couldn't be--oh! it couldn't be. And now in sight of home it came
in grim reality. So close--and yet as well be at the ends of the
earth with that German line between them.
He steadied the telescope in time to see a gun butt smash in the
door and the officer stride in. The German batteries opened with a
crash. A charge was coming. But he had no eyes for the enemy. He
felt, rather than saw, a gray-green wave with a crest of steel flow
up from the German trenches and over the "dead man's land." And
instinctively he shot orders into the transmitter at his lips.
"Two hundred metres."
"One hundred and seventy-five metres--left."
And as the little puffs of shrapnel began to blossom over the
gray-green wave, his gaze swung back to the little cottage.
And then he forgot the Germans--forgot his comrades in the
endangered trench--forgot war--everything. For a figure--a
woman's figure--struggling--fell past a window in the arms of a
uniformed figure.
He thought a scream came to his ears. For one insane second he
started down from his station: he must go; he was so close. She
needed him. And then as his eyes fell on the struggle below he
realized how far it was--how helpless he was. And----
But there was a way. And he began to snap orders into the
transmitter.
"One thousand five hundred metres--eight degrees left."
A puff rose on the highway running past his home.
"One thousand six hundred metres."
And a shell exploded at the little stable.
"One thousand six hundred and fifty metres"--he shot another order
over the wire--and another--and another--and then:
"Battery, fire!" And with a cry, fell headlong from the treetop as
the little home and its tragedy vanished in a whirl of smoke and
wreckage.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
THE KING OF THE PLEDGERS
By H. R. R. Hertzberg
The Editor of _Life_,
31 West 17th Street,
New York City.
I send this communication to you rather than to the editor of one of
the country's daily papers, because your publication is national and
even international, instead of being a more or less local one, and
also because the sketch of my life it contains, true though it is,
has an appearance sufficiently fictional to fit one of your
short-story numbers.
My special purpose in wishing to have this autobiographical sketch
published is that it may warn and protect a worthy body of men, the
Roman Catholic priesthood of the United States, against a class of
grafters which preys upon them and of which I was the "King" for
nearly ten years.
But, knowing mankind in general, and myself in particular, fairly
well, I have no doubt there is another reason for the wish, to wit,
that vanity of vanities which compels all crooks, "con"-men,
grafters, to brag of their exploits occasionally, and
which--through a perverse viewing of viciousness as
prowess--causes the most of men to be prouder of their falls from
grace than of the good things they have done.
* * * * *
Up to this very day ten years ago I was wealthy and happy. The
wealth I had inherited and the happiness I had married. Then my
happiness died--with my wife. And, the same evening, my wealth
disappeared--with a dishonest manager.
There was nothing left me but our little daughter, a child of eight,
and some two thousand dollars. The former I gave into the care of
the Dominican Sisters at whose convent, in a small Eastern town, my
wife had been educated, and who would, I felt sure, make a true
woman and lady of the girl. And the money I also turned over to the
nuns, for my child's keep as a boarding-pupil, until she was
eighteen.
So I remained alone with my responsibility: the need of providing
for my daughter's later future. This purpose simply had to be
achieved, and that within ten years--because, when I recovered from
the sickness, partly brought about by my wife's death, the doctor, a
scientist of note and a close friend, told me frankly that I was
afflicted with a disease of the heart which would not let me live no
longer than a decade, and this only if I remained as exceptionally
temperate as I had always been.
God knows I did my best to obtain honest and fairly remunerative
work. My very best. But I failed utterly. And, finally, I came to
think of work that was not honest. Grafting began to seem almost a
duty, what with my pennilessness and my responsibility. Still, I did
not know how to graft, not at all.
A bit of street-corner talk it was that "put me wise." I heard a
fellow ask another to have a drink, and I heard the other's answer:
"No," said he, "no more of that for mine. I've bin to Father
O'Kelly's 'n' took the pledge fer keeps, 'n' the good man's give me
five dollars to help the wife 'n' the baby till I c'n git a new
job."
"He has taken the pledge and the priest has given him five dollars!"
I repeated to myself. And then what poets call an inspiration came
to me: there might be money in taking the pledge continually, as a
business. First, I smiled at the odd, phantastically sacrilegious
conceit. But I grew serious--the Responsibility (yes, it should be
spelled with a capital) looming large in my mind's eyes. Soon I was
walking rapidly toward the nearest Catholic church and calling for
the pastor, a priest whom I did not know and who did not know me. My
clothes were rather shabby by this time and I may have looked
dissipated, thanks to my several months' incessant "worrying."
