HIRAM WAKES UP
Hiram walked with an elastic step from Lucy Dalles' rooming house. It
was hard to believe that all that was happening to him was true. In a
sort of haze that floated before him as he walked along hung Lucy's
face. He wished to go on forever thus. He found no fault in her--he
refused to. Some imp whispered to him that his fifteen dollars and
fifty cents would last forever. He did not actually believe this, but
he refused to worry over the matter. Fate was kind. He was living a
dream--and who needs money in Dreamland?
It was like the slap of a cold towel when Tweet's face suddenly
displaced Lucy's in the haze. Up there in the lounging room Tweet had
been waiting for him four hours! Tweet was doubtless hungry--he,
Hiram, had been to a feast of love!
He felt like sneaking away to another lodging house till Tweet had
disappeared. But he did not. Instead he sneaked up the dusty stairs
and through the door of the lounging room.
Tweet was there, half hidden behind his paper. Hiram sidled into a
seat, swallowed twice, and said "Hello."
Tweet at once lowered the paper and looked at him at if he did not
quite recall his face.
"Why, hello there!" he returned carelessly. "Back, eh? Here's
somethin' may int'rest you."
He got up, folding the paper, and carried it over to Hiram, pointing to
an article headed:
"New Ditch Digger Makes Good."
Hiram stared at the heading in dire confusion. He had been half
prepared for a rating; Tweet's complete disregard of his remissness was
distressing.
"Mr. Tweet, I've got to apologize," he began.
"Bad practice," Tweet interrupted. "The better way is to never do
anythin' that calls for an apology. Can't say that I live up to it,
but I do my darnedest--and angels can do no more. After the first half
hour I knew you wouldn't show up, so I went down and had lunch. More'n
you've had, I'll bet. Just glance over that article and see what you
think of it."
"I thought you were broke."
"Oh, they can't keep a good man down. The friend I went to see
insisted that I take a dollar he had that wasn't workin'. Don't
suppose I'll be with you for dinner, either, as I've got an engagement
at about that hour. But read that article."
Hiram obeyed.
It told of a ditch digger that had recently been enlarged from the
inventor's model, and which, at the first trial, was proving a decided
success in moving earth more rapidly than any previously invented.
With only his model to prove his claims, the inventor had managed to
sell all the stock; and from the very beginning the operations would be
carried out by a closed corporation. The question before the directors
was whether to have machines manufactured and hire them out, or to
construct a plant and manufacture them for the trade.
To Hiram it was dull and incomprehensible, and after finishing it he
looked up at Tweet for an explanation.
"I got a sixth int'rest in her, Hooker," Tweet carelessly informed him.
"My pay for sellin' the stock for 'em."
"Really! Is it worth anything to you?"
"I'm holdin' it' at eight thousand five hundred. It'll be worth double
that in a year or two."
"Eight thousand five hundred!" Hiram stared unbelievingly at Tweet.
"Why don't you sell it, then?"
"Didn't I say it would be worth double that amount in a year or two?"
"Yes, but you're broke and----"
"And I'll stay broke on a deal like that." Tweet's indignation caused
him to grab his off-center nose and impatiently correct its obstinate
trend, but to no avail. "But le's forget it and get back to that
bugbear of our young lives. _When_ are we _going_ to southern
California?"
Hiram sat framing a reply, which was rather a difficult process.
"Le's wait till to-morrow, anyway," he said at last.
"Had quite a little chat with Lucy to-day, eh?"
"Yes, I did. When you told----" Hiram bit his tongue. "The truth is,
she's from Mendocino County, too, and we--we--that is, we found it out."
Not the faintest sign of suspicion or surprise showed in Tweet's face.
"Well, suit yourself," he said nonchalantly. "It's a little late, or
I'd go this afternoon. But to-morrow I go. My friend'll dig up the
price, but I hate to hit him up any more. Think it over a little
longer, Hooker--I'm goin' down for a little stroll. But
remember--before noon to-morrow I've gotta have a definite answer.
I've found that Morgan & Stroud send their bunches out every day at one
o'clock."
