“I’m sure we both thank you,” said the lady uneasily. “I wish. . . .”
Joe looked up encouragingly, but she didn’t go on.
“We both thank you very much indeed!”
“Don’t mention it, ma’am,” said Joe. “. . . My name is Joseph Kaplan,” he added suggestively, and lingered still.
“Yes?” she said with a strained smile.
She became very uncomfortable, but Joe couldn’t get her over the sticking point. There was nothing more he could do without showing his hand. He thought: Oh, well, I can come back to ask how the other one is getting on. He said softly:
“Good-night, lady,” and with a wistful glance in her face, let himself out of the door.
She was left standing in the hall looking unhappy. As soon as he was gone, she could not understand how she could have shown such a lack of proper feeling toward that poor boy. She wanted to call him back.
“Thesight of so much sin and suffering . . .” said the lady with the sprained ankle. “Hum; there were fleas in that cab. . . . I don’t know; they don’t seem to realize! . . . Huh? And the most of it falls on the innocent!”
“If they was more like you we’d be a hull lot better off,” said Joe.
“Not like me, Joe, no! . . . That horse ought to have been reported to the S.P.C.A. Oh, dear! There are so many things one ought to . . . Joe, you should say: ‘If there were more’—if you don’t mind my telling you. . . . Huh? . . .”
“No’m. I’m crazy to learn. Ain’t had no chances. If there were more like you. . . .”
“No, Joe! . . . I’m sure it had some terrible disease . . . I’m but a poor weak vessel! One night a week . . . Huh? The air is so bad! . . . Yes; if I was made of sterner stuff I would give up everything I possess and . . . I don’t know. . . .”
“If you gave away ev’yt’ing, ’m, you wouldn’t have nottin’ to give to the poor.”
“Oh, I don’t believe in . . . Huh? You must practice your th’s. Like this: ‘Everything; nothing.’ Huh? . . . It is yourself that you must give. . . . They don’t seem to appreciate. . . .”
They were sitting in the parlor of the little house on West Eleventh street—only they called it drawing-room, Joe had learned. The little lady was seated on a sofa by the window, with her injured foot on a stool before her; a silk scarf thrown over her ankle. It was after five on Sunday afternoon, and the servant had just lighted a tall lamp which stood beside the old-fashioned piano at the back of the room. The lamp had a very large shade made of yellow crinkled paper, which spread an agreeable glow around. It was like a play.
Joe, his hair well slicked down, had the air of being established in the house, and he knew it. He kept his eyes lowered so as not to betray his satisfaction. Handling the old maid was as easy as eating pie. She could take any amount of soft sawder. On a stand beside the sofa was a vase containing three damaged pink roses, wired to their stems. Every now and then she glanced at them with a softened look. The other sister was in and out of the room. The one was called Miss May Gittings; the other, Mrs. Fanny Boardman.
Miss Gittings continued, her hazy grey eyes shining on something far away: “Sympathy; understanding; encouragement; that is the message I try to . . . Huh? And plain sewing . . . oh, dear! they seem to have no womanly feeling for the needle. . . . The worst of misfortune is, it breeds a callous spirit. . . . I don’t know. . . . When they jeer at me I tell myself it is but the anguish of their souls peeping out. Every Thursday I find it harder and harder to work myself up to . . . Ah, yes! . . . Poor dear girls. . . . Huh? . . .”
“If I was there, I’d learn them!” said Joe doubling his fist.
“Oh, Joe! you wouldn’t hit a girl . . . !”
“Of course I wouldn’thitthem,” he said quickly. “But I’d give ’em a good layin’ out.”
“No, you can’t do away with poverty!” said Miss Gittings. “There’s one or two of themwouldbe the better for a good whipping. . . . Huh? . . . The great thing is to teach the poor to be more spiritual-minded. . . . They chew gum with their mouths open. They know it annoys me. . . . Huh? . . . So they can trample on the ills of the flesh. We are all equal sharers in the things of the spirit. . . . And I know some of them smoke cigarettes. . . . Huh?”
“You talk beautiful,” murmured Joe.
“I can talk to you. You’re the first poor person that ever understood me. . . . Huh? . . . You’re only a boy, but you’ve been through the fire. . . . You should say: ‘Talk beautifully’. . . . And your spirit is refined like. . . . Huh? . . . whatever shortcomings your exterior . . . but that’s not your fault. . . .”
Mrs. Boardman was a more practical-minded person than her sister—but not much more. She had an easy-going sensible look. She had been married only three months, and that twenty years ago, Joe had learned, but the experience, brief as it was, apparently enabled her to keep her feet on the ground, while the sister, who had never known a man, pursued her batlike flights through the air. But a funny thing was, as Joe was quick to see, the batty one was the leading spirit of the two. Apparently there was more force in her notions than in the other’s commonsense. Mrs. Boardman followed contentedly wherever Miss Gittings led. Therefore, if you made yourself solid with the old maid, you would be all right with the widow.
“Don’t you spend your Sunday afternoons with Everard, Joe?” asked Miss Gittings. “You might bring . . . Huh? . . . Is he a very destructive child?”
“No ’m. You mean Malcolm. I t’ought I hadn’t oughta keep him outa Sunday School, like.”
“You mustn’t run your words together. . . . Of course; quite right. . . . Say that sentence again, slowly.”
Joe obeyed very willingly. This was useful.
“Don’t you go to Sunday School, Joe?” asked Mrs. Boardman.
“I’ll tell you the troot . . . truth, ’m, I ain’t got the face. I’m so ignorant, they’d put me amongst the littlest kids.”
“But if Malcolm is only nine, you must have been at least six or seven when your mother died. Didn’t she give you any religious instruction?”
“Yes’m,” said Joe vaguely. “. . . She was a good woman.”
“Do you remember her clearly?”
“Yes’m, I kin see her now!”
Miss Gittings exchanged a look with her sister. “But Fanny, that is psychic!” she said, opening her eyes.
Joe had no idea what the funny-sounding word meant. Evidently it was a word which excited them. He waited with stretched ears for some clue to its meaning.
“Do you mean that merely in a manner of speaking,” asked Mrs. Boardman of Joe; “or do you mean you can actually see her as if she were a living person?”
Joe had no doubt of the answer required to this question. “I kin see her just as plain as I see you ’m.” He closed his eyes, and went on: “She was a tall woman and she gen’ally wore a grey dress, real full in the skirt. She had real black hair, parted in the middle, and brushed down flat, and she wore a little gold cross hangin’ round her neck, and a gold ring on her finger. We wasn’t so poor then.”
“An authentic spirit portrait. . . . Huh? . . .” murmured Miss Gittings to her sister. “Tell me,” she asked Joe in some excitement, “under what circumstances does she usually . . . Huh? . . . how? when? where?”
“Oh, she comes most any time,” said Joe, “but gen’ally at night. She shows brighter in the dark, seems like.”
