A TRAGEDY
It was in the corner block beyond Mulberry Court that the Harlings
lived, and had you asked Carl McGregor or his chum Jack Sullivan who
Hal Harling was you would have received in return for your ignorance a
withering stare, a sigh of pity, or possibly no reply at all. Any one
who did not know Hal Harling was either to be scorned or condoled with,
as the case might be. Yet each boy would have found it difficult to put
into words who and what this distinguished personage really was.
Hal Harling was the embryo political boss of the district; the leader
of the gang; the hero of every boy who lived within a radius of half a
mile of the dingy flat on Broad Street. He was a tall, jovial-faced,
thick-set fellow with the physique of a prize fighter and such an
abundance of careless good humor that it bubbled contagiously from his
round blue eyes and smiling lips. One would have said he was the last
person in the world to take offence and indeed on first glance one
might safely have made the assertion. But with this gay, happy-go-lucky
disposition went a highly developed desire for fair play which at times
suddenly converted the balmy, easy-going young autocrat into an enemy
pitiless and terrible.
Let some brute stone a kitten; torment a boy smaller than himself;
snatch an apple from the stall of the old woman at the corner and, with
a justice whose speed was incredible, Hal Harding descended upon the
miscreant and pommeled into him a lesson in squareness that he did not
soon if forget.
The fact that the youthful avenger was usually on the right side
increased, if anything, the number of street brawls he was mixed up in,
for alas, Mulberry Court and all the outlying vicinity teemed with so
great a multitude of injustices that he who set himself to straighten
them out found ample provocation for continual blows. As he trod the
narrow streets and alleys this champion of the weak encountered one
challenge after another with the result that it was a common sight in
the neighborhood to see Hal Harling the center of an angry scuffle.
Partisanship was instant. A passer-by did not need to investigate the
broil. Ten cases out of eleven the victim of the squabble was getting
what was coming to him, in popular opinion.
"Hal Harling was giving it to him good and plenty," a sympathetic
observer would afterward relate. "I don't know what the fuss was about
but I didn't interfere for I'll wager Hal was right; he usually is."
Around the standard of such a personality it was inevitable that the
inhabitants of the community, especially the male ones, should rally;
and foremost in the ranks of admiring worshippers were Jack Sullivan
and Carl McGregor, either one of whom would willingly have rolled up
his own sleeves in defense of his idol. They tagged at his heels, ran
his errands, and walked on air whenever they won his commendation. If
he called them down it was as if they had been rolled in the dust.
And yet despite the incense burned at his shrine Hal Harling kept a
level head and an estimate of himself that was appealingly modest. In
fact he was a very human boy with the same love of pranks and mischief
that delighted other boys. He loved a joke dearly. It was fun, for
example, to let an orange down on a string and dangle it before little
Katie Callahan's window and then jerk it back out of Katie's reach when
she snatched for it. Or it amused him to drop peppermint balls through
the Murphy's letter box and hear the children inside the room chase
them as they rolled about the floor. Later he saw to it that Katie got
the orange and the Murphy youngsters the candy. All his jokes were like
that, their playful hectoring ending in kindness. He was too
kind-hearted to enjoy causing pain.
What wonder that such a hero had his satellites?
On the other hand, he had his enemies too--scores of them--for a
justice dealer is never without opponents. As a rule these persons were
the victims of his various avalanches of wrath, those to whom at one
time or another he had meted out punishment and denounced as cowards.
For the disapproval of these cravens Hal Harling did not care a button.
He much preferred they should be numbered among his enemies rather than
his friends and he said so frankly. Nevertheless, his mother, timid by
nature and of a peace-loving disposition, shook her head.
"You can't afford, Hal, to antagonize folks the way you do," she would
protest. "The time may come when you'll be sorry."
For answer the giant would shrug his shoulders.
"I'm not afraid of anybody," he would reply proudly.
The statement was not made in a spirit of bravado; rather it reflected
the self-respect of one consciously in the right.
"But you to be more careful. Such people are capable of working you
harm."
"Let them try."
