ROSES AND THORNS
Mary's sister was as winsome and fair as she, but to Burke's keen eyes
she was a weaker girl. There was a suggestion of too much attention to
dress, a self-consciousness tinged with self-appreciation.
When she was introduced to Bobbie he could feel instinctively an
under-current of condescension, ever so slight, yet perceptible to the
sensitive young fellow.
"You're the first policeman I've ever met," began Lorna, with a smile,
"and I really don't half believe you are one. I always think of them
as swinging clubs and taking a handful of peanuts off a stand, as they
walk past a corner cart. Really, I do."
Burke reddened, but retorted, amiably enough.
"I don't like peanuts, for they always remind me of the Zoo, and I
never liked Zoos! But I plead guilty to swinging a club when occasion
demands. You know even millionaires have their clubs, and so you can't
deny us the privilege, can you?"
Lorna laughed, and gracefully pushed back a stray curl with her pretty
hand. Mary frowned a bit, but trusted that Bobbie had not noticed the
lack of tact.
"I've seen policemen tugging at a horse's head and getting nearly
trampled to death to save some children in a runaway carriage. That
was on Fifth Avenue yesterday, just when we quit work, Lorna." She
emphasized the word "work," and Bobbie liked her the more for it.
"And, last winter, I saw two of them taking people out on a
fire-escape, wet, and covered with icicles, in a big fire over there on
Manhattan Avenue. They didn't look a bit romantic, Lorna, and they
even had red faces and pug noses. But I think that's a pleasanter
memory than shoplifting from peanut stands."
Lorna smiled winningly, however, and sat down, not without a decorative
adjustment of her pretty silk dress. Bobbie forgave her, principally
because she looked so much like Mary.
They chatted as young people will, while old Barton mumbled and studied
over his drawings, occasionally adding a detail, and calculating on a
pad as though he were working out some problem in algebra.
Lorna's chief topic was the theater and dancing.
Mary endeavored to bring the conversation around to other things.
"I have to admit that I'm very green on theaters, Miss Barton," said
Bobbie to the younger sister. "I love serious plays, and these
old-fashioned kind of comedies, which teach a fellow that there's some
happiness in life----but, I don't get the time to attend them. My
station is down on the East Side, and I see so much tragedy and
unhappiness that it has given me about all the real-life plays I could
want, since I came to the police work."
Lorna scoffed, and tossed her curls.
"Oh, I don't like that stupid old stuff myself. I like the musical
comedies that have dancing, and French dresses, and cleverness. I
think all the serious plays nowadays are nothing but scandal--a girl
can't go to see them without blushing and wishing she were at home."
"I don't agree with you, Lorna. There are some things in life that a
girl should learn. An unpleasant play is likely to leave a bad taste
in one's mouth, but that bad taste may save her from thinking that evil
can be honey-coated and harmless. Why, the show we saw the other
night--those costumes, those dances, and the songs! There was nothing
left to imagine. They stop serious plays, and ministers preach sermons
about them, while the musical comedies that some of the managers
produce are a thousand times worse, for they teach only a bad lesson."
As Lorna started to reply the bell rang and Mary went to the door.
Two young men were outside and, at Mary's stiff invitation, they
entered. Burke rose, politely.
"Why, how do you do, Mr. Baxter?" exclaimed Lorna, enthusiastically, as
she extended one hand and arranged that disobedient lock of hair with
the other. "Come right in, this is such a pleasant surprise."
Baxter advanced, and introduced his companion.
"This is my friend, Reggie Craig, Miss Barton. We're just on our way
down to Dawley's for a little supper and a dance afterward. You know
they have some great tangoing there, and I know you like it."
Lorna introduced Craig and Baxter to the others. As she came to Bobbie
she said, "This is Mr. Burke. You wouldn't believe it, but he is a----"
"Friend of father's," interrupted Mary, with a look which did not
escape either Bobbie or Lorna. "Won't you sit down, gentlemen?"
Burke was studying the two men with his usual rapidity of observation.
Baxter was tall, with dark, curly hair, carefully plastered straight
back from a low, narrow forehead. His grooming was immaculate: his
"extreme" cutaway coat showed a good physique, but the pallor of the
face above it bespoke dissipation of the strength of that natural
endowment. His shoes, embellished with pearl buttons set with
rhinestones, were of the latest vogue, described in the man-who-saw
column of the theater programmes. He looked, for all the world, like
an advertisement for ready-tailored suitings.
His companion was slighter in build but equally fastidious in
appearance. When he drew a handkerchief from his cuff Bobbie completed
the survey and walked over toward old Barton, to look at the more
interesting drawings.
"You girls must come along to Dawley's, you simply must, you know,"
began Baxter, still standing. "Of course, we'd be glad to have your
father's friend, if he likes dancing."
