THE SEARCH
"When I go back to the old pals,
'Tis a glad, glad boy I'll be;
With them will I share the doss-house bunk
And join their revels with glee,
And the lean men of the lone shacks
Will share their tucker with me."
--From _Songs of the Dead End_.
I pawned my good clothes, my overcoat, and handbag in Glasgow, took a
bed in Moran's model by the wharf, and once again recommenced my search
for Norah.
The search was both fruitless and tiring. Day after day I prowled
through the streets, and each succeeding midnight found me on the spot
where I had met Norah on the evening of my wrestling encounter. For
hours I would stand motionless at the street corner and scrutinise every
woman who passed me by. Sometimes in these children of the night I
fancied that I detected a resemblance to her whom I loved. With a
flutter in my heart I would hurry forward, only to find that I was
mistaken. Disappointed, I would once again resume my vigil, and
sometimes the grey smoky dawn was slanting across the dull roofs of the
houses before I sought my model and bed. It is a weary job, looking for
a friend in a great big city. One street is more perplexing than a
hundred miles of open country. A window or a wall separates you from her
whom you seek. You pass day after day, perhaps, within speaking distance
of her whom you love, and never know that she is near you. Every door
is a puzzle, every lighted window an enigma. The great city is a Sahara,
in which you look for one special grain of sand; and doubt, perplexity,
and heart yearning accompany you on your mission. I could not write,
neither could I turn my attention to manual labour. My whole being was
centred on my search, and the thought of anything else was repugnant to
me. My desire for Norah grew and grew, it filled my soul, leaving no
room for anything else.
To Moran's, where I stayed, the navvies came daily when out on their
eternal wanderings, and here I met many of my old mates. They came,
stopped for a night, and then padded out for Rosyth, where the big naval
base, still in process of construction, was then in its first stages of
building. Most of the men had heard of my visit to London, and none
seemed surprised at my return. None of them thought that the job had
done me much good, for now my hands were as white as a woman's. Carroty
Dan, who came in drunk one night, examined me critically and allowed
that he could knock me out easily in my present condition, but being too
drunk to follow up any train of reasoning he dropped, in the midst of
his utterances, on the sawdust of the floor and fell asleep. Hell-fire
Gahey, Clancy of the Cross, Ben the Moocher, and Red Billy Davis all
passed through Moran's, one of their stages on the road to Rosyth. Most
of them wanted me to accompany the big stampede, but I had no ear for
their proposals. I had a mission of my own, and until it was completed
no man could persuade me to leave Glasgow.
I made enquiries about Moleskin Joe. Most of the men had met Moleskin
lately, but they did not know where he was at the moment. Some said that
he was in gaol, one that he was dead, and another that he was married.
But I knew that if he was alive, and that if I stopped long enough in
Moran's, I would meet him there, for most navvies pass that way more
than once in their lives. I had, however, lost a great deal of interest
in Moleskin's doings. There was only one thing for which I now lived,
and that was the search for the girl whom I loved.
One morning about four o'clock I returned to my lodgings and stole
upstairs to the bedroom, which contained three other beds in addition to
mine. The three were occupied, and as I turned on the gas I took a
glimpse of the sleepers. Two of them I did not know, but I gave a start
of surprise when I caught a glimpse of the unshaven face showing over
the blankets of the bed next to mine. I was looking at Moleskin Joe. I
approached the bed. The man was snoring loudly and his breath was heavy
with the fumes of alcohol. I clutched the blankets and shook the
sleeper.
"Moleskin!" I shouted.
He grumbled out some incoherent words and turned over on his side.
"Moleskin!" I called again, and gave him a more vigorous shake.
"Lemme alone, damn you!" he growled. "There's a good time comin'----"
The sentence ended in a snore and Joe fell asleep again. I troubled him
no further, but turned off the light and slipped into bed.
In the morning I woke with a start to find Joe shaking me with all his
might. He was standing beside my bed, undressed, save for his trousers.
