"It's a dago!"
"Ahoy!" they signaled, waving their hands.
"Open the door for him, Indigo," cried Harry.
"Did you ever hear tell o' such savages, Archie?" whispered the piper to his son; "that had no enlightenment on the name o' bonnie Scotland, which is famous wherever valor and minstrelsy are honored."
"They maun be jestin', daddy."
"Jestin'? Tut, tut! Whaur's the jest?"
"Presto bellisimo, Paganini," cried the four youths, each rushing to the door and welcoming the organ-grinder, with a warm shake-hands. The Italian smiled profusely and doffed his cap, his monkey climbing to the organ top and imitating him in every gesture.
"Tune up your bagpipes, Sawnie," cried Harry. "We are going to have a tournament. Take a smell, Paganini?"
"Noa," answered the Italian, shaking his head, "noa drink—a."
"Then you're a bigger fool than you look," cried Idler, stumbling tipsily. "(Hic) I'm losing control of my curves."
"What tunes have you got in that box?" asked Harry of the organ-grinder, while Logan eyed him grimly with a look of scorn.
"What-a sing-a? 'Anni Runi.'"
"That will do. Grind away. Hold on. Get a full breath, Sawnie. Now for a medley."
The organ-grinder began turning his crank, but the Scotchman sulked in the corner.
"Stop there, Paganini. False start. Try again."
"I'll accompany nae uncivilized barrel-box, that's only fit to dandle idiot bairns wi'."
"What are you talking about?" cried Idler. "Uncivilized! You wildman of the hills! A red outlaw in his war paint couldn't look and act more outlandish than you do."
"Smooth him down, Harry," cried Sunburst. "Here, Sawnie, how much will you take for your pipes?"
"Enough to buy me them back again," answered the Scotchman, cannily, "and a bonus for the time o' their privation."
"You'll do," said Idler.
"Have another nip of the whey and let's hear you drown the dago," whispered Harry, confidentially, patting Logan on the back.
"Drown him? 'Twad na tak' a big puddle to do that."
"Of course not. But he's vain enough to think just the opposite. A good swig! Start her up now."
Idler drummed on the piano a few bars of "Scots Wha Ha'e," which set the piper marching and stamping again. At a nod from Harry the bowing Italian resumed his tune, and when the four carousers took hands in a circle and began chanting "Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot," the air was infernal with discord.
"Faster! Faster!" cried Harry. The Scotchman pranced in his industrious ecstasy, while the Italian put both hands to the organ-crank and turned for all that was in him.
"Oh, a smile for my Rosalie!" shouted Kennedy, maliciously, changing the air.
"None of that!" cried Harry, barely making his voice heard above the din. The little boy sitting in one corner had clapped both palms over his ears, and the monkey, watching his gesture, gravely climbed up and perched beside him, doing likewise.
"A kiss for my Rosalie," roared Kennedy, tantalizing his host. Half-angry, Harry caught up a wine bottle from the tray and pointed it at his tormentor.
"Pop!" the cork flew out and Kennedy put his hand to his eye with an exclamation of pain.
"Hello! What have I done?" cried Harry.
"Didn't know it was loaded," jeered Idler. But the concert had stopped, and when Kennedy uncovered his eye there was a blue swelling already under the lid.
"A surgeon!" cried Sunburst. "Amputate his head. It is the only hope of saving the eye."
"What's good for a black eye?" asked Harry, less unfeelingly than the others.
"Black the other for symmetry," cried Sunburst.
"Get some beefsteak, Indigo," said Harry.
"Kill the Jersey cow, Indigo, and cut off a sirloin," mocked Idler, who was half-seas over now. Meanwhile the Scotchman and the Italian, counting their emoluments, had folded their instruments and silently stolen away; while Sunburst, apparently as porous as a sponge, calmly and steadily put the bottle Harry had popped to his lips and drained it to the dregs.
"Now for Sir Galahad in jail!" said Harry, touching the bay with the point of his whip.
"He was an awfully virtuous cad!" laughed Kennedy. Sunburst had offered to convey Idler safely home, while Kennedy, the black-eyed, accompanied Harry, himself none the better for his morning bottle-bout, to the clubhouse in town. On the way they would make the visit to Robert.
There was evidently a strong dash of the Arnold blood in Harry. He showed more resemblance to his cousin than to the proud, thin-lipped woman who had sat through Floyd's preliminary trial. A stranger might even confuse them at the first glance, though Harry was five years the older of the two. It could not be gainsaid that he bore his age well. His movements were leopard-like in their swiftness and ease and his eyes shone with mesmeric power. The little darkness under their lids might be a peculiarity of complexion, but occasionally, in moments of repose, a shadow, no more, seemed to cross the cheek and make it look worn. His companions had noticed that the cue-point wavered a trifle in his hands of late and that his masse shots sometimes failed to draw the balls. But he was still facile princeps among gentlemen boxers of the city; and his long, brown arms were a delight to watch on the river, crossing and recrossing in the graceful rhythm of the practiced oarsman.
Arnold's true nature was hard to judge, for circumstances had conspired to spoil him from the cradle. A comely child, he had been allowed to carry the knickerbocker period of tossing curls and gratified whims far into his teens, and the discovery that her darling was a man, and no longer a painted picture to be gazed at and displayed, had come upon his mother suddenly, like an unforeseen catastrophe. It had cost her many a pang to realize that she, who aspired to be sole mistress of his heart, shared now only a divided affection with a score of alien interests. Still she continued to indulge and anticipate his desires. They were rich and social station was her birthright. But it was with a jealous gnawing in her heart that she would sign the check for his new pleasure yacht or watch him pat the neck of his steeplechaser Aladdin.
The dislike she bore to Robert Floyd was a natural consequence of his uncle's partiality. The families were outwardly upon good terms. If early influence counts, there could not well be much similarity of taste between the youth whose steps had been guided by the virile head of Benjamin Arnold and the idol of that indulgent, worldly mother who never forgot that she belonged to the Brewsters of Lynn.
"Hold her ten minutes," said Harry, giving the reins to Kennedy at the outer gate of the jail. His name was a sufficient passport to the officer who guarded the outer turnstile, and he was directed across a bricked yard to the jail building proper. Here a more detailed explanation was exacted. Harry answered the questions suavely but not without some suppressed impatience. A few moments of delay, which he beguiled with an incessant finger-tattoo, and he was conducted to murderers' row.
"This isn't much like home, Rob," was his greeting, fortified by a hand extended through the cell bars. Floyd pressed it somewhat coldly.
"I'm grateful for the visit, Harry," he said.
"I was deucedly down with malaria when uncle died, you know."
"I was sorry to hear that from your mother."
"Yes, might have come around to the trial, I suppose; but mother wouldn't have it. You understand how she feels. Besides, what good could I do?"
"You are better now?"
"Awoke this morning as fresh as a new-born babe. Going down to play with the foils awhile. Can't stop long."
Was it the glow of convalescence or of wine that shone in Harry's face? He made one or two imaginary passes with his cane, regardless of the feelings of the prisoner, to whom such a picture of prospective enjoyment could hardly be soothing.
