"Twelfth Regiment leaves via Penn. R. R. to-morrow7 A.M.""Terrible Riots in Tokio.""R. W. Ralston appointed Second Assistant Secretary of the Navy."
"Twelfth Regiment leaves via Penn. R. R. to-morrow7 A.M."
"Terrible Riots in Tokio."
"R. W. Ralston appointed Second Assistant Secretary of the Navy."
As he fought his way through the crush he heard his name repeated on all sides, and a strange exaltation took possession of him. He had a curious desire to call out: "Yes. I'm Ralston! The Ralston up there! I'm he! That one! I'm Ralston!"
He felt like a prince suddenly called from seclusion to rule his people. He was going to do things which these garlic-breathing folk would spell out and marvel at. How often his name would flash across the square or play duskily upon the curtains at the theaters, linked with generals and "fighting" admirals. He laughed with the joy of it, that he, the settled-down man of the world, the hunter, the manager of estates, the student of literature, the lover of poetry, was going to play the popular hero.
He broke through the outer ring of the crowd and made for the park. A huge flag draped the porch of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. The flush in the west had faded to a streaky white and the stars had sprung from behind their curtains. A white beam of light played steadily from thetower of the Garden into the north. When it should swing to the south actual hostilities would have commenced. All the windows in the office buildings gleamed with activity. As he looked back he could see the man in the sweater erasing his name with a sponge, and his heart sank with momentary disappointment. Some new thing was coming over the wires hot with the fire of war. At the same moment he heard up the avenue the faint tapping of drums and the shriek of the fifes.
A line of mounted police burst into the square. The throng in front of the bulletin board surged over to the park. Then with a clash of cymbals and a prolonged rattle from the drums a full band burst into "There'll be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night." The regimental flags came into view. In the light of the stars, in the dying of the day, in the moment of his exaltation, Ralston recognized the colors of his old regiment. Had he chosen he might have been marching at the head of his company even then. The crowd, cheering, forced him to the curb and into the street. With brimming eyes he doffed his hat and saluted the colors.
As he did so a sudden wild yell went up from the multitude. From one side of the square to the other reigned pandemonium. The very sound of the band was drowned in the uproar. From the top of the Flatiron Building a stream of rockets broke into the sky, and with a single movement the throng turned and gazed tensely at the Garden Tower, as the white shaft of light slowly swung into the south.
The little white house on East Twenty-fifth Street was ablaze with light as Ralston eagerly mounted the low stoop and pressed the bell. The visitor knocked the slush from his overshoes, slapped the left pocket of his coat as if to make certain that something was still safely there, stepped quickly across the threshold when the butler opened the door, handed the man his hat, threw off his fur coat upon an ebony chair, and only paused, and that but for a moment, at the entrance of the drawing-room. He was a tall, clean-built, brisk young man, thoroughly American in type, with an alert face, which, if not handsome, was nevertheless agreeable and attractive—a man, in a word, whom one would not hesitate to address upon the street, provided the question was pertinent and the information essential.
It was clear from his manner that he was no stranger, but to-day there were more women than usual at Miss Evarts's Monday afternoon, and the lights and chatter seemed a bit confusing to one whose mind was charged with the importance of a newly acquired responsibility. Miss Evarts was an old friend of his mother's, who, somewhat to his amused annoyance, took it upon herself to assume toward him a sort of sisterly attitude, which allowed her the privileges of relationship without prejudice to a certain degree of elderly sentiment. Attendance upon her selectly Bohemian gatherings was a dutywhich he performed when in town, with a regularity attributable less to a regard for Miss Evarts herself than to the fact that Ellen Ferguson was usually to be found there presiding over the tea table and ready for a brisk walk uptown afterwards.
"Ha! There he is now!" exclaimed a middle-aged man, with iron-gray hair and pointed mustaches, as the newcomer parted theportières.
The group about the warrior turned with one accord and stared, at present teacups, in his direction.
"Good afternoon, ladies and soldier," said Ralston. "I am the torchbearer of war. Firing has begun. The searchlight on the Garden is leveled south—like the lance of the horseman on the tower in Irving's 'Legend of the Arabian Astrologer.'"
The colonel set down his cup and pulled his mustaches with a heavy frown. He took pains to let it be seen that he was overcome with conflicting emotions—that stern duty summoned him from home and dear ones, but that his heart was throbbing to avenge his country's honor. They all looked toward him as if expecting a few appropriate remarks. The colonel's hands trembled, the veins upon his forehead swelled, and he seemed about to speak. Then he did.
"You don't say!" he remarked.
There was a sigh of disappointment from the ladies, and in the hiatus which followed Miss Evarts shook hands with Ralston and introduced him to the others as "the newly appointed secretary, you know." Which, or what of, she did not disclose.
"I always thought Ralston was cast for a topliner," continued the hostess, as he modestly evaded their congratulations.
"It's about time I left the chorus," answered her guest, adapting his language to Miss Evarts's open predilection for the footlights.
"Kicked your way up?" inquired, in a hoarse voice, a stout lady of stage traditions, who was clad in a wall-paper effect of gay brocade.
"My dear Mrs. Vokes, don't judge everybody by your own professional experience," remarked a young lady in brown, whose aquiline features were accounted "perfectly lovely" by a large suburban, theater-going public.
"Come! Come!" interrupted Miss Evarts loudly. "Miss Warren, order yourself more humbly before your betters."
The two popular favorites glared at one another defiantly.
"Well, in any event, Colonel Duer, he'll soon be giving you your sealed orders," said Miss Evarts, thus disposing of a situation which might have become awkward.
"Not unless the colonel gets a transfer. I'm steering the navy, not the army," laughed Ralston.
"The man behind!" murmured Mrs. Vokes.
Ralston bowed. "Very good, Mrs. Vokes," said he. "Yes, too far behind!"
"The navy, of course," Miss Evarts corrected herself, letting fall a lump of sugar and following it with an attenuated rivulet of cream. "Just a drop, as usual?"
"Did you read the President's proclamation?" asked a young girl in a gray picture hat. "Wasn't it splendid?"
"Mr. Ralston will probably write the next one," interjected another.
"No, only correct the proof," amended the hostess.
"And point it with 'Maxims'?" ventured the Vokes, now restored to complete good humor.
"Very sweet of you, Mrs. Vokes," said Ralston, recognizing the artificial dove of theatrical peace.
"You leave very soon, don't you, colonel?" asked Miss Evarts. "Is your kit-bag ready?"
