It was a very lonely time that Sally had, standing there, leaning
against the tree-guard and looking up and down the deserted street.
The houses seemed to be all asleep or deserted as well as the street.
She wondered idly what they were used for; then she thought that it
was as well that she did not know, judging from the one of them that
she did know about. What would the builders of those houses think if
they could come back and see the uses to which their dignified old
homes had been put?
She glanced up and down the street again. Yes, it seemed to be
entirely deserted. She did not see the figure which lurked in the
shadows on the other side. She had said that she would be all right;
that she was not afraid. Well, she was not afraid, but she was getting
just a bit nervous. She wished that Eugene would hurry with Charlie.
She could not stand by that tree any longer anyway. She began to walk
slowly up and down, watching the door out of which she expected Jane
and Charlie to appear at any moment, and she wondered what she should
say to Charlie. She had no set speech prepared. What was there to say
that could possibly do any good? Probably she would say nothing at all
and they would set off in silence, all three, to their hotel. She had
other thoughts, too, but they need not concern us now. We are not
thinking of Fox Sanderson and his silly speeches nor of Henrietta and
her contentment; for she ought to be contented if ever a girl was.
Sally's eyes filled with tears and her thoughts insensibly drifted
away from Charlie and Jane as she paced slowly to and fro. And that
lurking figure across the street was never very far away.
The sound of a door shutting reverberated after the manner of all
sounds in that street and there were voices. Sally had turned at the
sound of the door. Somebody was coming out of the house and she
hurried forward and stopped short. The figure on the other side of the
street started forward and stopped short also. There were three men
coming out, and the joyous voices were not Jane's and Charlie's. Their
voices would not be joyous--if they spoke at all. The three men passed
her, arm in arm, and they looked at her curiously as they passed and
the hand of the oldest instinctively went to his hat. Sally saw that
he was an elderly man with a pleasant face and that his mustache was
snow-white. They had got but a few steps beyond when their pace
slackened and this man seemed to hesitate. He looked back at her
doubtfully. Then he sighed and the three resumed their brisk walk.
"No use," he said. "Can't meddle. I wish I could. No good comes of
it."
Once more Sally took up her slow walk to and fro. She was glad that
the three men had gone, but she was sorry, too. That elderly man had
seemed kind and sympathetic and a gentleman; and he had come from that
house. But that, Sally, was no recommendation. She knew that he had
done the wise thing; or that he had not done the unwise thing, and
probably he was right and no good came of meddling. And the sound of
their steps died away as they turned a corner. Again Sally had the
street to herself; Sally and the man lurking in the shadows. She found
herself growing more and more oppressed with the sense of loneliness.
If only somebody were there to wait with her! A quiet, out-of-the-way
street, poorly lighted, is not the most exhilarating place for a girl
at half-past eleven at night. If only Fox--
Somebody else had turned the corner and was coming toward her with a
step that was neither brisk nor loitering; that seemed as if it knew
just where it was going, but was in no unseemly haste to get there.
Sally stopped and looked about for some place in which she might
conceal herself. None offered better than her tree. As the step drew
near she seemed to know it, and she shrank as nearly out of sight as
she could. She had no invisible cap; she wished she had.
The step which she knew stopped beside her. "Sally!" said a voice in
unmistakable surprise. "Sally! What in the world are you doing here?"
Sally smiled as bravely as she could. "Nothing, Everett," she replied
quietly. "Just waiting."
"Waiting?" he exclaimed. "For whom, may I ask?"
"For Charlie," she answered as quietly as before. "Jane has gone in to
get him."
"Oh," said Everett coldly, "so Spencer has gone in to get him. To
judge by appearances, he doesn't seem to make a success of it."
Sally shook her head. There did not seem to be anything else to say.
Spencer didn't seem to be making much of a success of it.
"How long have you been waiting?"
"Two or three years," answered Sally, with a nervous laugh.
"You poor girl!" Everett exclaimed. "I was just going in to see if I
couldn't get Charlie. It is curious how things happen." Sally smiled a
little smile of amusement in spite of her nervousness. It _was_
curious how things happened, when you came to think of it. "There
isn't any use in your waiting any longer. It can't do any good, and it
may be very unpleasant for you. Better let me take you to your hotel.
