him at his desk, alert, coldly inscrutable, his wits +more than a match for the sharpest ones that might oppose him. +Dissipated as he was in those days, he engineered some brilliant +_coups_ which benefited his concern and increased his own prestige, +to his material advantage. He was already pointed out as a man of +power. He could have figured as a Napoleon of honorable business, +as he later figured as a Napoleon of graft. Of splendid intellectual +endowment, he chose to mar himself. + +Their home-life, because of his course, had grown unspeakably wretched. +They lived simply; the bulk of the man's income was expended away from +home. The wife did not reproach him and she had ceased to plead, but she +was pale and silent and sad-eyed. She knew all now, and she lived only +for her baby. + +Like many an infinitely better man, the husband's worst side was +reserved for his family. The inevitable reaction of tippling, in a +nature like his, rendered him fairly diabolic at times in his home; and +the cruel spirit was the fiercer by reason of the need for its +repression elsewhere. He remembered one morning when he stood shaving +before his mirror, shaking from the effect of a debauch. It was several +months after his son was born. His wife, in pitiful appeal to his better +side, of whose existence she still dreamed, had softly entered the room, +carrying the baby. She thoughtlessly approached from the side, and he +neither heard nor saw her. A soft little hand, the baby's, crept into +his neck. Shaken as he was, it startled him; his razor slipped and the +blood spurted from a gash in his cheek. Blind with swift, unreasoning +rage, he whirled with a curse and a murderous, involuntary swoop of his +razor. She had sprung back with a sharp cry, but just too late. He heard +again the sudden, shrill cry of the baby; saw the swift blood rimming an +ugly gash above its little wrist; saw himself shriveling, before the +horror in his wife's eyes, into a loathsome thing. + +"My God!" he had stammered, "I--I didn't mean--" + +She had recoiled, the flame in her eyes repelling him. Ever afterward +her burning eyes, accusing him in memory, had caused his own to close +spasmodically in swift desire to escape her gaze; had caused him to dig +his nails into his palms in temporary agonized abasement. The grim mills +of the gods, indeed! + +The poor woman annoyed him no more after that, but she grew like a +voiceless, accusing ghost. She was thin and pale now and her beauty was +fading pathetically. As for him, his course grew madder, he plunged into +dissipation as it had been an enveloping sea. By and by things began to +go wrong with him; wild speculations turned out poorly, his resources +began seriously to dwindle. With his old, clear head he could have +repaired his fortunes, but now he saw things through a red haze, and in +endeavoring to right himself with one reckless stroke, he lost +everything. + +Well, it was time to leave. But he would not go alone, he sullenly +decided. There was a siren to whom he had long been devoted, a creature +of sensuous mould designed to hold enmeshed such evil souls as his. Nor, +he fiercely told himself, would they go empty-handed. And he fortified +his nerve with more whisky. + +The newspapers accordingly had a sensation. One of the city's most +brilliant and most trusted young business men was a defaulter to the +extent of thousands of dollars, and he was gone. This startling fact, +coupled with the simultaneous departure of the siren and the revelations +of the defaulter's double life, made an attractive tit-bit. The wife and +child, being of minor importance in this sensational tale, were quickly +forgotten. The memory of the defaulter remained, and men confidently +believed at first that one day they would welcome his return, shackled +to an officer of the law. But it was not to be, though once the man, +driven by the lash of belated remorse, had ventured to cross a continent +and steal furtively into the scene of his early crime, on a bootless +quest. + +It seemed to him later that, following his flight with his siren, he had +been drunk for years. The furtive sting was at work; he drank to deaden +it. At times he would shiver and the cold perspiration would bead his +forehead, for he saw again the horror in her eyes as she sought to +stanch the blood that flowed from her baby's arm. More, he saw himself +again, with hideous humor, repeatedly when he was in his cups, tearing +her baby from her arms and plying it with toddy. The boy would take it +like milk, he remembered; and the father was wont to laugh, with all the +sardonic mirth of a hyena, at the anguish in the mother's eyes, and +finally to hand back the infant with ironical courtesy and the +observation "that he was a chip off the old block." + +Yes, pleasant memories had the fugitive, while drifting from place to +place with his paramour. The money was soon gone and he had recourse to +the gaming table, with fluctuating luck. Quarrels were frequent now, and +finally, after an exceptionally fierce one, in which two calloused, +coarsened natures revealed themselves in all their hideousness, the +precious pair parted. That particular weakness disturbed the current of +the man's life no more, for Shaughnessy was done with sirens and their +influence. With a revival of his old calculation, shrewd and cold, he +decided that it didn't pay. + +At the same time, too, he decided that whisky didn't pay. He had a will +like iron, whether toward evil or against it. Returning reason bade him +to be against anything that marred his self-interest, so +Shaughnessy--which name he adopted after his flight of years +before--said one day, "I'm done," and suffered ensuing torments of +thirst like an imperturbable Indian. It was years before he again tasted +liquor, though he never lost the craving for it; and even then, he +severely confined himself to its use as a medicine, necessitated by his +failing health. + +After the siren had gone her way, and Shaughnessy took occasion to +survey the situation with something of his old-time critical analysis, +he resolved upon his future campaign. His honest name he had forfeited; +it could not be resumed. Moreover, his natural cynicism had deepened +with the years. It was the dishonest who prospered most, thought he. He +had the brains, so let him scheme to prosper. Politics attracted him. He +studied it for the science that it is, and he also studied men. He +chose an excellent field in which to operate; he established his small +liquor store, which was destined to grow larger; he made his modest +entry into the political arena which he was to dominate. With infinite +subtlety, by the power of a remarkable brain, he had grown