_The New York Trail_
On the train to New York that night they carefully summed up their
prospects and what they had gained.
"We started at pretty near nothing," said Ronicky. He was a
professional optimist. "We had a picture of a girl, and we knew she
was on a certain train bound East, three or four weeks ago. That's all
we knew. Now we know her name is Caroline Smith, and that she lives
where she can see the East River out of her back window. I guess that
narrows it down pretty close, doesn't it, Bill?"
"Close?" asked Bill. "Close, did you say?" "Well, we know the trail,"
said Ronicky cheerily. "All we've got to do is to locate the shack
that stands beside that trail. For old mountain men like us that ought
to be nothing. What sort of a stream is this East River, though?"
Bill Gregg looked at his companion in disgust. He had become so
used to regarding Doone as entirely infallible that it amazed and
disheartened him to find that there was one topic so large about which
Ronicky knew nothing. Perhaps the whole base for the good cheer of
Ronicky was his ignorance of everything except the mountain desert.
"A river's a river," went on Ronicky blandly. "And it's got a town
beside it, and in the town there's a house that looks over the water.
Why, Bill, she's as good as found!"
"New York runs about a dozen miles along the shore of that river,"
groaned Bill Gregg.
"A dozen miles!" gasped Ronicky. He turned in his seat and stared at
his companion. "Bill, you sure are making a man-sized joke. There
ain't that much city in the world. A dozen miles of houses, one right
next to the other?"
"Yep, and one on top of the other. And that ain't all. Start about the
center of that town and swing a twenty-mile line around it, and the
end of the line will be passing through houses most of the way."
Ronicky Doone glared at him in positive alarm. "Well," he said,
"that's different."
"It sure is. I guess we've come on a wild-goose chase, Ronicky,
hunting for a girl named Smith that lives on the bank of the East
River!" He laughed bitterly.
"How come you know so much about New York?" asked Ronicky, eager to
turn the subject of conversation until he could think of something to
cheer his friend.
"Books," said Bill Gregg.
After that there was a long lull in the conversation. That night
neither of them slept long, for every rattle and sway of the train was
telling them that they were rocking along toward an impossible task.
Even the cheer of Ronicky had broken down the next morning, and,
though breakfast in the diner restored some of his confidence, he was
not the man of the day before.
"Bill," he confided, on the way back to their seats from the diner,
"there must be something wrong with me. What is it?"
"I dunno," said Bill. "Why?"
"People been looking at me."
"Ain't they got a right to do that?"
"Sure they have, in a way. But, when they don't seem to see you when
you see them, and when they begin looking at you out of the corner
of their eyes the minute you turn away, why then it seems to me that
they're laughing at you, Bill."
"What they got to laugh about? I'd punch a gent in the face that
laughed at me!"
But Ronicky fell into a philosophical brooding. "It can't be done,
Bill. You can punch a gent for cussing you, or stepping on your foot,
or crowding you, or sneering at you, or talking behind your back, or
for a thousand things. But back here in a crowd you can't fight a gent
for laughing at you. Laughing is outside the law most anywheres, Bill.
It's the one thing you can't answer back except with more laughing.
Even a dog gets sort of sick inside when you laugh at him, and a man
is a pile worse. He wants to kill the gent that's laughing, and he
wants to kill himself for being laughed at. Well, Bill, that's a good
deal stronger than the way they been laughing at me, but they
done enough to make me think a bit. They been looking at three
things--these here spats, the red rim of my handkerchief sticking out
of my pocket, and that soft gray hat, when I got it on."
"Derned if I see anything wrong with your outfit. Didn't they tell you
that that was the style back East, to have spats like that on?"
"Sure," said Ronicky, "but maybe they didn't know, or maybe they go
with some, but not with me. Maybe I'm kind of too brown and outdoors
looking to fit with spats and handkerchiefs like this."
"Ronicky," said Bill Gregg in admiration, "maybe you ain't read a
pile, but you figure things out just like a book."
Their conversation was cut short by the appearance of a drift of
houses, and then more and more. From the elevated line on which they
ran presently they could look down on block after block of roofs
packed close together, or big business structures, as they reached the
uptown business sections, and finally Ronicky gasped, as they plunged
into utter darkness that roared past the window.
"We go underground to the station," Bill Gregg explained. He was
a little startled himself, but his reading had fortified him to a
certain extent.
"But is there still some more of New York?" asked Ronicky humbly.
"More? We ain't seen a corner of it!" Bill's superior information made
him swell like a frog in the sun. "This is kinder near One Hundredth
Street where we dived down. New York keeps right on to First Street,
and then it has a lot more streets below that. But that's just the
Island of Manhattan. All around there's a lot more. Manhattan is
mostly where they work. They live other places."
It was not very long before the train slowed down to make Grand
Central Station. On the long platform Ronicky surrendered his suit
case to the first porter. Bill Gregg was much alarmed. "What'd you do
that for?" he asked, securing a stronger hold on his own valise and
brushing aside two or three red caps.
