leaving food and drink in the attitude of waiting. A bolder couple or
two ventured out on the shining floor-space, hesitant like a premonitory
ripple on the water before the coming of the wind; another and yet
another. And almost instanter there was the intricate maze of a crowded
floor--women swaying, men threading in, out, around.
"What'll you have to drink, sweetness?"
"Lemonade, please."
"I know a better one than that."
"What?"
"Condensed milk!"
"Silly! I just can't get used to them bitter-tasting things you try out
on me."
"You're all right, little Lemonade Girl!"
He leaned across the table and peered under the pink sateen. Its
reflection lay like a blush of pleasure across her features, and she
kept her gaze averted, with a pretty _malaise_ trembling through her.
"You're all right, little Peaches and Cream."
"You--you're all right, too, Joe."
"You mean that, sweetness?"
"I mean it if you mean it."
"Do I mean it! Say, do I give a little queen like you my company eight
nights out of seven for the fun of kiddin' myself along?"
"I know you ain't, Joe; that's what I keep tellin' ma."
"Sittin' there screwing your lips at me like that! You got a mouth just
like--just like red fruit, like a cherry that would bust all over the
place if a bird took a peck at it."
Her bosom, little as Juliet's, rose to his words, and she giggled after
the immemorial fashion of women.
"Oh, Joe! If only--if only--if only--"
"If only what, sweetness?"
"If only--"
"Huh?"
"Aw, I can't say it."
"Whistle it, then, sweetness."
"It don't do us no good to talk about things, Joe. We--we never get
anywhere."
"What's the use o' talking, then, sweetness? Here's your lemonade. I
wish I was in the baby-food class--'pon my soul I do! Look, sweetness;
this is the stuff, though. Look at its color, will you? Red as a
moonshiner's eye! Here, waiter, leave that siphon; I might wanna shoot
up the place."
"You promised, Joe, not--"
"Sure; I ain't goin' to, neither. Did I keep my pool promise? Ain't
heard a ball click for weeks! Will I keep this one? Watch! Two's my
limit, Peaches. I'd swear off sleepin' if you wanted me to."
"Would you, Joe? That's what I want you to tell ma when--"
"Aw, there you go again! Honest, the minute a fellow feels hisself
warming up inside you begin tryin' to reach up to the church-tower and
ring the bells."
"Joe!"
"Sure you do."
"You make me ashamed when you talk like that."
"Then cut it, sweetness. Come on; let's finish out this dance."
"It worries her so, Joe. She asks and asks till I--I don't know what to
say no more when I see her wastin' away and all. I--Gawd, I don't know!"
"For Gawd's sakes, don't leak any tears here, Ess! This gang here knows
me. Ain't I told you I like you, girl? I like you well enough to do
anything your little heart de-sires; but this ain't the place to talk
about it."
"That's what you always say, Joe; no place is the place."
"Gee, ain't it swell enough just the way we are--just like it is, us
knocking round together? I ain't your settling-down kind, sister. You're
one little winner, and I like your style o' sweetness, but I ain't what
you'd call a homesteader."
"Joe!"
"Sure; I mean it. I like you well enough to do any little thing your
heart desires; but I never look far ahead, hon. I'm near-sighted."
"What--what about me?"
"I ain't got nothing saved up--not a dime. You tell your dame--you tell
her we--we just understand each other. Huh? How's that? That's fair
enough, ain't it?"
"Whatta you mean, Joe? You always say that; but please, Joe, please tell
me what you mean?"
"Listen, kiddo. Say, listen to that trot they're playin', will you? Come
on, sis; be a sport! To-morrow night we'll talk about anything your
little heart desires. Come on, one round! Don't make me sore."
"Aw, no, Joe; I gotta go."
"One round, sweetness--see, I'll pay the check. See, two rounds round,
and we'll light out for home. Look, they're all watchin' for us--two
rounds, sweetness."
"One, you just said, Joe."
"One, then, little mouse."
