fear that they might lose their money after all.
In the fifth round the thing became a certainty. Like the month of
March, the Cyclone, who had come in like a lion, was going out like a
lamb. A slight decrease in the pleasantness of the Kid's smile was
noticeable. His expression began to resemble more nearly the gloomy
importance of the _Peaceful Moments_ photographs. Yells of agony
from panic-stricken speculators around the ring began to smite the
rafters. The Cyclone, now but a gentle breeze, clutched repeatedly,
hanging on like a leech till removed by the red-jerseyed referee.
Suddenly a grisly silence fell upon the house. For the Kid, battered,
but obviously content, was standing in the middle of the ring, while on
the ropes the Cyclone, drooping like a wet sock, was sliding slowly to
the floor.
"_Peaceful Moments_ wins," said Smith. "An omen, I fancy, Comrade
John."
Penetrating into the Kid's dressing-room some moments later, the
editorial staff found the winner of the ten-round exhibition bout
between members of the club seated on a chair having his right leg
rubbed by a shock-headed man in a sweater, who had been one of his
seconds during the conflict. The Kid beamed as they entered.
"Gents," he said, "come right in. Mighty glad to see you."
"It is a relief to me, Comrade Brady," said Smith, "to find that you
can see us. I had expected to find that Comrade Fisher's purposeful
wallops had completely closed your star-likes."
"Sure, I never felt them. He's a good, quick boy, is Dick, but,"
continued the Kid with powerful imagery "he couldn't hit a hole in a
block of ice-cream, not if he was to use a coke-hammer."
"And yet at one period in the proceedings," said Smith, "I fancied that
your head would come unglued at the neck. But the fear was merely
transient. When you began to get going, why, then I felt like some
watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken, or like
stout Cortez when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific."
The Kid blinked.
"How's that?" he enquired.
"And why did I feel like that, Comrade Brady? I will tell you. Because
my faith in you was justified. Because there before me stood the ideal
fighting editor of _Peaceful Moments_. It is not a post that any
weakling can fill. Mere charm of manner cannot qualify a man for the
position. No one can hold down the job simply by having a kind heart or
being good at comic songs. No. We want a man of thews and sinews, a man
who would rather be hit on the head with a half-brick than not. And
you, Comrade Brady, are such a man."
The shock-headed man, who during this conversation had been
concentrating himself on his subject's left leg now announced that he
guessed that would about do, and having advised the Kid not to stop and
pick daisies, but to get into his clothes at once before he caught a
chill, bade the company goodnight and retired.
Smith shut the door.
"Comrade Brady," he said, "you know those articles about the tenements
we've been having in the paper?"
"Sure. I read 'em. They're to the good. It was about time some strong
josher came and put it across 'em."
"So we thought. Comrade Parker, however, totally disagreed with us."
"Parker?"
"That's what I'm coming to," said Smith. "The day before yesterday a
man named Parker called at the office and tried to buy us off."
"You gave him the hook, I guess?" queried the interested Kid.
"To such an extent, Comrade Brady," said Smith, "that he left breathing
threatenings and slaughter. And it is for that reason that we have
ventured to call upon you. We're pretty sure by this time that Comrade
Parker has put one of the gangs on to us."
"You don't say!" exclaimed the Kid. "Gee! They're tough propositions,
those gangs."
"So we've come along to you. We can look after ourselves out of the
office, but what we want is someone to help in case they try to rush us
there. In brief, a fighting editor. At all costs we must have privacy.
No writer can prune and polish his sentences to his satisfaction if he
is compelled constantly to break off in order to eject boisterous
toughs. We therefore offer you the job of sitting in the outer room and
intercepting these bravoes before they can reach us. The salary we
leave to you. There are doubloons and to spare in the old oak chest.
Take what you need and put the rest - if any - back. How does the offer
strike you, Comrade Brady?"
"Gents," said the Kid, "it's this way."
He slipped into his coat, and resumed.
"Now that I've made good by licking Dick, they'll be giving me a chance
of a big fight. Maybe with Jimmy Garvin. Well, if that happens, see
what I mean? I'll have to be going away somewhere and getting into
training. I shouldn't be able to come and sit with you. But, if you
gents feel like it, I'd be mighty glad to come in till I'm wanted to go
into training camp."