And the priest received me, and I took the pledge "before God and
His Mother and the whole Court of Heaven"; and the kindly old Father
asked me whether I was in need, and, when I stammered a "yes," he
gave me a bill and his blessing, and I was again on the street, a
successful grafter.
To appreciate the enormity of my self-contempt at that moment you
must know that I had steadily been not only what is usually meant by
"a gentleman," but, also, a sincere, practical Catholic, while now I
was a petty swindler--and a swindler of my Church.
Almost did I return to the priest and tell him the truth.
Responsibility appeared, however, and led me away. At a distance
from the priest's house I looked at my "thirty pieces of silver"
which were a ten-dollar greenback. Then I judged that my
appearance--of decent poverty--was an asset of sorts, that the
"gentleman-gone-wrong" naturally elicited more sympathy of heart and
purse than the commoner bar-room loafer.
Thereafter I became the King of the Pledgers.
Yes, there are many pledgers in the land. Professional
pledge-takers, who are also professional drunkards. For Catholic
priests are easily imposed on, since they're almost always
warm-hearted men and since their faith and their calling render
charity, helpfulness, imperative; impel them to extend the benefit
of the doubt to every applicant, however worthless-looking, for fear
of sinning against charity. Wherefore, even the least plausible
pledger is sure to pocket a donation each time he takes the pledge.
The professional pledger must be a traveller, of course. The most of
cities can be "worked to a finish" in a week. But there are three,
at least, which have kept even the King of the Pledgers, with all
his sobriety and diligence, busy for four or five months.
As I have said, I was exceedingly successful. Two weeks ago my bank
account, piled up through pledging only, totalled $9,902. With
eighty-eight additional dollars I would have enough to purchase for
my daughter the annuity--sufficient to keep her comfortable all her
life--that was the object of my more than nine years' swindling.
Three times had I visited the little one since I took her to the
convent. The last time she was sixteen and a happy, gentle,
flower-like girl, gladdeningly and saddeningly like her mother. And
I wrote her and heard from her every month.
Well, that day, two weeks ago, when I'd found myself so near my
goal, I went out to "work" as usual. My victim was a young priest
just ordained, the son of a multi-millionaire, who had given up a
brilliant worldly position. I was the first person to whom he
administered the pledge. He was moved to the core. And he gave me
... one hundred dollars.
My life work was done.
In almost childlike glee I ran back to my room there to draw the
check necessary for the immediate purchase of my girl's annuity. And
there I found a letter from the child.
She asked for my fatherly consent--that she might enter the
Dominican Sister's Order as a novice. She had a true vocation, said
she, had always meant to be a nun. And now that she was eighteen
... "it is my heart's wish, father, dear," were her words. A note
from the Mother Superior confirmed her declaration.
Having read, I fell back in my chair and laughed crazily at the joke
that was "on me." Then I thanked God for the child. And then I wrote
a check for all the money I had, went to my last victim at once,
told him everything, handed him my check and his hundred
dollars--to spend in charity but not by way of gifts to pledgers,
and fell into unconsciousness.
From that hour on I have been dying in a hospital bed. My daughter
has received my consent, and the young priest will send her her
father's love and last blessing when I am dead, in a day or so. And
I shall die in peace.
Very truly yours,
The ex-King of the Pledgers.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
A PO-LICE-MAN
By Lincoln Steffens
"Chief," said Mickey Sweeney, police reporter, to the Chief of
Police, "my paper wants th' goods to prove whether that red-headed
crook, Captain Mahoney, is a crook or an honest man."
The Chief was about to light a cigar. He blew out the match and
turned an anxious face to Mickey. Twice the reporter had saved his
official life. There was nothing he would not tell him, if he really
wanted to know it, nothing. He looked at the boy darkly, then he
looked away, off across the humming restaurant, off across the
humming years, and the Chief's face cleared.
"Mickey," he said, "when I was young, younger than you, and a green
cop, greener than you, I was posted on Sixth Avenue, east side,
between Twenty-eighth Street and Thirty-three. The heart of the
Tenderloin. And my beat beat with the beat of the blood of it; an
th' life; an' th' death. One night, one of my first nights, a fly
cabman--one of them nighthawks that picked up drunks to take 'em
home and took 'em instead to th' Park and robbed 'em; I wasn't onto
th' game then, but because of th' tips they give th' police about
other crooks, we let them operate--well, this night-hawk drives up
close to th' curb by me, and says:
"'Hey, Bill,' he whispers, hoarse, 'there's murder an' riot in th'
Half Shell.'
