II

The night was wild. New York can show such in late November. A gale from

the northeast was driving before it a heavy sleet that froze as it

fell, coating the overhead wires and glazing the asphalt and sidewalks.

It lacked an hour of midnight. From Fleischmann's bakery, the goal of

each man among the shivering hundreds lined up on Tenth Street, the

light streamed out upon a remnant of Life's jetsam--that which is

submerged, which never comes to the surface unless drawn there by some

searching and rescuing hand; that which the home-sheltered never see by

daylight, never know, save from hearsay. In the neighboring rectory of

Grace Church one dim light was burning in an upper room. The marble

church itself looked a part of the winter scene; its walls and

pinnacles, already encrusted with ice crystals, glittered fantastically

in the rays of the arc-light; beneath them, the dark, shuffling,

huddling line of humanity moved uneasily in the discomfort of the keen

wind.

At twelve o 'clock, each unknown, unidentified human unit in that line,

as he reaches the window, puts forth his hand for the loaf, and

thrusting it beneath his coat, if he be so fortunate as to have one, or

under his arm, vanishes....

Whither? As well ask: Whence came he?

Well up towards the bakery, because the hour was early, stood Champney

Googe, unknown, unidentified as yet by three men, Father Honore and two

detectives, who from the dark archway of a sunken area farther down the

street were scanning this bread-line. The man for whom they were

searching held his head low. An old broad-brimmed felt hat was jammed

over his forehead, almost covering his eyes. The face beneath its shadow

was sunken, drawn; the upper lip, chin, and cheeks covered with a three

weeks' growth of hair that had been blackened with soot. The long period

of wandering in the Maine wilderness had reduced his clothes to a

minimum. His shoes were worn, the leather split, showing bare flesh.

Like hundreds of others in like case, he found himself forced into this

line, even at the risk of detection, through the despairing desperation

of hunger. There was nothing left for him but this--that is, if he were

not to starve. And after this, there remained for him but one thing, one

choice out of three final ones--he knew this well: flight and

expatriation, the act of grace by which a man frees himself from this

life, or the penitentiary. Which should it be?

"Never that last, never!" he said over and over again to himself during

this last month. "Never, never _that_!"

It was the horror of that which spurred him to unimaginable exertion in

the wilderness in order to escape the detectives on his track; to put

them off the scent; to lead them to the Canada border and so induce them

to cross it in their search. He had succeeded; and thereafter his one

thought was to get to New York, to that metropolis where the human unit

is reduced to the zero power, and can dive under, even vanish, to

reappear only momently on the surface to breathe. But having reached the

city, by stolen rides on the top of freight cars, and plunging again

into its maelstrom, he found himself still in the clutch of this

unnamable horror. Docks, piers, bridges, stations were become mere

detective terminals to him--things to be shunned at all cost. The long

perspective of the avenues, the raking view from river to river in the

cross streets, afforded him no shelter from watching eyes--in every

passing glance he read his doom; these, too, were things to be avoided

at all hazard.

For four nights, since he sought refuge in New York, he had crawled into

an empty packing-box in a black alley behind a Water Street wholesale

house. Twice, during this time, he had made the attempt to board as

stowaway an outward-bound steamship and sailing vessel for a South

American port; but he had failed, for the Eyes were upon him--always the

Eyes wherever he went, whenever he looked, Eyes that were spotting him.

In the weakness consequent upon prolonged fasting and the protracted

exposure during his journey from Maine, this horror was becoming an

obsession bordering on delirium. It was even now beginning to dull the

two senses of sight and hearing--at least, he imagined it--as he stood

in line waiting for the loaf that should keep him another day, keep him

for one of two alternatives: flight, if possible to South America,

or ...

