CHAPTER IV
Mrs. Bowse's boarding-house began to be even better pleased with him
than before. He had stories to tell, festivities to describe, and
cheerful incidents to recount. The boarders assisted vicariously at
weddings and wedding receptions, afternoon teas and dances, given in
halls. "Up-town" seemed to them largely given to entertainment and
hilarity of an enviably prodigal sort. Mrs. Bowse's guests were not
of the class which entertains or is entertained, and the details of
banquets and ball-dresses and money-spending were not uncheering
material for conversation. Such topics suggested the presence and
dispensing of a good deal of desirable specie, which in floating
about might somehow reach those who needed it most. The impression
was that T. Tembarom was having "a good time." It was not his way to
relate any incidents which were not of a cheering or laughter-
inspiring nature. He said nothing of the times when his luck was bad,
when he made blunders, and, approaching the wrong people, was met
roughly or grudgingly, and found no resource left but to beat a
retreat. He made no mention of his experiences in the blizzard, which
continued, and at times nearly beat breath and life out of him as he
fought his way through it. Especially he told no story of the morning
when, after having labored furiously over the writing of his "stuff"
until long after midnight, he had taken it to Galton, and seen his
face fall as he looked over it. To battle all day with a blizzard and
occasional brutal discouragements, and to sit up half the night
tensely absorbed in concentrating one's whole mental equipment upon
the doing of unaccustomed work has its effect. As he waited, Tembarom
unconsciously shifted from one foot to another, and had actually to
swallow a sort of lump in his throat.
"I guess it won't do," he said rather uncertainly as Galton laid a
sheet down.
Galton was worn out himself and harried by his nerves.
"No, it won't," he said; and then as he saw Tembarom move to the
other foot he added, "Not as it is."
Tembarom braced himself and cleared his throat.
"If," he ventured--" well, you've been mighty easy on me, Mr Galton--
and this is a big chance for a fellow like me. If it's too big a
chance--why--that's all. But if it's anything I could change and it
wouldn't be too much trouble to tell me--"
"There's no time to rewrite it," answered Galton. "It must be handed
in to-morrow. It's too flowery. Too many adjectives. I've no time to
give you--" He snatched up a blue pencil and began to slash at the
paper with it. "Look here-- and here--cut out that balderdash--cut
this--and this-- oh,--" throwing the pencil down,--"you'd have to cut
it all out. There's no time." He fell back in his chair with a
hopeless movement, and rubbed his forehead nervously with the back of
his hand. Ten people more or less were waiting to speak to him; he
was worn out with the rush of work. He believed in the page, and did
not want to give up his idea; but he didn't know a man to hand it to
other than this untrained, eager ignoramus whom he had a queer
personal liking for. He was no business of his, a mere stenographer
in his office with whom he could be expected to have no relations,
and yet a curious sort of friendliness verging on intimacy had
developed between them.
"There'd be time if you thought it wouldn't do any harm to give me
another chance," said Tembarom. "I can sit up all night. I guess I've
caught on to what you DON'T want. I've put in too many fool words. I
got them out of other papers, but I don't know how to use them. I
guess I've caught on. Would it do any harm if you gave me till to-
morrow?"
"No, it wouldn't," said Galton, desperately. "If you can't do it,
there's no time to find another man, and the page must be cut out.
It's been no good so far. It won't be missed. Take it along."
As he pushed back the papers, he saw the photographs, and picked one
up.
"That bride's a good-looking girl. Who are these others? Bridesmaids?
You've got a lot of stuff here. Biker couldn't get anything." He
glanced up at the young fellow's rather pale face. "I thought you'd
make friends. How did you get all this?"
"I beat the streets till I found it," said Tembarom. "I had luck
right away. I went into a confectionery store where they make wedding-
cakes. A good-natured little Dutchman and his wife kept it, and I
talked to them--"
"Got next?" said Galton, grinning a little.
"They gave me addresses, and told me a whole lot of things. I got
into the Schwartz wedding reception, and they treated me mighty well.
A good many of them were willing to talk. I told them what a big
thing the page was going to be, and I--well, I said the more they
helped me the finer it would turn out. I said it seemed a shame there
shouldn't be an up-town page when such swell entertainments were
given. I've got a lot of stuff there."
Galton laughed.
"You'd get it," he said. "If you knew how to handle it, you'd make it
a hit. Well, take it along. If it isn't right tomorrow, it's done
for."
Tembarom didn't tell stories or laugh at dinner that evening. He said
he had a headache. After dinner he bolted upstairs after Little Ann,
and caught her before she mounted to her upper floor.
"Will you come and save my life again?" he said. "I'm in the tightest
place I ever was in in my life."
"I'll do anything I can, Mr. Tembarom," she answered, and as his face
had grown flushed by this time she looked anxious. "You look
downright feverish."
"I've got chills as well as fever," he said. "It's the page. It seems
like I was going to fall down on it."
She turned back at once.
"No you won't, Mr. Tembarom," she said "I'm just right-down sure you
won't."
They went down to the parlor again, and though there were people in
it, they found a corner apart, and in less than ten minutes he had
told her what had happened.
She took the manuscript he handed to her.
"If I was well educated, I should know how to help you," she said,
"but I've only been to a common Manchester school. I don't know
anything about elegant language. What are these?" pointing to the
blue-pencil marks.
Tembarom explained, and she studied the blue slashes with serious
attention.
"Well," she said in a few minutes, laying the manuscript down, "I
should have cut those words out myself if--if you'd asked me which to
take away. They're too showy, Mr. Tembarom."
Tembarom whipped a pencil out of his pocket and held it out.
"Say," he put it to her, "would you take this and draw it through a
few of the other showy ones?"
"I should feel as if I was taking too much upon myself," she said. "I
don't know anything about it."
"You know a darned sight more than I do," Tembarom argued. "I didn't
know they were showy. I thought they were the kind you had to put in
newspaper stuff."
She held the sheets of paper on her knee, and bent her head over them.
Tembarom watched her dimples flash in and out as she worked away
like a child correcting an exercise. Presently he saw she was quite
absorbed. Sometimes she stopped and thought, pressing her lips
together; sometimes she changed a letter. There was no lightness in
her manner. A badly mutilated stocking would have claimed her
attention in the same way.
"I think I'd put 'house' there instead of 'mansion' if I were you,"
she suggested once.
"Put in a whole block of houses if you like," he answered gratefully.
"Whatever you say goes. I believe Galton would say the same thing."
She went over sheet after sheet, and though she knew nothing about it,
she cut out just what Galton would have cut out. She put the papers
together at last and gave them back to Tembarom, getting up from her
seat.
"I must go back to father now," she said. "I promised to make him a
good cup of coffee over the little oil-stove. If you'll come and
knock at the door I'll give you one. It will help you to keep fresh
while you work."
Tembarom did not go to bed at all that night, and he looked rather
fagged the next morning when he handed back the "stuff" entirely
rewritten. He swallowed several times quite hard as he waited for the
final verdict.
"You did catch on to what I didn't want," Galton said at last. "You
will catch on still more as you get used to the work. And you did get
the 'stuff,'"
"That--you mean--that goes?" Tembarom stammered.
"Yes, it goes," answered Galton. "You can turn it in. We'll try the
page for a month."
"Gee! Thank the Lord!" said Tembarom, and then he laughed an excited
boyish laugh, and the blood came back to his face. He had a whole
month before him, and if he had caught on as soon as this, a month
would teach him a lot.
He'd work like a dog.
He worked like a healthy young man impelled by a huge enthusiasm, and
seeing ahead of him something he had had no practical reason for
aspiring to. He went out in all weathers and stayed out to all hours.
Whatsoever rebuffs or difficulties he met with he never was even on
the verge of losing his nerve. He actually enjoyed himself
tremendously at times. He made friends; people began to like to see
him. The Munsbergs regarded him as an inspiration of their own.
"He seen my name over de store and come in here first time he vas
sent up dis vay to look for t'ings to write," Mr. Munsberg always
explained. "Ve vas awful busy--time of the Schwartz vedding, an' dere
vas dat blizzard. He owned up he vas new, an' vanted some vun vhat
knew to tell him vhat vas goin' on. 'Course I could do it. Me an' my
vife give him addresses an' a lot of items. He vorked 'em up good.
Dot up-town page is gettin' first-rate. He says he don' know vhat
he'd have done if he hadn't turned up here dot day."
Tembarom, having "caught on" to his fault of style, applied himself
with vigor to elimination. He kept his tame dictionary chained to the
leg of his table--an old kitchen table which Mrs. Bowse scrubbed and
put into his hall bedroom, overcrowding it greatly. He turned to
Little Ann at moments of desperate uncertainty, but he was man enough
to do his work himself. In glorious moments when he was rather sure
that Galton was far from unsatisfied with his progress, and Ann had
looked more than usually distracting in her aloof and sober
alluringness,-- it was her entire aloofness which so stirred his
blood,--he sometimes stopped scribbling and lost his head for a
minute or so, wondering if a fellow ever COULD "get away with it" to
the extent of making enough to--but he always pulled himself up in
time.
