V
SMOKE OF BATTLE
This befell during the period that Major Putnam Stone, at the age ofsixty-two, held a job as cub reporter on the Evening Press and worked atit until his supply of fine linen and the patience of City EditorWilbert Devore frazzled out practically together. The episode to which Iwould here direct attention came to pass in the middle of a particularlyhot week in the middle of that particularly hot and grubby summer, at atime when the major was still wearing the last limp survivor of his onceadequate stock of frill-bosomed, roll-collared shirts, and when Devore'sscanty stock of endurance had already worn perilously near the snappingpoint.
As may be recalled, Major Stone lived a life of comparative leisure fromthe day he came out of the Confederate army, a seasoned veteran, untilthe day he joined the staff of the Evening Press, a rank beginner; andof these two employments one lay a matter of four decades back in ahalf-forgotten past, while the other was of pressing moment, having todo with Major Stone's enjoyment of his daily bread and other elements ofnutrition regarded as essential to the sustenance of human life. In hismilitary career he might have been more or less of a success. Certainlyhe must have acquitted himself with some measure of personal credit; therank he had attained in the service and the standing he had subsequentlyenjoyed among his comrades abundantly testified to that.
As a reporter he was absolutely a total loss; for, as already set forthin some detail, he was hopelessly old-fashioned in thought andspeech--hopelessly old-fashioned and pedantic in his style of writing;and since his mind mainly concerned itself with retrospections upon thethings that happened between April, 1861, and May, 1865, he verynaturally--and very frequently--forgot that to a newspaper reporterevery day is a new day and a new beginning, and that yesterday always isor always should be ancient history, let alone the time-tarnishedyesterdays of forty-odd years ago. Indeed I doubt whether the major evercomprehended that first commandment of the prentice reporter'scatechism.
Devore, himself no grand and glittering success as a newspaper man,nevertheless had mighty little use for the pottering, ponderous oldmajor. Devore did not believe that bricks could be made without straw.He considered it a waste of time and raw material to try. Through thatsummer he kept the major on the payroll solely because the chief sowilled it. But, though he might not discharge the major, at least hecould bait him--and bait him Devore did--not, mind you, with words, butwith a silent, sublimated contempt more bitter and more biting than anywords.
So there, on the occasion in question, the situation stood--the majorhanging on tooth and nail to his small job, because he needed mostdesperately the twelve dollars a week it brought him; the city editorregarding him and all his manifold reportorial sins of omission,commission and remission with a corrosive, speechless venom; and therest of us in the city room divided in our sympathies as between thosetwo. We sympathized with Devore for having to carry so woful anincompetent upon his small and overworked crew; we sympathized with thekindly, gentle, tiresome old major for his bungling, vain attempts tocreditably cover the small and piddling assignments that came his way.
I remember the date mighty well--the third of July. For three days nowthe Democratic party, in national convention assembled at Chicago, hadbeen in the throes of labor. It had been expected--in fact had been asgood as promised--that by ten o'clock that evening the deadlock wouldmelt before a sweetly gushing freshet of party harmony and the head ofthe presidential ticket would be named, wherefore in the Evening Pressshop a late shift had stayed on duty to get out an extra. Back in thepress-room the press was dressed. A front page form was made up andready, all but the space where the name of the nominee would be insertedwhen the flash came; and in the alley outside a picked squad ofnewsboys, renowned for speed of the leg and carrying quality of thevoice, awaited their wares, meanwhile skylarking under the eye of acirculation manager.
Besides, there was no telling when an arrest might be made in theBullard murder case--that just by itself would provide ample excuse foran extra. Two days had passed and two nights since the killing ofAttorney-at-Law Rodney G. Bullard, and still the killing, to quote afavorite line of the local descriptive writers, "remained shrouded inimpenetrable mystery." If the police force, now busily engaged inrunning clues into theories and theories into the ground, should by anyblind chance of fortune be lucky enough to ascertain the identity andlay hands upon the person of Bullard's assassin, the whole town,regardless of the hour, would rise up out of bed to read the news of it.It was the biggest crime story that town had known for ten years; one ofthe biggest crime stories it had ever known.
