Samuel walked away, still pondering at the problem. Something must be done about Master Albert, that was certain. Before he went in to his dinner he had thought of yet another plan. He would appeal to Miss Gladys about it! He would get her to labor with the prodigal!
At eight o'clock the next morning, he and Sophie called at Miss Wygant's home. They went to the servants' entrance, and the maid who opened the door sent them away, saying that Miss Gladys never rose until ten o'clock and would not see anyone until eleven.
So they went home again and came at eleven; and they were taken to a sitting room upon the second floor and there Miss Gladys met them, clad in a morning gown of crimson silk.
“And so this is Sophie!” she exclaimed. “Why you poor, poor child!” And she gazed at the little mill girl with her stunted figure and pinched cheeks, and her patched and threadbare dress; and Sophie, in her turn, gazed at the wonderful princess, tall and stately, glowing with health and voluptuous beauty.
“And you work in our cotton mill!” she cried.
“How perfectly terrible! And do you mean to tell me that this child is thirteen years old, Samuel?”
“Yes, Miss Gladys,” said he.
She turned quickly and pressed a button on the wall. “Send Mrs. Harris here,” she said to the man who answered.
“Mrs. Harris is our housekeeper,” she added to Samuel. “I will consult her about it.”
The “consulting” was very brief. “Mrs. Harris, this is Sophie Stedman, a little girl I want to help. I don't know what she can do, but you will find out. I want her to have some sort of a place in the house—and it mustn't be hard work.”
“But, Miss Gladys,” said the other in perplexity, “I don't know of anything at all!”
“You can find something,” was the young lady's reply. “I want her to have a chance to learn. Take her downstairs and have a talk with her about it.”
“Yes, Miss Gladys,” said Mrs. Harris; and so Samuel was left alone with his goddess.
He sat with his eyes upon the floor. He was just about to open the great subject he had in his mind, when suddenly Miss Gladys herself brought it up. “Samuel,” she asked, “why did you leave my cousin's?”
Samuel hesitated. “I—I don't like to say, Miss Gladys.”
“Please tell me,” she insisted.
“I left it,” he replied in a low voice, “because I found that he got drunk.”
“Oh!” said the girl, “when was this?”
“It was last Wednesday night, Miss Gladys.”
“Tell me all about it, Samuel.”
“I—I don't like to,” he stammered. “It's not a story to tell to a lady.”
“I already know something about it from my maid,” said she. “Jack Holliday was there, wasn't he?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And some women?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“How many, Samuel?”
“Four, Miss Gladys.”
“Tell me about them, Samuel. What sort of women were they?”
It was very hard for Samuel to answer these questions. He blushed as he talked; but Miss Gladys appeared not at all disconcerted—in fact she was greedy for the details.
“You say her name was Belle. I wonder if it was that girl from 'The Maids of Mandelay.' Was she a dancer, Samuel?”
“I don't know, Miss Gladys.”
“And what became of her?”
“I took her to a hotel, Miss Gladys.”
“And what then?”
Samuel stopped short. “I really couldn't tell you,” he said.
“But why not?”
“Because I promised.”
“Whom did you promise?”
“I promised the sergeant, Miss Gladys.”
“The sergeant! A policeman, you mean?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“But what—what did the police have to do with it?”
“They took me to jail, Miss Gladys. They thought that I did it.”
“Did what?”
And again the boy shut his lips.
“Listen, Samuel,” pleaded the other. “You know that I am Bertie's cousin. And he's all alone. And I'm responsible for him—”
“Oh, Miss Gladys!” cried the boy. “If you only would try to help him! I meant to ask you—”
“But how can I help him if you keep me in ignorance?”
And so Samuel blurted out the whole story. And Miss Gladys sat dumb with horror. “She killed herself! She killed herself!” she gasped again and again.
“Yes, Miss Gladys,” said Samuel. “And it was awful! You can't imagine it!”
“I read of the suicide in the paper. But I never dreamed of Bertie!”
There was a moment's pause. “It must be a dreadful thing for him to have on his conscience”—began the boy.