They rose to the introductory titillation of violins; she slid into his
embrace with a little fluid movement, and they slithered out on the
shining floor. A light murmur like the rustle of birds' wings went after
them, and couples leaned from their tables to watch the perfect
syncopation of their steps. His slightly crepuscular eyes took on the
sheen of mica; the color ran high in her face, and her lips parted.
"They sit up and take notice when we slide out, don't they, little one?"
"Yes."
"Some class to my trotting, ain't there, sweetness?"
"Yeh. Look, Joe; we gotta go after this round--it's nearly twelve."
"Twice round, sweetness, and then we go. If we ain't got the profesh
beat on that Argentine Dip I'll give ten orchestra seats to charity and
let any box-office in this town land me for what I'm worth."
"Joe!"
"Aw, I was only kiddin'. They got as much chance with me as a man with
Saint Vitus's dance has of landing a trout. Gee, you're pretty to-night,
sweetness!"
"Sweetness yourself!"
"Peaches and Cream!"
"Come on, Joe; this is twice round."
"Once more, sweetness--just once more! See, you got me hypnotized; my
feet won't stop. See, they keep going and going. See, I can't stop.
Whoa! Whoa! Honest, I can't quit! Whoa! We gotta go round once more,
sweetness. I--just--can't--stop!"
"Just once more, Joe."
* * * * *
At one o'clock the gas-flame in the hallway outside the rear third-floor
apartment flared sootily and waned to a weary bead as the pressure
receded. Through the opacity of the sudden fog the formal-faced door
faded into the gloom, and Miss Essie Birdsong pushed the knob stealthily
inch by inch to save the squeak.
"Plunk-plunk-plunka-plunka-plunk-plunk! Essie?"
"'Sh-h-h-h! Yes, Jimmie--it's only me. Why you makin' that noise? Why's
the light burning? What's--"
"Essie! Essie, is that you and--"
"Ma dearie, you--What's the matter? You ain't sick, are you?
What's--what's wrong, Jimmie? Please, what's wrong?"
She stood with her back to the door, her face struck with fear suddenly,
as with white forked lightning, and her breath coming on every alternate
heart-beat.
"Ma! Jimmie! For Gawd's sakes, what's the matter?"
The transitional falsetto of her brother's voice came to her gritty as
slate scratching slate, and cold, prickly flesh sprang out over her.
"Don't come in here! You--you and your friend stay out there a minute
till ma kinda gets her breath back; she--she's all right--ain't you, ma?
You and your friend just wait just a minute, Ess."
"Me and---"
"Yeh; both of you wait. Nothing ain't wrong--is it, ma? There, just lay
back on the pillow a minute, ma. Gwan; be a sport! Look, your cheek's
all red from restin' on my shoulder so long. Lemme go a minute and bring
Essie and her gen'l'man friend in to see you. Gee! After you been
waitin' and waitin' you--you ain't goin' to give out the last minute.
There ain't nothin' to be scared about, ma. Lemme go in just a minute.
Here it is, ma; don't break it--seven years' bad luck for smashin' a
hand-mirror. Here; you look swell, ma--swell!"
"Tell him it ain't like me to give out like this. Take them bottles and
that ice away, Jimmie--throw my flowered wrapper over my shoulders.
There! Now tell him, Jimmie, it ain't like me."
"Surest thing, ma. Watch me!"
He emerged from the bedroom suddenly, his face twisted and his
whispering voice like cold iron under the stroke of an anvil, and Essie
trembled as she stood.
"Jimmie!"
"You--you devil, you! Where is he?"
She edged away from him with limbs that seemed as though they took root
at every step and she must tear each foot from the carpet.
"To-morrow night he's comin' sure, Jimmie; he couldn't to-night,
he--couldn't."
Jimmie's lips drew back from his gums as though too dry to cover them.
"You--you street-runner, you!"
"Jimmie!"
"You--you--you--"
"For Gawd's sakes, she'll hear you, Jimmie!"
"You devil, you! You've killed her, I tell you! I've been holdin' her in
there for two hours, with the sweat standing out on her like
water--you--"
"Oh, Gawd! Jimmie, lemme run for old man Gibbs; lemme--"
"Oh no, you don't! Lizzie Marks down-stairs is gone for him--but that
ain't goin' to help none; what she wants is _you_--you and your low-down
sneaking friend; and she's goin' to have him, too."
