"No," Eades admitted, though he did not like this detraction from his

triumph. "But the responsibility is great."

"I should imagine so."

He did not know exactly what she meant; he wondered if this were

sarcasm.

"It is indeed," he insisted.

"Yes," she went on, "I know it must be. I couldn't bear it myself. I'm

glad women are not called to such responsibilities. I believe it is

said--isn't it?--that their sentimental natures unfit them." She was

smiling.

"You're guying now," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"Oh, indeed, no! Of course, I know nothing about such things--save that

you men are superior to your emotional natures, and rise above them and

control them."

"Well, not always. We become emotional, but our emotions are usually

excited on the side of justice."

"What is that?"

"Justice? Why--well--"

"You mean 'an eye for an eye,' I suppose, and 'a life for a life.'"

Elizabeth looked at him steadily, and he feared she was making him

ridiculous.

"I'm not sure that I believe in capital punishment myself," he said,

seeing that she would not, after all, sympathize with him, "but luckily

I have no choice; I have only my duty to do, and that is to enforce the

laws as I find them." He settled back as if he had found a sure

foundation and placed his fingers tip to tip, his polished nails

gleaming in the firelight as if they were wet. "I can only do my duty;

the jury, the judge, the executioner, may do theirs or not. My personal

feelings can not enter into the matter in the least. That's the beauty

of our system. Of course, it's hard and unpleasant, but we can't allow

our sentiments to stand in the way." Plainly he enjoyed the nobility of

this attitude. "As a man, I might not believe in capital

punishment--but as an official--"

"You divide yourself into two personalities?"

"Well, in that sense--"

"How disagreeable!" Elizabeth gave a little shrug. "It's a kind of

vivisection, isn't it?"

"But something has to be done. What would you have me do?" He sat up

and met her, and she shrank from the conflict.

"Oh, don't ask me! I don't know anything about it, I'm sure! I know

but one criminal, and I don't wish to dream about him to-night."

"It is strange to be discussing such topics," said Eades. "You must

pardon me for being so disagreeable and depressing."

"Oh, I'll forgive you," she laughed. "I'd really like to know about

such things. As I say, I have known but one criminal."

"The one you dream of?"

"Yes. Do you ever dream of your criminals?"

"Oh, never! It's bad enough to be brought into contact with them by

day; I put them out of my mind when night comes. Except this Burns--he

insists on pursuing me more or less. But now that he has his just

deserts, perhaps he'll let me alone. But tell me about this criminal of

yours, this lucky one you dream of. I'd become a criminal myself--"

"You know him already," Elizabeth said hastily, her cheeks coloring.

"I?"

"Yes. Do you remember Harry Graves?"

Eades bent his head and placed his knuckles to his chin.

"Graves, Graves?" he said. "It seems to me--"

"The boy who stole from my father; you had him sent to the penitentiary

for a year--and papa--"

"Oh, I remember; that boy! To be sure. His term must be over now."

"Yes, it's over. I've seen him."

"You!" he said in surprise. "Where?"

"At the Charity Bureau, before Christmas."

"Ah, begging, of course." Eades shook his head. "I was in hopes our

leniency would do him good; but it seems that it's never appreciated. I

sometimes reproach myself with being too easy with them; but they do

disappoint us--almost invariably. Begging! Well, they don't want to

work, that's all. What became of him?"

"I don't know," said Elizabeth. "I saw him there, but didn't recognize

him. After I had come away, I recalled him. I've reproached myself

again and again. I wonder what has become of him!"

"It's sad, in a way," said Eades, "but I shouldn't worry. I used to

worry, at first, but I soon learned to know them. They're no good, they

won't work, they have no respect for law, they have no desire but to

gratify their idle, vicious natures. The best thing is just to shut

them up where they can't harm any one. This may seem heartless, but I

don't think I'm heartless." He smiled tolerantly for himself. "I have

no personal feeling in the matter, but I've learned from experience. As

for this Graves--I had my doubts at the time. I thought then I was

making a mistake in recommending leniency. But, really, your father was

so cut up, and I'd rather err on the side of mercy." He paused a

moment, and then said: "He'll turn up in court again some day. You'll

see. I shouldn't lose any more sleep over him."

Elizabeth smiled faintly, but did not reply. She sat with her elbow on

the arm of her chair, her delicate chin resting on her hand, and Eades

was content to let the subject drop, if it would. He wished the silence

would prolong itself. His heart beat rapidly; he felt a new energy, a

new joy pulsing within him. He sat and looked at her calmly, her gaze

bent on the fire, her profile revealed to him, her lashes sweeping her

cheek, the lace in her sleeve falling away from her slender arm. Should

he tell her then? He longed to--but this was not, after all, the

moment. The moment would come, and he must be patient. He must wait

and prove himself to her; she must understand him; she should see him in

time as the modern ideal of manhood, doing his duty courageously and

without fear or favor. Some day he would tell her.

"Your charity bazaar was a success, I hope?" he said presently, coming

back to the lighter side of their last topic.

"I don't know," Elizabeth said. "I never inquired."

"You never inquired?"

"No."

"How strange! Why not?"

"I lost interest."

"Oh!" he laughed. "Well, we all do that."

"The whole thing palled on me--struck me as ridiculous."

Eades was perplexed. He could not in the least understand this latest

attitude. Surely, she was a girl of many surprises.

"I shouldn't think you would find charity ridiculous. A hard-hearted and

cruel being like me might--but you--oh, Miss Ward! To think that

helping the poor was ridiculous!"

"But it isn't to help the poor at all."

He was still more perplexed.

"It's to help the rich. Can't you see that?"

She turned and faced him with clear, sober gray eyes.

"Can't you see that?" she asked again. "If you can't, I wish I knew how

to make you.

"'The organized charity, scrimped and iced,

In the name of a cautious, statistical Christ'--

"Do you know Boyle O'Reilly's poetry?"

Eades showed the embarrassment of one who has not the habit of reading,

and she saw that the words had no meaning for him.

"Don't take it all so seriously," he said, leaning over as if he might

plead with her. "'The poor,' you know, 'we have always with us.'" He

settled back then as one who has said the thing proper to the occasion.

XVIII

Although Marriott had promised Koerner early in the fall that his action

against the railroad would be tried at once, he was unable to bring the

event to pass. In the first place, Bradford Ford, the attorney for the

railroad, had to go east in his private car, then in the winter he had

to go to Florida to rest and play golf, and because of these and other

postponements it was March before the case was finally assigned for

trial.

"So that's your client back there, is it?" said Ford, the morning of the

trial, turning from the window and the lingering winter outdoors to look

at Koerner.

Koerner was sitting by the trial table, his old wife by his side. He

was pale and thin from his long winter indoors; his yellow, wrinkled

skin stretched over his jaw-bones, hung flabby at his throat. As Ford

and Marriott looked at him, a troubled expression appeared in Koerner's

face; he did not like to see Marriott so companionable with Ford; he had

ugly suspicions; he felt that Marriott should treat his opponent coldly

and with the enmity such a contest deserved. But just at that minute

Judge Sharlow came in and court was opened.

The trial lasted three days. The benches behind the bar were empty, the

bailiff slept with his gray chin on his breast, the clerk copied

pleadings in the record, pausing now and then to look out at the

flurries of snow. Sharlow sat on the bench, trying to write an opinion

he had been working on for weeks. The jury sat in the jury-box, their

eyes heavy with drowsiness, breathing grossly. Long ago life had paused

in these men; they had certain fixed opinions, one of which was that any

man who sued a corporation was entitled to damages; and after they had

seen Koerner, with the stump of his leg sticking out from his chair,

they were ready to render a verdict.

Marriott knew this, and Ford knew it, and consequently they gave

attention, not to the jury, but to the stenographer bending over the

tablet on which he transcribed the testimony with his fountain pen.

Marriott and Ford were concerned about the record; they saw not so much

this trial, as a hearing months or possibly years hence in the Appellate

Court, and still another hearing months or years hence in the Supreme

Court. They knew that just as the jurymen were in sympathy with

Koerner, and by any possible means would give a verdict in his favor, so

the judges in the higher courts would be in sympathy with the railroad

company, and by any possible means give judgment in its favor; and,

therefore, while Marriott's efforts were directed toward trying the case

in such a way that the record should be free from error, Ford's efforts

were directed toward trying the case in such a way that the record

should be full of error. Ford was continually objecting to the

questions Marriott asked his witnesses, and compelling Sharlow to drop

his work and pass on these objections. One of Marriott's witnesses, a

stalwart young mechanic, unmarried and with no responsibilities,

testified positively that the frog in which Koerner had caught his foot

had no block in it; he had examined it carefully at the time. Another,

a man of middle age with a large family, an employe of the railroad

company, had the most unreliable memory--he could remember nothing at

all about the frog; he could not say whether it had been blocked or not;

he had not examined it; he had not considered it any of his business.

