That winter passed, then the summer; September and October came and
went, and by the middle of November the rains set in. One very wet
afternoon toward the end of the month Charlie Geary sat at his desk in
his own private office. He was unoccupied for the moment, leaning back
in his swivel chair, his feet on the table, smoking a cigar. Geary had
broken from his old-time habit of smoking only so many cigars as he
could pay for by saving carfare. He was doing so well now that he could
afford to smoke whenever he chose. He was still with the great firm of
Beale & Storey, and while not in the partnership as yet, had worked up
to the position of an assistant. He had cases of his own now, a great
many of them, for the most part damage suits against that certain
enormous corporation whom it was said was ruining the city and entire
state. Geary posed as one of its bitterest enemies, pushing each suit
brought against it with a tireless energy, with a zeal that was almost
vindictive. He began to fit into his own niche, in the eyes of the
public, and just in proportion as the corporation was hated, Geary was
admired. Money came to him very fast. He was hardly thirty at this time,
but could already be called a rich man.
His "deal" with Vandover had given him a taste for real estate, and now
and then, with the greatest caution, he made a few discreet investments.
At present he had just completed a row of small cottages across the
street from the boot and shoe factory. The cottages held two rooms and a
large kitchen. Geary had calculated that the boot and shoe concern would
employ nearly a thousand operatives, and he had built his row with the
view of accommodating a few of them who had families and who desired to
live near the factory. His agents were Adams & Brunt.
It was toward half-past five, there was nothing more that Geary could do
that day, and for a moment he leaned back in his swivel chair, before
going home, smiling a little, very well pleased with himself. He was
still as clever and shrewd as ever, still devoured with an incarnate
ambition, still delighted when he could get the better of any one. He
was yet a young man; with the start he had secured for himself, and
with the exceptional faculties, the faculties of self-confidence and
"push" that he knew himself to possess, there was no telling to what
position he might attain. He knew that it was only a question of
time--of a short time even--when he would be the practical head of the
great firm. Everything he turned his hand to was a success. His row of
houses in the Mission might be enlarged to a veritable settlement for
every workman in the neighbourhood. His youth, his cleverness, and his
ambition, supported by his money on the one hand, and on the other by
the vast machinery of the great law firm, could raise him to a great
place in the world of men. Gazing through the little blue haze of his
cigar smoke, he began to have vague ideas, ideas of advancement, of
political successes. Politics fascinated him--such a field of action
seemed to be the domain for which he was precisely suited--not the
politics of the city or of the state; not the nasty little squabbling of
boodlers, lobbyists, and supervisors, but something large, something
inspiring, something on a tremendous scale, something to which one could
give up one's whole life and energy, something to which one could
sacrifice everything--friendships, fortunes, scruples, principles, life
itself, no matter what, anything to be a "success," to "arrive," to "get
there," to attain the desired object in spite of the whole world, to
ride on at it, trampling down or smashing through everything that stood
in the way, blind, deaf, fists and teeth shut tight. Not the little
squabbling politics of the city or state, but national politics, the
sway and government of a whole people, the House, the Senate, the
cabinet and the next--why not?--the highest, the best of all, the
Executive. Yes, Geary aspired even to the Presidency.
For a moment he allowed himself the indulgence of the delightful dream,
then laughed a bit at his own absurdity. But even the entertainment of
so vast an idea had made his mind, as it were, big; it was hard to come
down to the level again. In spite of himself he went on reasoning in
stupendous thoughts, in enormous ideas, figuring with immense
abstractions. And then after all, why not? Other men had striven and
attained; other men were even now striving, other men would "arrive";
why should not he? As well he as another. Every man for himself--that
was his maxim. It might be damned selfish, but it was human nature: the
weakest to the wall, the strongest to the front. Why should not he be in
the front? Why not in the very front rank? Why not be even before the
front rank itself--the leader? Vast, vague ideas passed slowly across
the vision of his mind, ideas that could hardly be formulated into
thought, ideas of the infinite herd of humanity, driven on as if by some
enormous, relentless engine, driven on toward some fearful distant
bourne, driven on recklessly at headlong speed. All life was but a
struggle to keep from under those myriad spinning wheels that dashed so
close behind. Those were happiest who were farthest to the front. To lag
behind was peril; to fall was to perish, to be ridden down, to be beaten
to the dust, to be inexorably crushed and blotted out beneath that
myriad of spinning iron wheels. Geary looked up quickly and saw Vandover
standing in the doorway.
For the moment Geary did not recognize the gaunt, shambling figure with
the long hair and dirty beard, the greenish hat, and the streaked and
spotted coat, but when he did it was with a feeling of anger and
exasperation.
"Look here!" he cried, "don't you think you'd better knock before you
come in?"
Vandover raised a hand slowly as if in deprecation, and answered slowly
and with a feeble, tremulous voice, the voice of an old man: "I did
knock, Mister Geary; I didn't mean no offence." He sat down on the edge
of the nearest chair, looking vaguely and stupidly about on the floor,
moving his head instead of his eyes, repeating under his breath from
time to time, "No offence--no, sir--no offence!"
