CHAPTER XXI BATTLE ROYAL
"Why can't people take care of their money?" It was on that sameafternoon that Florence found herself asking this question. There was ascowl on her brow as she journeyed slowly toward the home of MargaretDeLane, the widow who had been robbed by a gypsy fortune teller. "Somepeople are so stupid they don't deserve any help," she was thinking asshe studied the faces about her on the street car. Stolid and stupid theysurely appeared to be. "Not an attractive face among them all. They--"
She broke off to stifle a groan. The woman she sat next to was large.This had crowded her half into the aisle. A second woman, in passing, hadstepped on her foot. Instead of appearing sorry about it, the womangrinned as if to say, "Ha! Ha! Big joke!"
"Big joke!" Florence thought grimly. "Life's a big joke, and the joke'salways on me." Life had not seemed so joyous since Jeanne had gone away.It is surprising that the absence of one person can mean so much to us.
The street car came to a jerking halt. "My street." She was up and offthe car.
Her street, and such a street as it was! Narrow and dirty, its sidewalkswere lined with ugly, blank-faced, staring frame buildings that appearedto shout insults at her. She trudged on.
At last she came to the worst building of them all, and there on thefront was her number.
Following instructions, she came at last to a side door. Having knocked,she was admitted at once by a dark-haired girl. This girl, who might havebeen twelve, wore an apron pinned about her neck. The apron touched thefloor.
"Does Mrs. DeLane live here?" Florence asked.
"Yes, that's my mother, and I am Jane," said the girl. "No, she isn'there. She's out scrubbing. She'll be back very soon. Won't you sit down?"
The child was so polite, the place was so neat and clean, that Florencefelt as though the sun had suddenly burst through a cloud.
Two younger children were playing at keeping house in a corner. Howbeautiful and bright they were! Their eyes, their hair, even their simplecotton garments fairly shone.
"And this," thought Florence, swallowing hard, "is what Margaret DeLanelives for."
Then suddenly her spirits rose. "Why, this is what we all live for, thelittle children!" she thought. "We all at times are foolish. Many of usbreak the law. Few of us who are older deserve a great deal of sympathy.It's the children, poor little innocent ones, who are too young to do anywrong--they are the ones who suffer.
"And they must not!" she thought with sudden fierceness. "They must not.We must find that gypsy robber and get that money back!"
As if in answer to this fierce resolve, the door opened and in walkedMargaret DeLane.
"It was that I wanted to do so much!" the woman all but sobbed as shetold her story. "Mrs. Doyle, two doors away, asked a fortune teller howshe should invest her money. She said, 'Buy a house.' Mrs. Doyle bought ahouse, one of the worst in the city. Someone wanted the land for whatthey called 'slum clearance,' and Mrs. Doyle doubled her money. So--"
"So you asked a gypsy woman what to do with your money, and she stoleit?" Florence sighed. "Well, we've got to go and find that gypsy womanand get the money back. It will be difficult. It may be dangerous. Areyou ready?"
"Ready?" The weary woman reached for her coat. "But you?" She held back."Why should you--"
"Oh, that's part of my job." Florence forced a laugh. "It's all in aday's work. So--come on."
They were away, but not until Florence had placed upon the walls of hermemory a picture of three smiling children's faces. "These," she thought,"shall be my inspiration, come what may!"
Their search for the gypsy was rewarded with astonishing speed. Scarcelyhad they rounded a corner to enter noisy and crowded Maxwell Street thanthe widow DeLane gripped Florence's arm to whisper, "There! There she is!That's her."
Florence found herself staring at a dark and evil face. The woman waspowerfully built. There was about her a suggestion of crouching. "Likesome great cat," Florence thought as a chill ran up her spine.
That the woman resembled a cat in other ways was at once apparent. Withfeline instinct, she sensed danger without actually seeing it. Standing,with her eyes turned away, she gave a sudden start, wheeled half about,took one startled look, then glided, with all the agility of a cat,through the crowd.
Florence might not be as sly as the gypsy, but she was powerful, and shecould stick to a purpose. With the widow close at her heels, she crowdedbetween a thin man and a fat woman, pushed an astonished peddler ofroasted chestnuts into the street, hurdled a low rack lined with cheapshoes, knocked over a table piled high with cheap jewelry, to at lastarrive panting before a door that had just been closed by the gypsy.
