BILLY BARTON'S FLIGHT.
When Billy Barton left his home and family, he went without a clue to
his destination; and he left no word behind of his going.
The world to him had been a series of degenerating allurements ever
since he could remember anything; and Evil Repute was the sum of his
reward. He was brought up amid the scenes of the river's traffic as a
wharf man, or roustabout; and was called the waterman, by reason of an
ineradicable habit he had of invariably falling into the stream when
intoxicated. This predilection of Billy's might have cured such a
failing in any other man; but the more often Billy fell into the river
the less inclined he was to accept the water cure. The frequency of
these periodic immersions grew to such dimensions that his
qualifications as a wharfman became nil, and he thereby lost his right
to a permanancy among the gang, causing him, one day early in his years,
to be placed on the reserve list to take his chances for obtaining work
as an extra.
Billy was like many another man of his class: he had no inclination to
reach a higher level, or lacked the ability to go higher; and by these
well developed attributes, in him, he found it pretty hard picking among
the dispensers of jobs. It appears that he was continually in ill-luck,
when it came to making assignments for the long line of men in waiting.
Sometimes he would put in a day or so of work, with a disposition to be
light-hearted over his luck; but it very often happened that when he was
wanted, he was under the influence of drink; or had just recovered
himself from a baptism in the river; and so he was many times
overlooked. This vicarious situation did not tend to better his
condition. It only made him worse. What between his few spells of work,
and his numerous spells of sprees, he had a petty sum left on which to
keep his growing family.
Billy Barton was a very clever man in his sober moments; but so seldom
was he ever in that state of good behavior, that his cleverness was
overlooked even by his most intimates. What is hereof meant by this use
of the word clever, is that it was applied to him in the vernacular
sense, and not in its strict usage. So when in that state of temporary
sanity, he was ever ready with a rough wit of the hang-dog style--the
wit of the waterfront, of the grog shop, of the slums, of the
rough-and-ready characters of his calling; and this he carried to his
home, very often to his sorrow. He used to tell the "boys" that he had
an "old woman" who could give any one spades in cards in her fetching
ways toward general cussedness. But Billy would condone all that poor
woman's incapacities, whenever he would get drunk, and, with a great
display of imaginary wealth, which he said he would fall heir to some
day, impress upon her impressionable mind the beauties of their future.
Thus by such tactics, he, for a number of years, kept her hopefully on
the high wave of anticipation and expectation. This trait of Billy's was
one of his redeeming qualities, if he ever had any other; so much so
that ere he had reached his present age of discretion, he began really
to believe that he was as rich as the man in the mansion on the hill;
which mansion he always kept a weather's eye out for, no difference how
much smoke or fog clouded his sense of perception.
But Kate Barton, long ago, began to realize that his tantalizing
predictions and promises were merely vaporings. So, when things with her
became inordinately unbearable, she began to attempt a reformation of
him by the process of her voluableless tongue. At first she scolded him
gently; then firmly, then remorselessly; tongue-lashed him; berated him
from Soho to McKee's Rocks; and, finally, seeing that this method was
without effect, adopted the corporal punishment plan. But by no such
inducements, however, could she prevail upon him to reform, and act the
true part of a husband and father. Thus, being in an environment that
would, without a doubt, corrupt old Satan himself, Billy went from bad
to worse, and from worse to the finite degree of dissipation. Resorting
to the saloons as a solace for his sorrows, he there found out, when too
late, that as long as he had a penny he could secure the required
consolation that he craved. Ultimately, reaching an end in this
direction, he became obsessed with the desire to flee. And flee he did.
* * * * *
Any one standing, at any point, on the south side of the Smithfield
street bridge, on the day of his departure, might have seen the bent
form of a once well built, square-shouldered, red-faced, blue-eyed man,
wearing a slouch hat, check shirt, blue overalls, faded coat, and
brogans on his feet, and a rusty overcoat on his arm, aimlessly walking
across it, going northward. Had he been followed, the observer would
have seen him turn up Second avenue, with the same shambling gait, and
with his nose directed toward the devious ways of Soho.
They would have seen him wind in and out among the alley ways and
bypaths between the mills and factories and shops, have heard him ask
for work, and have heard the answer, "Don't want you." They would have
seen him come out into the street, stop, hesitate; go on, with the same
determination in his bleary eyes. They would have seen him continuing,
with an inquiry here and there; they would have seen him brushed aside,
and go on. They would have seen him treading the ties of the Baltimore &
Ohio, through the interminable region of noise--of belching furnaces, of
rattling factories, of shouting men, of screeching engines, mile after
mile. They would have seen him stop at a poor man's house--one almost
like his own--and heard him ask for food and bed, and would have seen
him receive it, sometimes. They would have seen him stop, and rest, and
meditate; have seen him sneered at, chased by policemen, stoned by boys,
hooted by ruffians, scolded by women; have seen him rejected, dejected,
despondent, and in despair--a weary wayfarer, an outcast, discarded by
his family, condemned by his fellow man--a human wreck, with not a hand
outstretched to him to lend him the aid and encouragement that he needed
in that hour--except, perhaps, the hand of the Almighty, in retribution.
And more; they would have seen Billy Barton go through the suburbs of
Glenwood, Hazelwood, Rankin; through the boroughs of Braddock, of
Homestead, of Duquesne, and on to McKeesport, meeting always with the
same inglorious reception--day after day, week after week, asking,
begging, starving. They would have seen him sleeping in deserted
buildings, in fields, in box cars; by the roadsides, on the hillsides,
in the woods; everywhere where man was not, save some stragglers of his
own ilk. They would have seen him eventually entering saloons in the
slum quarters; have seen him set upon, beaten, kicked and thrown into
the streets, a poor worthless cuss, too vile, even now, for any of his
former cronies to recognize, had they chanced across him. They would, as
a climax to his wanderings, have seen him dragged into a town's nasty,
filthy, foul, venom-infested jail, there to await the merciful order of
a just and honest judge, who might, peradventure, take compassion on
him; and, as a finality, have seen him sentenced to penal servitude as a
vagrant.