"Shut that door!" commanded Geary. Vandover obeyed. He wore no vest, and
the old cutaway coat, fastened by the single remaining button, exposed
his shirt to view, abominably filthy, bulging at the waist like a
blouse. The "blue pants," held up by a strap, were all foul with mud and
grease and paint, and there hung about him a certain odour, that
peculiar smell of poverty and of degradation, the smell of stale clothes
and of unwashed bodies.
"Well?" said Geary abruptly.
Vandover put the tips of his fingers to his lips and rolled his eyes
about the room, avoiding Geary's glance; then he dropped them to the
floor again, looking at the pattern in the carpet.
"Well," repeated Geary, irritated, "you know I haven't got all the time
in the world." All at once Vandover began to cry, very softly, snuffling
with his nose, his chin twitching, the tears running through his thin,
sparse beard.
"Ah, get on to yourself!" shouted Geary, now thoroughly disgusted. "Quit
that! Be a man, will you? Stop that! do you hear?" Vandover obeyed,
catching his breath and slowly wiping his eyes with the side of his
hand.
"I'm no good!" he said at length, wagging his head and blinking through
his tears. "I'm--I'm done for and I ain't got no money; yet, of course,
you see I don't mean no offence. What I want, you see, is to be a man
and not give in and not let the wolf get me, and then I'll go back to
Paris. Everything goes round here, very slow, and seems far off; that's
why I can't get along, and I'm that hungry that sometimes I twitch all
over. I'm down. I ain't got another cent of money and I lost my job at
the paint-shop. There's where I drew down twenty dollars a week painting
landscapes on safes, you know, and then--"
Geary interrupted him, crying out, "You haven't a cent? Why, what have
you done with your bonds?"
"Bonds?" repeated Vandover, dazed and bewildered. "I ain't never had any
bonds. What bonds? Oh, yes," he exclaimed, suddenly remembering, "yes, I
know, my bonds, of course; yes, yes--well, I--those--those, I had to
sell those bonds--had some debts, you see, my board and my tailor's
bill. They got out some sort of paper after me. Yes, I had forgotten
about my bonds. I lost every damned one of them playing cards--gambled
'em all away. Ain't I no good? But I was winner once--just in two nights
I won ten thousand dollars. Then I must have lost it again. You see, I
get so hungry sometimes that I twitch all over--so, just like that. Lend
me a dollar."
For a few moments Geary was silent, watching Vandover curiously, as he
sat in a heap on the edge of the chair, fumbling his greenish hat,
looking about the floor. Presently he asked:
"When did you lose your job at the paint-shop?"
"Day before yesterday."
"And you are out of work now?"
"Yes," answered Vandover. "I'm broke; I haven't a cent. I'm blest if I
know how I'm to get along. Lately I've been working for a paint-shop,
painting landscapes on safes. I drew down fifty dollars a week there,
but I've lost my job."
"Good Lord, Van!" Geary suddenly exclaimed, nodding his head toward him
reflectively, "I'm sorry for you!"
The other laughed. "Yes; I suppose I'm a pitiable looking object, but
I'm used to it. I don't mind much now as long as I can have a place to
sleep and enough to eat. If you can put me in the way of some work,
Charlie, I'd be much obliged. You see, that's what I want--work. I don't
want to run any bunco game. I'm an honest man--I'm too honest. I gave
away all my money to help another poor duck; gave him thousands, he was
good to me when I was on my uppers and I meant to repay him. I was
grateful. I signed a paper that gave him everything I had. It was in
Paris. There's where my bonds went to. He was a struggling artist."
"Look here!" said Geary, willing to be interested, "you might as well be
truthful with me. You can't lie to me. Have you gambled away all those
bonds, or have you been victimized, or have you still got them? Come,
now, spit it out."
"Charlie, I haven't a cent!" answered Vandover, looking him squarely in
the face. "Would I be around here and trying to get work from you if I
had? No; I gambled it all away. You know I had eighty-nine hundred in
U.S. 4 per cents. Well, first I began to pawn things when my money got
short--the Old Gentleman's watch that I said I never would part with,
then my clothes. I couldn't keep away from the cards. Of course, you
can't understand that; gambling was the only thing that could amuse me.
Then I began to mortgage my bonds, very little at first. Oh, I went
slow! Then I got to selling them. Well, somehow, they all went. For a
time I got along by the work at the paint-shop. But they have let me out
now; said I was so irregular. I owe for nearly a month at my
lodging-place." His eyes sought the floor again, rolling about stupidly.
"Nearly a month, and that's what makes me jump and tremble so. You ought
to see me sometimes--_b-r-r-r-h!_--and I get to barking! I'm a wolf
mostly, you know, or some kind of an animal, some kind of a brute. But
I'd be all right if everything didn't go round very slowly, and seem far
off. But I'm a wolf. You look out for me; best take care I don't bite
you! Wolf--wolf! Ah! It's up four flights at the end of the hall, very
dark, eight thousand dollars in a green cloth sack, and lots of lights
a-burning. See how long my finger nails are--regular claws; that's the
wolf, the brute! Why can't I talk in my mouth instead of in my throat?
