|IT was a cold day in Manistee. The snow lay in high banks on each side
of the street-car tracks, with paths cut through at the crossings and
in front of the larger stores; underfoot it creaked and crunched. Men
walked briskly, keeping their hands in their pockets or holding them
over ears or noses, and pausing at the drug store on the corner to look
at the red thermometer.
It was close to noon, and a number of men were coming down a flight of
stairs which reached the sidewalk a few doors beyond the drug store.
The last one was Hunch Badeau, with his ulster collar turned up, his cap
pulled down over his ears, and his fur mittens on.
When they reached the street two of the other men turned and shook hands
with him; but he had nothing to say, and a moment later he was walking
alone, slowly, up the bridge approach. The examination was over and he
was free. His case had not reached a trial, for he had killed Considine
plainly in self-defense.
A long row of schooners, steamers, and tugs lay along the docks on both
sides of the river. On most of the schooners a length of stovepipe came
out of a cabin window, and a few wisps of smoke, winding lazily out
to be snatched away by the wind, showed that many a sailor was lying
dormant during the winter months. Hunch lingered on the bridge. He had
once spent such a winter in Chicago on a big schooner, locked up snugly
in the North Branch near Goose Island, eating and sleeping, smoking and
swapping yams, and helping to drink up somebody's summer profits. That
was a long while ago; it seemed to Hunch a dim part of some past life,
before he had ever met a woman other than the rough girls of the Chicago
levee and the North Peninsula stockades.
Mr. Jackson had told Hunch that he need not go back to work that day,
so he climbed to his room and sat on the chair by the window. Bruce's
things were lying about the room; his razor on the bureau, his Sunday
clothes over a chair in the closet, his shoes under the foot of the bed.
Hunch got up and began to get them together, without knowing exactly why
he was doing it. He packed what he could in the patent-leather valise,
and made up the rest into bundles, borrowing paper and string from the
landlady. Then he sat down again, but before long, too restless to stay
alone, he put on his coat and walked out to the mill. Mr. Jackson was
standing near the waste dump with a memorandum book in his hand.
“Well, Badeau, what's the matter?”
“Nothing. Guess I might's well get to work.”
“Just as you like.”
The men looked surprised when he joined them. He was nervous and he
worked both himself and them at a pace that wore them out in a few
hours. But at six o'clock, when the whistle blew, and he put on his coat
and went back to the boarding-house, he felt refreshed.
On Sunday, after several days of hesitating over the best way to get
Bruce's things to Mamie, Hunch gathered up the bundles and the valise,
and took the noon train to Liddington. He sat for two hours in the
station before he could make up his mind to take them to Joe Cartier's
house. When he finally knocked at the door, Joe's wife opened it.
“How d'ye do, Mr. Badeau? Come in, won't you?”
“No, I can't,” said Hunch. “Hold on; yes, I will, too, just a minute.
Where's Joe?”
“Here he is,” replied Joe himself, coming through the hall in his
shirt-sleeves. “Come in, and set down.”
Hunch stepped in and dropped the bundles in the corner.
“Can I speak to you a minute, Joe?”
“Sure thing. Walk in the front room. Martha, I could swear Hunch ain't
had his dinner. Fetch out some of the chicken and potatoes. It ain't so
hot as it was, Hunch, but it's good, plain stuff--good enough for us,
ain't it, Martha?”
“No, don't you, Mis' Cartier. I can't stay, honest. I had some grub,
anyhow.”
But Joe's wife hurried out to the kitchen, leaving Joe and Hunch in the
front room.
“Take off your coat, man,” said Joe. “What you getting so bashful about
all of a sudden?”
Hunch unbuttoned his coat, nervously.
“Is she staying here yet, Joe?”
“Who's that you mean, Hunch? Bruce's wife? She's going up to her
father's tomorrow.”
“How's that happen?”