"Yes, we leave by the Pennsylvania, at seven o'clock. The armory's a perfect bedlam. It looks as if every man in New York had collected all his worldly goods and chattels and dumped them on the tan bark," replied the colonel.
"The confusion must be something delightful. I suppose you have plenty of canned peaches?" inquired the brown girl innocently. "I understand that they are the staple food of heroes."
"They're certainly an indispensable stage property," admitted the colonel with something of an effort, recalling various evaporated valiants of the Cuban campaign.
During this profound discussion Ralston's eyes had been wandering from group to group, and at this moment the object of their search herself joined the party upon the other side of the table.
"Have another cup of tea, Ellen," urged Miss Evarts.
"I can't, positively, Aunt Bess," responded the girl; "I must go presently."
"How are things?" said the girl in brown, looking significantly at the colonel. "Have all your officers turned up?"
"Ye-es," he replied. "Constructively."
"Constructively?" persisted his inquisitor. "What a queer way to be present! Rather bad for an officer in a swell regiment to be dilatory, isn't it?"
"Every man has shown up," replied the rather nettled veteran, "except one, and he'll be along, all right."
"Oh, of course!" murmured the girl. "By the way, have you seen John Steadman? My cousin Fred, you know, is an officer in the same company, and he said last night at dinner that he hadn't seen him at the armory. Some one was mean enough to suggest that these ferocious military men aren't always 'warlike.'"
"There are no tin soldiers in my regiment," answered the colonel severely, turning for reënforcement to Mrs. Vokes.
Ellen Ferguson bit her lip, flashed a glance at the girl in brown and pulling her chinchilla boa into place departed with her nose in the air toward the next room. She paused for a moment to read the faded inscription, framed and hanging beneath an old cavalry saber on the opposite wall, then turning toward Ralston, raised her eyebrows inquiringly as if to ask how long he was going to occupy himself with fat old ladies and cheap actresses, and vanished. But the brown girl turned her guns on Ralston again before he could get away.
"I didn't know you had any drag at Washington," she remarked. "Who have you got on your staff—a senator or just a common garden M.C.?"
"Neither," he answered politely. "I don't know either of our senators, and I couldn't name a single congressman from the State."
"And then you have been away so long," added Miss Evarts. "Why, it's eight months, isn't it? If you ever had any pull I should think it would have faded away long ago."
"I was certainly the most surprised of all," said Ralston. "I haven't a blessed qualification for the job. I suppose the fact that I've just come from the Philippines and have seen something of the Asiatic Squadron may have had a little to do with it."
"For the navy as against the army, perhaps," said the brown girl. "But it doesn't explain your getting an appointment in the first place. You must be a politician in sheep's clothing."
"Well, to be perfectly frank," answered Ralston, seeing that he was in for it, "a year ago last September, when I was shooting out at Jackson's Hole, I ran across the President and saw something of him for a week or so. I was able to help him in a matter of no importance, and you know he isn't the kind that forgets anything. He's a good fellow!"
"Just like him," commented the young lady. "Now, why didn't he give it to my brother George, who got nervous prostration making stump speeches for him at the last election?"
"Oh, I admit it's entirely undeserved, but I must plead guilty to being glad of a branch office in the White House and of a chance to be one of the boys in the conning tower," answered Ralston.
"Well, you're only an assistant secretary, anyway," said the girl. "I'm green with jealousy as it is. But aren't you sorry not to be going with your old company?"
"Don't!" he exclaimed. "You make me feel as if I belonged to the Home Guard. Honestly, I'd rather be back with the regiment, but, you see, I had served my five years ages before you were born. I ought to give the younger fellows a chance."
"I see," said the girl. "When do you go?"
"To-morrow morning at ten. I reach Washington in time to dine at the White House."
Several of the women arose and the group about the table gradually drifted away. The crowd was thinning out. Ralston, knowing very well that Ellen would be waiting for him, mumbled something to Miss Evarts and escaped.
"Well!" he exclaimed, entering the other room, and seizing her hands as she stood with her back to the fire. "Pretty good, isn't it?"
"I should say it was!" she cried delightedly. "Why, Dick, it's the chance of your life. If you make good only a little bit you may get anywhere. It's perfectly splendid! I'm so glad!"
Genuine pleasure shone in her eyes. Ralston's heart beat faster. Of course she cared for him. She must care for him. There was a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood— He stepped closer and bent his head toward hers.
"Nell—" he began.
But she apparently was not listening, and the glad look had quickly given place to another. He paused, wondering at the change. Her dark eyes, with their Oriental, upturned corners, were half veiled and her high-arched brows were contracted in a frown. He drew back and pulled out his cigarette case.
"Dick," she cried suddenly, "I want to tell you something! I'm sorry to bother you when you're so happy, and I'm so proud of you, but I'm terribly worried about something."
"Dear! Dear!" laughed Ralston, striking a match and seeing that his opportunity had somehow vanished. "What's up? Been losing at bridge?"
She smiled faintly.
"Don't make fun of me," she replied. "No, I'm really bothered." She put her hand to her forehead and pushed back her hair. "I'm afraid one of my friends isn't— Oh, I don't know how to explain it!"
A momentary suspicion flashed across his mind.
"Do you think I ought to go to the front?" he asked, relieved.
She gave a little laugh.
"You? What a goose! Of course not!"
Ralston experienced a shock of disappointment.
"What is it, then?"
"Dick," said she in quick, subdued tones, "I can't help speaking about it, and you're the best friend I've got. It's about John."
Ralston moved uneasily.
"John Steadman?"
"We're old friends, you know."
"Yes, I remember."
"I don't suppose you've seen him?"
"Not since I came back. Before that, often."
Ellen again passed her hand wearily across her forehead and turned abruptly away from the fire. The action was unconscious, involuntary. He had never associated Ellen with Steadman.
"What is it?" he asked sympathetically.
"Oh, nothing definite. Only he's been a little irregular of late. I haven't seen him for over a week. I don't think anybody has."
"He's a captain in the Twelfth, isn't he?"
"Yes. O Dick! You heard what that spiteful Warren girl said about tin soldiers?"
"Of course. Nonsense!"
"I can't help it. It'sHonor, you know!"
"You mean you think he mayn't turn up?"
"I can't—I won't think that."
"But he hasn't?—and they're beginning to talk?"
"You heard for yourself."
"Oh,that!"
"Some people never live down less."
"But if he does turn up, why there's an end to it," he said.
"But why isn't he here?" she cried.
"How do I know? He may be on a business trip."
"Of course I thought of that," she replied.
"Oh, he'll be there, all right, when the time comes."