"But I say, Rob," he cried, apparently remembering himself, "this is hard on you. What do you think of it all?"
Floyd eyed his cousin, as if the appropriate answer were not easy to find.
"It is hard," he replied.
"What would Uncle Ben say if he were alive?"
"Uncle Benjamin would be the first to proclaim my innocence," said Robert, his voice vibrant with emotion.
"To tell the truth, Rob, I don't know whether to be sorry his old scrawl's canceled or not. I had my doubts how I fared at Uncle Ben's hands. Mother said my half was hunky, but you know uncle hadn't that respect for my precious person she has." Harry's laugh showed that he was well aware of his mother's weakness in that regard. "How was it? Do you know? Did the old gentleman forget me?"
"I believe we were treated nearly alike," answered Robert.
"Gad, then I owe you $5,000,000——"
"Did you come here to insult me?"
At this outburst of indignation the sheriff's deputy drew near.
"That was nothing, Rob," said Harry, sobering up. "Only my cursed thoughtlessness. I'm sorry, on my word, you've got into the fix."
"Carry your condolences somewhere else."
"Oh, well——"
"I was always literal and I mean now what I say. Your apology only makes the matter worse."
There is nothing more subversive of dignity than an unpremeditated sneeze. Not that Saul Aronson had much dignity to spare. On the contrary, he was an extremely modest young man, with apparently one great passion in his life, the service of Shagarach. On this occasion his resounding ker-choo proclaimed from afar the arrival of that personage and threw a ridiculous damper on the rising temper of the cousins. Seeing the two strangers approach, Harry fumbled out a farewell and withdrew with an air of languid bravado. Shagarach watched him as he passed.
"Follow that young man for a few hours," he said to Aronson. "I should like to know his afternoon programme."
Aronson hung on his master's lips and trotted off to obey his command.
"I am Shagarach, come to defend you," he said to the prisoner, still flushed with the remembrance of the quarrel.
"Who sent you to defend me?" was the curt reply.
"Your friend, Miss Barlow."
"Emily?"
Robert's voice grew softer.
"I have some questions to ask you."
"What have I done to be questioned as if I were a cut-throat? What have I done to be jailed here like some wild beast, before whom life would not be safe if he were let at large?"
"I know you are innocent, Floyd."
Only the falsely accused can tell how the first assurance of trust from another revives hope and faith in their kind. Robert Floyd was no man to lean on strangers, yet Shagarach's words were as soothing to him as a gentle hand laid on a feverish forehead.
"Your cousin Harry came here to verify his knowledge of the will, which disinherited him, did he not?"
"Harry was disinherited, that is true."
"How came you to give up the profession of botanist, in which your uncle trained you?"
"Men interest me more than vegetables."
"But you refused your uncle's wealth, that would have given you power among men."
"It was not mine. I had not earned it. I feared the temptation."
"You are a journalist, I believe?"
"Six months ago I happened to report a conference of charities for the Beacon. Today I am eking out my income by occasional work for that paper."
Shagarach thought of his own first brief. A youth, imperfectly acquainted with English, was charged with the larceny of an overcoat from his fellow-lodger. Something about him enlisted the sympathy of a kind-hearted lady who drew Shagarach into the case because of his knowledge of the Hebrew jargon which the prisoner spoke. The youth was acquitted and was now a student of law, being no other than Shagarach's assistant and idolater, Aronson. That was years ago. Today hundreds flocked to hear his pleading of a cause, judges leaned over alertly, as if learning their duty from him, and the very hangers-on of the courtroom acquired a larger view of the moral law when Shagarach expounded it.
"My own beginnings were as humble," he said.
"You are a criminal lawyer by choice, people say."
"The moral alternative of innocence or guilt, of liberty or imprisonment—sometimes, as now, of life or death—exalts a cause in my eyes far above any elevation to which mere financial litigation can attain."
Robert looked his visitor over thoughtfully. The criminal lawyer was not reputed the highest grade of the guild. But there was a sneer, too, in many quarters for the journalist. He, too, must mingle in the reek of cities, share Lazarus' crust and drink from the same cup with the children of the slums.
"And you have risen to the defense of murderers," he said.
"Men accused of murder," answered Shagarach.
"You are reputed to be uniformly successful."
"That is no miracle. My clients are uniformly innocent. My first step is to satisfy myself of that."
"When were you first satisfied of my innocence?"
"When I saw you here."
"I am to be removed to the state prison while the jail is repaired," said Robert, who had indulged dreams of some powerful intervention which should procure his release. "How long before a final hearing will be given me?"
"Two months at most. The evidence against your cousin is growing rapidly under my hands."
"It was 'evidence' that brought me here. Is your 'evidence' against Harry no more valuable?"
"I am not prosecuting Harry Arnold, but every item that points to his guilt guides the finger of suspicion away from you."
Shagarach was satisfied with his interview. He had elicited proof to his own mind of Robert's innocence and legal evidence of Harry's disinheritance under the will. To fasten knowledge of the fact upon the cousin would now be an easier task.
"Miss Barlow will be permitted to see you," was his parting assurance to the prisoner before he hurriedly returned to his office, to find an unexpected client awaiting him.
John Davidson, the marshal, had a friendly habit, the legacy of a country bringing-up, which his acquaintances found both useful and agreeable. Our tired Emily, trudging to Shagarach's with the heavy message of a day's failure, must have agreed with them heartily. At least, she did not decline his invitation when the kindly old gentleman drove up behind her and urged her to share his seat in the carriage.
"I am bringing him some evidence now," said Emily in answer to the marshal's first question, after he had settled her according to his liberal ideas of comfort and clucked his horse to a gentle trot.
"Evidence—no need of evidence, miss. If Shagarach has your case, that will be prima-facie evidence in itself of your sweetheart's innocence."
"He is a wonderful man. But do people like him?"
"Like him? Well, 'like' is a medium word, you see, used for medium people. He's a good deal of a sphinx to us all, my dear. But aren't you a brave girl to be tramping the streets for your sweetheart? Don't mind being called sweethearts, I hope? That was the old-country word when I courted Elizabeth. But I believe young folks now call it fiancee, inamorata—French words and Italian, as though they were ashamed to speak it out in good old English."
"Oh, we prefer sweethearts a hundred times. But I see Mr. Shagarach's sign."
The marshal handed her out with old-fashioned gallantry, threw his horse's head-weight on the curbstone and accompanied her upstairs. Neither Aronson, nor Jacob, the office boy, answered his knock, but a throaty falsetto, somewhat the worse for wear, was intoning an evangelical hymn within. Strange quavers ad libitum and a constant beating of the foot, occasionally heightened to a break-down stamp, intermingled with the air. It was only by giving a rap with his whole clenched hand that the marshal was able to arouse the attention of this musical inmate.
"Evenin', Mr. Davidson. Keepin' house, you see."
"Good evening, Jupiter." Then to Emily: "This is Pineapple Jupiter."
