CHAPTER XII.
ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY.
As violently rent from his job as Maxim Waldron had been torn from hisalliance with Catherine, Gabriel Armstrong met the sudden change in hisaffairs with far more equanimity than the financier could muster. Oncethe young electrician's first anger had subsided--and he had pretty wellmastered it before he had reached the Oakwood Heights station--he beganphilosophically to turn the situation in his mind, and to rough out hisplans for the future.
"Things might be worse, all round," he reflected, as he strode along ata smart pace. "During the seven months I've been working for thesepirates, I've managed to pay off the debt I got into at the time of thebig E. W. strike, and I've got eighteen dollars or a little more inmy pocket. My clothes will do a while longer. Even though Flintblacklists me all over the country, as he probably will, I can duck intosome job or other, somewhere. And most important of all, I know what'sdue to happen in America--I've seen that note-book! Let them do whatthey will, they can't take _that_ knowledge away from me!"
The outlook, on the whole, was cheering. Gabriel broke into a whistle,as he swung along the highway, and slashed cheerfully with his heavystick at the dusty bushes by the roadside. A vigorous, pleasing figureof a man he made, striding onward in his blue flannel shirt andcorduroys, stout boots making light of distance, somewhat rebelliousblack hair clustering under his cap, blue eyes clear and steady as thesunlight itself. There must have been a drop of Irish blood somewhere orother in his veins, to have given him that ruddy cheek, those eyes, thathair, that quick enthusiasm and that swiftness to anger--then, byreaction, that quick buoyancy which so soon banished everything butcourageous optimism from his hot heart.
Thus the man walked, all his few worldly belongings--most precious amongthem his union card and his red Socialist card--packed in the knapsackstrapped to his broad shoulders. And as he walked, he formulated hisplans.
"Niagara for mine," he decided. "It's there these hellions mean to starttheir devilish work of enslaving the whole world. It's there I want tobe, and must be, to follow the infernal job from the beginning and tonail it, when the right time comes. I'll put in a day or two with my oldfriend, Sam Underwood, up in the Bronx, and maybe tell him what's doingand frame out the line of action with him. But after that, I strike forNiagara--yes, and on foot!"
This decision came to him as strongly desirable. Not for some time, heknew, could the actual work of building the Air Trust plant be startedat Niagara. Meanwhile, he wanted to keep out of sight, as much aspossible. He wanted, also to save every cent. Again, his usual mode oftravel had always been either to ride the rods or "hike" it on shanks'mare. Bitterly opposed to swelling the railways' revenues by even apenny, Armstrong in the past few years of his life had done somethousands of miles, afoot, all over the country. His best means ofSocialist propaganda, he had found, was in just such meanderings alongthe highways and hedges of existence--a casual job, here or there, for aday, a week, a month--then, quick friendships; a little talk; a fewleaflets handed to the intelligent, if he could find any. He had lacedthe continent with such peregrinations, always sowing the seed ofrevolution wherever he had passed; getting in touch with the Movementall over the republic; keeping his finger on the pulse of ever-growing,always-strengthening Socialism.
Such had his habits long been. And now, once more adrift and jobless,but with the most tremendous secret of the ages in his possession, henaturally turned to the comfort and the calming influence of the broadhighway, in his long journey towards the place where he was to meet, indesperate opposition, the machinations of the Air Trust magnates.
"It's the only way for me," he decided, as he turned into the roadleading toward Saint George and the Manhattan Ferry. "Flint and Herzogwill be sure to put Slade and the Cosmos people after me. Blacklistingwill be the least of what they'll try to do. They'll use sluggingtactics, sure, if they get a chance, or railroad me to some Pen orother, if possible. My one best bet is to keep out of their way; and Ifigure I'm ten times safer on the open road, with a few dollars to staveoff a vagrancy charge, and with two good fists and this stick to keep'em at a distance, than I would be on the railroads or in cheap dumpsalong the way.
