FOR THE SAKE OF HOME
"Can this be possible? Has the bank really burst?"
Over and over Jack asked himself the question. Then the words of the
crowd echoed and re-echoed through his ears. Yes, the bank had
suspended payment. There was no money for him--no money for anyone!
"It's too bad!" he groaned. "What will Deb say?"
The thought of his sister gave him another pang. Without money and
without work, how could he continue to take care of her?
"Oh! Jack, me b'y, not wan pinny av me two hundred dollars will they
give me at all," exclaimed Andy Mosey, a fellow-workman, bitterly.
"How did it happen?" asked the young machinist.
"No wan knows. Oi guess old Gray is in a toight hole, an' is usin' the
bank's money to get him out."
Andy Mosey was a heavy-set Irishman, with a bloated, red face and fiery
hair and beard. His work brought him into daily contact with the young
machinist, but Jack did not like the man, first on account of his
drinking habit, and secondly, because he suspected the Irishman of
having stolen from the pocket of his jumper a silver match safe--a
highly-valued Willington heirloom.
"It's a bad business, and no mistake."
The speaker was Dennis Corrigan, a pattern maker. He was a
brother-in-law to Mosey, but much more educated, and somewhat refined in
appearance as well.
"Yes, indeed," returned Jack.
"How do they expect us to live if they don't pay us our wages or let us
draw our savings either?"
"Old Gray will pay dearly fer this," put in Andy Mosey, with a wicked
look in his eye; "oi'll vow he'll be moighty sorry for this day's worruk
ere long."
Jack elbowed his way up the bank steps and into the building. The
cashier's window was closed, and behind the glass this notice was pasted
up:
"_Depositors are hereby notified that owing to the unexpected run upon
this bank, no further payments will be made until the more available
assets are converted into cash._"
The crowd were all talking loudly and excitedly, and Jack tried in vain
to obtain definite information concerning the cause for the suspension.
At length, sick at heart, he returned to the sidewalk, where Andy Mosey,
the worse for several glasses of liquor, again addressed him.
"Not wan pinny av me two hundred dollars, Jack, me b'y!" he repeated in
a heavy voice; "an' they call it a free counthry! Sure it's only free
fer rich people to rob the poor!"
"It's rough," replied Jack.
"Old Gray will pay dearly fer it, mark me wurruds!"
"What will you do?"
"Never moind, Jack, me b'y! Thrust Andy Mosey to get square wid the
ould villian!"
Jack retraced his steps homeward with slow and unwilling steps. All his
bright hopes of the past hour had been dashed to naught. No money meant
no start in business, and with a thousand men idle what chances were
there of finding employment?
"If I had a few dollars in my pocket I might try some other town," he
thought. "But without some money, it's hard lines, sure enough."
Jack would not have felt it so much had he been alone, but with Deb
depending upon him, his responsibility seemed more than doubled.
Their home was on the second floor of a large apartment house standing
upon one of the side streets of Corney. As Jack ascended the stairs he
heard talking in the kitchen.
"Wonder who is here? Visitors of some kind," he thought.
Entering, the young machinist found Mr. Hammerby, the house-agent, in
earnest conversation with Deb.
Mr. Hammerby was a short, dapper business man, small in form, and a
person of few words.
"Yes, I never allow a rent day to go by," he was saying. "People who
hire from me must expect to pay promptly."
"But sometimes people fall ill, and get behind----" began Deb.
"True, but that's not my fault, and I never--ah, here is your brother at
last. Good morning, Mr. Willington."
"Good morning, Mr. Hammerby," returned Jack, soberly, and with a sinking
heart. "You came for the rent, I suppose."
"Yes, sir, always prompt, you know," replied the agent, rubbing his
hands together.
"I told him you had just gone to get the money," put in Deb.
"I--I'm sorry, but I can't pay you today," said Jack, as calmly as he
could, but with a worried glance at his sister.