“What a spirit touch!” murmured the sisters.
“She most allus comes when I’m feelin’ bad,” Joe went on. “When I ain’t had no supper; or when I gotta sleep on a park bench. Then I see her beside me, bendin’ over. She puts her hand on my wrist. . . .”
“Can youfeelher hand?” demanded Miss Gittings breathlessly. “This is important. . . . Huh?”
“Surest thing you know ’m! Just like this!” Joe grasped his own wrist.
“How truly remarkable!”
“And she says: ‘Fight the good fight, Joe!’ Or: ‘Stick it out, son; your mutter is watchin’ you.’ Or somepin like that. Then I feel all right again.”
“A genuine psychic!” murmured Miss Gittings breathlessly. “. . . Huh? . . . This rude, uninstructed . . . The veriest sceptic must be . . . Oh, sister! . . . Tell us more,” she said to Joe, “my sister and I are extremely interested in such phenomena. We ourselves . . . go on! go on!”
By this time, of course, Joe had grasped the sense of the funny-sounding word. Spirits! Well, he could feed ’em as much as they’d take. “Wuncet,” he resumed solemnly, “things was real bad with me. Malcolm was sick, and had to have the doctor, and the folks he lives with was after me for the two dollars to pay him; and I didn’t have it; and I didn’t dast go to see how he was, wit’out it; and I was near crazy, you bet! And I happened to be goin’ troo Rivington street where the pushcart market is, and they was all kinds of things on the pushcarts that a feller could pick up; hats and fur-pieces and women’s jackets and all; and I made up my mind to snitch a baby’s jacket for Malcolm’s sake. . . .”
“But what could you have done with that?”
“Oh, there’s places you kin sell them things. There’s plenty bad fellers on the East Side makes a business of it, and they’re allus askin’ yeh to go in wit’ ’em. But I don’t have no truck wit’ ’em.”
“Go on!” said both sisters together.
“Well, while I was standin’ there waitin’ for the man to turn his back so’s I could prig the jacket, all of a sudden I seen me mutter beside me. She didn’t say nottin’ that time, but she looked real bad. She just took aholt of me and pulled me away from the pushcart. She pulled me around the corner into Ridge street, and down the hill to the church there, and inside the church. It was all dark awmost, except the candles on the altar. And she took holy water, and put it on me—honest, I could feel the very drops! and she made me kneel down beside her, and she prayed to God! to make me a good feller, and keep me from sin. And say, there was all a faint sort of light around her head, like there was a candle behind her head, only there wasn’t no candle. . . .”
Mrs. Boardman glanced at her sister a little dubiously, and Joe perceived that he was laying it on too thick. You fool! he said to himself, why can’t you leave a thing lay, when it’s doin’ well.
However, he had Miss Gittings locoed with the story. The big grey eyes were full of wonder like a child’s. “Go on!” she said. . . . “Huh?”
“Well, when I looked again, she was gone,” said Joe. “But I felt all light, like, inside. I come out of the church, and went right to see the doctor, and when I told him I hadn’t no money, he said sure, he’d go see the kid, as often as would be necessary, and I could pay him when I earned it.”
“Fanny,” said Miss Gittings impressively, “we must report this extraordinary case to the circle. . . . Huh? . . . Let scoff who will! . . . We can produce the boy. . . .”
“Yes, sister.”
The front door opened and closed, and a slender shadow fell in the hall. Joe was instantly all attention. Another member to this household! The whole problem was altered.
“Wilfred, come here,” said Miss Gittings.
No response.
“Wilfred!” she repeated, raising her voice a little.
A boy of Joe’s own age came into the room with rather a sullen air; on the defensive. Joe perceived that it was that same white-faced boy. . . . God!thatkid! All the ground was cut from under his feet. For an instant he thought of flight.
But only for an instant. It steadied him to perceive that the kid was a lot worse upset by the meeting than he was. The kid’s eyes were fixed and crazy, like. He was looking at Joe as if he saw a headless ghost rising out of the grave. It almost made Joe laugh. What the hell! he said to himself; the kid wouldn’t dare to name anything to the women. And anyhow, he didn’t see nothing but what his own dirty mind imagined. . . . He’s no better than me himself. I can handle him, too.
“This is my nephew, Wilfred Pell,” said Miss Gittings, pleasantly.
“Please to meet yeh,” said Joe affably.
The frantic look in the kid’s eyes warned Joe not to put out his hand. Hemightexplode.
Wilfred had been down to Staten Island. The Aunts approved of these Sunday excursions. For once they were of a mind with Wilfred about something. To-day he had discovered a lovely spot called Willow Brook, which in its wild beauty and solitude might have been a thousand miles from New York, instead of actually within the city limits. It had been a good day.
Upon entering the house, his heart sank, recognizing from the tones of his Aunt’s voice that there were strangers in the drawing-room. One could not get past the open door without being seen. And he did want to get to his own room to think. He debated sneaking out again, and entering by the basement, but his Aunt called him in her company voice. The second time she called, he was obliged to enter the room.
He was astonished to see a boy of his own age, sitting with his back to the windows. He examined him with eager curiosity. When the boy arose and came towards him, Wilfred’s heart failed him. That boy of the East Side!—cleaner now, and better dressed, but the same boy! Wilfred turned sick inside. This was a hallucination, of course; that wicked, bold, long-nosed face had haunted him, these past weeks. This was the Tempter; the destroyer of his peace! Well, it was all over then; this was the end; he was done for!
Then his Aunt May introduced them to each other in her silly-sounding voice, and Wilfred realized that Joe was no apparition. He looked at him in helpless confusion. By what trick of fate had he come to be sitting in the drawing-room of the prim Aunts as if he belonged there? The explanation when it came was natural enough:
“This is the boy who brought me home when I sprained my ankle on Thursday night.”
Wilfred’s heart sank lower still; for this looked like the direct interposition of Fate or whatever Power there was, on the side of the enemy. If this boy had actually gained a footing in his own home, how could he, Wilfred, hope to withstand him, and all that he represented? . . . He didn’t want to withstand him. He was lost. After the first glance, the black-haired boy avoided looking at Wilfred. He was as demure as a cat. He knew his own power. Wilfred glanced at the roses with a painful sneer. Faded ones, of course, because they were more pathetic.
An awkward constraint fell upon the quartette. Aunt May, having introduced the two boys with as much as to say: You two ought to be friends, had become silent and fidgety. It must be apparent now, even to her fuzzy wits, that we couldn’t be friends, thought Wilfred. There was some desultory conversation between Joe and Aunt Fanny. The black-haired boy was exercising a horrible fascination over Wilfred. Fairly well dressed now, Wilfred perceived how good-looking he was. A healthy, pink color showed in the bold, thin profile; the whole head expressed a power of cynical hardihood. This boy doesn’t carewhathe does! thought Wilfred. In body, too, Joe’s shoulders were wider than Wilfred’s, and under the shoddy pants the line of a trim thigh was revealed. Joe’s comeliness sickened Wilfred. He has every advantage of me! he thought despairingly.
