A Man's Man

  CHAPTER VI

  KNIGHT-ERRANTRY _A LA MODE_

  If all good Americans go to Paris when they die, it may safely bepredicted that all the bad ones will be booked through to Coney Island.

  So much may be inferred from the regularity and zeal with which theToughs, Hoboes, Bowery Boys, and other fearful wildfowl of the New Yorkproletariat, accompanied by the corresponding females of the species,betake themselves every Sabbath by trolley-car or steamer to this hauntof ancient peace (which, by the way, is not to all appearances an islandand harbours no conies).

  Take Margate and Douglas and Blackpool, and pile them into an untidyheap; throw in a dozen Fun-Cities from Olympia and half a score ofWorld's Fairs from the Agricultural Hall; add some of the less reputablefeatures of Earl's Court and Neuilly Fair; include a race-course of thebaser sort; case the whole in wood, and people it with sallow gentlemenin striped jerseys and ladies answering exclusively to such names asHattie, Sadie, and Mamie, reared up apparently upon an exclusive diet ofpeanuts and clam-chowder; keep the whole multitude duly controlled anddisciplined by a police force which, if appearances go for anything, hasbeen recruited entirely from the criminal classes; and you will be ablefaintly to realise what Coney Island can do when it tries on a fineSunday in summer.

  So thought Hughie Marrable. He had been wandering round the world fornine years now; but not even a previous acquaintance with the DevilDancers of Ceylon, the unhallowed revels of Port Said, or therefinements of a Central African Witch-Hunt (with full tom-tomaccompaniment), had quite prepared him for this. Still, it was part andparcel of Life, and Life was what he had left England to see.

  He had arrived in New York from San Francisco two days ago. Butlet it not be imagined that he had been conveyed thither by anyGrand-Trunk-Ocean-to-Ocean-Limited, or other refinement of an effetemodernity. His transcontinental journey had occupied just three years.Since the day on which he steamed through the Golden Gate on atramp-freighter from Yokohama he had been working his way eastward byeasy stages, acquiring experience (as Jimmy Marrable had directed) ofthe manner in which the other half of the world lives. Incidentally hehad mixed cocktails behind a Nevada bar; learned to fire a revolverwithout taking it out of his pocket; accompanied a freight train overthe Rockies in the capacity of assistant brakeman--his duties beingchiefly confined to standing by with a coupling-pin, to discourage theenterprise of those gentlemen of the road who proposed to travelwithout tickets; and once, in a Southern State, he had been privilegedto be present at that ennobling spectacle to which the brightestnation on earth occasionally treats the representatives of an oldercivilisation--the lynching of a negro.

  In a few days Hughie would sail for England, on board the mighty Apulia.It was not often that he travelled in such ostentatious luxury: theprimitive man in him leaned towards something damp and precarious onboard a sailing-ship or a collier; but he happened to know that theApulia intended going for the ocean record this trip; and since thethird engineer happened to be a friend of his, Hughie had decided thatfour-and-a-half days and nights down among the humming turbines and thespirits that controlled them would be cheap at the price of anexpensively upholstered state-room many decks above, in which he wouldleave his baggage and occasionally sleep.

  For all that he had cast a regretful eye only that very morning on abattered little tramp-steamer which was loading up with cargo alongsidea wharf at Hoboken--due to sail for Europe, so a stevedore told him, inabout two days' time.

  To-morrow he was to be taken yachting in New York harbour by an old P.and O. acquaintance, whom he had faithfully "looked up," in accordancewith a two-year-old promise, at his city office that morning. In theevening, at the invitation of an American actor to whom he had once beenof service in Calcutta, he was to dine at the Lambs' Club,--the New Yorkequivalent of the Garrick and Green Room, with a dash of the Eccentricthrown in,--and the next day he was to pay a flying visit to AtlanticCity.

  Meanwhile he was putting in a few off-hours at Coney Island. He hadwatched the islanders bathing, had witnessed a display of highly--not tosay epileptically--Animated Pictures, had spent half-an-hour in an open_cafe-chantant_, where a bevy of tired-looking girls in short skirtspranced about with mechanical abandon at the back of the small stage,shouting the chorus of a ditty which a wheezy lady (who looked like themother of all chorus-girls) was singing at the front; and had declined apressing invitation from the keeper of an Anatomical Museum to stepinside and "have a dollar's worth for a dime."