Holy of Holies! praise be to God! cry the keepers of the loaves and
fishes! But for the goodness of a pure young woman, his children might
have starved. And say that the male-man is a generous creature!
* * * * *
In the little black office of The Die, Peter sat humped up, like a
drooling ape, scanning the interior of his junk shop through his
peephole. He saw the cringing Eli, like a witless ass, having another
set-to with a short stalky fellow because he did not give the password.
He saw Eli floored, and thumped in the ribs by the man's foot. Whereat
Peter gathered up his courage and went out to ascertain the wherefor of
the disturbance.
"Hah, Welty Morne," whispered Peter, seeing who the man was; "come in;"
and he waddled rearward, leaving the defeated servant to readjust
himself as to how he may.
"Set down," said he to Welty, after falling down himself like a bloated
lobster, and taking up his pipe, and espionage. "What? What now?" he
asked.
"We have heard at last from Billy Barton," said Welty.
"Where'd you get that information? The wretch!" roared Peter,
sardonically.
"From Monroe."
"And Monroe?"
"From Cobb."
"And Cobb?"
"From the warden."
"The wretch!" shouted Peter. "Let him die there! What's his time?"
"Six months."
"Good! We'll make it six more."
"Am I to return that information?" asked Welty.
"Yes," snapped Peter. "What else from Monroe?"
"He has failed to rope in Winthrope."
"What next?"
"His new scheme is to put him as treasurer of the company."
"Good! Go to it, tell him. How's the girl?"
"Jarney took the young man to his home to see her, and she is
recovering."
Peter frowned at this, that is at that part of the information relating
to taking Winthrope to the Jarney home. He rubbed his hands, pulled at
his pipe vigorously, almost spat on Welty in an effort to reach a
saw-dust box used as a receptacle for his expectorations.
"She's a mighty fine girl," said Peter. "What does Monroe draw from that
incident?"
"That Winthrope has inclinations toward her."
"And her father?" asked Peter.
"He permits it."
"Why don't young Cobb push his suit?" asked Peter.
"Oh, she would never have anything to do with him."
"Why doesn't he get Winthrope out of the way!" exclaimed Peter.
"He is laying the ropes to ensnare him," said Welty, showing his teeth
like a grinning dog, and flashing his green eyes.
"What else?" asked Peter, ceasing to rub his hands, and looking up at
Welty with some anxiety.
"There's going to be a strike on all the papers," replied Welty.
"Oh, that's all fixed up," said Peter, with consuming pride (judging
from the speed he rubbed his hands). "The police have instructions to
arrest every dog of them so soon as they step out of their jobs. What
else?"
"An extra levy has been made on the red-lighters," replied Welty.
"Good!" exploded Peter. "Tell Monroe to watch out for flurries among
them."
"They will all come through."
"Hah, I thought Jacob would bring them to time," whispered Peter. "How's
he coming with his new company?"
"He'll have a million to float in a week."
"Why didn't he make it ten?" asked Peter.
"He's afraid the people are getting weary with so much stock already on
the market."
"The coal combine went," said Peter, smiling.
"But that was the project of the other gang," said Welty.
"Well, I got my tribute, as well as Jacob, for our little assistance,"
he answered, with more fierce rubbing.
"Ah, they will all pay--that is, the big ones."
"Some of the little ones, too, eh?" said Peter.
"Where do I come in, Peter?" suddenly asked Welty. This question caused
Peter to look up quickly, with a leer.
"You're not showing the white feather?" asked Peter.
"No, no; but I need some money."
"How much?"
"A thousand."
"I will have Jacob see you," returned Peter.
Then Welty departed. He found Eli where he had left him, unconscious,
with some customers standing about waiting for the young man to take his
own good time about rising. The customers had come into the store, and
when they saw Eli lying on the floor, remarked among themselves that he
was taking an afternoon's nap. When one of them sought to arouse him,
they became alarmed as to what might have happened, for Eli would not
rouse himself. So they were standing about him in contemplation when
Welty came out of Peter's office. Welty glanced at Eli obliquely, as if
deigning to stoop so low as to lend aid to his victim, brushed past the
onlookers, and made his exit by the front door.
Peter, seeing that something was wrong, strutted out in a fluster, with
his belly about a foot ahead of him. He had not observed from his
peephole that Eli had not resumed his duties while Welty was in his
office, so great was his interest in that visitor. But finding Eli in
his predicament, Peter called on one of his customers to assist in his
resurrection. Eli, thereupon, was lifted to his feet, but he was so near
the limberness of a rope it was impossible to cause him to assume the
perpendicularity of a standing man. Then that old remedy--water--was
applied, with no effect. Eli looked like a faded piece of blue calico,
so deathly was his face.
They called a doctor; with no results. They called an ambulance, and
conveyed him to a hospital. They called in the police to make an
investigation; with no results. Peter knew nothing. It was a strange
affair. The customers, of course, knew nothing; nobody could get head
nor tail of what had happened Eli. It was a deep mystery--to the police
department.
Peter employed a new clerk, temporarily, and resumed his pipe and
peephole. Welty resumed his duties in the office of Jarney & Lowman. In
the meantime Eli Jerey's life hung in the balance; and the world of
business still moved on; for he was only a poor clerk.