As from a distance, Wilfred heard his Aunt May saying to him in the manner of a rebuke: “Joseph has been telling us about himself. He has had a hard life. . . . I don’t know. . . . It is very interesting to hear. . . . Huh?”
“Wilfred has been so sheltered!” put in Aunt Fanny.
Wilfred listened woodenly. A screech of laughter sounded through him. Oh my Lord! they are on the way to make a hero of Joe!
“Very interesting. . . .” Aunt May repeated vaguely. “. . . Huh?” The presence of Wilfred forced her to look at Joe anew, and to ask herself what was to come of his being in the house. An unfortunate boy, and not to be blamed in any way; still . . . a great boy like that . . . almost a man . . .
An uncomfortable situation. Joe was master of it. He stood up, saying easily:
“I gotta go now. Malcolm’ll be lookin’ for me.”
A feeling of relief pervaded the other three. Joe, with eyes modestly cast down, waited for the ladies to invite him to call again. They felt strongly the suggestion to do so, but with Wilfred standing there, resisted it; and were glad that they had resisted it as soon as Joe was out. But all three inmates of the house knew by instinct that they had not seen the last of Joe. The sisters looked at each other with eyes eloquent of relief. Nevertheless, Aunt May said:
“A deserving boy, sister. . . . Huh? . . . We must do something for him.”
And Aunt Fanny answered: “Yes; and gifted with a strange power, May.”
It fell to Wilfred’s part to show Joe out of the front door. When they got out in the hall Wilfred’s heart was pounding, and he had a difficulty in getting his breath. Not for anything would he have looked at Joe; he knew without looking, how Joe’s hard, bright, all-knowing eyes were fixed on his face; and Joe’s thin protuberant upper lip was flattened in a zestful grin. As Wilfred stood holding the door open, Joe came so close to him that he could feel the warmth of his body, and stood there, trying to make Wilfred look at him. But Wilfred would not.
“Goin’ to take a walk to-night?” Joe murmured.
Wilfred, nearly suffocated by the beating of his heart, silently shook his head.
“Well . . . any time you feel like it . . . come on down. You’ll find me somewheres around those corners. . . . I’ll show you ’round.”
Joe ran down the steps thinking: Funny look that kid’s got. But I got him going. Wonder why he takes it so hard? . . . Oh, to hell with them; the whole three of them is easy! I can get what I want out of them. . . .
Wilfred closed the door, and leaned his forehead against the ornamental glass pane. It had a sort of Gothic arch cut in the glass, from which depended a number of meaningless tails, each winding up in a curlicue. Wilfred, nauseated, was thinking:
“Any time . . . any time . . . that means I’ll have to fight it every night. . . . Wouldn’t it be better to give in at once, and save all that? . . . Disgust might cure me. . . .”
From the drawing-room Aunt May called him.
Mrs. Boardmanpoured her sister a second cup of coffee. Wilfred had just departed for school, and the sisters were able to talk more freely.
“Sister,” said Mrs. Boardman, looking very uncomfortable, “do you . . . do you entirely believe Joe’s story?”
Miss Gittings looked no less uncomfortable, but answered quickly: “I see no reason. . . . Huh? . . . Obviously Joe was too ignorant to . . . anyhow, you and I agreed long ago that it was better to be deceived than to be sceptical!”
“Wilfred says. . . .”
Miss Gittings caught her up. “And since when have we been taking Wilfred as an. . . . Huh? . . . Oh, Wilfred is so . . . I declare, Fanny! You know it as well as I do!”
“But Joe’s story does vary, sister.”
“That signifies nothing. A spiritual experience is susceptible of various. . . . Huh?”
“Well, very likely you’re right. . . . What are you going to do about him?”
“Do about him?”
“Well, he keeps coming here. . . .”
“I don’t see why you should put the entire responsibility up to me!” said Miss Gittings tartly.
“You brought him here the first time.”
“I didn’t!”
“Sister!”
“He brought me. . . . Huh? . . .”
“Oh, he makes me so uncomfortable!” cried Mrs. Boardman from her heart. “And you, too, sister! It is useless for you to deny it!”
Miss Gittings did not deny it. She merely stirred her coffee. After awhile she said: “I think my first plan. . . . Huh? . . . A strangely pertinacious boy! . . . Let us take him. . . . That must be his Jewish blood . . . to a meeting of the circle. If Professor Boiling or Mr. Latham should happen to. . . . Huh? They being men . . . it would be more suitable. . . .”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Boardman with a sigh. “Certainly he is too much for us! . . . But sister,” she objected. “If we took him to one of the meetings wouldn’t it look as if we were prepared to vouch for him?”
“Vouch for him?” echoed Miss Gittings, startled. “Huh? . . . Well, what alternative is there?”
“I thought we might just mention Joe to Professor Bolling, without taking any responsibility for him, and ask the Professor here some night to question Joe.”
Miss Gittings considered the suggestion. “Yes,” she said, “letting the professor understand of course that our minds were quite. . . . Huh? We might ask Mr. Latham the same night; and Mrs. Van Buren; but not the other members of the circle with whom we are not exactly on. . . . Yes! And we might ask two or three people from outside the circle to whom we wish to show some little. . . . Quite informally. . . . Huh? . . . But Joe himself, sister, do you think. . . . Huh? . . .”
“Oh, I’m sure he will behave admirably,” said Mrs. Boardman, not without a touch of bitterness. “He is so quick to adapt himself.”
“It must all be very informal. . . . You might make one of your Spanish buns. . . . Huh?”
“Do you think we could pass wine? In father’s day. . . .”
“I think that would be an affectation now. Everybody knows that we do not keep wine in the house. . . . It would give us an opportunity of asking Cousin Emily Gore here. . . . Huh? . . . She affects to be interested in. . . . And we cannot entertain such rich people in any formal way.”
“Do you suppose Amasa Gore would come?” asked Mrs. Boardman eagerly.
“Naturally; if it was in the evening. Cousin Emily is not the sort of woman who goes out in the evening without her husband.”
“Oh! in that case he could meet Wilfred, without it seeming to have been contrived! Oh, sister! if Mr. Gore would only take an interest in Wilfred, the boy’s future would be secure! . . . But Wilfred issodifficult!”
“I will prepare him beforehand,” said Miss Gittings.
“No! No! sister. I confess I do not understand the boy, but I am sure that would be a mistake! He becomes so cynical and obstinate when we try to point out a proper course of action to him. Say nothing to him beforehand. It is the only way!”
“Oh well, in any case Mr. Gore must dosomething. . . . Huh? . . . We may properly let them see that we expect it. . . . His wife’s first cousin only once removed! . . . A pitcher of lemonade will be much more suitable. . . .”