  Finally he drifted into a small theatre, where a melodrama of distinctlyBritish flavour (seasoned to the Coney Island palate by a few distinctlylocal interpolations) was unfolding itself to a closely packed andhard-breathing audience.

  To judge from the state of the atmosphere the entertainment had been inprogress for some time. As Hughie took his seat the curtain rose on amoonlit military scene. Figures wrapped in great-coats sat round acamp-fire on the audience's right hand, the only plainly recognisablecharacter being the Heroine, who, attired as a hospital nurse andpositively starred with red crosses, was sewing aloofly upon an erectionwhich looked like a sarcophagus, but was marked in plain figures"Ambulence." A sentry, who from his gait Hughie took (rightly) to be theComic Man, was pacing up and down at the back.

  Presently the guard was changed, with much saluting of a pattern unknownat any War Office, and the Comic Man, released from duty, was calledupon to sing "that dear ole song you useter sing at 'ome." The coldlight of the moon having been temporarily replaced by broad daylight inorder to give the singer's facial expression full play, he obliged;though why any one who had heard him sing the song before should haveasked him to sing it again passed Hughie's comprehension. Next adrummer-boy (female) was called upon by the company, and after a greatexhibition of reluctance,--fully justified by her subsequentperformance,--gave vent to a patriotic ditty, in which the onlydistinguishable rhymes were "Black Watch" and "Scotch."

  These revels brought the Hero on to the stage. He was attired inclerical dress and a cavalry helmet; and, sitting down beside theHeroine upon the sarcophagus, he proceeded, oblivious of the presence ofthe entire guard, who were huddled round the fire not more than fivefeet away, to make her a proposal of marriage; quoting Scripture to somepurpose, and extorting a demure affirmative from the lady just beforethe Comic Man, who had obviously been lamenting that the success of thepiece should be imperilled by such stuff as this, upset the soup-kettle,and so gave a fresh turn to the proceedings.

  All this time Hughie had been conscious of an increasing feeling ofcuriosity as to the identity of the only member of the glee-party roundthe fire who so far had made no contribution to the entertainment. Hedarkly suspected him of being the Villain, though what the Villainshould be doing unrecognised at such a period of the play--it was aboutthe third act--was hard to understand. However, the mystery was nowcleared up by a French _vivandiere_--by this time it was plain that thescene was laid in the Crimea--who called upon the mysterious one, in theaccents of Stratford-atte-Bowe, for a song and dance. No reply beingforthcoming, the entire company (precipitately, but quite correctly, asit happened) rose up and denounced the stranger as a Russian and a spy.They had only themselves to blame for his presence, for apparently hehad strolled up and joined the party quite promiscuously; and no one hadthought, so far, of asking him who he was or even of addressing him.

  The audience now sat up expectantly. But instead of taking thespy prisoner and shooting him on sight, the guard hurried offR.U.E.--possibly to bring up their big guns or find a policeman. Thesedeplorable tactics did not meet with the reward they deserved, for theVillain, instead of bolting off L. as fast as he could, lingered uponthe stage to tell the audience that he had come back to have one more goat the Hero. (Goodness knows how many he had had!) The Hero obliginglyappeared at that moment, and a section (whose numbers appeared toincrease as the play proceeded) of the audience shouted to the Villainto cut in and do it _now_. But portentous trampings "off
" announced thereturn of the glee-party, and the Villain, finding that he could notexecute his perfectly justifiable design without considerable danger tohis own person, and was in fact in a particularly tight place himself,suddenly appealed (with considerable "nerve," it seemed to Hughie) tothe Hero, as a Cleric, to save him. The Hero (who was evidently a foolas well as a bore) immediately complied. "You must take upon you myidentity," he remarked. In a twinkling they had exchanged great-coats,and the Villain was now by all the laws of Melodrama completelydisguised as the Hero. He dashed off L., just as a perfect avalanche ofpeople, who had been faithfully and increasingly marking time in thewings, poured on to the stage R., and endeavoured almost to poke theirrifles into the Hero's breast. But just as a nervous female in theaudience, apprehensive about the sudden discharge of firearms,convulsively gripped Hughie's left elbow, the Heroine dashed on fromnowhere, and taking her stand before the Hero--apparently she was theonly person upon the stage who recognised him--uttered these thrillingbut mysterious words: "You kennot far erpon ther Red Kerawss!"