While giving his testimony, he cast fearful and appealing glances at

Ford, who smiled complacently, and for a while made no objections.

Another witness was Gergen, the surgeon, a young man with eye-glasses, a

tiny gold chain, and a scant black beard trimmed closely to his pale

skin and pointed after the French fashion. He retained his overcoat and

kept on his glasses while he testified, as if he must get through with

this business and return to his practice as quickly as possible. With

the greatest care he couched all his testimony in scientific phrases.

"I was summoned to the hospital," he said, "at seven-sixteen on that

evening and found the patient prostrated by hemorrhage and shock. I

supplemented the superficial examination of the internes and found that

there were contusions on the left hip, and severe bruises on the entire

left side. The most severe injury, however, developed in the right

foot. The tibiotarsal articulation was destroyed, the calcaneum and

astragalus were crushed and inoperable, the metatarsus and phalanges,

and the internal and external malleolus were also crushed, and the

fibula and tibia were splintered to the knee."

"Well, what then?"

"I gave orders to have the patient prepared, and proceeded to operate.

My assistant, Doctor Remack, administered the anesthetic, and I

amputated at the lower third."

Doctor Gergen then explained that what he had said meant that he had

found Koerner's foot, ankle and knee crushed, and that he had cut off

his leg above the knee. After this he told what fee he had charged; he

did this in plain terms, calling dollars dollars, and cents cents.

But Koerner himself was a sufficient witness in his own behalf. Sitting

on the stand, his crutches in the hollow of his arm, the stump of his

leg thrust straight out before him and twitching now and then, he told

of his long service with the railroad, pictured the blinding snow-storm,

described how he had slipped and caught his foot in the unblocked

frog--then the switch-engine noiselessly stealing down upon him. The

jurymen roused from their lethargy as he turned his white and bony face

toward them; the atmosphere was suddenly charged with the sympathy these

aged men felt for him. Sharlow paused in his writing, the clerk ceased

from his monotonous work, and Mrs. Koerner, whose expression had not

changed, wiped her eyes with the handkerchief which, fresh from the

iron, she had held all day without unfolding.

When Ford began his cross-examination, Koerner twisted about with

difficulty in his chair, threw back his head, and his face became hard

and obdurate. He ran his stiff and calloused hand through his white

hair, which seemed to bristle with leonine defiance. Ford conducted his

cross-examination in soft, pleasant tones, spoke to Koerner kindly and

with consideration, scrupulously addressed him as "Mr. Koerner," and had

him repeat all he had said about his injury.

"As I understand it, then, Mr. Koerner," said Ford, "you were walking

homeward at the end of the day through the railroad yards."

"Yes, sir, dot's right."

"You'd always gone home that way?"

"Sure; I go dot vay for twenty year, right t'rough dose yards dere."

"Yes. Was that a public highway, Mr. Koerner?"

"Vell, everybody go dot vay home all right; dot's so."

"But it wasn't a street?"

"No."

"Nor a sidewalk?"

"You know dot alreadty yourself," said Koerner, leaning forward,

contracting his bushy white eyebrows and glaring at Ford. "Vot you vant

to boder me mit such a damn-fool question for?"

The jurymen laughed and Ford smiled.

"I know, of course, Mr. Koerner; you will pardon me--but what I wish to

know is whether or not you know. You had passed through those yards

frequently?"

"Yah, undt I knows a damn-sight more about dose yards dan you, you bet."

Again the jurymen laughed in vicarious pleasure at another's profanity.

"I yield to you there, Mr. Koerner," said Ford in his suave manner.

"But let us go on. You say your foot slipped?"

"Yah, dot's right."

"Slipped on the frozen snow?"

"Yah. I bedt you shlip on such a place as dot."

"No doubt," said Ford, who suddenly ceased to smile. He now leaned

forward; the faces of the two protagonists seemed to be close together.

"And, as a result, your foot slid into the frog, and was wedged there so

that you could not get it out?"

"Yah."

"And the engine came along just then and ran over it?"

"Yah."

Ford suddenly sat upright, turned away, seemed to have lost interest,

and said:

"That's all, Mr. Koerner."

And the old man was left sitting there, suspended as it were, his neck

out-thrust, his white brows gathered in a scowl, his small eyes

blinking.

Sharlow looked at Marriott, then said, as if to hurry Koerner off the

stand:

"That's all, Mr. Koerner. Call your next."

When all the testimony for the plaintiff had been presented Ford moved

to arrest the case from the jury; that is, he wished Sharlow to give

judgment in favor of the railroad company without proceeding further. In

making this motion, Ford stood beside his table, one hand resting on a

pile of law-books he had had borne into the court-room that afternoon by

a young attorney just admitted to the bar, who acted partly as clerk and

partly as porter for Ford, carrying his law-books for him, finding his

place in them, and, in general, relieving Ford from all that manual

effort which is thought incompatible with professional dignity. As he

spoke, Ford held in his hand the gold eye-glasses which seemed to betray

him into an age which he did not look and did not like to admit.

Marriott had expected this motion and listened attentively to what Ford

said. The Koerners, who did not at all understand, waited patiently.

Meanwhile, Sharlow excused the jury, sank deeper in his chair and laid

his forefinger learnedly along his cheek.

Ford's motion was based on the contention that the failure to block the

frog--he spoke of this failure, perfectly patent to every one, as an

alleged failure, and was careful to say that the defendant did not admit

that the frog had not been blocked--that the alleged failure was not the

proximate cause of Koerner's injury, but that the real cause was the ice

about the frog on which Koerner, according to his own admission, had

slipped. The unblocked frog, he said--admitting merely for the sake of

argument that the frog was unblocked--was the remote cause, the ice was

the proximate cause; the question then was, which of these had caused

Koerner's injury? It was necessary that the injury be the effect of a

cause which in law-books was referred to as a proximate cause; if it was

not referred to as a proximate cause, but as a remote cause, then

Koerner could not recover his damages. After elaborating this view and

many times repeating the word "proximate," which seemed to take on a

more formidable and insuperable sound each time he uttered it, Ford

proceeded to elucidate his thought further, and in doing this, he used a

term even more impressive than the word proximate; he used the phrase,

"act of God." The ice, he said, was an "act of God," and as the

railroad company was responsible, under the law, for its own acts only,

it followed that, as "an act of God" was not an act of the railroad

company, but an act of another, that is, of God, the railroad company

could not be held accountable for the ice.

Having, as he said, indicated the outline of his argument, Ford said

that he would pass to a second proposition; namely, that the motion must

be granted for another reason. In stating this reason, Ford used the

phrases, "trespass" and "contributory negligence," and these phrases had

a sound even more ominous than the phrases "proximate" and "act of God."

Ford declared that the railroad yards were the property of the railroad

company, and therefore not a thoroughfare, and that Koerner, in walking

through them, was a trespasser. The fact that Koerner was in the employ

of the railroad, he said, did not give him the right to enter in and

upon the yards--he had the lawyer's reckless extravagance in the use of

prepositions, and whenever it was possible used the word "said" in place

of "the"--for the reason that his employment did not necessarily lead

him to said yard and, more than all, when Koerner completed his labors

for the day, his right to remain in and about said premises instantly

ceased. Therefore, he contended, Koerner was a trespasser, and a

trespasser must suffer all the consequences of his trespass. Then Ford

began to use the phrase "contributory negligence." He said that Koerner

had been negligent in continuing in and upon said premises, and besides,

had not used due care in avoiding the ice and snow on and about said

frog; that he had the same means of knowing that the ice was there that

the railroad company had, and hence had assumed whatever risk there was

in passing on and over said ice, and that then and thereby he had been

guilty of contributory negligence; that is, had contributed, by his own

negligence, to his own injury. In fact, it seemed from Ford's argument

that Koerner had really invited his injury and purposely had the

switch-engine cut off his leg.

"These, in brief, if the Court please," said Ford, who had spoken for an

hour, "are the propositions I wish to place before your Honor." Ford

paused, drew from his pocket a handkerchief, pressed it to his lips,

passed it lightly over his forehead, and laid it on the table. Then he

selected a law-book from the pile and opened it at the page his clerk

had marked with a slip of paper. Sharlow, knowing what he had to expect,

stirred uneasily and glanced at the clock.

