Sheridan had decided to conclude his day's work early that afternoon,
and at about two o'clock he left his office with a man of affairs from
foreign parts, who had traveled far for a business conference with
Sheridan and his colleagues. Herr Favre, in spite of his French name,
was a gentleman of Bavaria. It was his first visit to our country, and
Sheridan took pleasure in showing him the sights of the country's finest
city. They got into an open car at the main entrance of the Sheridan
Building, and were driven first, slowly and momentously, through the
wholesale district and the retail district; then more rapidly they
inspected the packing-houses and the stock-yards; then skirmished over
the “park system” and “boulevards”; and after that whizzed through the
“residence section” on their way to the factories and foundries.
“All cray,” observed Herr Favre, smilingly.
“'Cray'?” echoed Sheridan. “I don't know what you mean. 'Cray'?”
“No white,” said Herr Favre, with a wave of his hand toward the
long rows of houses on both sides of the street. “No white lace
window-curtains; all cray lace window-curtains.”
“Oh. I see!” Sheridan laughed indulgently. “You mean 'GRAY.' No, they
ain't, they're white. I never saw any gray ones.”
Herr Favre shook his head, much amused. “There are NO white ones,”
he said. “There is no white ANYTHING in your city; no white
window-curtains, no white house, no white peeble!” He pointed upward.
“Smoke!” Then he sniffed the air and clasped his nose between forefinger
and thumb. “Smoke! Smoke ef'rywhere. Smoke in your insites.” He tapped
his chest. “Smoke in your lunks!”
“Oh! SMOKE!” Sheridan cried with gusto, drawing in a deep breath and
patently finding it delicious. “You BET we got smoke!”
“Exbensif!” said Herr Favre. “Ruins foliage; ruins fabrics. Maybe in
summer it iss not so bad, but I wonder your wifes will bear it.”
Sheridan laughed uproariously. “They know it means new spring hats for
'em!”
“They must need many, too!” said the visitor. “New hats, new all things,
but nothing white. In Munchen we could not do it; we are a safing
peeble.”
“Where's that?”
“In Munchen. You say 'Munich.'”
“Well, I never been to Munich, but I took in the Mediterranean trip,
and I tell you, outside o' some right good scenery, all I saw was mighty
dirty and mighty shiftless and mighty run-down at the heel. Now comin'
right down TO it, Mr. Farver, wouldn't you rather live here in this town
than in Munich? I know you got more enterprise up there than the part of
the old country I saw, and I know YOU'RE a live business man and you're
associated with others like you, but when it comes to LIVIN' in a place,
wouldn't you heap rather be here than over there?”
“For me,” said Herr Favre, “no. Here I should not think I was living. It
would be like the miner who goes into the mine to work; nothing else.”
“We got a good many good citizens here from your part o' the world. THEY
like it.”
“Oh yes.” And Herr Favre laughed deprecatingly. “The first generation,
they bring their Germany with them; then, after that, they are
Americans, like you.” He tapped his host's big knee genially. “You are
patriot; so are they.”
“Well, I reckon you must be a pretty hot little patriot yourself, Mr.
Farver!” Sheridan exclaimed, gaily. “You certainly stand up for your
own town, if you stick to sayin' you'd rather live there than you would
here. Yes, SIR! You sure are some patriot to say THAT--after you've seen
our city! It ain't reasonable in you, but I must say I kind of admire
you for it; every man ought to stick up for his own, even when he sees
the other fellow's got the goods on him. Yet I expect way down deep in
your heart, Mr. Farver, you'd rather live right here than any place else
in the world, if you had your choice. Man alive! this is God's country,
Mr. Farver, and a blind man couldn't help seein' it! You couldn't stand
where you do in a business way and NOT see it. Soho, boy! Here we are.
This is the big works, and I'll show you something now that'll make your
eyes stick out!”
They had arrived at the Pump Works; and for an hour Mr. Favre was
personally conducted and personally instructed by the founder and
president, the buzzing queen bee of those buzzing hives.
“Now I'll take you for a spin in the country,” said Sheridan, when at
last they came out to the car again. “We'll take a breezer.” But, with
his foot on the step, he paused to hail a neat young man who came out
of the office smiling a greeting. “Hello, young fellow!” Sheridan said,
heartily. “On the job, are you, Jimmie? Ha! They don't catch you OFF of
it very often, I guess, though I do hear you go automobile-ridin' in
the country sometimes with a mighty fine-lookin' girl settin' up beside
you!” He roared with laughter, clapping his son upon the shoulder.
“That's all right with me--if it is with HER! So, Jimmie? Well, when we
goin' to move into your new warehouses? Monday?”
“Sunday, if you want to,” said Jim.
