To the President, White House, Washington. Am forced, after all, to decline appointment. See morning papers. Am writing fully.Ralston.
To the President, White House, Washington. Am forced, after all, to decline appointment. See morning papers. Am writing fully.
Ralston.
He handed her half a dollar and she reëntered the office.
Now Miss Davenport was a young person wise in her generation. She had seen many men in many situations, and she realized that the man who had handed her this particular telegram was in a condition bordering on collapse. Had she seen fit to use a sporting term she would have said that Ralston was "groggy" with nervousness and excitement. In addition she was not devoid of the usual amount of feminine curiosity. At any rate, her first move was to read the telegram.
"He's crazy!" she exclaimed under her breath. "Why, he doesn't even know whether they got his name! And Jim's all right." She turned the message over in her hand.
"I guess that telegramcanwait. There won't be anything in the papers. The presses are locked at one o'clock."
"Say," she remarked to the sleepy operator, "what's the rate to Washington, D. C.?"
"Twenty-five for ten words, and two cents a word over."
"Change that for me, will you? Let me have some coppers?"
The man fished out the small change and went back to his accounts.
Miss Davenport slipped the paper into her pocket and returned to the cab.
"Nineteen cents change," she said, handing it to Ralston.
"Where to?" asked the cabby mechanically.
"West Forty-fifth Street," said Sullivan.
They started on. The street lamps were fast palingbeneath the dawn. At Thirty-third Street and Broadway a newsboy was hopping on the cars and shouting his items. A strange thrill of determination had seized Ralston. The die was cast now. There was nothing more to consider.
"Here's yourMorning Journal!" cried the boy as the cab swung by. "New Assistant Secretary of the Navy. Twelfth Regiment starts with a full quota of officers!" He waved his sheets at them.
Inside the cab Ralston set his teeth.
"I'll make it a full quota!" he muttered.
They turned down Thirty-third Street into Fifth Avenue.
"Look here," said Sullivan suddenly, "all I do is to show him to you, see? Understand, I don't get into no mix-up myself! My job ends when I give you the pass."
"All right," said Ralston. "Just show him to me. That's all I ask."
"All right," repeated Sullivan.
They passed Forty-second Street and turned into Forty-fifth, just as the lights in the crosstown cars had been put out.
The house before which they stopped was an old-fashioned brownstone front. A brownstone flight of steps with a heavy brownstone balustrade and huge, carved newel post of the same depressing material led to a pair of ponderous stained doors tight shut with the air of finality possible only to a brownstone side street. The shades on the four rows of windows of this impenetrable mansion were smoothly drawn. At the grated window in the area the lower half of a bird cage, just visible beneath the screen, was the only indication of occupancy. The whole aspect of the place was that of somnolent respectability. One could imagine the door being swung wide, the rug shaken, the broom making a fictitious passage through the vestibule, the curtains going up unevenly in the front parlor, the shades raised in the area, the canary thrilling in response to the shaking of the kitchen range, andPaterfamiliascoming down the steps at about eight twenty-five in a square Derby hat, to go to his real estate office. This is what occurs at four homes out of five in this locality every morning from the first day of October to the first day of July.
But no eye within the last ten years had beheld a shade raised in this particular establishment. The census taker had never entered its doors. No woman had ever passed its threshold. No child had ever played withinits halls. Once a year a load of wines was deposited there and once a month a grocer's wagon paused outside. The coal was put in during the summer—forty tons, C. O. D. and five per cent off. The milkman was the only matutinal visitor, and the milkman left his wares upon the flagging of the servants' entrance. At eleven o'clock a colored man emerged from the area and departed in the direction of Sixth Avenue with a basket upon his arm. In half an hour he returned. This was the chief occurrence of the day. At seven in the evening two hansom cabs drew up before the door to allow four men to enter the house—also by the area. That was all, except that the ice wagon stopped daily, but the colored man took the ice off the hooks at the door.
The visitors at the house arrived in cabs between the hours of eight and twelveP.M., and departed between the latter hour and five in the morning. There are forty similarménagesnorth of Thirty-third Street and east of Long Acre Square.
"He's in here," said Sullivan. "But I ain't goin' inside."
"You're not, eh?" remarked Ralston. "Very well, we stay here together then until he comes out—and then you go down to headquarters withme."
"Look here, Sackett," whined Sullivan, "how can I go in? They'd see me and know I'd sold 'em out. I can't do it. It would finish me. Don't be unreasonable."
"Well, how do I know he's here?" asked Ralston. "Don't be unreasonable yourself."
"Well, Iknowhe's here," said Sullivan. "I tell you what I'll do. I'll go into the hall, and when you're satisfied I ain't givin' you the double-cross, I'll slip out.Suppose I showed you Steadman, that would satisfy you, wouldn't it?"
"It certainly would," said Ralston.
Sullivan looked up and down the street and then clambered out in a disjointed and rheumatic fashion.
"I'm sorry, Miss Davenport, I can't let you have the cab," said Ralston. "I shall need it—I hope."
Sullivan was on the sidewalk, looking at the house.
The girl suddenly seized Ralston's hand.
"Mr. Ralston," she said, "be careful while you are in that house. Don't mention a word of what I've told you about Sullivan. They're a reckless lot. Watch yourself and them. Play it easy, and good luck to you. Some time, I hope, I'll see you again."
Ralston pressed her hand.
He climbed down.
"Where to?" mumbled the cabby.
"Stay righthereuntil I come out—if it's six hours!" directed Ralston.
The dawn was flushing the chocolate-colored fronts before them and a milk wagon was working gradually down the block. Ralston felt weak in the knees, but he pounded his feet on the pavement and stepped quickly after Sullivan, who had started up the steps.