“What about a bottle of whiskey for the gentlemen?”
“Cousin Emily would hardly approve. She has strong views. . . .”
Miss Gittingshad asked Joe if he would come on such and such a night, and let a college professor question him about his “psychical” experiences. There would be a few other friends present, she said. When Joe had suggested that his clothes were hardly suitable for an evening party, he had been met with silence and pained looks. He had not really expected to get a new suit out of it; he had discovered before this that these people, though they lived nice, were poor in the sense that they had to look twice at every dollar. He had begun to ask himself if they were worth bothering about; he hadn’t got anything out of it; but now he decided that the chance of meeting their friends was worth one more night of his time.
Joe conceived the idea of bracing Isador Cohen for a new suit on the strength of his rise in society. Cohen kept the best-known secondhand store in town on lower Sixth avenue, and Joe had had various dealings with him. There were fine clothes in his store, too. So Joe had told his story to Cohen, offering to prove it by letting Izzy see him go into the Eleventh street house by the front door. Izzy took him up; and not only did he see Joe admitted to the house; but a moment later he received a greeting from Joe through the parlor window. Izzy subsequently allowed, that Joe was a smart feller, and advanced him a suit, and all the fixings. Joe picked out a neat blue cheviot of good quality, and was fitted and sewed up on the spot. At Izzy’s they specialized in providing a man with a quick change.
The party was for eight o’clock. Joe was the first to arrive. The ladies of the house were greatly pleased with his improved appearance; but the white-faced boy walked out of the room when Joe entered, and did not appear again, until the other guests had come, and his Aunt went up-stairs to fetch him. The college professor proved to be a young man, tall; elegantly-dressed; and having a sort of childlike, wild eye. The other guests were mostly elderly. They were all solemn. Joe had not the slightest anxiety on the score of fooling them; because they obviously wanted to be fooled; and expected it. He made out to be quiet and bashful among the strangers. The white-faced boy was watching everything he did with a sneering smile: he was on to Joe. What of it? Joe was on to him, too.
Joe was reminded of a Broadway play by the way all the people sat and stood around the drawing-room, talking in fancy voices with the idea of letting each other know what fine people they were. Like kids at a sidewalk game. It was funny to see full-grown men standing for it.
The last pair of guests drove up to the house in a handsome carriage with two dummies on the outside seat, wearing tall hats with ornaments at the sides, and dark green overcoats with silver buttons. Joe watched them from the window. One dummy jumped down from his seat before the carriage quite stopped, as if he was worked by clockwork, and ran around behind the carriage to be ready to open the door. That’s what I call style, thought Joe.
The entrance of this pair into the drawing-room changed the whole atmosphere of the party. It was clear to Joe from the silky quality that appeared in the attitude of everybody present, that these were not just ordinary rich people, but something exceptional. The professor was nowhere now. Seeing this, all Joe’s faculties sharpened. He recognized a great opportunity. His whole nature went out to the new arrivals. He became one great yearning; to get next! to get next! The other people in the room ceased to exist for him.
The gentleman was a handsome, middle-aged man, somewhat soft in face and body. He wore a fine dress suit; and sported a neat, pointed beard. His expression was inclined to be sulky; his eyes gave nothing away. The lady was a tall, spare, faded blonde; wearing an expensive, ugly green silk dress, and a good deal of jewelry. She had a proud, sour look; and took all the smiles and bows of the people present as her right; whereas the gentleman was indifferent to them. Joe hung around them, hoping to be taken notice of. He had not been brought to the attention of any of the guests yet. The lady put up her glasses, and looked at him as if he had been something in the menagerie; the gentleman took no notice of him whatever.
Joe soon gave the lady up. She was not in his line at all. He concentrated passionately on the gentleman. He surrendered himself, that, by entering into this other nature, he might command it. By degrees Joe became aware that the gentleman scorned spirits and spiritualists: that he had been brought there against his will: that rich though they might be, his wife had him tied fast to her strings: that behind his grand front lurked a timid soul. He was an intensely respectable party; his clothes; his expression; his whole bearing showed how conscious he was of being respectable: and yet! . . . and yet! . . . The sharpened Joe at certain moments perceived a pained roll to the man’s eyeballs, such as you see sometimes in a horse. He had a trick of wetting his lips with his tongue; and when he did so, Joe took note between mustache and beard of how fleshy and dark those lips were. Joe glanced at the sour-faced wife, and smiled inwardly. Hope dawned. With a man so respectable as that, you’d have to be damn careful what yousaid; but you could let him see things without saying them.
Oblivious to the clack of voices in the room, and the moving about, Joe, quietly, with all the force of which he was capable, desired the gentleman to look at him. Since the rich pair were the centers of attraction in the room; everybody trying to bespeak their notice by word or smile, his task was difficult. Joe was patient. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, he said to himself; he must look at me in the end . . . hemustlook, because I want him to.
In the midst of a conversation with somebody else, the gentleman’s bored glance suddenly swerved to Joe. Joe, outwardly the quiet, abashed boy, let a world of meaning appear in his eyes for him alone. The gentleman was startled; he hastily turned away his glance. He changed color; puffed out his cheeks a little; twirled the ornament on his watch chain. By and by his eyes came creeping back to Joe’s face, and found Joe’s eyes waiting. The two pairs of eyes embraced, and were quickly cast down. I’ve got him going! thought Joe exultantly.
Joe had heard the gentleman addressed as Mr. Gore. That suggested nothing to him; Gore was a common enough name. But later, he heard the lady call her husband Amasa, and when he put the two names together, a great light broke on him. Amasa Gore! Joe had read plenty abouthimin the newspapers. One of the sons of Isaac Gore, with whose story every boy of the streets was familiar. The smartest guy America had ever produced; the little wizard of finance; the railroad wrecker; who used to throw Wall street into a panic by holding up a finger; and who died leaving a hundred million dollars. For an instant Joe’s heart failed him at the bigness of the game he had cut out for himself;Amasa Gore! But he stole another look into the gentleman’s face, and confidence came winging back. He was only a man like any other. He was easy!
When the psychical part of the evening was introduced, Joe accommodated himself to the wind from Mr. Gore’s quarter. If Mr. Gore had come there expecting to give the laugh to the spiritualists, naturally he would be put out if the show appeared to be a success.
So Joe turned tongue-tied and idiotic. He could relate no interesting experiences; he boggled at answering the simplest questions. The ladies of the house were astonished and shamed before their guests; the professor was nonplussed; the white-faced boy in the background though he had always mocked at the psychical experiences, looked at the distressed faces of his Aunts and was angry. However, Joe cared nothing about these people now. He saw that Mrs. Gore took the failure of the exhibition as a personal affront to herself, and that her husband was secretly pleased that she was cross. Joe was satisfied with the outcome.
