"I wonder which end of this runs into New York;" "I wonder how far we
are from New York;" "I wonder if we could get to New York from here;" "I
wonder how long it takes to get to New York from here;" "I wonder if
there is a station near here."
How it happened, whether any one proposed it, or how we got there I do
not know, but I do know that, quite unexpectedly, we found ourselves at
a little wayside station, with a lot of milk cans on its platform.
There is no mistaking the fact that we were entirely unbalanced
mentally, and it was a good thing for the crew of the freight train,
which rolled in to unload and load milk cans, that they were an
easy-going crowd of men. We made no pretense of hiding ourselves, but
climbed boldly on to the cars and would have committed murder had they
attempted to put us off. The spectre of the stillness had taken
possession of our brains, and we wanted to flee from it as from a
plague.
Again the long, cold journey, and, then, at last, a great white sheen of
shining lustre in the heavens told us that we were home once more to the
city of our birth, of which we were so proud.
But could she be proud of us?
The rest of the night, or rather the beginning of the day, was spent in
chairs in Callahan's back-room, which seemed like paradise to us after
our "fierce" experience in the country. After a nap, I went to look for
my Bill, who greeted me as if I had left him alone as long as I did on
our previous separation, and then again settled down to grace Callahan's
dive with my presence.
In a day our country trip was forgotten, and I felt quite resigned at
taking up my career where I had dropped it. There was little hope of
things in divedom brightening up for some time to come and I was
perfectly willing to resume playing the gentleman of leisure, who makes
his fluctuating living at the expense of his fellow men.
But the days in the old life were numbered. Only a short space of time
more, and I was to be taken from the cesspool by one whom God must have
sent solely for this end. Why this was and why I was chosen, neither
you or I can answer, but it is enough for me to know that, even were
every miracle of old found to be a fraud or sacrilege, the existence of
one great, mighty, living God would be proven to me beyond the slimmest
shadow of doubt by the miracle he performed on me by His sweetest
prophet.
Lord my master, here I thank Thee, not only for having permitted me to
live the life of purity and cleanliness, but also for having had me come
from out and through the life of the most miserable and sinful.
Mysterious are Your ways and Your purposes are not for us to know, but I
have suffered, learned and prayed, and I know You will not let it be
without avail. And if naught else I can do, give that for her sake, I
shall always live in the way she wanted me to live and that was in Your
way, God.
*THE FRONTIER OF THE NEWER LIFE.*
*CHAPTER XII.*
*THE FRONTIER OF THE NEWER LIFE.*
Returned to New York from my Philadelphia trip, I immediately fell back
into my old ways, which meant for the time being I established myself
again as an ornament in and in front of Mike Callahan's dive in Chatham
Square. Things in our line of business were growing quieter every day
and no one seemed to know when this drought in the former land of plenty
would cease.
Our temporary occupation during this lull was to "lay for" easy things
and suckers. But even they seemed to grow fewer and, at last, we were
reduced to a state of desperation. Then, when hunger and an
unquenchable thirst were less and less satisfied, some of the gang
overcame their inborn cowardice and turned "crooked." One, two and
three would go on secret expeditions and return either with money or
easily disposable goods, or would not return at all, at least, not for a
long time. The gang could well afford to stand these occasional
vacancies in the membership, as more than fifty constituted it and more
and more were constantly joining it.
I am not making an untruthful statement and do not wish to tax your
belief unduly when I tell you that I did not take active part in these
"crooked" doings. My list of misdeeds is so full that one more or less
would make but small difference therein, and I have no cause to tell you
a lie.
Had it been necessary for me to turn "crooked" I would have surely done
so, but it was not necessary.
I was the recognized leader of our gang, and leaders of or in anything
always have certain prerogatives. Out of every expedition I received a
small share. I was "staked" is the proper expression. The return I
made for the "stake" was small enough.
In case one or more of the men were locked up in the city prison, I, not
officially known to the police, had to visit them and act as go-between
to lawyers and their "outside" friends. Were any barroom growls between
one of the men and outsiders started I had to throw myself--regardless
of the merits of the fight--into the mixup to end it quickly in favor of
my brother in loaferdom.
Not having to go on any of the mentioned expeditions, I had all my time
to myself and hardly ever left Callahan's. In truth, I was in a fair
way of becoming one of the monarchs of the Bowery, having, so far, been
only one of the knight errants of that locality. It was the beginning
of Summer, and excepting when business of a liquid or financial nature
called me inside, I could have always been seen on my keg at the curb,
flanked and surrounded by a galaxy, whose very faces made men,
respectable men, clasp their hands over their watches and pocketbooks.
