CHAPTER I.
This brief preamble brings the reader to the day and hour when the first movements in this moving human drama began.
Morris Goldberg had left his humble store in charge of Dora and a little semi-idiotic boy, whom he had rescued from the streets. The little fellow was thin and white, and dressed in a medley of garments purchased for him from a second-hand store nearby. The child was trying to sew a shoe while seated upon the vacant bench. Dora sat beside him, trying to guide the clumsy fingers, with infinite patience.
“Now, this way, Loney; both ends at the same time. One this way and one that way. Oh, you will succeed if you keep on. You’ll be as good a shoemaker as father some day.”
“I’m trying, Dora. I try so hard, but my hands won’t mind me. I’m just no good at all.”
This the child said with such an expression of utter discouragement that Dora put her plump arm around the little figure, saying:
“Oh, yes you are, Loney. You do lots of things, and you are splendid for errands.”
“Anybody can run errands; but I want to be something else than an errand-boy. I want to know how to do other things—how to be something in the world, but my head won’t let me. It gets all ‘hurty’ when I try to think what I want to do.”
“Poor little Loney! Tell me how you got hurt, Loney? You have never told me that. Can’t you tell me now? Maybe the doctor could cure it if we knew how it happened. Try to remember.”
The poor, thin little hand went to his head uncertainly, while Loney knitted his brows trying to remember. Then he said; dreamily:
“Sometimes I can think it out right, and sometimes I can’t. I remember I had a mother once—pretty, like you—but different. She had light hair and such nice blue eyes. She was awful pretty. And I had a father, too; and he was big and handsome. We used to ride in a carriage. Sometimes I can remember the big Park, and all the people walking around and in carriages, and then I forget. Then I remember that my father quarreled a lot with my mother and she cried lots, and one day he was going to hit her, and I ran between them and he struck me instead. Then something fell outof my head that they remember with. I guess it was when the blood ran so. Don’t you think so?”
“Poor boy! Poor little Loney!” said Dora, while great tears ran down her rosy cheeks and fell on the bright curls of the little waif. He continued, after a short silence:
“The next I remember, I was in a place where there were lots of children. I was there a long time. Then I wanted my mother so bad that I ran away. They searched for me and nearly found me, but I hid in a box, and one of the men said, ‘Let him go. He hasn’t any sense, anyway.’”
The little fellow broke down and sobbed pitifully, while Dora said:
“Don’t cry, Loney. Don’t cry. We will take good care of you.”
“And then I sold papers and half-starved. The other boys kicked me around a lot and made fun of me ’cause I couldn’t remember. And they named me Loney, and then I came here; and your father lets me run errands—and—that’s all.”
“Don’t you worry, Loney. You know what my father says, that when business picks up a little he will take you to the good doctor andsee if you can’t be cured, so you will remember.”
“That’s hard for me to think out, Dora.”
“Why hard? What do you mean?”
“I am nothing to your father. He is poor, and it seems so funny, for he is—is——”
“A Jew. Say it, Loney. Don’t be afraid. A Jew can be a good man, an honest one, a good father, and a good citizen. He loves me, his daughter, and he has a heart—a big one—for all in need. He has pity for them. You are mistaken if you think differently. I have seen him divide his last crust with the hungry—yes, and give them the largest share. Oh, Loney, my father is good.”
“You are right. He has divided with me; and, Dora, some day God will bless him for it.”
At that moment there were steps heard on the rickety cellar-steps, and in another moment a young man—scarcely more than a boy—came to the door. He was a typical “Bowery tough,” made so by his life in this part of the city, with its most unsavory reputation. He wore a faded corduroy cap, set at an aggressive angle on his frowsy head, and for the rest of his costume he wore a blue flannel shirt, open at the throat, and corduroy pantaloons. His shoes looked as though in urgent need of the services of theshoemaker. His face was dirty, and one of his eyes was blackened and swollen. And, over it all, there showed something so depraved and sinister, such a drawn look of pallor and decay, in spite of his youth, a stranger would not have known how to classify this strange output of city life, but the initiated would have summed it all up in one word—dope. This means the unutterable depravity of opium-smoking. In fact, he was generally known in his haunts as Dopey.
