THE CLOSER BOND
Once in the second taxicab Burke's difficulties were not at an end.
"I want to get this poor young girl home without humiliating her or her
family, if I can," was his mental resolve. "But I can't quite plan it.
I wish I could take her to Dr. MacFarland, but his office is 'way
downtown from here."
When the car drew up before the door of Lorna's home, from which she
had departed in such blithe spirits, Bob's heart was thumping almost
guiltily. He felt in some ridiculous way as though he were almost
responsible for her plight himself. Perhaps he had done wrong to wait
so long. Yet, even his quick eyesight had failed to discover the
knockout drops or powder which the wily Shepard had slipped into that
disastrous glass of beer. Maybe his interference would have saved her
from this unconscious stupor, indeed, he felt morally certain that it
would; but Bob knew in his heart that the clever tricksters would have
turned the tables on him effectively, and undoubtedly in the end would
have won their point by eluding him and escaping with the girl. It was
better that their operations should be thwarted in a manner which would
prevent them from knowing how sharply they were watched. Bob knew that
these men were to be looked after in the future.
He cast aside his thoughts to substitute action.
"Here's your number, mister," said the chauffeur, who opened the door.
"Can I help you with the lady?"
"Thank you, no. What's the charge?"
The driver twisted the lamp around to show the meter, and Burke paid
him a good tip over the price of the ride.
"Shall I wait for you?" asked the driver.
"No; that's all. I'll walk to the subway as soon as my friend gets in.
Good night."
The chauffeur lingered a bit as Bob took the girl in his arms. The
officer understood the suggestion of his hesitation.
"I said good night!" he spoke curtly.
The taxi man understood this time; there was no mistaking the firmness
of the hint, and he started his machine away.
The Bartons lived in one of the apartments of the building. The front
door was locked, and so Bob was forced reluctantly to ring the bell
beneath the name which indicated their particular letter box.
He waited, holding the young girl in his arms.
"Oh, I'm so sick!" he heard her say faintly, and he realized that she
was regaining consciousness.
"If only I can get her upstairs quietly," he thought.
He was about to swing her body around in his arms so that he could ring
once more when there was a turning of the knob.
"Who is it?" came a frightened voice.
It was Mary Barton at the doorway.
"S-s-s-h!" cautioned Bob. "It's Burke. I'm bringing Miss Lorna home?
Don't make any noise."
"Oh!" gasped the unhappy sister. "What's wrong? Is she hurt?"
"No!" said Bob. "Fortunately not."
"Is she-- Oh-- Is she--drunk?"
Burke calmed her with the reassurance of his low, steady voice.
"No, Miss Mary. She was drugged by those rascals, and I saved her in
time. Please don't cry, or make a noise. Let me take her upstairs and
help you. It's better if she does not know that I was the one to bring
her home."
Mary tried to help him; but Bob carried the girl on into the hall.
"Is your father awake?"
"No; I told him two hours ago, when he asked me from his room, that
Lorna had returned and was asleep. He believed me. I had to fib to
save him from breaking his dear old daddy heart. Is she injured at
all?"
It was plainly evident that the poor girl was holding her nerves in
leash with a tremendous effort.
Bob kept on toward the stairs.
"She'll be all right when you get her into her room. Give her some
smelling salts, and don't tell your father. Didn't he hear the bell?"
"No; I've been waiting for her. I put some paper in the bell so that
it would only buzz when it rang. Let me help you, Mr. Burke. How on
earth did you----" She was eager in spite of her anxiety.
To see the young officer returning with her sister this way was more of
a mystery than she could fathom. But, at Bob's sibilant command for
silence, she trustingly obeyed, and went up before him to guide the way
along the darkened stairway.
At last they reached the door of their apartment.
Mary opened it, and Bob entered, walking softly. She led the way to
her humble little bedroom, the one which she and Lorna shared. Bob
laid the sister upon the bed, and beckoned Mary to follow him. Lorna
was moving now, her hands tremulous, and she was half-moaning.
"I want my Mary. I want my Mary."
Her sister followed Burke out into the hall, which led down the steps
to the street.
"Now, remember, don't tell her about being drugged. A man at one of
the tables put some knockout drops into a glass of water"--Bob was
softening the blow with a little honest lying--"and I rescued her just
in time. She knows nothing about it--only warn her about the company
that she was in. I have learned that they are worse than worthless. I
will attend to them in my own way, and in the line of my work, Miss
Mary. But, as you love your sister, don't ever let her go with those
men again."
Mary's hand was outstretched toward the young man's, and he took it
gently.
"You've done much for Lorna," she breathed softly, "and more for me!"
