PETER DIEMAN IS AVENGED.
Black and sinister, like The Bastille, rears the bulky rambling building
of that famous institution where infractors of the law are compensated
for their weaknesses. Amidst verdent hills and by the murky river it
sits as a ramparted fortress in a savage land. In sunshine and cloud, in
fog and smoke and grime, it stands brooding, ever silent, ever sullen;
it is a place of the damned, the wonderment of law-abiding men who hap
to pass it by. Beyond the sounds of the teeming river, beyond the noise
of forge and hammer, beyond the regular haunts of men, it is like a
secluded bee-hive, when the workers are all within. No one hears the
hammering, no one hears the sawing, pounding, dinning, breaking,
singing, chanting, praying of all of those therein, save the unambitious
workers themselves. For it is a penal institution.
Grim-visaged men, with loaded gun, stalk through its ringing halls,
while haunting faces peer out from behind steel bars. The tread of many
feet is hard, in step, on the hardened floors, as the men file to their
places, like trained dogs cringing before their masters; the thump of
many hammers is like a dreadful funeral march for the lost; the chant of
many a tune is heard, in the time of rest, as the only cheerful note
issuing therefrom. And above all is the old familiar human smell.
In one corner of a cell, on a cot, lies a man. He is bleary-eyed, and
his face is swollen. His feet are bleeding, and his worn-out shoes lie
on the floor. His old blue overalls and check shirt are torn, filthy and
ready to fall from him. He rolls his head from side to side, and beats
his breast with his knotted hands. The spume of an hectic cough hangs
around his mouth, and blood flows out his nostrils. He is Billy
Barton--dying--dying--alone! While the hammers ring, and the men chant,
and the guards pace to and fro; while the clock is ticking for other men
to come and go; while the sun is shining somewhere for the happy, the
good and the bad alike, and all life outside is palpitating with a
vigorous existence, Billy is going upon his final journey.
He was brought from a nasty jail, where mephitic filth was supreme, to
this place where brutal men are supreme in their cruelty. Emaciated,
gaunt, and made desperate by reason of the abuse heaped upon his crazed
head, he was terrible in his obstinacy of prison rules. He was put to
work with ball and chain tied about his ankles, when lying down on a
feather bed would have been a severe and painful task to him. He was
weak. He could not work, let alone stand. He was faint, sick, heartsore.
But no one saw his misery. No one wanted to see it. For why should they?
He was only a vagabond, and why should he receive attention?
He was pushed and pounded and thumped and beaten because he could not
work. He was fed on bread and water for his failure; he was
straight-jacketed, hung up by the wrists, given the water-cure; thrown
into the dungeon and flogged. But the brute rises in man, sometimes,
when met by a brute, and Billy struck back. This was the beginning of
his end; for the deputy, being not yet satisfied in the full exercise of
his authority, threw more of his brutishness into display, and laid
Billy low with a cudgel that he carried, and dragged him, like a dog, to
his cell, and threw him on his cot to die--alone!
An investigation into poor Billy Barton's death by the Honorable Board
of Authorities revealed one of the most peculiar and singular cases that
ever came to their discriminating notice. Billy died of heart failure,
they announced. Of course, every man dies when his heart ceases to beat.
Even those good and upright members of the Honorable Board of
Authorities will die of that disease some day; and no doubt a tombstone
will have all their virtues enscribed upon it. Billy Barton's--will
simply be, William Barton, that's all.
Who should claim the body? Had he any friends? they punctiliously
inquired. Yes; they found one. A man of worth, too--Peter Dieman, the
humble junkman; Billy's old friend, of course, who would provide a
decent funeral, and see that the last sad rites were said over his
corruptible remains. Yes; Peter Dieman would do all this, being very
generous, and a philanthropic man; for who would impinge his motives?
* * * * *
The body was, in the true fiction of such events, conveyed in very
solemn state to that hovel on the south side of the Monongahela river,
near which and within which all of Billy Barton's living time was spent.
All his children were present at the funeral, except that one of
ill-repute who had preceded his father upon the long unknown trail. All
his former friends were present, with one extra added: Peter Dieman.