That's the devil of it. When you paint on steel and iron your colours
don't dry out true; all the yellows turn green. But it would 'a' been
all straight if they hadn't fired me! I never talked to anybody--that
was _my_ business, wasn't it? And when all those eight thousand little
lights begin to burn red, why, of course that makes you nervous! So I
have to drink a great deal of water and chew butcher's paper. That fools
him and he thinks he's eating. Just so as I can lay quiet in the Plaza
when the sun is out. There's a hack-stand there, you know, and every
time that horse tosses his head so's to get the oats in the bottom of
the nose-bag he jingles the chains on the poles and, by God! that's
funny; makes me laugh every time; sounds gay, and the chain sparkles
mighty pretty! Oh, I don't complain. Give me a dollar and I'll bark for
you!"
Geary leaned back in his chair listening to Vandover, struck with
wonder, marvelling at that which his old chum had come to be. He was
sorry for him, too, yet, nevertheless, he felt a certain indefinite
satisfaction, a faint exultation over his misfortunes, glad that their
positions were not reversed, pleased that he had been clever enough to
keep free from those habits, those modes of life that ended in such
fashion. He rapped sharply on the table. Vandover straightened up,
raising his eyes:
"You want some work?" he demanded.
"Yes; that's what I'm after," answered Vandover, adding, "I must have
it!"
"Well," said Geary, hesitatingly, "I can give you something to do, but
it will be pretty dirty."
Vandover smiled a little, saying, "I guess you can't give me any work
that would be too dirty for me!" With the words he suddenly began to cry
again. "I want to be honest, Mister Geary," he exclaimed, drawing the
backs of his fingers across his lips; "I want to be honest; I'm down and
I don't mean no offence. Charlie, you and I were old chums once at
Harvard. My God! to think I was a Harvard man once! Oh, I'm a goner now
and I ain't got a friend. When I was in the paint-shop they paid me
well. I've been in a paint-shop lately painting the little pictures on
the safes, little landscapes, you know, and lakes with mountains around
them. I pulled down my twenty dollars and findings!"
"Oh, don't be a fool!" cried Geary, ashamed even to see such an
exhibition. "If you can't be a man, you can get out. Now, see here, you
came up here once and insulted me in my office, and called me a
swindler. Ah, you bet you had the swelled head then and insulted me,
attacked my honesty and charged me with shoving the queer. Now I never
forget those things generally, but I am willing to let that pass this
time. I could be nasty now and tell you to rustle for yourself. If you
want half a dollar now to get something to eat, why, I'll give it to
you. But I don't propose to support you. Ah, no; I guess not! If you
want to work I'll give you a chance, but I shall expect you to do good
work if I give you my good money for it. You may be drunk now or--_I_
don't know what's the matter with you. But you come up here to-morrow at
noon, and if you come up here sober or straight or"--Geary began to make
awkward gestures in the air with both hands--"come up here to talk
_business_, I may have something for you, but I can't stop any longer
this evening."
Vandover got upon his feet slowly, turning his greenish hat about by the
brim, nodding his head. "All right, all right," he answered. "Thank you
very much, Mister Geary. It's very good of you, I'm sure. I'll be around
at noon sure."
When Geary was left alone, he walked slowly to his window, and stood
there a moment looking aimlessly down into the street, shaking his head
repeatedly, astonished at the degradation of his old-time chum. While he
stood there he saw Vandover come out upon the sidewalk from the door of
the great office building. Geary watched him, very interested.
Vandover paused a moment upon the sidewalk, turning up the collar of his
old cutaway coat against the cold trade wind that was tearing through
the streets; he thrust both his hands deep into his trousers pockets,
gripping his sides with his elbows and drawing his shoulders together,
shrinking into a small compass in order to be warm. The wind blew the
tails of his cutaway about him like flapping wings. He went up the
street, walking fast, keeping to the outside of the sidewalk, his
shoulders bent, his head inclined against the wind, his feet dragging
after him as he walked. For a moment Geary lost sight of him amid a
group of men who were hoisting a piano upon a dray. The street was
rather crowded with office boys, clerks, and typewriters going home to
supper, and Geary did not catch sight of him again immediately; then all
at once he saw him hesitating on a corner of Kearney Street, waiting for
an electric car to pass; he crossed the street, running, his hands still
in his pockets, and went on hurriedly, dodging in and out of the throng,
his high shoulders, long neck, and greenish hat coming into sight at
intervals. For a moment he paused to glance into the show window of a
tobacconist and pipe-seller's store. A Chinese woman passed him,
pattering along lamely, her green jade ear-rings twinkling in the light
of a street lamp, newly lighted. Vandover looked after her a moment,
gazing stupidly, then suddenly took up his walk again, zigzagging amid
the groups on the asphalt, striding along at a great pace, his head low
and swinging from side to side as he walked. He was already far down the
street; it was dusk; Geary could only catch glimpses of his head and
shoulders at long intervals. He disappeared.