She began arranging her furs. One thing Ralston always admired about her was her care in dress. He did not know how few clothes she really had. She seemed always elegantly, if not luxuriously, clad.
They strolled slowly toward the door.
"Well," he said, "I'm awfully sorry you're upset. I'm sure he'll turn up all right. A man couldn't afford not to. Don't worry. If there was anything that I could do, no matter what, you know I'd be glad to do it for your sake, Ellen."
"Thank you, Dick. I know that," she answered.
"Well, good-by," said he. "Say good night to Miss Evarts for me, will you? I've got to run. I'm late for dinner as it is."
She gave him her hand and he held it for a moment. As he did so he looked her full in the face.
"Ellen," said he, "tell me something. Do you care about—Steadman?"
She turned her head slightly from him before replying. Then she looked back again and answered hesitatingly:
"I think—I care."
As she spoke the words she withdrew her hand. Then she flushed and her eyes brightened.
"Dick," she said slowly, in a voice that trembled a little, "IknowI care."
Theportièresfell behind him. Mechanically he put on his overcoat and left the house, pausing for a moment at the top of the steps. A little smile hovered on his lips, but his eyes were very sad.
Ralston walked as far as the Twenty-eighth Street subway station, where he caught a local for Forty-second Street. Thence he hurried to Delmonico's. It was now seven o'clock, and already the restaurant was nearly full.
"Philip, have you seen Mr. Scott?" he asked of the doorman.
"In the palm room, Mr. Ralston," answered the servant at once. "The head waiter told me to say that your dinner was ready."
Ralston checked his coat, and soon caught sight of his newly engaged private secretary at a small table in a corner. They shook hands, and Scott pointed to a pile of letters and papers beside him.
"This stuff came while you were out. I thought I'd better bring it along to save time."
"Good!" commented Ralston. "What is most of it?"
"Eight letters of congratulation, which I listed. A long letter from some old lady friend of yours when you were in Exeter——"
"I know—Mrs. Gorringe."
"Then that power of attorney from Bee, Single & Quick, that you expected. Oh, I don't know—a lot of circulars: 'Red Cross,' 'Special Relief,' 'Society for Assisting Wives and Children of Enlisted Men.'"
"Send 'em twenty-five apiece."
Mr. Scott took out his notebook and made an entry.
"How about that power of attorney?"
"It seemed all right. I don't know. We never had anything just like it in the law school."
Ralston burst out laughing.
"How old are you, Jim?"
"Twenty-five."
"Well, just wait ten years, and if you ever see a legal paper that looks like anything but a page out of Doomsday call my attention to it, will you?"
"Well, it's got a seal, anyway."
"How about those antelope heads from Livingston that were being mounted?"
"Wilcox telephoned they'd be shipped to-morrow."
By this time the soup had arrived, and both fell to with appetites born of a hard day's labor. The waiters were apparently serving "extras" with every course, and more than half the men at the tables were in uniform. Flags hung everywhere, and at each plate apapier-machécannon held the customary bonbons. In the extreme eastern corner the Hungarians were playing "Dixie," "Old Kentucky Home," "Maryland," "Star-Spangled Banner," "Suwanee River," "A Hot Time," and other patriotic airs, one after the other, the conclusion of each being marked by loud applause from all sides.
"Isn't it great!" exclaimed Scott. "You know my governor thinks my going down with you is out of sight. He'd hate to have me enlist. Of course, I'd rather really, but in the long run I fancy there'll be more doin' right in Washington."
"You'll be busy, all right," said Ralston. "Has Thompson packed all the trunks?"
"Sure; ages ago."
"And did you buy the tickets?"
Scott produced the tickets with obvious pride.
"Well, you're satisfactory so far. By the way, what are you going to do to-night?"
"Mrs. Patterson's theater party—'The Martial Maid.'"
"And you skipped the dinner?"
"To dine with my chief. Orders, you know. Duty before pleasure."
"Good boy!" said Ralston. "How did you fix it?"
"Why, I spoke to Ellen and she managed it for me. Of course, if it was for you anything would go with her. Isn't she a stunner?"
"You spoke to Ellen, did you? Well, you have a confidence born of your newly acquired elevation. I saw her at Miss Evarts's this afternoon. She didn't mention you, however."
"Do you know a fellow named Steadman?" continued Scott. "Good-looking chap, but a 'weak sister,' I think."
"Yes, I know him. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. He's around with her a good deal."
"Well?"
"Well, I hate to see a girl like that throw herself away, that's all," burst out the secretary with energy.
"Why, Steadman used to be a decent fellow enough," said Ralston, thinking rapidly. "Anything the matter with him that you know of?"
"He bats an awful lot."
"Something new?"
"Yes; within six months. Uncle died and left him a lot of loose change. He's been blowing it in."
"How? Of course, it's on the quiet?"
"Oh, yes! He's at church every Sunday."
"Yesterday?"
"No. I meant metaphorically."
By eight o'clock dinner had been entirely served, and Scott had received all his instructions.
"Guess I'll step over to the Pattersons' now for a short cigar," he remarked, "and pick up the crowd. See you to-morrow at eight-thirty."
"Good night. Have a good time," called Ralston after him, as the youthful figure passed out. He was very fond of Scott. He wondered if what the boy had said about Steadman was true. A fellow could go down a lot in six months, or in less. Steadman had always had a weakness. Ralston had never liked him, though forced to be in his company on many occasions.
"I'll smoke at the room," he thought, and paid his bill. "I'm going off to Washington, William, so I'd better settle," he remarked to the old waiter.
From Delmonico's he crossed the avenue, walked north for two blocks, and turned into his rooms, which were situated in a small, new bachelor apartment house. He found everything in confusion and Thompson hard at work packing books.
He shed his frock coat for a smoking jacket, and took his seat at a low desk with a drop light, having brought his letters with him from the restaurant. First he rapidly answered his notes of congratulation, following a set form, then hastily read the power of attorney from his lawyers, and signed it, after which he O. K.'d a pile of bills, gave some instructions to Thompson about his library, wrote a long letter to his mother, who was spending the winter in Italy, then took up the letter from the"old lady in Exeter," and threw himself back into a chair before the fire.
It was eighteen years since he had seen her, the woman who had kept the boarding house in which he had lived at school—who had mended his clothes, lent him small sums of money, brought him his meals when sick, served him for a temporary mother, lied for him when necessary, and been rewarded with the real affection of her young lodger. This was the first letter she had ever written him. In the left-hand corner of the white, blue-lined paper was an embossed reproduction of the State House in Boston, and the shaking penmanship filled every inch of space and ran back to the front page again.