"Cullud gospel-preacher, missus. Belong to the mission upstairs. Buy a mission paper, missus?"
His complexion was as black as a coal shovel, but everything artificial about him made the antithesis of the swan to the raven. His suit was of bleached linen, his shirt bosom, choker and spotless cravat, all the color of snow. Even his wool was wintry and the rolling eyes and brilliant teeth gave his ensemble the effect of a pen-and-ink sketch, or one of those black-and-white grotesques that recently captured a passing vogue.
"When will Shagarach return?" asked Davidson, but a light step on the stairs, which Emily knew to be his, rendered an answer needless. The lawyer bowed with his usual stateliness and ushered them in.
"Remain outside till Jacob comes, Jupiter," he said. The negro salaamed deferentially.
"As a result of today's inquiries," Shagarach folded his arms, "two desirable witnesses are missing. The peddler, as I surmised, is not a peddler; and the incendiary, who could assist us materially in our researches, still remains in the Arnold mansion."
Emily's face was puzzled at this enigmatic opening.
"That is to say, he was not seen by any one coming out. I believe, however, that he succeeded in getting away unobserved, as I think I had the pleasure of meeting him this afternoon."
"The incendiary?" cried Emily, and the marshal echoed her.
"At the county jail."
Emily's heart fluttered. Had Shagarach become a convert to the belief in Robert's guilt? And if so?
"You know Harry Arnold?" he asked.
"I have never met him." She colored a little, for she was not descended from the Brewsters of Lynn. "But it seems to me your argument against him is inferential, Mr. Shagarach." Twenty times she had gone over it on her pillow the night before.
"Were the a priori case against Mr. Floyd as strong, you would have more reason than you have to be apprehensive, Miss Barlow," said Shagarach, in that ringing tone of his, from which all the sap of emotion seemed purposely wrung out, leaving only a residuum of dry logic.
Immediately he began writing a letter, as if to terminate the interview, and John Davidson reached for his hat, casting a glance down at his carriage in the street. Then with an effort Emily unburdened herself of the portentous message which she had come to deliver.
"I have done my best," she said. "But Bertha Lund is not to be found."
Bertha Lund's aunt, Mrs. Christenson, kept a boarding house for Swedes, on a street near the water front. By virtue of an intelligence-office license she was also empowered to obtain places in domestic service for newly imported Frederikas and Katherinkas. But the Swedish housemaid is one of those rare commodities in which the demand exceeds the supply. So there had been no crowded gallery of sodden faces around the waiting-room when Emily called Thursday morning before going to work, but only two or three laughing maidens who chatted with the boarders. All had the bloom of a winter apple in their cheeks and their blue eyes sparkled with reflections of the sea. Mrs. Christenson was making terms with a lady in an inner room.
"You wish for a servant?" she said, coming forward pleasantly.
"My business is with Miss Bertha Lund, your niece. I believe she is lodging here."
"My niece is gone," answered the landlady, unceremoniously turning her back and shutting the door with that emphasis which is feminine for profanity. Then her voice was heard, pitched a little higher, as she interpreted the silvery Swedish of the girl within, for the benefit of her future mistress.
"Something must be wrong," thought Emily. But there was nothing for her to do but retreat, somewhat hurt and a great deal troubled. She had reached the head of the stairs when one of the domestics in the waiting-room came forward sympathetically and in her pretty, broken English explained Mrs. Christenson's conduct. Bertha, it seems, had not returned home since the night of the trial. Search had been made for her, but without result. From what the girl said, though this was put guardedly and in an almost inaudible whisper, Emily inferred that Bertha, who was naturally quick-tempered, had chafed under her aunt's imperious discipline and had probably gone to board with some friend, registering herself for employment meanwhile in one of the other intelligence offices. Once before she had manifested the same impatience of restraint and had disappeared into the country for an entire summer.
It was still possible, even probable, that she could be found if search were instituted at once. Bertha had only a day's start of her pursuer, and it was not likely that she had secured a situation to her taste so soon. Emily formed the heroic resolve to scour the intelligence offices herself. Finding the list in the directory incomplete, she boldly visited police headquarters, from which licenses are issued, and copied the name and address of every keeper in the city.
With a letter from one of the police commissioners and a minute description of Bertha at her tongue's end, Emily had passed from office to office, braving discourtesy and even insult. As this was the busy season her truancy from the studio would have to be made up by lamplight work, which meant ache to her weary eyes, and the unwonted climbing of stairs and trudging about for hours soon exhausted her small stock of strength. But Emily was less concerned over her personal sacrifice than over the failure of her inquiries. By 4 o'clock her task was still uncompleted. The rounds of the offices had not been half-made. Still no Bertha could be found, no girl answering her description or dressed as Bertha had been dressed at the trial having applied for work on the previous day. With a cloud of despondency forming over her heart, only lightened by a dim hope of consolation from Shagarach, she had turned her steps in the direction of his office when John Davidson overtook her.
"Not to be found!" echoed the marshal.
"When was she seen last?" inquired Shagarach, calmly.
"The evening of the trial," answered Emily. "She hasn't returned to her aunt's, where she was lodging, since then."
"Why, I saw the girl talking with McCausland," said Davidson.
"When?" asked the lawyer.
"Tuesday evening. Everybody else had gone and Miss Barlow and I were alone in the ante-chamber. McCausland put his head in, as if he wanted the room, and I noticed two women behind him. One was the housemaid and the other was——"
"Mrs. Arnold?"
"True enough. 'Twa'nt no need to tell you, was it?"
The marshal's eyes grew big with admiration.
"Merely a guess. Bertha Lund is a government witness, and McCausland has a habit of keeping his witnesses under cover, especially when they are poor and he is fighting wealth or influence. However, we have a right to know all Bertha knows. Could you find out if she is living with the Arnolds?" he said, turning to Emily.
"They are out of town, but I'll make inquiries," answered the resolute girl.
"This may be of use." Shagarach handed her the note he had rapidly written. It was unsealed and addressed to the warden of the state prison. When the young girl was settled again to John Davidson's satisfaction in the seat of his buggy, she opened the envelope and read its contents aloud:
"My Dear Sir: The bearer, Miss Emily Barlow, is assigned to important duties for the defense in the cause of Commonwealth vs. Floyd. I shall esteem it a favor if you will grant her admission to the defendant as my personal representative at all times when she may apply to you. Respectfully yours,"MEYER SHAGARACH,"Counsel for the Accused."
"My Dear Sir: The bearer, Miss Emily Barlow, is assigned to important duties for the defense in the cause of Commonwealth vs. Floyd. I shall esteem it a favor if you will grant her admission to the defendant as my personal representative at all times when she may apply to you. Respectfully yours,
"MEYER SHAGARACH,"Counsel for the Accused."
"Well, that was clever, wasn't it?" said old John Davidson, and for the rest of the ride he entertained her with anecdotes of Shagarach's most memorable victories, as well as other fascinating relations. For the marshal, among his many virtues, was a famous traveler, being one of the handful who can boast of having set foot in every state of our union. He may not have been a marvel of detective cunning, as McCausland had intimated, but Emily had forgotten all about her fatigue and was in an agreeably hopeful frame of mind when he set her down before her house door in the plain side street.