“He must have been frightened to death!” said she. And then she added quickly, “Samuel, you haven't told anyone about this!”
“Not a soul, Miss Gladys.”
“You are sure?”
“I'm sure, ma'am.”
“You didn't tell Dr. Vince?”
“I just told him that I had left because Master Albert got drunk, Miss Gladys. That was the truth.”
“Yes,” said she; and then, “You always tell the truth, don't you, Samuel?”
“I try to,” he replied.
“You are very good, aren't you?” she added.
Samuel blushed. “No,” he said gravely. “I'm not good at all.”
The other looked at him for a moment, and then a smile crossed her face. “I've heard a saying,” she remarked—“'Be good and you'll be happy, but you'll miss a lot of fun.'”
Samuel pondered. “I think that is a very terrible saying,” he declared earnestly.
Miss Gladys laughed. And she went on to cross-question him as to the suicide—satisfying her curiosity as to the last hideous detail.
Then she looked at Samuel and asked suddenly, “Why do you wear that hideous thing?”
Samuel started. “What thing?” he asked.
“That tie!”
“Why!” he said—“I got that specially—”
He stopped, embarrassed; and the other's peal of laughter rang through the room. “Take it off!” she said.
She got up and came to him, saying, “I couldn't stand it.”
With trembling fingers he removed the tie. And she took off the beautiful red ribbon that was tied about her waist, and cut it to the right length. “Put that on,” she said, “and I'll show you how to tie it.”
And Samuel stood there, rapt in a sudden nightmare ecstasy. She was close to him, her quick fingers were playing about his throat. Her breath was upon his face, and the intoxicating perfume of her filled his nostrils. The blood mounted into his face, and the veins stood out upon his forehead, and strange and monstrous things stirred in the depths of him.
“There,” she said, “that's better”—and stepped back to admire the result. She smiled upon him radiantly. “You have no taste, Samuel,” she said. “I shall have to educate you.”
“Yes, Miss Gladys,” he responded in a low voice.
“And listen,” she went on, “you will come to see Sophie now and then, won't you?”
“Yes, yes,” he said quickly.
“And come some time when I am here.”
He caught his breath and gripped his hands and answered yet again, “Yes!”
“Don't be afraid of me,” added the girl gently. “You don't appreciate yourself half enough, Samuel.”
Then there came voices in the hall, and Miss Gladys turned, and the housekeeper and Sophie came in. “Well?” she asked.
“She doesn't know anything at all,” said Mrs. Harris. “But if you want her taught—I suppose she could run errands and do sewing—”
“Very good,” said the other. “And pay her well. Will you like that, Sophie?”
“Yes, Miss,” whispered the child in a faint voice. She was gazing in awe and rapture at this peerless being, and she could hardly find utterance for two words.
“All right, then,” said Miss Gladys, “that will do very well. You come to-morrow, Sophie. And good-by, Samuel. I must go for my ride now.”
“Good-by, Miss Gladys,” said Samuel. “And please don't forget what you were going to say to Master Albert!”
Samuel went home walking upon air. He had found a place for himself and a place for Sophie. And he had got the reforming of Bertie Lockman under way! Truly, the church was a great institution—the solution of all the puzzles and problems of life. And fortunate was Samuel to be so close to the inner life of things!
Then suddenly, on a street corner, he stopped short. A sign had caught his eye—“John Callahan, Wines and Liquors—Bernheimer Beer.” “Do you know what that place is?” he said to Sophie.
“That's where my friend Finnegan works.”
“Who's Finnegan?” asked the child.
“He's the barkeeper who gave me something to eat when I first came to town. He's a good man, even if he is a barkeeper.”
Samuel had often found himself thinking of Finnegan; for it had been altogether against his idea of things that a man so obviously well meaning should be selling liquor. And now suddenly a brilliant idea flashed across his mind. Why should he continue selling liquor? And instantly Samuel saw a new duty before him. He must help Finnegan.
And forgetting that it was time for his dinner, he bade good-by to Sophie and went into the saloon.
“Well, young feller!” exclaimed the Irishman, his face lighting up with pleasure; and then, seeing the boy's new collar and tie, “Gee, you're moving up in the world!”
