A DISCREDITED HENCHMAN
Micky strolled into the Courier's local room one evening, and, after
hanging up his overcoat and hat, removed also his under coat and
unbuttoned his vest. He then leisurely detached his cuffs and rolled up
his shirt sleeves, to get arm-room, as he used to term it. Then, having
indulged a taste for preliminaries which he was fond of observing,
whenever he had the time, he sailed in. A half hour later he had
finished his task and turned in the copy. There was a temporary lull,
and O'Byrn leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his red
head, and dreamily watched the rings of smoke wreathing upward from the
tip of his cigar.
"Wherever did you get a gash like that?" inquired a voice behind him,
and Micky felt a finger touch his wrist. Mead, who also chanced to be
disengaged at the moment, took an adjacent chair and stretched himself
out comfortably for a chat.
Micky lazily extended his right arm and bestowed a curious glance upon a
long, livid scar, just above the wrist. "Oh, that?" he answered. "That
was an accident. Got it when I was too young to remember. Beastly night,
eh?"
"Yes, trying to blow up a nasty rain, I guess. Where've you been
tonight?"
"Oh, out in society," grinned Micky. "Harkins sent me to do that Van
Courts' recep' 'nd ball. Careless servants, though. I was glad to get
away alive."
"Why?"
"Well, I was discreetly in the background, of course, and was edging
across to get a better view when I fell over a pile of things on the
floor that they'd failed to brush up. Hostess gave 'em the glacial eye."
"I should think she would," warmly commented Mead. "What was the stuff?"
"Why, a bunch of ultras had just been standing there," demurely
explained O'Byrn, "and I fell over the dropped r's, that's all."
Mead viewed him darkly. "You ought to be killed," he remarked. "Such
cheap and unseemly levity is unworthy of one who is pursuing this
honorable, elevating, expanding career of journalism." This with an
oratorical flourish.
A shadow of seriousness crept into O'Byrn's twinkling eyes. "Of course
you're in fun, in a way," he told Mead, "but, just the same, you're
inclined to take your 'mission' seriously. My boy, you're due to shed a
raft of illusions. You'll find this 'career,' as you call it, is a good
deal like a hobby horse. Pleasant motion, but doesn't land you anywhere.
There's nothin' to it. I heard you talking the other day about 'the
great equipment it gives a fellow for a start in life.' That's all right
if taken in time, like the measles, but let me tell you something. You
stick at this, and stick and stick, and by the time you're ready for
that start, you'll be backin' up.
"You were a cub a while ago, Mead, and you made good. Naturally you
feel good about that, for a lot of 'em don't. Well, you needn't feel
good. You've got the germ, and it's fatal. You're to be pitied, for
you're thoroughly _en rapport_ with the job."
O'Byrn had warmed to his subject; his cigar stub described wild
flourishes. "I knew a young fellow once, in the middle west, who went
into the reporting line. Brighter'n a dollar and full of ambition and
the opportunity hop. Tried hard, but hadn't the nose, couldn't make good
nohow. Old man called him up on the carpet one day. Old man went it for
a while and then the gosling got a chance for a squawk.
"'Why,' says he in an injured way, 'I cover my assignments.'
"'Oh, yes,' snaps the old man,--and he was one of the best in the
business,--'you're all right on the stereotype, tellin' the people what
they already know about. Any lunkhead can report a baby show. The
mothers are there to tell him about it. But that's only half the game.
The other and the hardest half is in diggin' out and tellin' 'em what
they don't know about. That's what you're for and it's where you fall
down.'
"Well, the old man fired him. He was lucky. He's gettin' the salary of
three of us now and he's gettin' it out of straight life. Manages a
district. The old man who fired him died a while ago. Next time my
friend passed through that town he stopped off, just to shed some tears
of gratitude on the old man's grave.
"Oh, you grin now, Mead, and you're thinkin' to yourself 'Old Carrots,
the senile cynic.' But just you stick at it, and fail to sidestep the
Juggernaut, and in years to come you'll remember the words your Uncle
Mike is now addressin' to you and you'll feel the same sentiment the
old farmer from up north wrote on the back of a check.
"Never heard of it? Well, it's true. Old fellow was from Clayville
Corners. Got a check one day for something. Never saw anything like that
before; always took his money straight. Someone told him to take it into
town and get it cashed at the bank. So he blows in and shoves the slip
in front of the cashier. Cashier says, 'You'll have to indorse this.'