"I needn't warn you that there must be no funny business, Sullivan," said Ralston, as the other fumbled in his trousers pocket. "Our bargain holds. Your life for mine and Steadman's."
"You needn't worry," replied Sullivan. "Homicide isn't in our business. I wish I could turn Steadman over to you bound hand and foot, but I can't. You've gothimto deal with. The rest is easy. The gang's pretty near through with him. But you've got to handlehimyourself."
Sullivan inserted the key and turned the handle of the door, which swung open as if on greased hinges.
As Ralston crossed the threshold it occurred to him forcibly that although the house in which he now stood was not over three blocks from his lodgings, and that his round-the-clock chase had brought him, like a man lost in the woods, back almost to his starting point, the fact that he had actually struck Steadman's trail at all, to say nothing of having run him to earth, was in itself no less than a miracle. Fate had certainly favored him upon the one hand, if it had dashed his hopes upon the other. He was the same Ralston that had jumped into the same cab just around the corner some seven hours before, but in that short passage of time the current of his existence had gone swirling off in an entirely unexpected direction. The hopes and ambitions of the evening had faded to fair dreams lingering on after a disappointing awakening. Apart from his utter exhaustion a pall had fallen upon his spirit—he had become undervitalized physically and psychically. He did not care what might happen before he regained the street, and he knew that almost anything might happen. The gamblers had been in an ugly mood for a long time. Yet he knew that his hold on Sullivan, fictitious as it was, was for the time being a sure one. Moreover, the experiences of the night had not lessened his confidence in his capacity to handle any new situation as it might arise.
Sullivan now addressed himself to the inner door, which opened as easily as its predecessor, and an old-fashioned hall disclosed itself before them. On the right a pair of heavyportièresconcealed the entrance to what was, or at least some time had been, the drawing-room. The usual steep flight of carpeted walnut stairs ascendedto the usual narrow hallway on the second floor. A massive walnut hatrack supported a huge mirror and a collection of Inverness coats and tall hats. A bronze gas chandelier burned brightly, and a colored man lay extended at full length upon the floor with his head resting upon the bottom stair. The air was close and heavy and filled with the thin blue smoke of distant cigars. Apart from the audible repose of the negro the house was as silent as a New England Sabbath morning.
Sullivan strode toward the recumbent figure upon the floor and administered a stout kick, at which the sleeper suddenly raised his head and drew up his knees.
"Here you, Marcus, wake up!" growled Sullivan. "Where's Mr. Farrer?"
The negro rubbed his eyes and gazed stupidly at the two figures before him without replying.
"Where's Mr. Farrer?" repeated Sullivan.
Marcus pointed over his shoulders and up the stairs.
"He's in de back room, boss."
"Who's up there?"
"Jes' a single game—five gen'lemen."
"How long they been playin'?"
"Couple days, Ah reckon."
"How long have you been asleep?"
"Couple days, Ah reckon, boss," repeated Marcus.
"Is Mr. Steadman up there?"
"He de gen'leman they calls Mr. X?" asked Marcus with more interest.
"I think so," answered Sullivan.
"Yes, sir, he's up dere. Say, boss, what day is this?" asked Marcus. "Sunday, ain't it? We began playin' Satudy, but Ah reckon Ah done got 'fused 'bout de time."
But Sullivan did not reply. Instead he turned to Ralston and said:
"Look here, I don't see any way out of my having to introduce you to the game. After I've done that you'll have to manage the thing for yourself."
He started laboriously upstairs. Marcus returned to his previous picture of elegant repose. At the top of the first flight they turned and, passing along the hall, ascended another. The smoke grew thicker as they progressed. The only light came from the gas brackets, for the skylight over the wall was draped with a sheet of black cloth. At the top of the second flight Ralston caught the faint click of chips.
"It's up to you," said Sullivan, "if you want to go in."
"I'll take the responsibility," answered Ralston, but his heart began to beat faster, a phenomenon he attributed to the fact that there was no elevator.
At the top of the last flight they paused. The sound of chips and low voices came distinctly from beneath the door of the room in the back. Then followed a pause, during which some one cursed his luck loudly.
Sullivan pushed open the door and Ralston entered at his elbow. At first he could see nothing, owing to the thick haze that hung like a cloud throughout the room. Then he made out the figures of five men in their shirt-sleeves seated at a medium-sized table. These started to their feet at the interruption, and one of them, larger than the others, cried out:
"What do you want?"
"It's only me—little, tiny me," said Sullivan with a laugh. "I've brought a new come-on that thinks he knows the game. Can you let him sit in?"
Ralston was watching Sullivan narrowly for the first sign of betrayal, but it was clear that Sullivan was living up to his bargain.
A drawling voice came from the table. "Five's the gambler's game—we're nearly through, anyhow."
The tall man hesitated.
"We're nearly through, as Mr. X says," he remarked, not impolitely. "It's quite late. Of course, if you're a friend of Sullivan's——"
"Oh, let me take a stack. I've made a night of it and I want to get my bait back. I guess I've still got the price," said Ralston. He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket.
"Well," said the other, "gamblers' rules. This is an open game. I'm afraid he's entitled to come in. Goin', Sullivan? Well, so-long. Close the door after you."
"So-long, Sackett," said Sullivan.
"Good-by!" said Ralston, with emphasis. "We're quits, aren't we?"
"Sure," replied Sullivan.
"Let me present you to the company," said the tall man. "My name's Farrer. I guess you've heard of me. These are my friends, Messrs. Brown, Jones, and Robinson, and Mr. X. Your own name is Mr. ——?"
"Sackett," said Ralston.