There was a sweet pressure from those soft, clasping fingers which
thrilled Bob as though somehow he was burying his face in a bunch of
roses--like that first one which had tapped its soft message for
admission to his heart, back in the hospital.
"Good night. Don't worry. It's all ended well, after all."
Mary drew away her fingers reluctantly as he backed down one step.
"Good night--Bob!"
That was all. She slipped quietly inside the apartment and closed the
door noiselessly behind her.
Bob slowly descended the steps; oddly enough, he felt as though it were
an ascension of some sort. His life seemed to be going into higher
planes, and his hopes and ambitions came fluttering into his brain like
the shower of petals from some blossom-laden tree. He felt anew the
spring of old dreams, and the surge of new ones.
He stumbled, unsteady in his steps, his hands trembling on the railing
of the stairs, until he reached the street level. He hurried out
through the hallway and closed the door behind him.
How he longed to retrace his steps for just one more word! That first
tender use of his name had a wealth of meaning which stirred him more
than a torrent of endearing terms.
The keen bracing air of the early spring morning thrilled him.
He hurried down the street toward the subway station, elated, exalted.
"It's worth fighting every gangster in New York for a girl like her!"
he told himself. "I never realized how bitter all this was until it
struck home to me--by striking home to some one who is loved by the
girl--I love."
The trip downtown was more tiring than he had expected. The stimulus
of his exciting evening was now wearing off, and Bob went direct to the
station house to be handy for the duty which began early in the day.
It was not yet dawn, but the rattling milk carts, the stirring of
trucks and the early stragglers of morning workers gave evidence that
the sun would soon be out upon his daily travels.
The day passed without more excitement than usual. Bob took his turn
after a short nap in the dormitory room of the station house. During
his relief he rested up again. When he was preparing to start out
again upon patrol a letter was handed him by the captain.
"Here, Burke, a little message from your best girl, I suppose," smiled
his superior.
Bob took it, and as he opened it again he felt that curious thrill
which had been aroused in him by the winsome charm of Mary Barton. It
was a brief note which she had mailed that morning on her way to work.
"DEAR MR. BURKE--Everything was all right after all our worry. Lorna
is heartily repentant, and thinks that she had to be brought home by
one of her 'friends' (?). She has promised never to go with them
again, and, aside from a bad headache to-day, she is no worse for her
folly. Father knows nothing, and, dear soul, I feel that it is better
so. I can never thank you enough. I hope to see you soon.
"Cordially,
"MARY."
Bob folded the note and tucked it into his breast pocket. The captain
had been watching him with shrewd interest, and presently he
intercepted: "Ah, now, I guessed right. Why, Bobbie Burke, you're even
blushing like a schoolgirl over her first beau."
Burke was just a trifle resentful under the sharp look of the captain's
gray eyes; but the unmistakable friendliness of the officer's face
drove away all feeling.
"I envy you, my boy. I am not making fun of you," said the captain,
with keen understanding.
"Thank you, Cap," said Bob quietly. "You guessed right both times.
It's my first sweetheart."
He buttoned his coat and started for the door.
"You'd better step around to Doc MacFarland's on your rounds this
evening and let him look you over. It won't take but a minute, and I
don't expect him around the station. You're not on peg-post to-night,
so you can do it."
"All right, Cap."
Burke saluted and left the station, falling into line with the other
men who were marching out on relief.
A half hour later he dropped into the office of the police surgeon, and
was greeted warmly by the old gentleman.
MacFarland was smoking his pipe in comfort after the cares and worries
of a busy day.
"Any more trouble with the gangsters, Burke?" he asked.
Bob, after a little hesitation decided to tell him about the adventure
of the night before.
"I want your advice, Doc, for you understand these things. Do you
suppose there's any danger of Lorna's going out with those fellows
again? You don't suppose that they were actually going to entice her
into some house, do you?"
MacFarland stroked his gray whiskers.
"Well, my boy, that is not what we Scotchmen would call a vera canny
thought! You speak foolishly. Why, don't you know that is organized
teamwork just as fine as they make it? Those two fellows, Baxter, I
think you said, and Craig, are typical 'cadets.' They are the pretty
boys who make the acquaintance of the girls, and open the way for
temptation, which is generally attended to by other men of stronger
caliber. This fellow Shepard is undoubtedly one of the head men of
their gang. If Jimmie the Monk is mixed up in it that is the
connecting link between these fellows and the East Side. And it's back
to the East Side that the trail nearly always leads, for over in the
East Side of New York is the feudal fastness of the politician who
tells the public to be damned, and is rewarded with a fortune for his
pains. The politician protects the gangster; the gangster protects the
procurer, and both of them vote early and often for the politician."