* * * * *
About ten minutes before one the next day as Geary came back from lunch
he was surprised to see Vandover peeping through the half-open door of
his office. He had not thought that Vandover would come back.
Of the many different stories that Vandover had told about the
disappearance of his bonds, the one that was probably truest was the one
that accounted for the thing by his passion for gambling. For a long
time after his advent at the Reno House this passion had been dormant;
he knew no one with whom he could play, and every cent of his income now
went for food and lodging. But one day, about six months before his
visit to Geary's office, Vandover saw that the proprietor of the Reno
House had set up a great bagatelle board in a corner of the
reading-room. A group of men, sailors, ranchmen, and fruit venders were
already playing. Vandover approached and watched the game, very
interested in watching the uncertain course of the marble jog-jogging
among the pins. The clear little note of the bell or the dry rattle as
the marble settled quickly into one of the lucky pockets thrilled him
from head to foot; his hands trembled, all at once his whole left side
twitched sharply.
From that day the fate of the rest of Vandover's little money was
decided. In two weeks he had lost twenty dollars at bagatelle, obtaining
the money by selling a portion of his bonds at a certain broker's on
Montgomery Street. As soon as he had begun to gamble again the old
habits of extravagance had come back upon him. From the moment he knew
that he could get all the money he wanted by the mere signing of a
paper, he ceased to be economical, scorning the former niggardliness
that had led him to starve on one day that he might feast the next; now,
he feasted every day. He still kept his room at the Reno House, but
instead of taking his meals by any ticket system, he began to affect the
restaurants of the Spanish quarter, gorging himself with the hot spiced
meals three and four times a day. He quickly abandoned the bagatelle
board for the card-table, gambling furiously with two of the ranchmen.
Almost invariably Vandover lost, and the more he lost the more eager and
reckless he became.
In a little time he had sold every one of his bonds and had gambled away
all but twenty dollars of the money received from the last one sold.
This sum, this twenty dollars, Vandover decided to husband carefully. It
was all that was left between him and starvation. He made up his mind
that he must stop gambling and find something to do. He had long since
abandoned his work at the paint-shop, but at this time he returned there
and asked for his old occupation. They laughed in his face. Was that the
way he thought they did business? Not much; another man had his job, a
much better man and one who was regular, who could be depended on. That
same evening Vandover broke his twenty dollars and became very drunk. A
game of poker was started in a back room of one of the saloons on the
Barbary Coast. One of the players was a rancher named Toedt, a
fellow-boarder at the Reno House, but the two other players were
strangers; and there in that narrow, dirty room, sawdust on the floor,
festoons of fly-specked red and blue tissue paper adorning the single
swinging lamp, figures cut from bill-posters of the Black Crook pasted
on the walls, there in the still hours after midnight, long after the
barroom outside had been closed for the night, the last penny of
Vandover's estate was gambled away.
The game ended in a quarrel, Vandover, very drunk, and exasperated at
his ill luck, accusing his friend Toedt, the rancher, of cheating. Toedt
kicked him in the stomach and made him abominably sick. Then they went
away and left Vandover alone in the little dirty room, racked with
nausea, very drunk, fallen forward upon the table and crying into his
folded arms. After a little he went to sleep, but the nausea continued,
nevertheless, and in a few moments he gagged and vomited. He never
moved. He was too drunk to wake. His hands and his coat-sleeves, the
table all about him, were foul beyond words, but he slept on in the
midst of it all, inert, stupefied, a great swarm of flies buzzing about
his head and face. It was the day after this that he had come to see
Geary.
"Ah," said Geary, as he came up, "it's you, is it? Well, I didn't expect
to see you again. Sit down outside there in the hall and wait a few
minutes. I'm not ready to go yet--or, wait; here, I tell you what to
do." Geary wrote off a list of articles on a slip of paper and pushed it
across the table toward Vandover, together with a little money. "You get
those at the nearest grocery and by the time you are back I'll be ready
to go."
That day Geary took Vandover out to the Mission. They went out in the
cable-car, Geary sitting inside reading the morning's paper, Vandover
standing on the front platform, carrying the things that Geary had told
him to buy: a bar of soap, a scrubbing brush, some wiping cloths, a
broom, and a pail.
Almost at the end of the car-line they got off and crossed over to where
Geary's property stood. Vandover looked about him. The ground on which
his own block had once stood was now occupied by an immense red brick
building with white stone trimmings; in front on either side of the main
entrance were white stone medallions upon which were chiselled the head
of a workman wearing the square paper cap that the workman never wears,
and a bent-up forearm, the biceps enormous, the fist gripping the short
hammer that the workman never uses. An enormous round chimney sprouted
from one corner; through the open windows came the vast purring of
machinery. It was a boot and shoe factory, built by the great concern
who had bought the piece of property from Geary for fifteen thousand
dollars, the same property Geary had bought from Vandover for eight.
