But Isolde the Slender was heedless of the court thus paid to her.
In vain her stepmother, Agatha the Angular, urged her to marry. In vain
her father, the Margrave of Buggensberg, commanded her to choose the
one or the other of the suitors.
Her heart remained unswervingly true to the Gimlet.
From time to time love tokens passed between the lovers. From Jerusalem
Guido had sent to her a stick with a notch in it to signify his undying
constancy. From Pannonia he sent a piece of board, and from Venetia
about two feet of scantling. All these Isolde treasured. At night they
lay beneath her pillow.
Then, after years of wandering, Guido had determined to crown his love
with a final achievement for Isolde’s sake.
It was his design to return to Ghent, to scale by night the castle
cliff and to prove his love for Isolde by killing her father for her,
casting her stepmother from the battlements, burning the castle, and
carrying her away.
This design he was now hastening to put into execution. Attended by
fifty trusty followers under the lead of Carlo the Corkscrew and
Beowulf the Bradawl, he had made his way to Ghent. Under cover of night
they had reached the foot of the castle cliff; and now, on their hands
and knees in single file, they were crawling round and round the spiral
path that led up to the gate of the fortress. At six of the clock they
had spiralled once. At seven of the clock they had reappeared at the
second round, and as the feast in the hall reached its height, they
reappeared on the fourth lap.
Guido the Gimlet was in the lead. His coat of mail was hidden beneath a
parti-coloured cloak and he bore in his hand a horn.
By arrangement he was to penetrate into the castle by the postern gate
in disguise, steal from the Margrave by artifice the key of the great
door, and then by a blast of his horn summon his followers to the
assault. Alas! there was need for haste, for at this very Yuletide, on
this very night, the Margrave, wearied of Isolde’s resistance, had
determined to bestow her hand upon Tancred the Tenspot.
It was wassail all in the great hall. The huge Margrave, seated at the
head of the board, drained flagon after flagon of wine, and pledged
deep the health of Tancred the Tenspot, who sat plumed and armoured
beside him.
Great was the merriment of the Margrave, for beside him, crouched upon
the floor, was a new jester, whom the seneschal had just admitted by
the postern gate, and the novelty of whose jests made the huge sides of
the Margrave shake and shake again.
“Odds Bodikins!” he roared, “but the tale is as rare as it is new! and
so the wagoner said to the Pilgrim that sith he had asked him to put
him off the wagon at that town, put him off he must, albeit it was but
the small of the night—by St. Pancras! whence hath the fellow so novel
a tale?—nay, tell it me but once more, haply I may remember it”—and the
Baron fell back in a perfect paroxysm of merriment.
As he fell back, Guido—for the disguised jester was none other than he,
that is, than him—sprang forward and seized from the girdle of the
Margrave the key of the great door that dangled at his waist.
Then, casting aside the jester’s cloak and cap, he rose to his full
height, standing in his coat of mail.
In one hand he brandished the double-headed mace of the Crusader, and
in the other a horn.
The guests sprang to their feet, their hands upon their daggers.
“Guido the Gimlet!” they cried.
“Hold,” said Guido, “I have you in my power!!”
Then placing the horn to his lips and drawing a deep breath, he blew
with his utmost force.
And then again he blew—blew like anything.
Not a sound came.
The horn wouldn’t blow!
“Seize him!” cried the Baron.
“Stop,” said Guido, “I claim the laws of chivalry. I am here to seek
the Lady Isolde, betrothed by you to Tancred. Let me fight Tancred in
single combat, man to man.”
A shout of approbation gave consent.
The combat that followed was terrific.
First Guido, raising his mace high in the air with both hands, brought
it down with terrible force on Tancred’s mailed head. Then Guido stood
still, and Tancred raising his mace in the air brought it down upon
Guido’s head. Then Tancred stood still and turned his back, and Guido,
swinging his mace sideways, gave him a terrific blow from behind,
midway, right centre. Tancred returned the blow. Then Tancred knelt
down on his hands and knees and Guido brought the mace down on his
back. It was a sheer contest of skill and agility. For a time the issue
was doubtful. Then Tancred’s armour began to bend, his blows weakened,
he fell prone. Guido pressed his advantage and hammered him out as flat
as a sardine can. Then placing his foot on Tancred’s chest, he lowered
his vizor and looked around about him.