"All right, Mr. Sackett. We were just about goin' to pull out, but we'll hold the game open for you for a few minutes, just to give the boys a chance to even up. No, we're not playing dollar limit. The lid's off. But just out of respect for the cloth we don't go above a thousand at one clip. Take a full stack? Amounts to exactly forty-nine hundred and seventy-five. Brown, a thousand; yellow, five hundred; blue, one hundred; red, fifty; white, twenty-five and the blind."
"Thank you," said Ralston, with a slight leap of the heart, as Farrer pushed over the little pile of ivory counters. "If you don't object I'll take off my overcoat for luck."
Ralston removed his dress coat and seized the opportunity for a rapid glance around the room. Farrer had retaken his seat and the others were moving over to make room for an extra chair. The curtains, tightly drawn, repelled the eddying smoke, which slowly drew toward the fireplace.
Ralston had no time to study the men about him. He had recognized Steadman immediately, but it was apparent that Steadman himself was in no condition to recognize anybody. The boy sat limply in his chair with his head down and his eyes rolled toward the ceiling, apparently incapable of speech or action, yet suddenly returning to life and to complete lucidity at irregular intervals. Farrer he knew by reputation. The other three men were probably professional card sharps masquerading under the guise of men about town. Of what he should eventually do Ralston had no clear idea. It was obvious that the gang were not yet through with Steadman, and, moreover, that until Steadman wanted to go away he would stay where he was. He must fight for time and await his opportunity.
Farrer sat with his back to the door, the two chairs to his left being occupied by the gentlemen introduced as "Brown" and "Jones." Next to them and facing Farrer came Steadman, with "Robinson" between him and Ralston, who sat immediately to the right of Farrer and filledthe last seat. He thus had one of the most advantageous places at the table.
"Deal out," said Farrer to the man on his left. "It's getting late. Ante up, boys. I have a hunch that something is coming my way this time."
The dealer dealt rapidly round, using, Ralston was particular to notice, the same cards which had been laid on the table when he entered. It was clear that a pack "stacked" for five could not be used for six, and Ralston, picking up his hand and finding he had three jacks pat, pushed in his white chip.
"I'll draw cards," said he quietly. All came in except Steadman, who threw his cards down upon the table with an oath.
The dealer handed the remaining two men three cards each, Ralston took one, Farrer three, and the dealer one. Although our novice did not improve his hand, he raised a fifty-dollar bet made by the man upon his right by a blue chip. Farrer dropped out and the dealer raised Ralston another blue. The other two men dropped, and Ralston "saw" the dealer, who threw down a busted flush.
"Good work, old man!" exclaimed Farrer. "You're no sucker. Deal for Mr. X, there, Robinson."
"I can deal for myself, thanks," remarked Steadman, and indeed he managed to do so surprisingly well.
This time Ralston held nothing and declined to play, while Steadman won a small amount with two large pair. Each man had lying before him a pile of greenbacks held in place by a heavy paper weight of brass surmounted by an ash receiver, Steadman's pile being composed almost entirely of one-thousand-dollar bills.
Presently Ralston found himself holding three queens on the deal and filled on the draw with a pair of nines.The cards had been running low, and he had already won in the neighborhood of twelve or thirteen hundred dollars. The three queens following his three jacks struck him as rather a coincidence, and betting merely a white chip he watched the others to see what would happen. To his surprise all dropped out but Steadman, who had drawn but a single card and who raised him a blue chip. Ralston now raised in his turn a like amount, and Steadman, there now being nearly five hundred dollars on the table, raised him a yellow. But Ralston, feeling confident of his position, pushed in a brown—the first thousand-dollar bet he had ever made. The gamblers were watching them with interest.
"I win," said Steadman, shoving over a brown chip and throwing down a flush. "All sky blue."
"Sorry," answered Ralston, "three ladies and a little pair."
"Curse the luck," growled Steadman. "One more hand and I quit."
"Quit?" cried one of the men. "Why, the game's young yet. Nobody's won or lost anything to speak of. Don't gonow! Mr. Sackett wants to play and he's got a lot of our money. We're entitled to our revenge."
"I didn't ask him to play," mumbled Steadman. "I'm sick of the game and I don't feel just right. I feel sort of sick. I'm only goin' to play one more hand."
"All right! Jack pot!" cried Farrer cheerfully. "It's a house rule. Jack pots on all full houses containing the royal family. A 'palace pot' we call it. Give us a new pack."
One of the men leaned back and reached down a new unopened pack from a side table. The cards they had been playing with were red. These were blue and therevenue stamp was unbroken. But a new pack on a declaration that the game was going to end struck Ralston as curiously unnecessary. The air in the room was beginning to make his head swim, and a glance at his watch disclosed that it was half after five. It was time for him to get Steadman away, but how to do it?
"Hundred-dollar ante," said Farrer, shuffling the cards ostentatiously and dealing himself a jack. They each put in a blue. Steadman was helplessly fumbling his chips, counting and recounting them. Silence fell upon the table as Farrer tossed the cards accurately to each player.
As the last cards were being dealt Steadman's fifth card struck his glass, balanced, and fell slowly over. It was a deuce of hearts.
"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Farrer apologetically.
"Hang you!" escaped from one of the others, and Ralston saw that the man's hands were trembling.
"I won't take that card," said Steadman, awaking suddenly as out of a trance. "It's no good. Gimme another!"
Farrer flushed.
"I'm sorry, you'll have to take it. It's on the deal, not the draw. The rule is as old as the game."
"I say I won't take it," snarled Steadman. "I haven't seen my hand. I won't take it. I'll stay out, but I won't pick up that card—it's no good." He gave a silly laugh.
One of the other men sprang to his feet.
"You've got to take it," he cried. "You can't refuse it. You've got to abide by the rules."