Old man was rather rattled but stayed game. Took it over to the desk and
scribbled on the back this sentiment:
"'i hartily Indors this Chek.'
"That'll be you, Mead, in the coming days. You'll think what Micky told
you and you'll heartily indorse. But it won't be checks. The only checks
you get in this cussed business are over-draws."
"Nice, roseate view you take of your calling," sarcastically remarked
Mead. "Why in thunder don't you get out of it?"
Micky's grin was illuminating and forgiving. "Because I can't do
anything else," he admitted frankly. "But you can. Why don't you? Try
politics. It's the graft these days. Then bimeby you can retire, like
Shaughnessy, and will never have to work anybody any more. But just you
stick at this newspaper stunt, and after a while you find, to your
surprise, that 'the zest and thrill of news gettin' which is the fillip
of the reporter's jaded life' is gettin' a dull edge. Of course, you're
older than you used to be, and that explains most things, includin' the
multiplyin' of troubles that come to you while you wait. The chiefest
one is in your speed. It's O. K. when you're young and your blood is
boundin'. You feel like that brute owned by the enthusiastic French
Canadian. He was workin' a horse trade, and says: 'Dat hoss, she trot
half-past two. He no trot half-past two, I give you to it!'
"Now, the trouble with the vet reporter is that by the time he gets to
an age that is considered the prime of life in any other line, why, he
can't half trot past anybody, and he gets scratched. And I think that
will hold you for a while, Mead. Think it over."
O'Byrn yawned, glanced at the clock, and rose. "Well," said he, airily,
"I'm off, don't you know, to see if I can find something to make me
forget that society shindy. Oh, ya-a-s! Bubbles! you rude fellah; there
now, Bubbles! Go 'way, Mead. You're not so bad, you know, but you don't
belong. Tra, la! old chap, be good. What a pity you have to work for a
living!" With which parting arrant nonsense O'Byrn considerately took
himself off.
Arrived at the street, Micky's jovial grin faded and he walked along
with a serious air that had been far more frequent with him of late.
There was a sober-sided Micky that few of his mates knew. Often now,
when the little Irishman was alone, the reckless light would fade in the
blue eyes, leaving them unwontedly serious; the jovial grin would quit
the freckled face, to be replaced by that pensive shadow that tells of
wistful, wondering speculation regarding the veiled mystery of futurity.
Such the spell of introspection that is cast when love comes to one,
leading to grave heart-searchings, to the tentative facing of one's
soul. There is as much of shadow as of sunlight in the path of true
love, but there is substance in the shadow.
Micky was walking swiftly along, oblivious to his animated
surroundings, when a touch upon an elbow arrested his attention. He
glanced up, somewhat bewildered, and stopped. One of Maisie's brothers,
Tom, was facing him.
"Hello, O'Byrn," abruptly remarked Muldoon. "Saw you passing me, lookin'
dreamy-eyed, so I stopped you. Thought you might want to know. Maisie's
sick."
"Sick!" echoed Micky, a scared look in his face. "Why, what--"
"Oh, don't worry like that." reassuringly. "We called in the doctor; he
says there's no danger. She'll be all right."
"Yes," Micky returned anxiously, "but what's the matter, man? Why, she
was all right Friday evening. I was there."
"Yes," returned her brother, "it came on real sudden. It's that fever
that's going around; she came down last night. But she's got it mild, so
don't you worry. It's too late now, she's asleep, but run in tomorrow
for a minute sometime, can't you? It'll do her good. And don't worry,
old man." With a hearty slap on Micky's shoulder Tom passed on.
Micky continued on his way, his heart heavy with the news. Of course,
she was not in danger, but illness in itself is depressing to the young.
They hate the sound of the word; the sight of suffering inspires in them
an odd, rebellious impatience. The sun is needed to brighten the gray
old world; why is it so often behind a cloud? "Poor little girl!"
murmured Micky, the tears starting to his eyes. Why, only last Friday
night she had been the picture of health and happiness, and they had sat
side by side on the little sofa and talked of their modest plans. Yes,
and he had run into the store the next day and chatted with her for a
moment. And now she lay sick and helpless at home. A great wave of
tenderness suffused O'Byrn's warm Irish heart. Would he call to see her
for a moment on the morrow? Would he?