I remember, how once a "sport" hung up a prize for the "homeliest mug"
in Callahan's, and a hurried ballot awarded me the prize. However,
there were extenuating circumstances, which I do not care to recite, the
whole matter being one not very interesting to me.
Hanging around the dives all day we "regulars" often found the time hang
heavy on our hands. To help us over these periods of ennui we invented
a gentle form of sport. The sidewalk was very wide, the traffic was
heavy, the police, for reasons of policy, absolutely blind to our
doings, what more did we need? From our kegs we looked, like the
gallery of the play, at the passing show, and frequently became so
interested in the ever-playing drama that we took part in it ourselves.
Is there more manly, noble sport than for the many, with stamping horses
and yelping, snarling dogs, to throw themselves on to the death-scared,
fright-unwitted fox and tear him to his end, after having him partly
finished by hoof beat and dog bite? Of course not. Were it unmanly,
unwomanly, ignoble sport, our "better, upper" classes, our social
leaders, would not enjoy it. We, of Chatham Square, aped our models in
the higher circles, and, not having a fox in our collection of rare
animals, chose the passing pedestrians as the objects of our sport.
Our imitation of our "betters" was fairly correct. If only one or two
were on the kegs passers-by would not be molested; but when the gang was
there in force, then woe to the unoffending man or woman, whose way led
by us.
To be exact, our "sport" consisted of insults of various kinds to
pedestrians. Old people--and especially old women--received the most of
our playful attention. They were our favorite victims, as they were
less likely to resent our brutishness. It brings a flush to my face when
I think of our beastly cowardice. There is more manliness in one
mongrel cur than there was in that whole gang of ours!
And in that sport I was the acknowledged leader.
There were many variations to our game. We would quickly put our feet
between those of men and women passing by, would "trip them up" and send
them sprawling to the pavement; we would throw rotten fruit and decayed
vegetables at them; would deliberately run into them and upset their
balance and, besides all this, would shower avalanches of filthy
expressions on them. Why didn't they resent it? Because people who
were obliged to pass there did not do it from choice, but because they
were obliged to do so, and knew the calibre of our tribe. They knew
that, like the rooster taken away from his dung-heap, singly and on
different ground from our own, we were crawling, cowardly caricatures of
men, and only brave when we could throw ourselves on One in mass.
Yet, withal, even loafers can be saved from their mockery of an
existence, but different means from the stereotyped ones of the present
day must be employed. Where is the harvest of the many millions sown on
the East Side? The time, the day, the hour is ripe for a Messiah to the
slums who will have much piety, more manhood and, most of all, common
sense. Bring less talk and more muscle; less hymns and more work, and
there will be an echo to your labor in every lane and alley.
My loaferish career ran along so evenly that I could not imagine such a
thing as a break in it. Without a moment's warning, in the most ordinary
way, the message from across the frontier of decency was brought to me
by one whom I cannot call otherwise than one of God's own angels.
It had been a most quiet day. In the early forenoon "Skinny" McCarthy,
one of my intimate pals, had informed me that "something would be doing"
that day. I gave him my rogue's blessing and sped him on his way.
"Skinny" belonged to the class of meanest grafters. His graft consisted
in walking miles and miles looking for trucks and wagons left
temporarily without the driver's protection. To whip something from the
vehicle and then to accelerate his steps, at the same time holding the
stolen article before him, was only a moment's effort. Naturally, the
proceeds of "Skinny's" expeditions were never very large, but he kept at
it so constantly and spent his few dollars so quickly that he was a
rather handy acquaintance for me.
It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of June the second when
"Skinny" returned to Callahan's and, pulling me aside, whispered that he
had done better than usual. I praised him for his zeal and luck,
encouraged him to greater efforts, and then suggested that our thirst
should find an immediate end. Forthwith, at a signal from me, several
other birds of our feather joined us and we celebrated "Skinny's" safe
and welcome return in the customary way.
The only serious fault I had to find with "Skinny" McCarthy was that he
could not stand very much drink. Just when the others would begin to
feel the mellowing influences of the drink "Skinny" was always so
intoxicated as to lose all control over his speech and actions. He was
a bit of a hero-worshipper, and I--mind you, I--was his hero. As soon
as the fumes of the stuff consumed would befuddle his brains he would
declare with howling, roaring emphasis that he was a thief and proud of
it, that he didn't care for what anybody thought of him as long as I was
his friend, and that he was always willing to share with me, because he
knew that I would stick to him if he should happen to get into "stir."