Bob sighed.
"Isn't there some way that this young girl can be warned about the
dangers she is running into? It's terrible to think of a thing like
this threatening any girl of good family, or any other family for that
matter."
"You must simply warn her sister and have her watch the younger girl
like a hawk."
MacFarland cleaned out his pipe with a scalpel knife, and put in
another charge of tobacco.
He puffed a blue cloud before Bob had replied.
"I wish there were some way I could get co-operation on this. I'm
going to hunt these fellows down, Doc. But it seems to me that the
authorities in this city should help along."
"They are helping along. The District Attorney has sent up gangster
after gangster; but it's like a quicksand, Burke--new rascals seem to
slide in as fast as you shovel out the old ones."
"I have the advantage now that they don't know who is looking after
Lorna," said Bobbie. "But it was a hard job getting them off my track."
"That was good detective work--as good as I've heard of," said the
doctor. "You just keep shy now. Don't get into more gun fights and
fist scraps for a few days, and you'll get something on them again.
You know your catching them last night was just part of a general law
about crime. The criminal always gives himself away in some little,
careless manner that hardly looks worth while worrying about. Those
two fellows never dreamed of your following them--they let the name of
the restaurant slip out, and probably forgot about it the next minute.
And Jimmie the Monk has given you a clue to work on, to find out the
connection. Keep up your work--but keep a bullet-proof skin for a
while."
Bob started toward the door. A new idea came to him.
"Doctor, I've just thought of something. I saw a picture in the paper
to-night of a big philanthropist named Trubus, or something like that,
who is fighting Raines Law Hotels, improper novels, bad moving pictures
and improving morals in general. How do you think it would do to give
him a tip about these fellows? He asks for more money from the public
to carry on their work. They had a big banquet in his honor last
night."
MacFarland laughed, and took from his desk a letter, which he handed to
Bob with a wink. The young officer was surprised, but took the paper,
and glanced at it.
"There, Burke, read this letter. If I get one of these a day, I get
five, all in the same tune. Isn't that enough to make a man die a
miser?"
Officer 4434 took the letter over to the doctor's student lamp and read
with amusement:
"DEAR SIR--The Purity League is waging the great battle against sin.
"You are doubtless aware that in this glorious work it is necessary for
us to defray office and other expenses. Whatever tithe of your
blessings can be donated to our Rescue Fund will be bread cast upon the
waters to return tenfold.
"A poor widow, whose only child is a beautiful girl of seventeen, has
been taken under the care of our gentle nurses. This unfortunate
woman, a devout church attendant, has been prostrated by the wanton
conduct of her daughter, who has left the influence of home to enter
upon a life of wickedness.
"If you will contribute one hundred dollars to the support of this
miserable old creature, we will have collected enough to pay her a
pension from the interest of the fund of ten dollars monthly. Upon
receipt of your check for this amount we will send you, express
prepaid, a framed membership certificate, richly embossed in gold, and
signed by the President, Treasurer and Chaplain-Secretary of the Purity
League. Your name will be entered upon our roster as a patron of the
organization.
"Make all checks payable to William Trubus, President, and on
out-of-town checks kindly add clearing-house fee.
"'Charity shall cover the multitude of sins.'"--I Peter, iv. 8.
"Yours for the glory of the Cause,
"WILLIAM TRUBUS,
"President, The Purity League of N. Y."
As Officer Burke finished the letter he looked quizzically at Dr.
MacFarland.
"How large was your check, doctor?"
"My boy, I came from Scotland. I will give you three guesses."
"But, doctor, I see the top of the letter-head festooned with about
twenty-five names, all of them millionaires. Why don't these men
contribute the money direct? Then they could save the postage. This
letter is printed, not typewritten. They must have sent out thousands
about this poor old woman. Surely some millionaire could give up one
monkey dinner and endow the old lady?"
"Burke, you're young in the ways of charity. That old woman is an
endowment herself. She ought to bring enough royalties for the Purity
League to buy three new mahogany desks, hire five new investigators and
four extra stenographers."
The old doctor's kindly face lost its geniality as he pounded on the
table with rising ire.
"Burke, I have looked into this organized charity game. It is a
disgrace. Out of every hundred dollars given to a really worthy cause,
in answer to hundreds of thousands of letters, ninety dollars go to
office and executive expenses. When a poor man or a starving woman
finally yields to circumstances and applies to one of these
richly-endowed institutions, do you know what happens?"
Burke shook his head.