into the +sinister force he was today; nor did his evil success trouble him. It +was the memory of his wife and child that haunted him; a memory that bit +deep as a sword. + +It was years before he risked detection by a visit to his old city to +ascertain regarding them, for of course he dared not write. Time was +generous and changed him much, however, in appearance, so finally he +traversed the continent and furtively, fearfully, entered his old +haunts. He did not stay long; there was no need. His wife was dead; he +found her humble grave in an old cemetery. The boy had been entirely +lost sight of; he had drifted away and might be dead for all that +anybody knew or apparently cared. We poor worldlings might perchance be +more sympathetic, more solicitous one of the other, if we had more time. +But self-interest in the grim old world demands and receives the initial +consideration of self. Shaughnessy turned back with a heart none the +lighter because of the fruitlessness of his quest; back to the old +search in dark places for pelf and power. There was nothing else left, +and, as his ideals had never been high, his course suited him and +satisfied his ambition. + +The boss rose, swaying, from his chair; a strange weakness was upon him. +He made his way toward the spot where his unconscious son lay prone on +the floor, and he tottered like an old man. He stood looking down upon +the boy, and for his most monstrous sin of all there was grim reprisal +visible in his eyes. The boy was as he had made him--as he himself had +been--a drunkard. Of brilliant mental endowment, as the father knew to +his cost, the son's career was clouded by this bitter heritage; would be +clouded to the end, for he lacked his father's iron will. And the agency +through which the boss' black course had been menaced; that menaced it +still; the son against the sire, unknowing and till now unknown! What a +hell-born irony it was, matter for mirth of gibbering fiends. Truly, at +last Shaughnessy drank the bitter lees. + +He stood there, swaying slightly, his gaunt face bloodless, his eyes +horrible. Mechanically he pulled out his watch, starting violently. Why, +it could be no more than five minutes since the struggle. Five +minutes--and in them Shaughnessy had lived long and bitter years! And +now-- + +"_For God's sake! For--God's--sake!_" + +The old, old prayer of agony, of deadly fear, wrung at the last from +lips which perhaps had long ceased to frame that Awful Name except in +blasphemy; the cry of the ages; the wail of the wicked as it is the hope +of the blessed; the cry of despair which rends the throat of the pariah +when face to face with Death. + +What was it? Ah! Shaughnessy knew; while his face went gray, while he +gasped for breath, while his hands sought and pressed convulsively his +breast, through which throbbed swift, keen stabs of exquisite pain. The +mists swam before his staring eyes as he reeled blindly, now with +outstretched hands, toward the door of his den. It was the ancient enemy +returned--and this time not to be denied. + +Shaughnessy lurched through the door, and with groping hands, grasped +the bottle. The fiery draught of brandy seared his throat; he strangled +and the bottle fell from his nerveless fingers and broke upon the floor. +The strong smell of the spilled contents oppressed the heated air. + +No use--no use! Shaughnessy collapsed in the chair before his desk, his +breast afire with suffocating pain. The gray pallor deepened; the eyes +glazed. For a moment he lay inert, his form twitching. Then a sudden +torturing thought brought him instinctively erect in his chair. It was +like a dead man rising from his grave. + +The money--the property! Why, who would get it? How had _he_ gotten it? +Never mind, it was his; they could not take it away. It should be his +son's--who had tried to destroy him. Would he take it? Perhaps not, he +might be that kind of a fool. Well, if not, why he could give it to +charity. Charity! Shaughnessy laughed horribly, deep in his throat. + +There might--there might yet be time. He made as if to brush away the +mists that deepened before his eyes. He groped for paper--a pen, and +drew them toward him. He plunged the pen into the ink well, overturning +it, but he did not heed. He was going blind; there was a strange, +rhythmic thudding in his ears. + +"I--" + +The single letter, grotesquely lonely, sprawled crazily, black and ugly, +upon the sheet. The world would remember Shaughnessy as--Shaughnessy. + + * * * * * + +O'Byrn stirred uneasily, for the noise of resounding blows was in his +ears. He struggled to a sitting posture, and as he did so the door +crashed in. Dick and Slade bounded into the room. + +"Ah! there you are," exclaimed Glenwood, striding over to Micky and +pulling him to his feet. "There's been a rough-house. But where's +Shaughnessy?" His eyes swept the apartment vengefully. + +"Must have gone out," returned Slade. Neither he nor Dick noticed the +partially open door of the den. "Better be gettin' out. He may be back, +with more like him, and we ain't got no time to lose." + +Between them they guided the stupefied O'Byrn outside and to the waiting +carriage. Inside the den, crumpled horridly in his chair, with gaunt, +ghastly jaw agape and with a look of terror frozen in his staring eyes, +rested Shaughnessy; as he would sit through the night, as he would be +sitting when they should seek him on the morrow. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +THE STORY + + +A half-hour later a telephone bell pealed in the office of the Courier. +"You're wanted, Mr. Harkins," called an assistant. The city editor +hurried to the instrument. "Hello!" he called. + +"Hello! That you, Harkins? All right, this is Glenwood. Well, we've got +him. Working on him now. Be there by twelve, sooner if possible. Have +everything ready. Good-by." + +The office of Dr. Erastus Wentworth was a scene of animation. By rare +good luck, Slade had found the medical gentleman in an adjacent +restaurant immediately after the cab drew up at the building which +contained his office. Dick and Slade had assisted the dazed O'Byrn +upstairs, when Slade, fuming with impatience, set out on a search for +the physician, which was fortunately soon rewarded. + +They placed O'Byrn on a sofa and he immediately lapsed into dreamland. +"Doctor," said Dick, "this man has a job to turn out tonight that would +feaze many a fellow in his sober senses. He's simply got to do it +tonight. It will take an hour, perhaps a half or so more. It must be +started at midnight. I know it looks hopeless, but you don't know the +man. If you only start his brain half-working it's worth a couple of +normal ones under full head. What do you