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THE FLAW IN THE SAPPHIRE
BY CHARLES M. SNYDER
AUTHOR OF "COMIC HISTORY OF GREECE"
"RUNAWAY ROBINSON" "SNAP SHOTS" ETC.
NEW YORK
THE METROPOLITAN PRESS
1909
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Copyright, 1909, by THE METROPOLITAN PRESS
Registered at Stationers' Hall, London (All Rights Reserved)
Printed in the United States of America
Press of Wm. G. Hewitt
24-26 Vandewater St.
New York
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Augustine E. McBee
A friend who stands since "Auld Lang Syne"
To all that's fine related;
To him, this little book of mine
Is duly dedicated.
--Charles M. Snyder.
New York, September, 1909.
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THE FLAW IN THE SAPPHIRE
CHAPTER I
Not long since there lived, in the city of Philadelphia, a young man of
singular identity.
His only parallel was the comedian who is compelled to take himself
seriously and make the most of it, or a tart plum that concludes in a
mellow prune.
He was the affinity of two celebrated instances to the contrary.
To those who enjoy the whimsies of paradox he presented an astonishing
resemblance, in countenance, to the late Benjamin Disraeli, and
maintained in speech the unmistakable accent of O'Connell, the Hebrew
statesman's Celtic antagonist.
For these reasons, until the nature of his business was discovered, he
was regarded with interest by that class which is disposed to estimate
the contents of a book by the character of the binding, or thinks it
can measure a man's ability by the size of his hat.
On nearer acquaintance, he was relegated to the dubious distinction of
an oddity to whom you would be pleased to introduce your friends if you
had only a satisfactory account of his antecedents.
He was cheerful, startling, ready and adroit.
Until betrayed by his brief but effectual familiarities, it was a
curious experience to remark the approach of this singular being and
wonder at the appraising suggestion in his speculative glance.
Presently you decided that it was the intention of this young man to
address you, and, unconsciously, you accorded him the opportunity, only
to be scandalized the moment afterward by the query, altogether
incongruous in such a promising aspect:
"Any old clothes to-day?"
And you passed on, chagrined and wondering.
For a number of years, while his auditors paused in an attempt to
disentangle the Semite from the Celt, there was scarcely a day in which
he had not subjected himself to the more or less pronounced hazards of
rebuff incident to his invariable query, and there were few citizens of
the sterner sex whom he had not thus addressed.
Apparently no consideration restrained him.
None was too dignified, none sufficiently austere to escape his
solicitation; and while, as a rule, he waited until the object of his
regard came to a standstill, he had been known to approach diagonally,
and, at the point of incidence, presenting his query, pass on with a
glance of impassive impersonality when it was evident that his overtures
were futile or worse.
When successful in his forays, he would convey the results of his
efforts to his father, who, after getting the garments thus secured in a
condition of fictitious newness, displayed them in front of his
establishment, marked with prices which, as he explained to those unwary
enough to venture within the radius of his personality, brought him as
near to nervous prostration as was possible for the parent of such
inconsequent offspring.
However, no matter what the rewards of such industry, it must not be
imagined that its disabilities did not insist upon due recognition and
ugly ravel, and that such shred and fibre did not obtrude their
unwelcome appeals for repair upon their central figure.
Shrewd, intelligent, persistent, he soon discovered that the very
qualities which made him successful in his calling rendered him
obnoxious to those who were unable to harmonize his promise with his
condition.
However, like the majority of his countrymen, outside of those who
constituted the Manhattan police force and provided the country with
justices of the peace, this young man was a philosopher.
He could always provide a silver lining for a cloud as long as it was
plausible to do so, and when he had exhausted his genial resources, he
looked at facts squarely.
On this basis he decided, finally, that his was a case of "bricks
without straw," enthusiasm minus its basis, an unhappy conclusion which
was emphasized by his patient attempts to soften his angularities with
the advantages provided by a night school.
Unfortunately, a business man, with an eye to the bizarre, to whom
Dennis had presented some of his characteristic enterprises, had put the
young Irishman in the way of securing a biography of the Hebrew premier,
whom he provided with such an absurd travesty of likeness, and the "ole
clo' merchant" was so impressed by the resolution and dexterity of the
celebrated statesman, that he became, from that moment, the prey of a
consuming ambition whose direction he could not determine.
He grew positive daily, however, that, in view of these stimulating
aspirations, he could no longer pursue his embarrassing avocation.
On the basis, therefore, that the greater the pent the more pronounced
the explosion, the young merchant developed a dangerous readiness to
embrace the first opportunity that presented herself in the hope that
the caress would be returned.
Presently, the determination to exchange his present humiliations for
future uncertainties advanced him to the point where he informed his
father of his decision, and the latter immediately succumbed to a
collapse which was Hebraic in its despair and entirely Celtic in its
manifestation.