At this second there was a resounding shriek.
Isolde the Slender, alarmed by the sound of the blows, precipitated
herself into the room.
For a moment the lovers looked into each other’s faces.
Then with their countenances distraught with agony they fell swooning
in different directions.
There had been a mistake!
Guido was not Guido, and Isolde was not Isolde. They were wrong about
the miniatures. Each of them was a picture of somebody else.
Torrents of remorse flooded over the lovers’ hearts.
Isolde thought of the unhappy Tancred, hammered out as flat as a
picture-card and hopelessly spoilt; of Conrad the Cocoanut head first
in the mud, and Sickfried the Susceptible coiled up with agonies of
sulphuric acid.
Guido thought of the dead Saracens and the slaughtered Turks.
And all for nothing!
The guerdon of their love had proved vain. Each of them was not what
the other had thought. So it is ever with the loves of this world, and
herein is the medieval allegory of this tale.
The hearts of the two lovers broke together.
They expired.
Meantime Carlo the Corkscrew and Beowulf the Bradawl, and their forty
followers, were hustling down the spirals as fast as they could crawl,
hind end uppermost.
IV.
Gertrude the Governess:
or, Simple Seventeen
_Synopsis of Previous Chapters:_
_There are no Previous Chapters._
It was a wild and stormy night on the West Coast of Scotland. This,
however, is immaterial to the present story, as the scene is not laid
in the West of Scotland. For the matter of that the weather was just as
bad on the East Coast of Ireland.
But the scene of this narrative is laid in the South of England and
takes place in and around Knotacentinum Towers (pronounced as if
written Nosham Taws), the seat of Lord Knotacent (pronounced as if
written Nosh).
But it is not necessary to pronounce either of these names in reading
them.
Nosham Taws was a typical English home. The main part of the house was
an Elizabethan structure of warm red brick, while the elder portion, of
which the Earl was inordinately proud, still showed the outlines of a
Norman Keep, to which had been added a Lancastrian Jail and a
Plantagenet Orphan Asylum. From the house in all directions stretched
magnificent woodland and park with oaks and elms of immemorial
antiquity, while nearer the house stood raspberry bushes and geranium
plants which had been set out by the Crusaders.
About the grand old mansion the air was loud with the chirping of
thrushes, the cawing of partridges and the clear sweet note of the
rook, while deer, antelope and other quadrupeds strutted about the lawn
so tame as to eat off the sun-dial. In fact, the place was a regular
menagerie.
From the house downwards through the park stretched a beautiful broad
avenue laid out by Henry VII.
Lord Nosh stood upon the hearthrug of the library. Trained diplomat and
statesman as he was, his stern aristocratic face was upside down with
fury.
“Boy,” he said, “you shall marry this girl or I disinherit you. You are
no son of mine.”
Young Lord Ronald, erect before him, flung back a glance as defiant as
his own.
“I defy you,” he said. “Henceforth you are no father of mine. I will
get another. I will marry none but a woman I can love. This girl that
we have never seen—”
Illustration: “Henceforth you are no father of mine. I will get
another.”
“Fool,” said the Earl, “would you throw aside our estate and name of a
thousand years? The girl, I am told, is beautiful; her aunt is willing;
they are French; pah! they understand such things in France.”
“But your reason—”
“I give no reason,” said the Earl. “Listen, Ronald, I give one month.
For that time you remain here. If at the end of it you refuse me, I cut
you off with a shilling.”
Lord Ronald said nothing; he flung himself from the room, flung himself
upon his horse and rode madly off in all directions.
As the door of the library closed upon Ronald the Earl sank into a
chair. His face changed. It was no longer that of the haughty nobleman,
but of the hunted criminal. “He must marry the girl,” he muttered.