“I've got a job,” said Samuel proudly. “I'm the assistant sexton at St. Matthew's Church.”
“You don't say! Gone up with the sky pilots, hey!”
Samuel did not notice this irreverent remark. He looked around the place and saw that they were alone. Then he said, very earnestly, “Mr. Finnegan, may I have a few minutes' talk with you?”
“Sure,” said Finnegan perplexed. “What is it?”
“It's something I've been thinking about very often,” said Samuel. “You were so kind to me, and I saw that you were a good-hearted man. And so it has always seemed to me too bad that you should be selling drink.”
The other stared at him. “Gee!” he said, “are you going to take me up in your airship?”
“Mr. Finnegan,” said the boy, “I wish you wouldn't make fun of me. For I'm talking to you out of the bottom of my heart.”
And Samuel gazed with so much yearning in his eyes that the man was touched, in spite of the absurdity of it. “Go on,” he said. “I'll listen.”
“It's just this,” said Samuel. “It's wrong to sell liquor! Think what drink does to men? I saw a man drunk the other night and it led to what was almost murder. Drink makes men cruel and selfish. It takes away their self-control. It makes them unfit for their work. It leads to vice and wickedness. It enslaves them and degrades them. Don't you know that is true, Mr. Finnegan?”
“Yes,” admitted Finnegan, “I reckon it is. I never touch the stuff myself.”
“And still you sell it to others?”
“Well, my boy, I don't do it because I hate them.”
“But then, why DO you do it?”
“I do it,” said Finnegan, “because I have to live. It's my trade—it's all I know.”
“It seems such a terrible trade!” exclaimed the boy.
“Maybe,” said the other. “But take notice, it ain't a princely one. I'm on the job all day and a good part of the night, and standing up all the time. And I don't get no holidays either—and I only get twelve a week. And I've a wife and a new baby. So what's a man to do?”
Now, strange as it may seem, this unfolded a new view to Samuel. He had always supposed that bartenders and saloonkeepers were such from innate depravity. Could it really be that they were driven to the trade?
The bare idea was enough to set his zeal in a blaze. “Listen,” he said. “Suppose I were to find you some kind of honest work, so that you could earn a living. Would you promise to reform?”
“Do you mean would I quit Callahan's? Why, sure I would.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the boy in delight.
“But it'd have to be a steady job,” put in the other. “I can take no chances with the baby.”
“That's all right,” said Samuel. “I'll get you what you want.”
“Gee, young feller!” exclaimed Finnegan. “Do you carry 'em round in your pockets?”
“No,” said Samuel, “but Dr. Vince asked me to help him; and I'm going to tell him about you.”
And so, forthwith, he made his way to the doctor's house, and was ushered into the presence of the unhappy clergyman. He stated his case; and the other threw up his hands in despair.
“Really,” he exclaimed, “this is too much, Samuel! I can't find employment for everyone in Lockmanville.”
“But, doctor!” protested Samuel, “I don't think you understand. This man wants to lead a decent life, and he can't because there's no way for him to earn a living.”
“I understand all that Samuel.”
“But, doctor, what's the use of trying to reform men if they're chained in that way?”
There was a pause.
“I'm afraid it's hopeless to explain to you,” said the clergyman. “But you'll have to make up your mind to it, Samuel—there are a great many men in the world who want jobs, and it seems to be unfortunately true that there are fewer jobs than men.”
“Yes,” said the other, “but that's what Professor Stewart taught men. And you said it was wicked of him.”
“Um—” said the doctor, taken aback.
“Don't you see?” went on Samuel eagerly. “It puts you right back with Herbert Spencer! If there are more men than there are jobs, then the men have to fight for them. And so you have the struggle for existence, and the survival of the greedy and the selfish. If Finnegan wouldn't be a barkeeper, then he and his family would starve, and somebody else would survive who was willing to be that bad.”
The boy waited. “Don't you see that, Dr. Vince?” he persisted.
“Yes, I see that,” said the doctor.
“And you told me that the only way to escape from that was to live for others—to serve them and help them. And isn't that what I'm trying to do?”
