Edith and John Part 28

Thus by such tactics, he, for a number of years, kept her hopefully on the high wave of antic.i.p.ation and expectation. This trait of Billy's was one of his redeeming qualities, if he ever had any other; so much so that ere he had reached his present age of discretion, he began really to believe that he was as rich as the man in the mansion on the hill; which mansion he always kept a weather's eye out for, no difference how much smoke or fog clouded his sense of perception.

But Kate Barton, long ago, began to realize that his tantalizing predictions and promises were merely vaporings. So, when things with her became inordinately unbearable, she began to attempt a reformation of him by the process of her voluableless tongue. At first she scolded him gently; then firmly, then remorselessly; tongue-lashed him; berated him from Soho to McKee's Rocks; and, finally, seeing that this method was without effect, adopted the corporal punishment plan. But by no such inducements, however, could she prevail upon him to reform, and act the true part of a husband and father. Thus, being in an environment that would, without a doubt, corrupt old Satan himself, Billy went from bad to worse, and from worse to the finite degree of dissipation. Resorting to the saloons as a solace for his sorrows, he there found out, when too late, that as long as he had a penny he could secure the required consolation that he craved. Ultimately, reaching an end in this direction, he became obsessed with the desire to flee. And flee he did.

Any one standing, at any point, on the south side of the Smithfield street bridge, on the day of his departure, might have seen the bent form of a once well built, square-shouldered, red-faced, blue-eyed man, wearing a slouch hat, check s.h.i.+rt, blue overalls, faded coat, and brogans on his feet, and a rusty overcoat on his arm, aimlessly walking across it, going northward. Had he been followed, the observer would have seen him turn up Second avenue, with the same shambling gait, and with his nose directed toward the devious ways of Soho.

They would have seen him wind in and out among the alley ways and bypaths between the mills and factories and shops, have heard him ask for work, and have heard the answer, "Don't want you." They would have seen him come out into the street, stop, hesitate; go on, with the same determination in his bleary eyes. They would have seen him continuing, with an inquiry here and there; they would have seen him brushed aside, and go on. They would have seen him treading the ties of the Baltimore & Ohio, through the interminable region of noise--of belching furnaces, of rattling factories, of shouting men, of screeching engines, mile after mile. They would have seen him stop at a poor man's house--one almost like his own--and heard him ask for food and bed, and would have seen him receive it, sometimes. They would have seen him stop, and rest, and meditate; have seen him sneered at, chased by policemen, stoned by boys, hooted by ruffians, scolded by women; have seen him rejected, dejected, despondent, and in despair--a weary wayfarer, an outcast, discarded by his family, condemned by his fellow man--a human wreck, with not a hand outstretched to him to lend him the aid and encouragement that he needed in that hour--except, perhaps, the hand of the Almighty, in retribution.

And more; they would have seen Billy Barton go through the suburbs of Glenwood, Hazelwood, Rankin; through the boroughs of Braddock, of Homestead, of Duquesne, and on to McKeesport, meeting always with the same inglorious reception--day after day, week after week, asking, begging, starving. They would have seen him sleeping in deserted buildings, in fields, in box cars; by the roadsides, on the hillsides, in the woods; everywhere where man was not, save some stragglers of his own ilk. They would have seen him eventually entering saloons in the slum quarters; have seen him set upon, beaten, kicked and thrown into the streets, a poor worthless cuss, too vile, even now, for any of his former cronies to recognize, had they chanced across him. They would, as a climax to his wanderings, have seen him dragged into a town's nasty, filthy, foul, venom-infested jail, there to await the merciful order of a just and honest judge, who might, peradventure, take compa.s.sion on him; and, as a finality, have seen him sentenced to penal servitude as a vagrant.

Holy of Holies! praise be to G.o.d! cry the keepers of the loaves and fishes! But for the goodness of a pure young woman, his children might have starved. And say that the male-man is a generous creature!

In the little black office of The Die, Peter sat humped up, like a drooling ape, scanning the interior of his junk shop through his peephole. He saw the cringing Eli, like a witless a.s.s, having another set-to with a short stalky fellow because he did not give the pa.s.sword.

He saw Eli floored, and thumped in the ribs by the man's foot. Whereat Peter gathered up his courage and went out to ascertain the wherefor of the disturbance.

"Hah, Welty Morne," whispered Peter, seeing who the man was; "come in;"

and he waddled rearward, leaving the defeated servant to readjust himself as to how he may.

"Set down," said he to Welty, after falling down himself like a bloated lobster, and taking up his pipe, and espionage. "What? What now?" he asked.

"We have heard at last from Billy Barton," said Welty.

"Where'd you get that information? The wretch!" roared Peter, sardonically.

"From Monroe."

"And Monroe?"

"From Cobb."

"And Cobb?"

"From the warden."

"The wretch!" shouted Peter. "Let him die there! What's his time?"

"Six months."

"Good! We'll make it six more."

"Am I to return that information?" asked Welty.

"Yes," snapped Peter. "What else from Monroe?"

"He has failed to rope in Winthrope."

"What next?"

"His new scheme is to put him as treasurer of the company."

"Good! Go to it, tell him. How's the girl?"

"Jarney took the young man to his home to see her, and she is recovering."

Peter frowned at this, that is at that part of the information relating to taking Winthrope to the Jarney home. He rubbed his hands, pulled at his pipe vigorously, almost spat on Welty in an effort to reach a saw-dust box used as a receptacle for his expectorations.

"She's a mighty fine girl," said Peter. "What does Monroe draw from that incident?"

"That Winthrope has inclinations toward her."

"And her father?" asked Peter.

"He permits it."

"Why don't young Cobb push his suit?" asked Peter.

"Oh, she would never have anything to do with him."

"Why doesn't he get Winthrope out of the way!" exclaimed Peter.

"He is laying the ropes to ensnare him," said Welty, showing his teeth like a grinning dog, and flas.h.i.+ng his green eyes.

"What else?" asked Peter, ceasing to rub his hands, and looking up at Welty with some anxiety.

"There's going to be a strike on all the papers," replied Welty.

"Oh, that's all fixed up," said Peter, with consuming pride (judging from the speed he rubbed his hands). "The police have instructions to arrest every dog of them so soon as they step out of their jobs. What else?"

"An extra levy has been made on the red-lighters," replied Welty.

"Good!" exploded Peter. "Tell Monroe to watch out for flurries among them."

"They will all come through."

"Hah, I thought Jacob would bring them to time," whispered Peter. "How's he coming with his new company?"

"He'll have a million to float in a week."

"Why didn't he make it ten?" asked Peter.

"He's afraid the people are getting weary with so much stock already on the market."

"The coal combine went," said Peter, smiling.

"But that was the project of the other gang," said Welty.