“Soon she will know all. Tutchemoff has escaped from Siberia. He knows
and will tell. The whole of the mines pass to her, this property with
it, and I—but enough.” He rose, walked to the sideboard, drained a
dipper full of gin and bitters, and became again a high-bred English
gentleman.
It was at this moment that a high dogcart, driven by a groom in the
livery of Earl Nosh, might have been seen entering the avenue of Nosham
Taws. Beside him sat a young girl, scarce more than a child, in fact
not nearly so big as the groom.
The apple-pie hat which she wore, surmounted with black willow plumes,
concealed from view a face so face-like in its appearance as to be
positively facial.
It was—need we say it—Gertrude the Governess, who was this day to enter
upon her duties at Nosham Taws.
At the same time that the dogcart entered the avenue at one end there
might have been seen riding down it from the other a tall young man,
whose long, aristocratic face proclaimed his birth and who was mounted
upon a horse with a face even longer than his own.
And who is this tall young man who draws nearer to Gertrude with every
revolution of the horse? Ah, who, indeed? Ah, who, who? I wonder if any
of my readers could guess that this was none other than Lord Ronald.
The two were destined to meet. Nearer and nearer they came. And then
still nearer. Then for one brief moment they met. As they passed
Gertrude raised her head and directed towards the young nobleman two
eyes so eye-like in their expression as to be absolutely circular,
while Lord Ronald directed towards the occupant of the dogcart a gaze
so gaze-like that nothing but a gazelle, or a gas-pipe, could have
emulated its intensity.
Was this the dawn of love? Wait and see. Do not spoil the story.
Let us speak of Gertrude. Gertrude DeMongmorenci McFiggin had known
neither father nor mother. They had both died years before she was
born. Of her mother she knew nothing, save that she was French, was
extremely beautiful, and that all her ancestors and even her business
acquaintances had perished in the Revolution.
Yet Gertrude cherished the memory of her parents. On her breast the
girl wore a locket in which was enshrined a miniature of her mother,
while down her neck inside at the back hung a daguerreotype of her
father. She carried a portrait of her grandmother up her sleeve and had
pictures of her cousins tucked inside her boot, while beneath her— but
enough, quite enough.
Of her father Gertrude knew even less. That he was a high-born English
gentleman who had lived as a wanderer in many lands, this was all she
knew. His only legacy to Gertrude had been a Russian grammar, a
Roumanian phrase-book, a theodolite, and a work on mining engineering.
From her earliest infancy Gertrude had been brought up by her aunt. Her
aunt had carefully instructed her in Christian principles. She had also
taught her Mohammedanism to make sure.
When Gertrude was seventeen her aunt had died of hydrophobia.
The circumstances were mysterious. There had called upon her that day a
strange bearded man in the costume of the Russians. After he had left,
Gertrude had found her aunt in a syncope from which she passed into an
apostrophe and never recovered.
To avoid scandal it was called hydrophobia. Gertrude was thus thrown
upon the world. What to do? That was the problem that confronted her.
It was while musing one day upon her fate that Gertrude’s eye was
struck with an advertisement.
“Wanted a governess; must possess a knowledge of French, Italian,
Russian, and Roumanian, Music, and Mining Engineering. Salary £1, 4
shillings and 4 pence halfpenny per annum. Apply between half-past
eleven and twenty-five minutes to twelve at No. 41 A Decimal Six,
Belgravia Terrace. The Countess of Nosh.”
Gertrude was a girl of great natural quickness of apprehension, and she
had not pondered over this announcement more than half an hour before
she was struck with the extraordinary coincidence between the list of
items desired and the things that she herself knew.
She duly presented herself at Belgravia Terrace before the Countess,
who advanced to meet her with a charm which at once placed the girl at
her ease.
“You are proficient in French,” she asked.
_“Oh, oui,”_ said Gertrude modestly.
“And Italian,” continued the Countess.
_“Oh, si,”_ said Gertrude.
“And German,” said the Countess in delight.