"Sit down, you fool!" shouted Farrer, almost losing control of himself. "Who's running this game? Mr.Steadman can't have another card. He can look at his hand, and if he wants to stay out he can, but he's got to play the cards he's got. Pick up your hand, old man. Don't let's get upset over a little thing like that. Why, it may be the very card you want."
But Steadman's obstinacy was aroused.
"I won't do either," said he. "Youcan't make me play. I can stay out, can't I? I can forfeit my ante. That's my own business, ain't it? Well, I'll watch you fellers play for once. What's a blue chip!"
"You fool!" broke in one of the others. "Why don't you look at your cards? Don't throw away a hundred dollars like that! Here, if you're so proud, I'll look at 'em for you—and stay out."
He reached for the cards, but Steadman struck his hand away.
"Touch those cards if you dare!" he shouted, his eyes glaring. "Leave my cards alone!"
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" exclaimed Farrer soothingly. "Of course, Mr. X can refuse to play if he likes. It's his privilege. Won't you change your mind? Well, take out your chip—nobody objects. Count it a dead hand."
"My chip stays in and I stay out," muttered Steadman.
Ralston saw a furtive look pass between two of the others. Farrer dealt the remaining cards and picked up his hand, grunting as he looked at his cards. The man next him swore softly.
"I can't open it," he growled.
"Nothin' doin'," said the second gambler.
Steadman remained staring at his deuce of hearts.
"By me!" remarked the third gambler. Then Ralston picked up his hand. He felt as he used to feel when under the student lamp in his college room he had calculated the chances of filling a bobtail straight as against a four flush. The others were watching him eagerly. Four jacks closely backed one another in his hand. He could hardly suppress a grin.
"Ye-es, I'll open it," he remarked hesitantly. He toyed with the yellows and the browns. Then his fingers slipped across the pile. "I'll let you all in easy," he said affably, "for a little white seed."
The gambler across the table bit his lip.
"Well, I'm in!" exclaimed Farrer with an affectation of light-heartedness. "It's just about my limit."
The other three pushed in their chips without comment. Each of them took one card. Ralston took one. Farrer took four.
"Ah!" sighed the latter, half to himself.
"Well, this looks pretty good to me," said the first gambler with a slight smile, pushing in a brown chip.
The second gambler pursed up his lips and shrugged his shoulders. "Suits me, too," he remarked good-naturedly, "I'll up you a thousand."
He contributed two brown chips with great deliberation. Steadman was giggling foolishly.
"Where would I have been?" he gibbered. "The tall grass wouldn't have hidden me."
The third gambler now came into the game. It appeared that he, also, thought highly of his hand, for he raised both his comrades by a brown chip.
"One, two—and back again!" he murmured. "I've got you pinched. Only six thousand in the pot—and four aces will take it all! Come right in, Mr. Sackett, the water's warm." They watched him covetously.
"Oh, I don't know," answered Ralston with deliberation. "I have one or two cards myself. They look pretty good tome! But then I'm not used to the game. I wonder if you'd stand a raise." He picked up four brown chips and counted them slowly. They eyed him, hardly breathing. Then Ralston laid the chips back on the table.
"No," said he regretfully. "It's too high for me. Here are my openers," and he threw down his hand face upward on the table.
"Four j-jacks!" stammered Steadman, rubbing his eyes. "Four j-jacks!"
The others, with the exception of Farrer, had arisen and stood glowering at Ralston.
"What's this?" exclaimed Farrer harshly.
"What's your game?" cried another.
"Nothing, gentlemen. I lie down. That's all. It's my privilege."
The gambler ground his teeth and placed his cards on the table.
"Aren't you going to finish the game?" asked Ralston with elaborate sarcasm.
"Of course we are," shot back Farrer. "Only to see a man do a damn fool thing like that is enough to bust up any game." He looked at his cards.
"I'm out," he added shortly.
The first gambler did not seem to regard his hand any longer with favor, for he "dropped" immediately. So also did the second, and the third drew the chips toward him, no cards having been disclosed.
Steadman was still giggling feebly.
"I say," he mumbled again, "youareeasy! Four jacks! O my! O——"
"Do you think so?" inquired Ralston politely, as he reached quickly across the table and, picking up the first gambler's hand, turned it over. The man grabbed for the cards, but he was an instant too late. Four aces lay under the gaslight.
"Not so easy, eh?" continued Ralston. "Pretty good judgment, it seems to me. I'll have my ante back, if you please," and he replaced one of the blue chips on his own pile. "It requires more nerve to lay down four aces than four jacks."
The men stared at him without speaking, and Farrer arose abruptly.
"I supposed I was in a respectable game," he announced with severity. "If you gentlemen," turning to Ralston and Steadman, "will step downstairs I will adjust matters with you. As for you," addressing the other three, "make yourselves scarce and never come into my house again." They moved slowly toward the door.
"Don't worry on our account, Mr. Farrer," remarked Ralston suavely. "I'm sure the matter was merely a coincidence. Seeing a man lie down on four jacks is enough to account for any apparent little irregularity." But, before he had finished, the three, closely followed by Farrer, had departed. Then Ralston looked over to where Steadman was sitting with a smile of utter lassitude.
"We were well out of that, I fancy," said he.
"I wonder whatIhad?" answered Steadman dreamily. He fumbled unsteadily for his hand and turned it over card by card.
The first was a deuce of spades.
"Oh!" he remarked, "a pair of 'em, anyhow."
The next was a deuce of diamonds, and the last a deuce of clubs.
Steadman looked stupidly around the table.
"Four little twos!" he muttered. "Andyouhad four knaves and he had four aces. I guess there's a special Providence looking out forme. Say, what won that pot, anyway?"