"Nice fool I look, thinking that way!" he would say to himself.
"She'd throw me down hard if she knew. But, my Lord! ain't she just a
peach!"
It was in the last week of the month of trial which was to decide the
permanency of the page that he came upon the man Mrs. Bowse's
boarders called his "Freak." He never called him a "freak" himself
even at the first. Even his somewhat undeveloped mind felt itself
confronted at the outset with something too abnormal and serious,
something with a suggestion of the weird and tragic in it.
In this wise it came about:
The week had begun with another blizzard, which after the second day
had suddenly changed its mind, and turned into sleet and rain which
filled the streets with melted snow, and made walking a fearsome
thing. Tembarom had plenty of walking to do. This week's page was his
great effort, and was to be a "dandy." Galton must be shown what
pertinacity could do.
"I'm going to get into it up to my neck, and then strike out," he
said at breakfast on Monday morning.
Thursday was his most strenuous day. The weather had decided to
change again, and gusts of sleet were being driven about, which added
cold to sloppiness. He had found it difficult to get hold of some
details he specially wanted. Two important and extremely good-looking
brides had refused to see him because Biker had enraged them in his
day. He had slighted the description of their dresses at a dance
where they had been the observed of all observers, and had worn
things brought from Paris. Tembarom had gone from house to house. He
had even searched out aunts whose favor he had won professionally. He
had appealed to his dressmaker, whose affection he had by that time
fully gained. She was doing work in the brides' houses, and could
make it clear that he would not call peau de cygne "Surah silk," nor
duchess lace "Baby Irish." But the young ladies enjoyed being
besought by a society page. It was something to discuss with one's
bridesmaids and friends, to protest that "those interviewers" give a
person no peace. "If you don't want to be in the papers, they'll put
you in whether you like it or not, however often you refuse them."
They kept Tembarom running about, they raised faint hopes, and then
went out when he called, leaving no messages, but allowing the
servant to hint that if he went up to Two Hundred and Seventy-fifth
Street he might chance to find them.
"All right," said Tembarom to the girl, delighting her by lifting his
hat genially as he turned to go down the steps. "I'll just keep going.
The Sunday Earth can't come out without those photographs in it. I
should lose my job."
When at last he ran the brides to cover it was not at Two Hundred and
Seventy-fifth Street, but in their own home, to which they had
finally returned. They had heard from the servant-girl about what the
young gentleman from the Sunday Earth had said, and they were
mollified by his proper appreciation of values. Tembarom's dressmaker
friend also proffered information.
"I know him myself," she said, "and he's a real nice gentle-manlike
young man. He's not a bit like Biker. He doesn't think he knows
everything. He came to me from Mrs. Munsberg, just to ask me the
names of fashionable materials. He said it was more important than a
man knew till he found out" Miss Stuntz chuckled.
"He asked me to lend him some bits of samples so he could learn them
off by heart, and know them when he saw them. He's got a pleasant
laugh; shows his teeth, and they're real pretty and white; and he
just laughed like a boy and said: 'These samples are my alphabet,
Miss Stuntz. I'm going to learn to read words of three syllables in
them.'"
When late in the evening Tembarom, being let out of the house after
his interview, turned down the steps again, he carried with him all
he had wanted--information and photographs, even added picturesque
details. He was prepared to hand in a fuller and better page than he
had ever handed in before. He was in as elated a frame of mind as a
young man can be when he is used up with tramping the streets, and
running after street-cars, to stand up in them and hang by a strap.
He had been wearing a new pair of boots, one of which rubbed his heel
and had ended by raising a blister worthy of attention. To reach the
nearest "L" station he must walk across town, through several
deserted streets in the first stages of being built up, their vacant
lots surrounded by high board fencing covered with huge advertising
posters. The hall bedroom, with the gas turned up and the cheap, red-
cotton comfort on the bed, made an alluring picture as he faced the
sleety wind.
"If I cut across to the avenue and catch the 'L,' I'm bound to get
there sometime, anyhow," he said as he braced himself and set out on
his way.
The blister on his heel had given him a good deal of trouble, and he
was obliged to stop a moment to ease it, and he limped when he began
to walk again. But he limped as fast as he could, while the sleety
rain beat in his face, across one street, down another for a block or
so, across another, the melting snow soaking even the new boots as he
splashed through it. He bent his head, however, and limped steadily.