Across the street from the factory was a long row of little cottages,
very neat, each having a tiny garden in front where nasturtiums grew.
There were fifteen of these cottages; three of them only were vacant.
"That was _my_ idea," observed Geary, as they approached the row,
willing to explain even though he thought Vandover would not comprehend,
"and it pays like a nitrate bed. I was clever enough to see that
cottages like these were just what's wanted by the workmen in the
factory that have families. I made some money when I sold out my block
to the boot and shoe people, and I invested it again in these cottages.
They are cheap and serviceable and they meet the demand." Vandover
nodded his head in assent, looking vaguely about him, now at the
cottages, now at the great building across the street. Geary got the
keys to one of the vacant cottages and the two went inside.
"Now here's what I want you to do," began Geary, pointing about with his
stick. "You see, when some of these people go out they leave the rooms
nasty, and that tells against the house when parties come to look at it.
I want you to go all over it, top and bottom, end to end, and give it a
good cleaning, sweep the floor, and wash the paint, you know. And now
these windows, you see how dirty they are; wash those inside and out,
but don't disturb the agents' signs; you understand?"
"Yes, I understand."
"Now come out here into the kitchen. Look at these laundry tubs and that
sink. See all that grease! Clean that all out, and underneath the sink
here. See that rubbish! Take that out, too. Now in here--look at that
bathtub and toilet. You see how nasty they have left them. You want to
make 'em look like new!"
"Yes."
"Now come downstairs. You see I give 'em a little floored basement,
here; kind of a storeroom and coalroom. Here's where most of the dirt
and rubbish is. Just look at it! See all that pile over there?"
"I see."
"Take it all out and pile it in the back yard. I'll have an ashman come
and remove it. Whew! there is a dead hen under here; sling that out the
first thing."
They went back through the house again, and Geary pointed out the tiny
garden to Vandover. "Straighten that up a bit, pick up those old
newspapers and the tin cans. Make it look neat. Now you understand just
what I want? You make a good job of it, and when you are through with
this house, you begin on the next vacant one farther down the row. You
can get the keys at the same place. You get to work right away. I should
think you ought to finish this house this afternoon."
"All right," answered Vandover.
"I'm going to look around a little. I'll drop in again in about an hour
and see how you're getting on."
With that Geary went away. It was Saturday afternoon, and as the law
office closed at noon that day, Geary very often spent the time until
evening looking about his property. He left Vandover and went slowly
down the street, noting each particular house with immense satisfaction,
even entering some of them, talking with the womenfolk, all the men
being at the factory.
Vandover took off his coat, his old and greasy cutaway, and began work.
He drew a pail of water from the garden faucet in a neighbour's yard,
and commenced washing the windows. First he washed the panes from the
inside, very careful not to disturb Adams & Brunt's signs, and then
cleaned the outside, sitting upon the window ledge, his body half in and
half out of the house.
Geary enjoyed himself immensely. The news of the landlord's visit had
spread from cottage to cottage, awakening a mild excitement throughout
the length of the row. The women showed themselves on the steps or on
the sidewalks, very slatternly, without corsets, their hair coming down,
dressed in faded calico wrappers just as they had come from the laundry
tubs or the cook-stove. They bethought them of their various grievances,
a leak here, a broken door-bell there, a certain bad smell that was
supposed to have some connection with a rash upon the children's faces.
They waited for Geary's appearance by ones and twos, timid, very
respectful, but querulous for all that, filling the air with their
lamentations.
Vandover had finished with the windows. Now he was cleaning out the sink
and the laundry tubs. They smelt very badly and were all foul with a
greasy mixture of old lard, soap, soot, and dust; a little mould was
even beginning to form about the faucets of the tubs. The escape pipe of
the sink was clogged, and he had to run his finger into it again and
again to get it free. The kitchen was very dirty; old bottles of sweet
oil, mouldy vinegar and flat beer cluttered the dusty shelves of the
pantry.
Meanwhile Geary continued his rounds. He went about among the groups of
his tenants, very pleased and contented, smiling affably upon them. He
enlarged himself, giving himself the airs of an English lord in the
midst of his tenantry, listening to their complaints with a
good-humoured smile of toleration. A few men were about, some of whom
were out of work for the moment; others who were sick. To these Geary
was particularly condescending. He sat in their parlours, little,
crowded rooms, smelling of stale upholstery and of the last meal, where
knitted worsted tidies, very gaudy, covered the backs of the larger
chairs and where one inevitably discovered the whatnot standing in one
corner, its shelves filled with shell-boxes, broken thermometers and
little alabaster jars, shaped like funeral urns, where one kept the
matches. The wife brought the children in, very dirty, looking solemnly
at Geary, their eyes enlarged in the direct unwinking gaze of cows.
By this time Vandover had finished with the sinks and tubs and was down
upon his hands and knees scrubbing the stains of grease upon the floor
of the kitchen. It was very hard work, as his water was cold. He was
still working about this spot when Geary returned. By this time Vandover
was so tired that he trembled all over, his spine seemed to be breaking
in two, and every now and then he paused and passed his hand over the
small of his back, closing his eyes and drawing a long breath.
