THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.
In every city where splendor abounds and wealth rolls in carriages, can
be found, also, squalor and wretchedness. If the rich have their
avenues, and the good and virtuous their sanctuaries, so have the poor
their by-ways and alleys, and the vicious their haunts. In a great city
there is room for all, and a place for everything.
Papa and Mamma Francoise had left their abiding-place in the slums for a
refuge even more secure.
Van Vernet had followed the two women to a narrow street, long since
left behind by the march of progress; a street where the huts and
tumble-down frame buildings had once been reputable dwellings and
stores, scattered promiscuously along on either side of a thoroughfare
that had once been clean, and inhabited by modest industry. But that
was many years ago: it had long been given over to dirt and disorder
without, and to rags, poverty, rats and filth within. Here dwelt many
foreigners, and the sound of numerous tongues speaking in many
languages, might always be heard.
On this street, in the upper rooms of a rickety two-story house, Papa
and Mamma Francoise had set up their household gods after their flight
from the scene of Josef Siebel's murder; the lower floor being inhabited
by a family of Italians, who possessed an unlimited number of children
and a limited knowledge of English.
It is evening, the evening of the day that has witnessed Van Vernet's
most recent discovery, and Papa and Mamma are at home.
The room is even more squalid than that recently occupied by them, for,
besides a three-legged table, two rickety chairs, a horribly-dilapidated
stove and two dirty, ragged pallets at opposite sides of the room,
furniture there is none.
Perched upon one of the two rickety chairs, his thin legs extended
underneath the table and his elbows resting upon it, sits Papa
Francoise, lost in the contemplation of a broken glass containing a
small quantity of the worst whiskey; and near him, Mamma squats upon the
floor before the rusty stove, in which a brisk fire is burning, stirring
vigorously at a strong-smelling decoction which is simmering over the
coals.
"Come, old woman," growls Papa, with a self-assertion probably borrowed
from the broken glass under his eye, "get that stuff brewed before the
gal comes in. And then try and answer my question: what's to be done
with her?"
Mamma Francoise stirs the liquid more vigorously, and takes a careful
sip from the iron spoon.
"Ah," she murmurs, "that's the stuff. It's a pity to spoil it."
She rises slowly, and drawing a bottle from her pocket, pours into the
basin a few drops of brown liquid, stirs it again, and then removing the
decoction from the fire, pours it into a battered cup, which she sets
upon the floor at a distance from the stove.
If one may judge from Mamma's abstinence, the liquor _has_ been spoiled,
for she does not taste it again.
Having thus completed her task, she turns toward one of the pallets, and
seating herself thereon lifts her eyes toward Papa.
"What's to be done with the girl?" she repeats. "That's the question
I've asked _you_ often enough, and I never got an answer yet."
Papa withdraws his gaze from her face, and fixes it once more upon the
broken tumbler.
"She ain't no good to us," resumes Mamma, "and we can't have her tied to
us always."
"Nor we can't turn her adrift," says Papa, significantly.
"No; we can't turn her adrift," replies Mamma. "We can't afford to keep
her, and we can't afford to let her go."
"Consequently--" says Papa.
And then they look at one another in silence.
"We may have to get out of this place at a minute's warning," resumes
Mamma, after a time, "and how can we expect to dodge the cops with that
gal tied to us? You and I can alter our looks, but we can't alter hers."
"No," says Papa, shaking his head, "we can't alter hers--not now."
"And if we could, we can't alter her actions."
"No; we can't alter her actions," agrees Papa, with a cunning leer,
"except to make 'em worse."
And he casts a suggestive glance toward the tin cup on the floor.
"It won't do," said Mamma, noting the direction of his glance; "it won't
do to increase the drams. If she got worse, we couldn't manage her at
all. It won't do to give her any more."
"And it won't do to give her any less. Old woman, we've just got back to
the place we started from."
Mamma Francoise rests her chin in her ample palm and ponders.
"I think I can see a way," she begins. Then, at the sound of an
uncertain footstep on the rickety stairs, she stops to listen. "That's
her," she says, a frown darkening her face. "She's got to be kept off
the street."
She goes to the door, opens it with an angry movement, and peers out
into the dark hall.
"Nance, you torment!"
But the head that appears above the stair-railing is not the head of a
female, and it is a masculine voice that says, in an undertone:
"Sh-h! Old woman, let me in, and don't make a fuss."
The woman starts back and is about to close the door, when something in
the appearance of the man arrests her attention.
As he halts at the top of the stairway, the light from the door reveals
to her a shock of close-curling, carroty-red hair.
In another moment he stands with a hand on either door-post.
[Illustration: "How are ye, old uns? Governor, how are ye?"--page 194.]