“Well, I'll tell you, Hunch--you won't say anything about it, of
course--but when Bruce--when he died, you know, and I knowed that girl
didn't have a cent anywheres, and worse'n that, if you count _his_
debts, I just thought--kind of--that the old man, he didn't know quite
how things stood, or he wouldn't be so ugly. You see, don't you?”
Hunch nodded.
“And, of course, I couldn't say nothing to her, you know, 'cause she'd
think first thing I meant about the rent--she's a touchy little thing,
you know--so I says to Martha, 'Martha, you just take your work'-this
was Thursday-'Martha,' I says, 'you just take your work and go up to
Mis' Banks' and set down and have a good old jaw with the old lady.
She'll let you talk to her,' I says, ''cause she used to be your
Sunday-school teacher, and she's always took a shine to you. And you
just lay out the whole thing, and tell her that if she ain't wanting to
lose the respect of one grocer in this town, she'd better just leave go
of one of those missionary societies of hers, and watch out a little for
her own daughter.' Martha, she felt kind of delicate about going, but
she went down just the same, and tackled the old lady, and when she come
back, her eyes were like she'd been crying, so I know'd it was all right
and I didn't say nothing. And, sure enough, that night old Banks himself
come around and stood up stiff in the door and says, 'Is my daughter
here, Cartier?'-He always calls me 'Joe,' you know, and I calls him
'George'; but that ain't no matter.-I says, 'Yes,' and he goes upstairs,
and then Martha and I, we just keeps out of the way in the kitchen,
so's he could go out without running into any of us. But 'long about
half-past nine he comes out, and knocks on the kitchen door, and says,
'My daughter's coming to my house, Joe.' And I says, 'When?' and he
says, 'Monday, and let me know what the board 'll amount to?' And you
see, Hunch, I was kind of foolish myself, so I just says, 'All right,
George,' and then he goes out. So the girl's going to keep alive,
anyhow, and that's something.”
Hunch rose and slowly buttoned his ulster.
“You give her them things, won't you, Joe? I dunno as I'd say anything
about my bringing them down.”
“Why, hold on, man; you ain't going now. Martha's out getting some
dinner for you.”
“Sorry,” said Hunch. “I got to get back.”
“Oh, pshaw, Hunch; this ain't right. Wait a minute, anyhow. I guess Mis'
Considine would like to see you. She's right upstairs.”
“No,” said Hunch, slowly, “she don't want to see me.” Cartier looked at
him a little surprised, then suddenly grew embarrassed.
“I forgot,” he said; “I clean forgot. No, I don't s'pose she does.”
Hunch turned and felt for the doorknob. Mrs. Cartier was coming in from
the kitchen, and she hurried forward.
“Don't let him go now, Joe. His dinner's all ready.”
“That's right,” Joe urged. “You see, you can't go, Hunch.”
“I'm sorry,” said Hunch. “Good day.” He hurried out, and left Joe and
his wife looking at each other.
Hunch had been back in Manistee nearly a week, when one day he received
a letter in a perfumed envelope, like the ones Bruce used to get, when
they were together on the schooner. He carried it in his pocket all the
afternoon, and at night, wondering what she could have to say, and yet
not daring to open it and find out, he set it upon his bureau, taking
it up every few minutes and turning it over in his hands. In the morning
when he awoke and got out of bed to dress, it was there on the bureau
staring at him. He held it tip to the light several times, then tore off
the end of the envelope and drew out the letter. It was a stiffly worded
little note, thanking him for bringing Bruce's things, and was signed,
“Yours truly, Mary Considine.” Hunch could not tell why it made him
happy. He read it over and over--the first letter she had ever written
to him. He stood by the lamp, holding it in his hand.
Then, suddenly, he thought of Bruce, and the letter dropped to the table
and lay there for a long time untouched, while he dressed with clumsy
fingers. But before he went out to work he put it away in his inside
pocket. It stayed there for a long time, and sometimes in the evenings,
long afterward, he would take it out and read it.