"Well, how are you getting on?" asked Geary, as he came into the
kitchen, drawing on his gloves, about ready to go home.
"Oh, I'm getting along," replied Vandover, rising up to his knees.
"You want to hurry up," answered Geary. "You must be done with this
house by this evening. You see, I want to advertise it in to-morrow's
papers."
"All right; I'll have it done."
"Pretty dirty, wasn't it?"
"Yes, pretty dirty."
"You may have to work here a little later than usual this afternoon, but
be sure you have everything cleaned up before you leave," Geary said.
"All right," answered Vandover, bending to his work again.
Just as Geary was leaving he had the admirable good fortune to meet on
the steps of the cottage a little group who were house-hunting; two
young women and a little boy. The mother of the little boy, so she
explained to him, was married to one of the burnishers in the factory;
the other woman was her sister.
Geary showed them about the little house, very eager to secure them as
tenants then and there. He began to sing its praises, its nearness to
the factory, its excellent plumbing, its bathroom and its one stationary
washstand; its little garden and its location on the sunny side of the
street. "I'm a good landlord," he said to them, as he ushered them into
the kitchen. "Any one in the row will tell you that. I make it a point
to keep my houses in good repair and to keep them clean. You see, I have
a man here now cleaning out." Vandover glanced up at the women an
instant. The two of them and the little boy looked down at him on all
fours upon the floor. Then he went on with his work.
"This is the kitchen, you see," pursued Geary. "Notice how large it is;
you see, here are your laundry tubs, your iron sink, your boiler,
everything you need. Of course, it's a little grimy now, but by the time
the man gets through, it will be as clean as your face. Now come
downstairs here and I'll show the basement."
In a moment their voices sounded through the floor of the kitchen, an
indistinct, continuous murmur. Then the party returned and passed by
Vandover again and stood for a long time in the front room haggling. The
cottage rented for fifteen dollars. The young woman was willing to take
it at that, but with the understanding that Geary should pay the water
rent. Geary refused, unwilling even to listen to such a thing. Every
other tenant in the row paid for his own water. The young women went
away shaking their heads sadly. Geary let them get half-way down the
front steps and then called them back. He offered a compromise, the
young women should pay for the water, but half of their first month's
rent should be remitted. The burnisher's wife still hesitated, saying,
"You know yourself this house is awfully dirty."
"Well, you see I'm having it cleaned!"
"It'll have to be cleaned pretty thoroughly. I can't stand _dirt._"
"It _will_ be cleaned thoroughly," persisted Geary. "The man will work
at it until it is. You can keep an eye on him and see that the work is
done to suit you."
"You see," objected the burnisher's wife, "I would want to move in right
away. I don't want to wait all week for the man to get through."
"But he is going to be through with this house to-night," exclaimed
Geary delighted. "Come now, I know you want this cottage and I would
like to have such nice-looking people have it. I know you would make
good tenants. I can find lots of other tenants for this house, only you
know how it is, a nasty, slovenly woman about the house and a raft of
dirty children. And you don't like dirt, I can see that. Better call it
a bargain, and let it go at that."
In the end the burnisher's wife took the house. Geary even induced her
to deposit five dollars with him in order to secure it.
Vandover was down in the basement filling a barrel with the odds and
ends of rubbish left by the previous tenants: broken bottles, old
corsets, bones, rusty bedsprings. The dead hen he had taken out first of
all, carrying it by one leg. It was a gruesome horror, partly eaten by
rats, swollen, abnormally heavy, one side flattened from lying so long
upon the floor. He could hardly stand; each time he bent over it seemed
as though his backbone was disjointing. After cleaning out the debris he
began to sweep. The dust was fearful, choking, blinding, so thick that
he could hardly see what he was about. By and by he dimly made out
Geary's figure in the doorway.
"Those people have taken the house," he called out, "and I promised them
you would be through with it by this evening. So you want to stay with
it now till you're finished. I guess there's not much more to do. Don't
forget the little garden in front."
"No; I won't forget!"
Geary went away, and for another hour Vandover kept at his work,
stolidly, his mind empty of all thought, knowing only that he was very
tired, that his back pained him. He finished with the basement, but as
he was pottering about the little garden, picking up the discoloured
newspapers with which it was littered, the burnisher's wife returned,
together with her sister and the little boy; the little boy eating a
slice of bread and butter. They re-entered the house; Vandover heard
their voices, now in one room, now in another. They were looking over
their future home again; evidently they lived close by.
Suddenly the burnisher's wife came out upon the front steps, looking
down into the little garden, calling for Vandover. She was not pretty;
she had a nose like a man and her chin was broad.
"Say, there," she called to Vandover, "do you mean to say that you've
finished inside here?"
"Yes," answered Vandover, straightening up, nodding his head. "Yes, I've
finished."
"Well, just come in here and look at this."
