By eight o’clock the room was growing empty. As a hint to possible
intruders, each time a table was left vacant the lights near it were
turned out. A few solitary men still ate, in bright oases, but they had
a hasty and guilty air; they knew that their tardiness was resented.
One by one the waitresses disappeared into the little back room where
they changed into their street clothes, and returned, crossing the
restaurant with eager steps, until there remained only Madeline and Miss
Sullivan. Miss Sullivan remained because her customer was a pig-headed
old gentleman and refused to hurry; but Madeline was there because Mr.
Compson had great confidence in her, and allowed her the privilege of
turning out the lights and locking the door.
The proprietor himself had gone, with the cash box. Madeline would have
the responsibility of guarding, until morning, whatever sum the
pig-headed old gentleman might pay.
“Gosh, I could stick a pin in him!” murmured Miss Sullivan. “Twenty
past! There goes that dishwasher, even!”
“I’ll look after him,” said Madeline. “You can go, if you like.”
Toward her own sex Madeline was not haughty, but quite good-natured.
“I’ll do as much for you some day,” declared Miss Sullivan, like a
creature in a fable, and off she went.
The room was very still. At intervals the elevated trains went by with a
thundering roar, leaving behind a sort of vacuum of quietness. The old
gentleman looked up.
“Piece lemon meringue pie,” he said briefly.
“Kitchen’s closed,” Madeline replied, with equal brevity.
This annoyed him very much; but in view of the fact that he was known
never to leave more than a nickel for a tip, his annoyance never caused
much concern in Compson’s. He got up, folded his newspaper, felt in all
his pockets, and very slowly took down his overcoat.
Madeline, leaning against the wall in a careless attitude, refused to
show signs of impatience. Indeed, when she saw him struggling into the
tight sleeves of his shabby old coat, she felt an impulse of scornful
pity, and came to his aid. He didn’t thank her. Apparently he preferred
to consider it her fault that he was old and slow and stiff, and
couldn’t enjoy his dinner.
After he had gone, she began turning off the few remaining lights. The
place was nearly in darkness when the door opened and two men came in.
“Closed!” said Madeline.
But the taller of the two led his companion to a table and pushed him
into a chair.
“Can’t you manage a cup of coffee?” he entreated. “My friend’s ill.”
Madeline was not very credulous. She snapped on the nearest light, so
that she might look at the alleged invalid.
One look was enough. She hadn’t lived twenty years without learning
something, and she knew at once what ailed the fellow; but she didn’t
care. She felt instinctively that he was a victim. He had been led
astray, very likely by this burly ruffian with him.
“Poor feller!” she said softly.
His curly head was thrown back, his eyes were closed, and he seemed sunk
in innocent slumber. Not only was he singularly handsome and engaging,
but he wore a dinner jacket. Never had Madeline seen one so close at
hand before. It invested the suffering hero with a high, romantic
interest. It thrilled her. He was a creature strayed from another world.
He was helpless and abandoned, and not for anything on earth would she
have forsaken him.
“I’ll get him some coffee,” she said.
She said it rudely, because she hated the other man, and knew it was all
his fault.
There was a little left in the coffee urn, and it was still warm. She
brought it promptly, but the sufferer could not be roused to drink.
“Good Lord!” said the other impatiently. “I don’t know what to do with
the young idiot! Pour water on him.”
“I never!” cried Madeline, with passionate indignation. “And get his
nice clothes all wet?”
“Well, do something with him,” said the other. He showed an alarming
tendency to shift the responsibility for his unconscious companion to
Madeline’s shoulders. “I can’t take him home with me. Lock him in here
till the morning, and let him sleep it off!”
“I never!” she said again. “Just suppose he waked up all alone in the
dark, and couldn’t get out! Don’t you know where he lives?”
“Of course I know, but he wouldn’t thank any one for sending him home in
this state. He’s the only son of wealthy and respectable parents,” the
other answered, in a flippant tone that was obnoxious to Madeline. “It
would bring their gray--or dyed--hair to the grave in one swoop. This
fellow, my dear girl, is young Benny Bradley!”
“I don’t care who he is, he’d ought to be took care of. He’s got to be!”
Madeline said sternly.
“Not by me,” returned the other. He rose, and looked at Madeline with a
smile. “It’s time for me to clear out.”
“You can’t!” the girl protested.
“I shall,” said the man. “I make you a present of Benny Bradley.”
He was actually going, but she caught him by the sleeve.
“Oh!” she cried. “You ought to be ashamed! What ever can I do?”
“I don’t know. Why not call the police?” said he.
He unclasped her fingers, and, raising his hat gallantly, went out.
“Oh, my!” cried Madeline, in despair. “Oh, my! What ever will I do with
the poor feller?”
She dipped a folded napkin in water, and laid it on his forehead. A
glance in the mirror startled her. In her white uniform, wasn’t she just
like a trained nurse with a wounded hero? The vision inspired her. She
felt that she must be calm, brave, resourceful.
Somewhat timidly she lifted his limp, white hand, to feel his pulse;
but, having little idea how a pulse should behave, she gained no
reassurance.
“Poor feller!” she repeated. “Anyway, I’m not going to leave you, if I
have to sit here the whole night!”
She would have done that, and would have faced Mr. Compson and her
sister workers the next morning undaunted, if she had not been saved by
the entrance of Mr. Ritchie.