Then I will come back. I may have as much success as Spencer,
perhaps." And Everett began a little smile of his own; but, thinking
that Sally might see it, he stopped before the smile was well born.
Sally shook her head again. "I told Eugene to tell Charlie that I
should wait here until he came out. It isn't pleasant, but I shall
wait."
"But, Sally," Everett remonstrated, "you don't understand. You--"
"I do understand," Sally interrupted. "I will take care of myself."
She may not have realized how this would sound and how it would
exasperate Everett. But perhaps she did realize.
Everett only shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Sally was an
obstinate piece.
"If you want to do me a kindness," she continued, "you will help to
get Charlie out as soon as you can."
"As you like," he returned. "I will certainly do what I can to get
Charlie out. That's what I am here for." Again Sally smiled her
peculiar little smile. She couldn't help it. That Everett should think
she would believe that! "But you had much better let me take you to
your hotel first," he added, persuasively. "I will explain to
Spencer."
"I will wait."
Everett was irritated and quite out of patience with her. He shrugged
his shoulders again and started on.
"You are very good, Everett," Sally called softly. "Thank you, and
good night."
He made no reply unless a perfunctory touch of his hat and an
impatient mutter could be called a reply; and he was swallowed up by
the doorway and admitted by the doorman with a familiar nod and a grin
which it was as well, he thought, that Sally did not see. She would
not have been surprised if she had seen.
Everett had hardly disappeared when the lurking figure left its post
in the shadows and advanced toward Sally. She saw it and braced
herself for the encounter. In the matter of encounters that lonely
street was doing pretty well. For an instant she meditated flight, but
instantly decided against it. The man must have known, from her
attitude, what was passing in her mind, for he spoke when he was but
halfway across.
"Sally," he said gently, "you needn't be frightened. It--"
Whereupon Sally behaved in a most peculiar and reprehensible manner.
At the sound of the voice she had stiffened; but now she cast herself
at the man and seized his arm with both her hands.
"Fox, Fox," she said, with a quiver in her voice, for she was very
near to crying. "I'm glad. You are an old comfort. You don't know how
lonely it was, waiting by myself. I thought I could stand it, but I
don't know whether I could have held out much longer. The street was
getting on my nerves."
"I know, Sally," he replied. "I was afraid it would. And now what is
the prospect? Is Charlie likely to come soon? And shall we go to your
hotel or wait?"
"I must wait. But--but, Fox, it would provoke Jane and Charlie, too,
to find you here."
Fox laughed. "Then I will vanish at the first sign of them. But I
should really like to know how your enterprise comes out. Do you mind
telling me, Sally? And how shall we manage it without telling your
mother? I suppose she doesn't know the purpose of your coming."
"Not from me, although she may guess. I'll come out, in a day or two,
to call on you, sir. Shall you feel honored?"
"You know I shall, Sally. But how will you account for your call?"
"I shall come to collect the rent," returned Sally promptly, "if any
excuse is necessary. Be sure that you have it ready. And I shall give
you a faithful account of all that has transpired." She had Fox's arm
and she gave it a little squeeze. It was a very little squeeze and
very brief, but it made his heart jump. "It was lucky for me that
you--" And then she stopped short, realizing that Fox would not have
happened to be in that street, leading to nowhere, at that time.
"Don't you know," he asked simply, with a laugh of content, "that I
always keep track of you? Did you think that you could come to such a
place as this without my being somewhere about?"
Sally changed the subject quickly. It was an unspeakable comfort to
her to know--but Fox must not pursue that subject now. Fox had no
intention of pursuing that subject; and they walked slowly to and fro
over what had been Sally's beat, talking of anything or of nothing.
Sally was content; and again she forgot Charlie and Jane and her
errand, and she became almost gay. Those sombre old houses echoed
quiet laughter, of a kind that they had not heard for goodness knows
how many years, and low voices. Some more men came, singly, or in
groups of two or three, and looked at them with curiosity. Sally
hardly saw them. And the last group passed into the house and up the
stairs and into the room where the table stood before the front
windows and they stopped short at the sound of angry voices.