When this irate parent realized, at last, that this invaluable arm of
his business could not be diverted from its purpose, with cruel celerity
he cut off his son from all further consideration and forbade him the
premises.
With the previous week's salary in his pocket, which, fortunately, had
been undisturbed, Dennis Muldoon, on the day succeeding this unhappy
interview with his sire, set out for New York City with his few
belongings condensed, with campaigning foresight, in a satchel whose
size and appearance would scarcely inspire the confidence man to claim
previous acquaintance with its owner in order to investigate its
contents later.
In this manner protected from the insinuating blandishments of the
"buncoes," and guided by his native shrewdness, Dennis finally found
accommodation for his meager impedimenta in an unassuming lodging-house
called The Stag.
This establishment reflected, in a curious way, the demands of its
patrons.
Almost the entire first floor was occupied by the glittering details of
a seductive barroom, through which one was compelled to pass, challenged
on every side by alluring labels, before reaching the restaurant
immediately in the rear.
Above, the floors were divided into numerous sleeping-rooms barely large
enough to accommodate a bed, washstand and one chair--a sordid ensemble,
unrelieved by any other wall decoration than the inevitable
announcement: "This way to the fire escape."
By a singular coincidence which would have aroused a lively emotion in
the moralist, a Bible occupied a small shelf directly under the
instructions quoted above.
Dennis, however, was too weary to recognize the grim association, and
shortly after his arrival retired for the night to recuperate his
energies for the uncertainties of the morrow.
Awakening at dawn with a sincere hope that his dreams of a succession
of disasters were not prophetic, and, despite the appeals of the glitter
and the labels in the bar, breakfasting with his customary
abstemiousness, Dennis issued from The Stag with a determination to make
the effort of his life to secure employment.
He had no definite plans other than a profound determination to resist
the invitations of Baxter Street, a thoroughfare congested from end to
end with innumerable shops devoted to the species of merchandizing from
which he had so recently escaped.
Here his talents would have procured for him ready recognition, a
condition which deepened his determination to avoid all possible contact
with these solicitous sons of Shem.
Beyond a singular desire to enter a large publishing house, Dennis had
no idea as to the direction of his efforts.
Aside from the fact that books held an unaccountable fascination for
him, he could not explain this predilection, for their influence over
him was in the aggregate.
He loved to wander, with aimless preoccupation, among closely-packed
shelves, and in pursuance of this indirection was familiar with the
interior of every library in the city of Philadelphia.
He appeared to have too much respect for the books to touch them, and
was sufficiently in awe of their contents not to attempt to read them.
He was impressed by the volume of things, and had, unsuspected by
himself, the capacity of the bibliophile to detect and enjoy the subtle
aroma which emanates from leaves and binding.
In harmony, therefore, with the resolute quality which had secured to
him what success he had enjoyed in his abandoned business, Dennis
decided to exhaust the pleasing possibilities presented by this elevated
industry before applying elsewhere.
The eclat of possible authorship did not influence him, despite the
encouragement afforded him in the surprising efforts of his imagination
displayed in achievements such as the following, with which he
embellished the front of his father's establishment:
This Suit
was
$50
and cheap at that
I'll let it go for
$20
and so on indefinitely.
Urged, then, by the advantages which lubricate the lines of least
resistance, and stimulated by that clarion phrase in his unfailing
campaign document, his copy of Beaconsfield: "I have begun many things
many times and have finally succeeded," Dennis presented himself, about
ten o'clock, at one of the well-known publishing houses.
With all the alarm which affects the fair debutante at a court
presentation, he beheld the confusing labyrinth of counters, department
aisles and shelves, which combine in such a depressing suggestion of
intellectual plethora and transient futility in this famous edifice.
Advised by his sensations, Dennis was quite ready to assure himself that
he had entered at the wrong portal, and, returning to the street, he
discovered that the building concluded upon a rearway congested with a
disorderly array of drays, cases and porters.
Encouraged by the assurance of these more familiar surroundings, Dennis
cast an anxious glance about him to discover one more in authority than
the others.
His quest was given direction by a familiar accent.
"Wake up, ye lazy divils! It's dhramin' ye are this marnin'."
Guided by the sound, Dennis beheld a naturally cheerful Irishman
occupied with the double task of assuming an austere demeanor, and
quickening, with brisk orders, the movements of the porters under his
direction.
His present difficulties mastered, this vivacious master of ceremonies
turned to look, with an inquiring glance, upon Dennis, who had presented
himself to the attention of the former with the unmistakable appeal of
the candidate in his demeanor.
"I want a job," said Dennis simply.
"Phwat?" inquired the foreman sharply, staring at the mosaic of
physiognomy and accent embodied in Dennis.
"I want a job," repeated Dennis. "I nade wurk."
There was no mistaking the peculiar burr in the utterance of the last
two words, but the foreman continued to regard the speaker with
suspicious amazement.