"Flynn!" he yelled, when I opened my eyes. "My great unsanctified
Pontius Pilate, it's Flynn! Hurrah! May the walls of hell fall on me if
I'm not glad to see you. May I get a job shoein' geese and drivin' swine
to clover if this is not the greatest day of my life! Dermod Flynn, I am
glad to see---- Great blazes, your hands are like the hands of a brothel
slut!"
Joe left off his wild discourses and prodded the hand which I placed
over the blankets with his knuckles. He was still half intoxicated, and
a bottle three-quarters full of spirits was lying against the pillow of
his bed.
"White as a mushroom, but hard as steel," he said when he finished
prodding.
"How are you, Moleskin?" I asked. They were the first words that I had
spoken.
"Nine pounds to the good!" he roared. "I'll paint Moran's red with it.
I'll raise Cain and flamin' fiery hell until ev'ry penny's spent. Then
Rosyth, muck barrows, hard labour, and growlin' gangers again. But who'd
have thought of seen' you here!" he went on in a quieter tone. "Man!
I've often been thinkin' of you. I heard that you went up to Lon'on,
then I found the name of the paper where you were workin' your shifts
and I bought it ev'ry day. By God! I did, Flynn. I read all them great
pieces about the East Lon'on workin' people. I read some of your
writin's to the men in Burn's at Greenock, and some of the lodgers said
that you were stuck up and priggish. I knew what you'd do if you were
there yourself. You would knock red and blue blazes out of ev'ry man of
them. Well, you weren't there and I done the job for you. Talk about
skin and hair! It was flyin' all over the place between the hot-plate
and the door for two hours and longer. I'm damned eternal if it wasn't a
fight! Never seen the like of it.... Man! your hands are like a woman's,
Flynn!... Come and have a drink, one good long, gulpin' drink, and it
will make a man of you!... Did you like the ways of London?"
"No," I replied. "The pen was not in my line."
"I knew that," said Joe solemnly, as he lifted the bottle from the
pillow. "Finger doctorin' doesn't suit a man like you. When you work you
must get your shoulder at the job and all the strength of your spine
into the graft. Have some blasted booze?"
"I've given up the booze, Moleskin," I answered.
He glanced at me with a look of frosty contempt and his eyes were fixed
for a long while on my white hands.
"Lon'on has done for you, man, and it is a pity indeed," he said at
last, but I understood Moleskin and knew that his compassion was given
more in jest than in earnest. "What are you goin' to do? Are you for
Rosyth?"
"No."
"Then why the devil aren't you?"
"Are you going there?" I asked, forgetting that he had already told me
of his design.
"When I burst the last tanner in my pocket," he answered. "I've nine
quid clear, so I'll get drunk nine hundred times and more. What caused
you to give up the booze? A woman, was it?"
Suddenly the impulse came to me and I told Joe my story, my second
meeting with Norah Ryan, and my desire to see her again. There in the
ragged bed, with Joe stripped naked to the buff, and half drunk, sitting
beside me, I told the story of my love for Norah, our parting, her
shame, and my weary searching for her through the streets of Glasgow.
Much of the story he knew, for I had told it to him in Kinlochleven long
before. But I wanted to unburden myself of my sorrow, I wanted sympathy,
I wanted the consolation of a fellow-man in my hours of worry. When I
had finished my mate remained silent for a long while and I expected his
usual tirades against women when he began to speak. On the contrary, the
story seemed to have sobered him and his voice was full of feeling when
he spoke.
"I'm goin' to help you to find your wench, Dermod," he said. "That's
better than gettin' drunk, though I'd prefer gettin' drunk to gettin'
married."
"But----"
"Don't but me!" roared Joe. "I'm goin' to give you a hand. Do you like
that or do you not?"
"I'll be more than glad to have your help," I answered; "but----"
"No more damned buts, but let's get to business. Here, Judas Iscariot,
are you feelin' sour this mornin'?"
Joe spoke to one of the lodgers, a hairy and deformed fellow who was
just emerging in all his nakedness from the blankets.
"Hellish sour, Moleskin!" answered the man. "Anything to spare?"
"Take this and get drunk out of sight," said Moleskin, handing him the
bottle.
"You mean it?" exclaimed the man. "You are goin' to give me the whole
bottle?"
"Take it and get out of my sight," was all that Joe said and the old man
left the room, hugging the bottle under his naked arm.
"He was a bank clerk did you say?" asked Moleskin. "Them sort of fellows
that wear white collars and are always washing themselves. I never could
trust them, Flynn, never in all my natural. Now give me the farmer
cully's address; maybe he knows where your wench is."
In my heart of hearts I knew that the mission proposed by Joe would have
no beneficial results, but I could not for the life of me say a word to
restrain him from going. In my mind there was a blind trust in some
unshapen chance and I allowed Joe to have his way.
The farmhouse where Alec Morrison lived being twenty miles distant from
Glasgow, I offered Joe his railway fare, and for a moment I was
overwhelmed by his Rabelaisian abuse. He would see me fried on the
red-hot ovens and spits of hell if ever I offered him money again.
Morrison maybe was not at home; perhaps he had gone to London, to
Canada. But Joe would find him out, I thought; and it was with a
certain amount of satisfaction that I remembered having heard how Joe
once fought a man twenty-six times, and getting knocked out every time
challenged his opponent to a twenty-seventh contest. In the last fight
my mate was victorious.
During his absence I moped about, unable to work, unable to think, and
hoping against hope that the mission would be successful. Late in the
afternoon he returned with a sprained thumb and without any tidings of
my sweetheart. The clerk was at home, and the encounter with Joe was
violent from the outset. Morrison said that my mate was a fool who had
nothing better to do than meddle with the morals of young women; and
refused to answer any questions. Joe took the matter in hand in his
usual fistic and persuasive way and learned that the farmer's son had
not seen Norah for years and that he did not know where she was. Joe,
angry at his failure, sprained his thumb on the young man's face before
coming back to Glasgow.
"And what was the good of this?" said Moleskin, holding up his sprained
thumb and looking at it. "It didn't give one much satisfaction to knock
him down. He is a fellow with no thoughts in his head; one of them kind
that thinks three shillings a week paid to a woman will wipe out any sin
or shame. By God! I'm a bad one, Flynn, damned bad, but I hope that I've
been worse to myself than anybody on this or the other side of the
grave. Look at these young women who come over from Ireland! I'd rather
have the halter of Judas Iscariot round my neck than be the cause of
sendin' one of them to the streets, and all for the woman's sake, Flynn.
There should be something done for these women. If we find a tanner
lying in the mud we lift and rub it on our coats to clean it; but if we
find a woman down we throw more mud over her.... I like you, Flynn, for
the way you stand up for that wench of yours. Gold rings, collars, and
clean boots, and under it all a coward. That's what Morrison is."
"What is to be done now?" I asked. Joe was silent, but his mind was at
work. All that evening he sat by the bed, his mind deep in thought,
while I paced up and down the room, a prey to agony and remorse.
"I have it, Flynn," he cried at length. "I have it, man!" He jumped up
from his bed in great excitement.
"Your wench was Catholic and she would go to the chapel; a lot of them
do. They steal into church just like thieves, almost afraid to ask
pardon for their sins, Flynn. If there is anything good in them they
hide it, just as another person would hide a fault; but maybe some
priest knows her, some priest on the south side. We'll go and ask one of
the clergy fellows thereabouts. Maybe one of them will have met the
woman. I've never knew a----" He stopped suddenly and left the sentence
unspoken.
"Go on," I said. "What were you going to say?"
"Most of the women that I know go to church."
His words spoke volumes. Well did I know the class of women who were
friends of Moleskin Joe, and from personal experience I knew that his
remarks were true.
It was now eight o'clock. We went out together and sought the priest who
had charge of the chapel nearest the spot where many months before I had
met Norah Ryan. The priest was a grey-haired and kindly old Irishman,
and he welcomed us heartily. Joe, to whom a priest represented some kind
of monster, was silent in the man's presence, but I, having been born
and bred a Roman Catholic, was more at home with the old man.
I told my story, but he was unable to offer any assistance. His
congregation was a large one and many of its members were personally
unknown to him.
