When Edith came out into the clear blue of the May night she found the
Avenue deserted. The windows of the big shops were dark; over their
doors were drawn great iron masks until they were only shadowy tombs
of the late day’s splendor. Glancing down toward Forty-second Street
she saw a commingled blur of lights from the all-night restaurants.
Over on Sixth Avenue the elevated, a flare of fire, roared across the
street between the glimmering parallels of light at the station and
streaked along into the crisp dark. But at Forty-fourth Street it was
very quiet.
Pulling her cloak close about her Edith darted across the Avenue. She
started nervously as a solitary man passed her and said in a hoarse
whisper--“Where bound, kiddo?” She was reminded of a night in her
childhood when she had walked around the block in her pajamas and a
dog had howled at her from a mystery-big back yard.
In a minute she had reached her destination, a two-story,
comparatively old building on Forty-fourth, in the upper window of
which she thankfully detected a wisp of light. It was bright enough
outside for her to make out the sign beside the window--the _New
York Trumpet_. She stepped inside a dark hall and after a second
saw the stairs in the corner.
Then she was in a long, low room furnished with many desks and hung on
all sides with file copies of newspapers. There were only two
occupants. They were sitting at different ends of the room, each
wearing a green eye-shade and writing by a solitary desk light.
For a moment she stood uncertainly in the doorway, and then both men
turned around simultaneously and she recognized her brother.
“Why, Edith!” He rose quickly and approached her in surprise, removing
his eye-shade. He was tall, lean, and dark, with black, piercing eyes
under very thick glasses. They were far-away eyes that seemed always
fixed just over the head of the person to whom he was talking.
He put his hands on her arms and kissed her cheek.
“What is it?” he repeated in some alarm.
“I was at a dance across at Delmonico’s, Henry,” she said excitedly,
“and I couldn’t resist tearing over to see you.”
“I’m glad you did.” His alertness gave way quickly to a habitual
vagueness. “You oughtn’t to be out alone at night though, ought you?”
The man at the other end of the room had been looking at them
curiously, but at Henry’s beckoning gesture he approached. He was
loosely fat with little twinkling eyes, and, having removed his collar
and tie, he gave the impression of a Middle-Western farmer on a Sunday
afternoon.
“This is my sister,” said Henry. “She dropped in to see me.”
“How do you do?” said the fat man, smiling. “My name’s Bartholomew,
Miss Bradin. I know your brother has forgotten it long ago.”
Edith laughed politely.
“Well,” he continued, “not exactly gorgeous quarters we have here, are
they?”
Edith looked around the room.
“They seem very nice,” she replied. “Where do you keep the bombs?”
“The bombs?” repeated Bartholomew, laughing. “That’s pretty good--the
bombs. Did you hear her, Henry? She wants to know where we keep the
bombs. Say, that’s pretty good.”
Edith swung herself onto a vacant desk and sat dangling her feet over
the edge. Her brother took a seat beside her.
“Well,” he asked, absent-mindedly, “how do you like New York this
trip?”
“Not bad. I’ll be over at the Biltmore with the Hoyts until Sunday.
Can’t you come to luncheon to-morrow?”
He thought a moment.
“I’m especially busy,” he objected, “and I hate women in groups.”
“All right,” she agreed, unruffled. “Let’s you and me have luncheon
together.”
“Very well.”
“I’ll call for you at twelve.”
Bartholomew was obviously anxious to return to his desk, but
apparently considered that it would be rude to leave without some
parting pleasantry.
“Well”--he began awkwardly.
They both turned to him.
“Well, we--we had an exciting time earlier in the evening.”
The two men exchanged glances.
“You should have come earlier,” continued Bartholomew, somewhat
encouraged. “We had a regular vaudeville.”
“Did you really?”
“A serenade,” said Henry. “A lot of soldiers gathered down there in
the street and began to yell at the sign.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“Just a crowd,” said Henry, abstractedly. “All crowds have to howl.
They didn’t have anybody with much initiative in the lead, or they’d
probably have forced their way in here and smashed things up.”
“Yes,” said Bartholomew, turning again to Edith, “you should have been
here.”
He seemed to consider this a sufficient cue for withdrawal, for he
turned abruptly and went back to his desk.
“Are the soldiers all set against the Socialists?” demanded Edith of
her brother. “I mean do they attack you violently and all that?”
Henry replaced his eye-shade and yawned.
“The human race has come a long way,” he said casually, “but most of
us are throw-backs; the soldiers don’t know what they want, or what
they hate, or what they like. They’re used to acting in large bodies,
and they seem to have to make demonstrations. So it happens to be
against us. There’ve been riots all over the city to-night. It’s May
Day, you see.”
“Was the disturbance here pretty serious?”
“Not a bit,” he said scornfully. “About twenty-five of them stopped in
the street about nine o’clock, and began to bellow at the moon.”
“Oh”-- She changed the subject. “You’re glad to see me, Henry?”
“Why, sure.”
“You don’t seem to be.”
“I am.”
“I suppose you think I’m a--a waster. Sort of the World’s Worst
Butterfly.”
Henry laughed.
“Not at all. Have a good time while you’re young. Why? Do I seem like
the priggish and earnest youth?”
“No--” she paused,“--but somehow I began thinking how absolutely
different the party I’m on is from--from all your purposes. It seems
sort of--of incongruous, doesn’t it?--me being at a party like that,
and you over here working for a thing that’ll make that sort of party
impossible ever any more, if your ideas work.”
“I don’t think of it that way. You’re young, and you’re acting just as
you were brought up to act. Go ahead--have a good time?”