All this was very flattering to me and sounded sweet to my ears, yet,
being of limitless capacity, I never found myself sufficiently drunk to
enjoy this too public endorsement.
On this occasion--June the second--"Skinny," elated over his markedly
successful expedition, bought drinks so fast that, in a little over an
hour, he was near a state of coma. I, as leader of the gang, was more
or less responsible for the individual safety of my fellows, and, not
caring to see "Skinny" utterly helpless so early in the afternoon,
ordered a cessation of drinking and proposed an adjournment to the kegs
at the curb, hoping the air would partly revive my ailing follower.
My suggestion was accepted, and I led the way to the sidewalk, closely
followed by "Skinny."
Just as I had reached the curb and was about to seat myself on my keg I
heard a slight commotion, followed by a muffled scream, behind me.
Leisurely turning I saw what I had expected to see.
It was one of our customary frolics. "Skinny" McCarthy had wilfully and
fiercely collided with a frail young girl. Although I could not see her
face, her figure and general appearance denoted youth. But what did
youth, age, sex or size matter to us?
They all stood about her in a circle, grinning and leering at her. I,
too, meant to join in the general enjoyment. But before my facial
muscles had time to shapen themselves into a brutish laugh the girl
wheeled around, looked at McCarthy, at me, at all of us and, quite
distinctly could I read there the sentence: "And you are MEN!"
Possibly there was a psychic or physical reason for it, but whatever it
was I could almost feel when her look fell on me the bodily sensation of
something snapping or becoming released within me. It was as if a
spring, holding back a certain force, had been suddenly freed from its
catch and had, catapult-like, sent a new power into action.
I had neither the inclination or intelligence to explain it all to
myself. Instead, I rushed into the crowd, tore through it, until I
stood in front of McCarthy, who, without a word from me, received a blow
from me under his ear, felling him to the ground.
This decisive and unexpected action on my part amazed the members of the
gang so that they stood motionless for several seconds before paying any
attention to McCarthy, who was lying motionless on the sidewalk. They
did not know what to make of it. Was I more drunk than they had judged
me to be? Was there a private grudge between McCarthy and myself?
That I had acted solely to save the young lady, from further insult
would have been--had they surmised it--as inexplicable to them as it was
to me.
I took no heed of their wondering attitude, but, in gruff tones, asked
the young lady to come with me. She was completely bewildered and
followed me mechanically.
Poor "Skinny" in his stunned condition was still on the ground, and
this, as always, furnished an interesting spectacle to the many idle
gapers, who had joined the rank of spectators. I, holding the girl by
her arm, made my way through them without any trouble and then addressed
my companion.
"Say, sis, I guess I better walk a block or two with you, because I
think it's better. That push there won't do you nothing, but they're
all drunk and might get fresh to you again."
Surely, it was not a very cavalierly speech, but, somehow, it was
understood and remembered. Often in the future, we--she and I--had our
laugh at this offer of my protectorate, which was word for word
remembered by her.
The crowd through which I had roughly forced a passage for the girl and
myself closed again behind us, and, with that, the doors of my old life
creakingly began to move on their rusty hinges and slowly started to
close themselves entirely. They did not close themselves with a bang
and a slam--if they had done that I might have been aware of their
maneuver and would, most likely, have offered resistance--and, even
their slow move was not known to me then, but only recognized by me in
the years to come. This happens to many of us. We are successful or
unfortunate, rich or poor, and can in our acquired state clearly trace
back the line to an event which was the parting of the ways.
*THE BEGINNING OF THE MIRACLE.*
*CHAPTER XIII.*
*THE BEGINNING OF THE MIRACLE.*
For the first time in my life I found myself playing the part of a
chivalric knight, and, let me assure you, the poorest actor could not
have played it worse. Part of my existence had been to watch others.
Not to learn from them by observation, but to find their weaknesses.
While engaged in the most potent part of my observations, I was never so
concentrated in them that I entirely overlooked the minor details. So I
had seen gentlemen help ladies to and from carriages, had seen them
assist their women friends across gutters and crossings, and open doors
for them. Walking beside the young lady I knew something was expected
from me in the line of politeness, but I who had always been accustomed
to go up "against the hardest games and unfavorable odds," felt most
uncomfortable at not being sure what to do in a case like this. Perhaps
this was the reason, why I, instead of seeing her along for a block or
two, kept on walking beside her, because I did not know how to take
leave without giving serious offense by my way of expressing my
leavetaking. The truth of the matter was I was afraid.
This confession of mine will lead you to think that there was something
about her inspiring awe or fear. But you are wrong, very wrong.