In the end our waiting all went for nothing. There were no developmentsat Central Station or elsewhere in the Bullard case, and at Chicagothere was no nomination. At nine-thirty a bulletin came over our leasedwire saying that Tammany, having been beaten before the ResolutionsCommittee, was still battling on the floor for its candidate; so thatfinally the convention had adjourned until morning, and now thedelegates were streaming out of the hall, too tired to cheer and almosttoo tired to jeer--all of which was sad news to us, because it meantthat, instead of taking a holiday on the Fourth, we must work until noonat least, and very likely until later. Down that way the Fourth was notobserved with quite the firecrackery and skyrockety enthusiasm thatmarked its celebration in most of the states to the north of us;nevertheless, a day off was a day off and we were deeply disgusted atthe turn affairs had taken. It was almost enough to make a fellow feelfriendly toward the Republicans.
Following the tension there was a snapback; a feeling of languor anddisappointment possessed us. Devore slammed down the lid of his desk anddeparted, cursing the luck as he went. Harty, the telegraph editor, andWilbur, the telegraph operator, rolled down their shirtsleeves and,taking their coats over their arms, departed in company for Tony's placeup at the corner, where cool beers were to be found and electric fans,and a business men's lunch served at all hours.
That left in the city room four or five men. Sprawled upon batteredchairs and draped over battered desks, they inhaled the smells of rancidgreases that floated in to them from the back of the building; theycoddled their disappointment to keep it warm and they talked shop. Whenit comes to talking shop in season and out of season, neither stockactors nor hospital surgeons are worse offenders than newspaperreporters--especially young newspaper reporters, as all these men wereexcept only Major Stone.
It was inevitable that the talk should turn upon the Bullard murder, andthat the failure of the police force to find the killer or even to finda likely suspect should be the hinge for its turning. For the moment IkeWebb had the floor, expounding his own pet theories. Ike was a goodtalker--a mighty good reporter too, let me tell you. Across the roomfrom Ike, tilted back in a chair against the wall, sat the major,looking shabby and a bit forlorn. For a month now shabbiness had beenseizing on the major, spreading over him like a mildew. It started firstwith his shoes, which turned brown and then cracked across the toes, itextended to his hat, which sagged in its brim and became a moldy greenin its crown, and now it had touched his coat lapels, his waistcoatfront, his collar--his rolling Lord Byron collar--and his sleeve ends.
The major's harmlessly pompous manner was all gone from him that night.Of late his self-assurance had seemed to be fraying and frazzling away,along with those old-timey, full-bosomed shirts of which he had in timesgone by been so tremendously proud. It was as though the passing of theone marked the passing of the other--symbolic as you might say.Formerly, too, the major had also excelled mightily in miscellaneousconversation, dominating it by sheer weight of tediousness. Now he satsilent while these youngsters with their unthatched lips--born, most ofthem, after he reached middle age--babbled the jargon of their trade. Heconsidered a little ravelly strip along one of his cuffs solicitously.
Ike Webb was saying this--that the biggest thing in the whole createdworld was a big scoop--an exclusive, world-beating, bottled-up scoop ofa scoop. Nothing that could possibly come into a reporter's life wasone-half so big an
d so glorious and satisfying. He warmed to his theme:
"Gee! fellows, but wouldn't it be great to get a scoop on a thing likethis Bullard murder! Just suppose now that one of us, all by himself,found the person who did the shooting and got a full confession fromhim, whoever he was; and got the gun that it was done with--got thewhole thing--and then turned it loose all over the front page beforethat big stiff of a Chief Gotlieb down at Central Station knew a thingabout it. Beating the police to it would be the best part of that job.That's the way they do things in New York. In New York it's thenewspapers that do the real work on big murder mysteries, and the policetake their tips from them. Why, some of the best detectives in New Yorkare reporters. Look what they did in that Guldensuppe case! Look at whatthey've done in half a dozen other big cases! Down here we just followalong, like sheep, behind a bunch of fat-necked cops, taking theirleavings. Up there a paper turns a man loose, with an unlimited expenseaccount and all the time he needs, and tells him to go to it. That's theright way too!"
By that the others knew Ike Webb was thinking of what Vogel had toldhim. Vogel was a gifted but admittedly erratic genius from themetropolis who had come upon us as angels sometimes do--unawares--twoweeks before, with cinders in his ears and the grime of a dustyright-of-way upon his collar. He had worked for the sheet two weeks andthen, on a Saturday night, had borrowed what sums of small change hecould and under cover of friendly night had moved on to parts unknown,leaving us dazzled by the careless, somewhat patronizing brilliance ofhis manner, and stuffed to our earlobes with tales of the splendid,adventurous, bohemian lives that newspaper men in New York lived.