"He asked me for it," explained Ronicky. "I wasn't none too set on
giving it to him to carry, but I hated to hurt his feelings. Besides,
they're all done up in uniforms. Maybe this is their job."
"But suppose that feller got away out of sight, what would you do?
Your brand-new pair of Colts is lying away in it!"
"He won't get out of sight none," Ronicky assured his friend grimly.
"I got another Colt with me, and, no matter how fast he runs, a
forty-five slug can run a pile faster. But come on, Bill. The word in
this town seems to be to keep right on moving."
They passed under an immense, brightly lighted vault and then wriggled
through the crowds in pursuit of the astonishingly agile porter. So
they came out of the big station to Forty-second Street, where they
found themselves confronted by a taxi driver and the question:
"Where?"
"I dunno," said Ronicky to Bill. "Your reading tell you anything about
the hotels in this here town?"
"Not a thing," said Bill, "because I never figured that I'd be fool
enough to come this far away from my home diggings. But here I am, and
we don't know nothing."
"Listen, partner," said Ronicky to the driver. "Where's a
fair-to-medium place to stop at?"
The taxi driver swallowed a smile that left a twinkle about his eyes
which nothing could remove. "What kind of a place? Anywhere from fifty
cents to fifty bucks a night."
"Fifty dollars!" exclaimed Bill Gregg. "Can you lay over that,
Ronicky? Our wad won't last a week."
"Say, pal," said the taxi driver, becoming suddenly friendly, "I can
fix you up. I know a neat little joint where you'll be as snug as you
want. They'll stick you about one-fifty per, but you can't beat that
price in this town and keep clean."
"Take us there," said Bill Gregg, and they climbed into the machine.
The taxi turned around, shot down Park Avenue, darted aside into the
darker streets to the east of the district and came suddenly to a
halt.
"Did you foller that trail?" asked Bill Gregg in a chuckling whisper.
"Sure! Twice to the left, then to the right, and then to the left
again. I know the number of blocks, too. Ain't no reason for getting
rattled just because a joint is strange to us. New York may be
tolerable big, but it's got men in it just like we are, and maybe a
lot worse kinds."
As they got out of the little car they saw that the taxi driver had
preceded them, carrying their suit cases. They followed up a steep
pitch of stairs to the first floor of the hotel, where the landing had
been widened to form a little office.
"Hello, Bert," said their driver. "I picked up these gentlemen at
Grand Central. They ain't wise to the town, so I put 'em next to you.
Fix 'em up here?"
"Sure," said Bert, lifting a huge bulk of manhood from behind the
desk. He placed his fat hands on the top of it and observed his guests
with a smile. "Ill make you right to home here, friends. Thank you,
Joe!"
Joe grinned, nodded and, receiving his money from Bill Gregg, departed
down the stairs, humming. Their host, in the meantime, had picked up
their suit cases and led the way down a hall dimly lighted by two
flickering gas jets. Finally he reached a door and led them into a
room where the gas had to be lighted. It showed them a cheerless
apartment in spite of the red of wall paper and carpet.
"Only three bucks," said the proprietor with the air of one bestowing
charity out of the fullness of his heart. "Bathroom only two doors
down. I guess you can't beat this layout, gents?"
Bill Gregg glanced once about him and nodded.
"You come up from the South, maybe?" asked the proprietor, lingering
at the door.
"West," said Bill Gregg curtly.
"You don't say! Then you boys must be used to your toddy at night,
eh?"
"It's a tolerable dry country out there," said Ronicky without
enthusiasm.
"All the more reason you need some liquor to moisten it up. Wait till
I get you a bottle of rye I got handy." And he disappeared in spite of
their protests.
"I ain't a drinking man," said Gregg, "and I know you ain't, but it's
sure insulting to turn down a drink in these days!"
Ronicky nodded, and presently the host returned with two glasses,
rattling against a tall bottle on a tray.
"Say, when," he said, filling the glasses and keeping on, in spite of
their protests, until each glass was full.
"I guess it looks pretty good to you to see the stuff again," he
said, stepping back and rubbing his hands like one warmed by the
consciousness of a good deed. "It ain't very plentiful around here."
"Well," said Gregg, swinging up his glass, "here's in your eye,
Ronicky, and here's to you, sir!"
"Wait," replied Ronicky Doone. "Hold on a minute, Bill. Looks to me
like you ain't drinking," he said to the proprietor.
The fat man waved the suggestion aside. "Never touch it," he assured
them. "Used to indulge a little in light wines and beers when the
country was wet, but when it went dry the stuff didn't mean enough to
me to make it worth while dodging the law. I just manage to keep a
little of it around for old friends and men out of a dry country."
