HIS BETTER SIDE
When he had seen Slade safely off, Micky returned to the office and
reported to Harkins, receiving a late assignment of a night police story
which they desired "fixed up" in the style which was peculiarly O'Byrn's
own. He contented himself just now with telling Harkins that he had been
after something which promised well, but "wasn't ripe enough yet to
spring." He felt that the thing was so surprisingly big that it would be
better not to mention it officially till he could be sure of being able
to secure it. Slade's narrative had opened up thrilling possibilities;
it remained for O'Byrn to secure the proofs before he could venture to
say anything, much less to write a single line. This would take hard
work and subtlety, but Micky looked forward confidently to the prospect
of scoring the most brilliant _coup_ in the history of newspaperdom in
that town.
It would have to be done quickly, too, for the time was growing short.
The Courier, and the papers which united with it in the support of
Fusion, were pounding away on a forlorn hope, thanks to Shaughnessy's
masterly checkmate. They were confined to inveighing against the past;
which was black enough, to be sure. But the Democracy, having apparently
reformed from within, was evidently preparing for a regenerated future.
This called back many who had been temporarily alienated, and Fusion's
chances daily grew slimmer. If the proof could be adduced for Slade's
revelations, O'Byrn knew that a very simoon of public wrath would at the
eleventh hour sweep over Shaughnessy and his crew. His eyes sparkled.
The simoon should be forthcoming.
His work kept him late, and the gray dawn was breaking when he walked
wearily back to his lodgings and tumbled into bed. It was long ere he
could sleep, for the glittering possibilities of that story whirled
through his brain. At last, however, he fell into slumber that was
disturbed by dreams in which he engaged continuously in fantastic
warfare with Shaughnessy, and in which he continually got the worst of
it. It was in the nature of a relief to Micky, on awaking about noon, to
reflect a little upon the good old adage that dreams go by contraries.
Having had breakfast at an hour even unfashionably late, Micky sauntered
over to the office. He moved with unwonted deliberation, for this was to
be his night off. He had thought many times of Maisie, who was ill, and
had decided that late in the afternoon would be the best time to make
the call her brother had suggested. He must kill a little time till
then. So he took his way instinctively to the office, being one of those
unquiet newspaper spirits that hover uneasily about the hive, even when
they have a brief breathing space in which to drone a little.
Now that the first shock of the announcement of the girl's illness was
over, Micky viewed the situation with more composure. Her brother had
said it was not serious, and Micky knew that the fever to which Maisie
had fallen a victim, and which was quite prevalent in the city, existed
in a mild form. She would be out in a few days, but--ah! it was too bad,
anyway. Micky sought indignantly to blink away the moisture that
treacherously gathered in his eyes.
Reaching the office, he hung around aimlessly for a while, watching the
rest of them work. He was more silent than usual and made rather brief
replies to their greetings and subsequent comments. It was rather odd to
see him mooning in this way, and they conspired together to "jounce" him
out of it.
It chanced that a certain old gentleman from a near-by village was
prowling about the office that afternoon. He was a relative of the
business manager, who had asked the boys up stairs to "tell him
about things." As he was of a very curious turn of mind, and very
unsophisticated to boot, the boys soon saw they were in for it. They
spied Micky, moodily gazing out of the window, and swiftly hatched a
plan whereby the venerable visitor was soon introduced to Micky with the
understanding that O'Byrn should "put him next."
Micky would not allow his mates, who hovered near in expectation of the
fun, the satisfaction of any visible annoyance on his part. He grinned
affably at the aged seeker after knowledge, and ceremoniously drew up a
chair. "I can tell you all about it easier than I can show you," he
explained innocently, then launched forth.
In ten minutes he had told the visitor more about the newspaper business
than there really is. "Oh, what a pipe!" enthusiastically whispered the
delighted listeners, whose presence Micky minded not at all. He dwelt
particularly and pathetically upon the amount of work which is expected
from a newspaper man by his unfeeling editors. Not content with
ascribing to the luckless reporter a stint of forty-eight hours' work in
every twenty-four, he calmly outlined an imaginary daily programme for
himself that staggered even the credulous old gentleman.
"But, young man," said he vaguely, when Micky had finished and sat
regarding him with owlish gravity, "what--er--what do you do in your
spare time?"
The boys, knowing what weakness was Micky's crowning handicap, were in a
position to appreciate the reply, which might have somewhat puzzled the
old gentleman.