Tweet folded his precious paper, crammed it his pocket, and left the
room.
A few minutes afterward Hiram followed. He ate lunch and dinner in
one, then strolled about the city, dreaming of Lucy and fretfully
counting the hours till he might expect to feast his material eyes on
her again. At nine o'clock he returned to the lodging house, made sure
that Tweet was not in the lounging room, and went to bed.
Next morning, close to nine o'clock, he was shifting from one foot to
the other before the cashier's counter in the restaurant. From the
little window inclosure came the clicking of typewriter keys, a little
more spirited than before. Hiram had strategically chosen the slack
business hour of the morning. He had eaten breakfast in a cheaper
restaurant, two blocks down the street. He had not seen Tweet. He had
been walking about the streets since six o'clock.
The keys kept clicking. Hiram cleared his throat several times, and at
last, as before, tapped on the show case with a coin. The clicking
stopped, a skirt swished, and the gates of heaven opened, it seemed to
Hiram.
"Well, look who's here! Good morning."
"Ha-ha-ha! Good morning, ma'am."
"Then let's begin this good morning by dropping the 'ma'am.' They all
say it up in Mendocino, I know. It's considered the _ne plus ultra_ of
good breeding up there. You see I'm trying to steer you straight, and
I've got to be frank. I didn't have anybody kind enough to pick the
moss off me."
"I'll stop sayin' it, if you say so."
"Sure, you want to. Now, I've had another visit from Mr. Tweet. He
roasted me for not carrying out his orders. He's just the least bit
too fresh, and I intimated as much. But he told me just about how much
money you had, and I decided you'd better take his advice and go with
him."
"But I've decided not to go at all now," said Hiram. "I'm goin' to
begin lookin' for a job here in the city to-day."
"Aw, you can't get a job here that'll make you any money. Tweet told
me something about where you're going down there in southern
California. It's on the desert. A new railroad's building. Things
will be lively. A friend of mine was in here at the time. He's got a
lot of automobile trucks, and makes piles of money. Maybe you noticed
him. Good-looking fellow in a brown suit. Drives a big drab car?"
"Ye-yes, I've seen him," admitted Hiram resentfully.
"Well, he was in here and talked with Tweet, and he said he thought
he'd look into the freighting proposition down there. With his trucks,
you know. There's a long haul over the desert and the mountains, it
seems, and he says it ought to be good. Said maybe he'd take me down
some time, if anything turned up."
"You wouldn't go!"
"Wouldn't I? Huh! You bet your life I would! I only hope he'll stick
to what he says. Maybe I'd get to see you down there. Tweet said he'd
heard that the place they freight to is a live one. Ragtown, he said
they called it. That's the kind of a place to make money in. I'd go,
if I were you. Go down and make a stake, and then come back to Frisco.
Money talks here."
"With you?" Said Hiram, slowly drinking in dread suspicion.
"You betcha my life!" Lucy said lightly.
She broke off suddenly and turned toward the door with a smile of
welcome on her lips. In came Hiram Hooker's hated rival, Al Drummond.
"Hello, Lucy!" he called breezily. Then he leaned over the counter,
glanced hurriedly about the empty restaurant, and kissed the girl on
the lips.
She slapped at him playfully. "You got a nerve, Al!" she exclaimed.
Hiram Hooker heard no more, for blindly he was stumbling out, crushed,
heartbroken. Hiram Hooker suddenly had decided to go to southern
California with Mr. Orr Tweet, and the sooner they could get away the
better he would like it. He realized now that Lucy Dalles was not the
adventure girl who had beckoned in his dreams. She was a cheap,
scheming adventuress, and he hated the very thought of her now--and was
plunged into the depths of despair and humiliation.
In the lounging room he found Tweet.
"Come on," he said huskily, "le's go to the employment office. I'm
ready."
Orr Tweet arose, casting a curious look at Hiram's haggard face, but
said nothing as he followed him out.
Fifteen minutes later they entered a large employment bureau on Clay
Street, where were gathered perhaps a hundred workingmen reading the
bulletins or lounging on benches.
