CHAPTER XXVI.
THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.
In every city where splendor abounds and wealth rolls in carriages, canbe found, also, squalor and wretchedness. If the rich have theiravenues, and the good and virtuous their sanctuaries, so have the poortheir by-ways and alleys, and the vicious their haunts. In a great citythere is room for all, and a place for everything.
Papa and Mamma Francoise had left their abiding-place in the slums for arefuge even more secure.
Van Vernet had followed the two women to a narrow street, long sinceleft behind by the march of progress; a street where the huts andtumble-down frame buildings had once been reputable dwellings andstores, scattered promiscuously along on either side of a thoroughfarethat had once been clean, and inhabited by modest industry. But thatwas many years ago: it had long been given over to dirt and disorderwithout, and to rags, poverty, rats and filth within. Here dwelt manyforeigners, and the sound of numerous tongues speaking in manylanguages, might always be heard.
On this street, in the upper rooms of a rickety two-story house, Papaand Mamma Francoise had set up their household gods after their flightfrom the scene of Josef Siebel's murder; the lower floor being inhabitedby a family of Italians, who possessed an unlimited number of childrenand a limited knowledge of English.
It is evening, the evening of the day that has witnessed Van Vernet'smost recent discovery, and Papa and Mamma are at home.
The room is even more squalid than that recently occupied by them, for,besides a three-legged table, two rickety chairs, a horribly-dilapidatedstove and two dirty, ragged pallets at opposite sides of the room,furniture there is none.
Perched upon one of the two rickety chairs, his thin legs extendedunderneath the table and his elbows resting upon it, sits PapaFrancoise, lost in the contemplation of a broken glass containing asmall quantity of the worst whiskey; and near him, Mamma squats upon thefloor before the rusty stove, in which a brisk fire is burning, stirringvigorously at a strong-smelling decoction which is simmering over thecoals.
"Come, old woman," growls Papa, with a self-assertion probably borrowedfrom the broken glass under his eye, "get that stuff brewed before thegal comes in. And then try and answer my question: what's to be donewith her?"
Mamma Francoise stirs the liquid more vigorously, and takes a carefulsip from the iron spoon.
"Ah," she murmurs, "that's the stuff. It's a pity to spoil it."
She rises slowly, and drawing a bottle from her pocket, pours into thebasin a few drops of brown liquid, stirs it again, and then removing thedecoction from the fire, pours it into a battered cup, which she setsupon the floor at a distance from the stove.
If one may judge from Mamma's abstinence, the liquor _has_ been spoiled,for she does not taste it again.
Having thus completed her task, she turns toward one of the pallets, andseating herself thereon lifts her eyes toward Papa.
"What's to be done with the girl?" she repeats. "That's the questionI've asked _you_ often enough, and I never got an answer yet."
Papa withdraws his gaze from her face, and fixes it once more upon thebroken tumbler.
"She ain't no good to us," resumes Mamma, "and we can't have her tied tous always."
"Nor we can't turn her adrift," says Papa, significantly.
"No; we can't turn her adrift," replies Mamma. "We can't afford to keepher, and we can't afford to let her go."
"Consequently--" says Papa.
And then they look at one another in silence.
"We may have to get out of this place at a minute's warning," resumesMamma, after a time, "and how can we expect to dodge the cops with thatgal tied to us? You and I can alter our looks, but we can't alter hers."
"No," says Papa, shaking his head, "we can't alter hers--not now."
"And if we could, we can't alter her actions."
"No; we can't alter her actions," agrees Papa, with a cunning leer,"except to make 'em worse."
And he casts a suggestive glance toward the tin cup on the floor.
"It won't do," said Mamma, noting the direction of his glance; "it won'tdo to increase the drams. If she got worse, we couldn't manage her atall. It won't do to give her any more."
"And it won't do to give her any less. Old woman, we've just got back tothe place we started from."
Mamma Francoise rests her chin in her ample palm and ponders.
"I think I can see a way," she begins. Then, at the sound of anuncertain footstep on the rickety stairs, she stops to listen. "That'sher," she says, a frown darkening her face. "She's got to be kept offthe street."
She goes to the door, opens it with an angry movement, and peers outinto the dark hall.
"Nance, you torment!"
But the head that appears above the stair-railing is not the head of afemale, and it is a masculine voice that says, in an undertone:
"Sh-h! Old woman, let me in, and don't make a fuss."
The woman starts back and is about to close the door, when something inthe appearance of the man arrests her attention.
As he halts at the top of the stairway, the light from the door revealsto her a shock of close-curling, carroty-red hair.
In another moment he stands with a hand on either door-post.