Vandover followed her into the little parlour. Her sister was there,
very fat, smelling somehow of tallow candles and cooked cabbage; nearby
stood the little boy still eating his bread and butter.
"Look at that baseboard," exclaimed the burnisher's wife. "You never
touched that, I'll bet a hat." Vandover did not answer; he brought in
the pail of water, and soaping his scrubbing brush, went down again on
his hands and knees, washing the paint on the baseboard where the
burnisher's wife indicated. The two women stood by, looking on and
directing his movements. The little boy watched everything, never
speaking a word, slowly eating his bread and butter. Streaks of butter
and bread clung to his cheeks, stretching from the corners of his mouth
to his ears.
"I don't see how you come to overlook that," said the burnisher's wife
to Vandover. "That's the dirtiest baseboard I ever saw. Oh, my! I just
can't naturally stand _dirt_! There, you didn't get that stain off.
That's tobacco juice, I guess. Go back and wash that over again."
Vandover obeyed, holding the brush in one hand, crawling back along the
floor upon one palm and his two knees, a pool of soapy, dirty water very
cold gathered about him, soaking in through the old "blue pants" and
wetting him to the skin, but he slovened through it indifferently. "Put
a little more elbow grease to it," continued the burnisher's wife. "You
have to rub them spots pretty hard to get 'em out. Now scrub all along
here near the floor. You see that streak there--that's all gormed up
with something or other. Bugs get in there mighty quick. There, that'll
do, I guess. Now, is everything else all clean? Mister Geary said it was
to be done to my satisfaction, and that you were to stay here until
everything was all right."
All at once her voice was interrupted by the prolonged roar of the
factory's whistle, blowing as though it would never stop. It was
half-past five. In an instant the faint purring of the machinery
dwindled and ceased, leaving an abrupt silence in the air. A moment
later the army of operatives began to pour out of the main entrance; men
and girls and young boys, all in a great hurry, the men settling their
coat collars as they ran down the steps. The usually quiet street was
crowded in an instant.
The burnisher's wife stood on the steps of the vacant house with her
sister, watching the throng debouch into the street. All at once the
sister exclaimed, "There he is!" and the other began to call, "Oscar,
Oscar!" waving her hand to one of the workmen on the other side of the
street. It was her husband, the burnisher, and he came across the
street, crowding his lunch basket into the pocket of his coat. He was a
thin little man with a timid air, his face white and fat and covered
with a sparse unshaven stubble of a pale straw colour. An odour as of a
harness shop hung about him. Vandover gathered up his broom and pail and
soap preparing to go home.
"Well, Oscar, I've taken the house!" said his wife to the burnisher as
he came up the steps. "But I couldn't get him to say that he'd let me
have it for fifteen, water _included_. The landlord himself, Mr. Geary,
was here to-day and I made the dicker with him. He's had a man here all
day cleaning up." She explained the bargain, the burnisher approving of
everything, nodding his head continually. His wife showed him about the
house, her sister and the little boy following in silence. "He's a good
landlord, I guess," continued the young woman; "anybody in the row will
tell you that, and he means to keep his houses in good repair. Now you
see, here's the kitchen. You see how big it is. Here's our laundry tubs,
our iron sink, our boiler, and everything we want. It's all as clean as
a whistle; and get on to this big cubby under the sink where I can stow
away things." She opened its door to show her husband, but all at once
straightened up, exclaiming, "Well, dear me _suz_--did you _ever_ see
anything like that?" The cubby under the sink was abominably dirty.
Vandover had altogether forgotten it.
The little burnisher himself bent down and peered in.
"Oh, that'll never do!" he cried. "Has that man gone home yet? He
mustn't; he's got to clean this out first!" He had a weak, faint voice,
small and timid like his figure. He hurried out to the front door and
called Vandover back just as he was going down the steps. The two went
back into the kitchen and stood in front of the sink. "Look under
there!" piped the burnisher. "You can't leave that, that way."
"You know," protested his wife, "that this all was to be done to our
satisfaction. Mr. Geary said so. That's the only way I came to take the
house."
"It's about six o'clock, though," observed her fat sister, who smelt of
cooked cabbage. "Perhaps he'd want to go home to his dinner." But at
this both the others cried out in one voice, the burnisher exclaiming:
"I can't help _that_, this has got to be done first," while his wife
protested that she couldn't naturally stand dirt, adding, "This all was
to be done to our satisfaction, and we ain't satisfied yet by a long
shot." Delighted at this excitement, the little boy forgot to eat into
his bread and butter, rolling his eyes wildly from one to the other,
still silent.
Meanwhile, without replying, Vandover had gone down upon the floor
again, poking about amid the filth under the sink. The four others, the
burnisher, his wife, his sister-in-law and his little boy, stood about
in a half-circle behind him, seeing to it that he did the work properly,
giving orders as to how he should proceed.
"Now, be sure you get everything out that's under there," said the
burnisher. "Ouf! how it smells! They made a regular dump heap of it."
"What's that over in the corner there?" cried the wife, bending down. "I
can't see, it's so dark under there--something gray; can't you see, in
under there? You'll have to crawl way in to get at it--go way in!"