Every now and then a brisk, leonine-headed man walked about among them,
making announcements as a train caller does in a big union depot.
"Shippin' to Oregon--two o'clock to-morrow afternoon--I want two
hundred muckers--forty cents an hour--board one dollar a day. I want
twenty skinners, same job, forty a month and found. Sign up, boys!
Hit the trail and make yer stake. Two dollars is the bill!
"I want one hundred men to work in onions and potatoes.
Three-twenty-five a day and board. Think of it, boys!
Three-twenty-five a day and _board_! Like gettin' money from home!
Get your blankets and line up for the chance of a lifetime.
"Then listen, boys! I want six rough carpenters--the rougher the
better--mine work. Eight dollars a day, eight hours--_dollar an hour_!
Fee two dollars. Think of that, huskies! Can ye swing a hammer or
push a saw? You're on if you can--sign up! Ship ye out this evenin'.
A snap! A cinch!
"I want a sub-grade foreman at seven dollars--eight hours!
"I want skinners, muckers, hard-rock men for Washington. I want
lumberjacks for Washington--long job--good pay! I want hard-rock men
for Alaska--the harder the better. And I want----"
Here Orr Tweet grasped the enthusiast's sleeve. "How about those
jerkline skinners for southern California?" he asked. "Saw it in the
paper."
"I'll see, old-timer--I'll look that up for you right away. Just step
inside, please--you and your pal. Let you know all about it in two
minutes. Line up for a good job, boys! Get out and make a stake!
Just a minute, boss man. Step right inside."
Inside a railing, where many clerks were at work, the applicants were
turned over to a sallow young man, who, being informed of what they
wanted, consulted certain memoranda. Then he swiveled toward the two
and gave them the particulars.
"Gold Belt Cut-off," he said. "Buildin' across the desert in southern
California. Good camps--good pay--good grub--good water----"
"Cut all that," dryly interrupted Orr Tweet.
"All right, sir," replied the clerk cheerfully. "Main contractors,
Demarest, Spruce & Tillou. Want fifty muckers and fifty skinners--two
jerkline skinners--must be A-1. Fifty-five a month and found. Fee two
dollars. Ship you out one o'clock to-morrow. On?"
Tweet nudged Hiram and nodded, and Hiram tendered four silver dollars.
"Just a minute," said the clerk--though accepting the money. "This
office can't afford to get in bad with big contractors like Demarest,
Spruce & Tillou. They've specified A-1 jerkline skinners, to skin
eight, ten, and twelve over the desert and mountains. Are you there?"
"We are there," replied Orr Tweet.
The clerk looked doubtful. "Well, guess we'll have to take your word
for it. Chances are you'll break away when you get to where you're
makin' it, anyway. This is kind of a special job, though. Demarest
himself wrote a personal letter about the two jerkline skinners.
They're not for him, it seems--just to be shipped down with the other
skinners and muckers and hard-rock men we're sendin' him. The jerkline
skinners are for 'Jerkline Jo.' Ever heard that name? If you're
jerkline skinners that have followed railroad work you ought to've
heard o' Jerkline Jo. Usta be monakered 'Gypo Jo.'"
"We're not railroaders," said Mr. Tweet glibly. "We're from Mendocino
County--the big woods you know. But we can skin 'em for Jerkline Jo or
any other man."
"I'll take a chance," said the clerk briskly. "If you'd just wanted to
get your railroad trip out o' Frisco you'd not thought to pick out the
jerkline job, when only two were wanted. Jerkline Jo is a woman,
though."
"Yeah?" returned Mr. Tweet, then said to the heartbroken Hiram: "You
can't escape 'em, it seems, Hooker--you big mountain of a lady killer!
This is gonta be good. Send us to Jerkline Jo, old hoss! She'll bless
you with her last breath. Chances are you'll meet a regular woman,
now, Hiram--not a doll with three years' wages on her back! A big
outdoor picture like you fallin' for a bunch o' female French pastry
like that!"
The employment agency clerk shrugged and took their names.