Micky pressed on at a furious pace, impatiently winking smarting eyes,
puffing like a locomotive at a cigar whose end flared like a headlight.
For the moment he was oblivious to his surroundings, though hurrying
through a crowded, brilliantly lighted street. Mechanically he turned a
corner into a darker one. A moment more and he was recalled to earth by
a dry, remembered voice, a voice that broke disagreeably in upon his
reverie.
"Can you give me a light?" it inquired, as Micky halted. "You seem to
have enough."
Micky proffered his raging cigar and watched the man curiously as he
lighted it. Oddly enough, considering O'Byrn's wide acquaintance since
his brief stay in town, the two had never met. Under the dim radiance of
an adjacent old street lamp, Shaughnessy's face gleamed ghastly white,
the black moustache had an odd, limp droop. His weed lighted, he handed
Micky's cigar back with a slight nod of acknowledgment and was about to
turn away.
O'Byrn's deviltry, irrepressible and eternal, asserted itself. "You're
lookin' bad, Mr. Shaughnessy," he remarked with impudent solicitude.
"'Tain't good for you, this night air. Don't you go to them; you don't
have to. Make 'em come to you."
For once Shaughnessy's impassive mask was disturbed, which Micky noted
with impish satisfaction. To be sure, it was not much. Where many a face
would have been curiously distorted, the basilisk eyes of Shaughnessy
just widened and glared a moment, that was all. Then they narrowed and
became expressionless, while Shaughnessy deliberately removed his cigar
from his mouth and thoughtfully emitted a cloud of smoke.
"Who are you?" he inquired casually.
Micky had recourse to his card case. "Allow me," he remarked politely.
Shaughnessy glanced at it and thrust it in his vest pocket. "I've heard
of you," he acknowledged. "Fine night, eh? Good evening." He moved
leisurely away. O'Byrn hailed him and he turned.
"I haven't one of your cards, Mr. Shaughnessy," suggested Micky,
grinning wickedly.
Shaughnessy vouchsafed him a slight, sneering smile. "I don't think you
need it," he retorted, "but I'm glad, I'm sure, that you gave me yours."
He passed on and turned the corner.
Micky was a veteran newsgetter, which means that he was also a good
detective. Wary as Shaughnessy was, he could not have known that he was
being shadowed, though O'Byrn noticed him several times casting
apprehensive glances to the rear. He smiled grimly at the implied
tribute to his reputation and discreetly kept out of sight. In the
meantime he had necessarily dropped some distance behind the boss,
though carefully following him as he traversed successive streets.
Suddenly, however, he turned sharply at a cross-alley, and when O'Byrn,
hurrying his pace, reached there, Shaughnessy was nowhere to be seen.
Micky stood perplexed, cursing softly. He hurried to the end of the
alley to Lawrence Street and looked up and down it, without result. He
walked aimlessly here and there about the section, but no glad sight of
Shaughnessy rewarded his keen eyes.
After some little time, however, O'Byrn saw a familiar figure crossing
Lawrence Street, a block from the point where the alley intersected. The
Irishman was instantly alert, for the man was former Alderman Goldberg.
"Gad!" muttered Micky, "the woods seem to be full of 'retired'
politicians." Gaining the opposite side of the street, Goldberg turned
west and walked about two blocks, with O'Byrn discreetly behind, across
the way. Suddenly Goldberg disappeared within a doorway. Micky chuckled
softly.
"Up over Hogan's, eh?" he muttered. "So that's the trysting place." He
must investigate, surely, but not just now. Perhaps there were other
birds of the sinister brood to arrive. O'Byrn, with the canny discretion
born of long reportorial experience, lurked for the present in a
shadowed doorway. In a little while his caution was justified, for there
arrived simultaneously at the "trysting place" the lanky Dick Peterson
and the rotund Willie Shute, known to Micky for the precious pair of
political rascals they were. "That fake convention! Oh, what a bluff!"
breathed the Irishman, with a definite admiration in his subdued tones.
One could honestly admire a masterly _coup_ like that, nor could he
withhold a certain tribute to the ability of the scoundrel responsible
for it. Shaughnessy was a genius, burrowing in the dark places; where
the searching sunlight would have been fatal.