During Ford's argument Sharlow had been thinking the matter over. He

knew, of course, that the same combination of circumstances is never

repeated, that there could be no other case in the world just like this,

but that there were hundreds which resembled it, and that Ford and

Marriott would ransack the law libraries to find these cases, explain

them to him, differentiate them, and show how they resembled or did not

resemble the case at bar. And, further, he knew that before he could

decide the question Ford had raised he would have to stop and think what

the common law of England had been on the subject, then whether that law

had been changed by statute, then whether the statute had been changed,

and, if it was still on the statute books, whether it could be said to

be contrary to the Constitution of the United States or of the State.

Then he would have to see what the courts had said about the subject,

and, if more than one court had spoken, whether their opinions were in

accord or at variance with each other. Besides this he would have to

find out what the courts of other states had said on similar subjects

and whether they had reversed themselves; that is, said at one time

something contrary to what they had said at another. If he could not

reconcile these decisions he would have to render a decision himself,

which he did not like to do, for there was always the danger that some

case among the thousands reported had been overlooked by him, or by Ford

or Marriott, and that the courts which would review his decision, in the

years that would be devoted to the search, might discover that other

case and declare that he had not decided the question properly. And

even if the courts had decided this question, it might be discovered

that the question was not, after all, the exact question involved in

this case, or was not the exact question the courts had meant to decide.

It would not do for Sharlow to decide this case according to the simple

rule of right and wrong, which he could have found by looking into his

own heart; that would not be lawful; he must decide it according to what

had been said by other judges, most of whom were dead. Though if

Sharlow did decide, his decision would become law for other judges to be

guided by, until some judge in the future gave a different opinion.

Considering all this, Sharlow determined to postpone his decision as

long as possible, and told Ford that he would not then listen to his

authorities, but would hear what Marriott had to say.

And then Marriott spoke at length, opposing all that Ford had said,

saying that the unblocked frog must be the proximate cause, for if it

had been blocked, Koerner could not have caught his foot in it and could

have got out of the way of the switch-engine. Furthermore, he declared

that the yards had been used by the employes as a thoroughfare so long

that a custom had been established; that the unblocked frog, according

to the statute, was _prima facie_ negligence on the part of the

defendant. And he said that if Ford was to submit authorities, he would

like an opportunity to submit other authorities equally authoritative.

At this Sharlow bowed, said he would adjourn court until two o'clock in

order to consider the question, recalled the jury and cautioned them not

to talk about the case. This caution was entirely worthless, because

they talked of nothing else, either among themselves or with others;

being idle men, they had nothing else to talk about.

Koerner had listened with amazement to Ford and Marriott, wondering how

long they could talk about such incomprehensible subjects. He had tried

to follow Ford's remarks and then had tried to follow Marriott's, but he

derived nothing from it all except further suspicions of Marriott, who

seemed to talk exactly as Ford talked and to use the same words and

phrases. He felt, too, that Marriott should have spoken in louder tones

and more vehemently, and shown more antipathy to Ford. And when they

went out of the court-house, he asked Marriott what it all meant. But

Marriott, who could not himself tell as yet what it meant, assured

Koerner that an important legal question had arisen and that they must

wait until it had been fully argued, considered and decided by the

court. Koerner swung away on his crutches, saying to himself that it

was all very strange; the switch-engine had cut off his leg, against his

will, no one could gainsay that, and the only important question Koerner

could see was how much the law would make the railroad company pay him

for cutting off his leg. It seemed silly to him that so much time

should be wasted over such matters. But then, as Marriott had said, it

was impossible for Koerner to understand legal questions.

By the time he opened court in the afternoon, Sharlow had decided on a

course of action, one that would give him time to think over the

question further. He announced that he would overrule the motion, but

that counsel for defense might raise the question again at the close of

the evidence, and, should a verdict result unfavorably to him, on the

motion for a new trial.

Ford took exceptions, and began his defense, introducing several

employes of the railroad to give testimony about the ice at the frog.

When his evidence was in, Ford moved again to take the case from the

jury, but Sharlow, having thought the matter over and found it necessary

for his peace of mind to reach some conclusion, overruled the motion.

Then came the arguments, extending themselves into the following day;

then Sharlow must speak; he must charge the jury. The purpose of the

charge was to lay the law of the case before the jury, and for an hour

he went on, talking of "proximate cause," of "contributory negligence,"

of "measure of damages," and at last, the jury having been confused

sufficiently to meet all the requirements of the law, he told them they

might retire.

It was now noon, and the court was deserted by all but Koerner and his

wife, who sat there, side by side, and waited. It was too far for them

to go home, and they had no money with which to lunch down town. The

bright sun streamed through the windows with the first promise of

returning warmth. Now and then from the jury room the Koerners could

hear voices raised in argument; then the noise would die, and for a long

time it would be very still. Occasionally they would hear other sounds,

the scraping of a chair on the floor, once a noise as of some one

pounding a table; voices were raised again, then it grew still. And

Koerner and his wife waited.

At half-past one the bailiff returned.

"Any sign?" he asked Koerner.

"Dey was some fightin'."

"They'll take their time," said the bailiff.

"Vot you t'ink?" Koerner ventured to ask.

"Oh, you'll win," said the bailiff. But Koerner was not so sure about

that.

At two o'clock Sharlow returned and court began again. Another jury was

called, another case opened, Koerner gave place to another man who was

to exchange his present troubles for the more annoying ones the law

would give him; to experience Koerner's perplexity, doubt, confusion,

and hope changing constantly to fear. Other lawyers began other

wrangles over other questions of law.

At three o'clock there was a loud pounding on the door of the jury room.

Every one in the court-room turned with sudden expectation. The bailiff

drew out his keys, unlocked the door, spoke to the men inside, and then

went to telephone to Marriott and Ford. After a while Marriott appeared,

but Ford had not arrived. Marriott went out himself and telephoned;

Ford had not returned from luncheon. He telephoned to Ford's home, then

to his club. Finally, at four o'clock, Ford came.

After the verdict Marriott went to the Koerners and whispered:

"We can go now."

The old man got up, his wife helped him into his overcoat, and he swung

out of the court-room on his crutches. He had tried to understand what

the clerk had read, but could not. He thought he had lost his case.

"Well, I congratulate you, Mr. Koerner," said Marriott when they were in

the corridor.

"How's dot?" asked the old man harshly.

"Why, you won."

"Me?"

"Yes; didn't you know?"

"I vin?"

"Certainly, you won. You get eight thousand dollars."

The old man stopped and looked at Marriott.

"Eight t'ousandt?"

"Yes, eight thousand."

"I get eight t'ousandt, huh?"

"Yes."

A smile transfigured the heavy, bony face.

"Py Gott!" he said. "Dot's goodt, hain't it?"

XIX

Late in April they argued the motion for a new trial, and on the last

day of the term Sharlow announced his decision, overruling the motion,

and entered judgment in Koerner's favor. Though Marriott knew that Ford

would carry the case up on error, he had, nevertheless, won a victory,

and he felt so confident and happy that he decided to go to Koerner and

tell him the good news. The sky had lost the pale shimmer of the early

spring and taken on a deeper tone. The sun was warm, and in the narrow

plots between the wooden sidewalks and the curb, the grass was green.

The trees wore a gauze of yellowish green, the first glow of living

color they soon must show. A robin sprang swiftly across a lawn,

stopping to swell his ruddy breast. Marriott made a short cut across a

commons, beyond which the spire of a Polish Catholic church rose into

the sky. The bare spots of the commons, warmed by the sun, exhaled the

strong odor of the earth, recalling memories of other springs. Some

shaggy boys, truants, doubtless, too wise to go to school on such a day,

were playing a game of base-ball, writhing and contorting their little

bodies, raging and screaming and swearing at one another in innocent

imitation of the profanity of their fathers and elder brothers.

Koerner, supported by one crutch, was leaning over his front gate. He

was recklessly bareheaded; his white, disordered hair maintained its

aspect of fierceness, and, as Marriott drew near, he turned on him his

great, bony face, without a change of expression.

"Well, Mr. Koerner, this is a fine day, isn't it?" said Marriott as he

took the old man's hand. "I guess the spring's here at last."

Koerner took his constant pipe from his lips, raised his eyes and made

an observation of the heavens.

"Vell, dot veat'er's all right." As he returned the amber stem to his

yellow teeth, Marriott saw that the blackened bowl of the pipe was

empty. The old man let Marriott in at his gate, then swinging about,

went to the stoop, lowered himself from his crutches and sat down, with

a grunt at the effort.

"Aren't you afraid for your rheumatism?" asked Marriott, sitting down

beside him.

"Vot's up now again, huh?" demanded Koerner, ignoring this solicitude

for his health.

"Nothing but good news this time," Marriott was glad to say.

"Goodt news, huh?"

"Yes, good news. The judge has refused the motion for a new trial."

"Den I vin for sure dis time, ain't it?"