"But they are. They can do all sorts of underhanded things you would
not descend to," whimpered Mrs. Harling. "It worries me all the time to
see you so regardless."
"There, there, Mother! Quit fussing about me," pleaded the big fellow
kindly. "I'm all right and can look after myself."
"I know you can when the fight is a fair one," agreed his mother. "But
you never can tell what weapon a coward will use."
Hal laughed contemptuously and, realizing that her counsel had failed
of its aim, Mrs. Harling said no more.
Up to the present the calamities she periodically predicted had not
occurred and as those who loved her son rallied round him with
ever-increasing loyalty, and those who disliked him kept their
distance, she gradually ceased to protest. What was the use of wasting
her strength on conditions she could not help? Poor soul! She needed
every atom of energy she possessed to meet the trials that beset her
own path.
For Mrs. Harling was a helpless invalid and together with her bedridden
father lived day after day imprisoned in the small tenement overlooking
the rushing, hurrying world of which she was no part. Each morning
Louise, Hal's younger sister, made tidy the house, packed up a
luncheon, and the two started for Davis and Coulter's spinning mills
where all day they helped to operate the busy machinery. It was a
noisy, monotonous occupation; a stretch of dull, wearisome hours, and
frequently the boy and girl were so tired at night they had scarcely
energy to move. And yet they toiled at the humdrum task gratefully,
rejoicing in their wages which not only kept body and soul together but
provided for the feeble mother and the aged grandfather.
The past winter had been a hard one in Baileyville, the manufacturing
village where they lived. Most of the mills were running on half time
and many of the employes had been turned away for lack of work. In
consequence worry and uncertainty hung over everybody. Who would be the
next to go, they speculated. One never could predict where the axe
would fall, or be sure he might not be the victim elected to meet its
merciless stroke.
Thus far both Hal and Louise had been retained at their posts; but the
fear that some of the older operatives who had been longer in the
employ of the company might take precedence over them constantly
menaced their peace of mind.
Corcoran, the foreman under whom they worked, was a harsh, unreasonable
bully who rather enjoyed his post as executioner, authority having
exaggerated in him all the meannesses that lurked in his small,
vindictive nature. Only the week before, Hal, enraged by his
discourtesy and injustice to one of the women, had blurted out to his
face a rebuke for his roughness. It was, to be sure, an unwise act and
one that not only did the poor girl whose cause he championed little
good but jeopardized his own position; yet to save his soul he could
not have checked his indignation.
"You shouldn't have said it," declared Louise, who had been an
eyewitness of the encounter. "Of course I was proud of you as could be;
and you said nothing but what Corcoran deserved. Still it isn't safe to
do that sort of thing. It may lose you your job."
"I don't care if it does," returned Hal, whose rage had not yet cooled.
"Corcoran may fire me if he wants to. But he isn't going to bully any
girl as he bullied Susie Mayo--not when I'm round."
"But don't you see, dear; we can't afford to lose our jobs," continued
his sister gently. "Too much depends on our keeping them. We must have
the money."
"I'm not worrying," laughed Hal with confidence. "If Corcoran should
give me the sack I could get another place without any trouble, I'll
bet I could."
"Places are not so easy to find," asserted the more prudent Louise.
"There are lots of men in Baileyville who have been out of work for
months. You ought not to be in such a hurry to rush into a quarrel,
Hal."
"I was right; you say so yourself."
"Yes, perhaps so. Still----"
"Don't you think somebody ought to have called Corcoran down?"
"Of course he was unfair and--and rude."
"Rude!" interrupted her brother scornfully, "he was contemptible,
outrageous!"
"I know it. But----"
"If fewer people stood for brutes there would be fewer brutes in the
world."
"It isn't our business to round Corcoran up."
"It is my business to stop any man who is impolite to a woman," replied
Hal. "Besides, Corcoran knew well enough he was wrong. You notice he
did not put up any defense. He just walked off and has never mentioned
the affair since."
"That is what frightens me."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm afraid he isn't through."
"Nonsense! He's through all right. He hasn't uttered a yip and it is
now over two weeks ago that the thing happened. Quit your worrying,
kiddie. There'll be no comeback from Corcoran."