She was not tall, not statuesque. She was not a "queenly looking" girl
judged by external appearance. Her queenliness was within, so potent,
so convincing, that neither man nor beast could refrain from bowing to
it. I was in the dilemma of wanting to be a gentleman, a courtier to my
queen, and not knowing how to be one.
Somehow impelled, I kept on walking beside her. She was not wanting in
expressions of gratitude, but I did no better than to acknowledge them
with deep-toned grunts.
To explain matters, she told me she was a teacher in one of the near-by
schools, and was compelled to pass our "hang-out" every day on her way
to and from home. In exchange for her confidence I should have
introduced myself, but, alas! this big, hulking oof knew naught of
politeness.
But the bonny little lass was a marvel of tact and diplomacy. Not
commenting on or pretending to notice my neglect of the customary
introduction, she appointed herself inquisitor-in-chief. She put me on
the witness stand and cross-examined me. Leading questions were fired
at me with the rapidity of a trained lawyer. Ere I knew it, she knew
all about me and I felt ashamed at having a little mite like her break
down all the barriers of that reticence on which I prided myself.
We walked on, the street traveling beneath and unnoticed by us. She
stopped me at Houston street and the Bowery and I looked about me as if
descended from a dream. She wanted me to leave her there and wanted me
to return to Chatham Square, or from wherever I had come. But the
bulldog in me growled and persisted in seeing her to her door. We
halted at a modest dwelling-house in Houston street, near Mott street.
She thanked me with very much feeling and, expecting a modicum of
manners from me, waited for a second for my response. There are things
which we learn without being aware, and I knew and felt that I should
say something, but my courage had fled, my knees weakened under me and
the words which I meant to utter stuck in my throat, kept there by my
fear of not being able to use the right expression.
At last I squeezed out a gruff "Good night," and then turned to leave.
I was not permitted to go.
"Where are you going?" she asked. "I am afraid you are anxious to
return to that place on Chatham Square. Don't go there."
"Where else can I go?"
"Where else?" she asked, with a mingling of pity and contempt. "Mr.
Kildare, I have absolutely no right to interfere with your business, but
I have the right to tell you the truth. You may not know it or would if
you did know it, deny it, but you and most of the men of that gang are
too good to be of it. We are strangers, and you may think me
presumptuous, but a man, strong and able bodied as you, sins against his
Maker if he wastes his days in an idleness which is hurtful to himself
and others."
"Oh, I heard that before, young lady, but that sort of talk don't amount
to anything."
"It doesn't amount to anything? From what you have told me about
yourself and from what I have seen of the street life, I am afraid it is
not absolutely impossible that, one of these days, you may find yourself
in serious trouble. And, Mr. Kildare, you can rest assured that the
prisons are full of men who are convinced when it is too late that this
sort of talk does amount to something. You say you do not know where
else to go? The evening is beautiful. There are parks, the river-front,
the Brooklyn Bridge, where one can go and sit and think----"
"Think," I interrupted, "now, what would I be thinking about?"
She remained silent for some little while and then held out her hand to
me.
"I am so sorry for you, so sorry. Do try and be a man, a man who has
more than strength and muscle. And--and--do not be offended at my
solicitude--pray, pray often." She had almost entered the hall, but
stepped back again and whispered, "I will pray for you to-night."
Pray! I can imagine the sneer which surely settled on my face. The
name of the Divinity had been used by me daily. But in what manner!
Before I reached my teens I was past master of the art of profanity, and
my skill in cursing increased as I grew older. And now she had
counselled me to pray, to use in reverence the name which had no meaning
to me and slipped glibly from my lips at the slightest provocation.
Why, it was ridiculous--but was it so very ridiculous?
The two arch enemies began a fierce battle within me. Without any
trouble can I remember my walk to Chatham Square that night. Sometimes
I halted, leaned up against a lamp post and said: "By Heavens, I think
there's a great deal of truth in what she said!" Buoyed up by this
assurance I would start afresh, would walk half a block and then again
halt to listen to the other voice, which whispered: "Fool, don't listen
to women's talk. You are somebody. You are known and feared, and
wouldn't be that if you were a goody-goody."
Many men are only feared, while they believe themselves to be respected.
That is how it was with me, and that is why my "other" voice did not say
"respected," but "feared."
The battle was waged within me until I was almost at Chatham Square.
And then a strange thing came to pass. Mike Callahan's place was on the
western side of the square. I had come down on that side, but, when on
the corner of the square, I deliberately crossed over to the eastern
sidewalk, and, from there, surveyed my camping ground.