Exeter, March 5, 19—.Dear RichardYou must forgive an old woman calling you Richard, who worked so hard for you when you was a boy. You must be quite a man by this time to be made Secretary of the Navy as I was told by Deacon Stillwater. I am proud of you, Richard, and so is everybody here, that one of my boys should rise so high, whom I never thought of except throwing apples at Mrs. Abbott's goat and playing baseball in the middle of the street. I was hoping to hear from you that you had married some lovely young lady in New York. Don't put it off too long. If you are not going to fight you would not even have to wait until after the war. I am glad you are not going to fight and yet will serve the country. Think how long it is since I lost my dear husband at Antietam—nearly fifty years. I am an old woman, Richard, and shall not live long. I am going to leave you my chest of drawers with brass handles you used to like—you remember you used to keep chestnuts in the bottom. Be a good boy. If you can spare the time from your duties I shall be pleased to hear from you.Your old friend,Sarah Gorringe.
Exeter, March 5, 19—.
Dear Richard
You must forgive an old woman calling you Richard, who worked so hard for you when you was a boy. You must be quite a man by this time to be made Secretary of the Navy as I was told by Deacon Stillwater. I am proud of you, Richard, and so is everybody here, that one of my boys should rise so high, whom I never thought of except throwing apples at Mrs. Abbott's goat and playing baseball in the middle of the street. I was hoping to hear from you that you had married some lovely young lady in New York. Don't put it off too long. If you are not going to fight you would not even have to wait until after the war. I am glad you are not going to fight and yet will serve the country. Think how long it is since I lost my dear husband at Antietam—nearly fifty years. I am an old woman, Richard, and shall not live long. I am going to leave you my chest of drawers with brass handles you used to like—you remember you used to keep chestnuts in the bottom. Be a good boy. If you can spare the time from your duties I shall be pleased to hear from you.
Your old friend,
Sarah Gorringe.
"Dear old soul!" he sighed, staring into the fire. "What a brute I am never to have written to her after all she did for me. The good woman's reward!"
For nearly a half hour he sat thinking of his life at Exeter and of the changes time had wrought in his existence. Then he arose, carefully selected some writing materials, and wrote for some time without finishing his letter. Once he got up, crossed to the fire and studied for several minutes a photograph which stood on the mantel, after which he took a few strides around the room and returned to his task.
Twenty minutes later he laid down his pen, and taking the pile of manuscript in his lap read it over carefully. The last paragraph he reread several times. Then he placed the whole thing in an envelope and addressed it—to Exeter, New Hampshire. The little clock on the mantel pointed to half-past nine as he took off his smoking jacket and called for his coat and hat. He was tired—very tired—but something made him restless.
"I'm going to the club for a while," he said to his valet. "I'll be back in half an hour. Call a hansom."
He waited with his back to the fire, still smoking.
"Second Assistant Secretary to the Navy!" he muttered. "Not bad for thirty-four! . . . But what does it amount to? . . . What does anything amount to? . . . Who really cares? . . . It's like making the 'varsity or your senior society. . . . You always think there's some one—or that there may be some one . . ."
"Cab's here, sir," said his man.
Ralston gathered up the mail and started down the stairs. At the curb stood a hansom, the driver cloaked in a heavy waterproof. A fine rain had begun to fall, making the light from a nearby street lamp seem dim anduncertain. As Ralston stepped toward the lamp-post to mail his letters he observed a diminutive messenger boy vainly trying to decipher the address upon a telegram, which he was holding to the light. Ralston pushed the letters into the box and closed it with a slam.
"Does Mr. Ralston live here?" asked the boy.
"Right here!" answered Ralston, holding out his hand.
"Please sign."
He scrawled an apology for a signature upon the damp page of the book and tore the end off the envelope. Then, like the boy, he held the yellow paper to the light. It bore but nine words:
Please try to find John for my sake.—E.
Please try to find John for my sake.—E.
He read the words several times and repeated them aloud, as if in doubt as to their meaning. "Find Steadman!" Where? Find him! How? Why? . . .
The messenger boy had started away, whistling shrilly "Marching Through Georgia." Ralston wrinkled his forehead. Here was irony of Fate for you! She called upon him to save the honor of this man, whom he hardly knew, for whom he cared not a whit, whom by this time he had begun to hate, to save him—for her. He stood motionless in the rain, the telegram hanging limply from his fingers. He had not seen Steadman for nine months. Knew practically nothing of him except from clubroom gossip. And Ellen asked him to find the man for her, in the seething life of the city—find him in such a way that, wherever found, his honor would be safe, find him secretly, surely, and place him upon his feet at the head of his company before the next morning at seven o'clock.He crumpled the paper into his pocket and turned to the waiting driver.
"Just drive down the avenue slowly."
"Yes, sir."
He climbed in and threw himself back upon the seat.
"Something of a large order, my dear young lady," he muttered. "If your attractive friend is to be found, it must be done without publicity. It would be a great deal worse to find him where he ought not to be, than not to find him at all. There are many cycles in New York's Inferno. If it were not for that, my old friend Inspector Donahue could send out a general alarm and turn him up before daylight. But that won't—no, that won't do. He's got to be located on the quiet and put into shape to march respectably off with his company.
"By George!" he exclaimed aloud, "only a woman would think of asking a chap to set out on such a wild-goose chase! But then I don't suppose she realizes. She thinks he's playing billiards at the club, or something like that, maybe!" He set his teeth.
"If she only knew!" he muttered. "Why didn't I speak a little sooner!"
"Shethoughtshe cared. . . . Sheknewshe cared!" he whispered to himself. Then he laughed rather grimly.
And one who had happened to glance into the cab at that moment, as it passed a lamp, would have seen the gaunt face of a man smiling behind the tip of a cigar. Farther down the avenue another would have seen the same face without the cigar—without the smile.
"Jerry's!" said Ralston sharply, through the manhole.
The driver jerked the reins, wheeled his horse round abruptly, and started on a brisk trot through Forty-fourth Street. Then turning quickly down Sixth Avenue, he brought the hansom to a sudden stop in front of a restaurant whose electric lights flared valiantly into the rain and mist.
There were three doors, but Ralston, without pausing, passed into the hostelry through the middle one. The cabman waited without orders, well aware that those who frequent Jerry's presumably desire the means of transportation therefrom. A bar ranged opposite an oyster counter gave a narrow passage to the dining room. At the end of the bar was a cashier's desk.
The after-theater crowd had not yet arrived, it was too late for dinner guests, and few tables were occupied. Ralston, however, had not expected to find Steadman there. As he reached the desk a well-built, red-cheeked Irishman stepped forward.
