A WAGER
Micky told Dick about it one evening, for his heart was full. His
engagement was a serious thing to him, and something like fear mingled
with his hope of the future. He was deeply sensible of his past
mistakes, but he knew himself too well to look to the coming days with
unshrinking confidence. He hoped, very humbly; that was all.
Dick was sympathetic, he understood. His was one of those rare natures
that invite, comprehend and respect confidences. "You know my record,
Dick," Micky had said. "There isn't much in it of a domestic tinge. But
just the same, when I happen to get a night off and sit in the little
parlor with her, it seems--" with a queer little break in his
voice,--"why Dick, it seems as if I had at last--got home!"
And Dick had wrung Micky's hand until it ached, and assured him in his
deep bass voice, eloquent with fervent earnestness, that he was all
right, and poor Micky had begun to hope that, after a long and checkered
season, he was.
The city was now fully roused to the contest that was being waged for
its control between the Fusionists and Democrats, and, as a natural
sequence, they were busy in the newspaper offices. One thing was quite
evident, however, which was that the unexpected _coup_ made by the
opponents of Shaughnessy, at the Democratic convention, had rendered the
chances of the Fusionist ticket dubious, to say the least. In fact, the
Fusionists had been robbed, to a large extent, of their thunder. The
spectacular repudiation of Shaughnessy by his own convention, the
nomination of a man for the mayoralty against whom no word of civil or
political taint had ever been breathed, had greatly lessened the
Fusionists' chances of success. Where they had expected to be able to
deal mighty blows, by pointing to the shameless effrontery of
Shaughnessy in forcing a malodorous city ticket through his convention,
they were now compelled to take another tack. The situation had been
made the subject of an earnest conference between Colonel Westlake and
the men controlling other pro-Fusionist newspapers directly after the
Democratic convention and its surprising results.
So, in the assaults which the opposing newspapers, led by the Courier,
were making upon the Democracy there was no hint of detraction of the
Judge. How could there be? They contented themselves with the assumption
that the respected and able jurist had been imposed upon. To be sure,
Shaughnessy, having become notorious, had been sacrificed by his keen
associates in their own interest. Should they be successful at the
polls, the argument was made that Judge Boynton and some of his well
meaning associates upon the ticket, despite their good intentions, would
be powerless to cleanse the Augean stables because they would be
prevented from so doing by forces within their own party. Fusion would
furnish a new broom, guaranteed to sweep clean.
This was strong and logical reasoning, but there were signs that it was
ineffective. There was a strong retort to be made, which was that the
purifying movement in the Democracy had come from within. The leaders
named were above suspicion; some of them were recognized bitter enemies
of Shaughnessy. Men of influence who had joined the Fusionists, though
Democrats, openly returned, holding that the necessity for Fusion no
longer existed. As the Democrats had a natural ascendency in the city,
the outlook for Fusion was on the whole growing rather depressing.
Following his humiliation in the convention, Shaughnessy had left the
city for several days. Upon returning, he apparently took up the life of
a recluse. He confined himself strictly to the affairs of his wholesale
house, dividing his time equally between the office and his lodgings. He
was no longer at headquarters, where the sight of him was once so
familiar; he had apparently dropped all interest in politics, though
nobody dared to ask him anything about it. When Shaughnessy first struck
the town, said the old stagers, he was quite decently approachable, but
he had ceased so to be for years past. It was noted, however, by some
who chanced to meet him upon the street and glanced curiously at him,
that he was ghastlier than ever, with sunken cheeks and dull eyes. He
looked ill.
But there was one who had not ceased to regard Mr. Shaughnessy with
suspicion, a suspicion that grew day by day, and that was Micky O'Byrn.
When Shaughnessy left town after his rout, O'Byrn muttered, "Up to more
deviltry. Wonder what it is now?" When he returned, and quietly forsook
his old political haunts, Micky's sandy eyebrows were skeptically
elevated and he murmured, "Underground! He'll come up somewhere." For
Micky relied upon the evidence of his keen Irish eyes. Whether the act
was committed through arrangement or involuntarily, Shaughnessy had
winked. O'Byrn reasoned that winks by a man of Shaughnessy's calibre
were not wasted. Curious that a "slick duck" like Grady, as Micky
characterized that smooth orator, had required a wink. Perhaps he
hadn't, perhaps Shaughnessy had simply grown over-anxious during the
short interval between the speeches. Well, if Shaughnessy had grown
unwittingly careless, that was his look-out, his and O'Byrn's. O'Byrn
was looking out. He had said nothing and he was devoutly hopeful that he
would have a chance to saw wood.
He was at Maisie's one evening, one of his customary "off-nights." These
nights were coming to him of late as oases in the deserts of weeks. They
had chatted, talked seriously of their plans, sung together to Maisie's
accompaniment on the little organ, and now Micky regretfully rose, with
a glance at his watch. "Well, girl," said he, "I've got to slide. It's
gettin' late. Your pa'll be assistin' me."