"The object of divine assistance enters a room, which has nice oak
benches down either side. She, and most of them are women (for men
have a chance to panhandle, and consider it more self-respecting to beg
on the streets than from a religious corporation), waits her turn,
until a dizzy blonde clerk beckons condescendingly. She advances to
the rail, and gives her name, race, color, previous condition of
servitude, her mother's great grandmother's maiden name, and a lot of
other important charitable things. She is then referred to room six
hundred and ninety. There she gives more of her autobiography. From
this room she is sent to the inspection department, and she is
investigated further. If the poor woman doesn't faint from hunger and
exhaustion she keeps up this schedule until she has walked a Marathon
around the fine white marble building devoted to charity. At last she
gets a ticket for a meal, or a sort of trading stamp by which she can
get a room for the night in a vermin-infested lodging house, upon the
additional payment of thirty cents. Now, this may seem exaggerated,
but honestly, my boy, I have given you just about the course of action
of these scientific philanthropic enterprises. They are spic and span
as the quarterdeck of a millionaire's yacht."
MacFarland was so disgusted with the objects of his tirade that he
tried three times before he could fill his old briar pipe.
"Doctor, why don't you air these opinions where they will count?" asked
Bobbie. "It's time to stop the graft."
"When some newspaper is brave enough to risk the enmity of church
people, who don't know real conditions, and thus lose a few
subscribers, or when some really charitable people investigate for
themselves, it will all come out. The real truth of that quotation at
the bottom of the Purity League letter should be expressed this way:
'Charity covers a multitude of hypocrites and grafters.' And to my
mind the dirtiest, foulest, lowest grafter in the world is the man who
does it under the cloak of charity or religion. But a man who
proclaims such a belief as mine is called an atheist and a destroyer of
ideals."
Burke looked at the old doctor admiringly.
"If there were more men like you, Doc, there wouldn't be so much
hypocrisy, and there would be more real good done. Anyhow, I believe
I'll look up this angelic Trubus to see what he's like."
He took up his night stick and started for the door.
"I've spent too much time in here, even if it was at the captain's
orders. Now I'll go out and earn what the citizens think is the easy
money of a policeman. Good night."
"Good night, my lad. Mind what I told you, and don't let those East
Side goblins get you."
Burke had a busy night.
He had hardly been out of the house before he heard a terrific
explosion a block away, and he ran to learn the cause.
From crowded tenement houses came swarming an excited, terror-stricken
stream of tenants. The front of a small Italian store had been smashed
in. It was undoubtedly the work of a bomb, and already the cheap
structure of the building had caught the flames. Men and women,
children by the dozen, all screeched and howled in a Babel of half a
dozen languages as Bob, with his fellow officers, tried to calm them.
The engines were soon at the scene, but not until Bob and others had
dashed into the burning building half a dozen times to guide the
frightened occupants to the streets.
Mothers would remember that babies had been left inside--after they
themselves had been brought to safety. The long-suffering policemen
would rush back to get the little ones.
The fathers of these aliens seemed to forget family ties, and even that
chivalry, supposed to be a masculine instinct, for they fought with
fist and foot to get to safety, regardless of their women and the
children. The reserves from the station had to be called out to keep
the fire lines intact, while the grimy firemen worked with might and
main to keep the blaze from spreading. After it was all over Burke
wondered whether these great hordes of aliens were of such benefit to
the country as their political compatriots avowed. He had been reading
long articles in the newspapers denouncing Senators and Representatives
who wished to restrict immigration. He had seen glowing accounts of
the value of strong workers for the development of the country's
enterprise, of the duty of Americans to open their national portal to
the down-trodden of other lands, no matter how ignorant or
poverty-stricken.
"I believe much of this vice and crime comes from letting this rabble
into the city, where they stay, instead of going out into the country
where they can work and get fresh air and fields. They take the jobs
of honest men, who are Americans, and I see by the papers that there
are two hundred and fifty thousand men out of work and hunting jobs in
New York this spring," mused Bob. "It appears to me as if we might
look after Americans first for a while, instead of letting in more
scum. Cheap labor is all right; but when honest men have to pay higher
taxes to take care of the peasants of Europe who don't want to work,
and who do crowd our hospitals and streets, and fill our schools with
their children, and our jails and hospitals with their work and their
diseases, it's a high price for cheap labor."
And, without knowing it, Officer 4434 echoed the sentiments of a great
many of his fellow citizens who are not catering to the votes of
foreign-born constituents or making fortunes from the prostitution of
workers' brain and brawn.
The big steamship companies, the cheap factory proprietors and the
great merchants who sell the sweat-shop goods at high-art prices, the
manipulators of subway and road graft, the political jobbers, the
anarchistic and socialistic sycophants of class guerilla warfare are
continually arguing to the contrary. But the policemen and the firemen
of New York City can tell a different story of the value of our alien
population of more than two million!