“Yes, my boy, that is so. But what can we do?”
“Why, doctor, aren't you the head of the church? And the people come to you to be taught. You must point out these things to them, so that there can be a change.”
“But WHAT change, Samuel?”
“I don't know, sir. I'm groping around and trying to find out. But I'm sure of one thing—that some people have got too much money. Why, Dr. Vince, there are people right in your church who have more than they could spend in hundreds of years.”
“Perhaps so,” said the other. “But what harm does that do?”
“Why—that's the reason that so many others have nothing! Only realize it—right at this very moment there are people starving to death—and here in Lockmanville! They want to work, and there is no work for them! I could take you to see them, sir—girls who want a job in Mr. Wygant's cotton mill, and he won't give it to them!”
“But, my boy—that isn't Mr. Wygant's fault! It's because there is too much cloth already.”
“I've been thinking about that,” said Samuel earnestly. “And it doesn't sound right to me. There are too many people who need good clothes. Look at poor Sophie, for instance!”
“Yes,” said the other, “of course. But they haven't money to buy the cloth—-”
And Samuel sat forward in his excitement. “Yes, yes!” he cried. “And isn't that just what I said before? They have no money, because the rich people have it all!”
There was no reply; and after a moment Samuel rushed on: “Surely it is selfish of Mr. Wygant to shut poor people out of his mill, just because they have no money. Why couldn't he let them make cloth for themselves?”
“Samuel!” protested the other. “That is absurd!”
“But why, sir?”
“Because, my boy—in a day they could make more than they could wear in a year.”
“So much the better, doctor! Then they could give the balance to other people who needed it—and the other people could make things for them. Take Sophie. She not only needs clothing, she needs shoes, and above all, she needs enough to eat. And if it's a question of there not being enough food, look at what's wasted in a place like Master Albert's! And there's land enough at 'Fairview' to raise food for the whole town—I know what I'm talking about there, because I'm a farmer. And it's used to keep a lot of race horses that nobody ever rides.”
“Samuel,” said the clergyman gravely, “that is true—and that is very wrong. But what canIdo?”
And Samuel stared at him. “Doctor!” he exclaimed. “I can't tell you how it hurts me to have you talk to me like that!”
“How do you mean, Samuel?” asked the other in bewilderment.
And the boy clasped his hands together in his agitation. “You told me that we must sacrifice ourselves, and help others! You said that was our sole duty! And I believed you—I was ready to go with you. And here I am—I want to follow you, and you won't lead!”
Those words were like a stab. The doctor winced visibly.
And Samuel winced also—his heart was wrung. “It hurts me more than I can tell you!” he cried. “But think of the people who are suffering—nobody spares them! And how can you be silent, doctor—how can the shepherd of Christ be silent while some of his flock are living in luxury and others are starving to death?”
There was a long pause. Dr. Vince sat rigid, clutching the arms of his chair.
“Samuel,” he said, “you are right. I will preach on this unemployed question next Sunday.”
“Ah, thank you, sir—thank you!” exclaimed Samuel, with tears of gratitude in his eyes. And he took his friend's hand and wrung it.
Then, suddenly, a new thought came to him. “And meantime, doctor,” said he, “what am I to tell Finnegan?”
One who has all the cares of humanity upon his shoulders, as Samuel had, is apt to find that it claims a good deal of time. Samuel did his best to keep his mind upon the weighty problems which he had to solve; but he found that he was continually distracted by the thought of Miss Gladys. Again and again her image would sweep over him, driving everything else from his mind. The vision of her beauty haunted him, sending his imagination upon all sorts of strange excursions and adventures.
She had told him to come again; and he wondered how long he should wait. He was supposed to come to see Sophie—but that, of course, was absurd, for he saw Sophie every night at home.
He waited three days; and then he could wait no longer. The hunger to see her was like a fire smoldering in him.
In the morning, at eleven o'clock, he went to the house and Sophie came to the door. “I'll tell her you're here,” said she, understanding at once. She ran upstairs, and came back telling him to come. “And she's glad, Samuel!” exclaimed the child.