  Curtain, amid thunders of applause.

  After a commendably short interval the curtain rose upon the next act.The Hero was now discovered asleep (under what must have struck anythoughtful member of the audience as highly compromising circumstancesfor a clergyman) in the cottage of a stout lady in a very short skirtand fur-topped boots; whom, from the fact that her opening soliloquycommenced with the words, "Har, vell!" the audience rightly adjudged tobe a Russian. This lady, it was soon plain, was consumed by a secretpassion for the Hero. In fact she proclaimed it in such strident tonesthat it was surprising that its object did not wake up.

  This scene soon resolved itself into a series of determined efforts onthe part of the Villain to terminate the existence of the Hero--anenterprise in which he by this time commanded the whole-hearted supportof the greater part of the audience. His first attempt was foiled by theComic Man, who entered singing "Keep the baby warm, Mother!" just as hehad crawled within striking distance of the unwakeable Hero. Mutteringcurses, the unfortunate man announced his intention of retiring "to thewoods," pending another opportunity. But he had no luck. Just as theComic Man performed a humorous exit through the window, the stoutlady--most of the other characters, by the way, addressed her as"Tinker": possibly her name was Katinka--came in through the door,filled with the forebodings of what she called "loove." Her subsequentcourse of action could certainly only have been condoned on the plea ofemotional insanity. She unceremoniously bundled the Hero out ofbed--fortunately he had gone there in his boots--and sent him off on atransparent wild-goose chase to the "trenches." Then she got into bedherself, and when the Villain came crawling back from "the woods,"brandishing his knife in the limelight, the audience were treated to asort of up-to-date rendering of "Little Red Riding Hood," the part ofthe Wolf being sustained by Katinka, and that of Red Riding Hood by thenow hopelessly demoralised Villain, who was once more chased back to hisarboreal lurking-place with the muzzle of a revolver in the small of hisback.

  In the next and final act the Villain made a supreme effort. He began byslaying the drummer-boy,--presumably to keep his hand in,--but on goingthrough his victim's pockets in search of certain "despatches" whichthat youthful hero had undertaken to carry through the Russianlines,--where to, heaven knows!--the unfortunate man discovered alocket, which instantly revealed to him the surprising, but none theless distressing, intelligence that he had slain his own son. Hisanguish was pitiful to behold, and when the Hero came on and began torub it in by further excerpts from the Scriptures, the audience to a mandecided that if the Villain brought it off this time no jury wouldconvict, but that he would be bound over at the most. He certainly setabout the business with more gumption than usual. Waiting until the Herowas well launched into "Secondly," with the limelight full in his eyes,he once more produced the glittering knife. Suddenly the ubiquitousKatinka dashed on, and in the most unsportsmanlike manner shot theVillain in the small of the back, at a range of about eighteen inches.He dropped dead across the body of his son (which must have hurt thatinfant prodigy very much). All the other characters sidled on from thewings and formed a grand concluding tableau, the Hero, egregious to thelast and entwined in a stained-glass attitude with the Hospital Nurse,pronouncing a sort of benediction as the curtain fell.

  "Doesn't this remind you of the Drama as it used to be dished up to theundergraduates in the old Barn at Cambridge?" remarked a voice.

  Hughie turned to the speaker. He found beside him a man of about thirty,with a fair moustache, which half hid a weak but amiable mouth and areceding chin. He was dressed in the thick blue shore-going garments ofthe seaman, but he looked too slight for an A.B. and too clean for afireman.

  "Deck-hand," said Hughie to himself. "Gentleman once--no, still!"

  "Hallo!" he replied. "You seem to know me. Forgive me if I ought to knowyou, but I can't fix you at present. Odd thing, too, because I don'toften forget a face."

  "I was up at Cambridge in your time," said the man.

  "Not Benedict's?"

  "No--Trinity. I was sent down ultimately. But I knew you well by sight.Often saw you in the boat, and so on. You're Marrable, aren't you?"

  "Yes. Were you a rowing man?"

  "No. I hunted with the Drag and rode at Cottenham--in those days." Heglanced philosophically at his present attire.

  "Come and have something," said Hughie.

  The man interested him. He might, of course, be a mere long-shore sharkon the make, or he might be what he looked--a good-hearted, well-bornwaster--an incorrigible but contented failure. Anyhow, five minutes overa friendly glass would probably settle the question.