"He's gone, Jimmie. What--"
"You can't come home here to-night without him--you can't! You better
run after him, and run after him quick. You can't come home here
to-night without him, I tell you! Whatta you going to do about it--huh?
Whatta you going to do? Quick! What?"
She trembled so she grasped the back of a chair for support, and tears
ricocheted down her cheeks.
"I can't, Jimmie! He's gone by now; he's gone by now--out of sight. I
can't! Please, Jimmie! I'll tell her! I'll tell her! Don't--don't you
dare come near me! I'll go, Jimmie--I'll go. 'Sh-h-h!"
"You gotta get him--you can't come here to-night without him. I ain't
goin' to stand for her not seeing him to-night. I--I don't care how you
get him, but you ain't going to kill her! You gotta get him, or I'll--"
"Jimmie--'sh-h-h!"
"Jimmie, tell him it ain't like me to give out like this. Tell--"
"Yes, ma."
"Yes, ma--we're comin'. Joe's waitin' down at the door. I'll run down
and bring him up; he--he's so bashful. In a minute, ma darlin'."
She flung open the door and fled, racing down two flights of stairs,
with her steps clattering after her in an avalanche, and out into a
quiet street, which sprung echoes of her flying feet.
After midnight every pedestrian becomes a simulacrum, wrapped in a black
domino of mystery and a starry ephod of romance. A homeward-bound
pedestrian is a faun in evening dress. Fat-and-forty leans from her
window to hurtle a can at a night-yelling cat and becomes a demoiselle
leaning out from the golden bar of Heaven.
In the inspissated gloom of the street occasional silhouettes hurried in
silent haste; and a block ahead of her, just emerging into a string of
shop lights, she could distinguish the uneven-shouldered outline of Joe
Ullman and the unmistakable silhouette of his slightly askew hat.
She sobbed in her throat and made a cup of her hands to halloo; but her
voice would not come, and she ran faster.
A policeman glanced after her and struck asphalt. A dog yapped at her
tall heels. Even as she sped, her face upturned and her mouth dry and
open, the figure swerved suddenly into a red-lighted doorway with a
crescent burning above it; and, with her eyes on that Mecca, she pulled
at her strength and gathered more speed.
The crescent grew in size and redness, and its lettering sprang out; and
suddenly she stopped, as suddenly as an engine jerking up before a
washout.
CRESCENT POOL AND BILLIARD ROOM--
OPEN ALL NIGHT
And her heart folded inward like the petals of a moonflower.
Stretched to the limit of their resilience, the nerves act reflexly. The
merest second of incertitude, and then automatically she swung about,
turned her blood-driven face toward the place from whence she came and
groped her way homeward as Polymestor must have groped after being
blinded in the presence of Hecuba.
Tears hot from the geyser of shame and pain magnified her eyes like
high-power spectacle-lenses; and when she reached the dim entrance of
the cliff dwelling she called home an edge of ice stiffened round her
heart and her feet would not enter.
A silhouette lurched round a black corner and zigzagged toward her, and
she held herself flat as a lath against the building until it and its
drunken song had lurched round another corner; a couple hurried past
with interlinked arms; their laughter light as foam. More
silhouettes--a flat-chested woman, who wore her shame with the conscious
speciousness of a prisoner promenading in his stripes; a loutish fellow,
who whistled as he hurried and vaulted up the steps of the Electric
Institute three steps at a bound; an old man with an outline like a
crooked finger; a shawled woman; a cab lined with vague faces, and
streamers of laughter floating back from it; and, standing darkly
against the cold wall, Essie, with the tears drying on her cheeks, and
her whole being suddenly galvanized by a new thought.
A momentary lull in the drippy streamlet of pedestrians; she leaned out
into the darkness and peered up, then down the aisle of street. A shadow
came gliding toward her, and she stepped forward; but when the
street-lamp fell on the cold eyes and cuttlefish stare she huddled back
into her corner until the steps had receded like the stick-taps of a
blind man.