think?" He was pacing the +floor in keen excitement. Slade stood near, silent, with burning eyes. + +"Bad!" commented the doctor, dryly. "How much has he had?" + +"Not so much," returned Slade. "He got a nasty bump; it helped." + +"Well, we'll try," said the doctor, and was soon busy. Micky was +sufficiently oblivious not to wince at the sting of the hypodermic +needle, piercing his bared arm, forcing into his system the powerful +solution of strychnine, the influence of which must be invoked to +reinforce the mechanism of the numbed brain. Dick looked at the +Irishman, sprawled supine upon the office sofa, still with closed +eyes. It looked hopeless enough and Dick despaired. + +A little later the physician was preparing with infinite care a mixture +which he finally seemed to have ready to his satisfaction. He approached +the prostrate man. + +"Rank poison," he said grimly to Glenwood, "but desperate cases require +desperate remedies. I fancy this will complete the job of galvanizing +your friend for the time you require. Probably he won't exactly +scintillate, but I think he will do." He administered the stuff to +O'Byrn, who, half-conscious already despite his relaxed attitude, +swallowed it obediently. + +"Now in a few minutes," said the doctor, "you can start with him. But +remember one thing," he cautioned Glenwood, "this brace is wholly +artificial. It won't last. A little later and I couldn't have done much +for you anyway. He'll run along like a machine for a while, that's all. +Get all you can from him while you can, for there'll be a reaction." + +"That's what we've got to do anyway," replied Dick grimly. "It's a case +of racing the clock with us from now on." + +A little later they descended the stairs, O'Byrn stumbling heedlessly +down, assisted by Glenwood. The cabman had waited under instructions. +"The Courier office in a hurry," Dick ordered, and assisted Micky +inside. Slade followed. He had resolved to be in at the death. + +As the cab rolled rapidly south, Dick spoke to the man opposite him, now +rousing to a dull consciousness of his surroundings. + +"Micky," he demanded, "have you got that story, all of it?" There was an +assenting nod. + +"Now listen to me, Micky," continued Dick, leaning forward in the +dimness, fixing the other's stolid eyes with his own dominant ones, +"you're going to turn out that story and it's going to be the story of +your life. You won't feel like it, but you're going to do it and it's +going to be a dandy. Now get your brain working. Think of that story, +every stage of it, from the time you first started out for it till you +finished. Fix it in your head, and when the time comes, just spout it. +_Don't-think-of-anything-but-that-story!_ Do you understand?" + +There was but a single word of response, a little thick, but inspiring +of confidence. "Sure." + +Dick sat back with a long sigh. His hands were trembling with +excitement. A moment later the cab drew up in front of the Courier +office. + +The elevator sprang upward. As its door was flung back for the trio to +emerge, the big editorial clock chimed the hour of midnight. Harkins +met them with white face and eyes that revealed the strain of the long +hours of suspense. Behind him stared many other eyes, in which shone an +overwrought glitter that came of the infectious tension of the +situation. + +"Well, O'Byrn!" Harkins' voice crackled with acrid authority. "Where's +your story?" + +The tone had the effect of a whip lash, awakening the habit of swift +obedience born of long training. Micky had stood dumb with blank eyes, +to which the scene and the actors seemed strangely remote, like a vague +dream. But his chief's question pierced his numbed brain like sharp +steel. There was an instinctive attempt to gather his deadened forces. +His hand swiftly sought an outer pocket and produced a few penciled +fragments which he threw upon a table. "There," he said. + +"These!" exclaimed Harkins, hastily scanning them. "Well, where are the +rest? Did you lose them?" + +Dick interposed. "You forget, Mr. Harkins," he suggested. "He doesn't +have to carry a notebook. Micky, where's the rest of it?" + +"Why," he answered confusedly, "I remembered it." + +"Well, do you remember it now?" persisted Harkins. + +"No," wearily, "not just now." Then, again with that strange gathering +of struggling forces, though the words came as if he talked in his +sleep, "I'll remember it--after I get started." And he walked straight +to his desk, eyes dead ahead like a somnambulist's, unheedful of the men +who watched him silently with drawn, anxious faces. It is doubtful if he +saw them. Dropping limply into his chair he reached mechanically for his +copy paper. + +"Not that way, Micky," said Dick softly, interposing his hand. "There +isn't time. You must dictate it. Here's a man waiting for you." + +Micky turned dull eyes toward the stenographer who sat nearby in +readiness, pencil in hand. An expression of helplessness replaced the +apathy in O'Byrn's face, as his gaze shifted to Dick. In his trance-like +state he could not comprehend. They wanted the story, yet would not let +him write it. There was a pathetic questioning in his look. + +"Listen, Micky," said Dick very distinctly, bending over him. "It's not +far from press-time. We've got to hurry. There's a relay of +stenographers waiting for you. Now you go ahead and dictate your story +just as if you were writing it yourself. Get your mind right on it. Talk +your introduction, covering the main points, then start at the beginning +and go through to the finish. Get everything in and talk it as it comes +to you, but have it right. Don't be afraid of going too fast. They'll +get it all. Talk it just as you'd talk it to me and get it all. You +understand? Now, boy, _get into it_!" He placed the packet of +Shaughnessy's papers, which O'Byrn had entrusted to him, in his hand. + +Dick stepped back, raising his hand to quiet them all as they crowded +around, staring at the motionless man in the chair. "Get back!" Dick +whispered fiercely. "Get him rattled now and it's all up. Can't you +see?" They softly moved aside and intense quiet fell, in which the +measured ticking of the big clock sounded unbelievably loud. They +watched the meagre figure in the chair with an odd fascination. O'Byrn, +as if fairly hypnotized by Glenwood's words, was bending forward, hands +pressed tightly against his temples, eyes closed and brow contracted in +the supreme effort to marshal the dormant resources of his brain. So he +sat, without word or motion, while the moments crawled by and the +suspense grew into actual pain for every watcher in that great room. +Once Harkins, with an expression of keen torture, slowly lifted a +clenched