As he stood there, the fear that his sight might grow suddenly dim, that

he might in consequence fail in recognition of those Eyes so constantly

on the lookout for him, suddenly increased. He grew afraid, at last, to

look up--What if the Eyes should be there! He bore the ever-increasing

horror as long as he could, then--better starve and have done with it

than die like a dog from sheer fright!--he stepped cautiously, softly,

starting at the crackle of the ice under his tread, off the curbstone

into the street. So far he was safe. He kept his head low, and walked

carelessly towards Third Avenue. When nearing the corner he determined

he would look up. He took the middle of the street. It cost him a

supreme effort to raise his eyes, to look stealthily about him, behind,

before, to right, to left--

_What was that in the dark area archway!_ His sight blurred for the

moment, so increasing the blackness of impending horror; then, under the

influence of this last applied stimulus, his sight grew preternaturally

keen. He discerned one moving form--two--three; to his over-strained

nerves there seemed a whole posse behind them. Oh, the Eyes, the Eyes

that were so constantly on him! Could he never rid himself of them! He

bent his head to the sleeting blast and darted down the middle of the

street to Second Avenue.

_He knew now the alternative._

After a possible five seconds of hesitation the three men gave chase. It

was the make of the man, his motion as he started to run, the running

itself as Champney took the middle of the street, by which Father Honore

marked him. It was just such a start, just such running, as the priest

had seen many a time on the football field when the goal, which should

decide for victory, was to be made. He recognized it at once.

"That's he!" He spoke under his breath to the two men; the three started

in pursuit.

But Champney Googe was running to goal, and the old training stood him

in good stead. He was across Second Avenue before the men were half way

down Tenth Street; down Eighth Street towards East River he fled, but at

First he doubled on his tracks and eluded them. They lost him as he

turned into Second Avenue again; not a footstep showed on the

ice-coated pavement. They stopped at a telephone station to notify the

police at the Brooklyn Bridge terminals, then paused to draw a long

breath.

"You're sure 't was him?" One of the detectives appealed to Father

Honore.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"He give us the slip this time; he knew we was after him," the other

panted rather than spoke, for the long run had winded him. "I never see

such running--and look at the glare of ice! He'd have done me up in

another block."

"Well, the hunt's up for to-night, anyway. There's no use tobogganning

round after such a hare at this time of night," said the other, wiping

the wet snow from the inside of his coat collar.

"We've spotted him sure enough," said the first, "and I think, sir, with

due notifications at headquarters for all the precincts to-night, we can

run him down and in to-morrow. If you've no more use for me, I'll just

step round to headquarters and get the lines on him before

daylight--that is, if they'll work." He looked dubiously at the sagging

ice-laden wires.

"You won't need me any longer?" The second man spoke inquiringly, as if

he would like to know Father Honore's next move.

"I don't need you both, but I'd like one of you to volunteer to keep me

company, for a while, at least. I can't give up this way, although I

know no more of his whereabouts than you do. I've a curious unreasoning

feeling that he'll try the ferries next."

"He can't get at the bridge--we've headed him off there, and it's a bad

night. It's been my experience that this sort don't take to water, not

naturally, on such nights as this. We might try one of the Bowery

lodging houses that I know this sort finds out sometimes. I'll go with

you, if you like."

"Thank you, I want to try the ferries first; we'll begin at the Battery

and work up. How long does the Staten Island boat run?"

"Not after one; but they'll be behind time to-night; it's getting to be

a smothering snow. I don't believe the elevated can run on time either,

and we've got three blocks to walk to the next station."

"We'd better be going, then." Father Honore bade the other man good

night, and the two walked rapidly to the nearest elevated station on

Second Avenue. It was an up-town train that rolled in covered with sleet

and snow, and they were obliged to wait fully a quarter of an hour

before a south bound one took them to the Battery.

The wind was lessening, but a heavy snowfall had set in. They made their

way across the park to the "tongue that laps the commerce of the world."

Where was that commerce now? Wholly vanished with the multiple daytime

activities that centre near this spot. The great fleet of incoming and

out-going ocean liners, of vessels, barges, tows, ferries, tugs--where

were they in the drifting snow that was blotting out the night in opaque

white? The clank and rush of the elevated, the strident grinding of the

trolleys, the polyglot whistling and tooting of the numerous small river

craft, the cries of 'longshoremen, the roaring basal note of

metropolitan mechanism--all were silenced. Nothing was to be heard, at

the moment of their arrival, but the heavy wash of the harbor waters

against the sea wall and its yeasting churn in the ferry slip.