"The last place they'll ever think of looking for me will be the bigoutdoors. _Their_ idea of hunting for a workman is to dragnet the backrooms of saloons--especially if they're after a Socialist. That's thelimit of their intelligence, to connect Socialism and beer. I'll beat'em; I'll hike--and it's a hundred to one I land in Niagara with morecash than when I started, with better health, more knowledge, and thefreedom that, alone, can save the world now from the most damnableslavery that ever threatened its existence!"
Thus reasoning, with perfect clarity and a long-headedness that provedhim a strategist at four-and-twenty, Gabriel Armstrong whistled a loudernote as he tramped away to northward, away from the hateful presence ofHerzog, away from the wage-slavery of the Oakwood Heights plant,away--with that precious secret in his brain--toward the far scene ofdestined warfare, where stranger things were to ensue than even he couldpossibly conceive.
Saturday morning found him, his visit with Underwood at an end, alreadytwenty miles or more from the Bronx River, marching along throughHaverstraw, up the magnificent road that fringes the Hudson--now hiddenfrom the mighty river behind a forest-screen, now curving on boldabutments right above the sun-kissed expanses of Haverstraw Bay, heremore than two miles from wooded shore to shore.
At eleven, he halted at a farm house, some miles north of the town, gota job on the woodpile, and astonished the farmer by the amount of birchhe could saw in an hour. He took his pay in the shape of a bountifuldinner, and--after half an hour's smoke and talk with the farmer, towhom he gave a few pamphlets from the store in his knapsack--saidgood-bye to all hands and once more set his face northward for the longhike through much wilder country, to West Point, where he hoped to passthe night.
Thus we must leave him, for a while. For now the thread of ournarration, like the silken cord in the Labyrinth of Crete, leads us backto the Country Club at Longmeadow, the scene, that very afternoon, ofthe sudden and violent rupture between the financier and CatherineFlint.
Catherine, her first indignation somewhat abated, and now vastlyrelieved at the realization that she indeed was free from her lovelessand long-since irksome alliance with Waldron, calmly enough returned tothe club-house. Head well up, and eyes defiant, she walked up the broadsteps and into the office. Little cared she whether the piazzagossips--The Hammer and Anvil Club, in local slang--divined the quarrelor not. The girl felt herself immeasurably indifferent to suchpettinesses as prying small talk and innuendo. Let people know, or not,as might be, she cared not a whit. Her business was her own. No waggingof tongues could one hair's breadth disturb that splendid calm of hers.
The clerk, behind the desk, smiled and nodded at her approach.
"Please have my car brought round to the porte-cochere, at once?" sheasked. "And tell Herrick to be sure there's plenty of gas for a longrun. I'm going through to New York."
"So soon?" queried the clerk. "I'm sure your father will bedisappointed, Miss Flint. He's just wired that he's coming out tomorrow,to spend Sunday here. He particularly asks to have you remain. Seehere?"
He handed her a telegram. She glanced it over, then crumpled it andtossed it into the office fire-place.
"I'm sorry," she answered. "But I can't stay. I must get back, to-night.I'll telegraph father not to come. A blank, please?"
The clerk handed her one. She pondered a second, then wrote:
Dear Father: A change of plans makes me return home at once. Please wait and see me there. I've something important to talk over with you.
Affectionately,
Kate.
Ordinarily people try to squeeze their message to ten words, and countand prune and count again; but not so, Catherine. For her, a telegramhad never contained any space limit. It meant less to her than apost-card to you or me. Not that the girl was consciously e
xtravagant.No, had you asked her, she would have claimed rigid economy--she rarely,for instance, paid more than a hundred dollars for a morning gown, ormore than a thousand for a ball-dress. It was simply that the idea ofcounting words had never yet occurred to her. And so now, shecomplacently handed this verbose message to the clerk, who--thoroughlywell-trained--understood it was to be charged on her father's perfectlystaggering monthly bill.