Farrer suddenly reappeared at the door.
"Here's your money, gentlemen," he remarked, counting the chips in front of each of them and throwing down the appropriate number of bills. "Sorry to have the game broken up in such a way, but these sharps get in everywhere. I hope you won't mention the incident. I have a very fine line of patrons and nothing of the kind has ever occurred before."
As he turned away Steadman raised his eyes and looked the gambler full in the face.
"Farrer," said he, "you've robbed me—you and your gang. Some time I'll make you pay for it, you—thief!" Then the fire died as suddenly as it had come, his head dropped forward listlessly, his eyes rolled ceiling-ward, and he fell to mumbling and muttering to himself. Ralston sprang to his side, as Farrer slid through the door.
"I'm Dick Ralston," he said. "Don't you recognize me?"
Steadman gazed at him stolidly.
"Rals'on?" he muttered. "Rals'on? So you are! I guess you are. Why not? What of it?"
He put his head on his arms and leaned them against the table top.
Ralston grasped him by the shoulder and shook him roughly.
"Pull yourself together!" he cried. "You must get out of here quickly." He shook Steadman again.
"Don't you understand?" he said sharply. "Your regiment leaves in an hour.Your regiment!Your company!"
Steadman looked at him dully. A burned-out cigarette hung from his under lip by its own cohesive ability.
"Rats!" he muttered. "I've chucked all that. Regiment can go for all of me unless it wants to wait."
"You fool!" shouted Ralston. "Don't you see it's the end of you if you don't go!"
"The end's come already! I'm a dead one now!"
"Get up there!" returned Ralston. "I'll put you at the head of your company in forty minutes. Get up, I say."
"Don't be an ass, Rals'on!" snarled Steadman. "I'll do as I choose. I tell you it's too late!"
"It's nothing of the kind. Why, man, your uniform's all ready for you. They haven't started yet. Buck up!"
"You seem awful interested, it strikes me."
"Never mind that. Just be thankful some one cared enough to give you the tip. Come on now."
"I tell you it's too late. How the hell can I go—towar?" Steadman laughed in a sickly fashion.
Ralston's heart sank and his gorge rose. Had he sacrificed his future for a cad like this? And was he going to fail besides?
"You miserable snipe!" he cried, for an instant utterly losing control of himself.
"You shan't—insult me!" chattered Steadman, rising unsteadily to his feet. In a flash Ralston perceived the possibilities of the situation.
"You're a coward, Steadman!" he cried. "A welcher!"
Steadman's eyes glared wildly. "I'll kill you for that!" he gasped.
"Come on down and fight it out then, if you're a man," sneered Ralston, turning and making for the head of the stairs. Steadman groped his way after him along the wall.
"Come on, you welcher!" taunted Ralston.
With an inarticulate cry of anger, Steadman clasped the banisters and half slid, half stumbled to the entrance hall.
"I'll fight you here!" he cried. "I'll kill you!"
"No! No!" answered Ralston. "Outside."
Marcus attempted to put on Steadman's coat, but the latter fought him angrily off. Then he staggered and nearly fell.
"Oh, I'm sick!" he cried. "I can't see."
"Catch him!" directed Ralston, springing to his side and guiding him across the threshold. They led him down the steps, hustled him across the sidewalk and into the hansom.
"Where to?" inquired cabby automatically.
"John McCullough's—drive like mad!" replied Ralston.
"Keep away from me," muttered Steadman, as Ralston climbed into the cab beside him. "Keep away, or I'll kill you." His face had turned a livid yellow, and he lay limp against the cushions. The cabby started his horse round the corner into the avenue.
"Steadman!" cried Ralston, sick at heart. "Steadman, old man! I apologize! I beg your pardon! Do you understand? Iapologize. It was just a trick to get you out—away."
"Ugh!" groaned the other.
"Brace up! You'll be all right in a minute. All right—in a minute. Understand? Fit as a preacher!"
"I don't know. I'm awfully sick!"
They raced down the avenue in silence until, with a sharp turn, the hansom dashed into East Twenty-seventh Street and stopped with a lurch in front of a low red-brick house close to the corner.
The clock on the corner church showed that he had less than an hour and a half as Ralston rushed to the steps and rang the bell. The door was almost instantly opened by a heavily built man with a pleasant Irish face.
"Hello, Mr. Ralston!" he ejaculated.
"Sh!" answered the other. "Get this man out quick and into the house. You've got to knock him into shape inside of ten minutes. He's at the end of a long one. Ten minutes, do you understand?"
"Leave him to me," answered the matter-of-fact McCullough, then crossing to the cab, "Give me your arm, sir," he said to Steadman.
"Leave me alone!" muttered Steadman.
Without another word the Irishman put his arms around him, and, as if he were a child, lifted him to the ground, across the sidewalk, and into the house.
Ralston followed and closed the door. Outside, the cabby fell asleep again and the horse stood with one hip six inches higher than the other and its head between its legs.
"Hi there, Terry! Sthrip off the gent's clothes!"
Another husky Irishman appeared from somewhere, and the two led Steadman into a sort of dressing room, where they speedily relieved him of his garments. Without a pause McCullough opened a glass door into a tiled passage at the end of which could be seen another door clouded with steam. First, however, he poured a teaspoonful of absinthe into the palm of his hand and held it to Steadman's face. "Snuff it up yer nose!" said he.
Steadman seemed dazed. Like a half-resuscitated man he did as he was told, gagging and coughing.
"Come here now," said Terry.
Steadman walked quietly down the passage.
"Only for a minute," said the bath man.
He opened the door and shoved Steadman in, closing and locking it behind him.
"That's all he needs," commented McCullough.