  "I wonder if it's possible to obtain a decent British drink in thisclam-ridden hole," Hughie continued.

  "The nearest thing to a product of the British Empire that you'll gethere," said the man, "is Canadian whisky; and personally I would ratherdrink nitric acid. We had better stick to lager. Come along: I know theropes."

  Presently they found themselves in a German beer saloon, where astertorous Teuton supplied their needs.

  "By the way," said the man, "I have the advantage of you. My name isAllerton. Sorry I forgot!"

  "Thanks," said Hughie, rather lamely. "Are you--living out here justnow?"

  "No," said Allerton simply. "I'm a deck-hand on a tramp-steamer." Hespoke easily and freely, as one gentleman to another. He had realised ata glance that he was not about to be made the victim of offensivecuriosity or misplaced charity. "She's lying at Hoboken, due out onTuesday, for Bordeaux."

  "French boat?"

  "No. American owned, under the British flag, by a fairly competentrascal, too. This trip we are carrying a cargo of Californian wine ofsorts. We took it last week from a sailing barque that had brought itround the Horn. She wanted to start back at once, so turned it over tous cheap."

  "And you're going to Bordeaux? What does your astute owner want to takecoals to Newcastle for?"

  "Because everything that comes _out_ of Newcastle is labelled coalwhether it is coal or not. In other words, this poison will be carriedby us to Bordeaux, bottled and sealed, and shipped to England as finevintage Burgundy. John Bull will drink it and feel none the worse. I'mtold it's a paying trade."

  "I wish I were going in your boat," said Hughie, rather regretfully."I'm booked by the Apulia."

  "Well, look out for the Orinoco on your second day out."

  "The Orinoco? I remember seeing her at Hoboken to-day, and wishing Icould make the trip on her."

  "I doubt if you'd be of the same opinion after trying conclusions withMr. James Gates, our first 'greaser,'" replied Allerton. "Still, I don'tknow," he continued, regarding Hughie's brawny form reflectively. "Idon't believe he could put the fear of death into you the way he doesinto most of us. You've knocked about a bit in your time, I dare say,only with more success than I. Perhaps you weren't born with holes in_all_ your pockets."

  "I say," said Hughie rather diffidently,--it is difficult to confer afavou
r upon a man who is down without offending him,--"will you dinewith me? Or sup, as it's getting late?"

  "I shall be charmed," said the deck-hand. "Shall I show you a place? Iknow quite a comfortable establishment close by here."

  Hughie said "Righto!" and presently they found themselves in the placeof entertainment selected by Allerton. Most of the room was occupied bysmall tables, at which various couples were eating and drinking. At oneend was a platform, upon which an intermittent sort of varietyentertainment was in progress.

  On the floor at the foot of the platform was a piano. At the piano sat agirl, who accompanied the performers and bridged over the gaps in theprogramme by selections from the less restrained works of AmericanMasters of Music. Not far from the stage an unhealthy-looking youth waspresiding over a bar. The atmosphere was something between that of asmoking-concert, and Baker Street Station in the days of the oldUnderground.

  Allerton's lazy nonchalance lasted until the first course was set beforehim by a smiling blackamoor, and then, with a half-apologetic aside tohis host on the subject of his last meal, he fell upon the fare in amanner which brought very vividly home to Hughie's intelligence thedifference between an amateur casual like himself, with money enough inhis pocket to make it possible to knock off when he tired of the game,and the genuine article. He was not hungry, having in fact dined acouple of hours before; but he did his best by tactful pecking toconceal the fact from his guest. Still, even after he had ordered somewine and duly inspected the cork, he had a good deal of time to lookabout him.

  Presently his attention began to concentrate itself upon the girl at thepiano. She was sitting quite near him, and Hughie, always respectfullyappreciative where a pretty face was concerned,--his wanderings, thoughthey had made him more than ever a master of men, had done little toeradicate his innate attitude of quiet, determined, and occasionallyquite undeserved reverence towards women,--had time to notice theun-American freshness of her colouring, the regularity of her profile,and the prettiness of her hair. He also observed that the foot whichrested upon the pedal of the piano was small and shapely. She wasquietly dressed, in a dark-blue serge skirt and a white silk blouse--or"shirtwaist," to employ the mysterious local designation--with shortsleeves. She had round arms and good hands.