"Great," said Smith. "And touching salary - "
"Shucks!" said the Kid with emphasis. "Nix on the salary thing. I
wouldn't take a dime. If it hadn't 'a' been for you, I'd have been
waiting still for a chance of lining up in the championship class.
That's good enough for me. Any old thing you want me to do, I'll do it,
and glad to."
"Comrade Brady," said Smith warmly, "you are, if I may say so, the
goods. You are, beyond a doubt, supremely the stuff. We three, then,
hand-in-hand, will face the foe, and if the foe has good, sound sense,
he will keep right away. You appear to be ready. Shall we meander
forth?"
The building was empty and the lights were out when they emerged from
the dressing-room. They had to grope their way in darkness. It was
raining when they reached the street, and the only signs of life were a
moist policeman and the distant glare of saloon lights down the road.
They turned off to the left, and, after walking some hundred yards,
found themselves in a blind alley.
"Hello!" said John. "Where have we come to?"
Smith sighed.
"In my trusting way," he said, "I had imagined that either you or
Comrade Brady was in charge of this expedition and taking me by a known
route to the nearest subway station. I did not think to ask. I placed
myself, without hesitation, wholly in your hands."
"I thought the Kid knew the way," said John.
"I was just taggin' along with you gents," protested the light-weight.
"I thought you was taking me right. This is the first time I been up
here."
"Next time we three go on a little jaunt anywhere," said Smith
resignedly, "it would be as well to take a map and a corps of guides
with us. Otherwise we shall start for Broadway and finish up at
Minneapolis."
They emerged from the blind alley and stood in the dark street, looking
doubtfully up and down it.
"Aha!" said Smith suddenly. "I perceive a native. Several natives, in
fact. Quite a little covey of them. We will put our case before them,
concealing nothing, and rely on their advice to take us to our goal."
A little knot of men was approaching from the left. In the darkness it
was impossible to say how many of them were there. Smith stepped
forward, the Kid at his side.
"Excuse me, sir," he said to the leader, "but if you can spare me a
moment of your valuable time - "
There was a sudden shuffle of feet on the pavement, a quick movement on
the part of the Kid, a chunky sound as of wood striking wood, and the
man Smith had been addressing fell to the ground in a heap.
As he fell, something dropped from his hand on to the pavement with a
bump and a rattle. Stooping swiftly, the Kid picked it up, and handed
it to Smith. His fingers closed upon it. It was a short, wicked-looking
little bludgeon, the black-jack of the New York tough.
"Get busy," advised the Kid briefly.
CHAPTER XIX
THE FIRST BATTLE
The promptitude and despatch with which the Kid had attended to the
gentleman with the black-jack had not been without its effect on the
followers of the stricken one. Physical courage is not an outstanding
quality of the New York gangsman. His personal preference is for
retreat when it is a question of unpleasantness with a stranger. And,
in any case, even when warring among themselves, the gangs exhibit a
lively distaste for the hard knocks of hand-to-hand fighting. Their
chosen method of battling is to lie down on the ground and shoot.
The Kid's rapid work on the present occasion created a good deal of
confusion. There was no doubt that much had been hoped for from speedy
attack. Also, the generalship of the expedition had been in the hands
of the fallen warrior. His removal from the sphere of active influence
had left the party without a head. And, to add to their discomfiture,
they could not account for the Kid. Smith they knew, and John was to be
accounted for, but who was this stranger with the square shoulders and
the uppercut that landed like a cannon ball? Something approaching a
panic prevailed among the gang.
It was not lessened by the behavior of the intended victims. John was
the first to join issue. He had been a few paces behind the others
during the black-jack incident, but, dark as it was, he had seen enough
to show him that the occasion was, as Smith would have said, one for
the shrewd blow rather than the prolonged parley. With a shout, he made
a football rush into the confused mass of the enemy. A moment later
Smith and the Kid followed, and there raged over the body of the fallen
leader a battle of Homeric type.
It was not a long affair. The rules and conditions governing the
encounter offended the delicate sensibilities of the gang. Like artists
who feel themselves trammeled by distasteful conventions, they were
damped and could not do themselves justice. Their forte was long-range
fighting with pistols. With that they felt en rapport. But this vulgar
brawling in the darkness with muscular opponents who hit hard and often
with the clenched fist was distasteful to them. They could not develop
any enthusiasm for it. They carried pistols, but it was too dark and
the combatants were too entangled to allow them to use these.