“Won't you come, too?” he asked blunderingly.
“No, she told me not to,” was Sophie's reply.
So he went upstairs to Miss Wygant's own sitting room, and found her in a morning gown, even more beautiful than the one she had worn before.
“You don't know how glad I am to see you,” she said.
Samuel admitted that he didn't know; and he added, “And I don't know why you should be, Miss Gladys.”
Miss Gladys stood looking at him. “You find things interesting, don't you?” she asked.
“Why, yes, Miss Gladys,” he replied.
“And I find things so tiresome.”
“Tiresome!” gasped the boy. “Here—in this house!”
“It seems strange to you, does it?” said she.
“Why you have everything in the world!” he cried.
“Yes, and I'm tired of everything.”
The boy was looking at her in wonder. “It's true,” she said. “Everybody I meet is uninteresting—they live such dull and stupid lives. I'm shut up here in this town—I've got to spend a whole month here this summer!”
Samuel gazed at her, and a wave of pity swept over him. He had felt for some time that she was not happy. So here was one more duty for him—he must help this beautiful young lady to a realization of her own good fortune.
The thought set him athrill. “Ah, but Miss Gladys!” he exclaimed. “Think how much good you do!”
“Good?” said she. “In what way?”
“Why—think of Sophie! How happy you've made her.”
“Yes,” she said dully. “I suppose so.”
“And me!” he exclaimed.
“Have I made you happy?” she inquired.
And he answered, “I have never been so happy in my life.”
All the wonder that was in his soul shone in his eyes, and arrested her gaze. They stood looking at each other; and then she came to him laughing. “Samuel,” she said, “you haven't got that tie right.”
And once more her fingers touched him, and her breath was upon him, and the glory of her set him on fire. A new wave of feeling swept over him, and this time it swamped him completely. His heart was pounding, his brain was reeling; and blindly, like a drunken man—almost without knowing what he was doing—he put out his arms and caught her to him.
And then, in an instant, horror seized him. What had he done? She would repel him—she would drive him from her! He had ruined everything!
But another instant sufficed to show him that this was not the case. And the tide of his feeling swept back redoubled. From the hidden regions of his soul there came new emotions, suddenly awakened—things tremendous and terrifying—never guessed by him before. His manhood came suddenly to consciousness—he lost all his shyness and fear of her. She was his—to do what he pleased with! And he pressed her to him, he half crushed her in his embrace. She closed her eyes, and he kissed her upon the cheeks and upon the lips; then he heard her voice, faint and trembling—“Samuel, I love you!” And within him it was like a great fanfare of trumpets, for wonder and triumph and delirious joy.
Suddenly there came a step in the hall outside. They sprang apart. The door of the room was open; and for an instant he saw wild terror in her eyes.
Then she sank down upon her knees. “Oh, Samuel!” she exclaimed. “My ring!”
“Your ring!” he echoed, dazed.
“My ring!” she said again; then he heard the voice of Mrs. Harris in the doorway. “Your ring, Miss Gladys?”
“I dropped it,” she said; and Samuel sank down upon his knees also.
They sought under the table. “It fell here,” she said. “It's my solitaire.”
“It must have rolled,” said Mrs. Harris, beginning to search.
“Put your head down and look about, Samuel,” commanded Miss Gladys, and Samuel obeyed; but he did not find any ring.
They continued the search for a minute. Mrs. Harris had come back to the table; and suddenly she exclaimed, “Here it is!”
“What!” cried the other. “Why, I looked there!”
“It was under the leg of the table,” explained the housekeeper.
“Ah!” said the other, and put the precious ring back upon her finger.
Samuel was overwhelmed with astonishment; but it was nothing to what he felt a moment later. His goddess turned to him. “No,” she said. “I'm sorry, Samuel, but it's impossible for me to do what you ask me.”
He stared at her perplexed.
“I have found a place for Sophie,” she went on, “and that is positively all I can do.”
“Miss Gladys!” he exclaimed.
“Really,” she said, “I think you ought not to ask me to do any more. I understand that there is a good deal of suffering among the mill people, and I do what I can to relieve it. But as for taking all the employees into my father's household—that is simply absurd.”