As he stood on the floor of the shop, Dopey said, in a hoarse voice:
“Hello, Sis. Where’s de main squeeze?”
“Where is what?”
“Why, his gazootses; de motza crusher—de man wit’ de birt’mark o’ t’ree balls on his skull-front—de boss, if I must say it.”
“Do you mean my father?”
“I guess so. Where is ’e?”
“He went out to deliver a pair of shoes he has finished and to bring back some to be mended.”
“Why, soy, go find ’im. I got a job fer ’im. Dey’s a couple of swell guys up de street dat needs his ’sisterence. De he guy say dat he’ll stake me ter a dollar. De moll kicked de heel off her Louie Fourteent’ an’ wants it nailed on.Dat dollar means de hop-joint if I get it, an’ to de bat-house if I don’t. Why, soy, dere’s nuttin’ to it.”
“I’ll go and find him,” said Loney, in his childish voice. He somewhat understood this Bowery slang better than Dora.
“Dat’s de trick. Be sure ye does, for if I misses dis I kin see de brassy cop on dis beat pullin’ de hook fer de ambylants, an’ me t’rowin’ a fit in de suds-tub at de croak-joint—de horspittle. Hully gee! mosey, kid. Shake yer skates.”
These last words were accompanied by so suggestive a movement that Loney sprang lightly up the steps and disappeared in search of Mr. Goldberg. As the child disappeared, he shouted:
“Hop! Go! Git!” Then, turning to Dora, he said: “Dat’s de racket. Your old man’ll git more coin for dis job dan he ever seen afore.”
“I’ll be glad,” replied Dora, half-afraid of this strange-looking creature, “for business has been very poor lately.”
There was a darkening of the cellar-door, and Dora raised her eyes to see a tall, dark, handsome and well-dressed man assisting a lady down the steps. She was a handsome and very stylishly dressed woman—large and with amost unwomanly expression on her features. In short, it was but too evident that she had been drinking and could scarcely maintain her equilibrium.
“Be careful, Muriel, or you’ll fall,” said the man, whose name was John Pierson. “Why the deuce can’t you wear sensible shoes, anyway? You’ll break your neck with those high heels yet!”
As they reached the middle of the room, Muriel laughed idiotically and mumbled something about him and accused him of trying to appear so “su-su-perior, just because I kicked my heel off.”
“So this is the place, eh?” asked Pierson of Dopey, looking about him curiously at the same time. Dopey took on an air of great importance and replied, huskily:
“Dis is de j’int. It’s on de bum, all right, all right, but it’s de nearest shoemaker dere is, but——”
“Oh, that’s all right. Any old port in a storm, you know,” stammered Muriel, and, as she saw Dora, she said: “Who you, m’ dear?”
“Dora Goldberg, lady.”
“And who is the other girl? Your sister?”
“There is no one else here but me,” replied Dora, surprised at the question.
“That’s funny. I must be seeing double. Last bottle gone to my head. Time to quit. All your fault, John Pierson—all your fault, not mine,” muttered the woman, with a maudlin laugh, staggering at the same time so that Dora thought she was falling. She hastened to bring a chair, where the woman tried to seat herself with extreme gravity, while Dora said:
“Don’t thank me, lady. I’ll go and hurry father. Please have the kindness to wait. I won’t be long.”
Dora tripped lightly up the steps and to the street, while Muriel settled herself into the chair and dozed almost at once. In the meantime Pierson silently watched Dora disappear, and then, turning to Dopey, said, in a low voice:
“You are right. She is both young and beautiful.”
“Yes, cull, and poor; jes’ as poor as a choich mouse. Show her some shines—dimints, I mean. Tell her about de glad rags, de nags and de chariot—and, soy, dere’s nuttin’ to it!”
“Hush! Not so loud,” replied Pierson, looking toward Muriel, which caused him to speak in a much lower tone as he gave his very unfavorable opinion of the intoxicated woman, comparing her to a bunch of wildcats. Suddenly Muriel roused and began to sing, in a drowsyvoice, the words of a drinking-song. Pierson rudely ordered her to “shut up,” which had no other effect than to make the woman repeat her song in a louder voice.