"How are ye' old uns?" he says, with a grin. "Governor, how are ye?" And
then, with a leer, and a lurch which betrays the fact that he is half
intoxicated, he adds, in a voice indicative of stupid astonishment:
"Why, I'm blowed, the blessed old fakers don't know their own young un!"
"Franzy!" Mamma Francoise starts forward, a look of mingled doubt and
anxiety upon her face. "Franzy! No, it can't be Franzy!"
"Why can't it be? Ain't ten years in limbo enough? Or ain't I growed as
handsome as ye expected to see me?" Then coming into the room, and
peering closely into the faces of the two: "I'm blessed if I don't
resemble the rest of the family, anyhow."
The two Francoises drew close together, and scrutinized the new-comer
keenly, doubtfully, with suspicion.
Ten years ago, their son, Franzy, then a beardless boy of seventeen, and
a worthy child of his parents, had reluctantly turned his back upon the
outer world and assumed a prison garb, to serve out a twenty years'
sentence for the crime of manslaughter.
Ten years had elapsed and this man, just such a man as their boy must
have become, stands before them and claims them for his parents.
There is little trace of the old Franz, save the carroty hair, the color
of the eyes, the devil-may-care manner, and the reckless speech. And
after a prolonged gaze, Papa says, still hesitatingly:
"Franzy! is it really Franzy?"
The new claimant to parental affection flings out his hand with a fierce
gesture, and a horrible oath breaks from his lips.
"Is it _really_ Franzy?" he cries, derisively. "Who else do ye think
would be likely to claim _yer_ kinship? I've put in ten years in the
stripes, an' I'm about as proud of ye as I was of my ball and chain.
I've taken the trouble ter hunt ye up, with the police hot on my trail;
maybe ye don't want ter own the son as might a-been a decent man but for
yer teachin'. Well, I ain't partikeler; I'll take myself out of yer
quarters."
He turns about with a firm, resentful movement, and Mamma Francoise
springs forward with a look of conviction on her hard face.
"Anybody'd know ye after _that_ blow out," she says with a grin. "Ye're
the same old sixpence, Franzy; let's have a look at ye."
She lays a hand upon his arm, and he turns back half reluctantly.
"Wot's struck ye?" he asks, resentfully. "Maybe it's occurred to ye that
I may have got a bit o' money about me. If that's yer lay, ye're left.
An' I may as well tell ye that if ye can't help a fellow to a little of
the necessary, there's no good o' my stoppin' here."
And shaking her hand from his arm, this affectionate Prodigal strides
past her, and peers eagerly into the broken glass upon the table.
"Empty, of course," he mutters; "I might a-known it."
Then his eyes fix upon the tin cup containing Mamma's choice brew.
Striding forward, he seizes it, smells its contents, and with a grunt of
satisfaction raises it to his lips.
In an instant Mamma Francoise springs forward, and seizing the cup with
both hands, holds it away from his mouth.
"Stop, Franz! you mustn't drink that."
A string of oaths rolls from his lips, and he wrests the cup from her
hand, spilling half its contents in the act.
"Stop, Franzy!" calls Papa, excitedly; "that stuff won't be good for
you."
And hurrying to one of the pallets he draws from under it a bottle,
which, together with the broken tumbler, he presents to the angry young
man.
"Here, Franzy, drink this."
But the Prodigal shakes off his father's persuasive touch, and again
seizes upon the cup of warm liquor.
"Franzy!" cries Papa, in a tremor of fear, "drop that; _it's doctored_."
The Prodigal moves a step backward, and slowly lowers the cup.
"Oh!" he ejaculates, musingly, "it's doctored! Wot are ye up to, old
uns? If it's a doctored dose, I don't want it--not yet. Come, sit down
and let's talk matters over."
Taking the bottle from the old man's hand, he goes back to the table,
seats himself on the chair recently occupied by the elder Francoise,
motioning that worthy to occupy the only remaining chair. And courtesy
being an unknown quality among the Francoises, the three are soon
grouped about the table, Mamma accommodating herself as best she can.
"Franzy," says Mamma, after refreshing herself from the bottle, which
goes from hand to hand; "before you worry any more about that medicine,
an' who it's for, tell us how came yer out?"
"How came I out? Easy enough. There was three of us; we worked for it
five months ahead, and one of us had a pal outside. Pass up the bottle,
old top, while I explain."
Having refreshed himself from the bottle, he begins his story,
interluding it with innumerable oaths, and allotting to himself a full
share of the daring and dangerous feats accompanying the escape.
"It's plain that ye ain't read the papers," he concludes. "Ye'd know all
about it, if ye had."