"Yes, this time," said Marriott.

"I get my money now right avay?"

"Well, pretty soon."

The old man turned to Marriott with his blue eyes narrowed beneath the

white brush of his eyebrows.

"Vot you mean by dot pretty soon?"

"Well, you see, Mr. Koerner, as I explained to you,"--Marriott set

himself to the task of explaining the latest development in the case; he

tried to present the proceedings in the Appellate Court in their most

encouraging light, but he was conscious that Koerner understood nothing

save that there were to be more delays.

"But we must be patient, Mr. Koerner," he said. "It will come out all

right."

Koerner made no reply. To Marriott his figure was infinitely pathetic.

He looked at the great face, lined and seamed; the eyes that saw

nothing--not the little yard before them where the turf was growing

green, not the blackened limbs of a little maple tree struggling to put

forth its leaves, not the warm mud glistening in the sun, not the dirty

street piled with ashes, not the broken fence and sidewalk, the ugly

little houses across the street, nor the purple sky above them--they

were gazing beyond all this. Marriott looked at the old man's lips;

they trembled, then they puckered themselves about the stem of his pipe

and puffed automatically. Marriott, hanging his head, lighted a

cigarette.

"Mis'er Marriott," Koerner began presently, "I been an oldt man. I been

an hones' man; py Gott! I vork hardt efery day. I haf blenty troubles.

I t'ink ven I lose dot damned oldt leg, I t'ink, vell, maybe I get some

rest now bretty soon. I say to dot oldt leg: 'You bin achin' mit der

rheumatiz all dose year, now you haf to kvit, py Gott!' I t'ink I get

some rest, I get some dose damages, den maybe I take der oldt voman undt

dose childer undt I go out to der oldt gountry; I go back to Chairmany,

undt I haf some peace dere. Vell--dot's been a long time, Mis'er

Marriott; dot law, he's a damn humpug; he's bin fer der railroadt

gompany; he's not been fer der boor man. Der boor man, he's got no

show. Dot's been a long time. Maybe, by undt by I die--dot case, he's

still go on, huh?"

The old man looked at Marriott quizzically.

"Vell, I gan't go out to der oldt gountry now any more. I haf more

drouble--dot poy Archie--vell, he bin in drouble too, and now my girl,

dot Gusta--"

The old man's lips trembled.

"Vell, she's gone, too."

A tear was rolling down Koerner's cheek. Marriott could not answer him

just then; he did not dare to look; he could scarcely bear to think of

this old man, with his dream of going home to the Fatherland--and all

his disappointments. Suddenly, the spring had receded again; the air

was chill, the sun lost its warmth, the sky took on the pale, cold

glitter of the days he thought were gone. He could hear Koerner's lips

puffing at his pipe. Suddenly, a suspicion came to him.

"Mr. Koerner," he asked, "why aren't you smoking?"

The old man seemed ashamed.

"Tell me," Marriott demanded.

"Vell--dot's all right. I hain't--chust got der tobacco."

The truth flashed on Marriott; this was deprivation--when a man could

not get tobacco! He thought an instant; then he drew out his case of

cigarettes, took them, broke their papers and seizing Koerner's hand

said:

"Here, here's a pipeful, anyway; this'll do till I can send you some."

And he poured the tobacco into Koerner's bare palm. The old man took the

tobacco, pressed it into the bowl of his pipe, Marriott struck a match,

Koerner lighted his pipe, and sat a few moments in the comfort of

smoking again.

"Dot's bretty goodt," he said presently. He smoked on. After a while

he turned to Marriott with his old shrewd, humorous glance, his blue

eyes twinkled, his white brows twitched.

"Vell, Mis'er Marriott, you nefer t'ought you see der oldt man shmokin'

cigarettes, huh?"

Marriott laughed, glad of the relief, and glad of the new sense of

comradeship the tobacco brought.

"Now tell me, Mr. Koerner," he said, "are you in want--do you need

anything?"

Koerner did not reply at once.

"Come on now," Marriott urged, "tell me--have you anything to eat in the

house?"

"Vell," Koerner admitted, "not much."

"Have you anything at all to eat?"

Koerner hung his head then, in the strange, unaccountable shame people

feel in poverty.

"Vell, I--undt der oldt voman--ve hafn't had anyt'ing to eat to-day."

"And the children?"

"Ve gif dem der last dis morning alreadty."

Marriott closed his eyes in the pain of it. He reproached himself that

he who argued so glibly that people in general lack the cultured

imagination that would enable them to realize the plight of the

submerged poor, should have had this condition so long under his very

eyes and not have seen it. He was humbled, and then he was angry with

himself--an anger he was instantly able to change into an anger with

Koerner.

"Well, Mr. Koerner," he said. "I don't know that I ought to sympathize

with you, after all. You might have told me; you might have known I

should be glad to help you; you might have saved me--"

He was about to add "the pain," but he recognized the selfishness of

this view, and paused.

"I'll help you, of course," he went on. "My God, man, you mustn't go

hungry! Won't the grocer trust you?"

The old man was humbled now, and this humility, this final acquiescence

and submission, this rare spirit beaten down and broken at last, this

was hardest of all to bear, unless it were his own self-consciousness in

this presence of humiliated age--these white hairs and he himself so

young! He felt like turning from the indignity of this poverty, as if

he had been intruding on another's unmerited shame.

"I'll go and attend to it," said Marriott, rising at once.

"No, you vait," said Koerner, "chust a minute. You know my boy, Mis'er

Marriott, Archie? Vell, I write him aboudt der case, but I don't get a

answer. He used to write eff'ry two veeks, undt now--he don't write no

more. Vot you t'ink, huh?" The old man looked up at him in the hunger

of soul that is even more dreadful than the hunger of body.

"I'll attend to that, too, Mr. Koerner; I'll write down and find out,

and I'll let you know."

"Undt Gusta," the old man began as if, having opened his heart at last,

he would unburden it of all its woes--but he paused and shook his head

slowly. "Dot's no use, I guess. De veat'er's getting bedder now, undt

maybe I get out some; maybe I look her up undt find her."

"You don't know where she is?"

The white head shook again.

"She's go avay--she's got in trouble, too."

In trouble! It was all the same to him--poverty, hunger, misfortune,

guilt, frailty, false steps, crime, sin--to these wise poor, thought

Marriott, it was all just "trouble."

"But it will be all right," he said, "and I'll advance you what money

you need. I'll write to the warden about Archie, we'll find Gusta, and

we'll win the case." He thought again--the old man might as well have

his dream, too. "You'll go back to Germany yet, you'll see."

Koerner looked up, clutching at hope again.

"You t'ink dot? You t'ink I vin, huh?"

"Sure," said Marriott heartily, determined to drag joy back into the

world.

"Py Gott, dot's goodt! I guess I beat dot gompany. I vork for it dose

t'irty-sefen year; den dey turn me off. Vell, I beat him, yet. Chust

let dot lawyer Ford talk; let him talk his damned headt off. I beat

him--some day."

"I'll go now, Mr. Koerner. I'll speak to the grocer, and I'll send you

something so you can have a little supper. No, don't get up."

Koerner stretched forth his hand.

"You bin a goodt friendt, Mis'er Marriott."

Marriott went to the grocery on the corner. The grocer, a little man,

very fat, ran about filling his orders, sickening Marriott with his

petty sycophancy.

"Some bacon? Yes, sir. Sugar, butter, bread? Yes, sir. Coffee? Here

you are, sir. Potatoes--about a peck, sir?"

Marriott, with no notion of what he should buy, bought everything, and

added some tobacco for Koerner and some candy for the children. And

when he had arranged with the grocer for an extension of credit to

Koerner on his own promise to pay--a promise the canny grocer had

Marriott indorse on the card he gave him--Marriott went away with some

of the satisfaction of his good deed; but the grace of spring had gone

out of the day and would not now return.

XX

The reason why Archie had not answered his father's letter was a simple

one. On that spring afternoon while Koerner and Marriott were sitting

on the stoop, Archie, stripped to the waist, was hanging by his wrists

from the ceiling of a dungeon, called a bull cell, in the cellar under

the chapel, his bare feet just touching the floor. He had been hanging

there for three days. At night he was let down and given a piece of

bread and a cup of water, and allowed to lie on the floor, still

handcuffed. At morning guards came, raised Archie, lifted him up, and

chained his wrists to the bull rings. Later, Deputy Warden Ball

sauntered by with his cane hooked over his arm, peered in through the

bars, smiled, and said, in his peculiar soft voice:

"Well, Archie, my boy, had enough?"