Near the dock-house they saw some half-obliterated tracks in the snow.

Father Honore bent to examine them; it availed him nothing. He looked at

his watch; at the same moment he heard the distant hoarse half-smothered

whistle repeated again and again and the deadened beat of the paddle

wheels. Gradually the boat felt her way into the slip. The snow was

falling heavily.

"We will wait here until the boat leaves," said Father Honore, stepping

inside to a dark wind-sheltered angle of the house.

"It's a wild goose chase we're on," muttered his companion after a

while. The next moment he laid a heavy hand on the priest's arm,

gripping it hard, every muscle tense.

A heavy brewery team, drawn by noble Percherons, rumbled past them down

the slip. On it, behind the driver's seat, was the figure of a man,

crouched low. Had it not been for the bandaged arm and the unnatural

contour it gave to the body's profile, they might have failed to

recognize him. The two stood motionless in the blackness of the inner

angle, pressing close to the iron pillars as their man passed them at a

distance of something less than twelve feet. The warning bell rang; they

hurried on board.

After the boat was well out into the harbor, the detective entered the

cabin to investigate. He returned to report to Father Honore that the

man was not inside.

"Outside then," said the priest, drawing a sharp short breath.

The two made their way forward, keeping well behind the team. Father

Honore saw Champney standing by the outside guard chain. He was whitened

by the clinging snow. The driver of the team sang out to him: "I say,

pardner, you'd better come inside!"

He neither turned nor spoke, but, bracing himself, suddenly crouched to

the position for a standing leap, fist clenched....

A great cry rang out into the storm-filled night:

"Champney!"

The two men flung themselves upon him as he leaped, and in the ensuing

struggle the three rolled together on the deck. He fought them like a

madman, using his bandaged arm, his feet, his head. He was powerful with

the fictitious strength of desperation and thwarted intent. But the two

men got the upper hand, and, astride the prostrate form, the detective

forced on the handcuffs. At the sound of the clinking irons, the

prisoner suffered collapse then and there.

"Thank God!" said Father Honore as he lifted the limp head and

shoulders. With the other's aid he carried him into the cabin and laid

him on the floor. The priest took off his own wet cloak, then his coat;

with the latter he covered the poor clay that lay apparently

lifeless--no one should look upon that face either in curiosity,

contempt, or pity.

The detective went out to interview the driver of the team.

"Where'd you pick him up?"

"'Long on West Street, just below Park Place. I see by the way he spoke

he'd broke his wind--asked if I was goin' to a ferry an' if I'd give him

a lift. I said 'Come along,' and asked no questions. He ain't the first

I've helped out o' trouble, but I guess I've got him in sure enough this

time."

"You're going to put up on the Island?"

"Yes; but what business is it o' a decent-looking cove like youse, I'd

like to know."

"Well, it's this way: we've got to get this man back to New York

to-night; it's the boat's last trip and there ain't a chance of getting

a cab or hack in this blizzard, and at this time of night, to get him up

from the ferry. If you'll take the job, I'll give you fifteen dollars

for it."

"That ain't so easy earned in a reg'lar snow-in; besides, I don't want

to be a party to gettin' him furder into your grip by takin' him over."

"Oh, that's all right. He's got a friend with him who'll see to him for

the rest of the night."

"Well, I don't mind then. It's goin' on one now, an' I might as well

make a night o' it on t' other side. It's damned hard on the hosses,

though, an' it's ten to one I don't get lifted myself by one o' them

cussed cruelty to animil fellers that sometimes poke their noses into

the wrong end o' their business.--Make it twenty an' it is done."

The detective smiled. "Twenty it is." He patted the noble Percherons and

felt their warmth under the blankets. "You're not the kind they're

after. What have you got in your team?"

"Nothing but the hosses' feed-bags."

"That'll do. We'll put him in now in case any one comes on at Staten

Island for the return trip. You don't know nothing about _this_, you

know." He looked at him knowingly.

"All right, Cap'n; I'd be willin' to say I was a bloomin' idjot for two

saw-horses. Come, rake out."

The detective laughed. "Here's ten to bind the bargain--the rest when

you've landed him."