She watched him with wistful blue eyes, loth that he leave, though she
knew the hour beckoned his departure. He stood near the big lamp with
its red shade, his queer features being mellowed, so to speak, in the
ruddy glow. He grinned benignly at her as he reached for his coat.
Anticipating him, she helped him into it.
"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed rebelliously, "isn't it the worst ever, this
newspaper business! And a morning paper at that, with your hours turned
wrong side out and a night off only once in an age! Micky, dear, why
don't you get into something civilized?"
"You know, Maisie, the Constitution says all men were created equal," he
observed soberly.
"Sure it does, but what's that got to do with it? What are you up to
now?"
"Why, nothin'," he replied, an impish twinkle in his eye, "only it
depends. One man may be as good as another, but it's up to him to prove
it. A bunch of Socialist Democrats, in a town I was in once, put up a
hostler for city judge against a couple of old lawyers on the regular
tickets. Said a hostler was as good as a lawyer in this free country.
True enough, in a limited sense. I know a lot of hostlers that are
better hostlers than a lot of lawyers that are lawyers. I suppose you
follow me? But, all the same, these fellows were lame in their argument
for this reason. Their hostler candidate might have had horse sense to
burn, but he hadn't read law. There's a lot of difference between horse
sense and the law, Maisie. They finally took the hostler off and put a
cobbler on, who came in last. Now don't strike me, Maisie, that last was
accidental. Really, I didn't intend it."
"I should hope not!" with sincerity. "But I don't see what all this
rigmarole has to do with what we are saying, or were. Have you lost your
mind?"
"If ever I did, the finder would return it," he retorted whimsically.
"It would make him dizzy. But to return to cases, what I said has got
everything to do with what we said. Can't see it? Well, men may be
created equal but most of 'em never learn arithmetic. The fellow who
does has got 'em stopped. He keeps on addin', while they--oh, they're
just multiplyin' every minute. They're all around you, I'm one of 'em
myself. The mathematical sharp, who made a specialty on finance and
knows the idiosyncrasies of a dollar better than a mother knows her
child, keeps on subtractin' the other fellows from their money. When it
comes to the division, why they're all workin' for him. That's
Rockefeller, and by the same token, that's me. We're the limit on the
extremes. He's got everything and I'm livin' on the rest. I've got
nothin' and he's got it. See?
"There's a happy medium, but it doesn't help the majority much, for most
of us are on pay rolls. For instance, one man owns the Courier and the
rest of us are working for him. If I changed to something else, I'd
still be workin' for someone. Why? Because the only line in arithmetic
in which I could make good was a sequence of ciphers with no bigger
figure before it. You catch the point, don't you? It's due to the
mercenary age. Nominally I'm free and equal. Actually I'm about a
'steenth of one per cent. See? But what's the dif'? What you need in
this dizzy old world is philosophy. I've got it to burn, but Standard
Oil can't scorch it. Here's a motto for you, Maisie, and you can paste
it in that funny new jigger you call a hat. It'll keep you smilin' on
wash day, and that's a test for a woman. It's just this: take it as it
comes, and, if it doesn't come, don't take it."
He was gone, this queer little man-gamin of vagrant moods, shifting as
the winds, yet for the most bubbling with reckless cheeriness. Humor was
the predominant note of his being. Its broad grace mellowed him; would
keep him sound and sweet at heart, whatever the sum of the coming years.
Did the winds blow fair or ill, he had within him the essence of logical
living; a whimsical sense of proportion that enabled him to view himself
impartially with all others, one of myriad puppets in the show. A
success or a failure he might become, as the world judges, but until the
end he would be too large for that littleness which is too often a
hallmark of success, the littleness of petty vanity. So, with this
greatest gift the Creator can give one of his children, the humorous
sense of proportion that can make if need be a joke of futility, Micky
would go on to the end, to success or failure; alike with heart
uncankered and a laugh on his lips. There would never transpire a
misanthropic Micky.
For a long time after O'Byrn's departure, Maisie sat still in the Morris
chair, a pensive look on her pretty face, with vague eyes bent dreamily
on the flaming wood in the tiny fireplace; for the nights had grown
chill with the first presage of winter and the fenders glowed with warm
hospitality on company nights. The busy flames licked the blackened
slabs; hurrying over the charred, desolate spaces; leaping in triumph as
a conquered fragment fell, under the espionage of a shower of
scintillant sparks. The tongues of flame, with redoubled energy, again
lapped the wood, eating into its vitals, withering its fibres with fiery
breath, crumbling it piecemeal in a crematory of elemental ashes. At
last, always working upward, the flames burst exultantly from scorched
fissures in the topmost slab and curled in weird shapes above it; shapes
that now approached a certain sane coherence; that again were
indeterminate and distorted, vaguely writhing in a dim haze, like one's
future. Finally the fire, spending its force, dulled and died, the ruddy
flames slowly paling like the fading roses of a summer sunset. Then
there was the black, desolate end; all light extinguished save for the
baleful, red-eyed glare of a few scattered embers, dying on the hearth.
Maisie sat erect with a sudden start, stealing an apprehensive glance at
the clock. With a long sigh and a little shiver, she rose slowly,
extinguished the low-turned lamp and departed for bed.
