Thanks to the constitution of a Nubian lion, Dirty Dan's wounds and
contusions had healed very rapidly and after he got out of hospital,
he spent ten days in recuperating his sadly depleted strength. His
days he spent in the sunny lee of a lumber pile in the drying-yard,
where, in defiance of the published ordinance, he smoked plug tobacco
and perused the _Gaelic American_.
Now, Mr. O'Leary, as has been stated earlier in this chronicle, was
bad black Irish. Since the advent of Oliver Cromwell into Ireland, the
males of every generation of the particular tribe of O'Leary to which
Dirty Dan belonged had actively or passively supported the battles of
Ould Ireland against the hereditary enemy across the Channel, and
Dirty Dan had suckled this holy hatred at his mother's breast;
wherefore he regarded it in the light of his Christian duty to keep
that hate alive by subscribing to the _Gaelic American_ and believing
all he read therein anent the woes of the Emerald Isle. Mr. O'Leary
was also a member of an Irish-American revolutionary society, and was
therefore aware that presently his kind of Irish were to rise, cast
off their shackles (and, with the help o' God and the German kaiser)
proclaim the Irish Republic.
For several months past, Daniel's dreams had dwelt mostly with
bayonet-practice. Ordinary bayonets, however, were not for him. He
dreamed his trusty steel was as long as a cross-cut saw, and nightly
he skewered British soldiers on it after the fashion of kidneys and
bacon _en brochette_. For two months he had been saving his money
toward a passage home to Ireland and the purchase of a rifle and two
thousand rounds of ammunition--soft-nose bullets preferred--with the
pious intention of starting with "th' bhoys" at the very beginning and
going through with them to the bloody and triumphant finish.
Unfortunately for Dirty Dan, his battle in defense of Donald McKaye
had delayed his sortie to the fields of martyrdom. On the morning that
Nan Brent left Port Agnew, however, fortune had again smiled upon The
O'Leary. Meeting Judge Moore, who occupied two local offices--justice
of the peace and coroner--upon the street, that functionary had
informed Dan that the public generally, and he and the town marshal in
particular, traced an analogy between the death of the mulatto in
Darrow and Mr. O'Leary's recent sojourn in the Tyee Lumber Company's
hospital, and thereupon, verbally subpoenaed him to appear before a
coroner's jury the following day at ten o'clock A.M., then and there
to tell what he knew about said homicide.
Dirty Dan received this summons with outward nonchalance but
tremendous secret apprehensions, and immediately fled for advice to no
less a person than Andrew Daney.
However, the Fates ordained that Andrew Daney should be spared the
trouble of advising Dirty Dan, for as the latter came shuffling down
the hall toward Daney's office door, The Laird emerged from his old
office and accosted his henchman.
"Well, Dan!" he greeted the convalescent, "how do you find yourself
these days?"
"Poorly, sir, poorly," Dirty Dan declared. "Twas only yisterd'y I had
to take the other side av the shtreet to av'id a swamper from Darrow,
sir."
The Laird smiled.
"Well, Dan, I think it's about time I did something to make you feel
better. I owe you considerable for that night's work, so here's a
thousand dollars for you, my boy. Go down to southern California or
Florida for a month or two, and when you're back in your old form,
report for duty. I have an idea Mr. Donald intends to make you foreman
of the loading-sheds and the drying-yard when you're ready for duty."
"God bless ye, me lord, an' may the heavens be your bed!" murmured the
astounded lumberjack, as The Laird produced his wallet and counted
into Dan's grimy quivering paw ten crisp hundred-dollar bills. "Oh,
t'ank you, sor; t'ank you a t'ousand times, sor. An' ye'll promise me,
won't ye, to sind for me firrst-off if ye should be wan tin' some
blackguard kilt?"
"I assure you, Dan, you are my sole official killer," laughed The
Laird, and shook the O'Leary's hand with great heartiness. "Better
take my advice about a good rest, Dan."
"Sor, I'll be afther havin' the vacation o' me life."
"Good-by, then, and good luck to you, Dan!"
"Good-by, an' God bless ye, sor!"