"How are ye, old uns? Governor, how are ye?"--page 194.]
"How are ye' old uns?" he says, with a grin. "Governor, how are ye?" Andthen, with a leer, and a lurch which betrays the fact that he is halfintoxicated, he adds, in a voice indicative of stupid astonishment:"Why, I'm blowed, the blessed old fakers don't know their own young un!"
"Franzy!" Mamma Francoise starts forward, a look of mingled doubt andanxiety upon her face. "Franzy! No, it can't be Franzy!"
"Why can't it be? Ain't ten years in limbo enough? Or ain't I growed ashandsome as ye expected to see me?" Then coming into the room, andpeering closely into the faces of the two: "I'm blessed if I don'tresemble the rest of the family, anyhow."
The two Francoises drew close together, and scrutinized the new-comerkeenly, doubtfully, with suspicion.
Ten years ago, their son, Franzy, then a beardless boy of seventeen, anda worthy child of his parents, had reluctantly turned his back upon theouter world and assumed a prison garb, to serve out a twenty years'sentence for the crime of manslaughter.
Ten years had elapsed and this man, just such a man as their boy musthave become, stands before them and claims them for his parents.
There is little trace of the old Franz, save the carroty hair, the colorof the eyes, the devil-may-care manner, and the reckless speech. Andafter a prolonged gaze, Papa says, still hesitatingly:
"Franzy! is it really Franzy?"
The new claimant to parental affection flings out his hand with a fiercegesture, and a horrible oath breaks from his lips.
"Is it _really_ Franzy?" he cries, derisively. "Who else do ye thinkwould be likely to claim _yer_ kinship? I've put in ten years in thestripes, an' I'm about as proud of ye as I was of my ball and chain.I've taken the trouble ter hunt ye up, with the police hot on my trail;maybe ye don't want ter own the son as might a-been a decent man but foryer teachin'. Well, I ain't partikeler; I'll take myself out of yerquarters."
He turns about with a firm, resentful movement, and Mamma Francoisesprings forward with a look of conviction on her hard face.
"Anybody'd know ye after _that_ blow out," she says with a grin. "Ye'rethe same old sixpence, Franzy; let's have a look at ye."
She lays a hand upon his arm, and he turns back half reluctantly.
"Wot's struck ye?" he asks, resentfully. "Maybe it's occurred to ye thatI may have got a bit o' money about me. If that's yer lay, ye're left.An' I may as well tell ye that if ye can't help a fellow to a little ofthe necessary, there's no good o' my stoppin' here."
And shaking her hand from his arm, this affectionate Prodigal stridespast her, and peers eagerly into the broken glass upon the table.
"Empty, of course," he mutters; "I might a-known it."
Then hi
s eyes fix upon the tin cup containing Mamma's choice brew.Striding forward, he seizes it, smells its contents, and with a grunt ofsatisfaction raises it to his lips.
In an instant Mamma Francoise springs forward, and seizing the cup withboth hands, holds it away from his mouth.
"Stop, Franz! you mustn't drink that."
A string of oaths rolls from his lips, and he wrests the cup from herhand, spilling half its contents in the act.
"Stop, Franzy!" calls Papa, excitedly; "that stuff won't be good foryou."
And hurrying to one of the pallets he draws from under it a bottle,which, together with the broken tumbler, he presents to the angry youngman.
"Here, Franzy, drink this."
But the Prodigal shakes off his father's persuasive touch, and againseizes upon the cup of warm liquor.
"Franzy!" cries Papa, in a tremor of fear, "drop that; _it's doctored_."
The Prodigal moves a step backward, and slowly lowers the cup.
"Oh!" he ejaculates, musingly, "it's doctored! Wot are ye up to, olduns? If it's a doctored dose, I don't want it--not yet. Come, sit downand let's talk matters over."
Taking the bottle from the old man's hand, he goes back to the table,seats himself on the chair recently occupied by the elder Francoise,motioning that worthy to occupy the only remaining chair. And courtesybeing an unknown quality among the Francoises, the three are soongrouped about the table, Mamma accommodating herself as best she can.
"Franzy," says Mamma, after refreshing herself from the bottle, whichgoes from hand to hand; "before you worry any more about that medicine,an' who it's for, tell us how came yer out?"
"How came I out? Easy enough. There was three of us; we worked for itfive months ahead, and one of us had a pal outside. Pass up the bottle,old top, while I explain."
Having refreshed himself from the bottle, he begins his story,interluding it with innumerable oaths, and allotting to himself a fullshare of the daring and dangerous feats accompanying the escape.
"It's plain that ye ain't read the papers," he concludes. "Ye'd know allabout it, if ye had."