TELLING HOW HE CAME TO HELL'S KITCHEN AT PEEP O' DAY
It was past three o'clock and dawn was at hand as, by devious ways,
Spike piloted his companion through that section of New York City which
is known to the initiated as "Hell's Kitchen." By dismal streets they
went, past silent, squalid houses and tall tenements looming grim and
ghostly in the faint light; crossing broad avenues very silent and
deserted at this hour, on and on until, dark and vague and mysterious,
the great river flowed before them only to be lost again as they plunged
into a gloomy court where tall buildings rose on every hand, huge and
very silent, teeming with life--but life just now wrapped in that
profound quietude of sleep which is so much akin to death. Into one of
these tall tenement buildings, its ugliness rendered more ugly by the
network of iron fire-escape ladders that writhed up the face of it,
Spike led the way, first into a dark hallway and thence up many stairs
that echoed to their light-treading feet--on and up, past dimly lit
landings where were doors each of which shut in its own little world, a
world distinct and separate wherein youth and age, good and evil, joy
and misery, lived and moved and had their being; behind these dingy
panels were smiling hope and black despair, blooming health and pallid
sickness, and all those sins and virtues that go to make up the sum
total of humanity.
Something of all this was in Geoffrey Ravenslee's mind as he climbed the
dingy, interminable stair behind Spike, who presently halted to get his
wind and whisper:
"It ain't much further now, Geoff, only another two flights and--" He
stopped suddenly to listen, and from the landing above a sound reached
them, a sound soft but unmistakable--a woman's muffled sobbing.
Slowly, cautiously, they mounted the stair until in the dim light of a
certain landing they beheld a slim figure bowed upon its knees in an
agony of abasement before a scarred and dingy door. Even as they stared,
the slender, girlish figure sobbed again, and, with a sudden, yearning
gesture, lifted a face, pale in the half-light, and kissed that battered
door; thereafter, weeping still, she rose to her feet and turned, but
seeing Spike, stood very still all at once and with hands clasped tight
together.
"Holy Gee!" exclaimed Spike beneath his breath; then, in a hoarse
whisper: "Is that Maggie--Maggie Finlay?"
"Oh--is that you, Arthur?" she whispered back. "Arthur--oh, Arthur, I,
I'm going away, but I couldn't go without coming to--to kiss dear mother
good-by--and now I'm here I daren't knock for fear of--father. I've been
up to your door and knocked, but Hermy's away, I guess. Anyway,
you--you'll say I came to thank her and--kiss her for the last time,
won't you, Arthur?"
"Sure I will--but where ye goin', Maggie?"
"A long way, Arthur! I don't s'pose I shall ever--see this place any
more--or you--so, Arthur, will you--kiss me good-by--just once?"
Spike hesitated, but she, quick and light-treading, came down to him and
caught his hand and would have kissed that, but he snatched it away and,
leaning forward, kissed her tear-stained cheek, and blushed thereafter
despite the dark.
"Good-by, Arthur!" she whispered, "and thank you--and dear Hermy--oh,
good-by!" So saying, she hurried on past Ravenslee, down the dark
stairway, while Spike leaned over the balustrade to whisper:
"Good-by, Maggie--an' good luck, Kid!" At this she paused to look up at
him with great, sad eyes--a long, wistful look, then, speaking no more,
hurried on down the stair--down, down into the shadows, and was gone.
"We used to go to school together, Geoff," the boy explained a little
self-consciously, "she never--kissed me before; she ain't the kissin'
sort. I wonder why she did it to-night? I wonder--"
So saying, Spike turned and led the way on again until they reached the
landing above, across which two doors, dark and unlovely, seemed to
scowl upon each other. One of these Spike proceeded to open with a
latchkey, and so led Ravenslee into the dark void beyond. Spike struck
a match and lighted the gas, and, looking about him, Ravenslee stared.
A little, cramped room, sparsely furnished yet dainty and homelike, for
the small, deal table hid its bare nakedness beneath a dainty cloth; the
two rickety armchairs veiled their faded tapestry under chintz covers,
cunningly contrived and delicately tinted to match the cheap but
soft-toned drugget on the floor and the self-coloured paper on the
walls, where hung two or three inexpensive reproductions of famous
paintings; and in all things there breathed an air of refinement wholly
unexpected in Hell's Kitchen. Wherefore Mr. Ravenslee, observing all
things with his quick glance, felt an ever-growing wonder. But now
Spike, who had been clattering plates and dishes in the kitchen hard
by, thrust his head around the door to say:
"Oh, Geoff--I don't feel like doin' the shut-eye business, d' you? How
about a cup of coffee, an' I daresay I might dig out some eats; what d'
ye say?"