Five minutes later, Daniel J. O'Leary was in the general store fitting
on what he termed a "Sunday suit." Also, he bought himself two white
shirts of the "b'iled" variety, a red necktie, a brown Derby hat, and
a pair of shoes, all too narrow to accommodate comfortably his
care-free toes. Next, he repaired to the barber-shop, where he had a
hair-cut and a shave. His ragged red mustache, ordinarily of the
soup-strainer pattern, he had trimmed, waxed, and turned up at each
end; the barber put much pomade on his hair and combed it in a
Mazeppa, with the result that when! Daniel J. O'Leary appeared at the
railroad station the following morning, and purchased a ticket for New
York City, Hector McKaye, loitering in front of the station on the
lookout for Nan Brent, looked at and through Mr. O'Leary without
recognizing him from Adam's off ox.
It is, perhaps, superfluous to remark that Dirty Dan was about to
embark upon an enterprise designed to make his dreams come true. He
was headed for Ireland and close grips with the hated redcoats as fast
as train and steamer could bear him.
Now, Mr. O'Leary had never seen Nan Brent, although he had heard her
discussed in one or two bunk-houses about the time her child had been
born. Also, he was a lumberjack, and since lumberjacks never speak to
the "main push" unless first spoken to, he did not regard it as all
necessary to bring himself to Hector McKaye's notice when his alert
intelligence informed him that The Laird had failed to recognize him
in his going-away habiliments. Further, he could see with half an eye
that The Laird was waiting for somebody, and when that somebody
appeared on the scene, the imp of suspicion in Dirty Dan's character
whispered: "Begorra, is the father up to some shenanigans like the
son? Who's this girrl? I dunno. A young widder, belike, seem' she has
a youngster wit' her."
He saw Nan and The Laird enter into earnest conversation, and his
curiosity mastering him, he ventured to inquire of a roustabout who
was loading baggage on a truck who the young lady might be. Upon
receiving the desired information, he, with difficulty repressed a
whistle of amazement and understanding; instantly his active
imagination was at work.
The girl was leaving Port Agnew. That was evident. Also, The Laird
must have known of this, for he had reached the station before the
girl and waited for her. Therefore, he must have had something to do
with inducing her to depart. Mr. O'Leary concluded that it was quite
within the realm of possibility that The Laird had made it well worth
her while to refrain from wrecking the honor of his house, and he
watched narrowly to observe whether or not money passed between them.
One thing puzzled Dirty Dan extremely. That was the perfectly frank,
friendly manner in which his employer and this outcast woman greeted
each other, the earnestness with which they conversed, and the effect
of the woman's low-spoken words upon the color of Hector McKaye's
face. When The Laird took his leave, the lumberjack noted the
increased respect--the emotion, even--with which he parted from her.
The lumberjack heard him say, "Good-by, my dear, and good luck to you
wherever you go"; so it was obvious Nan Brent was not coming back to
Port Agnew. Knowing what he knew, Mr. O'Leary decided that, upon the
whole, here was good riddance to the McKaye family of rubbish that
might prove embarrassing if permitted to remain dumped on the Sawdust
Pile.
"Poor gurrl," he reflected as he followed Nan aboard the train. "She
have a sweet face, that she have, God forgive her! An be th' Rock av
Cashel, she have a v'ice like an angel from heaven."
He sat down in a seat behind her and across the aisle, and all the way
to Seattle he stared at the back of her neck or the beautiful rounded
profile of her cheek. From time to time, he wondered how much Hector
McKaye had paid her to disappear out of his son's life, and how that
son would feel, and what he would say to his father when he discovered
his light o' love had flown the cage.
The following morning Mr. O'Leary boarded a tourist-sleeper on the
Canadian Pacific, and, to his profound amazement, discovered that Nan
Brent and her child occupied a section in the same car.
"Begorra, she couldn't have shtuck the ould man very deep at that, or
'tis in a standard shleeper an' not a tourist she'd be riding," he
reflected. "What the divil's up here at all, at all, I dunno."
Dirty Dan saw her enter a taxicab at the Grand Central Station in New
York.
"I wonder if the young Caddyheck himself'll meet her here," Mr.
O'Leary reflected, alive with sudden suspicion, and springing into the
taxicab that drew in at the stand the instant the taxi bearing Nan and
her child pulled out, he directed the driver to follow the car ahead,
and in due course found himself before the entrance to a hotel in
lower Broadway--one of that fast disappearing number of fifth-class
hotels which were first-class thirty years ago.