I stood and looked at the flashily illuminated front of Mike Callahan's
dive and wavered between the old-rooted and the new-come influences. It
would have been laughable had it not been so pitiful.
Just think, a man, supposedly intelligent and mature, considering
himself the martyr of martyrs if he had to forego the "pleasures" of
Callahan's dive for one precious night.
The new-come influence was a potent one, yet it was so strange, so
inexplicable to me that I could have refused to heed it and would have
let my old inclinations persuade me, had I not thought of my good old
Bill. The importance of my recent adventure had driven my partner
temporarily from my mind. But now I thought of him, remembered that he
had been subjected to a long fast by my carelessness and hurried to the
attic to make up for my negligence. I found him as expectant and
philosophical as ever, and watched him with languid interest while he
was munching the scraps I had saved for him. Then it occurred to me
that Bill had been deprived of his customary walk with me and had not
had a breath of fresh air all day. It also rankled in my mind what she
had said about the parks and the Brooklyn Bridge, and, lo and behold,
Bill and I found ourselves in the street, bound for City Hall Park, like
two eminently respectable citizens intent on getting a little air.
I consoled myself for this evident display of weakness by emphatically
resolving to return to Callahan's as soon as Bill should have had his
fill of fresh air.
We were comparative strangers to City Hall Park. Every foot of the park
and the sidewalks about it had been traveled by my bare feet many years
ago, but never had I looked on the leafed oasis in the light of a
recreation ground.
We felt a trifle out of place, and, most likely on that account chose
the most secluded and unobserved spot for our experimental siesta. The
rear stoop of the City Hall, facing the County Court House, was in deep
shadow, and there we seated ourselves to test how it felt to be there
just to rest.
It gradually began to dawn on us that City Hall Park was almost as
interesting as the sidewalk in front of Mike Callahan's dive on Chatham
Square. A perpetual stream of people crossed our view on their way to
and from the Brooklyn Bridge and to and from the Jersey ferries. Very
few of them walked leisurely. Most of them seemed in a hurry and all
seemed to have a definite purpose. Bill and I were the only two without
a purpose.
Ah, no, it is wrong for me to say that. Let me speak only for myself.
Bill had a purpose, and a noble one.
My thoughts ran oddly that night. I looked around and saw the people on
the benches. Then, as now, the majority of the seats were occupied by
homeless men, by "has-beens."
"Well, I am surely better than those tramps," I assured myself with
self-satisfied smirk.
Was I better than those tramps? The newer voice gave me the answer.
These tramps, useless now, had once been useful, had once worked and
earned, but I, almost thirty years of age, couldn't call one day in my
life well spent.
It was a wondrous night to us, this night in the shadow of City Hall
Park. It was the first night I had given to thought, and found myself
at my true estimate. Saints are not made in a day, and I was still hard
and callous, but, after my introspection, a feeling took possession of
me which very much resembled shame. Instead of returning the way we had
come, via Chatham street--now called Park Row--we wandered home by the
way of Centre street. We passed the Tombs, the sinister prison for the
city's offenders, and Bill and I looked at it musingly. There were many
in the cells who were known by me. Many in them could justly call me
their accomplice, because I had willingly spent their money with them,
knowing, or, at least, suspecting, how it had been gotten. And how long
would it be before a cell in there would be but a way station for me
before taking the long journey "up the river"?
The mere suggestion of it was shivery and I remarked to Bill that our
attic, no matter how humble, was preferable to a sojourn at Sing-Sing.
Then an inspiration came to me, and, to this very day I am making myself
believe it came from old Bill. Most likely I am a fool for doing it,
but I want to have my old pal have his full share of credit in my
reincarnation. The inspiration was: "Why not try and stay in my attic
in preference to going to Sing-Sing?" To this came an augmentation: "If
able to keep away from the road that leads to prison, it may not always
be necessary to stay in an attic. There are more nicely furnished rooms
in the city than your cubby-hole on the top floor, friend Kildare."
How can I now, at this long range, analyze my feelings of that critical
night? I would have to perform a psychic wonder, and I am not that kind
of a magician. But I did not go back to Callahan's, and have never been
there since as a participant in the slimy festivities.
Up in our attic Bill and I gave ourselves up to much mutual scrutiny.
Some outward change in me must have been noticeable, for Bill watched me
most critically.
The one thing I remember best of all the little incidents which left
their clear impressions on my mind was my first attempt at praying.