That night Robert Floyd slept in a state prison cell. The atmosphere of the place oppressed him. Everything, down to the very keys and padlocks, was more massive than at the county jail. Led along a narrow corridor by tenanted cells, whose inmates came to the bars and greeted him, or crouched in the inmost recesses, he was reminded of a menagerie of dangerous beasts. At the door of his own cell the revulsion had seized him like an epileptic fit and he had wrenched himself loose from the jailer. In an instant four vise-like hands were tightened on him and he was flung bodily into the apartment. The iron door swung to with a clang and he heard the jailer's footsteps receding.
"Coo-ee! Ducky, don't ee like ee c'adle?"
"He's a lifer, sure!"
"Don't cry, Johnnie. You'll never get out any more."
"I move a resolution of sympathy for our newly elected associate. All in favor, curse Longlegs!"
There is a passage in Bach's "Passion" music where the infuriated Jews, being offered the choice of pardon for Barabbas or the Savior, shriek out the name of the robber. Robert remembered thinking that up to then he had never heard anything more devilish than the roar of rage with which the multitude express their preference for "Barabbas!" But the chorus of curses from the convict pack that greeted the sobriquet of "Longlegs" was like an uproar from still lower deeps, where spirits more hideous than the deicides may be confined.
This is not the normal temper of prisons, by any means. But the Georgetown prison had been for months in a state of incipient mutiny and the brewing storm was now threatening to break. Among the grounds of complaint alleged against the present warden was his retention of the obnoxious turnkey, "Longlegs," who was loathed as a "squealer," because he could not be bought. It was further alleged that the men's tobacco rations had been unjustly diminished one-half, such a thing as gratitude for the allowance of this luxury at all not entering their minds. The teams that carted goods from the workshops had recently been put in charge of prison employes, and a useful means of communication with outer friends thus cruelly cut off. In the eyes of the "solitaries" and "hard-labor" men their bill of rights had been monstrously trampled upon, and there was ample cause for the deposing of Warden Tapp and the establishment of anarchy in the institution. Only the "lifers" were for peace.
"Half a plug is better than no smoke, boys," said John Bryant, who had killed his wife, humorously. But he had served fourteen years already and lived in hopes of a pardon some Thanksgiving day for his good behavior.
After exhibiting so clearly their position "against the government," Robert's fellow-lodgers began to put inquiries to himself.
"Say, freshy, what's your name?"
Robert was too exasperated, too disgusted, to answer.
"He's tongue-tied."
"Wants his supper."
"Look out for a spy, fellers. That ain't true blue."
"Mum's the word."
It was evident that Floyd's refusal to make free had branded him at once with the stamp of unpopularity. But the young man had other thoughts to occupy his mind. He was pondering upon his own terrible plight and upon Shagarach's visit. Fully an hour must have passed in these reflections, for it was very dark, when they were disturbed by a low remark from his left-hand neighbor.
"Say, chummy, I hain't one of these 'ere bloomin' mutineers."
It was a wheezy voice and Floyd remembered to have heard at intervals from that quarter one of those racking coughs which distress the listener almost as much as the sufferer. The man seemed to be in the rear of his cell and to have his mouth to the wall. Robert said nothing, but his interest was languidly aroused.
"Say, get into the hospital, Dobbs," remarked a voice that was beginning to be familiar to Robert.
"I 'ave been in the 'ospital, you unfeelin', bloomin' coves," replied the asthmatic prisoner.
"Ho, ee's Henglish, ee his," said some one, whereupon there was a faint storm of laughter. Robert's sympathy was enlisted on the side of the man called Dobbs. His uncle had been an Englishman and the national feeling was strong in the nephew. Speaking as low as possible, so that the others might not hear, he said to Dobbs:
"You are an Englishman? This is bad company you've got into."
"Lord, me boy, Hi know that—a scurvy job lot o' bloomin' ordinary coves as I'd cut dead if Hi was a gentleman of fortune. But you see Hi hain't. Being only Bill Dobbs, Hi can't afford to preach hinnocence, and choose me hown 'ouse-mates, like a juke."
The cough choked his utterance for awhile and evoked further remonstrance from the yawning crew around him.
"What is your sentence?" asked Robert.
"Height years for burglary—if they can 'old me," and Bill Dobbs chuckled knowingly, like one who had tested the fragility of prison walls before. "W'ich, bein' a slippery fish, is a question Hi 'ave been considerin' seriously."
"Why did you leave England?" asked Robert.
"The climate is gettin' so warm," answered the cockney. "W'y, the gulf stream is comin' so near us there it would almost boil a turkey. Hawfully bloomin' 'ot, you know, chummy. I'm a-winkin' at you."
"Especially about Scotland Yard, I suppose. You're a professional burglar?"
"Not always, young man. Hi 'ad a Henglish mother once, w'ich I shall never forget 'ow she 'eard my prayers. And hevery day Hi dressed myself up in my blue blouse and breeches, and my dinner pail (w'ich wasn't hempty) under my harm, and hevery bloomin' bobby I met says Hi to him, says Hi: 'Hi'm Martin Thimblethorpe, from the west country, and can you tell me w'ere's Regent row?' Blarst me if they wouldn't point their fingers this way and that way and follow my departing footsteps with a look of pride, as much as to say: 'There goes a honest Hinglish workingman; see 'is hindependent hair."
"But you never worked very hard, I fancy, with your blouse and your dinner-pail?"
"'Ard? Hi fancy Hi did."
"What did you do?"
"Jeweler's 'elp."
"That is, you sold your plunder to a fence?"
"Fence? Wot fence? Hi 'ad an accommodatin' friend in the business, who asked no impertinent questions and paid me 'alf price for my contributions—w'ich was bloomin' low figures, considering Hi never accepted hanything cheap. If there's one class Hi 'ate, positively 'ate, young man, it's them bloomin' shoddy gaffers wot sport a genteel reputation on plated spoons and paste."
"You always discriminated against such people?"
"Halways! Ho, it used to do my 'eart good," continued Dobbs, chuckling at the reminiscence, "w'en they wrote up one of my nocturnal visits (Hi halways make my collections in the quiet hours of the hevenin') as 'ow the leavin' of the plated ware and the abandonin' of a temptin' case of hartificial diamonds shows the 'and of the solitary cracksman. There's appreciation, Hi used to say! There's fame! You 'it it 'appily, young man. Hi always discriminated."
"Martin Thimblethorpe, then, was the solitary cracksman, and your real name is Dobbs?"
"Bill Dobbs. Wot's your line, chummy? Fashionable embezzlement? Hi admire that line. It's genteel and the perquisites is liberal accordingly."
Floyd was getting interested in spite of himself. These first-hand experiences of a professional burglar were life, and in spite of the fellow's utter villainy and vulgarity (he could almost see his cunning leer through the walls) they had a spice of romance that held him. But their colloquy was interrupted just here by a sound of footsteps and the approach of a light, which set the whole ward raving again.