"I hot-footed to th' oyster house. Empty; not a head in sight. But I
listened, and underneath, hell was boiling: yells, curses, thuds.
And I piped at th' end of th' counter, a bit back, a trapdoor with
th' lid off. I dropped in.
"I come down on them. One of my feet scraped down th' face of some
bloke, and he cussed. My other leg got across a feller's shoulder
and stuck so I went down on my head, and my hands touched th'
murdered body; they was all blood. Which helped me up; that, an'
hearing near me a call, low an' quick; 'A cop!' and the chorus
singing: 'Kill him!'
"So I come up standin', an' striking out, blind, with th' stick. But
I began to look around, careful, to get th' lay. There was one
gas-jet, rear. By it I made out th' feller that did th' murder. He
was being fought over; some, th' friends o' th' dead man, desirous
to kill him: others, his friends, to save him. I made for him. He
was at the back, under the light, at th' tip end of th' two twisted
strings of crazy-mad fighters. I had to go along between 'em, but
that wasn't so hard. In th' surprise of my arrival, the clinch had
broke, and that let me pass; that an' my stick on their faces. So I
got through, grabbed my man by th' collar of all th' shirts and
coats he had on, and I threw him up back o' me onto an old poker
table that stood in th' corner.
"So far I enjoyed it, but th' mob rallied. The two fighting sides
joined, and all together come for me.
"Ever see a mob mad to murder, Mickey? It scares ye. It's a beast;
looks like a beast, smells like a beast. I was scared. I hit out,
first with my stick, then when th' mob jammed me against th' table,
I hopped up on it and kicked with both legs. An' I floored 'em; lots
of 'em. But they come up again, and again, and th' mass of 'em bent
me back on th' prisoner. I had to hold him, you see, and he rolled
an' pitched an' kicked; that's what give me only one hand. And, by
and by, I had only one leg. He--or somebody--drove an oyster knife
through my ankle, in between th' tendon an' th' bone, and nailed me
to th' table.
"I was done for, I guess. I was hit all over--fists, knives,
chairs, legs of tables. I was sore; weak. Mike, I was all in when I
seen a red-headed cop dive into th' hole. That's how it looked to
me, like a dive head-first. Maybe it was because I noticed first,
and so particular, th' red head on that uniform, an' th' red face,
an' th' red eyes; and because they looked so good to me.
"'Hold 'em, Brother,' he calls to me, quiet-like an' sure. 'Easy
does it.'
"And up he turns on his feet, an' begins to cut a swathe up to me
through that mess o' men. It was beautiful. That's when I learned to
use a stick right, watchin' him. He held it high, so as when it
landed on a head, it come down level, exactly on th' crown. Seems to
shoot th' 'lectricity down th' spine, through all th' nerves to all
th' joints, plumb to th' toes. He hit no head twice. Every man he
fanned closed up like a knife, and click, click, click--slow,
regular, nice, he laid 'em down like a corduroy road on which he
walked to me.
"His red eyes was looking every which way, and they didn't miss a
thing. I saw 'em see th' knife that spiked me to th' table, but they
was looking at somethin' else when his left hand pulled that knife,
one jerk, and, in the same stroke, drove it into a bloke that was
pounding my face, and left it in him.
"'Baby between us,' he says, an' he grabs th' prisoner, yanks him to
his feet, and when I, obeying him, took th' other side, he says:
"'Forward, march!'
"And we marched. We stumbled some, an' slipped--off the bodies on
th' floor. They was coming to, and moved; and some was getting up;
enough to keep our sticks busy. But we marched, us three, like a
battalion, to--under the hole.
"'Up we go,' he says to me, and with my good foot in his two hands,
he shoots me up and out like a lady mounting a horse in th' Park.
"'Now, you,' he says to th' prisoner, and up th' prisoner came to
me.
"And then he turns, belts th' two nearest heads two good last belts,
and he bows. 'Gentlemen,' he says to th' mob, 'good-night.'
"He hands me his hand and comes out, closes th' trap-door down
careful and stands on th' lid.
"'Now, then,' he says to me, 'you take your baby to th' station;
send me th' off-platoon, with th' wagon; and--don't hurry. I like
it here. And that old oyster knife left rust in your left ankle.
'Tend to it.'"