  Hughie wondered what she was doing in a place like this, and,young-man-like, felt vaguely unhappy on her behalf; but experienced atruly British feeling of relief (mingled with slight disappointment) onobserving that she wore a wedding-ring. He waxed sentimental. Who washer husband? he wondered. He hoped it was not the proprietor of theestablishment,--a greasy individual of Semitic appearance, whooccasionally found leisure, in the intervals between announcing the"turns" and calling the attention of patrons to the exceptionalresources of the bar, to walk across the room and paw the girlaffectionately on the shoulder while giving her some direction as to themusic,--nor yet the scorbutic young man behind the bar.

  His meditations were interrupted by Allerton.

  "Marrable, eyes front! And fill up your glass. Hang it, drink fair!"

  Hughie turned and regarded his guest. The greater part of a magnum ofvitriolic champagne had disappeared down that gentleman's throat. Hiseye had brightened, and now twinkled facetiously as he surveyed firstHughie and then the girl at the piano.

  "_Une petite piece de tout droit_--eh, what?" he remarked.

  Hughie, beginning to understand why his companion was now swabbing decksinstead of ruling ancestral acres, nodded shortly.

  Allerton noticed his host's momentary distance of manner, and leanedacross the table with an air of contrition.

  "I'm afraid," he said apologetically, "that I'm getting most infernallyfull. You see how it is with me, don't you? I'm that sort of bloke.Always have been, from a nipper. Thash--That's why I'm here. It's apity. And the worst of it is," he added, in a sudden burst of candour,"that I'm going to get much fuller. It's a long time since I tastedthis." He touched his glass. "It isn't served out on the Orinoco. Doyou--er--mind?"

  Hughie, with a queer feeling of compassion, smiled reassuringly, andordered another bottle. If Allerton was about to get drunk, he shouldget drunk like a gentleman for once in a way.

  Then his attention reverted to the piano.

  There had been a development. The girl was mechanically playing one ofthe compositions of that delicate weaver of subtle harmonies, Mr. JohnPhilip Sousa; but she was not reading her music. Her eyelids wereresolutely lowered, as if she wished to avoid seeing something. Thereason resolved itself into a gentleman who was leaning over the frontof the piano, gazing amorously down upon the musician, and endeavouring,with surprising success, to make himself heard above one of thecomposer's most characteristic efforts.

  Hughie looked him up and down. He was a big man, powerfully built,with little pig's eyes set close together, and a ponderous andvicious-looking lower jaw. Was _he_ her husband? wondered the deeplyinterested Hughie. No: he was too obviously endeavouring to make himselfagreeable.

  "Marrable, my son," suddenly interpolated the convivial but observantAllerton, "you're cut out! No use bidding against that customer. Do youknow who he is?"

  "No. Who?"

  "That," replied the deck-hand with an air of almost proprietary pride,"is Noddy Kinahan."

  "Oh! And who may he be?"

  "Gee! (Sorry! One picks up these rotten Yankee expressions somehow.) Imean, I am surprised you haven't heard of him. He's rather a big manhere. In fact, to be explish--explicit,"--Mr. Allerton was fast arrivingat that stage of intoxication which cannot let well alone, but musttempt Providence by dragging in unnecessarily hard words,--"he is myemployer."

  "Anything else."

  "Political boss of sorts. _Inter alia_--that's good! I'm glad Iremembered that. _Inter alia_ rhymes with Australia, doesn't it? We'llmake up a Limerick on it some time--let me see, where was I? Oh,yesh--yes, I mean--_inter alia_, he owns the Orinoco and about a dozenmore mouldy old coffins; and very well he does out of them, too! Buysthem cheap, and--but excuse further details at present, ole man. To tellyou the truth I'm getting so screwed that I'm afraid of saying somethingthat in my calmer moments I shall subsequently regret. A cigar? I thankyou. You're a white man, Marrable. Chin chin!"

  After this burst of discretion Mr. Allerton returned to the jointworship of Bacchus and Vesta, the difficulty which he experienced inkeeping the lighted end of the cigar out of his mouth increasing as theevening advanced, but leaving his cheerfulness unimpaired. His conditionwas due not so much to the depths of his potations as to the shallownessof his accommodation for the same; and strong-headed Hughie, as hesurveyed the weak chin and receding forehead on the other side of thetable, mused not altogether without envy upon the strange inequality ofthat law of nature which decrees that what is a toothful for one manshall be a skinful for another and an anaesthetic for a third.