McBride, the contractor, who had picked Archie out of the group of new

convicts in the idle house the day after he arrived at the prison, had

set him to work in a shop known as "Bolt B." His work was to make iron

bolts, and all day long, from seven in the morning until five in the

afternoon, he stood with one foot on the treadle, sticking little bits

of iron into the maw of the machine and snatching them out again. At

dinner-time the convicts marched out of the shop, stood in close-locked

ranks until the whistle blew, and then marched across the yard to the

dining-room for their sky-blue, their bread, their molasses and their

boot-leg. Archie had watched the seasons change in this yard, he had

seen its grass-plot fade and the leaves of its stunted trees turn

yellow, he had seen it piled with snow and ice; now it was turning green

with spring, just like the world outside. Sometimes, as they passed, he

caught a glimpse of the death-squad--the men who were being kept until

they could be killed in the electric chair--taking their daily exercise,

curiously enough, for the benefit of their health. This squad varied in

numbers. Sometimes there were a dozen, then there would come a night of

horror when the floor of the cell-house was deadened with saw-dust. The

next day one would be missing; only eleven would be exercising for their

health. Then would come other nights of horror, and the squad would

decrease until there were but six. But soon it would begin to increase

again, and the number would run up to the normal. Sometimes, in summer,

the Sunday-school excursionists had an opportunity to see the

death-squad. Archie had seen the children, held by a sick, morbid

interest, shrink when the men marched by, as if they were something

other than mere people.

Each evening Archie and the other convicts marched again to the

dining-room, and ate bread and molasses; then they sat in their cells

for an hour while the cell-house echoed with the twanging of guitars and

banjos, mouth-organs, jews'-harps, accordeons, and the raucous voices of

the peddlers--a hideous bedlam. Those who had hall-permits talked with

one another, or with friendly guards. Sometimes, if the guard were

"right," he gave Archie a candle and permitted him to read after the

lights were out.

All week-days were alike. On Sunday they went to chapel and listened to

the chaplain talk about Christ, who, it was said, came to preach

deliverance to the captives. The chaplain told the convicts they could

save their souls in the world to which they would go when they died, if

they believed on Christ. Archie did not understand what it was that he

was expected to believe, any more than he had when the sky-pilot at the

works had said very much the same thing. It could not be that they

expected him to believe that Christ came to preach deliverance to

captives such as he. So he paid no attention to the sky-pilot. He

found it more interesting to watch the death-squad, who, as likely to go

to that world before any of the others, were given seats in the front

pews. Near the death-squad were several convicts in chains. They were

considered to be extremely bad and greatly in need of religion. The

authorities, it seemed, were determined to give them this religion, even

if they had to hold them in chains while they did so. In the corners of

the chapel, behind protecting iron bars, were guards armed with rifles,

who vigilantly watched the convicts while the chaplain preached to them

the religion of the gentle Nazarene. The chaplain said it was the

religion of the gentle Nazarene, but in reality it was the religion of

Moses, or sometimes that of Paul, and even of later men that he preached

to the convicts rather than the religion of Jesus. The convicts did not

know this, however. Neither did the chaplain.

Yes, the days were exactly alike, especially as to the work, for Archie

was required to turn out hundreds of bolts a day; a minimum number was

fixed, and this was called a "task." If he did not do this task, he was

punished. It was difficult to perform this task; only by toiling

incessantly every minute could he succeed. And even then it was hard,

for in addition to keeping his eye on his machine, he had to keep his

eye on the pile of bolts beside him, for the other convicts would rat;

that is, steal from his pile in order to lessen their own tasks. For

those bolts that were spoiled, Archie was given no credit; every hour an

inspector came around, looked the bolts over and threw out those that

were defective. For this toil, which was unpaid and in which he took no

pride and found no joy because it was ugly and without any result to

him, Archie felt nothing but loathing. This feeling was common among

all the men in the shop; they resorted to all sorts of devices to escape

it; some of them allowed the machines to snip off the ends of their

fingers so they could work no more; others found a friend in Sweeny, the

confidence man who was serving a five-year sentence and was detailed as

a steward in the hospital. When they were in the hospital, Sweeny would

burn the end of a finger with acid, rub dirt on it, and when it

festered, amputate the finger.

Belden, who worked a machine next to Archie, did that; but only as a

last resort.

"It's no use for me to learn this trade," he said to Archie one day when

the guard was at the other end of the shop.

"Why not?"

"'Cause I'll be on the street in two months; my mouthpiece's going to

take my case to the Supreme Court, and he's sure to have it reversed.

All I got to do's to raise a hundred and fifty case; I've written my

mother, and she's already saved up seventy-eight. There's nothing to it.

Me learn to make these damned bolts for McBride? I guess not!"

Belden talked a great deal about his case in the Supreme Court. Many of

the convicts did that. They did everything to raise money for their

lawyers. After Belden's attorney had taken the case up, and failed,

Belden made application for pardon; and this required more money. His

mother was saving up again. But this failed also; then Belden feigned

sickness, was sent to the hospital; and they all admired him for his

success.

Archie was sick once, and after three sick calls--he was, in reality,

utterly miserable and suffered greatly--the physician, who, like every

one else in the penitentiary, was controlled by the contractors, gave in

and sent him to the hospital. Though the hospital was a filthy place,

Archie for two days enjoyed the rest he found there. Then Sweeny told

him that the bed he occupied had not been changed since a consumptive

had died in it the day before Archie arrived.

"You stick to that pad," said Sweeny, "and the croakers'll be peddling

your stiff in a month."

Sweeny was accounted very wise, as indeed he was; for he held his

position by reason of his discovery that the doctor was supplying his

brother, who kept a drugstore outside, with medicines, silk bandages,

plasters and surgical instruments.

Archie recovered then and went back to Bolt B.

After his return things went better for a while, because, to his

surprise, the Kid, of whom he had heard in the jail at home, was there

working at the machine next to his. The Kid had been transferred to

that shop because he had utterly demoralized Bolt A, where he had been

working. The little pickpocket, indeed, had been tried on all kinds of

work--in the broom factory, in the cigar factory, in the foundry,

everywhere, but he could not long be tolerated anywhere. His presence

was too diverting. He was taken from the broom shop because he amused

himself at the expense of a country boy sent up for grand larceny, whom,

as the country boy thought, he was teaching to be a prowler. In the

cigar shop he made another unsophisticated boy think that he could teach

him the secret of making "cluck," or counterfeit money; and he went so

far as to give him a can of soft gray earth, which the convict thought

was crude silver, and some broken glass to give the metal the proper

ring. The convict hid this rubbish in his cell and jealously guarded

it; he was to be released in a month. For a while the warden employed

the Kid about the office, but one day he said to one of the trusties, an

old life man who had been in the prison twenty years, until his mind had

weakened under the confinement:

"What do you want to stay around here for? Ain't there other countries

besides this?"

The old man sniggered in his silly way, then he went to the warden, and

hanging his head with a demented leer said:

"Warden, the Kid said there's other countries besides this."

He stood, swaying like a doltish school-boy from side to side, grinning,

with his tongue lolling over his lips.

The warden summoned the Kid.

"What do you mean," he said, "putting notions in old Farlow's head?"

The Kid was surprised.

"Oh, come off," said the warden impatiently. "You know--telling him

there were other countries besides this?"

"Oh!" said the Kid with sudden illumination. "Oh, now I know what you

mean!" And he laughed. "He asked me where I was from and I told him

Canada. Then he wanted to know if Canada was in this country, and I told

him there were other countries besides this."

"You're too smart, Willie," said the warden. "You'd better go back to

the shops."

They tried all the punishments, the paddle, the battery, the water-cure,

the bull rings, but nothing availed to break the Kid's spirit. Then he

was put on a bolt machine.

There was a convict named Dalton working near Archie and the Kid.

Dalton had but one thought left in his mind, and this was that when he

got out he would go to where he had concealed a kit of burglar tools.

He had been the victim of some earlier practical jokers in the

penitentiary, and had had a locksmith fashion for him tools such as no

burglar ever needed or used in a business in which a jimmy, a piece of

broom-stick and creepers are all the paraphernalia necessary. Dalton

still had fourteen years to serve.

"Well, Jack, how's everything this morning?" the Kid would ask as soon

as the guard went down to the other end of the shop.

"Oh, all right," Dalton would reply. Then he would grow serious, grit

his teeth, clench his fist for emphasis and say: "Just wait till I get

home! By God, if any one springs that kit of mine, I'll croak him!"

"Where's the plant?" the Kid would ask. "In the jungle?"

"Oh, you'll never find out!" Dalton would reply warily.

"Some of the hoosiers or the bulls are likely to spring it," the Kid

would suggest.

The possibility tortured Dalton.

"By God," he could only say, "if they do--I'll croak 'em!"

