One afternoon in late October four lean mules, with stringy muscles
dragging over their bones, stretched long legs at the whirring of their
master's whip. The canalman was a short, ill-favored brute, with coarse
red hair and freckled skin. His nose, thickened by drink, threatened the
short upper lip with obliteration. Straight from ear to ear, deep under
his chin, was a zigzag scar made by a razor in his boyhood days, and
under emotion the injured throat became convulsed at times, causing his
words to be unintelligible. The red flannel shirt, patched with colors
of lighter shades, lay open to the shoulders, showing the dark, rough
skin.
"Git--git up!" he stuttered; and for some minutes the boat moved
silently, save for the swish of the water and the patter of the mules'
feet on the narrow path by the river.
From the small living-room at one end of the boat came the crooning of a
woman's voice, a girlish voice, which rose and fell without tune or
rhythm. Suddenly the mules came to a standstill with a "Whoa thar!"
"Pole me out a drink, Scraggy," bawled the man, "and put a big snack of
whisky in it--see?"
The boulder-shaped head shot forward in command as he spoke. And he
held the reins in his left hand, turning squarely toward the scow.
Pushing out a dark, rusty, steel hook over which swung a ragged
coat-sleeve, he displayed the stump of a short arm.
As the woman appeared at the bow of the boat with a long stick on the
end of which hung a bucket, Lem Crabbe wound the reins about the steel
hook and took the proffered pail in the fingers of his left hand.
"Ye drink too much whisky, Lem," called the woman. "Ye've had as many as
twenty swigs today. Ye'll get no more till we reaches the dock--see?"
To this Lem did not reply. His shrewd eyes traveled up and down the
girlish figure in evil meaning. His thick lips opened, and the swarthy
cheeks went awry in a grimace. Before the hideous spasm of his silent
merriment the woman who loved him paled, and turned away with a shudder.
She slouched down the short flight of steps, and the man, with a grin,
malicious and cunning, lifted the tin pail to his lips.
"It's time for her to go," he muttered as he wiped his mouth, "it's time
for her to go! Git back here, Scraggy, and take this 'ere drink cup!"
This time the woman appeared with a fat baby in her arms. Mechanically
she unloosened the pail from the bent nail on the end of the pole and
put it down, watching the man as he unwound the reins from the hook.
Again the long-eared animals stretched their muscles at his hoarse
command. He paid no more attention to the woman, who, seated on a pile
of planks, was eying the square end of the boat. She drew a plaid shawl
close up under the baby's chin and threaded her listless fingers through
his dark curls. Scraggy's thin hair was drawn back from her wan face,
and her narrow shoulders were bowed with burdens too heavy for her
years; but she hugged the little creature sleeping on her breast, and
still kept her eyes upon the scene. Beyond she could see the smoke
rising from the buildings in the city of Albany, where they were to draw
the boat up for the night. On each side of the river bank, behind clumps
of trees, stood the mansions of those men for whom, according to Scraggy
Peterson's belief, the world had been made. Finally her gaze dropped to
the scow, where little rivers of water made crooked paths across the
deck. Piles of planks reared high at her back, and edged the scow with
the squareness of a room. Scraggy knew that hauling lumber was but the
cover for a darker trade. Yet as she glanced at the stolid, indifferent
man trudging behind the mules a lovelight sprang into her eyes.
Later, by an hour, the mules came to a halt at Lem's order.
"Throw down that gangplank, Scraggy," stammered Crabbe, "and put the
brat below! I want to get these here mules in. The storm'll be here in
any minute."
Obediently the woman hastened to comply, and soon the tired mules
munched their suppers, their long faces filling the window-gaps of the
stable.
Lem Crabbe followed the woman down the scow-steps amid gusty howls of
the wind, and the night fell over the city and the black, winding river.
The man ate his supper in silence, furtively casting his eyes now and
then upon the slender figure of the woman. He chewed fast, uttering no
word, and the creaking of the heavy jaws and the smacking of the coarse
lips were the only sounds to be heard after the woman had taken her
place at the table. Scraggy dared not yet begin to eat; for something
new in her master's manner filled her with sudden fear. By sitting very
quietly, she hoped to keep his attention upon his plate, and after he
had eaten he would go to bed. She was aroused from this thought by the
feeble whimper of her child in the tiny room of the scow's bow.
Although the woman heard, she made no move to answer the weak summons.
She rose languidly as the child began to cry more loudly; but a command
from Lem stopped her.
"Set down!" he said.
"The brat's a wailin'," replied Scraggy hoarsely.
"Set down, and let him wail!" shouted Lem.
Scraggy sank unnerved into the chair, gazing at him with terrified eyes.
"Why, Lem, he's too little to cry overmuch."
"Keep a settin', I say! Let him yap!"