The game had stopped, for the moment, and the dealer was leaning back
with his hand upon the pack, waiting. There was a look upon his face
of languid interest under the mask of indifference, as he gazed at the
young fellow opposite, his face flushed now with impotent rage, and at
the man leaning over him. The face above was flushed with anger, too,
but it was not impotent. If Sally had seen it she would have been
reminded of her father. The sight seemed to remind the dealer of
something, but it was impossible to guess whether that something was
pleasant or otherwise. Many things had happened to him which were not
pleasant to think of. Indeed, the pleasant things were very few. He
did not think of his past when he could help it. It was a thing to be
avoided.
"Come, Charlie," said Everett again, sharply. "You're to get up and
go. We're all waiting."
Charlie seemed to be divided between his long admiration of
Everett--of what he said and did and was--and his helpless anger. He
wavered.
"You mean that I have got to leave the game?" he sputtered at last.
"Why have I?" He hesitated a moment, looking from the cards to the
dealer who still had that little look of languid interest upon his
face. In fact, it was almost compelling a smile on the thin lips.
Charlie could not have stood that. He looked away again quickly, but
he did not look at Everett. He could not have stood that, either.
"No," he said, with a sudden accession of courage, "I won't do it. The
game can go on."
The dealer did not move a muscle. Everett smiled. "You see," he
answered, "that it will not go on with you in it. I'm right, Charlie?"
he added, glancing up at the dealer; but it was less a question than a
command.
The dealer nodded. Still Charlie Ladue did not move.
"Come, Ladue," Everett ordered impatiently. "Don't make them put you
out. Cash in and go along. You know very well why. I promised to start
you and I'm going to. And, let me tell you, I can do it."
There was nothing else to do. Charlie muttered something and rose
slowly and pushed his chair back violently in a fit of childish anger.
Instantly the chair was taken and the game was going on almost before
he had his back turned. Everett kept close beside him until he had his
coat and hat, and he even went down to the door with him. Eugene was
waiting there, but he said nothing. He was much mortified at his
complete failure and at Everett's complete success. The grinning black
opened the door.
"Good night, Spencer," said Everett. "And good night, Charlie. If you
take my advice, you'll give it up."
The door shut behind the two and Everett went upstairs again. He paid
no attention to the game, but walked into the dimly lighted back room
and to the sideboard. He felt out of sorts with himself and with
everybody and everything else. He must be thirsty; and he poured
himself out a glass and stood sipping it and looking absently at the
heavily curtained windows at the rear. There did not happen to be
anybody else at the sideboard.
He was still sipping with his back toward the front room and the game
when he felt a touch upon his arm. He turned quickly. There stood the
dealer.
"Hello, Charlie!" he said in some surprise. "Your recess? Do you want
me to apologize for taking that young cub out and making all that
row?"
The dealer shook his head. "That was right enough. I've been thinking
about him for some--" He stopped short and swallowed--something;
possibly a lump or something of the kind. But it is not conceivable
that such a man can have the more usual emotions of pity and charity.
For they are the usual emotions, whatever you may say against it. If
Everett had only known it, that was the very trouble with him. He had
not been thirsty, primarily. His thirst was but a physical symptom of
his mental state.
But I interrupted the dealer. He was speaking again. "I should like to
ask you a question, Mr. Morton," he said.
"What is it, Charlie?" Everett felt but a passing interest in his
question.
"I noticed that you called the young man Ladue."
"Did I? That was very thoughtless of me. I apologize."
The dealer did not smile, but went on, apparently pursuing his object,
whatever that was. "And the other man spoke of Sally."
"Indeed! That was even more thoughtless."
"Charlie Ladue," the dealer continued in an even voice, "and Sally. It
sounds as if Sally should be his sister. Is she?"
Everett hesitated for a moment. After all, what harm? "Well, yes, she
is his sister. Much disturbed at hearing of his doings. You and I,
Charlie," he said lightly, "know better."
The dealer smiled faintly. For a wonder his faint smile was not
unpleasant.
"Can you tell me," he pursued, "where Miss Sally Ladue is to be
found--say, in the morning?"
Everett hesitated again and glanced at the man suspiciously. This was
a more serious matter.
"Why do you ask? And, assuming that I know, why should I tell you,
Charlie?" If it had not been that he still smarted under Sally's
treatment of him, he would not have gone as far as that.
The old dealer with the lined face smiled slowly and with a certain
cunning.
"Possibly I can answer both questions at once. Conceivably, I can
satisfy you. I am her father."