Dirty Dan hovered in the offing until Nan had registered and gone up
to her room. Immediately he registered also, and, while doing so,
observed that Nan had signed her real name and given her address as
Port Agnew, Washington. With unexpected nicety, Dirty Dan decided not
to embarrass her by registering from Port Agnew also, so he gave his
address as Seattle.
For two days, he forgot the woes of Ireland and sat round the stuffy
lobby, awaiting Nan Brent's next move. When he saw her at the
cashier's window paying out, he concealed himself behind a newspaper,
and watched her covertly as the clerk gave instructions to the head
porter regarding the disposition of her baggage. The instant she left
the hotel, accompanied by her child, Dirty Dan approached the porter
and said with an insinuating smile:
"I'd give a dollar to know the address the young lady wit' the baby
bhoy give you f'r the delivery av her trunk."
The porter reached for the dollar and handed Dirty Dan a shipping tag
containing the address. Mr. O'Leary laboriously wrote the address in a
filthy little memorandum-book, and that afternoon made a point of
looking up Nan's new habitation. He discovered it to be an old
brownstone front in lower Madison Avenue, and a blue-and-gold sign
over the area fence indicated to Mr. O'Leary that, from an abode of
ancient New York aristocracy, the place had degenerated into a
respectable boarding-house.
"'Tis true," Dirty Dan murmured. "She's given the young fella the
go-by. Hurro! An' I'm bettin' I'm the only lad in the wide, wide
wurrld that knows where she's gone. Faith, but wouldn't Misther Donald
pay handsomely for the information in me little book."
Having, as he judged, followed the mystery to its logical conclusion,
Mr. O'Leary was sensible of a sudden waning of his abnormal curiosity
in Nan Brent's affairs. He acknowledged to himself that he had spent
time and money on a matter that was absolutely none of his business,
but excused himself upon the ground that if he hadn't investigated the
matter thoroughly, his failure to do so might annoy him in the future.
If, for no other reason than the desirability of being on the inside
track of this little romance of a rich man's son, his action was to be
commended. People have no business disappearing without leaving a
trace or saying good-by to those that love them. Dirty Dan hadn't the
least idea of selling his information to Donald McKaye, but something
in his peculiar mental make-up caused him to cherish a secret for its
own sake; he had a true Irishman's passion for being "in the know,"
and now that he was in it, he was tremendously satisfied with himself
and dismissed the entire matter from his mind. Old Ireland and her
woes were again paramount, so Mr. O'Leary presented himself before the
proper authorities and applied for a passport to visit Ireland.
Now, while Daniel J. did not know it, one of the first questions the
applicant for a passport is required to answer is his reason for
desiring to make the journey, and during the Great War, as everybody
of mature years will recall, civilians were not permitted to subject
themselves to the dangers of a ruthless submarine war without good and
sufficient reason. Mr. O'Leary had a reason--to his way of thinking,
the noblest reason in all the world; consequently he was proud of it
and not at all inclined to conceal it.
"I'm goin' over there," he declared, with profane emphasis, "to kill
all the damned English I can before they kill me."
His interlocutor gravely wrote this reply down in Mr. O'Leary's exact
language and proceeded to the other questions. When the application
was completed, Dirty Dan certified to the correctness of it, and was
then smilingly informed that he had better go back where he came from,
because his application for a passport was denied. Consumed with fury,
the patriot thereupon aired his opinion of the Government of the
United States, with particular reference to its representative then
present, and in the pious hope of drowning his sorrows, went forth and
proceeded to get drunk.
When drunk, Mr. O'Leary always insisted, in the early stages of his
delirium, on singing Hibernian ballads descriptive of the unflinching
courage, pure patriotism and heroic sacrifices of the late Owen Roe
O'Neill and O'Donnell Abu. Later in the evening he would howl like a
timber-wolf and throw glasses, and toward morning he always fought it
out on the floor with some enemy. Of course, in the sawmill towns of
the great Northwest, where folks knew Mr. O'Leary and others of his
ilk, it was the custom to dodge the glasses and continue to discuss
the price of logs. Toward Dirty Dan, however, New York turned a
singularly cold shoulder. The instant he threw a glass, the barkeeper
tapped him with a "billy"; then a policeman took him in tow, and the
following morning, Dirty Dan, sick, sore, and repentant was explaining
to a police judge that he was from Port Agnew, Washington, and really
hadn't meant any harm. He was, therefore, fined five dollars and
ordered to depart forthwith for Port Agnew, Washington, which he did,
arriving there absolutely penniless and as hungry as a cougar in
midwinter. He fled over to the mill kitchen, tossed about five
dollars worth of ham and eggs and hot biscuit into his empty being,
and began to take stock of life. Naturally, the first thing he
recalled in mind was The Laird's remark that Donald planned to make
him foreman of the loading-sheds and drying-yards; so he wasted no
time in presenting himself before Donald's office door. To his
repeated knocking there was no reply, so he sought Mr. Daney.