Another friend was present, in the person of John Winthrope, as the
representative of Edith, who sent the only flowers.
Had Billy Barton been resurrected the time he lay in his coffin,
supported on two chairs, he would have seen a change in the furnishings
of his earthly home; he would have seen paper on the walls, where once
were the smutchings of discoloring time; he would have seen a carpet on
the floor, pictures on the walls, one of which he would have seen was
Madonna and her child; he would have seen many things that were not
there when he was its besotted, irresponsible master. Ah, he would have
seen his little girls dressed in new frocks, with a simple imitation of
pride in their deportment; and his boys he would have seen, although
still very rude, in a feeble effort to be vain over their new toggery.
He would also have seen his slattern wife in a new dress, with her hair
done up, and a new hope masked behind her stoical face. And he would
have seen that other one, his daughter Star, whom he maltreated all her
sorrowful years, come to offer up to God supplication for his soul; and,
if his spirit had not yet departed, he would have heard her weeping in
her anguish. As he lay in his shroud he would have felt the warm touch
of little hands on his hard face, as the little ones stood about his
bier taking a last farewell look at "Pap" before the man in black had
covered up his face from their view forever; and he would have seen
John, in all the freshness and beauty of young manhood, a consoling
support to his only child that shed a tear. Still more, he would have
seen that exaggerated piece of humanity, Peter Dieman, in all his
implacable hatred for him, sitting in one corner, listening with
exhultation to the droning voice of the minister saying the ritual words
and singing "Rock of Ages."
Solemnly went the funeral cortege through the crowded thoroughfares
bearing him away; and as the people looked with awe on his passing,
remembering, perhaps, that they would take the same long ride some day,
little did they reck how he lived and how he died.
To Homewood, a pretty decent place, they bore him, and put him beneath
the ground, with the skeltering winds singing his funeral dirge. Above
his grave Star and John placed a tombstone, with, "Our Father, William
Barton; born Friday, December 13, 1861; died Friday, December 13, 1907,"
as the only legend. No virtues had he to be recorded, like those of the
Honorable Board of Authorities. But he was gone--finally gone--out of
the turmoil of this world.
* * * * *
Peter Dieman again sat in his little black office in The Die, smoking
his scandalous pipe, rubbing his red hands, and squinting his piggish
eyes; and giving vent occasionally to devlish outbursts of perfect
satisfaction. Nothing consumed his mind so much at present as the
reflection over his victory--his victory over Billy Barton, the
worthless drunkard.
In his youth Peter went into the contest with Billy for the hand of Kate
Jarney, a cousin of Hiram Jarney. Kate, being young and ignorant,
selected the most prepossessing face, and took up her lot with that
face, and all the horrors that accompanied it. Peter being of a
revengeful nature, took up his life alone, a disappointed man, and
sought to drown his sorrows in the role of Chief Ward Heeler.
Peter was not such a bad man in his younger days, but remorse over his
unrequitted love drove him to diabolical things. Hence his attitude
toward all mankind. For twenty years, almost, he was cross, crabbed and
oppressive; and the wonder is how he maintained his power in his
invidious treatment of his henchmen and his superiors. But this may be
explained by his one saving grace of knowing how to string the "ropes"
for the system--Graft--without breaking any of them, and screening the
arch conspirators; for which he was amply rewarded. For twenty years,
almost, he lived like a bear, spending his days in his black shop, and
his nights in a shabby room above, like a miser--always with an
irreconcilable fury burning beneath his hairy breast. For twenty years,
almost, he brooded while he amassed a fortune, which gave him but the
one comfort that the "some day" might bring. And his day had come at
last.
Thus, as he sat in his office smoking and rubbing, the old light came
back to him; and he was not slow to act. Leaving the shop in the care of
the new clerk (Eli Jerey being yet indisposed) he went out. Finding a
purveyor of "houses for sale," he traveled the circuitous rounds with
that individual in search of a satisfying heap of stone and mortar.