"How are you, Mr. Ralston? Congratulations!"
Our friend grasped the hand of the other cordially.
"How are you, Jerry?"
"You're a bit of a stranger."
"Yes. Something like a year. Been out looking over the Philippines."
"Not so good as the little old place?"
"I should say not. By the way, sit down over here a minute. I want to speak with you."
Jerry led the way to the rear of the restaurant and offered Ralston a chair. Then he drew up across the table, while the latter put him a few brief questions.
"Well, that's what I wanted," said Ralston, as they arose. "Yes, I remember now, he used to know her. I'll try it!"
"I'm afraid it's the only tip I can give you, Mr. Ralston."
"Thank you very much, Jerry. Remember, now. I haven't seen you—no matter what happens."
"Not a word!"
"Good night."
"Good night, sir."
Ralston crossed the sidewalk and sprang into the cab.
"The Moonshine—stage," said he shortly.
The party of which Ellen Ferguson was a member did not leave Sherry's until a comparatively late hour, and, while she was in no mood for gayety, anything which could fill the hours pending news of Steadman was a relief. She had found pleasure in talking to Jim Scott, that good-natured, immature, and loyal son of old Harvard, who had hardly opened his mouth the entire evening save in eulogy of his new chief. From the time they had left the house in the omnibus to the moment she had been deposited at her apartments he had not ceased his pæan of praise. Ralston was a "corker," a "crackajack," it was a great thing to be going to work with a man like that—a fellow who had done things, not one of your sit-in-the-club-window-and-have-a-little-drink style of chappies (this with a significant glance at a certain Mr. Teadle who made one of the party), but one who could use a rifle or write a book with equal skill.
Mr. Teadle saw no particular reason for Ralston's appointment? Jim supposed sarcastically that the only proper candidatewouldhave been an absinthe-drinking scribbler of anæmic little poems. For a short time it looked as if Jim were going to utilize Mr. Teadle as a mop, until Ellen came to the rescue by entering into a violent flirtation with the new secretary, who furtively wondered if she really cared for that Steadman fellow, after all. Miss Ferguson, on her side, like the boy immensely, but did not stop to analyze her reasons. His freshness and enthusiasm were enough to account for the attraction.
The Moonshine Theater had suggested a ludicrous parody of Brussels on the eve of Waterloo, and Scott had loudly regretted that his job did not carry a uniform with it. There were whole rows of them in the orchestra and the gallery. For a finale the chorus sang the "Star-Spangled Banner"—all up, of course, with the whole house cheering and waving hats and handkerchiefs. Tears were in Ellen's eyes as the party made their way out of the box, along the side of the house, to the entrance where the omnibus was waiting. They had piled in, and then, just as they had started—Ralston!
How strange that she should cross him in this fashion at such an hour! Could he have received her message? Perhaps, even now, a yellow slip was lying beneath her door marked: "Party not found." But if not on her mission, what was he doing at the stage entrance of the Moonshine?
All through the supper at Sherry's, with its martial airs, its patriotic ices and confections, its wine and laughter, she was tormented by uncertainty. If he had not received the message! Time was flying, Steadman was not being sought for, Ralston was—dallying.
Her maid removed her cloak and helped her undo her dress.
"Has anything come for me?"
"No, miss."
"Telephone to the Western Union office and ask if my telegram was delivered."
The maid disappeared, returning presently with the information that it had been receipted for at nine-thirtyo'clock. With a warm wave of relief flooding her heart Ellen slipped on a light wrapper, and threw herself into an armchair before the sea-coal fire.
"She studied the faces alternately."
"She studied the faces alternately."
"You need not wait, Elise. I shall sit up and read."
"Very well, miss. Good night."
"Good night," answered her mistress dreamily.
Outside the rain swept steadily against the glass with a soft, silting sound. From time to time drops fell down the chimney and hissed for a moment ere they vanished black splotches upon the vermilion coals. Behind her an electric lamp of bronze, with an opaque shade, threw a dim light over her shoulder and lit up the masses of her loosened hair.
Presently she arose slowly and went into an adjoining room, returning with a large photograph in either hand. They were framed alike. Placing them side by side upon the rug before her, she locked her hands across her knee, and studied the faces alternately. One was of a young man—almost a boy—with a narrow, high-bred face, dark eyes, sallow, with a mouth curved like a woman's. The other was Dick Ralston, taken about five years before, although the high cheekbones, the gaunt energy, the mature thoughtfulness suggested a man much older. That she cared for Steadman there was no doubt in her own mind. Had she refused to admit it definitely heretofore, the fact that he was now on the verge of social and moral annihilation made it no longer a matter of question. She felt that Steadman's honor was at this moment the most vital thing in her existence. He had thrown it at her feet after a long and romantic wooing. Had laid bare his entire past. She was convinced that he loved her. But at the crucial moment she had hesitated, had not responded in quite the way she had probably given him reason toexpect. She had asked for time for reflection, and could give no adequate explanation in answer to his imperative "Why?" When later he had renewed his suit she had again forced a postponement, and he had departed, annoyed and perplexed.
It was at this juncture that the money had dropped into his hands and he had disappeared. Where was he? On a shooting trip? He frankly admitted caring nothing for sport or hunting. It was not the season for travel, and his name was not upon the sailing lists. Her instinct told her that somewhere in the great city Steadman, oblivious to the call of duty, was living the life from which her influence had called him for a time, reckless of consequences, disregardful of the beckoning finger of opportunity. She knew also that this was his last chance.
She realized that she could never marry Steadman disgraced, yet she felt now that she loved him, and that could she see him and watch him start for the front with his regiment, she would promise him what he had asked.
She took Ralston's picture in her hand and held it to the light. It trembled a little. She knew she could have cared for him—but he was so stern, so strong, so capable. He had never treated her save as a sort of younger sister. She had often wondered if he cared or could care for any woman. With her he was always the same—kindly, sympathetic, obliging, thoughtful. What must he think of her, sending him forth in the dead of night to search the city for a man whom he scarcely knew? Her cheeks burned at the thought of what she had done.
She had hardly known what she was asking when she had sent the message. It had been done hurriedly, as she was leaving for the Pattersons', on the impulse of a moment when she felt that, unless John Steadman could befound, life would cease for her to be worth living—sent in a sort of hysteria in which she instinctively turned to the one man in all the world upon whom she could call for any service she might ask. Dear old Dick! How tired he had looked in the rain! He might be up all night looking for Steadman, and then not find him! And he was to leave for Washington to-morrow.