"Well, I know this," put in little Pinky Gilfoil, who was red-headed,red-freckled and red-tempered: "I'd give my right leg to pull off thatBullard story as a scoop. No, not my right leg--a reporter needs all thelegs he's got; but I'd give my right arm and throw in an eye for goodmeasure. It would be the making of a reporter in this town--he'd have'em all eating out of his hand after that." He licked his lips. Even thebare thought of the thing tasted pretty good to Pinky.
"Now you're whistling!" chimed Ike Webb. "The fellow who single-handedgot that tale would have a job on this paper as long as he lived. Thechief would just naturally have to hand him more money. In New York,though, he'd get a big cash bonus besides, an award they call it upthere. I'd go anywhere and do anything and take any kind of a chance toland that story as an exclusive--yes, or any other big story."
To all this the major, it appeared, had been listening, for now he spokeup in a pretty fair imitation of his old impressive manner:
"But, young gentlemen--pardon me--do you seriously think--any ofyou--that any honorarium, however large, should or could be sufficienttemptation to induce one in your--in our profession--to give utterancein print to a matter that he had learned, let us say, in confidence?And suppose also that by printing it he brought suffering or disgraceupon innocent parties. Unless one felt that he was serving the best endsof society--unless one, in short, were actuated by the highest of humanmotives--could one afford to do such a thing? And, under anycircumstances, could one violate a trust--could one violate the commonobligation of a gentleman's rules of deportment----"
"Major," broke in Ike Webb earnestly, "the way I look at it, a reportercan't afford too many of the luxuries you're mentioning. His duty, itseems to me, is to his paper first and the rest of the world afterward.His paper ought to be his mother and his father and all his family. Ifhe gets a big scoop--no matter how he gets it or where he gets it--heought to be able to figure out some way of getting it into print. It'snot alone what he owes his paper--it's what he owes himself. PersonallyI wouldn't be interested for a minute in bringing the person that killedRod Bullard to justice--that's not the point. He was a pretty shadyperson--Rod Bullard. By all accounts he got what was coming to him. It'sthe story itself that I'd want."
"Say, listen here, major," put in Pinky Gilfoil, suddenly possessed of astrengthening argument; "I reckon back yonder in the Civil War, when youall got the smoke of battle in your noses, you didn't stop to considerthat you were about to make a large crop of widows and orphans andcause suffering to a whole slue of innocent people that'd never done youany harm! You didn't stop then, did you? I'll bet you didn't--you justsailed in! It was your duty--the right thing to do--and you just wentand did it. 'War is hell!' Sherman said. Well, so is newspaper workhell--in a way. And smelling out a big story ought to be the same to areporter that the smoke of battle is to a soldier. That's right--I'llleave it to any fellow here if that ain't right!" he wound up,forgetting in his enthusiasm to be grammatical.
It was an unfortunate simile to be making and Pinky should have knownbetter, for at Pinky's last words the old major's mild eye widened and,expanding himself, he brought his chair legs down to the floor with athump.
"Ah, yes!" he said, and his voice took on still more of its old ringingquality. "Speaking of battles, I am just reminded, young gentlemen, thattomorrow is the anniversary of the fall of Vicksburg. ThoughNorthern-born, General Pemberton was a gallant officer--none of our ownSouthern leaders was more gallant--but it has always seemed to me thathis defense of Vicksburg was marked by a series of the most lamentableand disastrous mistakes. If you care to listen, I will explain further."And he squared himself forward, with one short, plump hand raised, readyto tick off his points against Pemberton upon his fingers.
By experience dearly bought at the expense of our ear-drums, the membersof the Evening Press staff knew what that meant; for as you alreadyknow, the major's conversational specialty was the Civil War--it and itscampaigns. Describing it, he made even war a commonplace and a tiresometopic. In his hands an account of the hardest fought battle became atremendously uninteresting thing. He weeded out all the thrills and intheir places planted hedges of dusty, deadly dry statistics. When themajor started on the war it was time to be going. One by one theyoungsters got up and slipped out. Presently the major, booming awaylike a bell buoy, became aware that his audience had dwindled. Only IkeWebb remained, and Ike was getting upon his feet and reaching for thepeg where his coat swung.
"I'm sorry to leave you right in the middle of your story, major; but,honestly, I've got to be going," apologized Ike. "Good night, and don'tforget this, major"--Ike had halted at the door--"when a big story comesyour way freeze to it with both hands and slam it across the plate as ascoop. Do that and you can give 'em all the laugh. Good night again--seeyou in the morning, major!"