Her feet, which had been idly swinging, stopped and her voice dropped
a note.
“I wish you’d--you’d come back to Harrisburg and have a good time. Do
you feel sure that you’re on the right track----”
“You’re wearing beautiful stockings,” he interrupted. “What on earth
are they?”
“They’re embroidered,” she replied, glancing down; “Aren’t they
cunning?” She raised her skirts and uncovered slim, silk-sheathed
calves. “Or do you disapprove of silk stockings?”
He seemed slightly exasperated, bent his dark eyes on her piercingly.
“Are you trying to make me out as criticizing you in any way, Edith?”
“Not at all----”
She paused. Bartholomew had uttered a grunt. She turned and saw that
he had left his desk and was standing at the window.
“What is it?” demanded Henry.
“People,” said Bartholomew, and then after an instant: “Whole jam of
them. They’re coming from Sixth Avenue.”
“People?”
The fat man pressed his nose to the pane.
“Soldiers, by God!” he said emphatically. “I had an idea they’d come
back.”
Edith jumped to her feet, and running over joined Bartholomew at the
window.
“There’s a lot of them!” she cried excitedly. “Come here, Henry!”
Henry readjusted his shade, but kept his seat.
“Hadn’t we better turn out the lights?” suggested Bartholomew.
“No. They’ll go away in a minute.”
“They’re not,” said Edith, peering from the window. “They’re not even
thinking of going away. There’s more of them coming. Look--there’s a
whole crowd turning the corner of Sixth Avenue.”
By the yellow glow and blue shadows of the street lamp she could see
that the sidewalk was crowded with men. They were mostly in uniform,
some sober, some enthusiastically drunk, and over the whole swept an
incoherent clamor and shouting.
Henry rose, and going to the window exposed himself as a long
silhouette against the office lights. Immediately the shouting became
a steady yell, and a rattling fusillade of small missiles, corners of
tobacco plugs, cigarette-boxes, and even pennies beat against the
window. The sounds of the racket now began floating up the stairs as
the folding doors revolved.
“They’re coming up!” cried Bartholomew.
Edith turned anxiously to Henry.
“They’re coming up, Henry.”
From down-stairs in the lower hall their cries were now quite audible.
“--God damn Socialists!”
“Pro-Germans! Boche-lovers!”
“Second floor, front! Come on!”
“We’ll get the sons--”
The next five minutes passed in a dream. Edith was conscious that the
clamor burst suddenly upon the three of them like a cloud of rain,
that there was a thunder of many feet on the stairs, that Henry had
seized her arm and drawn her back toward the rear of the office. Then
the door opened and an overflow of men were forced into the room--not
the leaders, but simply those who happened to be in front.
“Hello, Bo!”
“Up late, ain’t you!”
“You an’ your girl. Damn _you_!”
She noticed that two very drunken soldiers had been forced to the
front, where they wobbled fatuously--one of them was short and dark,
the other was tall and weak of chin.
Henry stepped forward and raised his hand.
“Friends!” he said.
The clamor faded into a momentary stillness, punctuated with
mutterings.
“Friends!” he repeated, his far-away eyes fixed over the heads of the
crowd, “you’re injuring no one but yourselves by breaking in here
to-night. Do we look like rich men? Do we look like Germans? I ask you
in all fairness--”
“Pipe down!”
“I’ll say you do!”
“Say, who’s your lady friend, buddy?”
A man in civilian clothes, who had been pawing over a table, suddenly
held up a newspaper.
“Here it is!” he shouted, “They wanted the Germans to win the war!”
A new overflow from the stairs was shouldered in and of a sudden the
room was full of men all closing around the pale little group at the
back. Edith saw that the tall soldier with the weak chin was still in
front. The short dark one had disappeared.
She edged slightly backward, stood close to the open window, through
which came a clear breath of cool night air.
Then the room was a riot. She realized that the soldiers were surging
forward, glimpsed the fat man swinging a chair over his
head--instantly the lights went out and she felt the push of warm
bodies under rough cloth, and her ears were full of shouting and
trampling and hard breathing.
A figure flashed by her out of nowhere, tottered, was edged sideways,
and of a sudden disappeared helplessly out through the open window
with a frightened, fragmentary cry that died staccato on the bosom of
the clamor. By the faint light streaming from the building backing on
the area Edith had a quick impression that it had been the tall
soldier with the weak chin.
Anger rose astonishingly in her. She swung her arms wildly, edged
blindly toward the thickest of the scuffling. She heard grunts,
curses, the muffled impact of fists.
“Henry!” she called frantically, “Henry!”
Then, it was minutes later, she felt suddenly that there were other
figures in the room. She heard a voice, deep, bullying, authoritative;
she saw yellow rays of light sweeping here and there in the fracas.
The cries became more scattered. The scuffling increased and then
stopped.
Suddenly the lights were on and the room was full of policemen,
clubbing left and right. The deep voice boomed out:
“Here now! Here now! Here now!”
And then:
“Quiet down and get out! Here now!”
The room seemed to empty like a wash-bowl. A policeman fast-grappled
in the corner released his hold on his soldier antagonist and started
him with a shove toward the door. The deep voice continued. Edith
perceived now that it came from a bull-necked police captain standing
near the door.
“Here now! This is no way! One of your own sojers got shoved out of
the back window an’ killed hisself!”
“Henry!” called Edith, “Henry!”
She beat wildly with her fists on the back of the man in front of her;
she brushed between two others; fought, shrieked, and beat her way to
a very pale figure sitting on the floor close to a desk.
“Henry,” she cried passionately, “what’s the matter? What’s the
matter? Did they hurt you?”