_“Ah, ja,”_ said Gertrude.
“And Russian?”
_“Yaw.”_
“And Roumanian?”
_“Jep.”_
Amazed at the girl’s extraordinary proficiency in modern languages, the
Countess looked at her narrowly. Where had she seen those lineaments
before? She passed her hand over her brow in thought, and spit upon the
floor, but no, the face baffled her.
“Enough,” she said, “I engage you on the spot; to-morrow you go down to
Nosham Taws and begin teaching the children. I must add that in
addition you will be expected to aid the Earl with his Russian
correspondence. He has large mining interests at Tschminsk.”
Tschminsk! why did the simple word reverberate upon Gertrude’s ears?
Why? Because it was the name written in her father’s hand on the title
page of his book on mining. What mystery was here?
It was on the following day that Gertrude had driven up the avenue.
She descended from the dogcart, passed through a phalanx of liveried
servants drawn up seven-deep, to each of whom she gave a sovereign as
she passed and entered Nosham Taws.
“Welcome,” said the Countess, as she aided Gertrude to carry her trunk
upstairs.
The girl presently descended and was ushered into the library, where
she was presented to the Earl. As soon as the Earl’s eye fell upon the
face of the new governess he started visibly. Where had he seen those
lineaments? Where was it? At the races, or the theatre—on a bus—no.
Some subtler thread of memory was stirring in his mind. He strode
hastily to the sideboard, drained a dipper and a half of brandy, and
became again the perfect English gentleman.
While Gertrude has gone to the nursery to make the acquaintance of the
two tiny golden-haired children who are to be her charges, let us say
something here of the Earl and his son.
Lord Nosh was the perfect type of the English nobleman and statesman.
The years that he had spent in the diplomatic service at
Constantinople, St. Petersburg, and Salt Lake City had given to him a
peculiar finesse and noblesse, while his long residence at St. Helena,
Pitcairn Island, and Hamilton, Ontario, had rendered him impervious to
external impressions. As deputy-paymaster of the militia of the county
he had seen something of the sterner side of military life, while his
hereditary office of Groom of the Sunday Breeches had brought him into
direct contact with Royalty itself.
His passion for outdoor sports endeared him to his tenants. A keen
sportsman, he excelled in fox-hunting, dog-hunting, pig-killing,
bat-catching and the pastimes of his class.
In this latter respect Lord Ronald took after his father. From the
start the lad had shown the greatest promise. At Eton he had made a
splendid showing at battledore and shuttlecock, and at Cambridge had
been first in his class at needlework. Already his name was whispered
in connection with the All-England ping-pong championship, a triumph
which would undoubtedly carry with it a seat in Parliament.
Thus was Gertrude the Governess installed at Nosham Taws.
The days and the weeks sped past.
The simple charm of the beautiful orphan girl attracted all hearts. Her
two little pupils became her slaves. “Me loves oo,” the little
Rasehellfrida would say, leaning her golden head in Gertrude’s lap.
Even the servants loved her. The head gardener would bring a bouquet of
beautiful roses to her room before she was up, the second gardener a
bunch of early cauliflowers, the third a spray of late asparagus, and
even the tenth and eleventh a sprig of mangel-wurzel of an armful of
hay. Her room was full of gardeners all the time, while at evening the
aged butler, touched at the friendless girl’s loneliness, would tap
softly at her door to bring her a rye whiskey and seltzer or a box of
Pittsburg Stogies. Even the dumb creatures seemed to admire her in
their own dumb way. The dumb rooks settled on her shoulder and every
dumb dog around the place followed her.
And Ronald! ah, Ronald! Yes, indeed! They had met. They had spoken.
“What a dull morning,” Gertrude had said. _“Quelle triste matin! Was
fur ein allerverdamnter Tag!”_
“Beastly,” Ronald had answered.
“Beastly!!” The word rang in Gertrude’s ears all day.