"Is this--your sister?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee, taking up a photograph
from the little sideboard.
"Yep, that's Hermy all right--taken las' year--does her hair different
now. How about some coffee, Geoff?"
"Coffee?" said Mr. Ravenslee, staring at the picture,
"coffee--certainly--er--thanks! She has--light hair, Spike?"
"Gold!" said Spike, and vanished; whereupon Mr. Ravenslee laid the
photograph on the table, and sitting down, fell to viewing it intently.
A wonderful face, low-browed, deep-eyed, full-lipped. Here was none of
smiling prettiness, for these eyes were grave and thoughtful, these
lips, despite their soft, voluptuous curves, were firmly modelled like
the rounded chin below, and, in all the face, despite its vivid youth,
was a vague and wistful sadness.
"Oh, Geoff," called Spike, "d' ye mind having yer coffee à la milko
condenso?"
"Milk?" exclaimed Mr. Ravenslee, starting. "Oh--yes--anything will do!"
"Why, hello!" exclaimed Spike, reappearing with a cup and saucer, "still
piping off Hermy's photo, Geoff?"
"I'm wondering why she looks so sad?"
"Sad?" repeated Spike, setting down the crockery with a rattle, "Hermy
ain't sad; she always looks like that. Y' see, she ain't much on the
giggle, Geoff, but she's most always singing, 'cept when her kids is
sick or Mulligan calls--"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, Hermy mothers all the kids around here when they're sick, an' lots
o' kids is always getting sick. And when Mulligan comes it's rent day,
an' sometimes Hermy's a bit shy on the money--"
"Is she?" said Mr. Ravenslee, frowning.
"You bet she is, Geoff! An' Mulligan's an Irishman an' mean--say, he's
the meanest mutt you ever see. A Jew's mean, so's a Chink, but a mean
Harp's got 'em both skinned 'way to 'Frisco an' back again! Why,
Mulligan's that mean he wouldn't cough up a nickel to see the Statue
o' Liberty do a Salomy dance in d' bay. So when the mazuma's shy Hermy
worries some--"
"Don't you help her?" demanded Mr. Ravenslee.
"Help her--why, y' see, Geoff, I--I ain't in a steady job yet. But I
do my best an'--why, there's d' kettle boilin' at last!" saying which,
Spike turned and vanished again, leaving Mr. Ravenslee still staring
down at the pictured face. Presently he sank back in his chair, and,
lolling thus, looked sleepily at the opposite wall but saw it not, nor
heard the clatter of cups and saucers from the kitchen accompanied by
Spike's windy whistling; and, as he lounged thus, he spoke softly, and
to himself.
"An object!" he murmured.
"Hey, Geoff," Spike called, "this ain't goin' to be no à la carte, hock
an' claret feedin' match, nor yet no table-de-hoty eat-fest, but if you
can do in some bacon an' eggs, you're on!"
"Why, then," said Mr. Ravenslee, rising and yawning, "count me decidedly
'on.'"
"Then d' you mind givin' me a hand wid d' coffee?"
"Delighted!" and forthwith Mr. Ravenslee stepped out into the kitchen;
and there, in a while, upon a rickety table covered with a greasy
newspaper, they ate and drank with great relish and gusto, insomuch
that Mr. Ravenslee marvelled at his own appetite.
"Say, Geoff," enquired Spike as hunger waned, "how long are you stoppin'
at Mulligan's--a week?"
"A week--a month--six months," replied his guest sleepily. "It's all
according--"
"Accordin' to what?"
"Well--er--circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
"Circumstances over which I have no control--yet!"
"You don't mean me?" queried Spike, with an anxious expression.
"Lord, no!"
"And you'll never tell nobody that I--that I--"
"Meant to be--a thief?" drawled Mr. Ravenslee. "Not a word!"
Spike flushed, took a gulp of coffee, choked, and fell to sulky silence,
while Mr. Ravenslee filled his pipe and yawned.
"Say," demanded Spike at last, "where'll you live while you're here?"
"Oh--somewhere, I suppose; I haven't bothered about where yet."
"Well, I been thinkin' I know where I can fix you up--perhaps!"
"Very kind of you, Spike!"
"There's Mrs. Trapes 'cross d'landing; she lost her lodger last
week--mean guy skinned off without paying d' rent--she might take you."