"Hello, Dan! You back?" Daney greeted him. "Glad to see you. Looking
for Mr. Donald?"
"Yes, sor; thank you, sor."
"Mr. Donald is ill in the company's hospital. We're afraid, Dan, that
he isn't going to pull through."
"Glory be!" Mr. O'Leary gasped, horrified on two counts. First,
because he revered his young boss, and, second, because the latter's
death might nullify his opportunity to become foreman of the
loading-sheds and drying-yard. "Sure, what's happened to the poor
bhoy?"
Before Daney could answer, a terrible suspicion shot through the agile
and imaginative O'Leary brain. In common with several million of his
countrymen, he always voiced the first thought that popped into his
head; so he lowered that member, likewise his voice, peered cunningly
into Andrew Daney's haggard face, and whispered:
"Don't tell me he tried to commit suicide, what wit' his poor broken
heart an' all!"
It was Andrew Daney's turn to peer suspiciously at Dirty Dan. For a
few seconds, they faced each other like a pair of belligerent
game-cocks. Then said Daney:
"How do you know his heart was broken?"
Dirty Dan didn't know. The thought hadn't even occurred to him until
ten seconds before; yet, from the solemnity of Daney's face and
manner, he knew instantly that once more his feet were about to tread
the trails of romance, and the knowledge imbued him with a deep sense
of importance.
He winked knowingly.
"Beggin' yer pardon, Misther Daney an' not m'anin' the least offinse
in life, but--I know a lot about that young man--yis, an' the young
leddy, too--that divil a sowl on earth knows or is goin' to find out."
He tried a shot in the dark. "That was a clever bit o' wurrk gettin'
her out o' Port Agnew--"
Andrew Daney's hands closed about Dirty Dan's collar, and he was
jerked violently into the latter's office, while Daney closed and
locked the door behind them. The general manager was white and
trembling.
"You damned, cunning mick, you!" he cried, in a low voice. "I believe
you're right. You do know a lot about this affair--"
"Well, if I do, I haven't talked about it," Dirty Dan reminded him
with asperity.
"You knew the girl had left Port Agnew and why, do you not?" Daney
demanded.
"Of course I do. She left to plaze The Laird an' get rid o' the young
fella. Whether Th' Laird paid her to go or not, I don't know, but I'll
say this: 'If he gave her anythin' at all, 'twas damned little.'"
"He didn't give her a red cent," Daney protested.
"I believe you, sor," Mr. O'Leary assured him, as solemn as a Supreme
Court justice. "I judged so be the way she traveled an' the hotel she
shtopped at."
Daney made another dive at the returned prodigal, but Mr. O'Leary
evaded him.
"Where did she travel, and what hotel did she put up at?" the general
manager demanded.
"She traveled to the same places an' put up at the same hotels that I
did," Dirty Dan replied evasively, for his natural love for intrigue
bade him hoard his secret to the last.
Daney sat down and said very quietly: "Dan, do you know where Nan
Brent may be found?"
"Where she _may_ be found? Faith, I can tell you where she can be
found--but I'll not."
"Why not?"
"Because 'tis her secret, an' why should I share it wit' you, m'anin'
no disrespect, sor, at that?"
"Your sentiments do you honor, Dan--a heap more honor than I ever
thought you possessed. If Mr. Donald's life should happen to be the
price of your silence, however, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"
"I would. The young gintlemin's blood runs in my veins, sor."
"Thank you, Dan. Give me her address."
"Number one eighty-five Madison Avenue, Noo Yorrk City," Dirty Dan
replied promptly. "More I do not know. Am I on the pay-roll agin?"
"You bet! I'll pick out a good job for you as soon as I find time to
think about it."
"Could I have a dollar or two in advance--" the wanderer began, as
Daney hastened toward the door.