  He was recalled from these musings by the remembrance of the girl at thepiano, and turned to see what was happening now.

  Mr. Noddy Kinahan was returning from an expedition to the bar, carryinga bottle of champagne and a long tumbler. These accessories toconviviality he placed on the top of the piano, and departed on a secondtrip, returning shortly with a wine-glassful of brandy. The girl, thoughshe probably observed more of his movements than her low-drooping lasheswould seem to allow, made no sign, but continued to play the ragtimetune with a mechanical precision which caused the tumbler on the top ofthe piano to tread a lively and self-accompanied measure round its morestolid and heavily weighted companion.

  Mr. Kinahan next proceeded to pour himself out a tumblerful ofchampagne, liberally lacing the foaming liquid with brandy. Then, withan ingratiating gesture toward the shrinking girl, he proceeded toswallow the mixture with every appearance of enjoyment.

  "King's peg!" commented Hughie to himself. "Wonder how much of _that_ hecan stand? I'd back him against friend Allerton, though, if itcame--Hallo! The hound! This must stop!"

  He half rose to his feet. Mr. Kinahan, having satisfied his presentn
eeds, had refilled the tumbler with champagne, added the rest of thebrandy, and was now proffering the potion, in the self-same vessel whichhe had just honoured with his own august lips, to the girl at the piano.

  The girl turned crimson and shook her head, but kept on playing.

  Noddy Kinahan was not accustomed to bestow favours in vain. He walkedround behind the piano, and, taking the girl firmly by the shoulderswith his left arm, held the sizzling tumbler to her lips. She uttered astrangled cry, left off playing, and struggled frantically to seize theglass with her hands.

  Now Hughie Marrable had a healthy prejudice in favour of minding his ownbusiness. He had witnessed scenes of this description before, and heknew that, place and company considered, the girl at the piano wasprobably not unaccustomed to accept refreshment at the hands ofgentlemen, even when the gentleman was half-drunk, the hands dirty, andthe refreshment (after allowing a generous discount for spillings)sufficiently potent to deprive any ordinary woman, within ten minutes,of any sort of control over her own actions or behaviour. Moreover,Hughie had a truly British horror of a scene. _But_--

  He was surprised to feel himself leap from his chair and bound towardthe piano. His surprise, however, was nothing to that experienced amoment later by Mr. Noddy Kinahan, who, having succeeded in pinning thedesperately resisting girl's arms to her sides, was now endeavouring toprise her lips open with the edge of the tumbler. But there are slipseven after the cup has reached the lip. Just as success appeared to beabout to crown Mr. Kinahan's hospitable efforts, a large and sinewy handshot over his right shoulder and snatched away the glass, which it threwunder the piano. Simultaneously an unseen force in the rear shook himtill his teeth rattled, and then, depressing his head to the level ofthe keyboard, began to play a lively if staccato tune thereon with thepoint of Mr. Kinahan's rubicund and fleshy nose.

  These operations were more or less screened from the public view by thebody of the piano, which was an "upright" of the cottage variety. Butthe sudden cessation of "The Washington Post" in favour of what soundedlike "The Cat's Polka" played by a baby with its feet, brought theproprietor of the establishment hurrying across the room. He arrivedjust in time to be present at the conclusion of a florid chromatic scaleof about four octaves, executed under the guidance of Hughie Marrable'sheavy hand by Mr. Kinahan's somewhat abraded nasal organ.

  The instrumental part of the entertainment now terminated in favour of avocal interlude. Hughie released his grip of Mr. Noddy Kinahan's collar,and stood back a pace waiting for a rush. He was confident that, given aclear floor and no interference, he could offer his burly opponent alesson in manners which he would never forget.

  But Mr. Kinahan, being a mover in high political altitudes, was not inthe habit of doing his own dirty work. He reviled his opponent, it istrue, in terms which an expert could not but have admitted weremasterly, but it was obvious to the unruffled Hughie that he was doingso chiefly to keep his courage up and "save his face." There was acunning, calculating look in his piggy eyes which did not quite fit inwith the unrestrained _abandon_ of his utterances, and Hughie began torealise that there are deeper schemes of retaliation than mere assaultand battery.

