HARKINS
Herbert Harkins voluntarily assumed the care and disposal of the
remains of the unfortunate criminal. The young reporter was acquainted
with the Coroner’s undertaker and through his assistance and that of
some mutual friends he was able to secure a cheap lot in an out of
town cemetery. The obsequies of the departed one were pathetic in the
extreme. The only two mourners at the funeral--if they could be called
mourners--were Herbert Harkins and Francis Tomlin. The whole affair was
tinged with an atmosphere that was at once sombre and desolate; but at
all events Adler had been given a Christian burial, and that was the
thing that Herbert desired most of all.
“You’re a curious fellow, Harkins,” said Tomlin to the young man on
their way home from the cemetery.
“How do you make that out?” asked Herbert.
“Why, by your actions,” was the reply; “you are constantly doing
unexplainable things. Take to-day for instance. Who else would have
done so much for a man who was the cause of all his troubles?”
“Ah!” said Herbert, “but you must understand that my troubles are now
buried in the grave with that poor, miserable man. I can afford to be
generous.”
“Even if you are not just?”
“Who shall determine that--I for one shall always shrink from being the
judge of my fellow men.”
“But you know that this Adler was thoroughly disreputable--”
“Yes,” interrupted Herbert, “and that is all the more reason why I
should be reputable. A man must be merciful if he looks for mercy
himself.”
They had reached their rooms by this time, and after a few
preliminaries, Herbert sat down at his desk and began to clear up an
accumulation of work that had been neglected during the past week,
largely because his time was taken up in preparing for the funeral
arrangements of Harry Adler. This work occupied his attention almost
constantly till late in the night. His last act was to write a letter
to his mother at Cleverly, reminding her that she would be expected to
arrive in New York on Christmas Eve, which important occasion would
occur on the following day. He put a special delivery stamp on the
letter and carried it around to one of the sub-post office stations in
order to insure its prompt delivery on the following morning.
When the day before Christmas arrived it brought with it a fine fall of
snow, and quite early in the morning the face of New York was hidden
from view with a soft, fleecy covering. At noon time that day Herbert
received a telegram from his mother saying that she would be unable
to reach New York till about eleven o’clock on Christmas morning.
It seemed odd that she should disappoint him in this unaccountable
way; but he thrust the telegram in his pocket, and in the rush of his
everyday duties quickly forgot the incident.
That evening Tomlin came into the house with a rather solemn face and
said to Herbert:
“I have been made the bearer of a message to you. Mr. Blakeley says
that he would like to see you at the Argus office at nine o’clock this
evening.”
Herbert’s face flushed at this unexpected announcement. It was
the first time that he had heard from Blakeley either directly or
indirectly, since the dramatic incident which terminated his career on
the newspaper. At first the message filled him with a sense of elation;
but this was quickly followed by a feeling of resentment. His face
hardened, and he said with much dignity:
“If Mr. Blakeley desires to communicate with me, or to call upon me,
he knows my address. I--”
“Now see here,” quickly interrupted Tomlin, “I don’t want any of
this nonsense from you. I don’t care what you do or what you say to
Blakeley; but I don’t propose to have you make me look silly and
ridiculous.”
Herbert melted in a minute. The distress and annoyance in his friend’s
face changed his whole manner.
“I wouldn’t offend you for a moment, Tomlin,” he said; “you have been
such a good friend to me that there isn’t anything in the world that I
would not do to serve you. I had felt a bit angry towards Blakeley, but
I could not hold anything but the kindest feelings toward you. If you
say go, I’ll go in a minute.”
Tomlin’s answer was clear, crisp and to the point. He simply said in
his loudest voice:
“Go!”
At nine o’clock that evening Herbert found himself ascending the
stairway toward the local room of the Argus. When he entered, a number
of the men were busily engaged at their desks; but they all looked up
and gave him a cheery greeting. The old familiar scenes coming upon
him unexpectedly seemed to rush through his memory like floods of
water surging over a falls. Blakeley, as usual, occupied his desk in
the corner of the room. He looked quite lifelike to Herbert as he
sat there puffing a strong cigar, with his feet cocked up on the edge
of his desk, reading a proof that had just been rushed down from the
composing room.
The moment he perceived Herbert he moved his feet from the desk,
arose from his chair, and extending his hand, said with considerable
cordiality:
“Hello, Harkins, I’m glad to see you again.”
Herbert took the proffered hand, but held it somewhat limply. He could
not enthuse on such short notice. Presently he was invited to take a
seat, and did so. Tomlin, without being asked, also sat down to listen
to the conversation.
“I was quite sorry to lose you, Harkins,” said Blakeley after an
interval.
Herbert looked in his face for a moment to see whether he was jesting.
Such an admission from such a man was very unusual; but Blakeley looked
him squarely in the eye, and there was neither mirth nor sarcasm in the
glance, so he answered softly:
“I was sorry to go, Mr. Blakeley.”
“But,” exclaimed the city editor, and the quiet eye now flashed fire,
“you treated me very meanly. I must say that, and I am going to repeat
it, you treated me very meanly.”
“I admit that I did,” said Herbert, his tone softer than before; “but I
was the victim of circumstances over which I had no control.”