Selecting one of approved style and with the requisite number of rooms,
in the rich men's district of the East End, he purchased. Then, fitting
it up with all the dazzle that money could buy, he installed therein the
entire Barton family, with one exception, of course; and ere the month
was out, so little was his compunction as to propriety, he made the
withered love of his youth his wife. And the gods caused him to smile,
at last.
So affecting was this piece of news on Eli Jerey's mind that he
forthwith began to arouse himself from his convalescing lethargy; and by
another fortnight was down at his old post, with the same cadavorous
look in his face, and the same slavish notions in his head. Since Peter
had left his office: which he did immediately after his marriage: that
little black hole stood silent, smokeless, with the accumulated filth of
years still clinging to it. The little peephole was there, now with no
wolfish eyes behind to peer through it, but still a source of much
anxiety to Eli, who, so strong was the force of habit in him, even after
he knew his master was gone, looked suspiciously at it ever and anon, as
if it itself would turn into green eyes and knock him down by their
stare, as those without the secret password had often done before.
Otherwise, Eli had peace of soul, since that irritable old curmudgeon
had surprised him into getting well.
Being faithful to his trust, he could not do different than he did; and
it is well for him. For after Peter had returned from his long-delayed
honeymoon, he came to the office only as a visitor. So magnanimous was
he now, in his rejuvenated character, that he turned the junk shop and
all his business over to Eli, to be managed as he willed. But this
change in proprietorship in nowise took from the place the name it had
acquired, nor from it the honor of being the repository of all the
secrets of the System built up around it, with no apparent connection.
So, instead of Peter being in his den, curled up like a stoat, he
delegated, after awhile, to Eli the perfunctory duties of receiving and
transmitting messages between himself and the henchmen, with Eli
ensconced in the black office.
One day after taking up his incumbency therein, Eli received a call from
Welty Morne.
"Where is Peter?" asked Welty, as he softly entered the sacred precinct
of The Die, unawares to Eli.
Remembering his encounter with that young gentleman, Eli bustled up like
a porcupine on the approach of an enemy, forgetting that he was to let
by-gone be by-gones, and serve his master in a new role.
"Gone," answered Eli, boldly; "I'm boss here. What will you have?"
"Where's he gone?" asked Welty, a little ruffled.
"He's quit these quarters for good," answered Eli.
"Wonder he wouldn't let a fellow know such things," said Welty.
"I'm his messenger; what can I do for you?"
"You! I hope not to that extent!"
"Yes; me--to that extent," retorted Eli.
"Well;" and Welty studied a few moments; then continued: "Convey to him
that Monroe wants to get in communication with him at once."
"I will do it," responded Eli.
Whereat, Eli descended into the darkness of his private phone booth,
remained a few minutes, and returned, with the information that Peter
would see him that evening at eight o'clock at the "Bartonage," as he
called his new residence.
"Very well," said Welty, leaving in a sulky temper.
At the hour of eight p. m., Peter was sitting at his home in all his
pomp and grandeur, when the starched smile of Monroe irradially floated
in upon his complacency in an hitherto unknown expansiveness.
"You old tout," said Monroe feelingly; "you surprise us all by your new
stunt."
When Peter laughed, which he did now sometimes, he was the picture of a
crying calf, if the simile is permissible; so when he broke his face
into one of his cunning signs of mirth, Monroe could not but help
feeling amused himself, and accordingly split his barren face up into
waves of noncommittal wrinkles.
"Ho, ho, ha, ha," cried Peter, forgetting now to rub his hands, and
instead slapped his fat hand on his fat leg; "you old batches will have
to fall in line. Look! and see how glorious it all is, Monroe; and to
think that I have missed it all these twenty years! Ho, ho, ha, ha, he,
he; you ought to try it, Monroe, and get those crimps out of your face!"
Peter laughed at this jolly till tears ran down his cheeks.
"Why, I should think you were happy, Peter, the way you are going on
about it," said Monroe, gloomily.
"Yes; try it, Monroe; you can get some one; can't you?" said Peter, with
an extra bang on his fat leg as an extra emphasis to his seriousness.
"I've never met my Fate--that is, no Fate that would care to take me,"
he remarked, with the smile gone.
"How about Jarney's girl?" asked Peter, in a confidential tone.