"Phwat are ye, annyway?" he said with guarded brusqueness.
"A poor man, sir; I nade wurk."
"Oi don't mane that," with less severity at this frank acknowledgment;
"but where do yez hail from--Limerick or Jerusalem?"
At this pointed question, which promptly reminded Dennis of the singular
contradiction he presented, he replied, with a genuine Celtic adroitness
that had an immediate effect upon his hearer:
"Nayther; I got off at the midway junction."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the foreman, as he appreciated this clever explanation
of the singular compromise presented by Dennis. "Shure, that's not bad.
By the mug ye wear, I wud advise ye to go to Baxther Street, but by the
sound av ye, Oi rickommind th' Broadway squad. Wurrk, is it? Why don't
ye presint that face at th' front? I hear they're shy on editors."
"Shure!" said Dennis, who believed that he was progressing; "but the
only things I iver wrote were store signs."
"Ah, ha!" replied the foreman, "so it's handy with th' brush ye are."
"Yes," answered Dennis.
"Wait a bit," said the foreman, and pointing to a marking-outfit he
directed Dennis to display his name and address upon a smooth pine board
which he provided for that purpose:
DENNIS MULDOON,
The Stag Hotel,
Vesey St.,
N.Y.
"Ah, ha!" cried the foreman as he contrasted the name with the
incongruous face of the young man before him, "ye don't have to play it
on a flute, annyway; there's nothin' Sheeny about that." Then, directing
his attention to the character of the work itself, he added: "That's not
bad at all, at all. See here," he said abruptly, as he picked up the
board which Dennis had decorated and fastened it to the warehouse wall
with a nail, "Oi'll kape that for riferince. Oh, Oi mane it," he said
with gruff assurance, as he noted the disappointment which shadowed the
expressive face before him; "an' mebbe ye won't have to wait so long,
nayther."
"I hope not," said Dennis frankly.
"Well, ye see," said the foreman, "the prisint incoombent has been
mixin' too much red wid his paint, an' it don't wurrk."
"You mean he drinks?" asked Dennis with humorous inquiry.
"Oi do," replied the foreman; "an' now that we have inthroduced th'
subject, excuse a personal quistion: Do ye wet yure whistle in business
hours?"
"No," answered Dennis promptly, "nor out of them. Father attended to
that part of the business."
"Well," replied the foreman, "Oi can't talk longer wid ye this marnin'.
Come 'round be th' ind of the wake," and dismissing Dennis with a nod he
withdrew into the warehouse.
The main feature of discouragement which presented itself to Dennis as
he left this locality to ponder over its possibilities, was that the end
of the week was five days off.
This was serious.
His rupture with Muldoon, senior, had left him but poorly provided with
linen and lucre; and a campaign of assault upon the barricades of
prejudice and suspicion, which was involved in the anxious solicitude of
the man seeking employment, demanded every possible accessory of
personal appearance and a reasonably equipped commissariat.
Anxious, therefore, to subject his meager resources to the least strain
possible, Dennis at last succeeded in securing, in one of the more
pretentious stores on Baxter Street, a contrivance for the relief of
penury and threadbare gentility known at that time by the name of
"dickey."
This convenience consisted in a series of three shirt bosoms made of
paper to resemble the luxury of linen.
When the surface first exposed showed symptoms of soil or wear, its
removal revealed a fresh bosom directly under.
Adjusted to his waistcoat, it was almost impossible to detect the
agreeable sham, which, under favorable auspices, could be made to last
for a week.
Thus equipped, Dennis proceeded to his hotel, where, after according the
cheerful salutation of the industrious barkeeper the acknowledgment of a
lively Irish nod, in which there was both fellowship and refusal, he
proceeded to the rear, to banquet upon whatever offered the most for his
money.
During the two days succeeding, Dennis, true to the apprehensive
calculation natural to the unemployed, did not propose to rest upon the
assurances of his Irish friend in the publishing house.
Anything untoward might occur.
In fact, he was familiar with this seamy side of Providence.
He had been so often misled by promises that it was only his wholesome
Celtic faith and prompt capacity to rebound which kept him from becoming
entirely blase.
His experience, however, left him alert. So he applied industriously at
various establishments for employment, and received his first lessons in
the courteous duplicity which ostentatiously files the application for
future reference, and the cruel kindness of frank rebuff.
On the morning of the third day of this futile foray, Dennis noticed
that the exposed bosom of his dickey was not altogether presentable.
It appeared to have registered the record of his applications and
failures, and, as such, was not a good campaign document, so to speak.
Having progressed in his simple toilet up to the point of embellishment,
he proceeded to tear away the soiled surface, and in doing so discovered
not only the clean bosom beneath, but that the rear of the one just
detached was covered with a block of minute print.
Drawing the solitary chair close to the window, he read by the light of
early dawn the following extraordinary compilation.