The Chief lit the cigar he had been handling as a club. When it was
burning perfectly, he said:
"Sweeney, I wish you wouldn't ask me nothing about Mahoney. He's a
po-lice-man."
--------------------------------------------------------------------
THE QUEST OF THE V. C.
By A. Byers Fletcher
There was tumultuous cheering in the ranks of the Irish Guards
somewhere in France. Sergeant O'Reilly, V. C., had returned to the
trenches. Two months before, Private O'Reilly had, with a
scorching-hot machine-gun, held, single-handed, an important trench
after all his comrades had fallen. Incidentally, he had also saved
the life of an officer, who lay wounded and exposed on the parapet
of the trench. His was but one of many such brave deeds which
occurred almost daily along that terrible front, but O'Reilly's deed
had the advantage of being conspicuous. Hence his two-months' leave,
his journey to London, and his reception at Buckingham Palace, where
the King himself pinned the little bronze cross to his khaki jacket.
Hence, his public reception in his native village of Tullameelan,
where they hung garlands of flowers about his neck, and his old
mother wept tears of joyful pride. Hence, too, his return with the
sergeant's stripes. The story of the honours heaped upon him had
been duly chronicled and illustrated in the press, and had preceded
his return to the trenches. Hence, his joyful reception by the
regiment.
Private Finnessy and Private Moloney had been among the first to
grasp the hero's hand, and had joined heartily in the vociferous
cheering, but now that affairs had again resumed their normal round,
these two companions sat at the bottom of the trench, smoking
thoughtfully.
"O'Reilly's a brave man," said Finnessy, then added, after a pause,
"the lucky devil!"
"I believe ye," replied Moloney.
"And he only five feet sivin," continued Finnessy.
"With one punch," said Moloney, contemplating his hairy fist, "I
could lift him into the inemy's trenches!"
"Do ye mind how all the girls in Tullameelan kissed him?" said
Finnessy.
"I know one girl there that didn't!" said Moloney hotly.
"And I know another!" as hotly replied Finnessy.
"The papers are nothin' but lyin' rags," said Moloney.
"I believe ye," said Finnessy.
Viciously whistled the bullets across the top of the trench, and a
shell or two whined overhead, unheeded by the comrades, long
accustomed to the sound.
"But I'm not denyin'," said Finnessy, after a pause, "that the
little brown cross is a great timptation to anny girl."
"It is that!" agreed Moloney.
* * * * *
"At five o'clock!" the whisper ran along the trench. Since three
o'clock the guns massed on the hills behind them had been sending a
shrieking death-storm into the enemy's trenches in front of the
Irish Guards. At five, promptly, the storm of shell would cease. At
a given signal the men would clamber out over the parapet, make
their way through the openings in the wire entanglements, and rush
the trenches before them. There was no outward excitement. The
aspect of the men remained unchanged, but one could feel the nervous
tension. A young subaltern, near Finnessy and Moloney, glanced
occasionally at his wrist watch and smoked his cigarette more
rapidly than usual.
"If he falls," whispered Finnessy to Moloney, "'tis mesilf that will
bring him in."
"You will not," said Moloney, "I've had me eye on him f'r wakes!"
"Ye can have the Major," said Finnessy.
"I'll not!" said Moloney, "'twud take a horse to carry him in!"
The batteries ceased firing. A low whistle sounded. The men grasped
their rifles with bayonets fixed. Cold steel alone must do the work
now. Another whistle. With a hoarse cheer the men climbed out over
the front of the trench and the charge was on.
Side by side raced Finnessy and Moloney, with eyes fixed on the
young subaltern, who, carrying a rifle, was sprinting on before
them. For a few moments it seemed that the batteries had effectually
silenced the trenches of the enemy immediately in front. A hundred
yards farther and they would be reached. Now, however, from that
line of piled earth and barbed wire came the crackling roar of
machine-guns. For a moment the men wavered and many fell, but, with
a growl, the others rushed on. Fifty yards farther, and then the
ground seemed to heave up and hit Finnessy and Moloney. Side by side
they lay, with their faces partly rooted in the trampled ground. To
their ears came dully the sound of the fierce hand-to-hand fighting
beyond them. Slowly they scraped the dirt from their faces and
looked at each other.
"Where did they get ye, Finnessy?" asked Moloney.
"In the leg," groaned Finnessy.
"The same f'r me," moaned Moloney.
The bullets of the machine-guns still sang over them, and both men
began to dig into the soft earth and pile it into a mound in front
of their heads.