"That's very kind of you, but you know I've a lot to talk about with
Mr. Barton," answered Bobbie, quietly.
"May we go, father?" asked Lorna, impetuously.
"Well, I thought," said the old gentleman, "I thought that you'd----"
"Father, I haven't been to a dance or a supper since you were injured.
You know that," pouted Lorna.
"What do you want to do, Mary dear?" asked the old man, helplessly.
"It's very kind of Mr. Baxter, but you know we have a guest."
Mary quietly sat down, while Lorna's temper flared.
"Well, I'm going anyway. I'm tired of working and worrying. I want to
have pleasure and music and entertainment like thousands of other girls
in New York. I owe it to myself. I don't intend to sit around here
and talk about tenement fires and silly old patents."
Burke was embarrassed, but not so the visiting fashion plates. Baxter
and Craig merely smiled at each other with studied nonchalance; they
seemed used to such scenes, thought Bobbie.
Lorna flounced angrily from the room, while her father wiped his
forehead with a trembling hand.
"Why, Lorna," he expostulated weakly. But Lorna reappeared with a
pretty evening wrap and her hat in her hand. She donned the hat,
twisting it to a coquettish angle, and Baxter unctuously assisted her
to place the wrap about her shoulders.
"Lorna, I forbid your going out at this time of the evening with two
gentlemen we have never met before," cried Mary.
But Lorna opened the door and wilfully left the room, followed by
Craig. Baxter turned as he left, and smiled sarcastically.
"Good-_night_!" he remarked, with a significant accent on the last word.
Mary's face was white, as she looked appealingly at Burke. He tried to
comfort her in his quiet way.
"I wouldn't worry, Miss Mary. I think they are nice young fellows, and
you know young girls are the same the world over. I am sure they are
all right, and will look after her--you know, some people do think a
whole lot of dancing and jolly company, and it is punishment for them
to have to talk all the time on serious things. I don't blame her, for
I'm poor company--and only a policeman, after all."
John Barton looked disconsolately at the door which had slammed after
the trio.
"You do think it's all right, don't you, Burke?"
"Why, certainly," said Burke. He lied like a gentleman and a soldier.
Old Barton was ill at ease, although he endeavored to cover his anxiety
with his usual optimism.
"We are too hard on the youngsters, I fear," he began. "It's true that
Lorna has not had very much pleasure since I was injured. The poor
child has had many sleepless nights of worry since then, as well. You
know she has always been our baby, while my Mary here has been the
little mother since my dear wife left us."
Mary forced a smiling reply: "You dear daddy, don't worry. I know
Lorna's fine qualities, and I wish we could entertain more for her than
we do right in our little flat. That's one of the causes of New York's
unnatural life. In the small towns and suburbs girls have porches and
big parlors, while they live in a surrounding of trees and flowers.
They have home music, jolly gatherings about their own pianos; we can't
afford even to rent a piano just now. So, there, daddy, be patient and
forgive Lorna's thoughtlessness."
Barton's face beamed again, as he caressed his daughter's soft brown
curls, when she leaned over his chair to kiss him.
"My blessed little Mary: you are as old as your mother--as old as all
motherhood, in your wisdom. I feel more foolishly a boy each day, as I
realize the depth of your devotion and love."
Burke's eyes filled with tears, which he manfully wiped away with a
sneaking little movement of his left hand, as he pretended to look out
of the window toward the distant lights. A man whose tear-ducts have
dried with adolescence is cursed with a shriveled soul for the rest of
his life.
"Now, we mustn't let our little worry make you feel badly, Mr. Burke.
Do you know, I've been thinking about a little matter in which you are
concerned? Why don't you have your interests looked after in your home
town?"
"My uncle? Well, I am afraid that's a lost cause. I went to the
family lawyer when I returned from my army service, and he charged me
five dollars for advising me to let the matter go. He said that law
was law, and that the whole matter had been ended, that I had no
recourse. I think I'll just stick to my work, and let my uncle get
what pleasure he can out of his treatment of me."
"That is a great mistake. If he was your family lawyer, it is very
possible that your uncle anticipated your going to him. And some
lawyers have elastic notions of what is possible--depending upon the
size of your fee. Now, I have a young friend down town. He is a
patent lawyer, and I trust him. Why don't you let him look into this
matter. I have given him other cases before, through my connections
with the Greshams. He proved honorable and energetic. Let me write
you out a letter of introduction."
"Perhaps you are right. I appreciate your advice and it will do no
harm to let him try his best," said Bobbie. "I'll give him the facts
and let him investigate matters."
The old man wrote a note while Burke and Mary became better acquainted.
Even in her attempt to speak gaily and happily, Bobbie could discern
her worriment. As Barton finished his writing, handing the envelope to
Burke, the younger man decided to take a little initiative of his own.