She went to the window, against which the rain drove in a fine shower, blurring the myriad lights below her that marched in long, straight lines to north, south, and east. On the Tower the searchlight still burned steadily. She shivered and went back to the fire. Then she laid one of the pictures gently against her cheek.
The Moonshine Theater blazes its defiance into the night from a gleaming Broadway promontory, whose cape divides the restless human tide that rises to its neap every evening about eleven and falls to its ebb in the neighborhood of two or three in the morning. Through its arched portals one might drive a hansom cab, and tradition says that the feat has been accomplished.
Here Mrs. Vokes, under the alias of "Hélène DeLacy," first minced her way into popularity—but that was in the days of crinoline. The youths who loitered about its iron-bound stage entrance are gray-headed men to-day, those of them who are still alive. Only old Vincent remains, as rugged as a granite cliff, and as impervious to persuasion, bribery, or anger. "I'm sorry, gents, but it's against my orders," is said as conclusively to-night as it was twenty years ago. He got as far as:
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's against—" then changed it to a wondering: "Bless my soul, Mr. Ralston! Is it you?" as he encountered the set face of our friend.
"Why, Vincent," exclaimed the latter, "you still here? What luck! You don't look a day older!"
"I can't say the same for you, sir. I understand congratulations are in order. Oh, I read the papers. But—" he hesitated.
"But you think I'm rather old for 'Johnnying'?" interpolated Ralston. "You're quite right. I am. But don't be alarmed; this is business. I want to find a young woman named Ernestine Hudson. I must see her at once. Can you fix it for me?"
"I think so," answered the guardian of the wings. "I'd do it if I lost my job. I won't forget in a hurry what you did for my little Bill. Just step——"
At that instant the door was thrust violently open and a gray-coated messenger boy, carrying a large oblong box, projected himself violently against Vincent.
"For Hudson!" he ejaculated shortly.
"Put 'em on that desk," directed Vincent.
"Say, boss, let me take 'em in," pleaded the boy.
"Who do you think you are, anyway?" inquired the doorkeeper. "Get out of here."
The boy lingered, gazing wistfully down the gas-lighted passage, through which floated the hum of the orchestra, confused by the shuffle of feet and inarticulate orders.
Vincent took a threatening step in the direction of the boy, who made a grimace at him and backed slowly through the door. Ralston smiled and looked inquiringly at the box.
"It might serve as an introduction," he suggested with a smile.
"You don't need it," said Vincent. "I guess you remember the way. Just step down the passage, and you'll find the chorus ready to go on for the second act. Hudson's the wheel horse for the partridges. She has a bunch of tail sprouts like a feather duster. What fool things the public pay to see nowadays! Why, they ain't content to let a girl be a girl, but they have to turn her into a bird, or a dress form, or a wax figger, or an automobile, or aflower. Now take this show. It's supposed to be a kind of a 'flag-raiser.' 'Marchin' Through Georgy' and 'Campin' To-night' and all that, and the chorus isbirds. Birds! Sparrers, canaries, and partridges!" he grunted scornfully. "Well, good luck. See you later."
Ralston walked down the passage and pushed open the skeleton canvas door that separated him from the wings. The curtain was down, and a small army of men were noisily pulling enormous flies into place by means of pulleys. One group in the center of the stage were erecting a "Port Arthur" bristling with guns, and several with wheelbarrows were bringing in a foreground of rocks, which others arranged with elaborate carelessness. Overhead hung a wilderness of ropes and drops, with sections of scenery suspended in mid-air. Two spiral staircases of iron sprang from either side and lost themselves in the tangle above. Ascending and descending were a perpetual stream of heterogeneous figures, who went up as birds and came down as village maidens, or who from grand dames of fashion were transformed into Quakeresses or drummer boys. There was loud chattering on all sides, interspersed with deep invectives from the coatless hustlers on the stage. Above all shrieked and rattled the pulleys.
The blinding light and the clouds of dust made the scene utterly confusing, and for a moment Ralston hesitated vaguely. To his left a flock of "partridges" clustered about one of the flies, while one little lady partridge sat apart on a nail keg, and eased her little partridge foot by loosening her slipper.
To the nearest Ralston turned and inquired for Miss Hudson. The girl whom he had addressed stared boldly at him, and without replying waved languidly toward thepartridge on the barrel. It was evident that she took no interest in the friends of Miss Hudson. Ralston turned, and at the same moment heard a shrill cackle from the group behind him. In spite of himself he could feel the red coursing up to his ears. The girl on the barrel had entirely removed her slipper and was stretching her toes. She did not look up at his approach, having already minutely studied his make-up under the shelter of her heavily corked eyebrows, as he emerged from the passage.
"Are you Miss Hudson?"
"Yes," said the partridge, critically examining her instep.
"My name is Ralston," he began rapidly. "I'm looking for a friend of mine, who must be turned up at once. It's a matter of life and death, and he's got to be found. I have an idea you know him."
"Have you?" said the partridge innocently.
"The man I refer to is John Steadman. Do you know where he is?"
The girl slowly lifted her head and looked at him rather impudently. She seemed more like a large doll than a girl.
"I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance, Mr. Ralston, if that is your name, and I don't know your friend Steadman."
There was something about her manner that convinced Ralston that she knew more than she admitted, but it was obvious that for purposes of her own she had made up her mind to treat him with the scant courtesy usually extended by show girls to people who are not worth while, and to people it is worth while to keep for a time at a distance.
"I'm very sorry," said Ralston. "I believed that youwere the one person in New York who could tell me where he was. Of course, you might know him under some other name."
"Why are you so interested in finding this Mr.—Steadman?" asked the partridge, studiously inserting her foot in a shoe that seemed all toe.
"Simply for his own sake."
"Don't you ever come behind for yours?" she inquired abstractedly. Ralston suppressed a smile.
"See here, young lady—" he began, changing his tactics.
"All on for the second!" shouted a big man in a Derby hat. "Here you, Hudson, stop fooling and get into your place! Clear the wings."
From behind the wall of curtain came the distant crash of the contending chords of the overture. "Port Arthur" with its rocks was in place, the Japanese flag flying defiantly in a strong current of air, generated by a frenzied electric fan held by a "super" in the moat. The chorus trooped from the flies, and came tumbling down fire escapes and staircases.
The partridge knocked her heels together and jumped lightly to her feet.
"Peep-peep!" she said. "See you later, old man. Stage door about eleven-thirty."
She nodded at him and started hopping toward the stage. The other partridges were forming in long lines, with much jostling of tail feathers and fluttering of pinions.