Vandover obeyed. The sink pipes were so close above him that he was
obliged to crouch lower and lower; at length he lay flat upon his
stomach. Prone in the filth under the sink, in the sour water, the
grease, the refuse, he groped about with his hand searching for the
something gray that the burnisher's wife had seen. He found it and drew
it out. It was an old hambone covered with a greenish fuzz.
"Oh, did you _ever_!" cried the burnisher, holding up his hands. "Here,
don't drop that on my clean floor; put it in your pail. Now get out the
rest of the dirt, and hurry up, it's late." Vandover crawled back, half
the way under the sink again, this time bringing out a rusty pan half
full of some kind of congealed gravy that exhaled a choking, acrid
odour; next it was an old stocking, and then an ink bottle, a broken
rat-trap, a battered teapot lacking a nozzle, a piece of rubber hose, an
old comb choked with a great handful of hair, a torn overshoe,
newspapers, and a great quantity of other debris that had accumulated
there during the occupancy of the previous tenant.
"Now go over the floor with a rag," ordered the little burnisher, when
the last of these articles had been brought out. "Wipe up all that nasty
muck! Look there by your knee to your left! Scrub that big spot there
with your brush--looks like grease. That's the style--scrub it hard!"
His wife joined her directions to his. Then it was over here, and over
there, now in that corner, now in this, and now with his brush and soap,
and now with his dry rag, and hurry up all the time because it was
growing late. But the little boy, carried away by the interest of the
occasion, suddenly broke silence for the first time, crying out shrilly,
his mouth full of bread and butter, "Hey there! Get up, you old
lazee-bones!"
The others shouted with laughter. _There_ was a smart little boy for
you. Ah, he'd be a man before his mother. It was wonderful how that boy
saw everything that went on. He took an _interest_, that was it. You
ought to see, he watched everything, and sometimes he'd plump out with
things that were astonishing for a boy of his years. Only four and a
half, too, and they reminded each other of the first day he put on
knickerbockers; stood in front of the house on the sidewalk all day long
with his hands in his pockets. The interest was directed from Vandover,
they turned their backs, grouping themselves about the little boy. The
burnisher's sister-in-law felt called upon to tell about her little
girl, a matter of family pride. _She_ was going on twelve, and would you
suppose that little thing was in next to the last grade in the grammar
school? Her teacher had said that she was a real wonder; never had had
such a bright pupil. Ah, but one should see how she studied over her
books all the time. Next year they were to try to get her into the high
school. Of course she was not ready for the high school yet, and it was
against the rule to let children in that way, she was too young, but
they had a pull, you understand. Oh, yes, for sure they had a pull.
_They'd_ work her in all right. The burnisher's wife was not listening.
She wanted to draw the interest back to her own little boy. She bent
down and straightened out his little jacket, saying, "Does he like his
bread 'n butter? Well, he could have all he wanted!" But the little boy
paid no attention to her. He had made a _bon-mot_, ambition stirred in
him, he had tasted the delights of an appreciative audience. Bread and
butter had fallen in his esteem. He wished to repeat his former success,
and cried out shriller than ever:
"Hey, there! Get up, you old lazee-bones!"
But his father corrected him--his mother ought not to encourage him to
be rude. "That's not right, Oscar," he observed, shaking his head. "You
must be kind to the poor man."
Vandover was sitting back on his heels to rest his back, waiting till
the others should finish.
"Well, all through?" inquired the burnisher in his thin voice. Vandover
nodded. But his wife was not satisfied until she had herself carefully
peered into the cubby, while her husband held a lighted match for her.
"Ah, that's something like," she said finally.
It was nearly seven. Vandover prepared to go home a second time. The
little boy stood in front of him, looking down at him as he made his
brush and rags and broom into a bundle; the boy slowly eating his bread
and butter the while. In one corner of the room an excited whispered
conference was going on between the burnisher, his wife, and his fat
sister-in-law. From time to time one heard such expressions as
"Overtime, you know--not afraid of work--ah! think I'd better, looks as
though he needed it." In a moment the two women went out, calling in
vain for the little boy to follow, and the burnisher crossed the room
toward Vandover. Vandover was on his knees tying up his bundle with a
bit of bale rope.
"I'm sorry," began the burnisher awkwardly. "We didn't mean to keep you
from your supper--here," he went on, holding out a quarter to Vandover,
"here, you take this, that's all right--you worked overtime for us,
that's all right. Come along, Oscar; come along, m'son."
Vandover put the quarter in his vest pocket.
"Thank you, sir," he said.
The burnisher hurried away, calling back, "Come along, m'son; don't keep
your mama waiting for supper." But the little boy remained very
interested in watching Vandover, still on the floor, tying the last
knots. As he finished, he glanced up. For an instant the two remained
there motionless, looking into each other's eyes, Vandover on the floor,
one hand twisted into the bale rope about his bundle, the little boy
standing before him eating the last mouthful of his bread and butter.