Now back across the torn ground came the remnant of the charge, for
the trenches had not been taken. Some ran, others walked or crawled
or were carried, but always over them and among them whirled the
leaden death. Soon Moloney and Finnessy were left alone in their
little self-made trenches, for none of their retreating comrades had
noticed them.
Twilight was fading, when a brilliant idea flashed across the mind
of Finnessy. The intensity of the illumination almost dazed him for
a moment.
"Moloney," said Finnessy, "'tis not very sthrong ye're feelin,' I'm
thinkin'."
"Ye'er think-tank is overflowin', shut it off!" growled Moloney.
"Sure, Moloney, ye'er voice is very wake! Ye'll be faintin' in a
minute!" said Finnessy soothingly.
"I'll not!" cried Moloney. "What's eatin' ye?"
"Poor old boy!" purred Finnessy, "ye're in a disperate state. Ye
must be rescued. I'm goin' to take ye in!"
"How?" asked Moloney.
"I'm goin' to take ye on me back and crawl in with ye. It's me duty
to do it, and England expicts every Irishman to do his duty! Me only
reward will be ye'er gratitood!" said Finnessy.
Slowly the brilliant idea spread to the mind of Moloney.
"Sure, Finnessy," said Moloney, "'tis brave and kind of ye, but I
can't accipt ye'er sacrifice. 'Tis ye'ersilf that must be saved. I
can hear the trimble in ye'er speech. No one can say that a Moloney
iver diserted a friend! I'll take ye in if I die f'r it!"
"Don't be a fool, Moloney, ye know ye're waker than I am!"
"I'm not!" cried Moloney. "I'm as sthrong as a horse, and I am goin'
to save ye or perish in the attempt!"
"Ye silfish baste!" howled Finnessy. "Ye'd spoil me chance for the
V. C., would ye!"
"Silfish baste ye'ersilf!" roared Moloney. "'Tis me own chance! And
in ye'll go on me back, dead or alive!"
Moloney and Finnessy reached for each other.
Back in the trenches of the Irish Guards the young subaltern,
peering through a loop-hole, saw dimly through the growing dusk the
struggles of Moloney and Finnessy.
"Poor devils," he muttered, "must be in agony. Didn't know any were
left alive out there."
Even as he spoke a wiry figure beside him sprang to the top of the
parapet and started toward the struggling men.
Now the enemy's trench awoke again, but presently, through the zone
of death, the subaltern and all who could secure loop-holes saw that
wiry figure slowly crawling, crawling back toward their trench,
dragging behind him two reluctant but exhausted men.
As the limp bodies of Finnessy and Moloney slid down into the trench
a cheer broke forth from the men which drowned the noise of the
firing.
Slowly Finnessy and Moloney opened their eyes. The subaltern was
speaking:
"Sergeant O'Reilly," he said, "if such a thing were possible, you
deserve and should have another Victoria Cross!"
Again the cheers broke forth.
Finnessy looked at Moloney.
"For the love of Mike!" said Finnessy.
"I believe ye," said Moloney.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
SOMEWHERE IN BELGIUM
By Percy Godfrey Savage
The crude little cottage had been surrounded and two stalwart
peasant boys routed out, but only one gun had been found. Each lad
stoutly swore that he was responsible for the sniping. The old
mother stood near them.
"Choose one or we will shoot both!" the German officer again ordered
the old woman.
Her shrunken, toil-worn frame seemed to suffer pain of death. She
wound her rough hands in her apron. Terror, hatred, love, devotion,
helplessness filled her eyes.
Alphonse, the tall, light-haired boy, was urging the smaller and
more delicate Petro by gestures and eager, low words to yield the
punishment to him.
With equal intensity the little fellow pleaded to take the blame
because Alphonse would be better able to care for their mother.
The imperturbable German, not asking for more than one life, set the
decision before the mother herself. Apparently it would be necessary
to shoot both of them.
The soldiers stood waiting for their part in the procedure.
The old woman turned aside. "Take Alphonse," she groaned.
Surprised, but satisfied, they took the boy to the side of the house
and fired upon him.
Perhaps a thought of another youth, perhaps the wonder of why the
old woman had chosen, perhaps a burden of conscience delayed the
officer as he followed his men from the yard.
"Quick, Petro," whispered the mother, and the boy who had been
standing rigid, with the horror of his brother's death gripping his
heart, came to life. Like a shadow he disappeared. The next instant
there was a shot and the German officer fell in the road.