There was but one thing to be done. Reluctant as they might be to
abandon their fallen leader, it must be done. Already they were
suffering grievously from John, the black-jack, and the lightning blows
of the Kid. For a moment they hung, wavering, then stampeded in
half-a-dozen different directions, melting into the night whence they
had come.
John, full of zeal, pursued one fugitive some fifty yards down the
street, but his quarry, exhibiting a rare turn of speed, easily
outstripped him.
He came back, panting, to find Smith and the Kid examining the fallen
leader of the departed ones with the aid of a match, which went out
just as John arrived.
The Kid struck another. The head of it fell off and dropped upon the
up-turned face. The victim stirred, shook himself, sat up, and began to
mutter something in a foggy voice.
"He's still woozy," said the Kid.
"Still - what exactly, Comrade Brady?"
"In the air," explained the Kid. "Bats in the belfry. Dizzy. See what I
mean? It's often like that when a feller puts one in with a bit of
weight behind it just where that one landed. Gee! I remember when I
fought Martin Kelly; I was only starting to learn the game then. Martin
and me was mixing it good and hard all over the ring, when suddenly he
puts over a stiff one right on the point. What do you think I done?
Fall down and take the count? Not on your life. I just turns round and
walks straight out of the ring to my dressing-room. Willie Harvey, who
was seconding me, comes tearing in after me, and finds me getting into
my clothes. 'What's doing, Kid?' he asks. 'I'm going fishin', Willie,'
I says. 'It's a lovely day.' 'You've lost the fight,' he says. 'Fight?'
says I. 'What fight?' See what I mean? I hadn't a notion of what had
happened. It was half an hour and more before I could remember a
thing."
During this reminiscence, the man on the ground had contrived to clear
his mind of the mistiness induced by the Kid's upper cut. The first
sign he showed of returning intelligence was a sudden dash for safety
up the road. But he had not gone five yards when he sat down limply.
The Kid was inspired to further reminiscence.
"Guess he's feeling pretty poor," he said. "It's no good him trying to
run for a while after he's put his chin in the way of a real live one.
I remember when Joe Peterson put me out, way back when I was new to the
game - it was the same year I fought Martin Kelly. He had an awful
punch, had old Joe, and he put me down and out in the eighth round.
After the fight they found me on the fire-escape outside my
dressing-room. 'Come in, Kid,' says they. 'It's all right, chaps,' I
says, 'I'm dying.' Like that. 'It's all right, chaps, I'm dying.'
Same with this guy. See what I mean?"
They formed a group about the fallen black-jack expert.
"Pardon us," said Smith courteously, "for breaking in upon your
reverie, but if you could spare us a moment of your valuable time,
there are one or two things which we would like to know."
"Sure thing," agreed the Kid.
"In the first place," continued Smith, "would it be betraying
professional secrets if you told us which particular bevy of energetic
cutthroats it is to which you are attached?"
"Gent," explained the Kid, "wants to know what's your gang."
The man on the ground muttered something that to Smith and John was
unintelligible.
"It would be a charity," said the former, "if some philanthropist would
give this fellow elocution lessons. Can you interpret, Comrade Brady?"
"Says it's the Three Points," said the Kid.
"The Three Points? That's Spider Reilly's lot. Perhaps this _is_
Spider Reilly?"
"Nope," said the Kid. "I know the Spider. This ain't him. This is some
other mutt."
"Which other mutt in particular?" asked Smith. "Try and find out,
Comrade Brady. You seem to be able to understand what he says. To me,
personally, his remarks sound like the output of a gramophone with a
hot potato in its mouth."
"Says he's Jack Repetto," announced the interpreter.
There was another interruption at this moment. The bashful Mr. Repetto,
plainly a man who was not happy in the society of strangers, made
another attempt to withdraw. Reaching out a pair of lean hands, he
pulled the Kid's legs from under him with a swift jerk, and, wriggling
to his feet, started off again down the road. Once more, however,
desire outran performance. He got as far as the nearest street-lamp,
but no further. The giddiness seemed to overcome him again, for he
grasped the lamp-post, and, sliding slowly to the ground, sat there
motionless.
The Kid, whose fall had jolted and bruised him, was inclined to be
wrathful and vindictive. He was the first of the three to reach the
elusive Mr. Repetto, and if that worthy had happened to be standing
instead of sitting it might have gone hard with him. But the Kid was
not the man to attack a fallen foe. He contented himself with brushing
the dust off his person and addressing a richly abusive flow of remarks
to Mr. Repetto.