"Hurry up there!" shouted the assistant "stage" in Miss Hudson's direction, and then turned hastily toward the opposite flies where some mix-up had attracted his attention.
Ralston saw his last clew hopping away from him. A bell rang loudly, and the orchestra struck up the first few bars of the opening chorus. Hardly conscious of what he was doing Ralston strode quickly after the partridge and, grasping her firmly by the wings, drew her back into the flies.
"Let me go!" she gasped, struggling to free herself. "Let me go! What are you trying to do? Do you want to get me fined?"
"Keep quiet," whispered Ralston, "I've got to speak to you. Do you understand? I can't let you go on. I'll stand for any fine, and square you into the bargain. It's too late, anyway! The curtain's up already."
"Let me go!" she cried, the tears starting into her eyes. "You're hurting me, you brute! I'll lose my job. The management don't stand for this kind of thing. You're a fine gentleman,youare! Oh, what shall I do?"
Ralston's heart smote him. He knew well the hideous uncertainty which being out of a job means to the chorus girl, and its more hideous possibilities.
"I'm sorry," he said humbly. "I had to do it, and I promise you shall lose nothing by it. Now, quick, where can we talk? Not here? The manager would see you."
The partridge wiped her eyes.
"Do you promise to square the management?"
"I certainly do—on my honor as a gentleman."
"Then come!" Hudson darted quickly back among the scenery, and Ralston followed her down a flight of iron steps which led beneath the stage. Pipes ran in all directions, and great heaps of old flies and useless properties reached toward the low ceiling, between which narrow alleys led off into the darkness. A smell of mold and ofpaint filled the air. Even the scant gas jets seemed to burn with a peculiar dimness in the damp atmosphere.
"Come along!" whistled the partridge.
Beyond a pile of lumber in a sort of catacomb she stopped. A bead of gas showed blue against some whitewashed brickwork.
"Turn it up," said Hudson, and Ralston did so.
"Hungry?" she continued. "Icould eat anything that 'didn't bite me first!'"
Ralston laughed.
"Were you in that show?" he asked. "It was a good one. No, I'm not hungry. Suppose I were?"
"This is our rathskeller," she laughed. "Are you thirsty?"
Ralston admitted to a certain degree of dryness.
"Certainly," he said, "I should like nothing better than a large schooner of dark, imported beer. What will you have?" he continued, carrying on the jest.
Hudson, who had seated herself on a low seat by the wall, got up and struck sharply on the wooden partition with a stick.
"What's that?" asked Ralston.
"Perhaps some beer will come out!" remarked the partridge. "Moses was not the only one."
A rattling followed, and a square opening appeared in the wall, in which the shaggy tow-head of a young man was visible.
He grinned at sight of Miss Hudson.
"How vas de shootink?" he inquired. "Does de bartridges vant more vet? Ha! Ha! Youvasa bird!"
"Ya, Fritz. Two schooners and a hot dog. Hustle 'em up."
Fritz closed the slide which covered the opening and the partridge turned gayly toward Ralston.
"What do you think of that? Pretty good, eh?"
"I don't understand," he replied. "Where did he come from? What is in there?"
"I'll tell you. When 'Abe' Erlanger built this house there was a row of old tenements on the side street. Well, Jo Bimberger tore 'em down and built a rathskeller. While he was doing it one of the girls tipped off the boss carpenter to leave this place. Ain't it grand? Say, you get almost dead jumping around on the boards. It looks easy enough, but I tell you sometimes you're ready to scream."
"Just the thing," answered our friend. "Do the management object?"
"Not a bit. 'Abe' gets a rake-off from the saloon. It's good business."
The slide opened and two dripping glasses made their appearance. Ralston received them and handed one to Miss Hudson. Then Fritz passed in a frankfurter about the size of a policeman's night stick.
Ralston drew half a dollar from his pocket and exchanged it for the sausage.
"That's all right, keep the change," he remarked.
"My, you must have it to throw away!" said Hudson. "Twenty-three for you, Fritz. Shut the slide."
Ralston took a deep draught of the beer. He could not help smiling as he thought of the picture he would present could any one of his associates see him at the moment. What, for instance, would the President have said? And the Secretary of War! Underneath the stage of a theater, drinking beer with a chorus girl! He put down the glass and pulled himself together.
"Now to business!" he exclaimed. "This is jolly good fun, but I've a long night in front of me, and I've got work to do in it. Where is Steadman?"
The partridge looked at him inquiringly.
"You don't mean you really are trying to find anyone?"
"Certainly I do."
"Steadman?"
"Yes."
She shrugged her shoulders. It was clear, even to Ralston, that she was disappointed.
"I can't help you."
"Youknowhim?" Ralston's gaze penetrated her feathers.
"Yes. But I don't know where he is—and what is more, I don't care. He's a cad."
"Well, let it go at that. But I've got to find him. How long is it since you've seen him?"
"Three weeks."
"What was he up to?"
"Oh, the usual business. He's badly in. Let him go; he's not worth your while."
"I didn't say he was. But he must be turned up. Was he drinking?"
"Yes!"
"Ah!" Ralston scowled.
"He's a bad one," continued the partridge. "He began at the bottom and worked down."
"You must help me to find him. Who is he running with?"
"I don't know anything about him. I've heard he knows a girl named Florence Davenport. If you can find her she might help you."
"Where does she live?"
"On Forty-sixth Street," and she gave him a number.
Ralston arose and put his hand in his pocket.
"I am very much indebted to you," he said courteously. "You won't mind if I make good your fine?"
He drew out a bill and placed it in her hand. She raised her eyebrows at sight of its denomination.
"No," she said, "I haven't done anything for you. I don't want the money."
"But your fine?"
"That's all right," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "I could have gone on—if I'd wanted to. I was merely bluffing. You couldn't have held me. You're a gentleman, and I don't want the money." She spoke quietly, and looked him full in the face. Ralston wavered.
"Please don't," said the girl, and held out the bill. Ralston took it and returned it to his pocket.
"Miss Hudson," said he, "you have placed me under a great obligation, one that money cannot repay. If I can ever help you in any way let me know."
The partridge got up and led the way toward the staircase. At the top she held out her hand and Ralston took it in his.
"He's not worth it," she repeated. "Let him go."
"Noblesse oblige," he smiled, looking down at her.
The chorus had filed off the stage and were standing on the other side.
"Here you, Hudson! Where have you been?" whispered the manager hoarsely, grasping her roughly by the shoulder. "Get over there."
"Leave me alone!" she cried sharply, shaking off his arm. Then, turning to Ralston:
"Good night, sir," she said.