"I wouldn't do that," said the Kid. "Get Dutch here to take you out

with a tribe of peter men; he can teach you to pour the soup. Can't you

get a little soup and some strings and begin with him now, Archie?"

"Sure," said Archie, grinning, proud to be thus recognized.

"That's the grift; we'll nick the screw; and when you go home you'll be

ready to--"

"No," said Dalton determinedly, "I've got them tools planted--but--"

"Why don't you take him out with a swell mob of guns?" suggested Archie.

"Think he could stall for the dip?" asked the Kid. "What do you think,

Jack?"

"I'll stick to prowlin'," said Dalton, shaking his head and muttering to

himself.

"He's stir simple," remarked the Kid, not without pity.

But the Kid was tired of his new occupation.

"I don't believe I'm a very good bolt-maker," he said to Archie.

"You might cut off a finger, or get Sweeny--"

"Nix," said the Kid. "Not for Willie. I'll need my finger. I'd do a

nice job of reefing a kick with a finger gone, wouldn't I?" He looked

at his fingers, rapidly stiffening under the rough, hard work.

"Didn't I tell you to stop that spieling?" demanded a guard who had

slipped up behind him.

The Kid gave the guard a look that expressed the contempt he felt for

him better than any words.

"I'll report you for insolence," said the guard angrily.

"For what?" said the Kid.

"Insolence."

"How could you?" asked the Kid calmly. "You couldn't spell the word."

The guard made a mark on his card.

"You'll be stood out for that," said the guard. The Kid's face

darkened, but he controlled himself. For he had another plan.

A few days later he said to Archie:

"Are you on to that inspector?"

"What for?" asked Archie.

"He's boostin' bolts."

Archie thought of this for a long time. It took several days for him to

realize a new idea. The inspector, in pretending to throw out defective

bolts, threw out quite as many perfect ones. These were boxed, shipped

and sold by the contractor, who pocketed the entire proceeds without

reporting them to the authorities. The Kid had discovered this system

after a week of experience in having his labor stolen from him, and the

inspector, more and more greedy, had grown bolder, until now he was

stealing large quantities of bolts; and the tasks of Archie and the Kid

were becoming more and more impossible of performance. The Kid was

silent for days; his brows contracted as he jumped nimbly up and down

before his clanking machine. Then one day when McBride was in the shop

the Kid obtained permission to speak to him.

"Mr. McBride," he said, "I want a thousand dollars."

McBride took his cigar from his lips, flecked some dust from his new

top-coat, and a laugh spread over his rough red face.

"What's the kid this time, Willie?"

"This is on the square," said the Kid. "I want a thousand case, that's

all."

McBride saw that he was serious for once.

"I'll blow it off, if you don't," said the Kid.

"Blow what off?"

"The graft."

"What graft?"

"The defectives--oh, you know!"

McBride turned ashen, then his face blazed suddenly with rage.

"I'll report you for this insolence!"

"All right," said the Kid, "I'll report you for stealing. It ain't

moral, the sky-pilot says."

Archie saw the Kid no more after that evening; he was "stood out" at

roll-call; and in the way the news of the little insular world inclosed

in the prison walls spreads among its inmates, he heard that the Kid had

been given the paddle and had been hung up in the cellar. When his

punishment was ended, he was transferred to the shoe shop and set to

work making paper soles for shoes. But he did not work long. He soon

conceived a plan which for two years was to baffle all the prison

authorities, especially the physicians. He developed a disease of the

nerves; he said it was the result of running a bolt machine and of his

subsequent punishment. The theory he imparted to the doctors, in his

innocent manner, was that the blows of the paddle with the hanging had

bruised and stretched his spine.

The symptoms of the Kid's strange affliction were these: he could not

stand still for an instant; his nerves seemed entirely demoralized, his

muscles beyond control. He would stand before the doctors and twitch

and spasmodically shuffle his feet for hours, while the doctors, those

on the prison staff and those from outside, held consultations.

Opinions differed widely. Some said that the Kid was malingering, others

that his spine was really affected. Day after day the doctors examined

him; they tested the accommodation of the pupils of the eyes, they had

him walk blindfolded, they tested his extremities with heat and cold,

with needles, and with electricity. Then they seated him, had him cross

his legs and struck him below the knee-cap, testing his reflex action.

Strangely enough, his reflexes were defective.

"Bum gimp, eh, Doc?" he would say mournfully.

For a while, after the Kid had gone, Archie found it easier to

accomplish his daily task, for the reason that the inspector did not

throw out so many defective bolts. But McGlynn, the guard on Archie's

contract, disliked him and was ever ready to report him, and Archie,

while he did not at all realize it and could not analyze it, developed

the feeling within him that the system which the people, and the

legislature, and the committee on penal and reformatory institutions,

and the state board of charities had devised and were so proud of, was

not a system at all, for the simple reason that it depended solely on

men and had nothing else to depend on. And just as the judge, the

jury-men, the prosecutor and the policemen were swayed by a thousand

whims and prejudices and moved by countless influences of which they

were unconscious, so the guards who held power over him were similarly

swayed. For each demerit he lost standing, and demerits depended not on

his conduct, but on the feelings of the guards. McGlynn disliked Archie

because he was German. He gave him demerits for all sorts of things,

and it was not long before Archie realized that he had already lost all

his good time and would have to serve out the whole year. And then the

inspector grew reckless and bold. McBride was greedy for profits, and

in a few weeks the bolts under Archie's machine were again disappearing

as rapidly as ever, and his task was wholly beyond him. And then a

dull, sullen stubbornness seized him, and one morning, in a fit of black

rage, seeing the inspector throw out a dozen perfect bolts, he stopped

work. The inspector looked up, then signaled the guard. McGlynn came.

"Get to work, you!" he said in a rage.

Archie looked at him sullenly.

"You hear?" yelled McGlynn, raising his voice above the din of the

machines.

Archie did not move.

McGlynn took a step toward him, but when he saw the look in Archie's

eyes, he paused.

"Stand out, you toaster," he said.

The next morning at seven o'clock Archie stood, with forty other

convicts who had broken rules or were accused of breaking rules, in the

prison court. This court was held every morning in the basement of the

chapel to try infractions of the prison discipline. This basement of

the chapel was known about the penitentiary as "the cellar," and as the

word was spoken it took on indeed a dark and sinister, one might almost

say a subterranean significance. For in the cellar were the solitary,

the bull rings, the ducking tub, the paddle,--all the instruments of

torture. And in the cellar, too, was the court. Externally, it might

have reminded Archie somewhat of the police court at home, as it

reminded other convicts of other police courts. It was a small room

made of wooden partitions, and in it, behind a rail, was a platform for

the deputy warden. It may have reminded the convicts, too, of other

courts in its pitiable line of accused, in its still more pitiable line

of accusers. For there were guards grinning in petty triumph, awaiting

the revenge they could vicariously and safely enjoy for the infractions

which never could seem to their primitive, brutal minds other than

personal slights and affronts.

This strange and amazing court, based on no law and owning no law, this

court from which there was no appeal, whose judgments could not be

reviewed, this court which could not err, was presided over by Deputy

Warden Ball. He lay now loosely in his chair behind the railing, his

long legs stretched before him, the soles of his big shoes protruding,

his long arms hanging by his sides, rolling a cigar round and round

between his long teeth blackened by nicotine. He lay there as if he had

fallen apart, as if the various pieces of him, his feet and legs, his

arms and hands, would have to be assembled before he could move again.

But this impression of incoherence was wholly denied by his face. The

lines about his mouth were those of a permanent smile that never knew

humor; the eyes at the top of his long nose were small and glistened

coldly, piercing through the broken, dry skin of his cheeks and eyelids

like the points of daggers through leather scabbards. Such was the

deputy warden, the real executive of the prison, the judge who could

pronounce any sentence he might desire, decreeing medieval tortures and

slow deaths, dooming bodies to pain, and the remnants of souls to hell,

and, when he willed, inventing new tortures. Ball was at once the

product and the unconscious victim of the system in which he was the

most invaluable and indispensable factor. He had been deputy in the

prison for twenty years, and he stood far above the mutations of

politics. He might have been said to live in the protection of a civil

service law of his own enactment. He ruled, indeed, by laws that were

of his own enactment, and he enacted or repealed them as occasion or his

mood suggested. He ruled this prison, whether on the bench in the court

or scuffing loose-jointedly about the yard, the shops, or the

cell-houses, with his cane dangling from the crotch of his elbow,

speaking in a low, soft, almost caressing voice, the secret, perhaps, of

his power. For his slow and passive demeanor and his slow, soft voice

seemed to visiting boards, committees and officials all kindness; and he

used it with the convicts, sometimes drawing them close to him, and

laying his great hand on their shoulders or their heads, and speaking in

a low tone of pained surprise and gentle reproach, just as he was

speaking now to a white-haired and aged burglar, wearing the dirty

stripes of the fourth grade.