The reassuring words, so confidently spoken, did much to allay Louise's
fears. Uneventfully the days slipped by, and with every one that passed
the boy and girl breathed more freely. Not only were they skilled
workers but they were earnest and ambitious to give of their best.
Moreover they had behind them an untarnished record for faithful
attendance at the mills. Such service, argued they, must be of value,
and when matched against much of the grudging, incompetent labor about
them should be of sufficient worth to keep them on Davis and Coulter's
payroll. All they asked was fair play and to be judged on their merits.
This demand seemed reasonable enough; but alas, the world is not always
a just dealer and when on a Saturday morning not long before Christmas
Louise Harling looked into her pay envelope a cry of dismay escaped
her.
The fate she had feared had overtaken her. Davis and Coulter informed
her that after the fifteenth of the month, which fell a week hence, the
firm would not need her services.
Instantly two thoughts rushed to her mind. One was whether Hal had also
received similar notice; and the other was that all the holiday plans
she had so fondly cherished must now go by the boards. She would have
no money to buy presents or a Christmas dinner. The holiday season was
a dreadful time of year to be without a penny. Try as she would to
conceal her disappointment her lip trembled.
When Hal met her that night and they started home she could hardly
utter a syllable. It was not alone her own trouble that depressed her.
She longed and yet dreaded to hear what had befallen her brother. Were
a calamity like hers to come to him then indeed had misfortune
descended upon the Harling household. How would the invalid mother and
the feeble old grandfather get on without money? How would medicines be
procured? Or the rent be paid?
Hal, however, was to all appearances his serene self. He talked and
jested quite in his usual manner and if he were keeping something back
he certainly succeeded in doing so to perfection. Perhaps, argued she,
he had not been discharged at all. If not, why should this disgrace
have come to her? For in a measure it was a disgrace. When you lost
your job in the mill all Baileyville knew it and discussed the
circumstances, weighing the justice or injustice of the act. Certainly,
thought Louise to herself, she had toiled as faithfully as she knew
how. Had there been fault with her work at least she was not conscious
of it. It was mortifying, galling, to be turned away without a word of
explanation.
"What's the matter, Sis?" Hal questioned, at last noticing that his
chatter failed to elicit its usual a gay response.
Louise hesitated, shrinking from putting her tidings into words.
"You look as if you'd seen a ghost, old girl," smiled her brother
facetiously. "What's up?"
"I've been--they don't want----"
Hal halted, aghast.
"You don't mean to say they've asked you to quit?"
"Yes."
The boy's eyes blazed.
"It's Corcoran, the cur! He's done it to get back at me for what I said
to him."
"You think so?"
"Sure!"
"But why choose me? I had nothing to do with the squabble."
"That's just the point. He's smart enough to know it would hit me a
darn sight harder to have you lose your job than to lose my own,"
blustered her brother wrathfully.
"I wish I was sure it was only that."
"Why?"
"Because then I wouldn't care so much. I should know there was nothing
the matter with my work."
"Of course there isn't. You're one of the best operators they've got in
the mill. Hines, one of the bosses, told me so only the other day."
"Really?" The girl's face brightened. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Oh, I don't know. Forgot it, I guess," smiled Hal. It was not his way
to pass on compliments. Had the criticism been adverse he would have
told it quickly enough.
"Well, I'm awfully glad he said so."
"Yes, it was very decent of him. Everybody knows though that you're a
fine worker--even old Corcoran himself, I'll be bound, although he
wouldn't admit it. You're quick, careful, prompt and never absent. What
else do they want? Oh, Corcoran was behind this, all right. It wasn't
your work sacked you. It was plain spite."
"I'm thankful for that!" sighed Louise.
"I'm not. It makes me hot," burst out Hal.
"Still, it is better than losing your place because your work was so
poor you couldn't hold the job," smiled the girl.
"I can't see it that way. This is just low down and unfair."
"But I don't mind that. I know I wasn't to blame."
"You bet you weren't. I wish I had Corcoran here. I'd shake the
daylights out of him."