  Once or twice Mr. Kinahan, in pausing for breath, turned and looked overhis shoulder toward the curious crowd which was gathering behindhim. Presently Hughie noticed a couple of "toughs" of the mostuncompromisingly villainous appearance advancing in a leisurely fashionfrom a corner by the door, where they had been supping. They kept theireyes on Kinahan, as if for an order. Evidently that great man never tookhis walks abroad without his jackals.

  Things were beginning to look serious. The Hebraic proprietor, halfcrazy with fright at the gratuitous advertisement which the fracas wasconferring upon his establishment,--an advertisement which was receivinga gratifying response from an influx of curious sightseers,--wasfrantically begging people to go away. The girl, the source (as ever!)of all the trouble, was still sitting on the music-stool, trembling likea fluttered bird, with Hughie, feeling slightly self-conscious, standingover her. In the middle distance, Mr. Allerton, gloriously oblivious tothe ephemeral and irrelevant disturbance around him, sat contentedlybefore two empty bottles, endeavouring with erratic fingers to adorn thelapel of his blue pea-jacket with a silver-plated fork (the property ofthe establishment), upon which he had impaled a nodding banana ofpantomimic proportions.

  Suddenly Hughie heard himself addressed in casual tones by some onestanding close behind him.

  "Say, Johnny Bull, you'd best get out of here, right now. Skip! Thosetwo toughs of Noddy's won't touch you till they get the word, but whenthey do you'll be sorry. Get out this way, by the side of the stage. Itleads around to the back door."

  Having delivered himself of this undoubtedly sound piece of advice, theunhealthy-looking young gentleman from behind the bar picked up thechampagne bottle and broken glass, and lounged back to his base ofoperations.

  Hughie, realising the wisdom of his words, and making a hasty note thatone should never judge even a mottle-faced bar-tender by his appearance,reluctantly abandoned his half-projected scheme of hurling Noddy Kinahaninto the arms of his two sinister supporters and then knocking theircollective heads together, and turned to the small door behind him.Suddenly he caught sight of the piano-girl. He paused and surveyed herthoughtfully.

  "You'd better come with me," he said.

  Without a word, the girl rose and preceded him to the door. Hughieopened it for her, and they both passed through and hurried down anarrow passage, which gave direct into the alley at the back of theestablishment.

  Once outside, Hughie took the girl's arm and fairly ran, never pausingtill they reached the brightly lighted sea-front. He had an idea that acheerful and crowded thoroughfare would prove more salubrious thandeserted and ill-lit byways.

  Once clear of their late surroundings the two slackened pace, and Hughiesurveyed his charge with comical perplexity.

  "Now what am I to do with _you_?" he inquired.

  "Take me home," said the girl, sobbing.

  Her pluck and fortitude, having brought her dry-eyed through the worstof the conflict, had now taken their usual leave of absence, and she wasindulging very properly in a few reactionary and comforting tears.

  "Where do you live?" asked Hughie.

  "Brooklyn."

  "That's a matter for a trolley-car. Come along."

  He took her arm again, rather diffidently this time,--his old masculineself-consciousness was returning,--and hurried off to what the ConeyIslanders call a "deepo." Here they ensconced themselves in the cornerof a fairly empty car, and started on their twenty-mile run, _via_Sheepshead Bay and other delectable spots, to Brooklyn Bridge.

  As soon as the car started, Hughie turned to his companion.

  "Look here," he said bluntly. "I know a lady when I meet one. What wereyou doing in that place at all? You are English, too."

  "Yes. I can't blame you for wondering. I'll tell you. I come fromLondon. My father was a small schoolmaster in Sydenham. He--he wasunfortunate, and died three years ago, and I was left alone in theworld, with hardly two sixpences to rub together. Just as things werelooking none too promising for me, I met and married"--she flushedproudly--"one of the best men that ever stepped--Dennis Maclear. He isan electrical engineer. We came out here together to make our fortunes,and settled in New York. We were beginning to do fairly well after along struggle, when one day Dennis crushed his left arm and leg in acog-wheel arrangement of some kind, and for three months he has not beenable even to get out of bed without help. Bad luck, wasn't it? He isgetting better slowly, and some day, the doctor says, he will be able toget about again. But--well, savings don't last for ever, you know; soI--"

  "I see," said Hughie; "the upkeep of the establishment has devolved onyou in the meanwhile?"