Under the rays of the lamp it was possible to discern more closely the
features of the black-jack exponent. There was a subtle but noticeable
resemblance to those of Mr. Bat Jarvis. Apparently the latter's oiled
forelock, worn low over the forehead, was more a concession to the
general fashion prevailing in gang circles than an expression of
personal taste. Mr. Repetto had it, too. In his case it was almost
white, for the fallen warrior was an albino. His eyes, which were
closed, had white lashes and were set as near together as Nature had
been able to manage without actually running them into one another. His
underlip protruded and drooped. Looking at him, one felt instinctively
that no judging committee of a beauty contest would hesitate a moment
before him.
It soon became apparent that the light of the lamp, though bestowing
the doubtful privilege of a clearer view of Mr. Repetto's face, held
certain disadvantages. Scarcely had the staff of _Peaceful
Moments_ reached the faint yellow pool of light, in the center of
which Mr. Repetto reclined, than, with a suddenness which caused them
to leap into the air, there sounded from the darkness down the road the
crack-crack-crack of a revolver. Instantly from the opposite direction
came other shots. Three bullets cut grooves in the roadway almost at
John's feet. The Kid gave a sudden howl. Smith's hat, suddenly imbued
with life, sprang into the air and vanished, whirling into the night.
The thought did not come to them consciously at the moment, there being
little time to think, but it was evident as soon as, diving out of the
circle of light into the sheltering darkness, they crouched down and
waited for the next move, that a somewhat skilful ambush had been
effected. The other members of the gang, who had fled with such
remarkable speed, had by no means been eliminated altogether from the
game. While the questioning of Mr. Repetto had been in progress, they
had crept back, unperceived except by Mr. Repetto himself. It being too
dark for successful shooting, it had become Mr. Repetto's task to lure
his captors into the light, which he had accomplished with considerable
skill.
For some minutes the battle halted. There was dead silence. The circle
of light was empty now. Mr. Repetto had vanished. A tentative shot from
nowhere ripped through the air close to where Smith lay flattened on
the pavement. And then the pavement began to vibrate and give out a
curious resonant sound. Somewhere - it might be near or far - a policeman
had heard the shots, and was signaling for help to other policemen
along the line by beating on the flagstones with his night stick. The
noise grew, filling the still air. Prom somewhere down the road sounded
the ring of running feet.
"De cops!" cried a voice. "Beat it!"
Next moment the night was full of clatter. The gang was "beating it."
Smith rose to his feet and felt his wet and muddy clothes ruefully.
The rescue party was coming up at the gallop.
"What's doing?" asked a voice.
"Nothing now," said the disgusted voice of the Kid from the shadows.
"They've beaten it."
The circle of lamplight became as if by mutual consent a general
rendezvous. Three gray-clad policemen, tough, clean-shaven men with
keen eyes and square jaws, stood there, revolvers in one hand, night
sticks in the other. Smith, hatless and muddy, joined them. John and
the Kid, the latter bleeding freely from his left ear, the lobe of
which had been chipped by a bullet, were the last to arrive.
"What's been the rough-house?" inquired one of the policemen, mildly
interested.
"Do you know a sport of the name of Repetto?" enquired Smith.
"Jack Repetto? Sure."
"He belongs to the Three Points," said another intelligent officer, as
one naming some fashionable club.
"When next you see him," said Smith, "I should be obliged if you would
use your authority to make him buy me a new hat. I could do with
another pair of trousers, too, but I will not press the trousers. A new
hat is, however, essential. Mine has a six-inch hole in it."
"Shot at you, did they?" said one of the policemen, as who should say,
"Tut, tut!"
"Shot at us!" burst out the ruffled Kid. "What do you think's been
happening? Think an aeroplane ran into my ear and took half of it off?
Think the noise was somebody opening bottles of pop? Think those guys
that sneaked off down the road was just training for a Marathon?"
"Comrade Brady," said Smith, "touches the spot. He - "
"Say, are you Kid Brady?" enquired one of the officers. For the first
time the constabulary had begun to display real animation.
"Reckoned I'd seen you somewhere!" said another. "You licked Cyclone
Dick all right, Kid, I hear."