Meanwhile, Micky, a red-eyed cigar in a corner of his mouth, had walked
leisurely and thoughtfully toward the city. His hands thrust deep in his
overcoat pockets, he strode unheedingly on, lost in a wistful reverie.
What a flower was this little girl of his, to be sure! And he--what had
he done to deserve her? A little self-examination is good for a man,
especially if it be followed by a little proper self-disgust. O'Byrn
walked on in singularly chastened mood. The past? Ah, it was done; why
waste time in regrets when one is young? The present was of sunshine in
a blue sky; the future--
O'Byrn's shoulders rose in a little, involuntary, uneasy shrug. He
turned a corner just then and looked up. The next instant he had retired
unobtrusively into a dark hallway, where he stood, staring across the
street.
O'Byrn could scarcely have explained his definite impulse for doing
this. It was simply the half-unconscious manifestation of the news
instinct. Without any needed pause for reasoning, Micky's news faculty
had connected two apparently irrelevant facts as significantly allied
with each other, prompting him to remain in the hope of securing
something worth while. The wholesale liquor establishment of Shaughnessy
stood just across the street. The curtains of the office were drawn,
but O'Byrn saw the reflection of a light behind them. Furthermore, the
sound which had brought Micky to a realization of his surroundings, a
moment before, was that of a carriage, which had been halted a little
way up the dark street, the corner of which O'Byrn had just turned. So
O'Byrn stood in the shadow, watching Shaughnessy's office.
He had not long to wait. A few moments and he beheld the corner of one
of the office window shades drawn slightly to one side. Somebody was
evidently looking out. Nobody was in sight, for the street was a quiet
one and was deserted at that hour. The next moment the door was opened
cautiously and a man emerged. Crossing the street swiftly he passed by
O'Byrn so closely that the reporter could have touched him, and turned
the corner. Then was soon audible the sound of receding wheels.
O'Byrn whistled softly as he resumed his walk toward the city. The light
of the aroused news instinct was in his eyes. Here was something
tangible, bearing out surmises that had seemed wild to himself. What
need had Judge Boynton, the esteemed Democratic candidate for mayor, to
be secretly in the office of the deposed boss, Shaughnessy? Deposed,
indeed! Micky laughed softly, then clenched his hands.
"Oh, if I can only get onto it!" he breathed savagely. "Whew! Lord!
Lord! What a story!"
Had Micky chanced to look around at that moment he might have seen a man
following him, who, had O'Byrn known it, could have given him some
interesting and definite pointers on that desired story. The man had
emerged from around the corner of Shaughnessy's building a moment after
Judge Boynton left and Micky had started down the street. Gaining the
opposite side of the thoroughfare, the fellow, who had evidently been
eavesdropping, followed O'Byrn, keeping some distance in the rear, until
a point was reached where Micky turned to go toward the Courier office.
The other man kept straight on.
A little later, as he had figured upon doing, Micky met some of the boys
in a lunch room which they were wont to visit at that hour. Dick was
there, and Mead and Fatty Stearns. The latter was talking.
"Gee!" exclaimed Fatty, breathlessly, while the expletive blew a
formidable charge of bread crumbs toward the shrinking company, "but
there'll be doin's this election! There'll be doin's! Watcha think,
Micky?"
"I think you need an interpreter, Fatty, when you try to talk with your
mouth full," replied O'Byrn. "Don't talk, Fatty. You sound like a dog
that's trying to breathe in July; you do, really. One of those
expectorating dogs."
"Gee! What's those?" demanded Fatty, helplessly. "Spitz!" replied Micky,
and dodged a crust launched by the justly indignant Glenwood.
"Cheese it, fellows," put in Mead. "About this election. Fusion's got no
chance now. Judge Boynton'll win in a walk."
"For how much?" in a flash. O'Byrn's hand was in his pocket.
"Well," remarked Mead, reflectively, "I'm not exactly lined with dough,
but I'll put an X on it. Have to stipulate that it's a futurity, though;
for, needless to say, I haven't as much as that in my clothes three
days after pay day."
"Neither have I," laughed O'Byrn. "This diggin' down was a bluff. But
I'll see your ten all right. This bum line of witnesses will take
notice. Loser touches someone to pay the winner. All fine 'nd dandy."
Mead acquiesced, albeit with an implied something of uncertainty in his
demeanor. The rotund Stearns voiced it in nervous words.
"Gee! Mead," he exclaimed, "you're a chump to bet your stuff on another
fellow's game."
"Go die somewhere, Fatty," suggested Micky. "There's no game yet, but,"
with a queer grin at Mead, "there's going to be before this thing's
over. Want to renig, Mead? Can if you want to."
"No!" indignantly rejoined Mead. "I'll see it through. If you really
have something in your Irish sleeve, O'Byrn, I'll bet it's worth the
money."
"Nothin' yet," murmured Micky, as they prepared to depart, "but I tell
you, boys, that sleeve's a Christmas stockin' just now, and I'm gettin'
eye-strain watchin' for Santa Claus."