"How long will you give him?"
"Just five minutes. He didn't like the absinthe, did he?"
Ralston laughed softly. He knew what twentieth century miracles McCullough could work.
"Have you got a telephone?" he inquired.
"Shure," answered Mac, leading the way to the office.
Ralston lost no time in calling up the armory.
"I want Clarence. Send him to the 'phone!"
A wait of a couple of minutes followed.
"Is that you, Clarence?"
"Yassah."
"Jump on a car and bring Mr. Steadman's uniform and valise to —— East Twenty-seventh Street at once."
When he returned to the passage Steadman was beating feebly on the glass door from the inside. Terry grinned and shook his head, holding up two fingers. The tortured one threw himself in agony into a steamer chair, only to leap instantly to his feet with an inaudible yell of pain.
"Are you ready?" Terry inquired of his employer.
"Shure."
They threw open the door and each grabbed an arm of their victim, dragging him down the passage into the dressing room. Another door opened into a room in which was a large tank. Without ceremony the two Irishmen swung their glistening patient off the edge and into the water. Steadman shrieked, choked and splashed helplessly.
"Down wit' him!" cried McCullough, and they forced him beneath the surface.
"Ag'in!"
Down he went.
"Now up!" and they lifted him bodily up on to the floor once more, and yanked him streaming into the dressing room. Steadman's face was a bright red, but he walked to a corner, while the two Irishmen with twolittle towels gently blotted the water from his back, sides, and arms. His legs they left to take care of themselves.
"Ready there!" cried McCullough, giving Steadman a sharp blow that sent him staggering across the room.
"Back again!" yelled Terry, punching his victim in the chest with his open hand and sending him reeling toward McCullough.
Then they threw themselves upon him, slapping him, banging him from side to side, pulling his ears, arms and nose until he holloed for mercy, tossing him from one to the other, and swinging him at full length by his hands and feet. Finally, they flung him helpless, red and gasping for breath, upon a table. Once more they slapped him until he glowed like a lobster, and then rubbed him down with alcohol.
"On with his clothes!" shouted Ralston. "How do you feel, Jack, old man?"
"All right!" replied Steadman weakly, with a grin. "How they murdered me!"
At this moment the street bell rang and a middle-aged negro appeared with a valise, tin box, and chamois-covered sword.
"Why, it's old Clarence!" ejaculated Steadman.
The negro undid the valise and took out the olive-drab khaki field uniform. In a trice he had buckled and buttoned the delinquent officer into it. From the tin box came a campaign hat. Steadman fastened on the sword himself. There were tears of feeble excitement in his eyes.
"Are you sure it's not too late?" he asked anxiously.
"I've taken my oath to get you there," answered Ralston.
"By George! You're a good fellow!" repeated Steadman. He held out his hand. "You've saved my reputation—I might almost say—my life."
Ralston took the hand held out to him, the hand only a few moments before raised against him in anger. It was quite warm. McCullough had done his bit well.
"You weren't yourself. You didn't realize—" he began, and stopped. The room swam before his eyes, and he groped for a chair. With the partial accomplishment of his object, and the consequent physical and mental relaxation, the fatigue of the pursuit and the nervous strain which he had been under took possession of him. He found the chair and sank into it, shutting out the light with his hand. Steadman called McCullough, who quickly brought him something to drink. Somewhat revived, Ralston staggered to his feet eager to escape from the warmth of the overheated room and to finish his task.
"Come along, Steadman. We haven't much time. Less than an hour."
"Poor old chap, you're done up!"
"No, no; I'm all right. We must be getting along."
"But we don't leave, you say, until seven!"
"I know, but we must be getting along."
"Where?"
Ralston hesitated.
"I'll tell you outside." He shuffled toward the door. Steadman followed.
On the steps he turned toward Ralston inquiringly.
"Ellen has been waiting," said the latter in a low voice, looking away.
"What do you mean? Does she know?" asked Steadman in a whisper.
"I don't know how much," replied Ralston. "She feared you were going to lose your chance—that you'd be done for, and asked me to try and look you up. She—she cares for you, I think."
Steadman uttered a groan.
"Oh, I'm a brute," he muttered.
He looked anything but a brute in his olive-drab uniform, campaign hat and shining sword.
"Come along," said Ralston, grabbing him by the arm. They took their seats in the hansom.
"Where to?" asked the cabby monotonously.
"The Chilsworth," said Ralston.
Once more the exhausted animal climbed wearily up Fifth Avenue. A touch of yellow sunlight was just gilding the housetops on the left, and the street stretched gray and solitary northward.
"You say she's waiting?" Steadman asked nervously.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"All night."
Steadman shuddered.
"How did you know where to look for me?"
"I didn't."
Ralston was beginning to feel the revivifying effects of the whisky and soda and the fresh morning air.
"''Twas like looking for a needle in haystack,'" he hummed. "'Although the chance of finding it was small.' Not an easy job, my friend."
"But I didn't know you were in New York!"
"I'd only been back a few days."
"And Ellen asked you to hunt me up?"
"Ye-es."
Again Ralston felt weary, awfully weary, and sleepy.
"By George, you're a brick!"
"Oh, don't mention it!" yawned this "finder of lost persons."
"But why should you? You hardly knew me!"
"Somebody had to do it."
"And that somebody had to knowhow, eh?"
"It would appear so. You'd concealed yourself pretty effectually for some time. Your friend the colonel was getting anxious, you know."
"How on earth did you ever do it?"
"Tell you some time," answered Ralston sleepily. "By the way, do you mind saying how long you'd been in that house?"
"Three days."
"And lost——?"
"Twenty-seven thousand dollars."
"No one seemed to know you gambled."
"I don't. It was my first experience."