Two women in the professional garb of nurses twinkled past, twitting
each to each like sparrows; a man whose face was narrow and dark,
bespeaking in his ancestry a Latin breed, kept close to the shadow of
the buildings; and, with her finger-nails cutting her palms, she stepped
out from her lair directly in his path and clasped her hands tighter to
keep them from trembling.
"You--please!"
He glanced down at her yellowish face, with the daubed-on red standing
out frankly, tossed her a sneer and a foreign expression, and brushed
by. She darted back as though he had struck at her, and panic closed her
in.
A young giant, tall as a Scandinavian out of Valhalla, with wide
shoulders, a wide stride, and heavy-soled, laced-to-the-knee boots that
clattered loudly, ran up the steps of the Electric Institute, and she
flashed across the sidewalk, her arm reaching out.
"You--please!"
He paused, with the street lamp full on his smiling mouth and
wide-apart, smiling eyes, one foot in the act of ascending, after the
manner of tailors' fashion-plates, which are for ever in the casual
attitude of mounting stairs.
"You--please! Please--"
"Aw, little lady, go home and go to bed. This ain't no time and place
for a little thing like you. Here, take this and go home, little girl."
She arrested his arm on its way to his pocket, her breath crowding out
her words, and the stinging red of shame burning through her rouge.
"No, no! For Gawd's sakes, no! It's--my mother--"
He brought his feet down to a level.
"Your mother?"
"Yes; she's sick--maybe dyin'. I--please--she wants to see somebody that
can't--can't--"
"What, little lady?"
"She's sick--dyin' maybe. She wants to see somebody that can't--can't--"
"Take your time, little lady--can't _what_?"
"Can't come."
"Who can't come?"
"He--my young--he's a young man. She's never seen him; and if--please,
if you'd come and act super--just like you was fillin' in at a show; if
you'd act like my young man just for a minute--please! My friend, he
can't come--he can _never_ come; but she--she wants him. You come,
please! You come, please!"
She tugged at his arm, and he descended another step and peered into the
exacerbated anxiety of her face.
"On the level, little lady?"
"Please--just for a minute! For somebody that's sick--maybe dyin'. Just
tell her you're my young man--tell her everything's all
right--everything's comin' all right for all of us, for her and--and my
little brother, and--and me--you and me--like you was my young man,
please, lovin' and all. And tell her how pretty her poor hair is and how
everything's goin'--goin' to be all right. Come, please--it's just next
door."
"Why, you poor little thing! I ain't much on play-actin'; and look at my
hands all black from the power-house!"
"Please! That ain't nothin'. It'll be only a minute. Just kinda say
things after me and don't let her know--don't let her know that I--I
ain't got any young man. Don't let her know!"
"You poor little thing, you--shaking like a leaf! Lead the way; but not
so fast, little lady--you'll give out."
She cried and laughed her relief and dragged him across the sidewalk;
and every step up the two flights she struggled to keep her hysterical
voice within the veil of a whisper.
"Just say everythin' right after me. You--you're my young man and real
sweet on me; and we're going to get--you know; everythin' is goin' to be
fine, and my little brother's going to the Electric Institute, and
everythin's goin' to be swell. Be right lovin' to her, sir--she's so
sick. Oh, Gawd, I--"
"Don't cry, little girl."
"I ain't cryin'."
"Careful; don't stumble."
"Don't _you_ stumble. Can you see? The landing's so dark."
"Yes; I can see by the shine of your hair, little lady."
"'Sh-h-h-h!"
The door stood open at the angle she had left it, and by proxy of the
slab of mirror over the mantelpiece she could see her mother's head
propped against her brother's gold-braided shoulder, and the bright eyes
shining out like a gazelle's in the dark.
"Essie?"
"We are here, ma--me and Joe." She threw a last appeal over her shoulder
and led the way into the bedroom; her companion followed, stooping to
accommodate his height to the doorway.
"Ma dearie, this is Joe."
"Joe! It ain't like me, Joe, not to get up; but I just ain't got the
strength--to-night, Joe."