Blakeley puffed at his cigar for awhile after that, and then as if he
was giving voice to a long cherished desire, said:
“Now see here, Harkins, I want to put a plain question to you. Why did
you refuse to write that story--now tell me as plainly as you can, and
all will be square between us.”
Herbert arose before the city editor had finished making his request.
The look of annoyance in his face gave way to indignation, and then he
said with considerable heat:
“Is that all you have to say to me, Mr. Blakeley?” and receiving no
answer, he went on, “If it is, I will leave you. There is no need of
any further conversation between us.”
At this point Blakeley arose with a smile on his face that seemed to
stretch almost from ear to ear. His eyes were sparkling with good
nature, and going over to Herbert he took his hand and wrung it
heartily.
“You are all right, my boy; you are pure gold. I don’t propose to let
you get out of here again. I need you in my business.”
Herbert was plainly puzzled at this demonstration, and said so at once.
“I don’t know why you should be so pleased, Mr. Blakeley. I have
declined to answer your query.”
“That’s just it,” he said; “it demonstrates what I have always
believed, that you wouldn’t betray a confidence. However a kind friend
has already done that for you.”
Herbert’s eyes expressed the surprise he felt. Before he could make any
reply a door in the rear of Mr. Blakeley’s office opened suddenly, and
Arthur Black appeared upon the scene. Herbert gasped for breath. He was
too much amazed to speak to the young man. Blakeley spared him that
trouble by saying:
“Now, Mr. Black, we are all together; tell me once again the story that
you were good enough to relate to me early in the afternoon.”
“The story is soon told,” said Arthur, with a firmness in his voice and
a dignity in his manner that Herbert had never noticed before; “I come
here to do a tardy act of justice to one of the manliest persons I have
ever known. Mr. Blakeley, as I have already told you, I was foolish
enough and despicable enough to engage in, or rather to permit myself
to be used in a swindling game that was being conducted in this city
some time ago. Herbert Harkins ran that story out for the Argus and
was prepared to make an arrest of one of those who were engaged in the
game; but when he discovered that I was implicated in it he permitted
me to escape, and as a result of that act of generosity, lost a good
story and forfeited his position on the Argus.
“I left the city immediately after that incident occurred,” continued
Arthur, “and went to a little town in Connecticut, where I endeavored
to make a new man of myself. I think I have partially succeeded. I
am not going to stop till I succeed entirely; but only a week ago I
learned of the misfortune which had happened to Herbert Harkins through
his effort to shield me and my family from disgrace. I have not been
able to rest at night since I learned this news. Finally I could stand
it no longer, and I came here to tell you the truth and the simple
truth. Herbert did throw the Argus down on its good story, but he did
so for my sake and the sake of my father and mother and sister. I am
here now not only to admit this, but to throw myself on your mercy.
If you think the ends of justice have not already been served, I am
willing to submit to arrest and imprisonment. The punishment will be a
severe one, but probably not more than I deserve. In any event I hope
to restore Herbert Harkins to your esteem, if not to the position he
formerly occupied on this paper.”
Herbert listened to this recital in open mouthed wonder. He watched
Arthur Black keenly while he was telling his story, and as he
proceeded, was filled with admiration for the young man. He could see
very clearly now that Arthur was not really a bad boy at heart; that he
had been a spoiled child in his youth and had drifted into the company
of dissolute young men. What at first was merely waywardness had
gradually extended to more serious things; but fortunately his downward
career had been checked just on the edge of a precipice.
There was silence in the group for a few moments, and then Blakeley
spoke up in his short, snappy tones. He took Arthur by the hand, and
said:
“I want to congratulate you, young man. You have shown a manliness that
does you credit. Now, there is no paper in town that is more eager to
obtain exclusive news than the Argus, and I am willing to admit that
there are times when we feel disposed to turn sharp corners in order to
beat the other newspapers; but we have the line of decency even in this
office, and I propose to draw it on this occasion. You can rest at your
ease. So far as I am concerned and so far as the paper is concerned,
the firm with which you were connected never existed; the incident at
the post office never happened. I can only say that you have my best
wishes for your future success in life.”
Everybody was delighted at this evidence of a warm heart on the part of
the man who had the reputation of being a cold-blooded hunter for news.
But he was not through. He turned to Herbert after a few moments of
meditation, and said:
“Harkins, your old place awaits you on the Argus. I want to tell you,
as I have already told young Black, that my memory is a blank, that
you have never offended me and that you have never thrown the paper
down. Your place has never been filled. Your chair over at that desk is
still vacant. Come in again on Monday morning and try to distinguish
yourself.”
The manner of this man, no less than the words, impressed Herbert
deeply, and he mentally vowed that he would do his duty by Blakeley and
the Argus to the full extent of his ability.
There was much laughter and much hand shaking as the little party
dispersed. Tomlin lingered a little longer than the others, and when
they were out of ear-shot, said to Blakeley in quick tones:
“Say, old man, that was a cruel test with which you began this
session--that attempt to get Herbert to squeal on Arthur Black.”
“Aye,” responded the other heartily, “it was indeed, but it was the
crucial test. It was worth all the pain that it cost. It is proof
positive to my mind that Harkins can be trusted absolutely. He would
die before he violated a confidence. That’s the kind of men we need on
the Argus.”