“No!” cried his father, delighted. “Don't tell me you're goin' to keep
your word about dates! That's no way to do contractin'! Never heard of a
contractor yet didn't want more time.”
“They'll be all ready for you on the minute,” said Jim. “I'm going over
both of 'em now, with Links and Sherman, from foundation to roof. I
guess they'll pass inspection, too!”
“Well, then, when you get through with that,” said his father, “you go
and take your girl out ridin'. By George! you've earned it! You tell
her you stand high with ME!” He stepped into the car, waving a waggish
farewell, and when the wheels were in motion again, he turned upon his
companion a broad face literally shining with pride. “That's my boy
Jimmie!” he said.
“Fine young man, yes,” said Herr Favre.
“I got two o' the finest boys,” said Sheridan, “I got two o' the finest
boys God ever made, and that's a fact, Mr. Farver! Jim's the oldest, and
I tell you they got to get up the day before if they expect to catch HIM
in bed! My other boy, Roscoe, he's always to the good, too, but Jim's
a wizard. You saw them two new-process warehouses, just about finished?
Well, JIM built 'em. I'll tell you about that, Mr. Farver.” And he
recited this history, describing the new process at length; in fact, he
had such pride in Jim's achievement that he told Herr Favre all about it
more than once.
“Fine young man, yes,” repeated the good Munchner, three-quarters of an
hour later. They were many miles out in the open country by this time.
“He is that!” said Sheridan, adding, as if confidentially: “I got a fine
family, Mr. Farver--fine chuldern. I got a daughter now; you take her
and put her anywhere you please, and she'll shine up with ANY of 'em.
There's culture and refinement and society in this town by the car-load,
and here lately she's been gettin' right in the thick of it--her and my
daughter-in-law, both. I got a mighty fine daughter-in-law, Mr. Farver.
I'm goin' to get you up for a meal with us before you leave town, and
you'll see--and, well, sir, from all I hear the two of 'em been holdin'
their own with the best. Myself, I and the wife never had time for much
o' that kind o' doin's, but it's all right and good for the chuldern;
and my daughter she's always kind of taken to it. I'll read you a poem
she wrote when I get you up at the house. She wrote it in school and
took the first prize for poetry with it. I tell you they don't make 'em
any smarter'n that girl, Mr. Farver. Yes, sir; take us all round, we're
a pretty happy family; yes, sir. Roscoe hasn't got any chuldern yet,
and I haven't ever spoke to him and his wife about it--it's kind of
a delicate matter--but it's about time the wife and I saw some
gran'-chuldern growin' up around us. I certainly do hanker for about
four or five little curly-headed rascals to take on my knee. Boys, I
hope, o' course; that's only natural. Jim's got his eye on a mighty
splendid-lookin' girl; lives right next door to us. I expect you heard
me joshin' him about it back yonder. She's one of the ole blue-bloods
here, and I guess it was a mighty good stock--to raise HER! She's one
these girls that stand right up and look at you! And pretty? She's
the prettiest thing you ever saw! Good size, too; good health and good
sense. Jim'll be just right if he gets her. I must say it tickles ME
to think o' the way that boy took ahold o' that job back yonder. Four
months and a half! Yes, sir--”
He expanded this theme once more; and thus he continued to entertain
the stranger throughout the long drive. Darkness had fallen before they
reached the city on their return, and it was after five when Sheridan
allowed Herr Favre to descend at the door of his hotel, where boys were
shrieking extra editions of the evening paper.
“Now, good night, Mr. Farver,” said Sheridan, leaning from the car to
shake hands with his guest. “Don't forget I'm goin' to come around and
take you up to--Go on away, boy!”
A newsboy had thrust himself almost between them, yelling, “Extry!
Secon' Extry. Extry, all about the horrable acciDENT. Extry!”
“Get out!” laughed Sheridan. “Who wants to read about accidents? Get
out!”
The boy moved away philosophically. “Extry! Extry!” he shrilled. “Three
men killed! Extry! Millionaire killed! Two other men killed! Extry!
Extry!”
“Don't forget, Mr. Farver,” Sheridan completed his interrupted
farewells. “I'll come by to take you up to our house for dinner. I'll be
here for you about half-past five to-morrow afternoon. Hope you 'njoyed
the drive much as I have. Good night--good night!” He leaned back,
speaking to the chauffer. “Now you can take me around to the Central
City barber-shop, boy. I want to get a shave 'fore I go up home.”
“Extry! Extry!” screamed the newsboys, zig-zagging among the crowds like
bats in the dusk. “Extry! All about the horrable acciDENT! Extry!” It
struck Sheridan that the papers sent out too many “Extras”; they printed
“Extras” for all sorts of petty crimes and casualties. It was a mistake,
he decided, critically. Crying “Wolf!” too often wouldn't sell the
goods; it was bad business. The papers would “make more in the long
run,” he was sure, if they published an “Extra” only when something of
real importance happened.