Bill laid in his usual place at the foot of my bed, and I was stretched
on my back, gazing into the ceiling and overcoming my astonishment at
being in bed at such an unearthly early hour by going over the events of
the day. I lingered longest at the scene at her door and tried to laugh
when my train brought me to her advice to pray. Somehow the laugh was
not sincere, and, instead of being able to continue my mind's recital, I
could not get away from her admonition.
That was not all. A soliloquy ensued and ended with the result of
giving prayer a chance to prove itself. Why not? It did not cost
anything, might do some good after all, and, besides, it would be
interesting to note how it felt to pray.
I prayed, and you will not accuse me of irreverence when I make the
statement that my prayer was certainly one of the funniest that ever
rolled on to the Father's throne. It was hardly a prayer. The "thou"
and "thee" and "thy" were sadly missing. I did not think or ask with
faith. Quite the reverse. I frankly avowed my skepticism. The
substance of it was that I had been told God could do much, everything.
The one who had told me this possessed my greatest respect, yet was only
a little girl and not as experienced as I, and, perhaps, fooled. So, if
God wanted me to believe in Him, He would have to give me conclusive
proof right away or else lose a follower. It was a heart-to-heart talk
of the most informal kind and--are they not the best prayers?
I said quite coolly that I had been told I wasn't as much of a man as I
had thought myself to be and that there was a much better life than the
one I had led. Well, I was willing to try it, and, if I really liked
the newer life better than the old one, I promised to stick as closely
to God as I had stuck to all that was evil before.
One should not bargain with the Creator, but I am sure that on the
Judgment Day my God will find extenuating circumstances. As for the
bargain made that night, both parties have lived up to it.
*THE OLD DOORS CLOSED.*
*CHAPTER XIV.*
*THE OLD DOORS CLOSED.*
Sober to bed and sober out of it was an uncommon experience and I felt
embarrassed by the unwonted sensation. Happily I found some money in my
pocket and that deprived me of the excuse to my conscience that I must
go to Callahan's so as to get my breakfast money. How we ate that
morning, Bill and I, and how we relished our breakfast. Yes, I had a
drink, a big drink of whiskey, but not because I had forgotten my
resolve of the night before, but because I was yet ignorant. To be
quite frank, I have always been a bit cynical about these sudden
conversions of confirmed drunkards.
Not long ago I met a man at a rescue mission where I frequently attend,
who, as we say on the Bowery, "eats whiskey" and almost subsists on it.
He was homeless, or rather bedless, his home being forfeited long ago,
and received his "bed ticket" from the missionary after his confession
of salvation. I happened to meet him on the following day; and his
breath was strong with the perfume of cloves. He told me he liked to
chew them, which is rather an odd hobby.
Far be it from me to slander any one, yet the perfume of cloves can hide
a multitude of aromas.
Sublime is the aim of the rescue missions, but how and whether they
accomplish this aim is another story, which we might discuss at some
future time.
Another habit, which also still clung to me, was my late rising. It was
noon before Bill and I appeared on the street on our way to the
restaurant. After breakfast we walked over to City Hall Park, looked
gravely and wisely at the spot where we had sat the night before, and
then we permitted ourselves the luxury of a day dream.
Dreams are funny fellows, always playing pranks. This dream kept me
embraced until I found myself in the immediate neighborhood of the
school where a certain little professor was engaged in leading the
infantile mind through the labyrinth of the A, B, C's.
Soon they began to stumble out with noisy, natural, healthy laughter and
hubbub, and the dingy street became one long, squirming stream of
babbling children. I could not help looking back on my boyish years and
tried to imagine how it would feel to have your slate and books under
your arm. There were many youngsters before me and I kept staring at
them to draw the picture in my mind's eye of how I would have looked
coming from school, my school.
At last she came!
As I saw the little tots, her pupils, cling to her skirts from very love
of her, I felt a light, an oriflamme, within my breast, and knew that I
would have to fight a harder fight than ever before; that I would have
to conquer myself before I would dare to touch the hem of her skirt as
those children. And he who fights, fights best when in the sight of an
inspiring emblem. So then I took my sailing flag and nailed it to the
mast of purity. It has withstood all sorts of weather. Sometimes it
droops, again it flies defiantly. But, whatever, it is still safely on
the mast and will stay there until I strike my colors for the last
dipping to my God above.
I crossed the street and put myself in her way so that she could not
help seeing me.
"Oh, Mr. Kildare!"
She remembered my name.
It is impossible for me to recall how I acted at this meeting. However,
I consider it very fortunate that no camera fiend took a snapshot at me.
The human document which would have evolved from it would certainly be
very embarrassing to me. Still, lout, churl as I was, it was the first
time in my life that I spoke to a girl without even the shadow of an
ulterior or impure motif, and some of my want of politeness may be
forgiven on that account.