"And who but a bone-head thought he wouldn't?" demanded the third
warmly. "He could whip a dozen Cyclone Dicks in the same evening with
his eyes shut."
"He's the next champeen," admitted the first speaker.
"If he juts it over Jimmy Garvin," argued the second.
"Jimmy Garvin!" cried the third. "He can whip twenty Jimmy Garvins with
his feet tied. I tell you - "
"I am loath," observed Smith, "to interrupt this very impressive brain
barbecue, but, trivial as it may seem to you, to me there is a certain
interest in this other little matter of my ruined hat. I know that it
may strike you as hypersensitive of us to protest against being riddled
with bullets, but - "
"Well, what's been doin'?" inquired the Force. It was a nuisance, this
perpetual harping on trifles when the deep question of the light-weight
championship of the world was under discussion, but the sooner it was
attended to, the sooner it would be over.
John undertook to explain.
"The Three Points laid for us," he said. "This man, Jack Repetto, was
bossing the crowd. The Kid put one over on to Jack Repetto's chin, and
we were asking him a few questions when the rest came back, and started
shooting. Then we got to cover quick, and you came up and they beat
it."
"That," said Smith, nodding, "is a very fair _precis_ of the
evening's events. We should like you, if you will be so good, to corral
this Comrade Repetto, and see that he buys me a new hat."
"We'll round Jack up," said one of the policemen indulgently.
"Do it nicely," urged Smith. "Don't go hurting his feelings."
The second policeman gave it as his opinion that Jack was getting too
gay. The third policeman conceded this. Jack, he said, had shown signs
for some time past of asking for it in the neck. It was an error on
Jack's part, he gave his hearers to understand, to assume that the lid
was completely off the great city of New York.
"Too blamed fresh he's gettin'," the trio agreed. They seemed to think
it was too bad of Jack.
"The wrath of the Law," said Smith, "is very terrible. We will leave
the matter, then, in your hands. In the meantime, we should be glad if
you would direct us to the nearest subway station. Just at the moment,
the cheerful lights of the Great White Way are what I seem chiefly to
need."
* * * * *
So ended the opening engagement of the campaign, in a satisfactory but
far from decisive victory for the _Peaceful Moments_' army.
"The victory," said Smith, "was not bloodless. Comrade Brady's ear, my
hat - these are not slight casualties. On the other hand, the
elimination of Comrade Repetto is pleasant. I know few men whom I would
not rather meet on a lonely road than Comrade Repetto. He is one of
nature's black-jackers. Probably the thing crept upon him slowly. He
started, possibly, in a merely tentative way by slugging one of the
family circle. His aunt, let us say, or his small brother. But, once
started, he is unable to resist the craving. The thing grips him like
dram-drinking. He black-jacks now not because he really wants to, but
because he cannot help himself. There's something singularly consoling
in the thought that Comrade Repetto will no longer be among those
present."
"There are others," said John.
"As you justly remark," said Smith, "there are others. I am glad we
have secured Comrade Brady's services. We may need them."
CHAPTER XX
BETTY AT LARGE
It was not till Betty found herself many blocks distant from the office
of _Peaceful Moments_ that she checked her headlong flight. She
had run down the stairs and out into the street blindly, filled only
with that passion for escape which had swept her away from Mervo. Not
till she had dived into the human river of Broadway and reached Times
Square did she feel secure. Then, with less haste, she walked on to the
park, and sat down on a bench, to think.
Inevitably she had placed her own construction on John's sudden
appearance in New York and at the spot where only one person in any way
connected with Mervo knew her to be. She did not know that Smith and he
were friends, and did not, therefore, suspect that the former and not
herself might be the object of his visit. Nor had any word reached her
of what had happened at Mervo after her departure. She had taken it for
granted that things had continued as she had left them; and the only
possible explanation to her of John's presence in New York was that,
acting under orders from Mr. Scobell, he had come to try and bring her
back.
She shuddered as she conjured up the scene that must have taken place
if Pugsy had not mentioned his name and she had gone on into the inner
room. In itself the thought that, after what she had said that morning
on the island, after she had forced on him, stripping it of the
uttermost rag of disguise, the realization of how his position appeared
to her, he should have come, under orders, to bring her back, was
well-nigh unendurable. But to have met him, to have seen the man she
loved plunging still deeper into shame, would have been pain beyond
bearing. Better a thousand times than that this panic flight into the
iron wilderness of New York.