“Oh, I say, for heaven’s sake, keep still! Of all the disgusting things on earth, a drunken woman is the worst,” said Pierson angrily, while he stamped his foot in rage.
“Ah!” said she, acridly, “and how about a drunken man? Is there such a wide difference?”
“I never took a drink in my life and you know it, Muriel Hamilton.”
“Well, I don’t count you a man. You are a beast, you are!”
“Thanks, awfully,” replied he, bowing scornfully.
Muriel tried to rise and bow, but fell back in the chair with a silly laugh. “Oh, you are welcome. Gee! I nearly fell off my perch. Steady, birdie, steady!”
Pierson strode back and forth in the little place, finally stopping before the woman, saying:
“You may as well understand this, now, Muriel. I am sick and tired of the way you are going on. I know I’ve done some things that would not stand the light of day exactly, but I never drank. I’ve committed some crimes, butdrunkenness has never been one of them, and I hate liquor. I tell you this, right now: you’ve got to sober up and stop drinking—or—I’ll quit you cold.”
At this open threat, Muriel sat up straight and looked at the man half-defiant, half-scared. He maintained his coldly resolute look, while she scanned his face, and then half-laughed:
“By heaven! I believe you mean it. Just you try it on, Jack Pierson. Just you try it on, that’s all!”
“I’ll take a stroll. I needs de fresh air. It’s de sidewalk fer mine,” said Dopey, uneasily. He had seen too many drunken fights to wish to see another, especially with a powerful woman like Muriel. But Jack went to him and muttered:
“You stay here. I’ll have it out with her here and now. I want to make room for the other one.”
“Ah,” said Muriel, as she rose almost steadily and advanced, “any secrets that I cannot know?”
“No, there is not. I was just telling him that I am sick of your constant sprees and temper. That’s all, and I mean it.”
“Ah,” said Muriel, advancing and with a dangerous light in her eyes, “and, I suppose,you meant it when you deserted your honest wife for me, and when you struck your child, and killed him, for all you know. Yes, you must have meant both those things; as you never took a drink in your life, you had not even the excuse of drunkenness. Mine was a new face then, and now that the liquor that you gave me to gain your ends has got the best of me, you’ll quit me cold, will you? Then, let me tell you, when you do it will be cold for you, for you will be dead!”
“’Scuse me, cull, I hear me mudder callin’ me, an’ I has to go,” said Dopey.
“Go to the devil, if you want to,” replied Pierson angrily.
“Dat’s jes’ where I don’t want to go. Her jigs is up to de boilin’ point, an’ all dem sharp shoe-knives lyin’ dere. See me eye. She put dis on it last night. One’s enough fer me.”
“Now, Dopey, I’m sorry I hit you, honest I am. Say, Jack, you don’t know what sent me on this spree, do you?” said Muriel.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” replied Jack coldly. “There is no excuse for it.”
“Yes, there is, I saw your forsaken, heart-broken wife slinking along in the street—a wreck, a ragged, gin-soaked wreck—and I couldn’t help remembering what she was whenwe robbed her, you and me. She was honest and true, and, as I looked at her, the sight sickened me, body and soul. I drank to forget it.”
“Why do you mention her to me. I have never seen her since, and never want to.”
“Nor the boy, either? Poor little half-witted fellow. Give me credit for one thing—I wanted to keep him and care for him, but, no, you robbed his mother of him and put him in the asylum. These things haunt me, Jack. Even drink will not blot them out.”
“Rot! That’s nothing but the drink. My ex-wife should have stayed in the West. She was so pretty and pure and honest that she actually led me to marry her. I hated her for that from the first.”
“Yours is coming to you, Jack, and you’ll get it good and plenty if ever her brother sets eyes on you. Those cowboys know how to shoot,” laughed Muriel meaningly.
“Don’t try to frighten me. William Hunter, or ‘Cactus Bill’ Hunter, as they called him, is dead. I had a letter telling me that he has disappeared, so I’m not afraid.”
“Maybe—and maybe not. But, if ever you two do meet, you’d better get your gun-play in first. So, then,” she continued, in a softer tone, “you want to quit your old pal? And just aftermy being up all night on the Bowery, helping you fleece this ‘come on.’ Not much gratitude!”