The boy could not find words. He could only stare at her. “That's all,” said Miss Gladys. “And about those flower seeds—do what you can to find them. I want them in a few days, if I'm to use them at all. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes, Miss Gladys,” he stammered. He had seen her dart a swift glance at the housekeeper, and he was beginning at last to comprehend.
“Bring them to me yourself,” she added. “Good-by.”
“Good-by, Miss Gladys,” he said, and went out.
He went downstairs, marveling. But before he was halfway down the first flight of steps he had forgotten everything except those incredible words—“Samuel, I love you!” They rang in his head like a trumpet call.
He could not hold himself in. He could not carry away such a secret. Sophie went to the door with him; and he took her outside and whispered it to her.
The child stared at him, with awe in her eyes. “Samuel!” she whispered, “she must mean to marry you!”
The boy started in dismay. “Marry me!” he gasped. “Marry me!”
“Why, yes!” said Sophie. “What else can she mean?”
That was a poser. “But—but—” he cried. “It's absurd!”
“It's not, Samuel! She loves you!”
“But I'm nothing but a poor boy!”
“But, Samuel, she has plenty of money!”
It had not occurred to Samuel that way; but he had to admit that it was true. “But I'm not good enough,” he protested.
“You are good enough for anyone!” cried Sophie. “You are noble and beautiful—and she has found it out. And she means to stoop and lift you up to her.”
The boy was silent, stricken with awe. “Oh, Samuel, it is just like in the fairy stories!” whispered the child. “You are to be the prince!”
So she went on, pouring out the wonder of it to him, and thrilling his soul to yet new flights.
He left her at last and walked down the street half dazed. He was to marry Miss Gladys! Yes, it must be true, for she had told him that she loved him! And then, presumably, he would come to live in that great palace. How could he ever stand it? What would he do?
And he would be a rich man! A great surge of triumph came to him. What would the people at home say—what would his brothers think when he went to pay them a visit, and perhaps to buy the old place?
But he put these thoughts away from him. He must not think of such things—it was selfish and ignoble. He must think of the good that he would be able to do with all the money. He might help the poor at last. He and Miss Gladys would devote their lives to this. Perhaps some day he might even own the mill where the children worked, and he would be able to send them all to school! And he would be a member of the Lockman family, in a way—he might even have some influence over Master Albert! And Ethel and Dr. Vince—how happy they would be when they heard of his good fortune!
In the end his thoughts left all these things, and came back to Miss Gladys. After all, what counted but that? She loved him! She was his! And like a swiftly spreading fire there came over him the memory of what he had done to her; he walked on, trembling with wonder and fear. It was a kind of madness in his blood. It had taken possession of his whole being—he would never again be the same! He stretched out his arms as he walked down the street, because his emotions were greater than he could bear.
Then suddenly, in the midst of the turmoil, a sight met his eyes which brought him back to the world. Approaching him, about to pass him, was an old man with a gray beard, stooping as he walked and carrying a peddler's basket. The disguise was excellent, but it did not deceive Samuel for an instant. He stood stock-still and cried in amazement: “Charlie Swift!”
The peddler shot a quick glance at him. “Shut up!” he muttered; and then he passed on, and left Samuel staring.
So with a sudden rush, a new set of emotions overwhelmed the boy. He was only a week away from the burglary; and yet it was an age. And how terrible it seemed—how almost incredible! And here was he, about to marry the daughter of a millionaire—while his friend and confederate was still skulking in the shadows, hiding from the police.
Of all the distressed people whom Samuel had met in the course of his adventures, Charlie Swift was the only one whom he had not benefited. And simply to set eyes upon him was to hear in his soul a new call. How could he pursue his own gratifications while Charlie was left a prey to wickedness?
The figure almost passed from sight while Samuel stood wrestling with the problem. He shrunk from the task before him; he was afraid of Charlie Swift, afraid of his cynical smile, and of his merciless sneering. But his duty was clear before him—as clear as that of any soldier, who in the midst of love and pleasure hears the bugle call. He might not be able to do anything for Charlie. But he must try!