hand and let it fall silently, an impetuous word restrained by +a warning gesture from Glenwood, who had not once taken his piercing +eyes from O'Byrn's face. Even as he gazed, the face of the other seemed +curiously to change, as if a dead thing were stirring into life. It was +as if Glenwood's iron will reinforced O'Byrn's weaker one, infusing into +it the power of concentration, helping it to rise superior to deadening +influences, to assert itself in a hard-won triumph of mind over matter. + +At last Micky raised his head, looking straight into Dick's eyes, which +shone with satisfaction, for they read coherence in O'Byrn's own. The +day was saved and there was a universal sigh of relief. O'Byrn extended +his hand. Reading the gesture aright, Dick placed in it the notes which +shortly before had been produced for Harkins' inspection. Micky looked +them over briefly, scanned the damning packet a moment, and turned to +the waiting stenographer. + +Then came the story which swept the town that morning in a mighty wind +that drove a monstrous tidal wave of public indignation thundering over +an illicit crew and blotted out a corrupt municipal history. Yes and +more, for the waters encroached even to foul halls in the capitol and +washed them clean. It was a story involving so scathing an arraignment +of those in high places that hardened veterans in the great room, +listening to its steady flow from the lips of the drowsy man in the +chair, gasped and looked at each other in momentary incredulity; +momentary, because every astounding disclosure was fortified by the most +incontrovertible of proofs. Micky had been a veritable sleuth hound on +the track of that story. His scent had been unerring and in the +marshaling of his verified facts he had shown positive genius. There was +nothing asserted that collected statements and figures did not prove; no +man arraigned, from Judge Boynton down, who was not pilloried in the +proof. Noisome legislative deals, heretofore blanketed by +respectability, were laid bare in exposed horror. The city government +was savagely assailed. The vesture of fair seeming in the present +campaign was torn away and there was revealed rottenness. The growth of +graft, in repulsive forms, under the sinister genius of Shaughnessy, was +claimed and proved and the telling ruined some flourishing careers. So +on to the end, the arraignment transcending the expectation of all in +its ugly features, as indeed it had Micky's own. It left no doubt of the +swift dynamic effect upon the election, now close at hand. Truly it was +the story of a lifetime. + +He told it from beginning to end always in that strange, monotonous +voice, as if he were muttering in his sleep, his eyes at times fixed +absently on the stenographer, at others half-closed or turning blankly +toward the ceiling. He seemed wholly unconscious of his surroundings +after his task was begun, being absorbed in dreamy contemplation of his +theme. As the physician had said, his brain was working like an +insensate machine, driven for a while by the force of powerful +stimulants. Yet always his wonderful memory, an instinctive force with +him, was a potent line that led his groping mind unerringly through the +gloomy labyrinth of the brain. At times he would falter for a moment, +but once more grasping the thread was off again. So, unmindful of +anything save the task he was mechanically pursuing, he swept on toward +the end. Stenographers quietly relieved one another, typewriters rattled +madly at the other end of the room, Harkins and an assistant fairly flew +in the preparation of the copy; boys hurried by with it, take by take, +everywhere was the sharp hum of the belated machinery, at last in +motion. O'Byrn never noticed, but went serenely, logically, sleepily on, +dictating as he would have written it. One might imagine he saw himself, +as one detached, writing as he proceeded. + +But now the fuel had spent its force. He was growing horribly drowsy, +yet struggled on, impelled by a latent sense of duty. At last he +faltered in the middle of a sentence and stopped short. His chin sank on +his breast. + +Someone was shaking him, he numbly felt a dash of something cold and wet +in his face and opened his eyes. He tried to wipe away the water that +trickled down his cheeks, when somebody's handkerchief was passed over +them and he heard a voice, familiar yet far away. + +"Wake up, Micky!" it appealed. "You can't give up now, you're almost +through!" + +"All right, Dick," he sighed wearily. "Where was I?" + +Dick prompted him and he resumed at the break, still in the same even, +expressionless monotone, and continued until the dark shadows again +gathered before his eyes and he swayed in his chair. Dick's voice again +rang its sharp rally in his ears and he braced desperately, dictating +the closing paragraphs. "That's all," he murmured. The receding +footfalls of the stenographer sounded. Then came Dick's voice, a ghost +of a voice from the other side of the world. + +"Now you can sleep," it said. + +Then returned again the shadows and silence. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +WANDERLUST + + +O'Byrn reeled to and fro, in fierce combat with Shaughnessy. Again and +again, while his breath came in gasps and his temples throbbed with his +efforts, he had nearly gained the advantage, but the boss as often +slipped from his hold with an ugly sneer, eluding him. And now occurred +a grisly thing, for before his horrified eyes his enemy's body suddenly +lengthened and changed into a monstrous, writhing serpent, wriggling +sinuously toward him. He strove to scream, but could not, and the +creature coiled itself in triumph near him. Upreared above its horrid +neck was the swaying head, the ghastly face of Shaughnessy, who leered +with his black serpent's eyes and darted a forked tongue. Now the +creature crawled sluggishly toward him--coiled its horrid folds about +him--and he could not move. The last coil tightened above his neck, +while he gazed upward, strangling, into dead, unwinking, awful eyes, the +eyes of Shaughnessy. Now he was borne backward; the creature was +shattering his head upon the floor. Thud!--thud!