|BEFORE the rickety washstand and in front of the cracked glass that
served as a mirror and was suspended from a nail driven into the wall,
Hawkins was shaving himself. Perhaps the light from the wheezing
gas-jet was over-bad that evening, or perhaps it was only in playful
and facetious mood with the mirror acting the rôle of co-conspirator;
Hawkins' chin smarted and was raw; little specks of red showed here and
there through the repeated coats of lather which he kept scraping off
with his razor. But Hawkins appeared willing to sacrifice even the skin
itself to obtain the standard of smoothness which he had evidently set
before himself as his goal. And so over and over again he applied the
lather, and hoed it off, and tested the result by rubbing thumb and
forefinger critically over his face. He made no grimace, nor did he show
any irritation at the none-too-keen blade that played havoc with more
than the lather, nor did he wince at what must at times have been
anything but a painless operation. Hawkins' round, weatherbeaten face
and old watery blue eyes smiled into the mirror.
On the washstand beside him lay a large, ungainly silver watch, its case
worn smooth with years of service. It had a hunting-case, and it was
open. Hawkins glanced at it. It was twenty minutes to eight.
“I got to hurry,” said Hawkins happily. “Just twenty minutes--after
twenty years.”
Hawkins laid aside the razor, and washed and scrubbed at his face until
it shone; then he went to his trunk and opened it. From underneath the
tray he lifted out an old black suit. Perhaps again it was the gas-jet
in either baleful or facetious mood, for, as he put on the suit, the
cloth in spots seemed to possess, here a rusty, and there a greenish,
tinge, and elsewhere to be woefully shiny. Also, but of this the gas-jet
could not have been held guilty, the coat and trousers, and indeed the
waistcoat, were undeniably most sadly wrinkled.
And now there seemed to be something peculiarly congruous as between the
feeble gas-jet, the cracked mirror, the wobbly washstand, the threadbare
strip of carpet that lay beside the iron bed, and the old bent-shouldered
figure with wrinkled face in wrinkled finery that stood there knotting
with anxious, awkward fingers a large, frayed, black cravat about his
neck; there seemed to be something strikingly in keeping between the man
and his surroundings, a sort of common intimacy, as it were, with the
twilight of an existence that, indeed, had never known the full sunlight
of high noon.
It was ten minutes to eight.
Hawkins put the silver watch in his pocket, extinguished the spluttering
gas-jet, that hissed at him as though in protest at the scant ceremony
with which it was treated, and went down the stairs. He stepped briskly
out on the street.
“Claire!” said Hawkins radiantly. “My little Claire! I'm her daddy, and
she's going to know it. I'm going to get her to call me that--daddy!”
Hawkins walked on halfway along the block, erect, with a quick, firm
step, his head high, smiling into every face he met--and turning to
smile again, conscious that people as they passed had turned to look
back at him. And then very gradually Hawkins' pace slackened, and into
his face and eyes there came a dawning anxiety, and the smile was gone.
“I'm kind of forgetting,” said Hawkins presently to himself, “that it
ain't just that I'm getting my little girl. I--I'm kind of forgetting
her 'rouble. There--there's Crang.”
The old man's face was furrowed now deep with storm and care; he walked
still more slowly. He began to mutter to himself. At the corner of the
street he raised an old gnarled fist and shook it, clenched, above his
head, unconscious and oblivious now that people still turned and looked
at him.
And then a little way ahead of him along the street that he must go to
reach the one-time pawn-shop of Paul Veniza, his eyes caught the patch
of light that filtered out to the sidewalk from under the swinging doors
of the familiar saloon, and from the windows in a more brilliant flood.
Hawkins drew in a long breath.
“No, no!” he whispered fiercely. “I will never go in there again--so
help me, God! If I did--and--and she knew it was her daddy, it would
just break her heart like--like Crang 'll break it.”
He went on, but his footsteps seemed to drag the more now as he
approached the saloon. His hand as he raised it trembled; and as he
brushed it across his brow it came away wet with sweat.
The saloon was just a yard away from him now.
There was a strange, feverish glitter in the blue eyes. His face was
chalky white.
“So help me, God!” Hawkins mumbled hoarsely.
It was five minutes of eight.
Hawkins had halted in front of the swinging doors.