He read the words over and over as the little globe came round, and
round, and round. "Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's
shoes." The thing fascinated him. It was such a funny little globe. It
reminded him of a merry-go-round he had once ridden on as a child. He
wondered how many times a day it spelled out the words, and if it kept
on going, there in the dark, after the place was closed. Then he hurried
on, but the little white globe and its black, flying letters were still
before him. They had impressed their image upon his brain. More than
once he repeated the words aloud. They seemed to have blended themselves
into his whirling senses and become a monotonous undertone.
"Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes."
Here and there he stopped at a saloon and drank. He drank deeply and
the liquor was strong.
The lights were beginning to grow fewer. He had turned in his walk, and
was leaving the whirl and glare behind him. He did not know what
direction he had taken. He only knew that he was going, going, going, in
a mad effort to get away from himself.
The people that passed him he did not see. He saw only the white face of
Eva Delorme, and that piteous look in the eyes of the other, that had,
in one instant, revived within him, and with ten-fold vigor, all the
strange, torturing suspicions he had once felt regarding these two
mysterious lives. The faces that turned to look at him, he did not
notice; he saw only these two, and mingled with them, and whirling
round, and round, and round, the little white globe with its black
letters, "Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes."
After a long time he noticed that he was passing a small suburban
railway station. There was a bustle of preparation as though a train was
expected to arrive. He crossed the shining steel tracks and entered. A
number of people were inside, chattering, laughing and waiting. Waiting
to go somewhere. Everybody was going somewhere--everybody but him.
Suddenly a group in one corner attracted him as had the lighted window
and the revolving globe.
A hatchet-faced woman, wearing a faded straw hat of antique pattern, a
cloak to match, and a soiled and largely plaided dress, was vainly
endeavoring to still the cries of a miserable babe swaddled in an
assortment of dirty garments.
Two children, of ages evidently beginning at prompt and regular
intervals from the one in her arms, extended from her at right-angles on
the bench, their legs straddled about with a childish disregard of
modesty. They were asleep--at least one of them was, and the other was
equally silent.
By and by, the woman arose and walked the floor with the babe. At this,
the child who was not asleep arose also and stared at its mother with
wide, round eyes. Then, as she approached it and turned in her march, it
began to follow her, keeping close behind and in step.
The other slept on unconsciously. The lamps flared and flickered; the
babe, partially soothed, sobbed and moaned, and the squalid pair marched
on.
Begotten in bliss--brought forth in suffering--retired in privation.
Suddenly there is a prolonged, shrill shriek in the night, a trampling
of many feet, a shouting of discordant voices, and the midnight train is
snorting at the platform.
Hastily the mother gathers up the sleeping child, and bidding the other
cling close to her skirts, hurries out into the night, past the
fiery-eyed Polyphemus, on toward the coaches behind.
The people that are going somewhere jostle against her in their haste to
get into the coaches and secure seats. Mechanically the artist follows.
Everybody is going somewhere; he will go, too.
The monster ahead begins to puff and grunt, and the bell that is
fastened to its back, to ring wildly.
The men who are loading baggage shout and swear and hurl coarse jokes at
each other, and the midnight train begins to move. The bell still clangs
frantically, the demon puffs and grunts faster and faster, and the light
from its one fearful eye penetrates farther and farther into the
darkness ahead.
Faster, and faster, and faster--the sound of the wheels falling into a
regular measure, until it has become a weird, rhythmical monotone.
"Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes."
Then there is a momentary flare of light, a final, blood-curdling
scream, and the one-eyed demon--the faded and soiled woman--the sobbing
baby--the sleeping child--the marching child with the big, round
eyes--the people who are going somewhere, and the artist who is going
nowhere, are on their way.
He has taken a seat facing the faded woman, and is unconsciously
studying her face. She is still hushing the babe to rest. On one side
the sleeper is huddled up against her. On the other, next to the window
and resting upon its knees, the child with the big, round eyes stares
out into the darkness.
The coach is warm. The heat and the strong liquor are beginning to tell
on him. The face before him begins to mingle with all sorts of
impossible fancies. The roar of the flying train is in his ears, but it
seems the roar of some mighty sea that is about to overwhelm him. The
conductor, coming through, shakes his arm to rouse him.
"Tickets!"
"Oh, yes!"--he forgot. He thrusts a bill into the conductor's hand.
"Keep the change, I will ride it out."
The drowsiness is again stealing upon him. He still sees the wretched
face before him and is studying it; but always between them are those
other faces--the face of Eva Delorme and of Evelin March--and the
piteous, frightened look that rests now upon one, now upon the
other,--and now the two are melting--melting into one, like the
blending outlines of a dissolving view--and both fade out into the
little white globe with its whirling black words, that the hum of the
train flying through the night keeps repeating over, and over, and
over,--"Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes."