In a cheap, grimy-looking hash-house on Third Avenue Armitage sat alone
at a table, partaking with apparent relish of the rough yet not
unwholesome fare which his slender purse could afford to pay for. The
hour being late, he had exclusively to himself the services of the one
greasy and cadaverous waiter, while the proprietor of the restaurant, if
the "joint" might be dignified by so respectable a name, sat behind his
rostrum near the window, sulkily reckoning up the day's receipts.
Through the open door came all the distressing sounds and smells that
make this particular thoroughfare the noisiest and most objectionable of
the city's main arteries. Overhead the elevated trains crashed with
deafening noise, push-cart vendors shouted their wares, Italian
organ-grinders played discordant tunes, smudged-faced, tattered children
romped in the unclean gutters, slovenly housewives quarreled with cranky
janitors, a drunkard staggered in bestial condition from a corner
saloon, roughly moved on by a uniformed bully with swinging club;
sinister figures of men and women, human derelicts, crouched in
doorways, pavements and sidewalks were filthy with torn paper and
decaying fruit, tattered washing hanging from broken-down
fire-escapes--everything that is degraded and sordid was centered here
right in the heart of the richest and most modern city in the world.
But Armitage was too busily preoccupied to be disturbed by his squalid
surroundings. His appetite was keen, thanks to a day's hard work, and,
while he devoured with amazing celerity the contents of his heaped-up
plate, he stopped every now and then to read with closer attention the
newspaper which was propped up before him. It was a torn copy of that
morning's _Tribune_, and the part which interested him was an account on
the society page of the big reception which had taken place at the
residence of Mr. John Harmon on the previous day. It being a social
event of some importance, two columns were devoted to it, the writer
explaining the special occasion which it was intended to celebrate, and
retelling in vivid detail the story of the _Atlanta_'s ill-fated
voyage. Armitage smiled as he read the account, sensationally
exaggerated, of the beautiful young heiress' hairbreadth escapes from
angry ocean and venomous serpent and all the other terrors of a desert
island in company with a common sailor, who, when the rescue-party
safely reached America, strangely disappeared despite the grateful
railroad man's tireless efforts to discover his whereabouts and reward
him. Then the article went on to tell of Miss Harmon's improved
appearance, the delight of her friends, and to describe the wonderful
gowns worn by the fashionable women who had thronged to welcome her
home.
He was reading the article in a careless, amused kind of way when
suddenly he came to a paragraph which made him sit up with a start. It
read as follows:
"But perhaps the chief interest of the afternoon, apart from the
charming young heroine, centred in a distinguished guest, Prince
Sergius of Eurasia. His Royal Highness has been a frequent caller
at the Harmon residence ever since Miss Harmon's return, and, as
usual, gossip has been busy trying to find some plausible
explanation of this growing intimacy between the heir presumptive
to a European throne, and the family of an American railroad king.
It is whispered that Miss Harmon, whose marriage has been the
topic of the last two seasons, is not indifferent to the Prince,
and that if the consent of the King can be obtained, the
engagement of the young couple will be shortly announced."
A lump rose in Armitage's throat. Calling for a cup of coffee, he lit
his pipe and took up the paper again. After all, he thought
philosophically, why should he care? The girl was lost to him, that was
certain. He would never see her again. She was a bit of sunshine that
had suddenly burst into his dark, unhappy life; and suddenly gone again,
leaving the outlook blacker than ever. He knew it was hopeless. He loved
her, would always love her. Time would make no difference. She would
marry her prince and have long forgotten her adventure on the island,
and still he, knocking alone about the world, would cherish her memory
in his heart.
He did not blame her. It was different in her case. On the island, alone
with him, she might in time have learned to care for him. They might
have been happy together, far happier than she would ever be in her
Eurasian palace. But when the spell was once broken, when she returned
to New York and was once more absorbed in her fashionable life, it was
only natural that she should speedily forget him.
He threw the newspaper down and, having settled his bill, was about to
rise and leave, when suddenly his eye was arrested by an advertisement
he saw in the paper which he had just put aside. Picking it up again, he
read as follows:
ARMITAGE: If John Armitage, second son of Sir William Armitage, of
Alnwick Towers, Bucks, England, will communicate at once with the
undersigned he will learn something to his advantage. Coxe and
Willoughby, attorneys, 27 Broad Street, N. Y. City.
His heart beating furiously, he read the advertisement over and over.
John Armitage, second son of Sir William Armitage of Alnwick Towers,
Bucks, England--what a familiar sound that had! Many long weary years
had gone by since he had seen those names in print. What could have
happened! Why should they want to communicate with him--the scapegrace
of the family? He turned pale. Could his father be dead--the father who
had cursed him and forbade him ever to appear before him again? Even if
he were dead they would not send for him. His elder brother would
succeed to the title and estates.
Letting the paper drop out of his hands, he rose and, leaving the place,
walked along Third Avenue as if in a dream. Coxe and Willoughby, 27
Broad Street! Well, there was no harm in calling on them to see what
they wanted. Their offices would be closed now, but he would go first
thing in the morning. The dull roar of the city's tremendous traffic,
the clanging of car-gongs, the hoarse cries of news vendors greeted him
as he stemmed the tide of pushing humanity, men and women toilers--the
day's work ended--all hurrying to trains and ferries. A wagon driven at
reckless speed round a corner nearly knocked him down as he crossed a
street. A fellow workman loafing at the entrance to a saloon jocularly
invited him to enter and take a drink. But he paid no heed. He strode
along, walking as on air, his thoughts far away.
The advertisement he had just read had taken him back fifteen years. He
saw himself in England, just graduated from College, receiving the
congratulations of his friends. He remembered his father's pride in his
success and his kindly admonition to continue as he had begun, so that
one day he might add even more distinction to the honorable name he
bore. How had he followed that sage advice? No sooner released from the
restraint of the University than he plunged into every form of
dissipation, sowing his wild oats recklessly, blindly, utterly
indifferent to the deadly crop they might one day yield. The corrupt,
gay city beckoned to him, and he could not resist its pleasure-call. He
scattered gold right and left on race-tracks, at cards, on women. A
small inheritance turned over at his majority went speedily the way of
all the rest, and then he went to the money-lenders to pay for further
extravagances, incurring obligations he could not meet. Sir William,
sorely disappointed, came to the rescue again and again, and, extracting
a promise of reformation, made him enter Woolwich to try for a
commission in the Army. Plucked at every examination, he was quickly
discouraged, returned to his fast companions and gradually drifted into
the aimless, loose way of living of the idle man-about-town. Debts
accumulated, the creditors dunned and dogged his footsteps until life
became unbearable. His father, incensed beyond hope of pardon, turned a
deaf ear to further appeals, and finally cut off his allowance
altogether, hoping to teach him a lesson. Soon his clothes got shabby,
he was forced into cheap lodgings, his fair-weather friends forgot to
bow to him.
That was the beginning of the end. He drifted lower and lower until he
was forced to go to work or starve. He knew no trade. He was obliged to
accept what he could get. He turned his hand to anything, often making
barely enough to secure himself a night's lodging. Finally, when things
seemed at their darkest, he heard there was a demand for stokers on the
Blue Star Line. What he had suffered down there in that hell's furnace
no man knew! The poor devils who had to do the work never survived to
tell of their devilish toil. If these millionaires who liked to travel
in fast ships knew the physical agony the vessel's speed cost a human
being, they would refuse to patronize them. Thank God those days were
over! No matter what happened, he would never go back to the
stoke-hold.
That night as he lay on his cot in his Bowery lodging-house he tossed
uneasily, unable to sleep, wondering what Coxe & Willoughby, Attorneys,
of 27 Broad Street, wanted with him.