And so he turned and followed the old peddler to his home.
“So you've let them turn you into a mission stiff!” said Charlie Swift, when the two were seated in his room.
“A what?” exclaimed Samuel perplexed.
“A mission stiff,” repeated the other. “One of the guys that gets repentance!”
Samuel experienced a sudden chilling of the ardor with which he had come into the room. The old grin was upon the other's face; and the boy realized with a sudden sinking of the heart how hard and savage he was. Finnegan was a babe in arms compared with Charlie Swift.
To convert him would be a real task, a test of one's fervor and vision. Samuel resolved suddenly upon diplomacy.
“They've been very good to me,” he said.
“I dare say,” responded the other indifferently.
“And Dr. Vince is really a very good man,” he went on.
“Humph!” commented the burglar; and then he added quickly, “You haven't been telling him anything about me?”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed the boy.
“Not a word?”
“Have you forgotten that I promised you?”
“That's all right,” said Charlie, “only I just wanted to warn you. You can tie up with the church guys if you feel like it—only don't mention your lost brothers down in the pit. Just you remember that I got some of the doctor's silver.”
The boy gave a start. “Oh!” he exclaimed.
“Didn't you know that?” laughed the other.
“No, I didn't know it.”
“What did you suppose I was doing all that time while you were watching?”
Samuel said nothing for a minute. “Why did you pick out Dr. Vince?” he asked suddenly.
“Him? Why not? I knew his house.”
“But a clergyman! Does it seem quite fair?”
“Oh, that's all right,” laughed the other. “He's got a-plenty. It don't have to come out of his salary, you know.”
“Why not?”
“Because, he's got a rich wife. You didn't suppose he lived in that palace of a house on his own salary, did you?”
“I hadn't thought anything about it.”
“Well, he's all right—he married one of the richest girls in town. And she'll keep his nest feathered.”
There was a pause. “Don't you think that Dr. Vince is a good man?” asked Samuel.
“I don't know,” said the other. “I've got no quarrel with him. But I don't like his trade.”
“Doesn't he do a great deal of good to people?”
“Maybe,” said the other, shrugging his shoulders.
“To poor people?” persisted Samuel.
“I dare say,” admitted Charlie. “But you'll notice it takes all the sand out of them—makes them into beggars. And I ain't that sort.”
“Why do you think he tries to help them?”
“Well, he gets paid for it, don't he?”
“But the other people in the church—the ones who pay the money. Why do you think they do it?”
The burglar thought for a moment. “I reckon they do it to make themselves feel good,” he said.
“To make themselves feel good,” repeated the other perplexed.
“Sure!” said the man. “You take one of those rich women—she's got a lot of money that she never earned, and she spends all her life amusing herself and ordering servants about. And all the time she knows that most of the people—the people that do the work—are suffering and dying. And she don't want to let that make her feel bad, so she hires some fellow like your friend, the doctor, to preach to 'em—and maybe give 'em a turkey at Christmas. And that takes the trouble off her mind. Don't you see?”
“Yes,” said the other weakly. “I see.”
“Or else,” added Charlie, “take some of those smooth grafters they've got up there—the men, I mean. They spend six days in the week cutting other people's throats, and robbing the public. Don't you think it's handy for them to know they can come on Sunday and drop a five-dollar-bill in the plate, and square the whole account?”
Samuel sought for a reply to these cruel taunts. “I don't think you put it quite fairly,” he protested.
“Why not?” demanded the other.
“In the first place, men like that wouldn't go to church—”
Charlie stared at him. “What!” he exclaimed.
“No,” said the boy.
“Why not?”
“Well, why should they care to go? And they wouldn't be welcome—”
Charlie burst into laughter. “You poor kid!” he exclaimed. “What have you been doing up there at St. Matthew's, anyhow?”
“I'm the sexton's assistant,” said Samuel gravely.
“Yes,” said the other. “Evidently a sexton's assistant doesn't see much of the congregation.”
“I wish you'd explain,” remarked the boy after a pause.