“Ah, forget it,” said Pierson roughly, changing his tone and manner suddenly, as he saw Dora returning with Loney. The young girl hastened down the steps, flushed and rosy with her hurried search.
“My father is coming. I hope we did not keep you waiting too long.”
Muriel had sat down again in the chair, and her head had fallen forward drowsily, while John, with a side look at Muriel, said to Dora:
“No, my little dear, I am repaid for the long wait by seeing you again. Don’t you ever get tired of this musty old cellar? Wouldn’t you like to live in a fine house, with servants to wait upon you, and have beautiful diamonds and clothes to wear?”
“Oh no, sir! I would not leave papa and Bennie for all the fine houses and jewels in the world. And, besides, we don’tlivein the cellar. We only work here. We live upstairs.”
While this little conversation was taking place, Muriel had roused again, but this time her eyes were fastened upon little Loney, who had begun to wax some threads for the shoemaker. This was a task that he delighted indoing. He had been told that it was a great help to the kind old man. Muriel, after staring at the child, asked what his name was. The little fellow looked at her in a vague manner as he said:
“Loney, lady. Just Loney. That’s all the name I know.”
As the pretty, though vague, eyes were raised to hers, Muriel gave a start, saying to herself:
“Those eyes! That look in them. It is he without a doubt.”
The hardened woman gave a deep sob which, with Dora’s calm refusal of all he offered her, made John angry, and he said, roughly shaking her at the same time:
“What’s the matter with you, you idiot?”
“Nothing,” replied she, “only my sins are finding me out. That is all.”
Further conversation was checked by the arrival of Morris Goldberg, who came quietly down the cellar-steps to his shop.
The old man wore his leather apron, and had his sleeves rolled to his elbows, thus showing a pair of brawny arms and toil-roughened hands. In one of them he carried a pair of old shoes to be mended. With unconscious dignity the old man advanced toward his customers, andwhen Dora asked, impetuously, what had kept him so long, he told her quietly that there was more bad news from Russia, from Odessa this time, where the unfortunate Jews were being butchered and driven like noxious beasts before the terrible Cossacks.
“And I must stop to say somedings to ’courage Jake Rosenblum. He’s old fader and moder are in Odessa.”
Then, turning to Jack Pierson, he said:
“Good-morning, sir. Can I do somedings for you?”
“Are you the shoemaker?” asked John.
“Am I a shoemaker? AmIa shoemaker? Vell, I shust say I vos a shoemaker. And I can make a pair of shoes vile you vait, if you vait long enough. Say, who are you?”
“It’s none of your business. This lady here has knocked the heel of her shoe off, and she wants you to put it on. That’s enough for you to know; so get busy.”
“All right, all right,” said the old man, taking his seat on the bench and preparing for his work.
Dopey took a stool and sat down facing the old man, putting his own foot, encased in a very dilapidated shoe, almost in the old man’s face,at the same time leering at the old man very unpleasantly, who said:
“Oie, oie! Vot a face. You looks like a pull-dog. Vat you vant. A patch for de plack eye—eh?”
“Never mind me mug,” said Dopey, insolently, “nor me lamp. What’ll it cost me to get me skates fixed?—dey’s in a bad way.”
“Vell, you pring me a pair of soles, unt I’ll put some uppers on dem.”
“Muriel,” said John, “stay here as long as you like. I am going out to get a bite to eat, and, when you are through, come up to Lyons’ restaurant or go home. I don’t care which.”
“All right, darling. I suppose I shall be able to survive your absence.”
“Come on, Dopey. I suppose you want your dollar,” said Pierson, who had his idea in wishing to get Dopey outside.
“I’m ready. I’se dead hungry for a bullet,” said Dopey, a gleam of anticipation in his glassy eyes.
Morris Goldberg said to himself, “He must be one of dem suiciders. Vat for kind of talk is dot apout a bullet?”
John and Dopey left the place, and as soon as they were outside, John said to Dopey, nodding his head toward Dora:
“She is all you said, and more. Help me to land her, and you’ll never know what it means to go hungry for opium again.”
They then walked along out of sight of the humble shoemaker’s shop.