"But in the confessional, Father," I said. "Probably there you have
heard a story similar to mine. Maybe the girl whom I seek has told you
of her life when confessing her sins. Perhaps you may recollect hearing
such a story in the confessional, Father."
"It may be, but in that case the affair rests between the penitent and
God," said the old priest sadly, and a far-away look came into his
kindly eyes.
"If the disclosure of a confessional secret brings happiness to one
mortal at the expense of none, is it not best for a man to disclose it?"
I asked.
"I act under God's orders and He knows what is best," said the old man,
and there was a touch of reproof in his voice.
Sick at heart, I rose to take my leave. Moleskin, glad to escape from
the house, hurried towards the door which the priest opened. As I was
passing out, the old man laid a detaining hand upon my arm.
"In a situation like this, one of God's servants hardly knows what is
best to do," he said in a low whisper which Moleskin, already in the
street, could not hear. "Perhaps it is not contrary to God's wishes that
I should go against His commands and make two of His children happy even
in this world. Three months ago, your sweetheart was in this very
district, in this parish, and in this chapel. Do not ask me how I have
learned this," he hurried on, as I made a movement to interrupt him. "If
I mistake not she was then in good health and eager to give up a certain
sin, which God has long since forgiven. Be clean of heart, my child, and
God will aid you in your search and you'll surely find her."
He closed the door softly behind me and once again I found myself in the
street along with Moleskin.
"What was the fellow sayin' to you?" asked my mate.
"He says that he has seen her three months ago," I answered. "But
goodness knows where she is now!"
In the subsequent search Moleskin showed infinite resource. Torn by the
emotions of love, I could not form correct judgments. No sooner had one
expedient failed, however, than my mate suggested another. On the
morning after our interview with the priest he suddenly rose from his
seat in the bedroom, full of a new design.
"My great Jehovah, I have it, Flynn!" he roared enthusiastically.
"What is it?" I asked. Every new outburst of Moleskin gave me renewed
hope.
"Gourock Ellen, that's the woman!" he cried. "She knows ev'rything and
she lives in the south side, where you saw your wench for the last time.
I'm goin' to see Gourock Ellen, for she's the woman that knows
ev'rything, by God! she does. You can stop here and I'll be back in next
to no time."
About seven o'clock in the evening Joe returned. There was a strained
look on his face and he gazed at me furtively when he entered. Instantly
I realised that the search had not gone well. He was nervous and
agitated, and his voice was low and subdued. It was not Moleskin's voice
at all. Something had happened, something discouraging, awful.
"I'm back again," he said.
"Have you seen her, Joe?" I asked hoarsely. I had been waiting his
return for hours and I was on the tenter-hooks of suspense.
"I've seen Gourock Ellen," said Joe.
"Does she know anything about Norah?"
"She does." I waited for further information, but my mate relapsed into
a silence which irritated me.
"Where is Norah, Moleskin?" I cried. "Tell me what that woman said. I'm
sick of waiting day after day. What did Gourock Ellen tell you, Joe?"
"I saw Norah Ryan, too," was Moleskin's answer.
"Thank you, Moleskin!" I cried impetuously. "You're a real good
sort----"
A look at Joe's face damped my enthusiasm. Why the agitation and
faltering voice? Presentiments of bad tidings filled my mind and my
voice trembled as I put the next question.
"Where did you see her, Joe?" I asked.
"In Gourock Ellen's house."
"In that woman's house!" I gasped involuntarily, for I had not rid
myself of the fugitive disgust with which I had regarded that woman when
first I met her. "That's not the house for Norah! What took her there?"
"Gourock Ellen found Norah lyin' on the streets hurted because some
hooligans treated her shameful," said Joe, in a low and almost inaudible
voice. "For the last six weeks she has watched over your girl, day and
night, when there was not another friend to help her in all the world.
And now Norah Ryan is for death. She'll not live another twenty-four
hours!"
To me existence has meant succeeding reconciliations to new misfortunes,
and now the greatest misfortune had happened. Moleskin's words cut
through my heart as a whiplash cuts through the naked flesh. Fate,
chance, and the gods were against me, and the spine of life was almost
broken.