"Shut up your screeching," came a voice of command, at which the mutinous crew subsided, and Robert heard apologetic remarks.
"It's Gradger."
"It isn't Longlegs."
"We thought it was Longlegs."
Gradger, for some reason, was a favorite with the men. He went straight to Floyd's cell and pointed him out to Emily Barlow.
"Emily!"
"Robert!"
That was all they could say for awhile.
"My darling," cried Robert, who was the first to recover command of himself. He was indignant to think that she, too, should be forced into these surroundings. "Why have you come here?"
"Only to be with you for a few moments, Robert. I thought of you all friendless and lonesome."
"God bless you, dear. But you must not remain. Go away quickly and do not come here again."
It was the old, natural instinct to screen the purer half of our race from degrading contact with things we ourselves must meet.
"But why should I not visit you, Robert?"
"Because this is hell and you are an angel."
He drew her to him and kissed her through the bars. Instantly the sound was re-echoed a hundred times, distorted and vulgarized, throughout the ward. In the silence which followed Emily's first words, the sweethearts had forgotten their audience of thieves and cutthroats, to whom every syllable was audible. Hierarchs of sin, virtuosos in infamy, all the demon in their souls seemed roused by this innocent pledge of mutual faith between youth and maiden, and even the stern threats of Gradger could not silence their outbreak of hideous derision.
Emily started back as red as fire.
"Go, darling," cried Robert, between his set teeth, while shouts of "Ta, ta, Robert," "Kiss me, Emily," intermingled with the foul ribaldry generated in minds shut away from all purifying touch of womanhood, taunted the fleeing girl and roused her imprisoned lover's passion to frenzy. He could have strangled three of them single-handed.
"Better call daytimes, miss, when the men are working in the shops," said Gradger. He had not taken Emily for a girl who herself had to work daytimes in a shop.
Meanwhile the storm raged louder and louder, and several turnkeys were called to quell the disturbance and carry the ringleaders away to the "block." But the more it volleyed around him the cooler grew young Floyd. His resentment gradually hardened to a kind of pitying scorn, and when the last oath died away it was with sweeter thoughts that he had indulged for three bitter nights that he laid his head on the pallet and drowsed into oblivion. His pillow lay close to the point of the wall where Dobbs liked to do his talking, and while the midnight bell was ringing he thought he heard the cracksman whisper:
"The young lady stretched it, chummy. You 'ave one friend 'ere. Let 'em screech their bloomin' lungs off."
But this may have been a dream.
"The appointment you heard them make. I missed the rendezvous."
"Harry Arnold said Wednesday was his locky day——"
"Lucky day," corrected Shagarach.
"His lucky day," said Aronson, "and if the old lady put up he would break the bank."
"That I understand. A gambling tryst. The old lady is his mother. Put up means to pay his money. But the place—what was the name of the place?"
"When they left each other Arnold said: 'Wednesday at the Tough-Coat,' and Kennedy said: 'All right, Harry.'"
"Repeat that word."
"Tough-Coat."
"Repeat it again."
"Tough-Coat."
Still Shagarach looked nonplused. The syllables conveyed no meaning whatever. Yet Aronson felt sure of the substantial accuracy of his version.
"Very well." The lawyer dismissed the subject, sent Aronson off on irrelevant business and gave a few hours of attention to his other clients. The law's delay had not infected Shagarach. Whatever the matter he undertook, he was punctual as the clock in its performances, though not, in the ordinary sense of the word, a methodical man.
Early in the afternoon an unlooked-for visitor took his place among those waiting in the outer room. Jacob hastened to give him the chair of precedence, and announced his name to Shagarach, then in closet conference with an honest-appearing bookkeeper, whose acquittal on a charge of forgery he had just procured.
"I will see Mr. Rabofsky next," said the lawyer to Jacob.
The man so called was a short, bulky Hebrew, of 60-odd winters (one would prefer reckoning his years by the more rigorous season). His nose was like an owl's beak and his beard spread itself luxuriantly over his face, plainly undefiled of the scissors. The hair was indeterminately reddish and gray and his eyes were the color of steel. Shagarach bowed him into his private room, the caller strutting like one accustomed to homage.
Although the door was closed behind him as usual, Rabofsky glanced suspiciously around and spoke in the Hebrew jargon—that grafting of foreign idioms on a German patois which his tribe has carried all over eastern Europe, and latterly, via Hamburg, into the cities of America.
"It is a long time since we have met, kinsman Shagarach," he said.
"A long time since I have had that honor," replied the lawyer, bowing with the Hebrew's respect for age.
"Not since your respected father's funeral, I believe. He was one of my friends, whose memory always remains to uplift me—a glory to our race and religion."
"My respected father's friends are my friends to the end of my days."
Shagarach's father had been a rabbin or expounder of the sacred books. Great was the scandal when Rabbi Moses' son abandoned daily attendance at the synagogue and gave himself over to the ways, though not to the society, of the gentiles. His mother, with whom he lived, still kept up the observances of the law, baking the unleavened bread at the paschal season and purchasing the flesh only of the lawfully butchered ox. Her son neither praised nor blamed, but she knew he was no longer of Israel's sects; not even of the mystical Essenes, among whom his father might be counted, and whose study is the unpronounceable name of God. Others of his people who lacked a mother's indulgence knew this, and it was rarely that one of the orthodox children of Israel brought his worldly troubles to Shagarach.
"Your health is strong under Jehovah, I trust," continued Simon Rabofsky.
"Have you come to inquire about my health?" asked Shagarach. The old man's prelude, beginning so fitfully and far away, threatened to prolong itself interminably.
"Nay, a small affair of consultation which it shall be richly worth your while to advise upon," answered the other, craftily.
"State the facts with brevity and clearness."
"Speedily, kinsman Shagarach, speedily." Again he looked cautiously around. "You are aware that out of the savings of my days of hard labor I occasionally permit the use of small sums to my friends."
"You are a money-lender? That I know. One of my clients desires a loan of you. Which is it?"
"Not one of your clients, kinsman Shagarach."
"Who?"
"Mrs. Arnold."
Not a muscle of Shagarach's well-schooled countenance quivered, though the old Jew's eyes almost pierced him as he uttered the name. Opposite as the two men were in every trait, a substratum of affinity came out in this deadlock of their glances. On both sides the same set lip, the same immobile forehead, trained by centuries of traffic to conceal the fermentation of the powerful brain within.
"I am not acquainted with the lady," said Shagarach.
"But you are acquainted with her estate under the will of her brother-in-law."
Thoroughly aroused now to his subject, Rabofsky had abandoned his roundabout manner and pushed his words rapidly forth in an indistinct growl.
"Slightly so. State the facts."