--thud! + +O'Byrn fairly shot out of bed, groaning as the impact of his feet upon +the floor sent a diabolical thrust of pain through his aching head. He +pressed his temples convulsively and closed his eyes, blinded by the +glare of sunlight through the window. Why, what was that? Somebody was +pounding insistently at his door. It was this which had awakened him. + +"What is it?" he called. + +His landlady answered him. "There's a telegram for you, Mr. O'Byrn. A +young fellow just brought it in from the Courier office. He said they'd +sent him right over here with it." + +"Thanks," he mumbled indifferently. "Just shove it under the door, will +you?" + +A small yellow envelope was thrust beneath the portal, the woman's +footsteps receded down the stairs. Inside his room stood O'Byrn with his +splitting head between shaking hands, his bloodshot eyes closing in +sheer physical misery. The meagre form in the flamboyant pajamas winced +perceptibly as stabs of cruel pain continued to pierce Micky's temples. +The freckled face went gray as the overwrought stomach writhed in +sickening nausea. + +It was with a long, shuddering sigh that he turned at last to his +ablutions. He dressed mechanically, his memory groping through the mists +of the preceding night, mists that reeked with misery, with shameful +groveling, with manhood profaned. + +Ah, God! he had fallen again, again! Numbly he glanced at the mirror. +The glass reflected heavy, unnatural eyes in which despair brooded like +a cloud, a haggard face from which the freckles stared strangely forth +from unaccustomed pallor. Slowly, painfully, his mind wrestled with the +problem of the night before, a night unreal, peopled with phantoms that +gibbered and peered from enshrouding blackness. + +Dominated by another's master will, had he indeed emerged through +shadows to victory, or was the episode in the Courier office merely a +grateful, fleeting dream to accentuate the misery of waking? O'Byrn +looked at his watch, it marked the hour of two. He had slept long, it +seemed. How had he reached home, had he been in the Courier office at +all the previous night? + +However, what mattered it? What mattered anything in the shadow of this +appalling thing which mastered him, which dogged him in times of fancied +security, only to spring upon him unaware and rend him, leaving him +sorely wounded again to painfully traverse for a season the path of +duty? What mattered anything to one whose stumbling steps laid hold on +hell? + +Seizing hat and coat O'Byrn started for the door. His downcast gaze fell +upon the yellow envelope. Absently he stooped and dropped the message, +unopened, into his coat pocket. The landlady met him at the foot of the +stairs and inquired kindly if he would eat something. He replied only +with a gesture of utter repugnance. She looked after him as he went out, +shaking her head sadly. + +O'Byrn stumbled blindly out upon the street, blurred eyes blinking in +dazzling sunshine of an ideal Indian summer afternoon. The warm, +fragrant air was incense to the nostrils, the sky was of a heavenly +blue. Micky closed miserable eyes to the glories of the day. The +villainous old feelings, so well remembered, racked him cruelly. The odd +depression which always followed his indulgence was bad enough, but +now-- + +A dumb terror seized him. He hurried up the quiet street toward a busier +thoroughfare, his ears strained for the cries of newsboys, even as the +spirit within him grew sick for fear of disappointment. + +In another moment his shoulders squared, his red head lifted with +assurance in part renewed. For he could now see a thronged street; from +afar he could fairly snuff the air of unwonted excitement. Now he beheld +newsboys running here and there with early editions of the evening +papers, their wares disappearing fast as April snows. The burden of +their shrill cries was the exposure of the gang, with "follow-up" +details upon the Courier's story. O'Byrn drew a long breath of relief. + +Well, he should now be communicating with the office. He looked +longingly toward a saloon. Throat and mouth were parched dry as desert +sands. Resolutely turning away, he entered a drug store instead, +purchased a bromide and then stepped into a telephone booth. + +Securing Harkins' ear at the Courier office, he told the city editor +that he felt pretty "shaky," and inquired if he were needed there. +Harkins replied that it was expected he would rest for a couple of days +and added some warm congratulatory words. O'Byrn thanked him, and with a +bitter smile, hung up the receiver. + +Stepping into a tobacco store he purchased some cigars, and as he handed +the salesman a coin he remembered that he had not drawn his salary, due +the day before. Walking to the Courier's business office he secured his +money, accepting, with an odd indifference, the congratulations of some +fellow employes there upon his brilliant coup. + +Next, although at the moment he could not have told just why, he stopped +at the bank where, through the influence of a warm dream near his +heart, he had been of late depositing a portion of his wages each week, +and called for his money. Placing the little bundle of bills carefully +in his pocket book, he left the building and sauntered slowly down the +crowded street. + +Everything told of a triumph which it seemed should have had the little +Irishman walking upon air. Everything pointed to as impressive a climax +as he could have wished. Everywhere were knots of excited men, with +strident voices and brandished fists. The clubs and hotels were teeming +with the story, the curbs proclaimed it. Newsboys were reaping harvests +and the news stands could hardly supply the hungry demand. + +Public opinion, at first stunned by the sensational exposure of a system +of wholesale corruption well nigh unbelievable, was gathering force like +a mighty, overwhelming wave, which was to sweep down in vengeance upon +the trembling, illicit crew, now leaderless. This, however, was not yet +known, nor was it destined to become so until the evening. There would +be another rich morsel for the Courier in the early morning, though none +knew it now. + +Shaughnessy had been wont to live in seclusion that was undisturbed save +when he was minded to summon one or another of his crew. His lodgings +occupied the upper floor of a small, two-story building, with +unpretentious stores below, and few ascended the stairs that had not +business with Shaughnessy and been called thither. Also, the boss had +invariably taken his meals outside and so managed in all respects that +once in his retreat, when he so willed, he was in unbroken seclusion. + +So it transpired that Shaughnessy, limp in the chair before the desk in +his den, sat in grisly silence through the long night till the dawn +which heralded his exposure; sat through the long day, with the sun's +rays beating through the window upon his glazed, unwinking eyes; sat +quietly, while men throughout the city cursed him for the masterly knave +he had been, conferring together in plans of futile reprisal. So he sat, +deaf, unheeding, beyond it all; while some men watched others whom they +thought harbored him and others thought him gone. + +And so he was--to a far country, where