"That young chap, Winthrope, seems to have the way to her door all to
himself," responded the gloomy one.
"Who did you say?"
"Winthrope."
"I told you to get him out of the way."
"Well?"
"Well?"
"He can't be got out so easy," cried Monroe, with asperity. "He's an
immovable, unapproachable, indefinable young cuss, who can't be
inveigled."
"Have you given it up?"
"Oh, not yet."
"What you leading up to now?" asked Peter.
"To have the boss send him to the New York office."
"Will he send him?"
"He may."
"Say," said Peter, whisperingly, with an idea, "get him in the bribing
line, and then let him drop."
"He's beyond that," said the undaunted Monroe. "We are going to send him
to New York; give him authority to handle money, and lay our net to
catch him. This can be done. We will work it so slick, with Bate Yenger
as his assistant, that he can't crawl out; and we'll keep the money for
our trouble."
"Good!" said Peter, forgetting himself and rubbing this time. "Go on?"
"That's all."
"Humph;" ejaculated Peter. "You are a genuine dough-god!"
"You bear!" scowled Monroe--that is, he tried to scowl.
"You unplastic scoundrel," shouted Peter, turning on him, "if you don't
get him out of the way, and get that girl, I'll get your job away from
you!"
"Oh, no more of your jollying," said the putty-faced Monroe; "get down
to business. How much do I get out of the swag I get with the girl?"
"Half," replied Peter.
"Well, it's worth trying for," said Monroe.
"Say, by the by, Monroe; I received this today from Europe. Read it,"
said Peter, handing Monroe a letter, which had the following P. S. at
the end: "I have lost fifteen at Monte Carlo; send ten, or I will return
at once. (Signed) J. D."
"Does he mean fifteen thousand and ten thousand?" asked Monroe.
"He does."
"What will you do?"
"Send for Jacob Cobb."
"What will he do?"
"Furnish the money, of course."
"Jim Dalls is bleeding you for all the game is worth," said Monroe.
"We can do nothing else till we cease bleeding other people."
"You are plain about it, Peter."
"I am always plain, Monroe."
"Have you seen Cobb lately?" asked Monroe.
"Yesterday."
"How're things coming?"
"They're coming for the present," answered Peter. "Don't you think I
need them coming to keep up this establishment when I am fully in the
swim?"
"You probably do, Peter. I will run opposition to you when I get what's
coming to me."
"Be sure you don't get into the Pen, Monroe," said Peter, looking up
sidewise at Monroe, with a strange meaning in his eyes.
"And you?" asked Monroe.
"Oh, they can't get me; too much pull with the--"
Just then a howling brat, in silks and satins, came tearing into the
room, riding a brass curtain pole as his "horse." On seeing a stranger,
the youngster promptly made a flail out of the said curtain pole, and
began to belabor Peter over the head with such effectiveness that Peter
caught the child by the seat of his breeches, and hurled him blubbering
into a corner.
"I thought you enjoyed your new existence," humorously remarked the
staid Monroe.
"I do," answered the angered Peter, with a "humph."
"Well, if that is an example of what married life is, I don't think I
want any of it in mine," said Monroe, with some dejection in the curl of
his lips.
"Don't be so easily discouraged, Monroe; I've got ten like that one, on
whom I spend my time in reforming."
"Oh, Lordy!" exclaimed the placid Monroe.
"Yes; it is Lordy sometimes, you would think, if you were here when they
are all in."
"Why, I'd soon be in an asylum," said Monroe, despairingly.
"Say, Monroe, I've put Eli Jerey in my office," said Peter, changing the
subject.
"He deserves promotion, no doubt; can he be trusted?"
"None more so; that's why I put him there. I'll give him the store when
we pull off the next big deal."
"Will she go through?" asked Monroe.
"She will."
"How much?"
"One hundred thousand; then I'll quit."
"And we poor devils will have to take the crumbs," said the disheartened
Monroe.
"Every one is paid according to his services," said Peter, in reply.
"Get Winthrope out of the way, get the girl, and you'll have yours."
Monroe departed, feeling better.