"Why, Dan, what's this I hear? I didn't think it of you, old chap, no I

didn't. A little of the solitary, eh? What say? All right--if it must

be."

It took Ball half an hour to doom the men this morning, and even at the

last, when Archie went forward, when Ball had glanced at the card

whereon McGlynn's report was written in his illiterate hand, he said:

"Ah, the Dutchman! Well, Archie, this is very bad. Down to the fourth

grade, bread and water to-day,--and to-morrow back to work, my lad.

Mind now!"

Archie changed his gray suit for the reddish brown and white stripes, he

ate his bread and drank his water, and he went back to the bolt-shop.

But he did not work. He would not answer McGlynn when he spoke to him.

He set his jaw and was silent.

"What, again!" said Ball the next day. "Well, well, well! If you

insist; give him the paddle, Jim."

When court had adjourned, they took Archie into a small room near by.

Across one end of this room was a huge bath-tub of wood; this, and all

the utensils of torture, which in a kind of fiendish ingenuity of

economy were concentrated in it, were water-worn and white. On the

floor at the base of the tub were iron stocks. In these, when he had

been stripped naked, perhaps for additional shame, Archie's ankles were

clamped. Then he was forced to bend forward, over the bath-tub, and was

held there by guards while Ball stood by smoking. A burly negro, Jim, a

convict with privileges--this privilege among others--beat him on the

bare skin with a paddle of ashwood that had been soaked in hot water and

dipped in white sand.

But Archie would not work.

The next morning Ball patted him on the head, and said:

"My dear boy! You are certainly foolish. He wants the water, Jim."

Again they stripped him and forced him into the bath-tub. This tub had

many and various devices, among them a block of wood, hollowed out on

one side to fit a man's chest if he sat in the tub, and as it could be

moved back and forth in grooves along the top of the tub and fastened

wherever need be, it could be made to fit any man and hold him in its

vise against the end of the tub, in which quality of adjusting itself to

the size of its victim it differed from the bed of Procrustes. And now

they handcuffed Archie, fastened him in the tub, pressed the block

against his broad, white, muscular chest, and while Ball and the guards

stood by, the negro with the privileges, arrayed now in rubber coat and

boots, turned a fierce slender stream of water from a short rubber hose

in Archie's face. Archie gasped, his mouth opened, and deftly the negro

turned the fierce gushing stream into his mouth, where it hissed and

foamed and gurgled, filling his throat and lungs, streaming down over

his chin and breast. Archie's lips turned blue; soon his face was blue.

"I guess that'll do, Jim," said Ball.

When Archie regained consciousness they sent him back to the bolt-shop.

But he would not work.

The next morning Ball showed again that tenderness that appealed so

strongly to the humane gentlemen on the Prison Board.

"Why, Archie!" he said. "Why, Archie!" Then he paused, rolled his

cigar about and said: "String him up, boys, until he's ready to go back

to work."

After the guards had fastened his hands above his head in the bull

rings, closed and locked the door of the cell and left him, Archie's

first thought was of Curly, who had gone through this same ordeal in

another prison, and Archie found a compensation in thinking that he

would have an experience to match Curly's when next they met and sat

around the fire in the sand-house or the fire in the edge of the woods.

And then his thoughts ran back to the day when Curly had first told him

of the bull rings; and he could see Curly as he told it--his eyes

glazing, his face growing gray and ugly, his teeth clenching.

Archie remembered more; somehow, vividly, he saw Curly tying a rope to

the running board on top of the freight-car, dangling it over the side

and then letting himself down on it until he hung before the car door,

the seal of which he quickly broke and unlocked; and the train running

thirty miles an hour! No one else could "bust tags" this way; no one

else had the nerve of Curly.

At first Archie found relief in changing his position. By raising

himself on tiptoe he could ease the strain on his wrists; by hanging his

weight from his wrists he could ease the strain on his feet. He did

this many times; but he found no rest in either position. The handcuffs

grew tight; they cut into his wrists like knives. His hands were

beginning to go to sleep; they tingled, the darting needles stung and

pricked and danced about. Then his hands seemed to have enlarged to a

preposterous size, and they were icy cold. Presently he was filled with

terror; he lost all sense of feeling in his arms. Rubbing his head

against them, he found them cold; they were no longer his arms, but the

arms of some one else. They felt like the arms of a corpse. An awful

terror laid hold of him. In his insteps there was a mighty pain; his

biceps ached; his neck ached, ached, ached to the bones of it; his back

was breaking. The pain spread through his whole body, maddening him.

With a great effort he tore and tugged and writhed, lifting one foot,

then the other, then stamped. At last he hung there numb, limp, inert.

In the cell it was dark and still. No sound could reach him from the

outer world.

Some time--it was evening, presumably, for time was not in that

cell--they came and let him down. A guard gave him a cup of water. He

held forth his hand, groping after it; and he could not tell when his

hand touched it. The cup fell, jangled against his handcuffs; the water

was spilled, the tin cup rolled and rattled over the cement floor. And

Archie wept, wild with disappointment. The guard, who was merciful,

brought another cup and held it to Archie's lips, and he drank it

eagerly, the water bubbling at his lips as it had once, years ago, when

he was a baby and his mother held water to his lips to drink.

Presently Ball came and stood looking at him through the little grated

wicket in the door.

"Well, Archie, how goes it?" he said. "Had enough? Ready to go back to

work?"

Archie looked at him a moment. His eyeballs, still protruding from the

effects of the ducking-tub, gleamed in the light of the guard lantern.

He looked at Ball, finally realized, and began to curse. At last he

managed to say:

"I'll croak you for this."

Ball laughed.

"Well, good night, my lad," he said.

Archie lay on a plank, the handcuffs still on him, all the night. In

the morning they hung him up again.

The next day, and the next, and the next,--for seven days,--Archie hung

in the bull rings. In the middle of the eighth day, after his head had

been rolling and lolling about on his shoulders between his cold,

swollen, naked arms, he suddenly became frantic, put forth a mighty

effort, lifted himself, and began to bite his hands and his wrists,

gnashing his teeth on the steel handcuffs, yammering like a maniac.

That evening, the evening of the eighth day, when the guard came and

flashed his lamp on him, Archie's body was hanging there, still, his

chin on his breast. Down his arms the blood was trickling from the

wounds he had made with his teeth. The guard set down his lantern, ran

down the corridor, returned presently with Ball, and Jeffries, the

doctor.

They lowered his body. The doctor bent his head to the white breast and

listened.

"Take him to the hospital," he said. "I guess he's had about all he can

stand."

"God, he had nerve!" said Ball, looking at the body. "He wouldn't give

in."

He shambled away, his head bent. He was perplexed. He had not failed

since--when was it?--since number 13993 had--died of heart failure, in

the hospital, five years before.

XXI

It was at Bradford Ford's that night of the wedding that Eades made his

proposal of marriage to Elizabeth Ward. It was June, court had

adjourned, his work was done, the time seemed to him auspicious; he had

thought it all out, arranged the details in his mind. The great country

house, open to the summer night, was thronged, the occasion, just as the

newspapers had predicted in their hackneyed phrase, was a brilliant one,

as befitted the marriage of Ford's youngest daughter, Hazel, to Mr.

Henry Wilmington Dodge, of Philadelphia. Eades moved about, greeting

his friends, smiling automatically, but his eyes were discreetly seeking

their one object. At last he had a glimpse of her, through smilax and

ribbons; it was during the ceremony; she was in white, and her lips were

drawn as she repressed the emotions weddings inspire in women. He

waited, in what patience he could, until the service was pronounced;

then he must take his place in the line that moved through the crowd

like a current through the sea; the bestowal of the felicitations took a

long time. Then the supper; Elizabeth was at the bride's table, and

still he must wait. He went up-stairs finally, and there he encountered

Ford alone in a room where, in some desolate sense of neglect, he had

retired to hide the sorrow he felt at this parting with his child, and

to combat the annoying feeling the wedding had thrust on him--the

feeling that he was growing old. Ford sat by an open window, gazing out

into the moonlight that lay on the river by which he had built his

colossal house. He was smoking, in the habit which neither age nor

sorrow could break.

"Come in, come in," said Ford. "I'm glad to see you. I want some one

to talk to. Have a cigar."

But Eades declined, and Ford glanced at him in the suspicion which was

part of the bereaved and jealous feeling that was poisoning this evening

of happiness for him. He knew that Eades smoked, and he wondered why he

now refused. "He declines because I'm getting old; he wishes to shun my

society; he feels that if he accepts the cigar, he will have to stay

long enough to smoke it. It will be that way now. Yes, I'm getting

old. I'm out of it." So ran Ford's thoughts.