Micky waited a little longer, but the circle was evidently complete.
They would not naturally keep the boss waiting long, for O'Byrn made no
doubt that he was with them. The Irishman was fired with an intense
desire to hear that conference. Already he knew that Shaughnessy was
there, and matters were proceeding under the same masterly hand as of
yore; only it was "the hidden hand" now, and all the more deadly for
that reason. O'Byrn was convinced that he ought to be an unnoted auditor
of that meeting, though he knew there were difficulties in the way. It
was not probable that Hogan neglected precautions against any possible
disturbance of these little conferences, for it was a natural
supposition that he had his orders to that effect.
However, nothing was to be gained by standing and speculating about it.
So Micky, with sundry unspoken prayers for immunity from a broken head,
crossed the street and approached the doorway. He opened the door
cautiously and slipped inside. By a single gas light, turned religiously
low, he saw the white aproned form of a waiter standing at the head of
the flight of stairs. In that moment the man started down stairs.
The way to the cafe was through a long, dark passage, at the end of
which the dim gas light did not penetrate. In an instant the wily O'Byrn
had retreated into this passage, where he flattened against the wall.
The sleeve of the waiter brushed his body as that worthy passed on into
the cafe. A gust of boisterous talk and tipsy laughter sounded from the
saloon as the door was opened. Then it was closed, and Micky, without a
second's hesitation, made for the stairs and crept softly up, trusting
to luck.
He heard a murmur of voices from the larger of the two rooms that faced
a narrow hall, which in turn looked out upon a side street through its
two small windows. Between the two rooms there was a narrow passage,
terminating in a flight of steep stairs which led down into Hogan's
kitchen. These stairs were seldom used. The building, an architectural
anomaly in the first place, had been further mangled by the odd ideas of
Hogan.
Micky slipped around into this friendly little passageway just as the
waiter came up stairs with a loaded tray. Micky heard him knock, enter
the room, and shortly return. To his disgust the Irishman failed to hear
the waiter's descending footsteps. Evidently he was supposed to stand
guard and see that the coast was kept clear.
Micky swore silently. Then he made a discovery which filled him with
glee. The light streamed from the all-important room through an aperture
high in the wall; evidently a disused stovepipe hole, which Hogan had
carelessly forgotten to cover after he put in his furnace. More than
this, Micky noted, in the dim light of other gas jets in the hall
outside, that directly under this hole stood a small but substantial
table, on exceptionally high legs.
To noiselessly gain the top of the table occupied but an instant for the
agile Irishman. His eager, freckled face was thrust close to the
observatory. He had a swift glimpse of that precious group, the charmed
circle complete, and then occurred a thing that froze his blood.
Suddenly Goldberg, Goldberg of the illimitable brow, sprang to his feet
with shaking fist and crimsoned face. He extended his arm; the swollen
fist resolved itself into a single accusing finger, pointed straight at
O'Byrn. Goldberg's little pig eyes shot fire, he glared murderously at
the stove pipe hole. "Oh, you spy! you damned spy!" he yelled. Micky
waited to hear no more.
He gained the floor at a jump and swung around the corner. The
unsuspecting waiter stood directly between him and the front stairs.
Micky lowered his head and charged like a lively little bull. The dazed
waiter crashed to the floor and Micky gained the bottom of the stairs in
three bounds.
In that very instant, however, the sound of a loud commotion, a volley
of curses, came from above. Instead of gaining the street, O'Byrn
instinctively retreated into the dark passage between the stairs and the
cafe, where he crouched and waited. The next moment, with a succession
of bumps, some object came thudding down the stairs and reached the
bottom with a deep groan. There was a rush of feet on the landing above,
eager to follow.
In a flash O'Byrn had sprung forward, turning off the single gas jet,
flinging the door wide open. Then, as a second heavy body came tumbling
down the stairs, evidently through a stumble in the darkness, O'Byrn
stooped, and gathering a limp, senseless form in his arms, gained the
street. Dragging his burden, he wheeled into the adjoining alley. He
heard swift footsteps in the street. Goldberg hurried by, limping and
cursing. He it was who had fallen down stairs.
Micky chuckled. "'Twasn't me they were after, at all," he muttered. Then
he bent low, gazing sharply into the white face of his senseless burden.
He gave a start of surprise.
It was Slade.