"Very well, Miss Flint," said he. "I'll send this at once. And your carwill be ready for you in ten minutes--or five, if you like?"
"Ten will do, thank you," she answered. Then she crossed to theelevator and went up to her own suite of rooms on the second floor, forher motor-coat and veils.
"Free, thank heaven!" she breathed, with infinite relief, as she stoodbefore the tall mirror, adjusting these for the long trip. "Free fromthat man forever. What a narrow escape! If things hadn't happened justas they did, and if I hadn't had that precious insight into Wally'scharacter--good Lord!--catastrophe! Oh, I haven't been so happy sinceI--since--why, I've _never_ been so happy in all my life!
"Wally, dear boy," she added, turning toward the window as thoughapostrophizing him in reality, "now we can be good friends. Now all thesham and pretense are at an end, forever. As a friend, you may besplendid. As a husband--oh, impossible!"
Lighter of heart than she had been for years, was she, with the addedzest of the long spin through the beauty of the June country beforeher--down among the hills and cliffs, among the forests and broadvalleys--down to New York again, back to the father and the home sheloved better than all else in the world.
In this happy frame of mind she presently entered the low-hung,swift-motored car, settled herself on the luxurious cushions and said"Home, at once!" to Herrick.
He nodded, but did not speak. He felt, in truth, somewhat incapable ofquite incoherent speech. Not having expected any service till next day,he had foregathered with others of his ilk in the servants' bar,below-stairs, and had with wassail and good cheer very effectively puthimself out of commission.
But, somewhat sobered by this quick summons, he had managed to pulltogether. Now, drunk though he was, he sat there at the wheel, steadyenough--so long as he held on to it--and only by the redness of his faceand a certain glassy look in his eye, betrayed the fact of hisintoxication. The girl, busy with her farewells as the car drew up forher, had not observed him. At the last moment Van Slyke waved a foppishhand at her, and smirked adieux. She acknowledged his good-bye with asmile, so happy was she at the outcome of her golf-game; then cast aquick glance up at the club windows, fearing to see the harsh face ofWally peeping down at her in anger.
But he was nowhere to be seen; and now, with a sudden acceleration ofthe powerful six-cylinder engine, the big gray car moved smoothlyforward. Growling in its might, it swung in a wide circle round thesweep of the drive, gathered speed and shot away down the grade towardthe stone gates of the entrance, a quarter mile distant.
Presently it swerved through these, to southward. Club-house, wavinghandkerchiefs and all vanished from Kate's view.
"Faster, Herrick," she commanded, leaning forward, "I must be home byhalf past five."
Again he nodded, and notched spark and throttle down. The car, leapinglike a wild creature, began to hum at a swift clip along the smooth,white road toward Newburgh on the Hudson.
Thirty miles an hour the speedometer showed, then thirty-five and forty.Again the drunken chauffeur, still master of his machine despite thepoison pulsing in his dazed brain, snicked the little levers furtherdown. Forty-five, fifty, fifty-five, the figures on the dial showed.
Now the exhaust ripped in a crackling staccato, like a machine gun, asthe chauffeur threw out the muffler. Behind, a long trail of dust rose,whirling in the air. Catherine, a sportswoman born, leaned back andsmiled with keen pleasure, while her yellow veil, whipping sharply onthe wind, let stray locks of that wonderful red-gold hair stream abouther flushed face.
Thus she sped homeward, driven at a mad race by a man whose every sensewas numbed and stultified by alcohol--homeward, along a road up which,far, far away, another man, keen, sober and alert, was trudging with aknapsack on his broad back, swinging a stick and whistling cheerily ashe went.
Fate, that strange moulder of human destinies, what had it in store forthese two, this woman and this man? This daughter of a billionaire, andthis young proletarian?
Who could foresee, or, foreseeing, could believe what even now stoodwritten on the Book of Destiny?