“Extry! All about the hor'ble AX'nt! Extry!” a boy squawked under his
nose, as he descended from the car.
“Go on away!” said Sheridan, gruffly, though he smiled. He liked to see
the youngsters working so noisily to get on in the world.
But as he crossed the pavement to the brilliant glass doors of the
barber-shop, a second newsboy grasped the arm of the one who had thus
cried his wares.
“Say, Yallern,” said this second, hoarse with awe, “'n't chew know who
that IS?”
“Who?”
“It's SHERIDAN!”
“Jeest!” cried the first, staring insanely.
At about the same hour, four times a week--Monday, Wednesday, Friday,
and Saturday--Sheridan stopped at this shop to be shaved by the head
barber. The barbers were negroes, he was their great man, and it was
their habit to give him a “reception,” his entrance being always the
signal for a flurry of jocular hospitality, followed by general excesses
of briskness and gaiety. But it was not so this evening.
The shop was crowded. Copies of the “Extra” were being read by men
waiting, and by men in the latter stages of treatment. “Extras” lay upon
vacant seats and showed from the pockets of hanging coats.
There was a loud chatter between the practitioners and their recumbent
patients, a vocal charivari which stopped abruptly as Sheridan opened
the door. His name seemed to fizz in the air like the last sputtering
of a firework; the barbers stopped shaving and clipping; lathered men
turned their prostrate heads to stare, and there was a moment of amazing
silence in the shop.
The head barber, nearest the door, stood like a barber in a tableau. His
left hand held stretched between thumb and forefinger an elastic section
of his helpless customer's cheek, while his right hand hung poised above
it, the razor motionless. And then, roused from trance by the door's
closing, he accepted the fact of Sheridan's presence. The barber
remembered that there are no circumstances in life--or just after
it--under which a man does not need to be shaved.
He stepped forward, profoundly grave. “I be through with this man in the
chair one minute, Mist' Sheridan,” he said, in a hushed tone. “Yessuh.”
And of a solemn negro youth who stood by, gazing stupidly, “You goin'
RESIGN?” he demanded in a fierce undertone. “You goin' take Mist'
Sheridan's coat?” He sent an angry look round the shop, and the barbers,
taking his meaning, averted their eyes and fell to work, the murmur of
subdued conversation buzzing from chair to chair.
“You sit down ONE minute, Mist' Sheridan,” said the head barber, gently.
“I fix nice chair fo' you to wait in.”
“Never mind,” said Sheridan. “Go on get through with your man.”
“Yessuh.” And he went quickly back to his chair on tiptoe, followed by
Sheridan's puzzled gaze.
Something had gone wrong in the shop, evidently. Sheridan did not know
what to make of it. Ordinarily he would have shouted a hilarious demand
for the meaning of the mystery, but an inexplicable silence had been
imposed upon him by the hush that fell upon his entrance and by the odd
look every man in the shop had bent upon him.
Vaguely disquieted, he walked to one of the seats in the rear of the
shop, and looked up and down the two lines of barbers, catching quickly
shifted, furtive glances here and there. He made this brief survey after
wondering if one of the barbers had died suddenly, that day, or the
night before; but there was no vacancy in either line.
The seat next to his was unoccupied, but some one had left a copy of
the “Extra” there, and, frowning, he picked it up and glanced at it. The
first of the swollen display lines had little meaning to him:
Fatally Faulty. New Process Roof Collapses Hurling Capitalist to
Death with Inventor. Seven Escape When Crash Comes. Death Claims--
Thus far had he read when a thin hand fell upon the paper, covering the
print from his eyes; and, looking up, he saw Bibbs standing before him,
pale and gentle, immeasurably compassionate.
“I've come for you, father,” said Bibbs. “Here's the boy with your coat
and hat. Put them on and come home.”
And even then Sheridan did not understand. So secure was he in the
strength and bigness of everything that was his, he did not know what
calamity had befallen him. But he was frightened.
Without a word, he followed Bibbs heavily out throught the still shop,
but as they reached the pavement he stopped short and, grasping his
son's sleeve with shaking fingers, swung him round so that they stood
face to face.
“What--what--” His mouth could not do him the service he asked of it, he
was so frightened.
“Extry!” screamed a newsboy straight in his face. “Young North Side
millionaire insuntly killed! Extry!”
“Not--JIM!” said Sheridan.
Bibbs caught his father's hand in his own.
“And YOU come to tell me that?”
Sheridan did not know what he said. But in those first words and in the
first anguish of the big, stricken face Bibbs understood the unuttered
cry of accusation:
“Why wasn't it you?”