"Whose daylights are going to be shaken out now?" inquired a laughing
voice, and the brother and sister turned to see Carl McGregor beside
them.
"Old Corcoran up at the works," snarled Hal. "He's given Louise the
sack!"
Carl did not speak. He knew only too well how genuine was this
disaster. In the sympathetic silence that followed the three young
persons seemed to draw closer together.
"It isn't as if Loulie had done anything to deserve such a slam," Hal
suddenly declared. "He's just taking out his spite on me and he's
chosen this means of doing it. To light on a woman! I'd a hundred times
rather he'd shipped me. But it's like him."
Moodily the three walked on.
"Of course, I must get some other place right away," Louise said
presently, as if thinking aloud. "I don't know just what. I've never
worked anywhere but in the mills and I have no other trade. To be
turned away from Davis and Coulter won't be much of a recommendation
for me either, I'm afraid."
"Oh, you can get a hundred jobs," announced Hal, with a confidence he
did not feel. "Don't you fret."
"I don't know." His sister shook her head. "Scores of Baileyville girls
are idle."
The statement met with no denial. Who could combat it? It was only too
true.
"Not girls like you," Carl ventured, determined to be optimistic.
"Girls exactly like me, Carlie," smiled Louise.
"Oh, you won't be idle," murmured Hal.
"I can't be--I simply can't. We've got to have money."
Once again her companions found themselves unable to refute the
declaration.
They had turned into the main thoroughfare of the town and were
threading their way along a sidewalk teeming with the throng of
Saturday shoppers that is such a characteristic part of the life of a
mill town. The street beside them was black with trucks, motor cars,
and the congested traffic of a manufacturing center.
Suddenly there was a cry from Carl.
"Jove!" exclaimed he. "Look at that kid!"
In his horror he put out his hand to clutch his friend's arm. But his
fingers closed on empty air.
Hal Harling was gone!
What followed happened so quickly that it was more like the shiftings
of a moving picture than an incident in real life.
Hal bounded into the seething maelstrom of the street, caught up a
little boy midway in the stream of rushing vehicles and held him aloft
in safety.
The baby had obviously been pursuing a small black puppy whose dangling
leash told a story of escape from captivity. Making the most of his
freedom the dog had run recklessly along and the child had dashed after
him, too intent on recapturing his pet to heed whither the chase took
him. It was little short of a miracle that he had not been killed and
for his rescue from such a fate he had the quick wit of Hal Harling to
thank.
A second later all passing on the street had stopped and crowds of
spectators surged around the young hero. Above the tense stillness
could be heard Hal's comforting voice:
"Sure we'll find your dog for you, little chap. Don't cry. You say he's
called Midget. That's a fine name for a dog, isn't it? See! Somebody
over there on the sidewalk has him already. We'll go and get him."
As the two chubby arms closed about Hal's neck into the center of the
crowd catapulted a frenzied nursemaid who madly rushed up to young
Harling.
"He's not hurt a mite," Hal announced, reassuringly. "I guess he ran
away from you, didn't he?"
"He was leading the dog and the leash slipped out of his hands," gasped
the affrighted girl. "Before I'd a notion what he was going to do he
was off after the puppy. I'm weak as a rag. If anything had happened to
him----"
"But it didn't," smiled Hal.
"No, thanks to you, and to the good Lord!"
Then, seizing the child in her arms, she said:
"There, Billie, you see what comes of running out of the yard after
Midget. You might have been killed but for this kind gentleman."
"Indeed he might! He would have been. I saw the whole thing myself,"
broke in a policeman who had joined the group.
"I'm glad he's all right," reiterated Hal, as he gave the child into
the maid's care.
A man approached leading Midget and interest being for the moment
diverted from himself Hal made his escape.
In a doorway he spied Louise and Carl.
"Oh, it was wonderful of you, Hal!" his sister murmured.
"It was just lucky," Hal returned a bit gruffly. "Come on! Let's get
out of this push. We'll be late for supper if we don't hike along."
And it was characteristic of Hal Harling that this was the only
allusion he made to the adventure.