BAY STREET was thronged; the shops displayed broad, lighted windows
filled with their various merchandise; in front of a produce store a row
of chickens hung bare, bright blue and yellow, head down; from within
came the grinding of a coffee machine, the acrid voices of women
bargaining. The glass doors to the fire-engine house stood open, the
machines glimmering behind a wide demilune of chairs holding a motley
assemblage of men. Further along, from above, came the shuffle of
dancing feet, the thin, wiry wail of violins. At the corners groups of
youths congregated, obstructing the passerby, smirking and indulging in
sudden, stridulous hursts of laughter.
The sky was infinitely remote, intensely, tenderly blue, the stars white
as milk; from the immediately surrounding countryside came the scented
breaths of early summer--the trailing sweetness of locust blooms, of
hidden hedges of honeysuckle, of June roses, and all the pungent aroma
of growing grasses, leaves, of fragile and momentary flowers.
Anthony made his way brusquely through the throng, nodding shortly to
the countless salutations that marked his progress. The youths all knew
him, and the majority of the men; women stopped in their sharp haggling
to smile at him; garlands of girls gay in muslins “Mistered” him with
pretty propriety, or followed him more boldly over their shoulders with
inviting eyes.
He impatiently disregarded his facile popularity: the tumult within him
settled into a dull, unreasoning anger against the universe at large. He
still owed Doctor Allhop four dollars and seventy cents; he had told
the Doctor that he would pay to-morrow; and he would have to go to his
father. The latter was a rigorously just man, Anthony gladly recognized,
the money would be instantly forthcoming; but he was not anxious to
recall the deficiencies of his present position to his father just then.
He had passed twenty, and--beyond his ability to cause a baseball to
travel in certain unexpected tangents, and a limited comprehension of
the conduct of automobiles--he was totally without assets, and without
any light on the horizon.
He had been willing to work, he reminded himself resentfully, but bad
luck had overtaken him at every turn. The venture before the machine
shop--a scheme of squabs, the profits of which, calculated from an
advertisement, soared with the birthrate of those prolific birds, had
been ruined by rats. The few occasions when he had neglected to feed the
pigeons, despite the frank and censorious opinion of the family, had
had little or nothing to do with that misfortune. And, before that,
his kennel of rabbit dogs had met with an untimely fate when a favorite
bitch had gone mad, and a careful commonwealth had decreed the death
of the others. If his mother could but be won from the negative she had
placed upon baseball as a professional occupation, he might easily rise
through the minor leagues to a prideful position in the ranks of the
national pastime--“Lonnie This” was paid fourteen hundred yearly for
his prowess with the leather sphere, “Hans That's” removal from one to
another club had involved thousands of dollars.
He heard his name pronounced in a peremptory manner, and stopped to
see the relative whose automobile had been placed in his care cross the
street.
“What in the name of the Lord have you young dunces done to my car?” the
older man demanded.
“We have been trying to locate that grinding,” Anthony told him in as
conciliatory manner as he could assume.
“Well,” the other proceeded angrily, “you have ruined it this time; the
gears slid around like a plate of ice cream.”
“It was nothing but a pile of junk when we took it,” Tony exploded; “why
don't you loosen up and get a real car?”
“I took it to Feedler's. You can send me a bill to-morrow.”
“There will be no bill. I'm sorry you were not satisfied, Sam.”
“You are the most shiftless young dog in the county,” the other told him
in kindlier tones; “why don't you take hold of something, Anthony?”
Anthony swung on his heel and abruptly departed. He had taken hold, he
thought hotly, times without number, but everything broke in his grasp.
The stores on Bay Street grew more infrequent, the rank of monotonous
brick dwellings closed up, family groups occupied the steps that led to
the open doors. The crowd grew less, dwindling to a few aimless couples,
solitary pedestrians. He soon stopped, before his home. Opposite the
gaunt skeleton of a building operation rose blackly against the pale
stars. The aged lindens above him, lushly leaved, cast an intenser
gloom, filled with the warm, musty odor of the sluiced pavement, about
the white marble steps. The hall, open before him, was a cavern of
coolness; beyond, from the garden shut from the street by an intricate,
rusting iron fence, he heard the deliberate tones of his sister Ellie.
Evidently there was a visitor, and he entered the hall noiselessly,
intent upon passing without notice to his room above. But Ellie had
been watching for him, and called before he had reached the foot of the
stairs.