"Oh, Jack, what has happened?" burst out Deb, growing pale.
"The bank has stopped payment."
"And you expected to get your money from that place?" asked Mr.
Hammerby.
"Yes, sir."
"Your sister told me you had gone out for it, but did not tell me
where."
"Can't you get any money, Jack?" asked Deb, catching his arm.
"Not a cent."
The tears started in the girl's eyes. Here was indeed a blow.
"Well, I'm sorry, but I must have the rent," said Mr. Hammerby, firmly.
"I can't pay it," replied Jack. "If I had the money, nothing would
please me more. But I haven't got any pay for the past two weeks' work,
and I have but three dollars and a half, and that we must keep for
living purposes."
"Humph! When do you propose to pay?"
"In a few days. Just as soon as I get my money from the factory."
"That won't suit me. If I don't have my money by to-night I'll serve
you a three-days' notice to quit."
It may seem strange that Mr. Hammerby should be so hard upon his
tenants, but the truth was, he understood more of the factory and the
bank affairs than was generally known.
He was well aware that it would be a long time before cash could be had
at either place.
"But surely you wouldn't turn us out for being behind just this once!"
exclaimed Jack. "We have paid promptly for three years."
"I can't make any allowance. It's pay or leave. I might have got more
than you pay for these rooms, but I let you have them at a low figure
because I thought you would be prompt."
"But Mr. Gray owns this building," put in Deb, eagerly; "surely he will
not allow his own workmen, to whom money is due, to be put out."
"He doesn't bother his head about it," returned Mr. Hammerby, with
assumed dignity. "He expects me to obey orders, and those orders are to
collect or give notice."
"Well, I haven't the money," repeated Jack.
"I'll step in in the morning," went on the agent, "and then it's money
or notice. Good day."
And without further words Mr. Hammerby left the apartment. The minute
the door was closed Deb burst into tears.
"They will set us into the street!" she sobbed. "Was ever a person so
cruel before! Oh, Jack, what shall we do? What shall we do?"
Jack sank into a chair without replying. His mind was busy trying to
devise some means of averting the blow that appeared so imminent. Though
it cut him to the heart to see his sister so distressed, he could offer
her no comforting hope.
"I'm going up to see Mr. Gray," he said, finally, "I'll tell him just
how the matter stands. I don't believe if he knew the particulars that
he would let Mr. Hammerby put us out."
"If he did he'd be the hardest-hearted man in Corney," declared Deb,
between her sobs.
For Jack to think, was to act, and in a few seconds he was ready to
depart.
"Shall I go along?" asked his sister, hesitatingly.
"I guess not. You can meet me at the corner if you like," replied Jack.
Mr. Gray's residence was situated in the fashionable part of the town.
It was an elegant establishment throughout, and Jack was not a little
awed by the sumptuous surroundings.
He was ushered into the hall, and found himself among half a dozen
others, all awaiting an interview with the manufacturer.
It was fully half an hour before he was told to enter the library. He
found Mr. Felix Gray seated at a desk which was deep with letters and
documents.
The manufacturer was a stout man of fifty, with a certain sullen,
bull-dog cast of countenance.
"Well, sir, what is it?" he asked, hardly looking up.
[Illustration: "WELL, SIR, WHAT IS IT?" HE ASKED, HARDLY LOOKING UP.]
In a brief but clear manner Jack stated his case. Mr. Gray hardly heard
him out.
"Mr. Willington," he said sharply, "I never interfere with my agents'
doings. They have entire charge. Besides, it would be folly for me to
make your case an exception. If I did so, any other tenant might ask
the same privilege."
"Yes, but if you would only give me an order for some of the money due
me, or for my savings----" began the young machinist, growing desperate.
Mr. Gray drew himself up.
"You must get that in the regular way," he returned coolly. "I never
make exceptions to my rules. Good morning."
And before he could realize it, Jack was out on the street again with
bitter defeat written in every line of his handsome face.