"My spare time?" mused Micky. "Well, let me see; what do I do in my
spare time? Oh, yes," with a relieved expression, "to be sure. In my
spare time I hunt for another job." And he walked out, followed by a
roar of laughter in which the bewildered old gentleman did not join.
"What's the matter with me? I'm gettin' to be a woman!" muttered Micky a
few moments later, as he turned southward from the avenue to go to
Maisie's. For Micky had caught himself, to his disgust, bestowing
remorseful thought upon the bewildered old gentleman. Why should Micky
have "strung" him, why have made him the sport of his mates? Had he not
gray hairs, were not his years of eld?
Now ordinarily these considerations would have troubled Micky not at
all, and he might readily be pardoned his dismay at evidences of the
growth of a crop of nice scruples, entirely new and perplexing. O'Byrn
was not used to the subtleties of conscience. It was not so long ago
that he could have dismissed the thought of the gaping old fellow with
the moment of parting. But now the wondering blue eyes, the blank old
face, dismayed at the concerted burst of shrill laughter, troubled
O'Byrn. It would not have done so in former days; why now?
Why, it was the girl, of course. Micky's freckled face softened, his
eyes grew wistful as the explanation occurred to him. Could he not
trace, in a thousand and one little ways, a change in his life since she
came into it? Assuredly, and for the better. Micky acknowledged frankly
to himself that his love for her, and hers for him, was Christianizing
him; not in a concrete sense, to be sure, for O'Byrn's thoughts were
little concerned with religion, as such. Thrown upon his own resources
at an early age, he was essentially a world-product; but now, through
this love for a girl,--a new experience for him,--the little Irishman
was undergoing a refining process that surprised even himself. No
startling change was there, but in a multitude of little ways was shown
the gentle influence of this new element in Micky's life. More of
tenderness; more potent impulses to kindliness; free-flowing charity
toward all. For, in the beatific dawn of love, is a summons for the best
in poor, dross-ridden human nature to arise; and, at least temporarily,
the happy lover radiates peace and good will toward all mankind.
So Micky, sauntering thoughtfully along, continued superfluously to
reflect upon his irreverence to the poor old man,--who probably had not
minded it half as much as O'Byrn did,--until the recurrent thoughts of
Maisie banished the incident from his mind. He was dancing with her at
the Ironworkers' ball, he sat with her in the little parlor, he heard
the sweet voice of her--and it was with a distinct sense of bewilderment
that he awoke to find himself halted mechanically before the little
house in which she lay.
Advancing doubtfully, half fearfully, he rang the bell. The door opened
and Maisie's mother greeted him. No, she said, Maisie was not seriously
ill, was quite comfortable. She had been asking for him, would be glad
he had come. Indeed, said Mrs. Muldoon, she had been wondering if he
would come.
"Come?" echoed Micky, as he followed her in. "Come? Why, I've been
thinkin' of her ever since I heard it. Gee! I'm glad she's feelin' so
well. Hello, Terence!" He clutched playfully, in a rush of relieved
feeling, at the thick thatch of the youngest Muldoon, who stood agape in
the doorway, eyeing him. Terence grinned and took to his heels.
Maisie's mother ushered Micky upstairs. A light streamed through a
partially opened door at the end of the hall. It was from Maisie's room,
and Micky entered slowly, timidly,--as a devotee would approach a
shrine.
As it had been through a mist, for the blood rushed tumultuously to his
head, he saw her sweet face, radiant with welcome and love for him; saw
the little white hands, eagerly outstretched toward him. In an instant
they were lost to sight within his trembling own; he bent over her,
murmuring broken words, with an odd choke in his throat and big tears
gathering in his eyes. He winked them indignantly, strove to clear his
burred throat. The attempt ended dismally in a strangling gasp.
The girl laughed tremulously; but the tears, summoned by the sight of
the lad's emotion, were very near her own eyes. "Why, Micky!" she said
softly. "What's the matter? Why, I'm not really sick, you know; that
is, not bad. Only--"
"Yes, little girl, I know," he interrupted, recovering himself. "I
didn't mean to go up in the air like that, honest I didn't. But seein'
you laid up like this, why, it just hit me where I live, that's all."
His lip quivered.