The professor abruptly dropped his questioning, and the while company plunged nervously into general conversation again. Joe saw that they would have liked to kick him out, but they couldn’t, because it would not have been high-toned. Instead, they all made out from that moment that Joe was no longer present. That suited Joe very well. He remained in an obscure corner between the end of the piano and the dining-room door. At intervals Mr. Gore’s uneasy eyes crept to Joe’s face, and never failed to find Joe’s eyes waiting.
There were great difficulties in Joe’s way. Mr. Gore was so respectable and scary, he saw that it would be up to him to make all the running. In the end his man might escape him out of sheer funk. It was necessary for him to have a private word or two with Mr. Gore before the evening was over; and how was that to be managed when the millionaire was continually surrounded by admiring listeners, who obliged him to play the respectable. That’s what’s the matter with him, thought Joe, thinking of the pained roll to his eyeballs; there’s always people watching him, and he never has a chance to be bad. Well . . . !
Refreshments were served. There was a blight upon the party, and while it was still early, the ladies retired up-stairs to put on their wraps. The gentlemen had left their hats and coats on the hall-rack, and they stood in the hall talking, while they waited for the ladies. Besides Mr. Gore and the Professor, there were two others. The boy who lived in the house had disappeared. It was now or never with Joe. With a modest air he made his way out between the gentlemen. He knew Mr. Gore would look at him as he passed; and he did look. Joe gave him a speaking glance; and letting himself out the door, waited on the stoop.
It worked. Mr. Gore presently came through the door behind him, and glanced importantly below as if he had come out to make sure that his carriage was waiting. He made a great business of cutting and lighting a cigar; ignoring Joe. Joe smiled inwardly. He had but a precious second or two; no time to beat around the bush.
“I couldn’t go on with that fool business after I seen you,” he murmured. “I could see that you was on to that foolishness.”
“That was very, very wrong of you!” said Mr. Gore severely; “to deceive those good ladies!”
“I never thought of the wrong of it until after I seen you,” said Joe, making his eyes ask. “Then I was sorry all right. . . . It was them led me into it. They liked to be fooled. And I’m only a poor boy.”
“Have you no employment?” asked Mr. Gore.
Joe shook his head.
“Um! . . . Ha!” said the millionaire.
“Will you give me a job?” whispered Joe.
Mr. Gore looked scared, and puffed out his cheeks. “Impossible!” he said. “Ah . . . in my sort of business there is nothing suitable. . . .”
“Will you let me come to see you?”
“Impossible!”
“Oh, I don’t mean come to your house,” said Joe. “Of course the Madam wouldn’t like a poor boy like me comin’ round. . . . But to your office . . . ?”
“Quite impossible!” gasped the millionaire.
Joe heard the voices of the ladies within. He had but one more throw! “If you was to walk home to get the air, like,” he whispered swiftly, “I could catch up to you. And you could talk to me. If I only had a man like you to tell me what to do . . . !”
Mr. Gore gave no sign. The door opened, and the rest came streaming out on the stoop. Joe flattened himself against the balustrade, and watched. There were polite good-byes. It seemed to be the general feeling that the Gores must be allowed to get away first; and everybody else remained on the stoop, while the millionaire handed his wife down, and the footman opened the carriage door. Mr. Gore paused with a foot on the step, as if he had just had an idea.
“. . . Er, my dear,” said he to his wife, “I am smoking. I will walk home so that you may not be troubled by the fumes.”
Joe felt like God.
The footman closed the carriage door, and running around behind, climbed up nimbly as the carriage started. The turnout clip-clopped briskly down the street. Mr. Gore set off towards the Avenue, swinging his shoulders.
The long-legged young professor suddenly scampered down the steps. “Oh, Mr. Gore, if you’re walking . . . !” he cried.
In his heart Joe cursed him.
Mr. Gore paused politely. There was a brief exchange on the sidewalk which Joe could not hear. Then . . . the professor remained standing where he was with a foolish look, and Mr. Gore walked on, swinging his shoulders. Joe’s heart rebounded.
PART TWO: YOUTHS
PART TWO
Nothingin the Gore offices could have been changed in many years, Wilfred supposed. Many a country lawyer did himself better. Mr. Amasa Gore shared one very large room with his secretary, John Dobereiner and his assistant secretary, or office boy, or door-keeper, or whatever you chose to call him, which was Wilfred. The room had a door opening directly on the public corridor; and double doors in the right and left walls. Various officials of the Gore railroads strolled through from time to time; and Mr. Isaac Gore, the elder brother, was in the habit of making his escape through their room, when his own way out was blocked. Still, there was privacy of a kind, the room was so big. From his corner Wilfred could not hear what Mr. Gore might be saying in his corner; nor could Dobereiner from his.
Wilfred’s particular job was to open the corridor door when anyone knocked. He would open it a crack first, with his foot behind it, while he reconnoitred. So far there had never been any excitement. Nothing was painted on the door but the number of the room, 47; and this password, was given out only to Mr. Gore’s friends. Occasionally a crank or a begging widow took a chance and knocked: that was all. In the beginning Wilfred had speculated on what he would do should an anarchist burst in with a bomb in a satchel. That had happened to Russell Sage, once. Wilfred had made up a story about it, in which he played a heroic part; but it was not one of his best stories.
Mr. Gore’s big roll-top desk was turned cater-cornered. The door into his brother’s office was at his hand in casehewanted to make a quick getaway. When he was seated at his desk, Wilfred could see no more than the thin lock of hair which waved on his forehead, and his sulky eyes when he raised them. Mr. Dobereiner’s desk was in the other front corner; Wilfred’s desk in one of the back corners. One could have given a ball in the middle of the room.
The great chance of his life! his aunts called it; being placed so close to a millionaire. How Wilfred hated it! Day after day he felt as if there was some foul stuff smoldering in his breast, the fumes of which were slowly suffocating him. So much had been made of this job, he couldn’t conceive of any escape from it. The whole millionaire atmosphere; the bluff, man-to-man air which the cleverest of Mr. Gore’s creatures had learned to adopt towards their master; he hated it. The private secretary, Dobereiner was an out and out toady and lick-spittle; Wilfred didn’t mind him; it was the fine gentlemen; the various stockbrokers; corporation officials; dummy directors and so on; Ugh! Loathsome!
Mr. Gore was a good enough employer; liberal; he was rather a fool behind his big front, and Wilfred could have liked him under other circumstances. Millionaire and office boy preserved a distant air towards each other. Wilfred took care to keep the lashes lowered over his resentful eyes. He kept his employer’s check-books and accounts; thus he knew that Mr. Gore’s income amounted to more than seven hundred thousand dollars a year. It made the office boy grind his teeth.