"Across the landing? She'll do!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee.
"But I'm wonderin' if _you'll_ do; she's a holy terror when she likes,
Geoff."
"Across the landing? I'll put up with her!" murmured Mr. Ravenslee.
"But, say, you don't know Mrs. Trapes."
"Not yet, Spike."
"Well, she ain't no easy mark, Geoff! Most everybody in Mulligan's is
scared of her when she cuts loose; she can talk ye deaf, dumb an'
paralysed, she can so. She sure is aces up on d' chin-music, Geoff!"
"But then she lives just opposite, and that circumstance, methinks, doth
cover a multitude of--" Mr. Ravenslee yawned again.
"Anyway, it's a sure thing she won't take you if she don't like ye,
Geoff."
"Why, then, she must like me!" said Mr. Ravenslee and proceeded to light
his pipe; whereupon Spike produced a box of cigarettes, but, in the act
of lighting one, paused, and sighing, put it away again.
"I promised d' Spider I wouldn't, Geoff," he explained. "Y' see, I'm
sort of in trainin', and Spider says smoke's bad for d' wind, and d'
Spider knows."
"Spider?" said Mr. Ravenslee, glancing up, "do you mean Spider Connolly
the lightweight?"
"That's d' guy!" nodded Spike.
"Is he a friend of yours?"
"Sure! Him an' Bud M'Ginnis is goin' to get me some good matches soon."
"Boxing matches?"
"That's what they call 'em, Geoff--but there ain't much boxin' to it;
real boxin' don't go down wid d' sports, it's d' punch they wanter
see--good, stiff wallops as jars a guy an' makes his knees get
wobbly--swings and jolts as makes a guy blind an' deaf an' sick. Oh,
I been like that, an' I know--an' it ain't all candy t' hear everybody
yellin' to the other guy to go in an' finish ye!"
"Does your sister know you fight?"
"Not much, she don't! I guess she'd like me to be a mommer's pet in lace
collars an' a velvet suit, an' soft an' pretty in me talk. She's made
me promise t' cut out d' tough-spiel, an' so I'm tryin' to--"
"Are you really, Spike?"
"Well--when she's around I do, Geoff!"
"And she doesn't like you to fight, eh?"
"Nope! But y' see--she's only a girl, Geoff!"
"And that's the wonder of it!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee.
"Wonder? What d' ye mean?"
"I mean that all these years she has managed to feed you, and clothe
you, and keep a comfortable home for you, and she's--only a girl!"
"Well, and ain't I tryin' to make good?" cried the boy eagerly.
"Are you really, Spike?"
"Sure! There's lots o' money in d' fightin' game, an' I'm fightin' all
for Hermy. If ever I get a champ, I'll have money to burn, an' then
she'll never be shy on d' dollar question no more, you bet! There'll
be no more needlework or Mulligan's for Hermy; it'll be a farm in d'
country wid roses climbin' around, an' chickens, an'--an' automobiles,
an' servants to come when she pushes d' button--you bet!"
"Is she so fond of the country?"
"Well, I guess yes! An' flowers--Gee, she nearly eats 'em!"
"On the other hand," said Mr. Ravenslee, watching the smoke from his
pipe with a dreamy eye, "on the other hand I gather she does not
like--Mr. M'Ginnis! I wonder why?"
"You can search me!" answered Spike, shaking his head, "but it's a sure
thing she ain't got no use for Bud."
"And yet--you go around with him, Spike."
"But don't I tell ye he's been good t' me! He's goin' t' match me with
some top-liners; he says if I can stick it I'll be a champion sure."
"Yes," nodded Mr. Ravenslee, "but when?"
"Oh, Bud's got it all doped out. But say--"
"And in the meantime your sister will go on feeding you and clothing you
and--"
"Cheese it, Geoff," cried the boy, flushing. "You make a guy feel like a
two-spot in the discard! I told you I'd try to get a steady job, an' so
I will--but I ain't goin' to quit the fightin' game for nobody! 'N'
say--I'm sleepy. How about it? You can have my bed, or the couch here,
or you can get in Hermy's--"
"Thanks, the couch will do, Spike."
"Then I guess it's me for the feathers!" said Spike, rising and
stretching, "so long, Geoff!"
And in a while, having finished his pipe and knocked out the ashes, Mr.
Ravenslee stretched his long limbs upon the chintz-covered sofa, and,
_mirabile dictu_, immediately fell asleep.