It was cool and soothing in the park. The roar of the city was hushed.
It was pleasant to sit there and watch the squirrels playing on the
green slopes or scampering up into the branches through which one could
see the gleam of water. Her thoughts became less chaotic. The peace of
the summer afternoon stole upon her.
It did not take her long to make up her mind that the door of
_Peaceful Moments_ was closed to her. John, not finding her, might
go away, but he would return. Reluctantly, she abandoned the paper. Her
heart was heavy when she had formed the decision. She had been as happy
at _Peaceful Moments_ as it was possible for her to be now. She
would miss Smith and the leisurely work and the feeling of being one of
a team, working in a good cause. And that, brought Broster Street back
to her mind, and she thought of the children. No, she could not abandon
them. She had started the tenement articles, and she would go on with
them. But she must do it without ever venturing into the dangerous
neighborhood of the office.
A squirrel ran up and sat begging for a nut. Betty searched in the
grass in the hope of finding one, but came upon nothing but shells. The
squirrel bounded away, with a disdainful flick of the tail.
Betty laughed.
"You think of nothing but food. You ought to be ashamed to be so
greedy."
And then it came to her suddenly that it was no trifle, this same
problem of food.
The warm, green park seemed to grow chill and gray. Once again she must
deal with life's material side.
Her case was at the same time better and worse than it had been on that
other occasion when she had faced the future in the French train;
better, because then New York had been to her something vague and
terrifying, while now it was her city; worse, because she could no
longer seek help from Mrs. Oakley.
That Mrs. Oakley had given John the information which had enabled him
to discover her hiding-place, Betty felt certain. By what other
possible means could he have found it? Why Mrs. Oakley, whom she had
considered an ally, should have done so, she did not know. She
attributed it to a change of mind, a reconsideration of the case when
uninfluenced by sentiment. And yet it seemed strange. Perhaps John had
gone to her and the sight of him had won the old lady over to his side.
It might be so. At any rate, it meant that the cottage on Staten
Island, like the office of _Peaceful Moments_, was closed to her.
She must look elsewhere for help, or trust entirely to herself.
She sat on, thinking, with grave, troubled eyes, while the shadows
lengthened and the birds rustled sleepily in the branches overhead.
* * * * *
Among the good qualities, none too numerous, of Mr. Bat Jarvis, of
Groome Street in the Bowery, early rising was not included. It was his
habit to retire to rest at an advanced hour, and to balance accounts by
lying abed on the following morning. This idiosyncrasy of his was well
known in the neighborhood and respected, and it was generally bold to
be both bad taste and unsafe to visit Bat's shop until near the
fashionable hour for luncheon, when the great one, shirt-sleeved and
smoking a short pipe, would appear in the doorway, looking out upon the
world and giving it to understand that he was now open to be approached
by deserving acquaintances.
When, therefore, at ten o'clock in the morning his slumbers were cut
short by a sharp rapping at the front door, his first impression was
that he had been dreaming. When, after a brief interval, the noise was
resumed, he rose in his might and, knuckling the sleep from his eyes,
went down, tight-lipped, to interview this person.
He had got as far as a preliminary "Say!" when speech was wiped from
his lips as with a sponge, and he stood gaping and ashamed, for the
murderer of sleep and untimely knocker on front doors was Betty.
Mr. Jarvis had not forgotten Betty. His meeting with her at the office
of _Peaceful Moments_ had marked an epoch in his life. Never
before had anyone quite like her crossed his path, and at that moment
romance had come to him. His was essentially a respectful admiration.
He was content - indeed, he preferred to worship from afar. Of his own
initiative he would never have met her again. In her presence, with
those gray eyes of hers looking at him, tremors ran down his spine, and
his conscience, usually a battered and downtrodden wreck, became
fiercely aggressive. She filled him with novel emotions, and whether
these were pleasant or painful was more than he could say. He had not
the gift of analysis where his feelings were concerned. To himself he
put it, broadly, that she made him feel like a nickel with a hole in
it. But that was not entirely satisfactory. There were other and
pleasanter emotions mixed in with this humility. The thought of her
made him feel, for instance, vaguely chivalrous. He wanted to do risky
and useful things for her. Thus, if any fresh guy should endeavor to
get gay with her, it would, he felt, be a privilege to fix that same
guy. If she should be in bad, he would be more than ready to get busy
on her behalf.