Outside the Moonshine Ralston found the usual congestion of cabs, landaus, and wagons. He had delayed to exchange a few reminiscences with old Vincent, and it was fully ten minutes before he could find his cabby in the tangle of vehicles. As he stepped into the street, to save the time requisite for the man to draw to the curb, an omnibus was vainly trying to force its way through the side street. It had paused for an instant in front of the stage entrance, and Ralston had caught a glimpse of Ellen's face inside.
A momentary impulse had seized him to stop the coach and tell her of the hopelessness of the task upon which she had sent him, but in the instant of his uncertainty the way had cleared and they had driven on. He had climbed into his own hansom, little the wiser for his experience at the Moonshine.
The sidewalks were jammed with the usual after-theater crowd hurrying either to get home as quickly as possible or to secure seats in restaurants which pandered less to the taste of thegourmetthan to those of theroué. For a solid mile on either side of Broadway stretched house after house of entertainment, any one of which could harbor a hundred Steadmans, and for a quarter of a mile on either hand lay twenty streets, lined with places of a character vastly more likely to do so. He followed the crowd slowly northward, wondering why so few ofthem walked in the opposite direction. Whenever he came to a well-known hostelry he went in and eagerly scanned the tables, but, although he recognized many he knew and who knew him, he found naught of Steadman.
Having visited five "chophouses," a "rathskeller," two "hofbraus," and several more pretentious places, he abandoned the idea of trying to stumble upon his man, and returned to his original belief that only by following some sort of a clew could he succeed. Somewhere in the hot clasp of the city lay the miserable youth he had promised to find. For a moment he regretted the answer which he had just sent to Ellen's apartment—the four words that had pledged him to a fool's errand, the absurdity of which was now apparent. Then came a realizing sense of the importance to Ellen of his mission, and a grim determination to find this man wherever he might be.
He had now reached Forty-second Street, and the crowd divided into two streams, one moving eastward and the other northward, a part of the latter to plunge beneath the Times Building into the subway, and the remainder to add to the already existing congestion in front of the Hotel Astor, Rector's, Shanley's, and the New York Theater. Longacre Square boiled with life—a life garish, tawdry, sensual and vulgar, unlike that of any other city or generation.
The restaurants could seat no more, and a bejeweled, scented throng stood in the doorways and struggled for the vacant tables. The night hawks lining the curb peered eagerly at every passer-by to note signs of intoxication or indecision. Tiny newsboys thrust their bundles of papers against dress waistcoats and felt for loosewatches, ready to dart into the throng at the first move of suspicion on the part of their victims. Clerks with their best girls pointed out these and made witticisms upon them, hoping thus to divert attention from the attractions of the restaurants, for whose splendors they intended later to substitute the more substantial, if more economical, pleasures of the dairy lunch. Automobiles, in which sat supercilious foreign chauffeurs, blocked the entrances of the pleasure palaces. Streams of country folk poured in and out of hotels which made a specialty of rural trade, promising to their patrons, in widely distributed circulars, easy access to everything "worth seeing." These came, were relieved of their money, and, after fervid correspondence on the hotel stationery, went home to poison the minds of their townfolk with descriptions of scenes which existed only in their imaginations.
For every person on Longacre Square after midnight who is there for an honest purpose, there are three who are there either to do that which they should not do or to see that which they should not see. It is the white light in which the New York moth plays before he plunges into the withering flame. It was here Steadman had begun, and like enough he was not far off.
The electric clock above the roof tops moved to a quarter before one as Ralston turned into Forty-sixth Street, and he looked both ways before springing from his hansom and dashing up the steps of the number to which he had been directed. After some time a mulatto maid opened the door and asked his business. Miss Davenport was out, she said. Ralston stretched the truth far enough to say that he was a friend. The girl had no idea where she could be found. Then Ralston also volunteered that he was a friend of Mr. Steadman's. Still the maid remained imperturbable. The sight of a bill, however, led to an immediate change of demeanor.
Yes, Miss Davenport had gone out with a gentleman—not Mr. Steadman—early in the evening. Did she know Mr. Steadman? Yes, she thought she knew Mr. Steadman—a dark gentleman. She seemed anxious to help Ralston, but doubtful of success.
As was not unreasonable, Ralston was beginning to be quite disgusted at the position in which he found himself, a condition which was by no means relieved by the fact that, as he reached the bottom of the steps, he found himself face to face with Colonel Duer and a somewhat elderly lady companion. The new Assistant Secretary felt distinctly uncomfortable. Another man might have turned away his face, but Ralston looked steadily into the colonel's under the full light of the street lamp. Simultaneously he raised his hand to his hat, then crossed the sidewalk and jumped into the hansom. The cabby lifted the manhole and looked down the air shaft.
"Huh?" said he. "Where'll I go now?"
"I don't know," said Ralston.
The cabby chuckled. He was satisfied one way quite as well as another. From his seat of vantage he was able to look down critically upon mankind in general, and had learned to distinguish "the real thing" when he saw it. He had no doubts as to Ralston, and no misgivings at all as to the latter's ability to pay and pay well, and he was as confident that his tip would be in accordance with the most advanced ideas of liberality as he was that this same fare of his was quite out of the ordinary. He had sized Ralston for a thoroughbred from the moment that he had come downstairs. For one thing he did not waste words,for another he neither looked at his watch nor inquired the price; for another—and you could always tell by that—he knew just what he was doing. Moreover, he was perfectly sober. He belonged to that small and distinguished body of midnight travelers who realize that they are in a cab and not in a hammock. Hence Ralston's admission that he did not know where to go to next struck upon the cabby intelligence in the light of a joke.
"Huh?" said he again, removing his cigar.
"I said I didn't know," repeated Ralston.
"Up against it!" said cabby with divination.
"Exactly," returned his fare with a slight laugh. "You are a man of perspicacity."
"Huh?" repeated the cabby.
"I said you were a mind reader," answered Ralston.
"I guess I can see furder'n most," admitted cabby complacently.
Ralston had struck a match and lit a fresh cigar. He was feeling very, very tired. His watch showed that there were exactly six hours left before the Twelfth would start—not a minute more.
The cabby was still peering down the manhole and dropping an occasional sympathetic ash on Ralston's silk hat. His fare interested him—he was beginning to have a notion that Ralston was somebody. Maybe a big military gun. He had that clean, hard look those fellers have.
Suddenly the fare spoke again, in an even more amiable tone than before.
"My friend, how long have you been in this business?"
The cabby hesitated while he made an accurate mathematical computation.
"Five years on a percentage—ten years on my own—fifteen years, sir."