“I hardly know where to begin,” replied the other. “They've such a choice collection of crooks up there. Did you ever notice a little pot-bellied fellow with mutton-chop whiskers—looks as if he was eating persimmons all the time?”
“You mean Mr. Hickman?”
“Yes, that's the chap. He's one of the pillars of the church, isn't he?”
“I suppose so,” said Samuel. “He's one of the vestrymen.”
“And did you ever hear of Henry Hickman before?”
“I know he's a famous lawyer; and I was told that he managed the Lockman estate.”
“Yes,” said Charlie, “and I suppose you don't know what that means!”
“No,” admitted Samuel, “I don't.”
“It means,” went on the other, “that he was old Lockman's right-hand man, and had his finger in every dirty job that the old fellow ever did for thirty years. And it means that he runs the business now, and does all the crooked work that has to be done for it.”
There was a pause. “For instance, what?” asked Samuel in a low voice.
“For instance, politics,” said the other. “Steering the grafters off the Lockman preserve. Getting the right men named by the machine, and putting up the dough to elect them. Last year the Democrats got in, in spite of all he could do; and he had to buy the city council outright.”
“What!” gasped the boy in horror.
“Sure thing,” laughed Charlie—“there was an independent water company trying to break in, and the Democrats were pledged to them. They say it cost Hickman forty-five thousand dollars.”
“But do you KNOW that?” cried the other.
“Know it, Sammy? Why everybody in town knows it. It was a rotten steal, on the face of it.”
Samuel was staring at him. “I can't believe it!” he exclaimed.
“Nonsense!” laughed the other. “Ask round a bit!” And then he added quickly, “Why, see here—didn't you tell me you knew Billy Finnegan—the barkeeper?”
“Yes, I know him.”
“Well, then, you can go right to headquarters and find out. His boss, John Callahan, was one of the supervisors—he got the dough. Go and ask Finnegan.”
“But will he tell?” exclaimed Samuel.
“I guess he'll tell,” said Charlie, “if you go at him right. It's no great secret—the whole town's been laughing about it.”
Samuel was almost too shocked for words. “Do you suppose Dr. Vince knows it?” he cried.
“He don't know much if he doesn't,” was the other's reply.
“A member of his church!” gasped the boy.
“Oh, pshaw!” laughed the other. “You're too green, Sammy! What's the church got to do with business? Why, look—there's old Wygant—another of the vestrymen!”
“Miss Gladys' father, you mean?”
“Yes; old Lockman's brother-in-law. He's the other trustee of the estate. And do you suppose there's any rascality he doesn't know about?”
“But he's a reformer!” cried the boy wildly.
“Sure!” laughed Charlie. “He made a speech at the college commencement about representative government; I suppose you read it in the Express. But all the same, when the Democrats got in, his nibs came round and made his terms with Slattery, the new boss; and they get along so well it'll be his money that will put them in again next year.”
“But WHY?” cried Samuel dazed.
“For one thing,” said Charlie, “because he's got to have his man in the State legislature, to beat the child-labor bill.”
“The child-labor bill!”
“Surely. You knew he was fighting it, didn't you? They wanted to prevent children under fourteen from working in the cotton mills. Wygant sent Jack Pemberton up to the Capital for nothing at all but to beat that law.” Samuel sat with his hands clenched tightly. Before him there had come the vision of little Sophie Stedman with her wan and haggard face! “But why does he want the children in his mill?” he cried.
“Why?” echoed Charlie. “Good God! Because he can pay them less and work them harder. Did you suppose he wanted them there for their health?”
There was a long pause. The boy was wrestling with the most terrible specter that had yet laid hold upon him. “I don't believe he knows it!” he whispered half to himself. “I don't believe it!”
“Who?” asked the other.
“Dr. Vince!” said the boy. And he rose suddenly to his feet. “I will go and see him about it,” he said.
“Go and see him!” echoed Charlie.
“Yes. He will tell me!”
Charlie was gazing at him with a broad grin. “I dare you!” he cried.
“I am going,” said the boy simply; and the burglar slapped his thigh in delight.
“Go on!” he chuckled. “Sock it to him, Sammy! And come back and tell me about it!”