He grinned to himself as he turned away. The major was a mighty decent,tender-hearted little old scout, a gentleman by birth and breeding,even if he was down and out and dog-poor. It was a shame that Devorekept him skittering round on little picayunish jobs--running errands,that was really what it was. Still, at that, the old major was noreporter and never would be. He wouldn't know a big story if he ran intoit on the big road--it would have to burst right in his face before herecognized it. And even then the chances were that he wouldn't know whatto do with it. It was enough to make a fellow grin.
Deserted by the last of his youthful compatriots--which was what hehimself generally called them--the major lingered a moment in heavythought. He glanced about the cluttered city room, now suddenly grownlarge and empty. This was the theater where his own little drama ofunfitness and failure and private mortification had been staged andacted. It had run nearly a month now, and a month is a long run for asmall tragedy in a newspaper office or anywhere else. He shook his head.He shook it as though he were trying to shake it clear of a job lot ofold-fashioned, antiquated ideals--as though he were trying to make roomfor newer, more useful, more modern conceptions. Then he settled hisaged and infirm slouch hat more firmly upon his round-domed skull,straightened his shoulders and stumped out.
At the second turning up the street from the office an observantonlooker might have noticed a small, an almost imperceptible change inthe old man's bearing. There was not a sneaky bone in the major'sbody--he walked as he thought and as he talked, in straight lines; butbefore he turned the corner he
glanced up and down the empty sidewalk ina quick, furtive fashion, and after he had swung into the side street atrifle of the steam seemed gone from his stiff-spined, hard-heeled gait.It ceased to be a strut; it became a plod.
The street he had now entered was a badly lighted street, with longstretches of murkiness between small patches of gas-lamped brilliance.By day the houses that walled it would have showed themselves as shabbyand gone to seed--the sort of houses that second cousins move into afterfirst families have moved out. Two-thirds of the way along the block themajor turned in at a sagged gate. He traversed a short walk of seamedand decrepit flagging, where tufts of rank grass sprouted between thefractures in the limestone slabs, and mounted the front porch of a housethat had cheap boarding house written all over it.
When the major opened the front door the tepid smell that gushed out togreet him was the smell of a cheap boarding house too, if you know whatI mean--a spilt-kerosene, boiled-cabbage, dust-in-the-corners smell.Once upon a time the oilcloth upon the floor of the entry way hadexhibited a vivid and violent pattern of green octagons upon a red andyellow background, but that had been in some far distant day of itsyouth and freshness. Now it was worn to a scaly, crumbly color ofnothing at all, and it was frayed into fringes at the door and in placesscuffed clear through, so that the knot-holes of the naked plankingshowed like staring eyes.
Standing just inside the hall, the major glanced down first at the floorand then up to where in a pendent nub a pinprick of light like a captivelightning-bug flickered up and down feebly as the air pumped through thepipe; and out of his chest the major fetched a small sigh. It was a sighof resignation, but it had loneliness in it too. Well, it was acome-down, after all these peaceful and congenial years spent among themarble-columned, red-plushed glories of the old Gaunt House, to beliving in this place.
The major had been here now almost a month. Very quietly, almostsecretly, he had come hither when he found that by no amount ofstretching could his pay as a reporter on the Evening Press be made tocover the cost of living as he had been accustomed to live prior to thatdisastrous day when the major waked up in the morning to find that allhis inherited investments had vanished over night--and, vanishing so,had taken with them the small but sufficient income that had always beenample for his needs.
In that month the major had seen but one or two of his fellow lodgers,slouching forms that passed him by in the gloom of the half-lightedhallways or on the creaky stairs. His landlady he saw but once aweek--on Saturday, which was settlement day. She was a forlorn, graycreature, half blind, and she felt her way about gropingly. By the droopin her spine and by the corners of her lips, permanently puckered fromholding pins in her mouth, a close observer would have guessed that shehad been a seamstress before her eyes gave out on her and she took tokeeping lodgers. Of the character of the establishment the innocent oldmajor knew nothing; he knew that it was cheap and that it was on a quietby-street, and for his purposes that was sufficient.
He heaved another small sigh and passed slowly up the worn steps of thestairwell until he came to the top of the house. His room was on theattic floor, the middle room of the three that lined the bare hall onone side. The door-knob was broken off; only its iron center remained.His fingers slipped as he fumbled for a purchase upon the metal core;but finally, after two attempts, he gripped it and it turned, admittinghim into the darkness of a stuffy interior. The major made haste to openthe one small window before he lit the single gas jet. Its guttery flareexposed a bed, with a thin mattress and a skimpy cover, shoved close upunder the sloping wall; a sprained chair on its last legs; an oldhorsehide trunk; a shaky washstand of cheap yellow pine, garnished forthwith an ewer and a basin; a limp, frayed towel; and a minute segment ofpale pink soap.