they could not follow him. Even +now, as he sat waiting for them, there was a sardonic look about his +grim, relaxed jaws which might tell them, when they were finally +come--summoned through the veriest accident to get him--that they were +welcome to what was left. + +As O'Byrn walked along the crowded street, he passed some members of the +gang, hurrying by with white faces and furtive eyes, cringing in the +glare of publicity as if a lash bit deep into quivering flesh. Others he +met who affected an exaggerated boldness which failed to hide their +uneasiness. Some who knew O'Byrn shot glances at him that were white-hot +with hate, one breathed a livid curse as they touched elbows. + +To all the tumult, the strident clamor of indignation, the scurrying +hither and yon of scared, branded rats of men, O'Byrn remained curiously +indifferent. As during his dictation of the previous night, he proceeded +as if in a maze, with the air of a sleep walker, gaze dead ahead; no +triumph in the eyes, only infinite weariness. + +For O'Byrn was confronted by the merciless logic of his fate, feeling +the strangling grip of the enemy upon his soul. At times like these +there was given him cruel realization at its full, the grim, prophetic +knowledge that he must fight a losing battle to the end. Without knowing +the source, he recognized the deadly taint of heredity in his blood. A +hard road was his to travel, and--supremest sacrifice!--now he knew that +in simple justice he must pursue it--alone. And the winds are bleak that +howl about a solitary way. + +So, on this beautiful autumn afternoon, walking in the midst of a public +upheaval which he had produced, the cup of success held only bitter +lees. Face to face with inevitable renunciation of his dearest hope, the +present moment held no thrill. There was no rose, only the pallid gray; +wan, cold ashes of endeavor. Through this damning thing he was doomed to +walk alone in arid places, a soul cut off from Israel. + +A voice hailed him, recalling him to pulsing actualities. It was that of +Mead, his fellow-worker upon the staff of the Courier. + +"Hello!" remarked Mead, shaking O'Byrn's hand. "Great story! You've won +that bet, all right." + +"What bet?" returned Micky, listlessly. + +"Why, that Santa Claus bet about Shaughnessy," rejoined the other, +producing a ten dollar bill. "You know, in the lunch room that time; +that he'd get his. Well, you're a wizard and here you are. It's a little +early, but Boynton's grave is waitin'. Don't be bashful. I've made twice +the stuff already with outside specials on your story. Thought I'd pay +you right up, maybe you could use it." + +"Thanks, Mead," replied Micky, wearily. "Why, yes, I can use it." + +"They're holdin' a pow-wow at the office," pursued Mead. "Harkins, he's +walkin' on air. Everyone's speculatin' on how much they'll boost your +pay. Wish I'd get half of it. But I'm a dub. Say, Glenwood's out of +town. They sent him off on something growin' out of your yarn." + +"Sorry he's gone," replied Micky, moving on. "Give him my regards. So +long, Mead." + +"Ain't he the foolish frost?" wondered Mead, staring curiously after the +Irishman. "Doesn't seem to give a damn. Worryin' over his bat, likely. +Why, bat or no bat, if I'd turned out that story, I'd--but I couldn't. +Switch off!" He shook his head mournfully as he hurried up the street. + +O'Byrn proceeded to the writing room of a hotel where he penned three +notes, sealed and stamped the envelopes, and slipped them into his +pocket. Returning to the street he walked to the corner, stared absently +about for a moment and then boarded a street car, harbor bound. + +A little later he sat upon the edge of the wharves, his feet dangling +above the restless surface of the waters. The workaday bustle and +confusion, the shrill cries of roustabouts mingling with the thumping +din of manhandled freight, the clatter of trucks, the tramp of countless +feet, the shrieks of whistles and hoarse growl of gongs; all these were +as if they had not been to a mind capable of such absorption that it +could, did occasion demand, work undisturbed in the thunderous roar of a +rolling mill. + +So the lonely, meagre figure rested motionless in the midst of +unrealized tumult, the sombre eyes gazed past the vessels thronging the +waterway to some dim goal far beyond the humming ken of commerce, +straight into the realm of dreams. The ears drank in only the murmur of +lazy waters whispering about the piers in the wash of a falling tide, +bearing the message of the sea. + +The message of the sea! Softly low, like the love note of a mother, it +whispered to the alien brooding spirit, whispered of spindrift whipped +to showers of briny spray in the sweep of unleashed winds, whispered of +illimitable, splendid unrest. Out beyond the land-locked haven of the +ships the great waves rolled league on league, in unfettered freedom, to +annoint the feet of a far world. + +Low in the west, the sun crimsoned the distant sky line and tinged with +rose the gray of wan, far-flung billows. The balm of a soft breeze, +instinct with the latent fragrance of the passing year, breathed over +the tossing waters of the harbor, lately rent by a strong wind, and +lulled them to cradled peace. High overhead a flock of gulls wheeled +with harsh cries, winging straight out to the sky line of gray and rose +that hemmed the sweep of the restless sea. + +Mechanically the man on the wharf rose to his feet, standing with hands +in his coat pockets, watching the soaring gulls. Like the wind they +flew, straight out to the rose and gray and beyond, white specks +swallowed in the mists of distance. Even yet the eyes of the man's mind +followed them, atoms that swooped triumphantly into the teeth of +stinging winds; atoms fiercely clamorous, mad with the mere ecstasy of +life, with wild, aimless wandering, the zest of battle with wind and +wave. + +O'Byrn drew a long, shuddering breath. It had gripped him again, this +compelling ghost that could never be laid for long. In his eyes blazed +the old, restless light, the wild will-o'-the-wisp which lures the born +wanderer the wide world over in erratic flight till set o' sun. His +tired brain, his sick heart, alike craved the old nepenthe of unrest. + +Reborn of the whispered message of wide-flung tides, the sight of the +screaming gulls, the old longing of his nature sought vent in a strident +inward cry. Once more, bringing the sharp, exquisite pain he feared, yet +loved, the lash came hurtling out of the unknown, driving him on to new +scenes that all too soon were old, to dream houses built on crumbling +sands. The strange light of his eyes grew brighter, the wine of +quickened wanderlust mounted in deepening glow upward to heart and +brain. + +O'Byrn became conscious of a small, square object in his pocket. +Absently he drew forth a yellow envelope. Tearing it open he read the +message. With eyes darkened with concentration he read it again. A +little later he walked into a telegraph office. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +THE LONG ROAD + + +Night had fallen, the lights of the city flared under a calm clear sky +that was studded with stars. A soft wind from the south had worked its +will, the night was warmer than had been the day. The air was fragrant +with the mystic scent of Indian summer, of green things in fields and +forests, the land over, that were changing to rose and gold ere the +pitiful withering to shriveled gray. + +Through a quiet street leading toward Mulberry Avenue walked a man, +haggard of face, misty of eye. He was a small man, almost a youth, of +meagre frame and rather pronounced garb. He carried a rusty satchel, +grimy and battered, like the scarred veteran of a long and strenuous +campaign. + +Now he was passing a dusky corner; one he had good cause to remember, +but his thoughts were far away. So he failed to associate the low, +two-story building with the significant words of the scared woman, +frowsy and unkempt, who clattered down the stairs and across the walk, +halting and startling him. + +"Mercy o' God, sir, what'll I do?" she cried. "He's dead, sir, a-sittin' +in his chair. Sure, I do his work for him an' I went over to see when +he'd want me agin an' the door was open--I lit a light to see what was +the matter--Ah! the dead, white, grinnin' face of him!--an' what'll I +do?" She wrung her hands. + +He had listened impatiently--what concern was it of his? "Policeman on +the corner," he told her, with a backward jerk of his thumb. The +charwoman ran toward the approaching officer. O'Byrn passed on, +dismissing the incident instantly from his pre-occupied mind. He was +done forever with the affairs of his unknown father. + +A little later he paused at a corner intersecting Mulberry Avenue and +set his satchel upon the curb. He gazed down the street toward the dim +outlines of an humble frame house, a solitary light shining from a lower +window. Long he stood silently regarding the little dwelling. + +Then slowly from his pocket he drew three letters which he had written +at a hotel hours before. In the wavering radiance of an adjacent +electric light he scanned the addresses upon the envelopes. He stepped +to a nearby letter box and consigned to it the notes prepared for +Harkins and Glenwood. The third he held hesitantly for a moment, +regarding it through a briny mist. So this was the end--the miserable, +heart-breaking end. It was now for him the long road--alone. + +"Micky!" + +Swiftly he wheeled, his face alight with a trembling incredulity of joy. +His startled eyes looked straight into hers that were mystically dark in +the night shadows intruding upon the shimmering arc from the street lamp +nearby. Dressed simply in coat and gown of the brown hue he liked so +well, with a hat of the same shade, she made a picture to rest his +wearied eyes. + +"It's good to see you, girlie," he exclaimed, a break in his voice. +"But it isn't wise, is it, when you're just over being so ill? Where +have you been?" + +"Only walking about, Micky. You know I grew stronger real fast. Don't +you know, you were surprised to find me so much better? I've been about +the house for a week, even helped mother a little the last two or three +days. And tonight I couldn't rest indoors, somehow, I had to be out in +this glorious air. You needn't scowl that way, I had the doctor's +permission this afternoon to go out if I wanted to. Today I've heard of +nothing but your story. It was grand work, Micky." + +"Don't, girlie!" His tone was as if she had struck him. + +One little white hand touched his arm. With quick divination her +searching look read the tale told in his drawn face, in the sight of the +satchel upon the curb, the letter in his hand. She gently took it from +him. + +"For me?" + +He nodded, he could not have spoken just then. He swallowed hard while +his eyes hungrily devoured the rare, fair sight of her, the slightly +sharpened outlines of her lovely face, the pallor that was the heritage +of illness, the sweetness of her eyes. + +His letter in her hand, she moved a little away from him, then turned +and walked to the curb. She rent the envelope straight across, and +tearing the residue into tiny fragments, tossed the pieces like +snowflakes upon the pavement. Retracing her steps, she confronted +O'Byrn. + +"Tell me all about it," she suggested, very gently. + +With a low, bitter cry he clasped her little hand in both his own, +stammering that he was unfit, that there was another blot, a repetition +of the old, wretched story. She understood, and there was only a low +exclamation of sympathy as she looked into his tortured face with eyes +that were wonderful with forgiveness and love. For she had known +instinctively long since that it must always be so, and with her woman's +devotion, had resolved to help him, notwithstanding, to the end. + +"What did I tell you once, dear?" she asked him low. "It's for you to +always try, Micky, and what credit's for those who don't have to try? +You have tried, my boy, and you must keep on trying--for my sake. +Remember, dear, you can never fail while you try--and it's trying--it's +trying that brings us--where dreams--where dreams--come--true." + +The low voice was lost in a stifled sob. Her little hands, her poor, +thin hands, sought her face. The tears trickled from between her clasped +fingers. + +Miserably he sought gently to draw her hands from her wet eyes. "Don't +cry, Maisie," he begged, fighting with his constricted throat, winking +blurred eyes. "Why do you? It--it kills me!" + +A solitary pedestrian, passing upon the opposite side of the quiet +street, gazed at them curiously, without pausing. Neither of them +noticed him and he disappeared around a corner. Meanwhile, eyes searched +eyes; presently O'Byrn's turned away. They held so much of the +desolation and shame of his soul, hers only love. + +"Why do I cry?" she questioned sadly. "Do you remember a night--it seems +so long ago!