He bent his six-feet-two over the bed and smiled at her from close
range.
"Well, well, well! So this is ma dear, dearie?"
"That's her, Joe."
"This won't do one bit, ma. Me and the little lady's got to get you
cured up in a hurry--don't we, little lady?"
"Ma dearie, Joe's been wantin' and wantin' to come for so long."
[Illustration: SHE HELD UP A HAND AS LIGHT AS A LEAF, AND HE TOOK IT IN
A WIDE, GENTLE CLASP THAT ENVELOPED IT]
"For so long I been wantin' to come, ma dearie; but--"
"But he's so bashful. Ain't you, Joe? Bashful as a banshee."
"Bashful ain't no name for me, ma. I'd shy at a baby."
"Honest, ma dearie, he's as shy as anything."
"If I wasn't, wouldn't I have been up to see my little lady's mother
long ago--wouldn't I? Ain't you going to shake hands with me, ma
dearie?"
She held up a hand as light as a leaf, and he took it in a wide, gentle
clasp that enveloped it.
"Ma dearie!"
Her violet lids fluttered, and she lay back from the gold-braided
shoulder to her pillow, but smiling.
"I like your hand, Joe; I like it."
"I want you to, ma."
"We--I was afraid, Joe, I wouldn't, you never comin' at all. Shake it,
Jimmie, and see."
"Aw!"
"It's a strong hand, like your papa's was, Essie. Shake it, Jimmie. I
feel just like cryin', it's so good. Shake it, Jimmie."
Across the chasm of youth's prejudice Jimmie held out a reluctant hand.
"And this is the big brother, is it, little lady?"
"That's what he calls hisself, Joe--he calls me his little sister."
"He's gotta be a big brother to her, Joe; she's so--so little."
"Shake, old man; and take off that grouch. Over where I live a fellow'd
be fined ten cents for that scowl. If we got anything to square, you and
me'll square it outside after school. What do you say to that, ma
dearie? Ain't it right?"
"Jimmie's tired out, Joe."
"Like fun I am!"
"He's been proppin' me up all these hours so I could breathe
easier--plunkin' and doin' all his funny kid stunts for his old ma,
Essie--plunkin' like a banjo, and plunkin'. I liked it. Sometimes it was
like I was floatin' in a skiff with your papa on Sunday afternoons in
the park, Essie. I liked it. He's all tired out--ain't you, Jimmie, my
boy?"
"Naw!"
"He's sore at his sister, Joe. But he's a good boy and _smart_; you
wouldn't believe it, Joe, but when it comes to mechanics he--he's just
grand."
"Aw, cut it, ma! I ain't strikin' to make a hit."
"He's only tired, Joe, and don't mean nothin' he says."
"Naw; I'm only tryin' my voice out for grand opery!"
"You're a regular sorehead with me, ain't you, old man?"
"Aw!"
"He ain't easy at makin' up with strangers, Joe; but he's a smart one.
See that on the table? That's his self-chargin' dynamo; it's a great
invention, Joe, the janitor says. You tell him about it, Jimmie."
"There ain't nothin' to tell."
"Don't believe it, Joe; the janitor's a electrician, and he says--"
"Aw!"
"See! There it is, Joe."
"Aw, I don't want everybody pokin' and nosin'!"
"Lemme have a look at it, old man. I know something about dynamos
myself. Say, that looks like a neat little idea. How does she work?"
"See--you generate right down in here. See? She worked that time, ma."
"Jimminycracks! Where'd you get your juice and--Well, well! Whatta you
know about that? Don't even have to reverse. I guess that storage down
there ain't some stunt!"
"See, Jimmie, my boy! I told you it was a grand invention. Hear what Joe
says?"
"Say, kid, you bring that--take that over to the Institute to-morrow. I
know a fellow over there'll protect your rights and work that out with
you swell."
"See, Jimmie, your--your old ma was right!"
"Aw, the generator don't always work like that--only about four times
out of six. I'm kinda stuck on the--"
"Say, kid, what you wanna do is protect your rights on that, and--and
bring it over--take it over to the Institute. You'll give 'em the jolt
of their lives over there. I know a fellow's been chasin' this idea ten
years, and you're fifty per cent. closer to the bull's-eye than he is."