After that they were constantly together. They played tennis and
ping-pong in the day, and in the evening, in accordance with the stiff
routine of the place, they sat down with the Earl and Countess to
twenty-five-cent poker, and later still they sat together on the
verandah and watched the moon sweeping in great circles around the
horizon.
It was not long before Gertrude realised that Lord Ronald felt towards
her a warmer feeling than that of mere ping-pong. At times in her
presence he would fall, especially after dinner, into a fit of profound
subtraction.
Once at night, when Gertrude withdrew to her chamber and before seeking
her pillow, prepared to retire as a preliminary to disrobing—in other
words, before going to bed, she flung wide the casement (opened the
window) and perceived (saw) the face of Lord Ronald. He was sitting on
a thorn bush beneath her, and his upturned face wore an expression of
agonised pallor.
Meanwhile the days passed. Life at the Taws moved in the ordinary
routine of a great English household. At 7 a gong sounded for rising,
at 8 a horn blew for breakfast, at 8.30 a whistle sounded for prayers,
at 1 a flag was run up at half-mast for lunch, at 4 a gun was fired for
afternoon tea, at 9 a first bell sounded for dressing, at 9.15 a second
bell for going on dressing, while at 9.30 a rocket was sent up to
indicate that dinner was ready. At midnight dinner was over, and at 1
a.m. the tolling of a bell summoned the domestics to evening prayers.
Meanwhile the month allotted by the Earl to Lord Ronald was passing
away. It was already July 15, then within a day or two it was July 17,
and, almost immediately afterwards, July 18.
At times the Earl, in passing Ronald in the hall, would say sternly,
“Remember, boy, your consent, or I disinherit you.”
And what were the Earl’s thoughts of Gertrude? Here was the one drop of
bitterness in the girl’s cup of happiness. For some reason that she
could not divine the Earl showed signs of marked antipathy.
Once as she passed the door of the library he threw a bootjack at her.
On another occasion at lunch alone with her he struck her savagely
across the face with a sausage.
It was her duty to translate to the Earl his Russian correspondence.
She sought in it in vain for the mystery. One day a Russian telegram
was handed to the Earl. Gertrude translated it to him aloud.
“Tutchemoff went to the woman. She is dead.”
On hearing this the Earl became livid with fury, in fact this was the
day that he struck her with the sausage.
Then one day while the Earl was absent on a bat hunt, Gertrude, who was
turning over his correspondence, with that sweet feminine instinct of
interest that rose superior to ill-treatment, suddenly found the key to
the mystery.
Lord Nosh was not the rightful owner of the Taws. His distant cousin of
the older line, the true heir, had died in a Russian prison to which
the machinations of the Earl, while Ambassador at Tschminsk, had
consigned him. The daughter of this cousin was the true owner of Nosham
Taws.
The family story, save only that the documents before her withheld the
name of the rightful heir, lay bare to Gertrude’s eye.
Strange is the heart of woman. Did Gertrude turn from the Earl with
spurning? No. Her own sad fate had taught her sympathy.
Yet still the mystery remained! Why did the Earl start perceptibly each
time that he looked into her face? Sometimes he started as much as four
centimetres, so that one could distinctly see him do it. On such
occasions he would hastily drain a dipper of rum and vichy water and
become again the correct English gentleman.
The denouement came swiftly. Gertrude never forgot it.
It was the night of the great ball at Nosham Taws. The whole
neighbourhood was invited. How Gertrude’s heart had beat with
anticipation, and with what trepidation she had overhauled her scant
wardrobe in order to appear not unworthy in Lord Ronald’s eyes. Her
resources were poor indeed, yet the inborn genius for dress that she
inherited from her French mother stood her in good stead. She twined a
single rose in her hair and contrived herself a dress out of a few old
newspapers and the inside of an umbrella that would have graced a
court. Round her waist she bound a single braid of bagstring, while a
piece of old lace that had been her mother’s was suspended to her ear
by a thread.
Gertrude was the cynosure of all eyes. Floating to the strains of the
music she presented a picture of bright girlish innocence that no one
could see undisenraptured.
The ball was at its height. It was away up!