Major Stone was in the act of removing his coat when he became aware ofa certain sound, occurring at quick intervals. In the posture of a plumpand mature robin he cocked his head on one side to listen; and now heremembered that he had heard the same sound the night before, and thenight before that. These times, though, he had heard it intermittentlyand dimly, as he tossed about half awake and half asleep, trying toaccommodate his elderly bones to the irregularities of his hot anduncomfortable bed. But now he heard it more plainly, and at once herecognized it for what it was--the sound of a woman crying; a wrenchingsuccession of deep, racking gulps, and in between them little moaning,panting breaths, as of utter exhaustion--a sound such as might bedistilled from the very dregs of a grief too great to be borne.
He looked about him, his eyes and ears searching for further explanationof this. He had it. There was a door set in the cross-wall of hisroom--a door bolted and nailed up. It had a transom over it and againstthe dirty glass of the transom a light was reflected, and through thedoor and the transom the sound came. The person in trouble, whoever itmight be, was in that next room--and that person was a woman and she wasin dire distress. There was a compelling note in her sobbing.
Undecided, Major Stone stood a minute rubbing his nose pensively with asmall forefinger; then the resolution to act fastened upon him. Heslipped his coat back on, smoothed down his thin mane of reddish grayhair with his hands, stepped out into the hall and rapped delicatelywith a knuckled finger upon the door of the next room. There was noanswer, so he rapped a little harder; and at that a sob checked itselfand broke off chokingly in the throat that uttered it. From within avoice came. It was a shaken, tear-drained voice--flat and uncultivated.
"Who's there?" The major cleared his throat. "Is it a woman--or a man?"demanded the unseen speaker without waiting for an answer to the firstquestion.
"It is a gentleman," began the major--"a gentleman who----"
"Come on in!" she bade him--"the door ain't latched."
And at that the major turned the knob and looked into a room that waspractically a counterpart of his own, except that, instead of a trunk, acheap imitation-leather suitcase stood upright on the floor, its sidesbulging and strained from over-packing. Upon the bed, fully dressed,was stretched a woman--or, rather, a girl. Her head was just rising fromthe crumpled pillow and her eyes, red-rimmed and widely distended,stared full into his.
What she saw, as she sat up, was a short, elderly man with a solicitous,gentle face; the coat sleeves were turned back off his wrists and hislinen shirt jutted out between the unfastened upper buttons andbuttonholes of his waistcoat. What the major saw was a girl of perhapstwenty or maybe twenty-two--in her present state it was hard toguess--with hunched-in shoulders and dyed, stringy hair falling in astreaky disarray down over her face like unraveled hemp.
It was her face that told her story. Upon the drawn cheeks and thedrooped, woful lips there was no dabbing of cosmetics now; theprofessional smile, painted, pitiable and betraying, was lacking fromthe characterless mouth, yet the major--sweet-minded, clean-living oldman though he was--knew at a glance what manner of woman he had foundhere in this lodging house. It was the face of a woman who neverintentionally does any evil and yet rarely gets a chance to do anygood--a weak, indecisive, commonplace face; and every line in it was aline of least resistance.
That then was what these two saw in each other as they stared a momentacross the intervening space. It was the girl who took the initiative.
"Are you one of the police?" Then instantly on the heels of the query:"No; I know better'n that--you ain't no police!"
Her voice was unmusical, vulgar and husky from much weeping. Magically,though, she had checked her sobbing to an occasional hard gulp thatclicked down in her throat.
"No, ma'am," said Major Stone, with a grave and respectful courtesy, "Iam not connected with the police department. I am a professionalman--associated at this time with the practice of journalism. I have theapartment or chamber adjoining yours and, accidentally overhearing amember of the opposite sex in seeming distress, I took it upon myself tooffer any assistance that might lie within my power. If I am intruding Iwill withdraw."
"No," she said; "it ain't no intrusion. I wisht, please, sir, you'd comein jest a
minute anyway. I feel like I jest got to talk to somebody aminute. I'm sorry, though, if I disturbed you by my cryin'--but I jestcouldn't help it. Last night and the night before--that was the firstnight I come here--I cried all night purty near; but I kept my head inthe bedclothes. But tonight, after it got dark up here and me layin'here all alone, I felt as if I couldn't stand it no longer. Honest, Ilike to died! Right this minute I'm almost plum' distracted."