Wilfred had not enough to do to keep him busy during office hours; and he shamefully neglected what he had to do. It had been understood when he came, that he was to perfect himself in shorthand; that he might take some of the correspondence off Dobereiner’s hands. There lay the Pitman textbook, and the note-book handy to his hand; and the sight of them turned his stomach. Wilfred spent the greater part of the days in listless dreaming: his body held in such a position that to a glance from behind he might appear to be practicing shorthand. He suspected that Mr. Gore spent hours dreaming, too. Well he was able to if he wanted. Certainly there wasn’t much business transacted in that office. Yet Mr. Gore kept regular office hours. Apparently he hadn’t anything to do, but come sit in his office. So far as Wilfred could judge he had never read a book in his life. What an existence for one with two thousand dollars a day to spend! But to scorn his employer didn’t help Wilfred any; he knew he was the idle apprentice, and he hated himself.
A murmur was heard from Mr. Gore’s corner, and Dobereiner, springing up, paddled to his employer’s desk. He had very large flat feet that turned out wide, and his knees gave a little with every step. He had bulging blue eyes that held a doglike expression; and his broad, ugly, German face was always oily with devotion. An invaluable creature, Wilfred conceded, but not the man he would choose to have around him. A brief whispered colloquy took place—everything was whispered in that office; and Dobereiner came hustling over to Wilfred’s desk, breathing a little hard, as one who bears momentous tidings.
“Mr. Gore has decided not to go out to lunch,” he said. “Please bring him a glass of milk and two chicken sandwiches from the directors’ restaurant.”
Wilfred cast a glance on Dobereiner, and went out. In a moment or two he returned—empty handed. Dobereiner ran to meet him.
“Where is Mr. Gore’s lunch?” he demanded, aghast.
“I gave the order,” said Wilfred. “A waiter will bring it directly.”
Dobereiner’s slightly bloodshot eyes stuck out at Wilfred—but more in dismay, than anger. “I told you to bring it!” he stammered. “Mr. Gore must not be kept waiting!”
Wilfred looked at him without speaking, one side of his mouth pressed stubbornly into his cheek. All but wringing his hands, Dobereiner turned, and waddled out of the room.
In due course he returned, bearing the glass and plate as if they were holy vessels. Placing them on Mr. Gore’s desk, he stood back. Mr. Gore did not ask the wherefore of this act of service, but picked up one of the sandwiches, and bit into it. Wilfred suspected that such incidents as this did not injure him with his boss; after all they were of the same class: it was other things.
Mr. Gore was still munching when there was heard a light, assured tapping on the glass of the corridor door; two fingernails rotated. Wilfred’s breast burned and his lip curled painfully as he went to open the door. They all knew who this was. Dobereiner turned a foolish, beaming smile towards the door; and Mr. Gore looked over the top of his desk with all the sullenness gone out of his face. Wilfred opened the door; and Joe Kaplan breezed past him.
“ ‘Lo, Wilfred! . . . ’Lo, Mr. Dobereiner. . . . Good morning, Mr. Gore.”
He got no answering greeting from Wilfred; but a fat lot Joe cared for that. That was the worst of it; filled with a fervor of indignation, Wilfred had not the power to make Joe feel it. Why? He knew. It was because his indignation was insincere. The sight of the glittering Joe made him sick with envy. He was crushed by the hatefulness of his own feelings.
Wilfred scanned him in the effort to discover something . . . something that would enable him to feel superior. But Joe was too perfect; he was too exactly what Wilfred himself dreamed of becoming; the gay, gilded, insouciant youth. Insouciant was one of Wilfred’s favorite words. To be sure, Joe was a littletoowell-dressed to be a gentleman; but there was nothing blatant about him; he picked things up too quickly. And everybody was ready to forgive a slightly dandified air in so good-looking a youth. Wilfred, while he sneered at the beautifully-fitting dark green suit with a small check, the puffy Ascot tie with a handsome pearl in it, the Dunlap derby fresh from the burnisher’s iron, secretly admired. Somehow Wilfred’s effects never came off. Though they were of the same age, the finish Joe had acquired made him look three or four years older. Wilfred was miserably aware of being an untidy and gangly eighteen.
Joe plumped himself down like an equal in a chair at Mr. Gore’s left hand; and their heads drew close together. Whisper; whisper; whisper; punctuated with chuckles. Joe was visible at the side of the desk; but Mr. Gore Wilfred could not see; however, he knew only too well how the man’s face relaxed; how his sulky eyes became moist and irresponsible; and how the thick lips parted. Almost anybody except the fatuous Dobereiner could have told at a glance what was the relation between those two. Wilfred had no difficulty in reading his employer; a sensual man, weak and shy. It was Joe’s perfect shamelessness which had won him. It was the same with everybody. The satyr in Joe’s hard, bright, close-set eyes encouraged the imprisoned appetites to come out and stretch themselves. Had not Wilfred felt it himself? Only he could not let himself go. He did not blame Mr. Gore; there was something warm and human in the man’s surrender. He was getting something that his nature craved. But Joe! while he smiled and murmured and debauched others,hiseyes remained cold and bright and watchful. What a horror!
What did they talk about? They were arranging the details of parties, Wilfred assumed; small, discreet parties, conducted without danger of discovery. That would be Joe’s business. Wilfred’s opulent imagination proceeded to supply the details of their parties. Oh Heaven! supreme luxury and voluptuousness! And Joe of course, a sharer in it all. Envy suffocated him. Joe had turned out such a tall, handsome, graceful fellow. And no foolish scruples to hamper him! Joe shared in it; the soulless gutter-snipe; the lad no older than himself; he had everything; money; good clothes; admiration; and endless pleasure: while he, Wilfred whohadimagination and feeling was poor and half-baked and despised and starving for joy! Why didn’t the dull millionaire come tohimfor his pleasures? He had imagination. In Joe’s parties there would be a leer; but inhisonly a mad, mad joy! In the midst of this Wilfred grinned bitterly at himself; for he knew well enough that he was shameless only in his imagination. A shivering fastidiousness held him in leash. After all, Joe was a fitter instrument for the millionaire.
These talks between Mr. Gore and Joe always ended in the same way. Mr. Gore pulled out a little drawer in his desk, and took something from it that found its way into Joe’s trousers pocket. The fool! thought Wilfred; does he suppose I’m not on to him? Always, later, a check would be made out to a certain Harry Bannerman, a creature of Mr. Gore’s, who would carry it to the bank; and bring back the wherewithal to replenish the drawer against Joe’s next visit. Many hundreds of dollars weekly. Mr. Gore did not require cash for anything else, since he had credit everywhere.
And then Joe, sleek and elegant as a panther, would steam out, scattering good-byes; and Mr. Gore, resuming his ordinary sulky mask, would glance intimidatingly at poor Dobereiner and Wilfred, as if daring them to suggest that he had ever dropped it. Dobereiner of course, had no thought of criticizing his master; and Wilfred at least adopted a polite air of inscrutability. On this occasion whether or not Mr. Gore suspected the thoughts that Wilfred hid under it, he said:
“Bring over your note-book, Pell.”