"Certainly." The door slammed, and Dirty Dan could hear the general
manager shouting in the general office. "Dirty Dan is back. Give him
some money."
Mr. O'Leary sighed contentedly.
"Oh-ho, 'tis the great life we live," he murmured, and hastened
outside to present himself at the cashier's window, while Andrew Daney
continued on to the Tyee Lumber Company's hospital, tiptoed down the
corridor to the room where the young Laird of Port Agnew lay dying,
and rapped lightly on the door. A nurse came out and closed the door
after her.
"Well?" Daney demanded.
"No change. His temperature fell two degrees during the night and he
slept a little, but the fever is up again this morning, and he's
raving again. Any news at your end?"
"Yes. I have the girl's address. She's in New York. Is his father
inside?"
"Yes."
"Ask him to step into the reception room for a few minutes, please."
The Laird appeared promptly in response to this message, and the two
men walked slowly down the hall to the reception-room. Daney closed
the door and resolutely faced The Laird.
"The doctors and the nurses tell me things, sir, they're afraid to
tell you," he began. "Ordinarily, the boy should be able to fight this
thing through successfully, for he has a splendid body and a lot of
resistance, but the fact of the matter is, he isn't trying. He doesn't
want to get well."
The Laird's face went white.
"They believe this?" he cried sharply.
"They do. His subconscious mind clings to the memory of his loss. He
keeps calling for her in his delirium, doesn't he? Now that he is
assured she has dropped out of his life forever, he doesn't give a
snap whether school keeps or not--and the doctors cannot cure him. If
the girl were here--well, she might. Her very presence would bring
about a strong mental and physical reaction--" He paused a moment.
Then, "I know where she can be found."
The Laird raised his haggard face and though his stern gray eyes were
dull with agony, yet Daney saw in them the light of an unfaltering
resolution.
"I have left my son's honor and his life in the hands of God Almighty.
I have made my bed and I'll lie in it," he panted.
"But if the boy should die--"
"Rather that than--than--"
"But you're not going to take a chance on his pulling through, in the
face of the advice of the doctors that only the girl's presence can
stimulate him to a desire to live. I tell you, Hector McKaye, man,
he's dying because he is not interested in living."
"God's will be done, Andrew. If I asked her to come back and save my
lad, I'd have to surrender him to her, and I would be derelict in my
duty as a father if I permitted that. Better that he should pass out
now than know the horror of a living death through all the years to
come. God knows best. It is up to Him. Let there be no talk of this
thing again, Andrew." Abruptly he quitted the room and returned to his
vigil by the side of the son who was at once the light and the shadow
of his existence.
The nurse came stealthily to the reception-room entrance and looked in
inquiringly. Daney shook his head, so she came into the room and
pointed at him a singularly commanding index-finger.
"If that old man is permitted to have his stubborn way, Donald McKaye
will die," she declared.
"So will old Hector. He'll be dead of a broken heart within the year."
"He's sacrificing his son to his Scotch pride. Now, his mother is far
more bitter against the girl than The Laird is; in her distress she
accuses the Brent girl of destroying her son. Nevertheless, Mrs.
McKaye's pride and resentment are not so intense that she will
sacrifice her son to them."
"Then give her this address," Daney suggested weakly, and handed it
over. "I'm caught between the upper and nether millstone, and I don't
care what happens to me. Damn the women, say I. Damn them! Damn them!
They're the ones that do all the talking, set up a cruel moral code,
and make a broad-minded, generous man follow it."
"Thanks for the compliment," the nurse retorted blithely. "If I had
time, I'd discuss the matter with you to your disadvantage, but,
fortunately, I have other fish to fry. My job is to keep Donald McKaye
alive for the next five or six days until Nan Brent can get here.
She'll come. I know she will. She'd lie down in the street and die for
him. I know it. I spent two days with her when her father was dead,
and let me tell you something, Mr. Daney: 'She's too good for them.
There! I feel better now.'"
"What a remarkable woman!" Mr. Daney reflected, as he walked back to
the mill office. "What a truly remarkable woman!" Then he remembered
the complications that were about to ensue, and to the wonderment of
several citizens of Port Agnew, he paused in front of the
post-office, threw both arms aloft in an agitated flourish, and cried
audibly:
"Hell's bells and panther-tracks! I'd give a ripe peach to be in hell
or some other seaport. O Lordy, Lordy, Lordy! And all the calves got
loose!"