"How long has this little expedition lasted?"
"Two weeks."
The Searcher glanced at his companion. Already the stimulus of the bath had succumbed to fatigue. The face was drawn and hollow; the eyes red; the mouth twitched. Ralston turned away, his old loathing and disgust returning in an instant.
The driver turned into Fifty-seventh Street, and the sun jumped above the housetops. Suddenly Steadman burst into tears, sobbing in long-drawn hollow sobs like a wearied child, covering his face with his hands.
"Come, come, buck up! This won't do!" exclaimed Ralston.
"O God!" groaned Steadman tremulously. "I can't face her. Turn around! Anywhere!"
"You shall see her!" answered the other. "And now!"
Steadman wiped his eyes. His chest heaved convulsively. He had grown quite pale.
"Don't make me!" he gasped.
"You shall see her—as you are," repeated Ralston, "and thank her for having saved you from disgrace."
Steadman said nothing more. The cab drew up before the door of an apartment house.
"Here we are," said Ralston. "Get out!"
Steadman hesitated.
"Get out! Do you hear?" shouted Ralston, with anger in his eyes.
Steadman obeyed, his companion following close behind him. Inside, a darky sat fast asleep by the elevator. Ralston rapped loudly upon the glass and the man moved, rubbed his eyes, and came stupidly to the door.
"Take this gentleman up to Miss Ferguson's apartment," said Ralston. "I'll wait below for you. You can have just ten minutes, understand?"
He returned to the sidewalk. The cabby had fallen asleep again. A feeling of intense loneliness swept over him. He longed to throw himself inside the hansom and rest his exhausted frame. His bones ached and his muscles seemed strange and raspy, and he kept himself awake by walking nervously backward and forward before the house. He could hardly keep his eyes from closing and his knees trembled as if he were convalescing from an illness.
"I did it!" he repeated over and over to himself. "By George! I did it!—saved him for her. Only for me and he would be what he called himself—'a dead one.'"
The sunlight in the street grew momentarily brighter. Milk wagons groped their way from door to door, the horses stopping undirected at the proper places, and starting up again in response to uncouth roars from the drivers.
An elevated train rattled by at the end of the street, and some workmen in overalls, conversing loudly in a foreign dialect, hurried noisily past. A few maids unchained front doors, gave the rugs feeble flaps, and eyed Ralston curiously before going inside to resume their domestic duties.
He found that he was walking in a circle. His brain had fallen asleep. He realized that he had been dreaming, but the dream was vague and indistinct. Then he heard the faint sound of distant music. A housemaid dropped her rug and ran toward the avenue. Two pedestrians turned back in the same direction. A driver jumped into his milk wagon and sent the horse galloping.
Ralston listened. Yes, the music was getting louder. They were playing "Good-by, Little Girl, Good-by!" It must be the regiment on their way from the armory to the ferry. He looked at his watch with a lump in his throat. It was "good-by" for him as well as for Steadman. There was no longer any doubt. Perhaps he could get a commission. He'd go away, anyhow.
A hastily formed group of spectators on the corner began to wave their hats. The band was very near. A squad of figures stepping briskly in time came into view, at their head the erect form of Colonel Duer. He could recognize the other members of the staff, the adjutant, the commissary, the quartermaster, the doctor—he knew them all. On the left trudged the chaplain.
"Good-by, Little Girl, Good-by!"
The drum major following the staff turned and swung his baton, then resumed his former position. By George, they were playing well! Ah! What a difference it made when it was real business. Just behind the band followed the field music, with old "Davie" carrying the drum.
"Good-by, Little Girl, Good-by!"
The drums passed and the fifers. Then at a little distance came the lieutenant colonel and his staff at the head of the first battalion, marching full company front down the avenue. Ralston's heart beat faster. That was wherehecould have been. How well those boys marched; just like a parade, their yellow legs eating up—eating up—eating up—eating up the ground. The band had grown fainter. You could hear the chupp—chupp—chupp—chupp of the hundreds of feet. Eyes front! No one to look at them, but eyes front! This was business. How trim they looked, each man in his olive-drab uniform, leggings, and russet shoes. How set were the faces beneath the gray felt hats! How lightly they bore their heavy load of haversack, yellow blanket roll, canteen, and cartridge belt. How the sword bayonets at their sides clinked and threw back the light to the blue barrels of their Krag-Jorgensens!
"Good-by, Little Girl, Good-by," came faintly from the distance. Still the yellow rows kept passing. The first battalion ended.
Then a major appeared, walking alone, followed closely by a captain and first lieutenant. Ralston strained his eyes for the yellow line behind them. Ah, there they were! Good boys! Good boys!
The even companies swung by until the battalion had passed.
Then came another major at the head of the third battalion. The third battalion! The line swept across from curb to curb with a single man behind the major—a lieutenant. Company D! Steadman's! The major's face was set in a hard frown. Ralston laughed feebly. That was all right. He'd fix that. Just wait a few minutes. His captain would be there.
The little crowd on the corner began to cheer. Another company came into view. They had the colors—the dear old colors. Ralston doffed his hat and held it to his breast, straining his glance after the flag. The pavement floated away from him and his eyes filled with hot tears. He could not see the lines of marching men, but stood staring at the corner beyond which the colors had disappeared.
Overcome with utter exhaustion, he sobbed hysterically, grasping the iron railing at his side. In a moment he got the better of himself and brushed the tears hastily away. Then a hand was laid upon his shoulder and he turned to see Ellen, her own eyes moist, and her face pale, looking up at him.
"Ellen!"
"Dick!"
That was all. At the end of the block the hospital corps with their stretchers were just passing out of sight. Steadman stood on the steps, leaning against the doorway. He grinned in a sheepishly good-natured manner at Ralston.