"It's late, Mr. Barton. I have had a pleasant evening, and I hope I
may have many more. But you know I promised Doctor MacFarland, the
police surgeon, that I would go to bed early on the days when I was off
duty. So I had better be getting back down town."
They protested cordially, but Bobbie was soon out on the street,
walking toward the Subway.
He did not take the train for his own neighborhood, however. Instead
he boarded a local which stopped at Sixty-sixth Street, the heart of
what is called the "New Tenderloin."
In this district are dozens of dance halls, flashy restaurants and
_cafes chantantes_. A block from the Subway exit was the well-known
establishment called "Dawley's." This was the destination of Baxter
and Craig, with Lorna Barton. Bobbie thought it well to take an
observation of the social activities of these two young men.
He entered the big, glittering room, his coat and hat rudely jerked
from his arms by a Greek check boy, at the doorway, without the useless
formula of request.
The tables were arranged about the walls, leaving an open space in the
center for dancing. Nearly every chair was filled, while the popping
of corks and the clinking of glasses even so early in the evening
testified to the popularity of Dawley's.
"They seem to prefer this sort of thing to theaters," thought Bobbie.
"Anyway, this crowd is funnier than most comedies I've seen."
He looked around him, after being led to a corner seat by the
obsequious head waiter. There was a preponderance of fat old men and
vacuous looking young girls of the type designated on Broadway as
"chickens." Here and there a slumming party was to be seen--elderly
women and ill-at-ease men, staring curiously at the diners and dancers;
young married couples who seemed to be enjoying their self-thrilled
deviltry and new-found freedom. An orchestra of negro musicians were
rattling away on banjos, mandolins, and singing obligatos in
deep-voiced improvisations. The drummer and the cymbalist were the
busiest of all; their rattling, clanging, banging addition to the music
gave it an irresistible rhythmic cadence. Even Burke felt the call of
the dance, until he studied the evolutions of the merrymakers. Oddly
assorted couples, some in elaborate evening dress, women in
shoulderless, sleeveless, backless gowns, men in dinner-coats, girls in
street clothes with yard-long feathers, youths in check suits, old men
in staid business frock coats--what a motley throng! All were busily
engaged in the orgy of a bacchanalian dance in which couples reeled and
writhed, cheek to cheek, feet intertwining, arms about shoulders.
Instead of enjoying themselves the men seemed largely engaged in
counting their steps, and watching their own feet whenever possible:
the girls kept their eyes, for the most part, upon the mirrors which
covered the walls, each watching her poises and swings, her hat, her
curls, her lips, with obvious complacency.
Burke was nauseated, for instead of the old-time fun of a jolly dance,
this seemed some weird, unnatural, bestial, ritualistic evolution.
"And they call this dancing?" he muttered. "But, I wonder where Miss
Lorna is?"
He finally espied her, dancing with Baxter. The latter was swinging
his arms and body in a snakey, serpentine one-step, as he glided down
the floor, pushing other couples out of the way. Lorna, like the other
girls, lost no opportunity to admire her own reflection in the mirrors.
Burke was tempted to rush forward and intercede, to pull her out of the
arms of the repulsive Baxter. But he knew how foolish he would appear,
and what would be the result of such an action.
As he looked the waiter approached for his order.
Burke took the menu, decorated with dancing figures which would have
seemed more appropriate for some masquerade ball poster, for the Latin
Quarter, and began to read the _entrees_.
As he looked down two men brushed past his table, and a sidelong glance
gave him view of a face which made him quickly forget the choice of
food.
It was Jimmie the Monk, flashily dressed, debonnaire as one to the
manor born, talking with Craig, the companion of Baxter.
Burke held the menu card before his face. He was curious to hear the
topic of their conversation. When he did so--the words were clear and
distinct, as Baxter and Jimmie sat down at a table behind him--his
heart bounded with horror.
"Who's dis new skirt, Craig?"
"Oh, it's a kid Baxter picked up in Monnarde's candy store. It's the
best one he's landed yet, but we nearly got in Dutch to-night when we
went up to her flat to bring her out. Her old man and her sister were
there with some nut, and they didn't want her to go. But Baxter
"lamped" her, and she fell for his eyes and sneaked out anyway. You
better keep off, Jimmie, for you don't look like a college boy--and
that's the gag Baxter's been giving her. She thinks she's going to a
dance at the Yale Club next week. It's harder game than the last one,
but we'll get it fixed to-night. You better send word to Izzie to
bring up his taxi--in about an hour."
"I'll go now, Craig. Tell Baxter dat it'll be fixed. Where'll he take
her?"
Craig replied in a low tone, which thwarted Burke's attempt to
eavesdrop.