Wilfred obeyed with a heart full of bitterness—sharp apprehension, too.Hewas required to make pot-hooks while Joe was sent out with a pocketful of money, to scour the markets for beauty! The inevitable humiliation awaited him now; perhaps the final humiliation. Wilfred hated his job, but was none the less terrified of losing it. For where would he, the timid, the self-distrustful, the half-baked, find another? And how could he ever face the Aunts who had plotted for years to obtain this job for him?
After an unhappy quarter of an hour Mr. Gore said in a bored voice: “. . . Er . . . How long does it take to learn shorthand?”
“Three months,” murmured Wilfred.
“You’ve been studying it longer than that.”
“It’s difficult . . . to apply oneself at night.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re not very busy in the daytime. . . . What’s the matter with you, Pell? You would do very well here, if you would only wake up. You appear to be half asleep most of the time.”
“I will try to do better,” mumbled Wilfred, loathing himself.
He went back to his desk, seething. The fool! The fool! The empty-headed, dull, rich fool! It’s lucky he has his money-bags to give him some identity! He hasn’t even got brains enough to go to the devil by himself, but must hire a boy to lead him!
Then his mood changed. He sat staring at the square glass inkstands on his desk, with their lacquered iron covers; cheap stuff stamped out by the million. What is to become of me? he thought with a sinking heart; I undertake to rage at everything, yet I am no good myself. There is no beginning place in me; I am spread all over. I want to be . . . I want to be everything, and I have started at nothing. Everything I try to grasp dissolves in my hand. I exist in a fog! . . . God! how I hate business! My father was a failure, and I am a failure, too. What is one to do if one has the instincts of a gentleman and no money . . . !
Dobereiner was looking over at Wilfred in horrified commiseration. He could imagine nothing worse than to be rebuked by Mr. Gore. During the rest of the day his manner towards Wilfred was gentle. Wilfred glared at him helplessly.
Joehad chosen the top floor in a row of old walk-up flats on West Fifty-Eighth street. The neighborhood was one of the best in town; but the house itself was unimproved, and a little run-down; anybody might live in such a house. It was pleasant too, to walk up the interminable, dark, shabbily-carpeted stairs, and at the top burst into a paradise of red velvet portières and Oriental divans crowded with feather cushions. Joe had bought all the stuff himself; it had been great to pick out the very best quality velours and the thickest rugs. It was Mr. Gore who stipulated for a walk-up apartment. In a house with an elevator, you ran the chance of a blackmailing elevator boy.
Jewel Le Compte (Mr. Gore had suggested the changed spelling of her name) sat half reclining in a Morris chair, sewing a ribbon strap on a sheer undergarment, with microscopic stitches. Joe lay stretched out on a divan with his hands under his head, watching her. She was wrapped in a blue silk kimono embroidered with pink chrysanthemums; Joe had picked that out, too. Her legs were crossed, and from the foot which was elevated, a quilted blue mule dangled free of her rosy heel. Her plentiful black hair was gathered in a rough twist on top of her head: and she had no make-up on her face. Joe liked to see her without her war paint; when she left it off, the babyish look came back to her cheeks; they no longer looked all of a piece; but showed delicate, dusky discolorations and unevennesses. A damn pretty girl, Jewel; and how well she suited her luxurious surroundings! He had had the wit to foresee that while she was still in Allen street.
From time to time Jewel looked up from her sewing, and her eyes travelled with pleasure over Joe from head to foot.
“You’re fillin’ out,” she remarked. “You’ll soon be a man.”
“Aah!” said Joe; “I’m man enough alretty to beyourmaster!”
Jewel laughed. “Listen to it! I got you to nurse, boy.”
“Where would you be if it wasn’t for me?” demanded Joe.
“Oh, as a business manager you’re all right,” said Jewel. “That wasn’t what I meant. . . . In ten years maybe you can talk about bein’ my master!”
“How do you know I’ll stick to you that long?” asked Joe.
“Well, you will. Not that it matters . . . but you will.”
Joe felt uncomfortable. “Why will I?”
“I don’t know . . . I guess we’re a pair . . .”
A thousand recollections tumbled into Joe’s mind. He looked at Jewel and in her unsmiling eyes he saw the same things that were in his own mind. For the moment he seemed to have become Jewel; and Jewel him; he the woman; Jewel the man. It made him feel queer. “Aah!” he snarled.
Jewel resumed her sewing. “It’s like this,” she said; “with all the other fellows I’ve known, I had to chuck a bluff, see? One kind of bluff or another. And they the same with me. Like an Irish jig, when you dance up to your partner and back. . . . But with you—though you’re only a boy, it’s different. . . . You belong to me, like.”
“The hell I do!” said Joe.
Jewel shrugged. “Not that my saying so, matters. Either it’s so or it isn’t so, and we can’t change it.”
“I t’ink you got Jewish blood, too,” said Joe, “That’s how they talk.”
“I do’ know what I got,” she said indifferently.
“The Jews are a great people,” said Joe; “when they chuck all that Jewish bunk, and get down to tacks. . . . But an old-fashioned Jew! Gee! Like my old man. A preachin’ Jew’s the limit!”
Jewel was not listening to this. The color of her eyes seemed to darken. “I know why it is,” she said. “With me . . . you forget yourself.”
“You forget yourself, too,” said Joe quickly.
“Oh, sure!” she said lightly. Joe perceived resentfully that she only said it to shut him up. “It’s great to be able to make a fellow like you lose himself,” she went on with a slow smile; she was honest enough then; “you’re so stuck on yourself!”
“Aah!” said Joe sorely. For the moment he could find no rejoinder; he studied her, looking for some way to get back at her. “You’ll get fat,” he said at length.
“Sure, bright-eyes!” she said unconcernedly. “Your eyes run over me like rats. . . . But at that, men will still like me.”
“Why will they?”
“I dunno. . . . It’s somepin. . . . For the same reason maybe, that women will always run after you, you pink and black devil!”
“Because I’m so handsome?” said Joe, grinning.
“Nah! there’s a plenty of handsomer fellows than you!”
“Well, you’re no Lillian Russell!”
“It’s somepin we know . . . but I don’t know how to name it. . . . Neither you nor me gives a damn. . . .”
“Now you’re talkin’!” said Joe, pleased.
“But . . . we’ll never be able to get shet of each other,” Jewel went on with her darkened eyes.
“We’d better get hitched, then,” said Joe, sneering.
“Oh, Gawd!” she said, disgustedly.
Joe echoed her disgust. “Oh, Gawd!”
They looked at each other and laughed.
“You’ll always come back,” she said.
“I’m gonna marry a swell dame,” said Joe; “the pick of the whole four hundred. . . . You needn’t laugh. You wait!”
“Go ahead,” she said.
“You kin marry, too, if you play your cards right.”