  "Yes. Piano-playing is about the only accomplishment I possess. A girlfriend of mine told me she was giving up her billet at old Bercotti's,and asked if I would like it. She wouldn't recommend it to most girls,she
said, but perhaps it would suit me all right, being married. I tookit; but as you saw, my being married wasn't sufficient protection afterall."

  She shuddered, for she was very young, and badly shaken; but presentlyshe smiled bravely.

  "What did you get?" asked Hughie.

  "Dollar a night."

  "It's not much."

  "It's better than starvation," said practical little Mrs. Maclear.

  "And what are you going to do next?"

  "I'm not going back to old Bercotti's again--that's flat."

  "Can you get another berth?"

  "Well, if there happens to be anybody in this simple and confidingcountry who is willing to take on as accompanist or teacher a youngwoman of shabby-genteel appearance, who is unable to mention a singlesoul as a reference, and has no character to show from her formeremployer--it ought to be easy!" said the girl.

  Hughie regarded her reflectively.

  "You take it well. I admire your pluck," he said.

  "A married woman with a husband to keep has no time to worry aboutpluck," replied Mrs. Maclear; "she just _has_ to do things. Besides, allthe pluck in the world can't save a woman when Noddy Kinahan is about.If it hadn't been for you--by the way, would you mind telling me yourname? You know mine."

  Hughie told her. Presently they left the trolley-car--_anglice_,electric-tram--and struck off down a street in Brooklyn. The girl turnedin at a doorway, and paused at the foot of a stair.

  "Won't you come up and see my husband, Mr. Marrable?" she said. "It'sten flights up, and we don't run to an elevator; but I know Dennis wouldlike to thank you himself."

  Hughie had intended to refuse,--he hated being thanked as much as mostmatter-of-fact people,--but, a flash of unusual insight revealing to himthe fact that the true object of the invitation was not to exhibit himto the husband, but to enable this proud little lady to exhibit herhusband to him, he felt reassured, and allowed himself to be borne aloftto the Maclear eyrie. Here a gigantic and impulsive son of Kerry, gauntand hollow-eyed through long bed-keeping, wrung his hand in a mannerwhich made him feel glad he was not a refractory terminal, what timeMrs. Maclear, in a sort of up-to-date version of the song of Miriam,described Hughie's glorious triumph over Noddy Kinahan, laying specialstress upon the ecstatic period during which Mr. Kinahan, at theinstance of Hughie, had enacted the part of a human pianola.

  He left them at last, wondering in his heart, as he tramped home underthe stars to his hotel in West Forty-Second Street, what the pluckycouple were going to live on during the next two or three months. Theman was still practically a cripple,--he must have been badlymangled,--and it is hard work fighting for time in a country whosemotto, as regards human as well as other machinery, is: "Never repair!Scrap, and replace!"

  Hughie had solved the problem to his satisfaction by the time he crossedBrooklyn Bridge.

  For the rest of the way home he thought of other things. A bachelor,however ungregarious, is at heart a sentimental animal, and during hiswalk Hughie was contemplating with his mind's eye the picture that hehad left behind him as he said good-night,--the picture of "a snuglittle kingdom up ten pair of stairs," tenanted by a little community oftwo, self-contained and self-sufficient, dauntless in the face of grimwant and utter friendlessness,--and, despite his own health and wealth,he experienced a sudden feeling of envy for the crippled and impecuniousDennis Maclear.

  "I suppose," he mused to himself, "it doesn't really matter _how_ rottena time you have in this world so long as you have it in the rightcompany." Then he added, apparently as a sort of corollary: "By gad,when I get home next week, I'll _stay_ there!"

  But, however carefully (or carelessly) we handle the tiller on life'svoyage, it is the little casual currents and unexpected side winds thatreally set our course for us. As Hughie rolled into bed that night hereflected, rather regretfully, that the incident of that evening wasclosed for ever. He had definitely cut himself off from the Maclears, atany rate, for the very simple reason that he had just posted to them ahundred one-dollar notes, as a temporary loan until their "ship camein," carefully omitting to mention that his own was due to go out intwenty-four hours, and giving no address for purposes of repayment.

  But for all that, the incident had definitely altered his course forhim, or at any rate was destined to send him round by an alternativeroute.