"There, there!" Maisie's mother, good old soul, was patting him on his
meagre shoulder. "Of course it hit ye where ye live; in yer warm Irish
heart, to be sure. But ye needn't worry, for the doctor says Maisie has
a mild case and will be out soon. Well, I'll leave ye now, she's been
lookin' for ye. Of course, ye can't stay long, for the doctor says she's
got to be quiet. But have a little chat wid her, an' I'm glad ye came
up, me boy." And she bustled out, radiating hearty, wholesome, everyday
motherliness.
For some moments after she had gone the boy and girl were silent. O'Byrn
had drawn a chair close to the small white bed and sat quietly, her hand
in his. It was hot, the little hand, and fevered roses bloomed in her
soft cheeks. Her beautiful eyes, alight with joy at his coming, gazed
happily into his own for a moment, then closed, a little wearily, as she
lay content.
Softly pressing the little answering hand, Micky looked dreamily about
the room. It spoke eloquently of her, small and modest and instinct with
peaceful purity. It was appointed simply in white, from the pretty
curtains at the two small windows to dresser and bureau and quaint
old-fashioned chairs. On a small stand a lamp burned dimly, for the
outer dusk had turned into early autumn night. The tiny clock struck the
half-hour.
Her eyes opened. "I'm glad you're here, Micky," she said softly. "I've
been hopin' you'd come. I hate to lie here all day long. 'Tisn't
natural," with a rueful laugh. "But I don't want you to feel bad, Micky.
You don't need to, I'm all right."
"I know you are, girl," he answered heartily. "But it struck me all of a
heap, somehow, seeing you stretched out like this. I knew you would be
laid up, of course; but, don't you know, you can think about a thing all
right, but it's different when you actually run up against it."
She laughed gaily. "Does anyone else say things just like you?" she
wondered. "That sounds just like your dear old slangy self, Micky. But
anyway, you hit the nail on the head, every time."
"And drive it through." He grinned joyfully at her. "Talk some more like
that, Maisie," he urged her. "You sound like yourself. Oh, we'll have
you on your pins in no time."
"You bet!" She smiled back at him. "Oh, I hadn't ought to complain, I
know. Others are having it worse than me. There's poor Julia Orr, worked
in the store with me once. She died yesterday--"
"Don't, Maisie!" His voice was unsteady. "Don't speak of dying--anybody!
I can't stand it! I hate the thought of it!"
"Why, Micky!" Her blue eyes were solemn. "We all die, don't we? You've
known it almost since you were born. You've got to get used to it."
He forced a smile. "Well, we won't talk about it now," he declared.
"It's depressing. How'd you like your flowers?"
"Oh!" she cried, in distress. "And I meant to thank you for 'em when
you first came in, and I forgot it. You ought to feel complimented. You
drove 'em out of my mind. Bring 'em here."
"Match the room," he commented, as he complied. She smiled assent, and,
selecting one of the white roses, raised herself upon her pillows and
pinned it upon his coat lapel. "There!" said she, admiring the effect.
"You'll do, now."
Again his wide grin cleft his freckled face. "The whole conservatory
wouldn't help much," he observed.
"'Tis a homely boy you picked out, Maisie."
"My boy is good enough for me," she returned gently, "as long as he
keeps on trying, and does the best he can."
His face grew shadowed. "That's just it, girl," he said, rather sadly.
"Someone said once that 'the best is bad enough,' and if that's so, what
of my worst?"
"Your worst is for you to fight," answered this young sibyl. "Your worst
is never as bad as it seems to you, just as long as you keep on fightin'
it. And you will, Micky, won't you?" Her arms were stretched impulsively
toward him.
He caught her hands, his eyes burning. "Till hell freezes over!" he told
her, grimly. "Oh, excuse me!" he added confusedly. "I didn't mean--"
"Never mind, Micky, never mind!" she told him, with a laugh in her eyes.
"I know how you feel."
"Yes, I guess you do!" he muttered. "If I could only blot out some
things--if I'd been different from the beginning--if I'd had some
chance--if I amounted to something now--ah! dreams--dreams!"
"Keep on dreaming, Micky," she said softly. "They'll take you on the
right road--you're on it now--and they'll come true!"
There was a hesitant step outside. He arose, bending and taking her in
his arms.
"I hope--I guess--I'm on the right road," he breathed. "And you've shown
me the way, little girl; you have, for fair. Well, I must be going, I
hear your mother outside. I've stayed too long now; I mustn't tire you.
Well, good night, dear."
He withdrew, to walk home with the dear shrined image of her in his
swelling heart; with her tender words of faith in him to summon a maze
of happy dreams.