Jewel laughed suddenly. “Thanks for the favor,” she said. . . . “Not on your life! I like my own self too well. I like to live alone. . . . Why should I marry? I ain’t ambitious.”
“To get a man to keep you when you’re old,” said Joe.
“I’ll put by enough for me old age,” said Jewel. “I don’t want much. All this—” she waved her arm about, “is all right to attrac’ custom, but it don’t mean nottin’ to me. . . . A nice plain room wit’ a winda on a busy street. There I’ll sit. . . . All I want good is a bed. My bed must be of the best; a1 box spring and a real hair mattress. Plenty of tasty food cooked the way I like it. Nobody to hinder my comin’ and goin’; nobody wit’ the right to bother me! That’s livin’!”
“Aah! you’ll git like the fat lady in Barnum and Bailey’s!”
“All right!”
“It wouldn’t suit me,” said Joe. “I want to be mixed up in things. I’m gonna be a big man. One of the biggest. I been about a bit now. I’m as smart as anybody I see. I’m gonna make them feel me. I like to see the buggers crawl on their bellies. Like Dobereiner. I’ll have a secretary like Dobereiner. Makes you feel great. . . . And a hell of a big house on Fift’ Avenoo, and a yacht and a private car . . . there isn’t anything I won’t have!”
“You’re welcome to it,” said Jewel. “Seems childish to me.”
“And a swell-lookin’ wife to take around, wearing diamonds all over her. . . .”
“Just the same, you’ll come to see me,” said Jewel smiling to herself; “fat though I be.”
“Have you braced the old man?” asked Jewel.
Joe armed himself with caution. He had been waiting for this. “No,” he said. “All bills paid, and a hundred a week clear! Ain’t yeh satisfied?”
“No,” said Jewel. “This may blow up any time. I want to be protected. A lump sum down. A man as rich as that; it’s customary. It don’t have to be in cash. A string of pearls, if it suits him better. Or anything I can realize on.”
Joe smoothed out his tone. “You’re right, Jewel. You’re certainly entitled to it. Just leave it to me. I’ll brace him as soon as the time is ripe.”
“The time is ripe now,” said Jewel with quiet stubbornness.
“Who’s runnin’ this show?” Joe demanded.
“There’s some things you don’t know,” said Jewel. “You’re only a kid. The time is ripe. The old man is ripe.”
“All right,” said Joe. “I’ll brace him next time I see him.”
“That’s what you said before. You needn’t mind now. I’ll brace him myself to-night.”
Joe sat up suddenly. “Go ahead!” he cried violently. “And the whole show’ll blow up right then! I know that old geezer! Ifyouask him for money, he’ll fade! He likes to make out it’s all a fairy-story like, when he comes here.”
“Has he already given you the money for me?” Jewel asked unexpectedly.
Joe’s mouth opened and shut. He perceived that he had betrayed himself by showing too much heat. Oh well, he had to have it out with her anyhow. “Yes,” he said coolly, falling back on the divan.
Jewel stood up suddenly. Her sewing fell to the floor. She stood over Joe with clenched hands; a flush in her dark cheeks; her big eyes burning—she was handsome! “You dirty cheat!” she said, not loud. “You rotten kid! Rotten before you’re ripe! You thieving Jew! . . . I might have known how it would be!”
Joe felt relieved. If this was how she was going to take it, he was right there with her. He grinned up at her. “Aah! chase yerself!” he drawled. “This is my show. I started it, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t earn this money, damn you!”
“I put you in the way of earning it!”
Jewel suddenly quieted down. “Was it in cash?” she asked.
“No, railroad bonds. He got ’em out of the safe deposit box himself.”
Jewel sat down, and picked up her sewing. This was what Joe was afraid of. He ground his teeth together. “Aah, what was you anyhow when I picked you out of the gutter?” he cried noisily. “You was nottin’ but a dirty little Allen street. . . .”
Jewel smiled at him. “What’s the use?” she said; “you know you got to fork out.”
“I’m damned if I will!” cried Joe. “Now you know it, what you goin’ to do about it?”
Jewel merely pulled her sewing this way and that.
“I’m damned well gonna keep those bonds!” shouted Joe. “You tell the old man when he comes here to-night! Maybe he’ll hand you a new set. I don’t think! Whatcanyou do? It’s back to Allen street for yours ifIdrop you. The old man’ll fire me, you says. What the hell do I care? ‘ ’ll still have the mon’, won’t I? I’m about troo wit’ t’ old stiff anyhow . . . and he don’t need neither me nor you no more, if you want to know it; cos I’ve taught him the ropes. There’s plenty other girls.”
Joe’s tone changed. “. . . But you got him eatin’ out of your hand. He don’t want to hafta make up to a new girl. If you was wise you could keep him long as you wanted. The longer you kep’ him, the harder it would be for him to make a break. You could work him for a whole sheaf of gilt-edge bonds. But you gotta make a stink, I suppose. That’s just like a woman. All right! All right! If you’re so stuck on the Allen street houses. . . .”
Joe ran out of matter. You’ve got to have some return from the other side in order to keep this sort of thing up. He jumped up, and walked about the room muttering angrily; picking things up and putting them down again; darting little side looks at Jewel. She went on sewing.
Joe found his voice again. “It’s up to you now. I warn yeh! I’m about to resign the job as your manager anyhow. It don’t give me enough scope. I’m tired suckin’ up to that old dub—to anybody! I’m gonna operate on my own now. I’ll have them comin’ to me! And I don’t need no woman in my business neither! . . . A few thousands is little enough for you to pay me for puttin’ you where you are. . . .”
In spite of himself, Joe could not keep his mind on any one line; it shot off this way and that. He sounded weak to himself. How the hell had he come to let himself be put on the defensive anyhow? Now, struggle as he would, he could not keep a whining tone from coming into his voice.
“Aah! what’s the matter with yeh? I ain’t tryin’ to swipe the bonds offen you. You know me! I on’y want to use ’em for a little while. I got a scheme. . . . I can pay you back twice over. I can make money for both of us. You said I was a good business man. Well, I’m a better business man than you know. On’y I got to have a lump sum to start with. As a decoy to attrac’ more. I’ll tell you my scheme. . . .”
“I ain’t interested,” said Jewel, biting off her thread.
“Now listen, Jewel. . . .”
“You hand over my bonds,” she said, looking at him steadily. “When they’re in my own hands, then you can talk. I’ll have the handling of my own money, see? If your scheme looks good to me, I’ll put something in it—but I’ll say how much.”
Joe flung himself down on the divan again. “Yeah!” he said in extreme bitterness. “You think you’re gonna run my business, don’t you? What you know about business? You never been off Allen street till you come up here. You’d do better to stick to your own business, and leave me mine.”
“Where are the bonds?” she asked.
“Aah! in the inside pocket o’ me coat.” Joe flung an arm over his eyes.
Jewel got up without haste.