But he had never expected to meet her again, certainly not on his own
doorstep at ten in the morning. To Bat ten in the morning was included
with the small hours.
Betty smiled at him, a little anxiously. She had no suspicion that she
played star to Mr. Jarvis' moth in the latter's life, and, as she eyed
him, standing there on the doorstep, her excuse for coming to him began
to seem terribly flimsy. Not being aware that he was in reality a tough
Bayard, keenly desirous of obeying her lightest word, she had staked
her all on the chance of his remembering the cat episode and being
grateful on account of it; and in the cold light of the morning this
idea, born in the watches of the night, when things tend to lose their
proportion, struck her as less happy than she had fancied. Suppose he
had forgotten all about it! Suppose he should be violent! For a moment
her heart sank. He certainly was not a pleasing and encouraging sight,
as he stood there blinking at her. No man looks his best immediately on
rising from bed, and Bat, even at his best, was not a hero of romance.
His forelock drooped dankly over his brow; there was stubble on his
chin; his eyes were red, like a dog's. He did not look like the Fairy
Prince who was to save her in her trouble.
"I - I hope you remember me, Mr. Jarvis," she faltered. "Your cat. I - "
He nodded speechlessly. Hideous things happened to his face. He was
really trying to smile pleasantly, but it seemed a scowl to Betty, and
her voice died away.
Mr. Jarvis spoke.
"Ma'am - sure! - step 'nside."
Betty followed him into the shop. There were birds in cages on the
walls, and, patroling the floor, a great company of cats, each with its
leather collar. One rubbed itself against Betty's skirt. She picked it
up, and began to stroke it. And, looking over its head at Mr. Jarvis,
she was aware that he was beaming sheepishly.
His eyes darted away the instant they met hers, but Betty had seen
enough to show her that she had mistaken nervousness for truculence.
Immediately, she was at her ease, and womanlike, had begun to control
the situation. She made conversation pleasantly, praising the cats,
admiring the birds, touching lightly on the general subject of domestic
pets, until her woman's sixth sense told her that her host's panic had
passed, and that she might now proceed to discuss business.
"I hope you don't mind my coming to you, Mr. Jarvis," she said. "You
know you told me to if ever I were in trouble, so I've taken you at
your word. You don't mind?"
Mr. Jarvis gulped, and searched for words.
"Glad," he said at last.
"I've left _Peaceful Moments_. You know I used to be stenographer
there."
She was surprised and gratified to see a look of consternation spread
itself across Mr. Jarvis' face. It was a hopeful sign that he should
take her cause to heart to such an extent.
But Mr. Jarvis' consternation was not due wholly to solicitude for her.
His thoughts at that moment, put, after having been expurgated, into
speech, might have been summed up in the line: "Of all sad words of
tongue or pen the saddest are these, 'It might have been'!"
"Ain't youse woikin' dere no more? Is dat right?" he gasped. "Gee! I
wisht I'd 'a' known it sooner. Why, a guy come to me and wants to give
me half a ton of the long green to go to dat poiper what youse was
woikin' on and fix de guy what's runnin' it. An' I truns him down 'cos
I don't want you to be frown out of your job. Say, why youse quit
woikin' dere?" His eyes narrowed as an idea struck him. "Say," he went
on, "you ain't bin fired? Has de boss give youse de trun-down? 'Cos if
he has, say de woid and I'll fix him for youse, loidy. An' it won't set
you back a nickel," he concluded handsomely.
"No, no," cried Betty, horrified. "Mr. Smith has been very kind to me.
I left of my own free will."
Mr. Jarvis looked disappointed. His demeanor was like that of some
mediaeval knight called back on the eve of starting out to battle with
the Paynim for the honor of his lady.
"What was that you said about the man who came to you and offered you
money?" asked Betty.
Her mind had flashed back to Mr. Parker's visit, and her heart was
beating quickly.
"Sure! He come to me all right an' wants de guy on de poiper fixed. An'
I truns him down."
"Oh! You won't dream of doing anything to hurt Mr. Smith, will you, Mr.
Jarvis?" said Betty anxiously.
"Not if you say so, loidy."
"And your - friends? You won't let them do anything?"
"Nope."
Betty breathed freely again. Her knowledge of the East Side was small,
and that there might be those there who acted independently of Mr.