If I cannot recollect my behavior during that scene, I can correctly
recollect my feelings. I was in a turmoil. Her face showed real,
unaffected pleasure on seeing me, and that to me, if you will understand
my social position then--was an incomparable boon. If people, the good,
well intending people, would only realize that the hardest heart is very
often the most ready to respond to genuine kindness and that, usually,
it is only hard, because, through life, it had to be satisfied with the
stereotyped prating which passes as a message from our all-loving and
loving-all God!
Knowing the awkward propensities of my limbs and arms, it does not
surprise me in the least that I stood there shuffling and wobbling, and
never noticing the little hand held out to me in truest greeting.
She greeted me kindly, in evident surprise.
Most gingerly I took her dainty hand into my big, brawny paw. She spoke
of the "chance meeting." Since then I have often felt certain that when
I said "chance meeting," a twinkle danced for the time of a breath in
her eyes. Afterward, I often accused her of it and was severely
squelched for my presumption. Yet, yes, she was an angel, but also very
much of a woman, and, between you and me, there are times when a true,
little woman with staunch heart, level head and unwavering faith is of
more practical benefit to a rough, big fellow like me than the angel who
wouldn't dare take a chance of spoiling those snowy garments or to let
the harp remain untwanged for a few moments.
Being more unfamiliar with etiquette than I am now, I had no little
white lie ready, but blurted out that I had come there for the express
purpose of seeing her. She seemed a trifle annoyed at this and I
hastened to explain that I was there to see her home, so that she would
not have to run the risk of being insulted again. When she learned this
determination of mine to act henceforth as her body guard, she chided at
first, declared it absolutely unnecessary, but then laughed, and told me
it was very kind of me.
And all this time I was playing a part and, as I thought, so perfectly
that she could not penetrate my disguise. But she could not be
deceived. She quickly saw through my pretense of wishing to appear a
fairly considerate man of the world, who, not having anything better to
do, would do a chivalrous act merely for the sake of killing some of his
superfluous time. The only wonder is that she permitted me to bother
her.
Then, though no daisies or roses garlanded our path and though we walked
along the crowded, not too clean, sidewalks in the precincts of the
poor, began walks that one could turn into poetry, but which I cannot
do, not having the essential gift of expression. All I could do in
return for being permitted to be beside her was to devote myself
entirely to the task of protecting her. Protect her against what?
You know the most glorious thing about love is that it is no respecter
of persons. To rich and poor it comes alike; here to be received in
passion and impurity, there to be welcomed in a better spirit and to be
nested in an ever-loyal heart. But the bad thing about love is that it
makes us lose our proper respect for truth. In short, it makes splendid
liars out of us.
Where is there the young man who has not told her whom he adored that
her eyes made the most brilliant star look like a tallow candle, or that
her cheeks were as peaches?
In the same way did I magnify my knightly duty to myself. Surely the
dangers along the journey to her home were trifling and few, but, thanks
to my love-stirred imagination, I felt as serious as a plumed knight,
and no proud queen in days of sword and lance had more devoted cavalier
to fight, die or live for her. That now became my sole duty, and with
such duty, to serve the best and truest, a man must grow better even in
spite of himself.
Every day, rain or shine, I waited on the corner above the school to
serve as permanent escort. Every day she told me it was not necessary to
see her home, yet, every day she permitted me to do so. When one arrives
in a strange land the smaller details are often not noticed, and,
afterward, you can only re-see the grander pictures. I cannot tell you
how and why the turns in our conversations occurred, but I can remember
certain bits of talk and questions, very important to both of us.
For instance, on our third meeting she asked me if I were still one of
Mike Callahan's ornamental fixtures. I felt then, as many of us have
felt before and will feel again; I was ashamed to admit that I had
severed my connection with the gang and had not been there since the
night I had taken her home. You see, I still considered myself a
"red-hot sport," and did not care to be identified with anything that
was goody-goody. Since then I have learned that it is quite the thing
among certain sets to speak lightly of one's religion and to laugh at
being found out as an occasional church-goer. It makes such a rakish
impression to intimate you are "really devilish."
So, to her question, I did not give a straightforward answer, but hummed
and hawed and--lied.
"No, I ain't been there the last two nights, because--because, I wasn't
feeling any too good, and--and, oh, yes, one night I went up to a show."
The greatest lies can be compressed into the smallest parcels, yet they
always weigh the same.
She had a way of letting me know when my lies were too transparent. It
was not what she said, but how she looked when she said it.