Ronald stood with Gertrude in the shrubbery. They looked into one
another’s eyes.
“Gertrude,” he said, “I love you.”
Simple words, and yet they thrilled every fibre in the girl’s costume.
“Ronald!” she said, and cast herself about his neck.
At this moment the Earl appeared standing beside them in the moonlight.
His stern face was distorted with indignation.
“So!” he said, turning to Ronald, “it appears that you have chosen!”
“I have,” said Ronald with hauteur.
“You prefer to marry this penniless girl rather than the heiress I have
selected for you.”
Gertrude looked from father to son in amazement.
“Yes,” said Ronald.
“Be it so,” said the Earl, draining a dipper of gin which he carried,
and resuming his calm. “Then I disinherit you. Leave this place, and
never return to it.”
“Come, Gertrude,” said Ronald tenderly, “let us flee together.”
Gertrude stood before them. The rose had fallen from her head. The lace
had fallen from her ear and the bagstring had come undone from her
waist. Her newspapers were crumpled beyond recognition. But dishevelled
and illegible as she was, she was still mistress of herself.
“Never,” she said firmly. “Ronald, you shall never make this sacrifice
for me.” Then to the Earl, in tones of ice, “There is a pride, sir, as
great even as yours. The daughter of Metschnikoff McFiggin need crave a
boon from no one.”
With that she hauled from her bosom the daguerreotype of her father and
pressed it to her lips.
The earl started as if shot. “That name!” he cried, “that face! that
photograph! stop!”
There! There is no need to finish; my readers have long since divined
it. Gertrude was the heiress.
The lovers fell into one another’s arms. The Earl’s proud face relaxed.
“God bless you,” he said. The Countess and the guests came pouring out
upon the lawn. The breaking day illuminated a scene of gay
congratulations.
Gertrude and Ronald were wed. Their happiness was complete. Need we say
more? Yes, only this. The Earl was killed in the hunting-field a few
days after. The Countess was struck by lightning. The two children fell
down a well. Thus the happiness of Gertrude and Ronald was complete.
V.
A Hero in Homespun:
or, The Life Struggle of Hezekiah Hayloft
“Can you give me a job?”
The foreman of the bricklayers looked down from the scaffold to the
speaker below. Something in the lad’s upturned face appealed to the
man. He threw a brick at him.
It was Hezekiah Hayloft. He was all in homespun. He carried a
carpet-bag in each hand. He had come to New York, the cruel city,
looking for work.
Hezekiah moved on. Presently he stopped in front of a policeman.
“Sir,” he said, “can you tell me the way to—”
The policeman struck him savagely across the side of the head.
“I’ll learn you,” he said, “to ask damn fool questions—”
Again Hezekiah moved on. In a few moments he met a man whose tall black
hat, black waistcoat and white tie proclaimed him a clergyman.
“Good sir,” said Hezekiah, “can you tell me—”
The clergyman pounced upon him with a growl of a hyena, and bit a piece
out of his ear. Yes, he did, reader. Just imagine a clergyman biting a
boy in open daylight! Yet that happens in New York every minute.
Such is the great cruel city, and imagine looking for work in it. You
and I who spend our time in trying to avoid work can hardly realise
what it must mean. Think how it must feel to be alone in New York,
without a friend or a relation at hand, with no one to know or care
what you do. It must be great!
For a few moments Hezekiah stood irresolute. He looked about him. He
looked up at the top of the Metropolitan Tower. He saw no work there.
He looked across at the skyscrapers on Madison Square, but his eye
detected no work in any of them. He stood on his head and looked up at
the flat-iron building. Still no work in sight.
All that day and the next Hezekiah looked for work.
A Wall Street firm had advertised for a stenographer.
“Can you write shorthand?” they said.
“No,” said the boy in homespun, “but I can try.”
They threw him down the elevator.
Hezekiah was not discouraged. That day he applied for fourteen jobs.
The Waldorf Astoria was in need of a chef. Hezekiah applied for the
place.
“Can you cook?” they said.