"I will. Yesterday there came to my office a lady, all veiled, and asked me for $10,000. 'That is a large sum,' said I. 'You have it,' said she, 'and I want it. I will pay for it.' 'Yes, indeed, you shall pay for it,' I said to myself, but aloud I only asked her: 'What security could you give me if I should go about among my friends and trouble them and trouble myself for your service?' 'The security of my name,' she answered, proudly, like a queen commanding her scullion. 'I am Mrs. Arnold, widow of the banker, Henry Arnold, and a daughter of Ezra Brewster of Lynn.' 'Oh, madam,' said I, 'I am Simon Rabofsky, husband of Rebecca Rabofsky, and a son of the high priest Levi, who is twice mentioned in the talmud; but I could not borrow $10,000 without pledging something more substantial than my great ancestor's name.' Then she sneered a little under her veil, the proud unbeliever, and took out her rubies and diamonds and watch—a glittering heap. 'Keep these until I return you the money,' she said. 'This is not enough,' said I, examining the stones. 'Have you nothing more?' 'My son's interest in the estate of the late Prof. Arnold will cover your paltry loan 500 times over.' 'I will reflect upon the subject,' said I. 'Call again in two days.' So I came to consult kinsman Shagarach."
"Well?"
"Has her son any interest in Prof. Arnold's estate?"
The question had come point-blank at last and Shagarach found himself less prepared to answer it than he could have wished.
The Arnolds were financially embarrassed, possibly ruined, by Harry's infatuation for the gaming-table. This was to be inferred from the conversation with Kennedy over-heard by Aronson. Their real estate must be mortgaged to the limit, perhaps beyond its shrunken value, or Mrs. Arnold would not be begging a loan at a money-lender's shop. Family jewels were invariably the last resort of declining fortunes unwilling to abandon cherished appearances. Should he advise the loan and let Harry cast it away, as he seemed likely to do, in his ambition to "break the bank?" Such a step might place the young man in his power.
For the standing of the will was still uncertain. Evidence might be in existence sufficient to uphold the destroyed document. In that event Mrs. Arnold's promissory note to Rabofsky would be worth no more than the value of the securities he held. Robert's statement was positive that Harry was disinherited. This opened up a new view to Shagarach.
It would be fatal to the interests of Floyd if the will should be ignored and half the estate allowed him as heir-at-law. Such a parade of the profits of the incendiary's crime could not fail to rearouse a burst of public indignation which would work its way into the jury-box. Shagarach determined then and there to strive for the upholding of the will, though it should mean the ruin of the Arnold fortune and the loss to Robert Floyd of $5,000,000.
"I do not know," he answered. Something was due to Rabofsky.
"You have waited a long time. You have been thinking. What do you think?"
"It is a difficult part of a difficult problem. My advice——"
"You will not charge your respected father's friend unreasonably?" put in the Jew.
Shagarach knew that Rabofsky was a pharisee of the strictest sect and had not been his father's friend. He knew also that reasonableness of charge was not one of his own eccentricities, and probably would not be exemplified in the loan to Mrs. Arnold. But he replied:
"Certainly not. I shall consider that when the work is done."
"Now, kinsman Shagarach."
"Not now. I cannot foresee the amount of labor, the number of consultations, involved," said Shagarach, resolutely. "Do you wish my advice?"
"I shall not pay the charge if it is unreasonable," growled Rabofsky.
"For the present I advise you to lend only what you can with safety on the pledges. I will see Mrs. Arnold about the estate and confer with you further after our interview."
At that moment Aronson opened the door, his eyes dancing with excitement. He panted, as if he had just run upstairs.
"Meester Shagarach," he broke in, but stood awed in the presence of Rabofsky, who was a potent man in the Ghetto.
"Escort Mr. Rabofsky to the stairs," said Shagarach, approaching Aronson, so that the latter might have an opportunity to whisper his message. He was none too soon, for a young man had already entered the door of the outer room.
"Kennedy," whispered Aronson.
It was Harry Arnold's friend.
"Will you take in my card? I'm in a deuce of a rush," said Kennedy to Aronson when the latter had dismissed Simon Rabofsky. Shagarach read his name, daintily engraved in the form to which the weather-vane of fashion had at that moment veered and was imperatively pointing. It introduced "Mr. Arthur K. Foxhall."
"I will see the gentleman in a few minutes," said he. Shagarach must have transacted an almost incredible amount of business in the interim, for his waiting-room was cleared of clients when "Mr. Arthur K. Foxhall" was at length admitted.
"I received this communication from you. My lawyer informs me that it contains matter defamatory per se." He tossed a letter down on the table at which Shagarach was sitting, with his arms folded as usual. "But before taking action on the matter I thought I would give you an opportunity to explain."
"The note is in English, is it not?" said Shagarach.
"It might pass for such," replied young man supercilious.
"Then it needs no further explanation. The sooner you and your lawyer begin your action the better pleased I shall be." Shagarach began writing a letter coolly, as if the matter were at an end, but his visitor, either in nervousness or anger, tapped the polished tip of his shoe with his cane. It was certainly a most aggressive-looking weapon, with its knob carved into a scowling bulldog's head.
"Gentlemen"—he emphasized the word—"men of honor," he paused again, "do not use language of others which they cannot defend, either before the courts of law or by giving personal satisfaction."
"Gentlemen and men of honor do not fabricate lies after taking a solemn oath to tell nothing but the truth," answered Shagarach, without glancing up from the note he was scribbling.
"The third person protects you. You use the coward's refuge, innuendo, because you dare not address the charge to me directly."
Shagarach picked up his letter, which the visitor had thrown down.
"I have taken particular pains to be direct as well as explicit over my own signature. I find that I have accused you, Arthur Kennedy Foxhall," he emphasized the middle name, though it was only initialed in the address, "of deliberate perjury in the case of Commonwealth vs. Bail. My letters do not as a rule require marginal annotations or parol addition to make their meaning clear, and I am credited with sufficient prudence to foresee their consequences before writing them."
Shagarach folded his arms again and his great eyes pierced Foxhall—or Kennedy as he was generally called. It was the family name of a rich relative who had adopted and supported him.
"No," he added, slowly, "this is hardly a case for prosecution or for personal satisfaction. The duello is out of date."
"My valet might object to the opponent I assigned him," said the self-styled gentleman and man of honor. Shagarach's retort was swift, yet uttered without the twitch of an eyelash, as though he were simply recalling his visitor to the original business.
"His master lied in order to prove an alibi for Charles Munroe——"
Kennedy's chalky face flushed faintly.
"If the sword is out of fashion the cane is not," he cried, lifting his formidable bulldog.
"The principal witness against my client in the Bail case," continued Shagarach, raising his voice and controlling Kennedy with his eyes, "and himself the beneficiary of the check which my client was accused of forging."
"You got him off. That was enough. Are you trying to blackmail us for a heavier fee?"
"The case was a conspiracy instigated by Charles Munroe and abetted by his friends, among whom Arthur Kennedy Foxhall was the most conspicuous for his zeal."
"You scum of a shyster! Do you think you can jew me into a dicker?"
Shagarach arose and walked to the window. He was not an equestrian, but natural perception taught him the useful rule to turn his horse's head when he starts to run away. Facing suddenly about, he said:
"I am a Jew, true. Perhaps that is why I do not poison myself with opium."