Jarvis, disdainful of his influence, did not occur to her. She returned
to her own affairs, satisfied that danger no longer threatened.
"Mr. Jarvis, I wonder if you can help me. I want to find some work to
do," she said.
"Woik?"
"I have to earn my living, you see, and I'm afraid I don't know how to
begin."
Mr. Jarvis pondered. "What sort of woik?"
"Any sort," said Betty
valiantly. "I don't care what it is."
Mr. Jarvis knitted his brows in thought. He was not used to being an
employment agency. But Betty was Betty, and even at the cost of a
headache he must think of something.
At the end of five minutes inspiration came to him.
"Say," he said, "what do youse call de guy dat sits an' takes de money
at an eatin'-joint? Cashier? Well, say, could youse be dat?"
"It would be just the thing. Do you know a place?"
"Sure. Just around de corner. I'll take you dere."
Betty waited while he put on his coat, and they started out. Betty
chatted as they walked, but Mr. Jarvis, who appeared a little
self-conscious beneath the unconcealed interest of the neighbors, was
silent. At intervals he would turn and glare ferociously at the heads
that popped out of windows or protruded from doorways. Fame has its
penalties, and most of the population of that portion of the Bowery had
turned out to see their most prominent citizen so romantically employed
as a squire of dames.
After a short walk Bat halted the expedition before a dingy restaurant.
The glass window bore in battered letters the name, Fontelli.
"Dis is de joint," he said.
Inside the restaurant a dreamy-eyed Italian sat gazing at vacancy and
twirling a pointed mustache. In a far corner a solitary customer was
finishing a late breakfast.
Signor Fontelli, for the sad-eyed exile was he, sprang to his feet at
the sight of Mr. Jarvis' well-known figure. An ingratiating, but
nervous, smile came into view behind the pointed mustache.
"Hey, Tony," said Mr. Jarvis, coming at once to the point, "I want you
to know dis loidy. She's going to be cashier at dis joint."
Signor Fontelli looked at Betty and shook his head. He smiled
deprecatingly. His manner seemed to indicate that, while she met with
the approval of Fontelli, the slave of her sex, to Fontelli, the
employer, she appealed in vain. He gave his mustache a sorrowful twirl.
"Ah, no," he sighed. "Not da cashier do I need. I take-a myself da
money."
Mr. Jarvis looked at him coldly. He continued to look at him coldly.
His lower jaw began slowly to protrude, and his forehead retreated
further behind its zareba of forelock.
There was a pause. The signor was plainly embarrassed.
"Dis loidy," repeated Mr. Jarvis, "is cashier at dis joint at six
per - " He paused. "Does dat go?" he added smoothly.
Certainly there was magnetism about Mr. Jarvis. With a minimum of words
he produced remarkable results. Something seemed to happen suddenly to
Signor Fontelli's spine. He wilted like a tired flower. A gesture, in
which were blended resignation, humility, and a desire to be at peace
with all men, particularly Mr. Jarvis, completed his capitulation.
Mr. Jarvis waited while Betty was instructed in her simple duties, then
drew her aside.
"Say," he remarked confidentially, "youse'll be all right here. Six per
ain't all de dough dere is in de woild, but, bein' cashier, see, you
can swipe a whole heap more whenever you feel like it. And if Tony
registers a kick, I'll come around and talk to him - see? Dat's right.
Good-morning, loidy."
And, having delivered these admirable hints to young cashiers in a
hurry to get rich, Mr. Jarvis ducked his head in a species of bow,
declined to be thanked, and shuffled out into the street, leaving Betty
to open her new career by taking thirty-seven cents from the late
breakfaster.
CHAPTER XXI
CHANGES IN THE STAFF
Three days had elapsed since the battle which had opened the campaign,
and there had been no further movement on the part of the enemy. Smith
was puzzled. A strange quiet seemed to be brooding over the other camp.
He could not believe that a single defeat had crushed the foe, but it
was hard to think of any other explanation.
It was Pugsy Maloney who, on the fourth morning, brought to the office
the inner history of the truce. His version was brief and unadorned, as
was the way with his narratives. Such things as first causes and
piquant details he avoided, as tending to prolong the telling
excessively, thus keeping him from the perusal of his cowboy stories.
He gave the thing out merely as an item of general interest, a bubble
on the surface of the life of a great city. He did not know how nearly
interested were his employers in any matter touching that gang which is