"Locked!" She set her teeth tight. "What's one lock more or less?" Herstout shoulder hit the door.
Quite taken by surprise by the suddenness of her success in breaking openthe door, she lost her balance and tumbled into the room, landing flat onthe floor.
She had tumbled before, many, many times. In fact, she could tumble moretimes per minute than anyone in her gym class. Locks and tumbles were notnew to her. She was on her feet and ready for battle in ten splitseconds.
The gypsy woman was not slow. The widow had followed Florence into theroom. There came a glitter of steel as the gypsy sprang at her.
But not so fast! As the gypsy's arm swung high, Florence caught it frombehind, gave it a sudden wrench that brought forth a groan, then shook itas a dog shakes a rat, until the needle-pointed stiletto gripped in themurderous gypsy's hand flew high and wide to sink into the heart of agaudy dancing girl hanging in a frame on the wall.
Whirling about just in time to save herself from the grip of five girlsin gypsy costumes who swarmed at her, Florence sprang towards them toscatter them as a turkey might scatter a bevy of pigeons.
Meanwhile the distracted widow had dashed from the room, screaming,"Police! Police!"
Deprived of her deadly weapon, the gypsy woman did what harm she couldwith tooth and nail. This lasted just long enough for Florence to receivetwo ugly scratches down her right cheek. Then the dark-faced one foundherself lying flat upon her back with one hundred and sixty pounds ofFlorence seated on her chest.
"Now--now rest easy," Florence breathed, "un--until the police come."
"I didn't take it!" the woman panted. "I didn't take the money. I--I'llgive it back. Let me up. I'll get it back for you. I--"
At that moment there was a stir at the door and there stood OfficerPatrick Moriarity.
"Oh! So it's you!" He grinned at Florence. "They told me someone wasbeing killed. But if it's you doin' the killin', it's O. K. You wouldn'tkill nobody that didn't need killin'."
Patrick's young sisters had attended Florence's playground classes in thegood days that were gone. More often than was really necessary, Patrickhad looked in to see how they were getting on.
Now, with a grin, he said, "I'll just be toddlin' along."
"You'll not!" said Florence in sudden fright. "This woman stole fourhundred dollars. You've got to do something about it."
"Only four hundred?" Patrick whistled through his teeth. "Why bother her?
"But then," he added as a sort of afterthought, "we might take her to thestation. She'll get four years. These gypsies like a nice soft spot injail."
The woman let out an unearthly wail, then struggled in vain to freeherself.
"She told me," Florence said quietly, "that if I'd let her up she'd giveme the money."
"She did?" Patrick studied the walls of the room. "Door and both windowsright here in front," he reflected. "I think we might try it out. Let herup, and we'll see."
Once on her feet, the woman was not slow in digging deep among the foldsof her ample skirts and extracting a roll of bills.
"Let's see!" Patrick took it from her. "Ten--twenty--forty--" he counted.
"But say!" he ended, "it's four hundred and ten! How come?"
"The ten is mine," the gypsy grumbled.
"Fair
enough," said Patrick. "Your man got a car?"
The woman nodded sulkily.
"All right. Now you take this ten and buy gas with it. Turn that old carsouth and keep it going until the gas is gone. And if I see your faceagain on Maxwell Street--" He made the sign of handcuffs. "Mostly honestpeople live on Maxwell Street. You don't belong here. Scram! _Scram!_" Hegave her a sturdy push.
The woman was gone before Florence could think twice.
Patrick turned to Florence. "And now, when do I sign you up as a ladycop?"
"Never! Oh, never!" Florence fingered her bleeding cheek. "Do--do youthink she's poisonous?"
"No, not very poisonous." Patrick smiled. "Just a little antiseptic willfix that up, fine an' dandy. But really," he added, "you should carry apiece of lead pipe or maybe a gun. You can't tell what they'll do toyou--you really can't."
"I'm staying on the Boulevard from now on." The big girl's tone carriedlittle conviction. Truth was, she knew she would do nothing of the sort.
"Well, anyway," she said to Frances Ward two hours later, "the widow gother money back. I got a story, and those three cute kids will get a finebreak for months to come. And after all," she added soberly, "it's forthe children, the little children, I did it. Everything we do is forthem."
"Yes." Frances Ward wiped her glasses with a shaking hand. "Yes, it isalways for the little children."