"But we got a funny habit out in our country. We can't no ways drink
unless the gent that's setting them out takes something himself. It
ain't done that way in our part of the land," said Ronicky.
"It ain't?"
"Never!"
"Come, come! That's a good joke. But, even if I can't be with you,
boys, drink hearty."
Ronicky Doone shook his head. "No joke at all," he said firmly.
"Matter of politeness that a lot of gents are terrible hard set on out
where we come from."
"Why, Ronicky," protested Bill Gregg, "ain't you making it a little
strong? For my part I've drunk twenty times without having the gent
that set 'em up touch a thing. I reckon I can do it again. Here's
how!"
"Wait!" declared Ronicky Doone. And there was a little jarring ring
in his voice that arrested the hand of Bill Gregg in the very act of
raising the glass.
Ronicky crossed the room quickly, took a glass from the washstand and,
returning to the center table, poured a liberal drink of the whisky
into it.
"I dunno about my friend," he went on, almost sternly, to the
bewildered hotel keeper. "I dunno about him, but some gents feel so
strong about not drinking alone that they'd sooner fight. Well, sir,
I'm one of that kind. So I say, there's your liquor. Get rid of it!"
The fat man reached the center table and propped himself against it,
gasping. His whole big body seemed to be wilting, as though in a
terrific heat. "I dunno!" he murmured. "I dunno what's got into you
fellers. I tell you, I never drink."
"You lie, you fat fool!" retorted Ronicky. "Didn't I smell your
breath?"
Bill Gregg dropped his own glass on the table and hurriedly came to
confront his host by the side of Ronicky.
"Breath?" asked the fat man hurriedly, still gasping more and more
heavily for air. "I--I may have taken a small tonic after dinner. In
fact, think I did. That's all. Nothing more, I assure you. I--I have
to be a sober man in my work."
"You got to make an exception this evening," said Ronicky, more
fiercely than ever. "I ought to make you drink all three drinks for
being so slow about drinking one!"
"Three drinks!" exclaimed the fat man, trembling violently. "It--it
would kill me!"
"I think it would," said Ronicky. "I swear I think it would. And maybe
even one will be a sort of a shock, eh?"
He commanded suddenly: "Drink! Drink that glass and clean out the last
drop of it, or we'll tie you and pry your mouth open and pour the
whole bottle down your throat. You understand?"
A feeble moan came from the throat of the hotel keeper. He cast
one frantic glance toward the door and a still more frantic appeal
centered on Ronicky Doone, but the face of the latter was as cold as
stone.
"Then take your own glasses, boys," he said, striving to smile, as he
picked up his own drink.
"You drink first, and you drink alone," declared Ronicky. "Now!"
The movement of his hand was as ominous as if he had whipped out a
revolver. The fat man tossed off the glass of whisky and then stood
with a pudgy hand pressed against his breast and the upward glance of
one who awaits a calamity. Under the astonished eyes of Bill Gregg he
turned pale, a sickly greenish pallor. His eyes rolled, and his hand
on the table shook, and the arm that supported him sagged.
"Open the window," he said. "The air--there ain't no air. I'm
choking--and--"
"Get him some water," cried Bill Gregg, "while I open the window."
"Stay where you are, Bill."
"But he looks like he's dying!"
"Then he's killed himself."
"Gents," began the fat man feebly and made a short step toward them.
The step was uncompleted. In the middle of it he wavered, put out his
arms and slumped upon his side on the floor.
Bill Gregg cried out softly in astonishment and horror, but Ronicky
Doone knelt calmly beside the fallen bulk and felt the beating of his
heart.
"He ain't dead," he said quietly, "but he'll be tolerably sick for a
while. Now come along with me."
"But what's all this mean?" asked Bill Gregg in a whisper, as he
picked up his suit case and hurried after Ronicky.
"Doped booze," said Ronicky curtly.
They hurried down the stairs and came out onto the dark street. There
Ronicky Doone dropped his suit case and dived into a dark nook beside
the entrance. There was a brief struggle. He came out again, pushing
a skulking figure before him, with the man's arm twisted behind his
back.
"Take off this gent's hat, will you?" asked Ronicky.
Bill Gregg obeyed, too dumb with astonishment to think. "It's the taxi
driver!" he exclaimed.
"I thought so!" muttered Ronicky. "The skunk came back here to wait
till we were fixed right now. What'll we do with him?"
"I begin to see what's come off" said Bill Gregg, frowning into the
white, scowling face of the taxi driver. The man was like a rat, but,
in spite of his fear, he did not make a sound.
"Over there!" said Bill Gregg, nodding toward a flight of cellar
steps.
They caught the man between them, rushed him to the steps and flung
him headlong down. There was a crashing fall, groans and then silence.
"He'll have a broken bone or two, maybe," said Ronicky, peering calmly
into the darkness, "but he'll live to trap somebody else, curse him!"
And, picking up their suit cases again, they started to retrace their
steps.