The young man's cheek grew pale again. The cane dropped and he sunk in his chair.
"Am I to be prosecuted for that also?" The anger in his tones had flickered away to a feeble peevishness. "How do you know?"
"Because you are wearing a light overcoat with the mercury at 80," answered Shagarach, who had glanced at the thermometer in his window. "Because you have the glazed eye of a man in fever, and because you lie like an oriental!"
This time Kennedy made no protest against the insult. He was succumbing to the strain placed upon his shattered nerves by the remorseless man across the table.
"There is your cause of action," said Shagarach, tossing back his letter. Again he dipped his pen in the ink preparing to write.
"What do you want of me?" asked Kennedy.
"Nothing," Shagarach had half-filled the sheet. He was stamping the envelope when the next question slowly came.
"Why do you follow up the matter? Your client is safe?"
"But the community is no longer safe when perjurers strut about, masquerading as the sole guardians of honor."
He folded his arms once more and looked straight at his man. In another the gesture might seen theatrical, but it was Shagarach's natural attitude in thought, like the bowed head and lowered eyes of the philosopher burrowing into the depths of things, or the uplifted gaze of the poet leaving earth for the stars and sunset. The lawyer's interests lay in the horizontal plane, and the faces of fellow-men were his study.
"Yes, I am reputed inexorable to perjurers. It is true. They rarely escape me unpunished. As a consequence, witnesses prefer to tell me the truth, which is an advantage to my clients, of whose interests I am the devoted servitor."
"And you will ruin me to gratify this—this——"
"I will procure your indictment for perjury and conspiracy in the case of Commonwealth vs. Bail."
Kennedy trembled like one with an ague. But stronger men than he had yielded as abjectly to Shagarach. He was a blood of high standing, with a fortune as well as a reputation to lose. The chances of a felon's succeeding to the property of old Angus Kennedy, the millionaire, who had adopted him, were relatively slight.
"What is the penalty for perjury?" he asked, in a random way, as if at a loss what to say or do.
"Imprisonment at hard labor."
"It is not punishable by fine?"
"Never."
There was a pause, broken only by the rustling of Aronson's papers in the outer room. Then Shagarach spoke.
"You have an appointment with Harry Arnold for next Wednesday evening."
Kennedy started up. His smooth face grew cadaverous and the helpless look of a kneeling suppliant came into his eyes, which were riveted on the great, wide orbs of his tormentor.
"At a gambling resort," continued Shagarach.
"I am not a gambler," Kennedy's voice was hollow, his expression piteous. Shagarach studied him a moment. Probably he was speaking the truth. The evil passions are jealous and absolute monarchs. Seldom does more than one of them reign at a time.
"But Harry Arnold is."
"Harry is plunging heavily."
Shagarach was satisfied at last. An adequate motive for Harry's deed was clearly in view. It was not the most heinous crime which had been committed to gratify the gamester's passion.
"I wish to be with you on that occasion."
"It will be hard," answered Kennedy, his face clouded with consternation and a torrid flush of something like shame sweeping over it. "The Dove-Cote is too well guarded."
"The Dove-Cote!" Shagarach was betrayed into an ejaculation of surprise. This was the "Tough-Coat" which Aronson's imperfect articulation had disguised.
"It may be hard, but it is not impossible."
"Not impossible, no."
"Well-known men are seen there at times?"
"Oh, yes."
Kennedy smiles.
"And your escape from prison depends upon my obtaining entrance."
The smile had faded away.
"Why do you wish to be there?"
"My reasons are my own. However, I will make a limited confidant of you. I am at work upon a cause which logical study does not perfectly elucidate. That frequently happens. I must see my man off his guard, when he is most himself. My visit to the Dove-Cote will be a psychological study."
"They will compel me to vouch for your good faith."
"You may do so. Nothing seen or heard by me there will ever be revealed. I go, as I have told you, to study a soul, not to gather facts. The facts are already mine."
"Where shall I call for you?"
"Here."
"At 8 o'clock?"
"Very well. There is one condition attached to our bargain. You shall not reveal this appointment to Harry Arnold."
"He will be there——"
"But he does not know me. We probably shall not meet. Other—gentlemen, as you call them—will be there."
"Miss Barlow," said Aronson, at this moment opening the door.
Kennedy had arisen to go, but turned curiously when he heard the sweet voice from without.
"Only a moment, Mr. Shagarach."
The lawyer stepped out and conferred with her. She had run down in her lunch hour, full of a new project which she burned to carry out, but like everything else, she had thought it best first to submit it to Shagarach. His approval was given coolly, she thought.
"Some one of the park policemen may have seen him."
"Possibly."
"If not, how can you explain those four hours of forgetfulness—I mean, of course, to the satisfaction of a jury?"
"It is not unprecedented. I have an explanation, or the germ of one. However, pursue your inquiries. They may prove of value. And, when you visit Floyd, occasionally wear a water lily."
"Why?"
"It was the flower he brought you that evening."
Emily caught the impertinent stare of the manikin within just as she was turning to leave.
"Understand, Kennedy," said Shagarach, "if Arnold is informed of this agreement, directly or indirectly, our contract is broken and I will spare no pains to lodge you where you belong."
His tone made the weakling shudder.
"Why do you desire to conceal it from Harry?" he asked, obstinately.
"Draw what inference you choose."
Shagarach returned to his desk and Emily was uneasily aware that the youth whom she had seen in his office passed her twice in the crowd while she was making her way back to the studio. But Arthur Kennedy Foxhall was too perturbed that day to practice with success even the easy arts of the professional lady-killer. His pursuit of Emily only registered on his memory a face which was to haunt him in his drug-fed dreams.
"Hello, Bobbs," called the solitary cracksman. "Put your hear to the chink and let's 'ave a palaver."
The "chink" was that hollow spot in the rear of the cell, where by pressing his ear against the wall Floyd could hear communications from Dobbs, inaudible to the rest of the prisoners.
Robert wondered not a little at the persistent friendliness of the fellow. He felt conscious of lacking the touch of comradeship. He might even be called ascetic, were not the stigma precluded by his passion for music and his love of landscape. Long botanical tramps with his uncle had given him an acute feeling for the moods of nature, and in his violin playing a deep sensibility found outlet through the practiced and sensitive fingertips. But in general he had little palate for the bouquet and effervescence of life, and was credited, therefore, with less readiness of sympathy than his cousin, who responded quickly to all fleeting impressions of pleasure.
While Harry, as adjutant of his crack cadets, was seen prancing on parade in all the bravery of gold lace, his sword hilt resting on his saddle, his mustaches twisted to the curl of an ostrich feather, a masterpiece of poise and splendor, Robert would be found in dun civilian's garb, shoulder to shoulder with the multitude on the sidewalk, studying the significance of the pageant. This strenuousness acted as a bar to popularity. Harry could count twenty friends to Robert's one. People called him by his given name at the second or third meeting. Women, in particular, circled about him like moths about a taper. But Floyd, who shunned no man's eye, sought no woman's. This may have been why the one girl to whom he had given his heart believed his nature to be of sterling gold.