"Hear, Jimmie! Hear, Essie! Just like I been sayin'. I been beggin' and
beggin' him, Joe, but he--he's so stubborn; and--"
"Aw, ma, cut it, can't you?"
"He's so stubborn about it, Joe."
"There's no use tryin' to force him, ma; but he's gotta good idea there
if he handles it right."
"Aw, she ain't finished yet--she don't spark right."
"That what I'm telling you, kid. What you need is a laboratory, where
you've got the stuff to work with and men who can give you a steer where
you need it, and--"
"Aw!"
"I'll go over with you. I know a fellow over there--he's the guy that
helped Kinney win his transmitter prize. You'll give him the jolt of his
life, old man. Huh, kid? Wanna go over?" He placed his hand on the
gold-braided shoulder and smiled down. "Huh? You on, old man?"
"Aw, I ain't much for buttin' in places."
"Are you on, Jimmie? It's your chance, old man."
"Aw!"
"Jimmie! Jimmie, my boy, I--"
"Aw, I said I was on, didn't I, ma?"
"Sure, he said he was on, ma dearie. Shake on it, old man!"
"Jimmie! Jimmie, my boy--honest!--it's just like your papa was talkin'!
Don't leggo my hand, Joe. Layin' here with my eyes shut, it's just like
he was talkin' hisself. He's--he's like your papa was, Essie, big and
strong."
"Yes, darlin'."
"Is that the doctor? Is Lizzie Marks come back? Is that--"
"No; not yet, ma."
"You're all tired out, Essie baby. Look at your little face! Go wash it,
baby, and cool it off before old man Gibbs comes."
"It ain't hot, ma."
"He brought you into the world, Essie baby, and I don't want him to see
it--to see it all--all--"
"I'm all right, ma. Lemme stay by you."
"Go wash your face, Ess. Ma says go wash your face."
"You shut up, Jimmie Birdsong--it ain't your face!"
"You know all righty, missy, why she wants you to wash it--you know--"
"Ma, he keeps fussin' with me! Jimmie, please don't."
"Aw, I ain't, neither, ma. She's always peckin' at me. I--I ain't mad at
her; but I want her to wash that--that stuff off her face."
"Jimmie!"
Her lips quivered, and she glanced toward the stranger, with her lips
drooping over her eyes like curtains to her shame; and he smiled at her
with eyes as soft as spring rain, his voice a caress.
"Go, little lady. You're all tired out and too pretty and too sweet not
to wash your face and--cool it off."
"She's gotta go, or I'll get her in a corner and rub--"
"I'm goin', ain't I, Jimmie? Honest, the minute we make up you begin
pickin' a fuss again."
"Oh, my children!"
"Oh, Gawd, there she goes off again! Why don't old man Gibbs come? Lay
her down, Joe; she can't breathe that way. Look! Her hands are all
blue-like. Hold her up, Joe! Oh, Gawd, why don't old man Gibbs come?
She's all shakin'--all shakin'!"
"No, I ain't. What you cryin' there at the foot of the bed for, Essie?
It ain't no time to cry now, darlin'. It's like it says on the crocheted
lamp-mat your papa's aunt did for us--'God is Good!' Where is that mat,
Essie? I--I ain't seen it round for--so--long. God is good!
God--is--good! Where is that mat, Essie?"
"It's round somewheres, ma. It's old and worn out--in the rag-bag,
maybe."
"Well get it out, Essie."
"Yes, ma."
"Promise, Essie!"
"Sure, ma; we'll get it out and keep it out."
"Oh, Joe, why did you keep us waitin' and waitin'? She's so little and
pretty. Look at her dimples, Joe, even when she's cryin'. The prettiest
girl in the notions, she was; and I--I been so scared for her, Joe. Why
did you keep us waitin' and waitin'?"
"Me and the little girl was slow in getting here, ma; but we--we're here
for good now--ain't we, little lady? Little lady with the hair just like
ma's!"