At this end of the city many of the streets were only scantily built
up, and he was passing through one at the corner of which was a big
vacant lot. At the other corner a row of cheap houses which had only
reached their second story waited among piles of bricks and frozen
mortar for the return of the workmen the blizzard had dispersed. It
was a desolate-enough thoroughfare, and not a soul was in sight. The
vacant lot was fenced in with high boarding plastered over with
flaring sheets advertising whiskies, sauces, and theatrical ventures.
A huge picture of a dramatically interrupted wedding ceremony done in
reds and yellows, and announcing in large letters that Mr. Isaac
Simonson presented Miss Evangeline St. Clair in "Rent Asunder,"
occupied several yards of the boarding. As he reached it, the heel of
Tembarom's boot pressed, as it seemed to him, a red-hot coal on the
flesh. He had rubbed off the blister. He was obliged to stop a moment
again.
"Gee whizz!" he exclaimed through his teeth, "I shall have to take
my boot off and try to fix it."
To accomplish this he leaned against the boarding and Miss Evangeline
St. Clair being "Rent Asunder" in the midst of the wedding service.
He cautiously removed his boot, and finding a hole in his sock in the
place where the blister had rubbed off, he managed to protect the raw
spot by pulling the sock over it. Then he drew on his boot again.
"That'll be better," he said, with a long breath.
As he stood on his feet again he started involuntarily. This was not
because the blister had hurt him, but because he had heard behind him
a startling sound.
"What's that?" broke from him. "What's that?"
He turned and listened, feeling his heart give a quick thump. In the
darkness of the utterly empty street the thing was unnatural enough
to make any man jump. He had heard it between two gusts of wind, and
through another he heard it again - an uncanny, awful sobbing, broken
by a hopeless wail of words.
"I can't remember! I can't- remember! 0 my God !"
And it was not a woman's voice or a child's; it was a man's, and
there was an eerie sort of misery in it which made Tembarom feel
rather sick. He had never heard a man sobbing before. He belonged to
a class which had no time for sobs. This sounded ghastly.
"Good Lord!" he said, "the fellow's crying! A man!"
The sound came directly behind him. There was not a human being in
sight. Even policemen do not loiter in empty streets.
"Hello!" he cried. "Where are you?"
But the low, horrible sound went on, and no answer came. His physical
sense of the presence of the blister was blotted out by the abnormal
thrill of the moment. One had to find out about a thing like that-
one just had to. One could not go on and leave it behind
uninvestigated in the dark and emptiness of a street no one was
likely to pass through. He listened more intently. Yes, it was just
behind him.
"He's in the lot behind the fence," he said. "How did he get there?"
He began to walk along the boarding to find a gap. A few yards
farther on he came upon a broken place in the inclosure - a place
where boards had sagged until they fell down, or had perhaps been
pulled down by boys who wanted to get inside. He went through it, and
found lie was in the usual vacant lot long given up to rubbish. When
he stood still a moment he heard the sobbing again, and followed the
sound to the place behind the boarding against which he had supported
himself when he took off his boot.
A man was lying on the ground with his arms flung out. The street
lamp outside the boarding cast light enough to reveal him. Tembarom
felt as though he had suddenly found himself taking part in a
melodrama,-" The Streets of New York," for choice,-though no
melodrama had ever given him this slightly shaky feeling. But when a
fellow looked up against it as hard as this, what you had to do was
to hold your nerve and make him feel he was going to be helped. The
normal human thing spoke loud in him.
"Hello, old man!" he said with cheerful awkwardness. "What's hit you?"
The man started and scrambled to his feet as though he were
frightened. He was wet, unshaven, white and shuddering, piteous to
look at. He stared with wild eyes, his chest heaving.
"What's up?" said Tembarom.
The man's breath caught itself.
"I don't remember." There was a touch of horror in his voice, though
he was evidently making an effort to control him-self. "I can't - I
can't remember." "What's your name? You remember that?" Tembarom put
it to him.
"N-n-no !" agonizingly. "If I could! If I could!"
"How did you get in here?"
"I came in because I saw a policeman. He wouldn't understand. He
would have stopped me. I must not be stopped. I MUST not."
"Where were you going? " asked Tembarom, not knowing what else to say.
"Home! My God! man, home!" and he fell to shuddering again. He put
his arm against the boarding and dropped his head against it. The low,
hideous sobbing tore him again.