There was much in the prison life to quicken the thoughts of so serious an observer, but all his attempts to record the impressions had ended in failure. He soon realized that no man can at once live and write. Our deeper experiences need to be mellowed by distance, just as we must back away to a certain focus before we can feel the sentiment of a painting. There was nothing left but to bide his time as patiently as possible, occasionally beguiling the long hours by conversation with Dobbs.
This scoundrel had an unctuous manner which was hard to resist. His quaint, infectious chuckle and preeminence in crime made him a favorite among the inmates of the ward—a popularity which he generously used to secure for Robert a certain immunity from insult. The young man could not help feeling grateful for this. Besides, the man's incurable asthma, which he attributed himself to "hexposure to cold night blarsts in the performance of perfessional duties," entitled him to sympathy. Indeed, he was often removed to the hospital for days at a time. During these intervals Robert remarked the cessation of a curious grating noise which seemed to come from his neighbor's cell.
"Blood's thicker than water, Bobbs. You and Hi are Henglish, you know. These 'ere bloomin' coves get red-'eaded over nothing. Don't catch me mutineerin' and violatin' the rules. Ho, no."
This was true. So far as outward behavior went, Dobbs was an exemplary prisoner.
"By the way, Dobbs, my name is Floyd," said Robert.
"Ho, you don't mind bein' called Bobbs, chummy. That's cute for Robert. Hi found out your name. We hall know wot you're jugged for. It's harson, eh?"
"Yes."
"'Ow did you set it?"
"I am as innocent of the charge as you are." Robert's tone was curt. He felt vexed to be the subject of discussion among this crew.
"That's just wot I told the judge, chummy, w'en ee politely hasked me if Hi 'ad anything to say. But it didn't work, chummy. Hi'm a-winkin' at you, Bobbs."
The invisible wink probably expressed incredulity, but Robert did not care to debate his own case with his neighbor.
"Hi knows it's a delicate matter, and some folks Hi wouldn't trust, neither. But Dobbs is your friend, Bobbs, and ready to prove ee's true blue. Do you know I like the sound o' them two names. Dobbs and Bobbs. Suppose we go into business together.
"DOBBS AND BOBBS"ROBS FOBS.
"'Ow's that for a partnership sign?"
Dobbs exploded in a paroxysm of laughter and coughing over his own cleverness as a rhymester. The fit was continued so long that his neighbors began to protest in their ungentle fashion.
"Say, Dobbs, get into your coffin, quick," cried one. The same whose voice sounded familiar to Robert though he was unable to place it. It was a thick, uncouth utterance, as though the speaker's natural brogue were assisted by the presence of a ball of yarn.
"'Old your bloomin' breath for Longlegs," answered Dobbs.
The passage of the hated turnkey caused a diversion in his favor. Longlegs was a tall man of remarkably bony strength. The convicts were only collectively brave against him. When not gathered in packs they avoided his stern visage as a lone wolf slinks away from the hunter. His right name was Hawkins, but almost nobody within these precincts escaped a sobriquet. Warden Tapp was "the Pelican," Turnkey Gradger was "Gimp" and a particularly vile denizen went under the name of "Parson." Dobbs explained his own escape quaintly.
"You see, chummy, Dobbs his a nickname halready. You can't forshorten it no more."
The visitor who accompanied Hawkins shared the unpopularity of his escort.
"Whoop, da, da, da!"
"He's a yellow aster."
"Lend me your monocle, Cholly, and don't be wude."
But the tall, blond-bearded man with the monocle sauntered leisurely along, looking into every cell until he reached the end of the corridor. Then he turned back and stopped before Dobbs, while Hawkins clanked his keys beside him.
"If God writes a legible hand, that man's a villain," he quoted from the old-time actor; "what name do you go by?"
"Bill Dobbs."
"Hand me out that pen and ink and I'll draw your picture."
"W'ere?"
"On your thumb nail. The right one. That's it."
It seemed scarcely half a minute before Hawkins was heard exclaiming:
"That's a stunning likeness."
"Take away this 'ere lookin'-glass o' mine, Longlegs, and bestow it on the poor. Wot use 'ave Hi for it w'en Hi carry my hown himage on the hend of my bloomin' thumb?"
"You've a face of great power and cunning," said the artist, "but there's one thing you lack."
"Wot's that?"
"Reverence. Some day I'll use you for a mask of Iago that I've had in mind."
"Thanks. Wot's your name, stranger?"
"Tristram March." It was our artist friend, rummaging for types in this out-of-the-way corner.
"You've a sort of a soft lip about you and a delicate horgan of hodor. But there's one thing you lack?"
"What?"
"Starch. Hi'm a-thinkin' Hi'll copy my make-up after you next time Hi play 'Amlet to the queen's Ophelia."
Tristram's good-natured laugh was the last thing Robert heard as he sauntered away.
A sculptor, friends called him if pressed for a definition. Yet in truth he had never yet executed a figure of life size, being a modern instance of talent without ambition, dispersing and dividing its strength. He modeled, painted, rhymed, composed—a many-faceted reflector of impressions; but everything he did was done by halves and the most finished of his products were only brilliant sketches. His sister Rosalie's single gift, besides her beauty (which, to be sure, entered into it as a primary element), came to her less by nature than by ardent aspiration. But critics had compared her Rosalind to a perfect rose, blown into a bulb of glass; and she was still a patient learner, standing tiptoe on the vestibule of her art, with an untold future before her.
"'Ow did Hi begin?" said the cracksman, when the confusion had subsided.
Robert was again at the chink, like some penitent whispering through a grating to his father confessor. "Hi never began. Hi was born wicked. Wicked Willie they called me w'en Hi wasn't old enough to toddle halone. And 'ere's 'ow Hi earned it, Bobbs."
"How?"
"You see, my mother, who was a hinnocent woman and a Christian, took me out on 'er harms to see the lord mayor's procession, the lord mayor o' Lunnon wot 'as all the wittles to eat, you know. And w'ile they was all preoccupied admirin' 'is lordship's gold buttons, wot was Wicked Willie a-doin' of but leanin' forward in 'is mamma's harms and pluckin' a hear-ring w'ich ee liked, hout of a grand lady's hear. 'Ow!' says the lady, w'en it 'urt; and Wicked Willie 'ad 'is 'ands slapped, w'ich Hi say ee richly deserved, seein' as 'ow ee bungled the bloomin' job."
"From the cradle up you were a thief," said Robert, sadly.
"Ho, them bantam games don't count."
"When did you first begin professionally?"
"Do you count a gunniff a perfessional in this 'ere country?"
"A gunniff? What's that?"
"Don't you know wot a gunniff is, Bobbs? W'y. Hi'm amazed. Hi'll 'ave to present chummy with a Century dictionary in sixteen volumes w'ich we'll be hable to do w'en we get out of 'ere, w'ich won't be long. Hi'm a-winkin.'"
All the time that he spoke Robert heard a low scraping noise, softer than the rasping he had noticed in the evenings. Apparently it was close to his ear.