In reality I had stood away from Callahan's because I had taken a
dislike to the place and everybody in it, but, of course, it would have
never done to tell that to a little slip of a girl.
Apparently my explanation was not taken at its face value, for she
merely said: "Oh, I see." Barely a second later she added: "Oh, I'm so
glad."
The intuition of women is certainly wonderful. Even such an accomplished
diplomat as myself was floored on the spot by a little girl.
Well, the days wore on, and our walks became to me walks in an unknown
realm. Her little casual references to mother, brother, home, friends
and daily work gave me a vista of a life not even imagined by me. To
live as she, in well-regulated household and according to well-ordained
schedule, had never been desired by me and, therefore, never been
considered by me.
"If that kind of life turns out such fine little women, it can't be so
bad after all, and may be worth trying," was my train of reasoning, and
a dull but positive desire to try that sort of life began to rankle in
my soul.
While I was engaged in these musings, she did not keep entirely quiet,
but put me through the most severe kind of civil service. I had to
answer so many questions--and truthfully, too, as she could tell a
fabrication immediately--until I honestly believe every hour of my life
was covered. The finish of it all was that I was made the subject of
several of the most scathing lectures ever delivered. Those sermons
fairly made my blood boil, and often, under my breath, I wished she were
a man, that I could close the lecturing for good and all with a blow.
It is simply awful how impudent little people--and especially
women--are. And the worst of it is that we big fellows have to stand it
from them.
She had a peculiarly direct way of getting at things and never minced
matters. The effect of it was that I began to shrink into myself.
A leering knave, I had stood on the pinnacle of wickedness; had grinned
and sneered at decency, manhood and womanhood; had thought myself a
"somebody" because the laws of God and man were unregarded by me, and
because a chorus of fools and friends had always shouted an amen to my
deeds, and now--now I awoke to the pitiful fact that I was not only a
"nobody," but a despicable, contemptible thing, without the least of
claims to the grandest title--man.
Yes, there was no denying the fact, the "somebody" had fallen, sadly
fallen from his horse, and all his house of cards had been knocked into
smithereens by a little bit of a schoolma'am.
*A KINDERGARTEN OF ONE.*
*CHAPTER XV.*
*A KINDERGARTEN OF ONE.*
Keeping away from Callahan's and from the sinister harvest which was
often reaped there, had a depressing effect on my income. For a
comparatively long time I lived on a few dollars, which came to me from
outstanding loans, now determinedly collected. I learned then that if
one keeps away from Callahan's and places like it, one can subsist on a
remarkably small income. As it had been with me, it was always a case
of "getting it easy and spending it easy."
My expenses became the object of much thinking and figuring. So much
for room rent, so much for meals, including Bill's fare, and so much for
shaves and incidentals were estimated at the lowest minimum and so as to
last the longest until something should turn up. This something did not
fail to turn up.
When the funds became dangerously low, I bethought myself of some of my
swell friends, who had often evinced a desire to have me "train" them or
keep them in condition. These propositions had been so frequent as to
make me think that to be rich included being rich in ailments.
Some wanted me to make them thin, others desired more flesh to cover
their bones, and they all came to me, I being such an authority on
anatomy and physiology!
I communicated with many of these ailing swells and ere long made a
fairly good living by my physical culture lessons. There is a heavy
cloud on my conscience that on my balance-sheet a score of offenses are
recorded against me in connection with the furtherance of my physical
culture system. A frank confession is good for the soul, and I might as
well confess right here that, only too frequently, I prescribed the
identically same course for fat and lean.
This calling of mine was not without humor. I remember a "patient" who
was troubled with too much embonpoint. He did not believe in the
prescriptions of his physician, but rather preferred the physical
culture system of "Professor" Kildare. He was a man of much weight in
public affairs and in flesh. About 250 pounds in the flesh, if I
remember right.
He lived in the immediate neighborhood of Madison Square, and for a long
succession of many mornings a select audience, including several
news-boys, a few policemen and myself, had the edifying spectacle of
seeing these 250 absolutely-refusing-to-melt pounds chase around the
square like mad at 5 A.M.
I do not think it did him very much harm and it did the audience an
awful lot of good, if you will take laughter as an indication of
increasing health.
No fear of want or need threatening me, I gave myself completely up to
peeping into the better life. I fairly revelled in my new experience,
and dreams by day and night were my only territory.
A few weeks of this and then a crisis came.
We had reached her house from our customary walk from the school. I had
taken leave and had already taken a few steps, when she called me back.
"Mr. Kildare, I forgot something."