For the second time that day Scraggy's face shaded to the color of
ashes, and her gaze dropped before the fierce eyes directed upon her.
"Ye said more'n once, Scraggy," began Lem, "that I wasn't to drink no
more whisky. Whose money pays for what I drink? That's what I want ye to
tell me!"
"Yer money, Lem dear."
"And ye say as how I couldn't drink what I pay for?"
"Yep, I has said it," was the timid answer. "Ye drink too much--that's
what ye do! Ye ain't no mind left, ye ain't! And it makes ye ugly, so it
does!"
"Be it any of yer business?" demanded Lem insultingly, as he filled his
mouth with a piece of brown bread. After washing it down with a drink of
whisky, he finished, "Ye ain't no relation to me, be ye?"
The thin face hung over the tin plate.
"Ye ain't married to me, be ye?"
And, while a giant pain gnawed at her heart, she shook her head.
"Then what right has ye got to tell me what to do? Shut up or get
out--ye see?"
He closed his jaw with a vicious snap, resting his half-dazed head on
his mutilated arm. Louder came the baby's cries from the back room.
Thinking Lem had ended his tirade, Scraggy made a motion to rise.
"Set still!" growled Crabbe.
"Can't I get the brat, Lemmy?" she pleaded. "He's likely to fall offen
the bed."
"Let him fall. What do I care? I want to tell ye somethin'. I didn't
bring ye here to this boat to boss me, ye see? Ye keep yer mouth shet
'bout things what ye don't like. Ye're in my way, anyhow."
"Ye mean, Lemmy, as how I has to leave ye?"
Crabbe regarded the appealing face soddenly before answering. "Yep,
that's what I mean. I'm tired of a woman allers a snoopin' around, and a
hundred times more tired of the brat."
"But he's yer own," cried the woman, "and ye did say as how ye'd marry
me for his sake! Didn't ye say it, Lem? He ain't nothin' but a baby, an'
he don't cry much. Will ye let me an' him stay, Deary?"
"Ye can stay tonight; but tomorry ye go, and I don't give a hell where,
so long as ye leave this here scow, an' I'm a tellin' ye this--" He
halted with an exasperated gesture. "Go an' get that kid an' shet his
everlastin' clack!"
Scraggy bounded into the inner room, and, once out of sight of the
watchful eyes of Lem, snatched up the infant and pressed her lips
passionately to the rosy skin.
"Yer mammy'll allers love ye, little 'un, allers, allers, no matter what
yer pappy does!"
She whispered this under her breath; then, dragging the red shawl about
her shoulders, appeared in the living-room with the child hidden from
view.
"An' I'll tell ye somethin' else, too," burst in Lem, pulling out a
corncob pipe: "that it ain't none of yer business if I steal or if I
don't. I was born a thief, as I told ye many a time, and last night ye
made Lon Cronk and Eli mad as hell by chippin' in."
"They be bad men," broke in the woman, "and ye know--"
"I know ye're a damn blat-heels, and I know more'n that: that yer own
pappy ain't no angel, and ye needn't be a sayin' my friends ain't no
right here--ye see? They be--"
"They be thieves and liars, too," interrupted Scraggy, allowing the
sleeping babe to sink to her knees, "and the prison's allers a yawnin'
for 'em!"
"Wall, I ain't a runnin' this boat for fun," drawled Lem, "nor for to
draw lumber for any ole guy in Albany. Ye know that I draw it jest to
hide my trade, and if, after ye leave here, ye open yer head to tell
what ye've seen, ye'll get this--ye see?" He held up the hooked arm
menacingly. "Ye've seen me rip up many a man with it, ain't ye,
Scraggy?"
"Yep."
"And I ain't got nothin' ag'in' rippin' up a woman, nuther. So, when ye
go back to yer pa in Ithacy, keep yer mouth shet.... Will ye let up that
there cryin'?"
Suppressing her tears, Scraggy shoved back a little from the table. "I
love ye, Lem," she choked, "and, if ye let me stay, I'll do whatever ye
say. I won't talk nothin' 'bout drink nor stealin'. If I go ye'll get
another woman! I know ye can't live on this here scow without no woman."
"And that ain't none of yer business, nuther--ye hear?" Lem grunted,
settling deep into his chair, with an oath. "I'll get all the women in
Albany, if I want 'em! I don't never want none of yer lovin' any more!"
During this bitter insult a storm-cloud broke overhead, sending sheets
of water into the river. The wind howled above Crabbe's words, and he
brought out the last of his sentence in a higher key. Suddenly the
shrill whistle of a yacht brought the drunken man to his feet.
"It's some 'un alone in trouble," he muttered. But his tones were not so
low as to escape the woman.
"Ye won't do no robbin' tonight, Deary--not tonight, will ye, Lem?