--when you asked me that? Do you need to ask me again? Only +now it is so different, so--so horrible. God help me! then it was the +beginning, now you mean it for the end. You are going away?" + +"Yes." She could scarcely hear the word. + +"Why?" + +He turned upon her a face she scarcely knew, in which warred fiercely +the stormy elements of his strangely complex nature. Mingling oddly with +a numb, gray misery, there was something else, a troubled light like a +clouded dawn. Full in the radiance from the street lamp, his eyes burned +with the fire lighted from the dying, crimson embers of an autumn sunset +upon a hearth of gray, and behind the flame brooded the deep shadows of +despair. His voice was bitterly harsh, dissonant; a challenge to tearing +winds and thunderous seas of life, like the wild note of the winging +gulls. + +"Why? Why not? Girl, I'm down again, I'm not fit to touch you. I've just +told you. This thing was born with me, it'll die with me--I hope. If +I've got to carry it--beyond--I pray God will snuff out my soul--like a +candle! Can't you see it's the only way? To go--alone,--to bear +it--alone,--to fight--alone,--to lie down--alone,--at the end of the +long road!" + +"You leave tonight?" + +"Yes, dear." + +"Where are you going?" + +"Oh, I'm not tramping, not this time," he answered wearily. "The letters +I've just mailed are for Harkins and Glenwood. I've told them I'm sorry, +and God knows I mean it. But the old fever is burning my brain, girl. +I've stayed my stay here. I've gone down twice and it's too much. I've +lost the right to inflict myself further on the town. If I stayed it +would mean better things for me on the paper, but I can't stay. It's +queer--you can't understand it--I can't myself,--but the time has come +and I must be moving. It's the old voice calling. This afternoon I was +looking out over the harbor--that old something came rushing out of +nowhere and took me by the neck--sometimes I think I'm crazy. I put my +hand in my pocket, there was a message I hadn't opened. I'm called to +Denver--an old associate--something bigger than I've ever had. They're +in a hurry. I wired them I'd leave tonight. I'll be with them for a +while, then the trail once more." + +He told it wholly without animation, the fruits of success as ashes upon +his lips, only a dull hopelessness in his haggard face as he looked full +in renunciation of her. + +She moved a little nearer him, eyes holding his own in solemn +questioning. + +"What did it say--the letter--out there?" She waved her hand toward the +pavement. + +"What I have just told you--that I loved you too much to drag you +through--what I will have to bear. I begged you to forgive--and +forget--a cur." + +"Micky,--do you want--to go--alone?" + +He had to bend his head to catch the whispered words, though the +beautiful eyes gazed in divine fearlessness straight into his own, +searching his shadowed, storm-swept soul. A breathless moment his brain +groped for her meaning, grasped it with incredulous joy. The hot blood +pounded in his veins, his eyes implored while fearing her. + +"Oh, girl, you don't mean--Ah, you don't know what you're saying. No! +I'm a dog--a dog--I'm not fit--" + +Their hands entwined, her clasp tightened upon his trembling fingers. +His halting words died in his throat, he only watched her mutely, his +face a queer mixture of misery and joy. Her wet eyes, twin load-stars +lighting the path to Eden, smiled into his own. + +"Listen!" she said. "Where you go--I'll go--whatever comes--I'm with +you--clear to the white stone and the cross--and beyond--for _I love +you--I love you_!" + +He reeled where he stood. Ah, this love of woman, this grace of the gray +world that makes for the glory of God! + +For wistful thought of her he sought still to put her from him, weakly +tried while every fibre of his being called for her who was always to +rule his warm heart, whatever the vagaries of his foolish head. + +"It's a long road--a road rainy with tears--you must travel with me." + +"I love you." + +There grew in her low tone an odd, wondering exaltation, as if through +the domination of his vagabond personality, something heretofore +sleeping in her soul woke and stretched its wings, longing for freedom, +for the riot of mad winds and tumbling seas. + +"There's not a soul near to you that won't grieve for you--with me. Not +because I want it so, but because it was meant to be, it'll be gray +skies, it'll be often an aching heart; it'll be from pillar to post, now +here, now yonder; sometimes it will be--in hell--with me." + +"I love you." + +Now her tone held in its full the divine finality of choice, for weal or +woe. Gravely sweet, solemn with the sublimity of unselfish consecration, +it told many things to the man who stood finally silenced and +overwhelmed, clasping her in reverent arms close to his lonely heart. It +told of gardens flowering in deserts, of splendid heights beyond that +pierced the blue. It told him of the white grace of self sacrifice, of +God-sent, sustaining hands. And finally it told of calm after storm, of +the haven under the hill, of ultimate and abiding peace at the end of +the long road, where dreams come true. + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + +Punctuation has been standardised. Alternatives have been retained for +debris/debris near-by/nearby. Spelling and punctuation has been retained +as it appears in the original publication except as follows: + + Page 11 + no bettter judged _changed to_ + no better judged + + Page 32 + stunt or it 'll _changed to_ + stunt or it'll + + Page 63 + heavy-lided eyes _changed to_ + heavy-lidded eyes + + Page 79 + you think Shaugnessy 'll get _changed to_ + you think Shaughnessy'll get + + Page 99 + CHAPTR X _changed to_ + CHAPTER X + + Page 107 + wearied of such an excresence _changed to_ + wearied of such an excrescence + + Page 119 + sh'an't whine or excuse _changed to_ + sha'n't whine or excuse + + Page 131 + Judge Boynton 'll win _changed to_ + Judge Boynton'll win + + Page 139 + Tain't good for you _changed to_ + 'Tain't good for you + + Page 140 + leisurely away O'Byrn hailed _changed to_ + leisurely away. O'Byrn hailed + + Page 153 + Is is Consolidated Gas _changed to_ + Is it Consolidated Gas + + Page 153 + 'T won't be safe _changed to_ + 'Twon't be safe + + Page 155 + posibilities; it remained _changed to_ + possibilities; it remained + + Page 171 + whispered Slade, "and proceeded _changed to_ + whispered Slade, and proceeded + + Page 182 + period of quiesence _changed to_ + period of quiescence + + Page 195 + said a gruff voice, we're there _changed to_ + said a gruff voice, "we're there + + Page 210 + he was a chip of the old block _changed to_ + he was a chip off the old block + + Page 216 + solution of strychinine _changed to_ + solution of strychnine + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lash, by Olin L. Lyman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LASH *** + +***** This file should be named 38341.txt or 38341.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/3/4/38341/ + +Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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