“No,” said Hezekiah, “but oh, sir, give me a trial, give me an egg and
let me try—I will try so hard.” Great tears rolled down the boy’s face.
They rolled him out into the corridor.
Next he applied for a job as a telegrapher. His mere ignorance of
telegraphy was made the ground of refusal.
At nightfall Hezekiah Hayloft grew hungry. He entered again the portico
of the Waldorf Astoria. Within it stood a tall man in uniform.
“Boss,” said the boy hero, “will you trust me for the price of a square
meal?”
They set the dog on him.
Such, reader, is the hardness and bitterness of the Great City.
For fourteen weeks Hezekiah Hayloft looked for work. Once or twice he
obtained temporary employment only to lose it again.
For a few days he was made accountant in a trust company. He was
discharged because he would not tell a lie. For about a week he held a
position as cashier in a bank. They discharged the lad because he
refused to forge a cheque. For three days he held a conductorship on a
Broadway surface car. He was dismissed from this business for refusing
to steal a nickel.
Such, reader, is the horrid degradation of business life in New York.
Meantime the days passed and still Hayloft found no work. His stock of
money was exhausted. He had not had any money anyway. For food he ate
grass in Central Park and drank the water from the Cruelty to Animals
horse-trough.
Gradually a change came over the lad; his face grew hard and stern, the
great city was setting its mark upon him.
One night Hezekiah stood upon the sidewalk. It was late, long after ten
o’clock. Only a few chance pedestrians passed.
“By Heaven!” said Hezekiah, shaking his fist at the lights of the cruel
city, “I have exhausted fair means, I will try foul. I will beg. No
Hayloft has been a beggar yet,” he added with a bitter laugh, “but I
will begin.”
A well-dressed man passed along.
Hezekiah seized him by the throat.
“What do you want?” cried the man in sudden terror. “Don’t ask me for
work. I tell you I have no work to give.”
“I don’t want work,” said Hezekiah grimly. “I am a beggar.”
“Oh! is that all,” said the man, relieved. “Here, take this ten dollars
and go and buy a drink with it.”
Money! money! and with it a new sense of power that rushed like an
intoxicant to Hezekiah’s brain.
“Drink,” he muttered hoarsely, “yes, drink.”
The lights of a soda-water fountain struck his eye.
“Give me an egg phosphate,” he said as he dashed his money on the
counter. He drank phosphate after phosphate till his brain reeled. Mad
with the liquor, he staggered to and fro in the shop, weighed himself
recklessly on the slot machine three or four times, tore out chewing
gum and matches from the automatic nickel boxes, and finally staggered
on to the street, reeling from the effects of thirteen phosphates and a
sarsaparilla soda.
“Crime,” he hissed. “Crime, crime, that’s what I want.”
He noticed that the passers-by made way for him now with respect. On
the corner of the street a policeman was standing.
Hezekiah picked up a cobblestone, threw it, and struck the man full on
the ear.
The policeman smiled at him roguishly, and then gently wagged his
finger in reproof. It was the same policeman who had struck him
fourteen weeks before for asking the way.
Hezekiah moved on, still full of his new idea of crime. Down the street
was a novelty shop, the window decked with New Year’s gifts.
“Sell me a revolver,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said the salesman. “Would you like something for evening
wear, or a plain kind for home use. Here is a very good family
revolver, or would you like a roof garden size?”
Hezekiah selected a revolver and went out.
“Now, then,” he muttered, “I will burglarise a house and get money.”
Walking across to Fifth Avenue he selected one of the finest residences
and rang the bell.
A man in livery appeared in the brightly lighted hall.
“Where is your master?” Hezekiah asked, showing his revolver.
“He is upstairs, sir, counting his money,” the man answered, “but he
dislikes being disturbed.”
“Show me to him,” said Hezekiah, “I wish to shoot him and take his
money.”
“Very good, sir,” said the man deferentially. “You will find him on the
first floor.”
Hezekiah turned and shot the footman twice through the livery and went
upstairs.