Eades had gone to the window and stood looking out across the dark trees

to the river, swimming in the moonlight. Below him were the pretty

lights of Japanese lanterns, beyond, at the road, the two lamps on the

gate-posts. The odors of the June night came to him and, from below,

the laughter of the wedding-guests and the strains of an orchestra.

"What a beautiful place you have here, Mr. Ford!" Eades exclaimed.

"Well, it'll do for an old--for a man to spend his declining years."

"Yes, indeed," mused Eades.

Ford winced at this immediate acquiescence.

"And what a night!" Eades went on, "Ideal for a wedding."

Ford looked at him a moment, then decided to change the subject.

"Well, I see you struck pay-dirt in the grand jury," he said.

"Yes," replied Eades, turning away from night and nature when such

subjects were introduced.

"You're doing a good work there," said Ford; "a good work for law and

order."

He used the stereotyped phrase in the old belief that "law" and "order"

are synonyms, though he was not thinking of law or of order just then;

he was thinking of the radiant girl in the drawing-room below.

Eades turned to the window again. The night attracted him. He did not

care to talk. He, too, was thinking of a girl in the drawing-room

below; thinking how she had looked in that moment during the ceremony

when he had had the glimpse of her. He must go at once and find her.

He succeeded presently in getting away from Ford, and left in a manner

that deepened Ford's conviction that he was out of it.

He met her at the foot of the staircase, and they went out of doors.

"Oh," exclaimed Elizabeth, "how delicious it is out here!"

In silence they descended the wide steps from the veranda and went down

the walk. The sky was purple, the stars trembled in it, and the moon

filled all the heavens with a light that fell to the river, flowing

silently below them. They went on to the narrow strip of sward that

sloped to the water. On the dim farther shore they could see the light

in some farm-house; far down the river was the city, a blur of light.

"What a beautiful place the Fords have here!" said Eades.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "it's ideal."

"It's my ideal of a home," said Eades, and then after a silence he went

on. "I've been thinking a good deal of home lately."

He glanced at the girl; she had become still almost to rigidity.

"I am so glad our people are beginning to appreciate our beautiful

river," she said, and her voice had a peculiar note of haste and fear in

it. "I'm so glad. People travel to other lands and rave over scenery,

when they have this right at home." She waved her hand in a little

gesture to include the river and its dark shores. She realized that she

was speaking unnaturally, as she always did with him. The realization

irritated her. "The Country Club is just above us, isn't it?" she

hurriedly continued, consciously struggling to appear unconscious.

"Have you--"

He interrupted her. "I've been thinking of you a good deal lately," he

said. His voice had mastery in it. "A good deal," he repeated, "for

more than a year now. But I've waited until I had something to offer

you, some achievement, however small, and now--I begin to feel that I

need help and--sympathy in the work that is laid on me. Elizabeth--"

"Don't," she said, "please don't." She had turned from him now and

taken a step backward.

"Just a minute, Elizabeth," he insisted. "I have waited to tell

you--that I love you, to ask you to be my wife. I have loved you a

long, long time. Don't deny me now--don't decide until you can think--I

can wait. Will you think it over? Will you consider it--carefully--will

you?"

He tried to look into her face, which she had turned away. Her hands

were clasped before her, her fingers interlocked tightly. He heard her

sigh. Then with an effort she looked up at him.

"No," she began, "I can not; I--"

He stopped her.

"Don't say no," he said. "You have not considered, I am sure. Won't

you at least think before deciding definitely?"

She had found more than the usual difficulty there is in saying no to

anything, or to any one; now she had strength only to shake her head.

"You must not decide hastily," he insisted.

"We must go in." She turned back toward the house.

"I can wait to know," Eades assured her.

They retraced their steps silently. As they went up the walk she said:

"Of course, I am not insensible of the honor, Mr. Eades."

The phrase instantly seemed inadequate, even silly, to her. Why was it

she never could be at ease with him?

"Don't decide, I beg," he said, "until you have considered the matter

carefully. Promise me."

"You must leave me now," she said.

He bowed and stood looking after her as she went up the steps and ran

across the veranda in her eagerness to lose herself in the throng within

the house. And Eades remained outside, walking under the trees.

Half an hour later Elizabeth stood with Marriott in the drawing-room.

Her face was pale; the joy, the spirit that had been in it earlier in

the evening had gone from it.

"Ah," said Marriott suddenly, "there goes John Eades. I hadn't seen him

before."

Elizabeth glanced hurriedly at Eades and then curiously at Marriott.

His face wore the peculiar smile she had seen so often. Now it seemed

remote, to belong to other days, days that she had lost.

"He's making a great name for himself just now," said Marriott. "He's

bound to win. He'll go to Congress, or be elected governor or

something, sure."

She longed for his opinion and yet just then she felt it impossible to

ask it.

"He's a--"

"What?" She could not forbear to ask, but she put the question with a

little note of challenge that made Marriott turn his head.

"One of those young civilians."

"One of what young civilians?"

"That Emerson writes about."

"He's not so very young, is he?" Elizabeth tried to smile.

"The young civilians are often very old; I have known them to be

octogenarians."

He looked at her and was suddenly struck by her pallor and the drawn

expression about her eyes. She had met his gaze, and he realized

instantly that he had made some mistake. They were standing there in

the drawing-room, the canvas-covered floor was littered with

rose-leaves. It was the moment when the guests had begun to feel the

first traces of weariness, when the laughter had begun to lose its

spirit and the talk its spontaneity, when the older people were

beginning to say good night, leaving the younger behind to shower the

bride and groom with rice and confetti. Perplexed, excited,

self-conscious after Eades's declaration, feeling a little fear and some

secret pride, suddenly Elizabeth saw the old, good-humored, friendly

expression fade from Marriott's eyes, and there came a new look, one she

had never seen before, an expression of sudden, illuminative

intelligence, followed by a shade of pain and regret, perhaps a little

reproach.

"Where does Emerson say--that?" she asked.

"You look it up and see," he said presently.

She looked at him steadily, though it was with a great effort, tried to

smile, and the smile made her utterly sick at heart.

"I--must look up father," she said, "it's time--"

She left him abruptly, and he stood there, the smile gone from his face,

his hands plunged deep in his pockets. A moment he bit his lips, then

he turned and dashed up the stairs.

"I'm a fool," he said to himself.

Elizabeth had thought of love, she had imagined its coming to her in

some poetic way, but this--somehow, this was not poetic. She recalled

distinctly every word Eades had spoken, but even more vividly she

recalled Marriott's glance. It meant that he thought she loved Eades!

It had all become irrevocable in a moment; she could not, of course,

undertake to explain; it was all ridiculous, too ridiculous for anything

but tears.

Looking back on her intimacy with Marriott, she realized now that what

she would miss most was the good fellowship there had been between them.

With him, though without realizing it at the time, she had found

expression easy, her thoughts had been clear, she could find words for

them which he could understand and appreciate. Whenever she came across

anything in a book or in a poem or in a situation there was always the

satisfying sense that she could share it with Marriott; he would

apprehend instantly. There was no one else who could do this; with her

mother, with her father, with Dick, no such thing was possible; with

them she spoke a different language, lived in another world. And so it

was with her friends; she moved as an alien being in the conventional

circle of that existence to which she had been born. One by one, her

friends had ceased to be friends, they had begun to shrink away, not

consciously, perhaps, but certainly, into the limbo of mere

acquaintance. She thought of all this as she rode home that night, and

after she had got home; and when it all seemed clear, she shrank from

the clarity; she would not, after all, have it too clear; she must not

push to any conclusion all these thoughts about Gordon Marriott. She

chose to decide that he had been stupid, and his stupidity offended her;

it was not pleasant to have him sneer at a man who had just told her he

loved her, no matter who the man was, and she felt, with an

inconsistency that she clung to out of a sense of self-preservation,

that Marriott should have known this; he might have let her enjoy her

triumph for a little, and then--but this was dangerous; was he to

conclude that she loved him?

What was it, she wondered, that made her weak and impotent in the

presence of Eades? She did not like to own a fear of him, yet she felt

a fear; would she some day succumb? The fear crept on her and

distressed her; she knew very well that he would pursue her, never waver

or give up or lose sight of his purpose. In some way he typified for

her all that was fixed, impersonal, irrefragable--society on its solid

rocks. He had no doubts about anything, his opinions were all made,

tested, tried and proved. Any uncertainty, any fluidity, any

inconsistency was impossible. And she felt more and more inadequate

herself; she felt that she had nothing to oppose to all this.