T. Tembarom could not stand it. In his newsboy days he had never been
able to stand starved dogs and homeless cats. Mrs. Bowse was taking
care of a wretched dog for him at the present moment. He had not
wanted the poor brute,--he was not particularly fond of dogs,-- but
it had followed him home, and after he had given it a bone or so, it
had licked its chops and turned up its eyes at him with such abject
appeal that he had not been able to turn it into the streets again.
He was unsentimental, but ruled by primitive emotions. Also he had a
sudden recollection of a night when as a little fellow he had gone
into a vacant lot and cried as like this as a child could. It was a
bad night when some "tough" big boys had turned him out of a warm
corner in a shed, and he had had nowhere to go, and being a friendly
little fellow, the unfriendliness had hit him hard. The boys had not
seen him crying, but he remembered it. He drew near, and put his hand
on the shaking shoulder.
"Say, don't do that," he said. "I'll help you to remember."
He scarcely knew why he said it. There was something in the situation
and in the man himself which was compelling. He was not of the tramp
order. His wet clothes had been decent, and his broken, terrified
voice was neither coarse nor nasal. He lifted his head and caught
Tembarom's arm, clutching it with desperate fingers.
"Could you?" he poured forth the words. "Could you? I'm not quite mad.
Something happened. If I could be quiet! Don't let them stop me! My
God! my God! my God! I can't say it. It's not far away, but it won't
come back. You're a good fellow; if you're human, help me! help me!
help me!" He clung to Tembarom with hands which shook; his eyes were
more abject than the starved dog's; he choked, and awful tears rolled
down his cheeks. "Only help me," he cried--"just help, help, help--
for a while. Perhaps not long. It would come back." He made a
horrible effort. "Listen! My name--I am--I am--it's--"
He was down on the ground again, groveling. His efforts had failed.
Tembarom, overwrought himself, caught at him and dragged him up.
"Make a fight," he said. "You can't lie down like that. You've got to
put up a fight. It'll come back. I tell you it will. You've had a
clip on the head or something. Let me call an ambulance and take you
to the hospital."
The next moment he was sorry he had said the words, the man's terror
was so ill to behold. He grew livid with it, and uttered a low animal
cry.
"Don't drop dead over it," said Tembarom, rather losing his head. "I
won't do it, though what in thunder I'm going to do with you I don't
know. You can't stay here."
"For God's sake!" said the man. "For God's sake!" He put his shaking
hand on Tembarom again, and looked at him with a bewildered scrutiny.
"I'm not afraid of you," he said; "I don't know why. There's
something all right about you. If you'll stand by me--you'd stand by
a man, I'd swear. Take me somewhere quiet. Let me get warm and think."
"The less you think now the better," answered Tembarom. "You want a
bed and a bath and a night's rest. I guess I've let myself in for it.
You brush off and brace yourself and come with me."
There was the hall bedroom and the red-cotton comfort for one night
at least, and Mrs. Bowse was a soft-hearted woman. If she'd heard the
fellow sobbing behind the fence, she'd have been in a worse fix than
he was. Women were kinder-hearted than men, anyhow. The way the
fellow's voice sounded when he said, "Help me, help me, help me!"
sounded as though he was in hell. "Made me feel as if I was bracing
up a chap that was going to be electrocuted," he thought, feeling
sickish again. "I've not got backbone enough to face that sort of
thing. Got to take him somewhere."
They were walking toward the "L" together, and he was wondering what
he should say to Mrs. Bowse when he saw his companion fumbling under
his coat at the back as though he was in search of something. His
hands being unsteady, it took him some moments to get at what he
wanted. He evidently had a belt or a hidden pocket. He got something
out and stopped under a street light to show it to Tembarom. His
hands still shook when he held them out, and his look was a curious,
puzzled, questioning one. What he passed over to Tembarom was a roll
of money. Tembarom rather lost his breath as he saw the number on two
five-hundred-dollar bills, and of several hundreds, besides twenties,
tens, and fives.
"Take it--keep it," he said. "It will pay."
"Hully gee!" cried Tembarom, aghast. "Don't go giving away your whole
pile to the first fellow you meet. I don't want it."
"Take it." The stranger put his hand on his shoulder, the abject look
in his eyes harrowingly like the starved dog's again.
"There's something all right about you. You'll help me."
"If I don't take it for you, some one will knock you upon the head
for it." Tembarom hesitated, but the next instant he stuffed it all
in his pocket, incited thereto by the sound of a whizzing roar.
"There's the 'L' coming," he cried; "run for all you're worth." And
they fled up the street and up the steps, and caught it without a
second to spare.