'Cause it's the baby's birthday."
Crabbe flung his squat body about toward the girl. "Shet up about that
brat!" he growled. "I don't care 'bout no birthdays. I'll steal, if the
man has anything and he's alone. I'll kill him like this, if he don't
give up. Do ye want to see how I'd kill him?"
His eyes blazing with fire, he lifted the steel hook, brandished it in
the air, and brought it down close to the thin, drawn face.
Scraggy, uttering a cry, sprang to her feet. "Lemmy, Lemmy, I love ye,
and the brat loves ye, too! He'll grin at ye any ole day when ye cluck
at him. And I teached him to say 'Daddy,' to surprise ye on his
birthday. Will ye list to him--will ye?"
In her eagerness to take his attention from the shrieking yacht, now
close to the scow, Scraggy advanced toward the swaying man. She tried to
lift brave eyes to his face; but they were filled with tears as they met
his drunken, shifting look.
"Lem, Lemmy dear," she pleaded, "we love ye, both the brat an' me! He
can say 'Daddy'--"
"Git out of my way, git out! Some'n' be a callin'. Git out, I say!"
"Not yet, not yet--don't go yet, Deary.... Deary! Wait till the kid says
'Daddy.'" She held out the rosy babe, pushing him almost under Lem's
chin. "Look at him, Lemmy! Ain't--he--sweet? He's yer own pretty
boy-brat, and--"
Her loving plea was cut short; for the man, with a vicious growl, raised
his stumped arm, and the sharp part of the hook scraped the skin from
her hollow cheek. It paused an instant on the level of her chin, then
descended into the upturned chest of the child. With a scream, Scraggy
dragged the boy back, and a wail rose from the tiny lips. Crabbe turned,
cursing audibly, and stumbled up the steps to the stern of the boat. The
woman heard him fall in his drunken stupor, and listened again and again
for him to rise. Her face was white and rigid as she stopped the flow of
blood that drenched the infant's coarse frock. Then, realizing the
danger both she and the child were in, since in all likelihood Lem would
sleep but a few minutes, she slid open the window and looked out upon
the dark river in search of help. Splashes of rain pelted her face,
while a gust of wind caused the scow to creak dismally. Scraggy could
see no human being, only the lights of Albany blinking dimly through the
raging storm. Another shrieking whistle warned her that the yacht was
still near. Sailors' voices shouted orders, followed by the chug, chug,
chug of an engine reversed.
But, in spite of the efforts of the engineer, the wind swung the small
craft sidewise against the scow, and, stupefied, Scraggy found herself
gazing into the face of another woman who was peering from the launch's
window. It was a small, beautiful face shrouded with golden hair, the
large blue eyes widened with terror. For a brief instant the two women
eyed each other. Just then the drunken man above rose and called
Scraggy's name with an oath. She heard him stumbling about, trying to
find the stairs, muttering invectives against herself and her child.
Scraggy looked down upon the little boy's face, twisted with pain. She
placed her fingers under his chin, closed the tiny jaws, and wrapped the
shawl about the dark head. Without a moment's indecision, she thrust him
through the window-space and said:
"Be ye a good woman, lady, a good woman?"
The owner of the golden head drew back as if afraid.
"Ye wouldn't hurt a little 'un--a sick brat? He--he's been hooked. And
it's his birthday. Take him, 'cause he'll die if ye don't!"
Moved to a sense of pity, the light-haired woman extended two slender
white hands to receive the human bundle, struggling in pain under the
muffling shawl.
"He's a dyin'!" gasped Scraggy. "His pappy's a hatin' him! Give him warm
milk--"
Again the yacht's whistle shrieked hoarsely, drowning her last words. As
the stern of the little boat swung round, Scraggy read, stamped in black
letters upon it:
HAROLD BRIMBECOMB,
TARRYTOWN-ON-THE-HUDSON,
NEW YORK.
The yacht shot away up the river, and was lost to the dull eyes that
continued peering for a last glimpse of the phantom-like boat that had
snatched her dying treasure from her. Then, at last, the stricken woman
turned, alone, to meet Lem Crabbe.
"Where's that brat?" he demanded in a thick voice.
"I throwed him in the river," declared the mother. "He were dead. Yer
hook killed him, Lem. He's gone!"
"I'll kill his mammy, too!" muttered Crabbe. "Git ye here--here--down
here--on the floor!"
His throat worked painfully as he threw the threatening words at her;
they mingled harshly with the snarling of the wind and the sonorous
rumble of the river. So great was Scraggy's fright that she sped round
the wooden table to escape the frenzied man. Taking the steps in two
bounds, she sprang to the deck like a cat, thence to the bank, and sped
away into the rain, with Lem's cries and curses ringing in her ears.