"Well, I found him!" the latter managed to announce in a fairly natural tone.
"So I see," answered Ellen, "and ready to report for duty."
"Well, I guess I'll say good-by," said Ralston awkwardly. "You people can have the cab as long as the horse lasts."
"No, you don't," said Steadman. "Remember you've agreed to put me at the head of my company. You haven't done it yet! Has he, Ellen?"
"No, we intend to take you with us to the ferry," she answered with a smile.
The word "we" sent a pang through Ralston's tired heart, and for an instant the sunlight paled before his eyes.
"Come, jump in, both of you," said Ellen.
She seemed very cheerful, and strangely enough, so did Steadman. Ralston wondered if when people cared like that just seeing each other again would have such a stimulating effect. For his own part he was too tired to speak. As they trotted slowly down Fifth Avenue Ellen and Steadman kept up a lively conversation. She admired his uniform, his sword, his belt; talked of the other men and officers she knew in the regiment, and of the chagrin of Lieutenant Coffin, when his captain should oust him from his temporary place at the head of the company. On Twenty-third Street, near Eighth Avenue, they overtook the regiment, and followed the remainder of the distance close behind the hospital corps. Then silence fell upon them. The actual parting loomed vividly just before them at the ferry.
Crowds of people, mostly small tradesmen and persons living in the neighborhood, had already begun to collect and follow the troops toward the place of embarkation. Ahead, the band was playing "Garry Owen," and the colors blazed in the sunlight. The regiment looked like a field of yellow corn waving in the breeze. About a hundred yards from the ferry house a few sharp orders came down the line and the regiment halted—at "rest."
Steadman looked at his watch.
"Three minutes to seven," he said, snapping the case. "I guess the old man will drop when he seesme!"
"Just in time!" murmured Ellen.
"Drive along, cabby, to the head of the procession," added Steadman.
There was plenty of space to allow the hansom to pass near the curb, and they drove slowly along past the three battalions to where the colonel and his staff stood waiting for the gates to be opened. The band had ceased playing. The men laughed and jested, watching the lone hansom and its three occupants with interest.
At the stone posts by the entrance the cab stopped and Steadman shook hands with Ellen. The smile had gone from his face.
"Good-by, Ellen—good-by!"
"Good-by, John," she answered.
Ralston had turned away his head.
"Well, good-by, old man! Accept the prodigal's insufficient thanks. You're a brick, Ralston. Good-by!"
Beside the hansom Steadman paused for an instant and looked up.
"Don't forget what I said, Ellen! The fellow I spoke of is 'a prince.' Good-by!"
He turned and walked rapidly to where the colonel stood talking to the chaplain. All the fatigue had vanished from his step as he drew himself up before his commanding officer and saluted.
The staff had turned to him in amazement.
"I report for duty, sir!" he said simply.
The colonel stared at him for a moment.
"Take your company, sir!" he replied tartly.
Steadman saluted again, and grasping his sword ran down the line, while a wave of comment and ejaculation followed just behind him.
At this moment a whistle blew inside the ferry house, and a porter slowly swung the gates open.
The colonel drew his sword.
"Attention!" said he, glancing behind him.
"Attention!" ordered the lieutenant colonel.
"Attention!" shouted the majors.
As the regiment stiffened, Steadman stepped to the head of his company.
"Good morning, Mr. Coffin," he remarked nonchalantly.
"Good morning," replied the astounded lieutenant.
Then as the order flew down the line Steadman drew his sword.
"Attention!" he cried in a clear voice.
Behind the staff the drum major held his baton in air, and the musicians stood with their instruments at their lips ready for the order.
The colonel's eye flew down the line.
"Forward—" he cried.
Down came the drum major's baton. The band started "There'll be a Hot Time!"
"—March!" concluded the colonel, and, turning front, stepped ahead.
"Forward—march!" shouted the lieutenant colonel. The order was instantly repeated by the captains.
The battalion came to shoulder arms and moved forward.
"Horrard, Hutch! Horrard, Hutch!" howled the majors.
"Urrgh! Uhh! Huh! Huh!" yelled the captains.
Each company tossed its rifles into place, dressed down the line, marked step for a moment, and then flashed its hundred legs in unison to the band. The yellow field of corn once more wavered in the wind and blew slowly forward.
Ellen and Ralston sat motionless in the hansom as the battalions tramped by. At the head of his company marching with drawn sword, his head slightly bent and his gaze straight before him, came Steadman, but his eyes sought them not. The hospital corps with their stretchers brought up the rear and disappeared through the gates. The commissariat wagons followed stragglingly. The band could be heard dimly in the distance.
Then the whistle blew again and the man who had opened the gates ran out and closed them. The Twelfth had gone—with a full quota of officers.
"The Chilsworth," said Ralston, through the manhole.
The driver once more hitched the reins over the back of his moribund beast, and they started uptown.
"Dick," said Ellen suddenly, in a whisper, "Dick!"
He turned toward her inquiringly.
"Yes, Ellen?"
"I—I was mistaken last night," she said, coloring and looking away from him.
"What do you mean?" cried Ralston, his heart leaping.
"That—there was only one," she answered softly, smiling through her tears, "and—and—it wasn'tJohn!"
The cabby grinned sleepily and silently closed the manhole, with a fatherly expression illuminating his corrugated countenance.
"Hully gee!" he muttered meditatively. "I mighta known there was a woman mixed up in it, somehow! Glad he got her!—Git on thar, you!"
Between the ferry houses the boat was swinging out into midstream, her decks crowded with yellow figures, and across the dancing waves the wind bore the faint strains of "Good-by, Little Girl, Good-by."