The major advanced a step.
"I assure you I deeply regret to learn of your unhappiness," he said."If you desire it I will be only too glad to summon our worthy landlady,Miss--Miss----" he paused.
"Miss La Mode," she said, divining--"Blanche La Mode--that's my name. Icome from Indianapolis, Indiana. But please, mister, don't call thatthere woman. I don't want to see her. For a while I didn't think Iwanted to see nobody, and yit I've known all along, from the very first,that sooner or later I'd jest naturally have to talk to somebody. I knewI'd jest have to!" she repeated with a kind of weak intensity. "And itmight jest as well be you as anybody, I guess."
She sat up on the side of the bed, dangling her feet, and subconsciouslythe major took in fuller details of her attire--the cheap white slipperswith rickety, worn-down high heels; the sleazy stockings; theover-decorated skirt of shabby blue cloth; the soiled and rumpled waistof coarse lace, gaping away from the scrawny neck, where the fasteningshad pulled awry. Looped about her throat and dangling down on her flatbreast, where they heaved up and down with her breathing, was a doublestring of pearls that would have been worth ten thousand dollars hadthey been genuine pearls. A hand which was big-knuckled and thin held asmall, moist wad of handkerchief. About her there was somethingunmistakably bucolic, and yet she was town-branded, too, flesh andsoul. Major Stone bowed with the ceremonious detail that was a part ofhim.
"My name, ma'am, is Stone--Major Putnam Stone, at your service," he toldher.
"Yes, sir," she said, seeming not to catch either his name or his title."Well, mister, I'm goin' to tell you something that'll maybe surpriseyou. I ain't goin' to ast you not to tell anybody, 'cause I guess youwill anyhow, sooner or later; and it don't make much difference if youdo. But seems's if I can't hold in no longer. I guess maybe I'll feeleasier in my own mind when I git it all told. Shet that door--jest closeit--the lock is broke--and set down in that chair, please, sir."
The major closed the latchless door and took the one tottery chair. Thegirl remained where she was, on the side of her bed, her slippered feetdangling, her eyes fixed on a spot where there was a three-corneredbreak in the dirty-gray plastering.
"You know about Rodney G. Bullard, the lawyer, don't you?--about himbein' found shot day before yistiddy evenin' in the mouth of thatalley?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Though I was not personally acquainted with theman himself, I am familiar with the circumstances you mention."
"Well," she said, with a sort of jerk behind each word, "it was me thatdone it!"
"I beg your pardon," he said, half doubting whether he had heardaright, "but what was it you said you did?"
"Shot him!" she answered--"I was the one that shot him--with this thinghere." She reached one hand under the pillow and drew out ashort-barreled, stubby revolver and extended it to him. Mechanically hetook it, and thereafter for a space he held it in his hands. The girlwent straight on, pouring out her sentences with a driven, desperateeagerness.
"I didn't mean to do it, though--God knows I didn't mean to do it! Hetreated me mighty sorry--it was lowdown and mean all the way through,the way he done me--but I didn't mean him no real harm. I was onlyaimin' to skeer him into doin' the right thing by me. It wasaccidental-like--it really was, mister! In all my life I ain't neverintentionally done nobody any harm. And yit it seems like somebody'sforever and a day imposin' on me!" She quavered with the puny passion ofher protest against the world that had bruised and beaten her as withrods.
Shocked, stunned, the major sat in a daze, making little clucking soundsin his throat. For once in his conversational life he couldn't think ofthe right words to say. He fumbled the short pistol in his hands.
"I WAS THE ONE THAT SHOT HIM--WITH THIS THING HERE."--_Page 164._]
"I'm goin' to tell you the whole story, jest like it was," she went onin her flat drone; and the words she spoke seemed to come to him from along way off. "That there Rodney Bullard he tricked me somethin'shameful. He come to the town where I was livin' to make a speech in apolitical race, and we got acquainted and he made up to me. I wasworkin' in a hotel there--one of the dinin' room help. That was twoyears ago this comin' September. Well, the next day, when he left, hegot me to come 'long with him. He said he'd look after me. I liked himsome then and he talked mighty big about what he was goin' to do for me;so I come with him. He told me that I could be his----" She hesitated.
"His amanuensis, perhaps," suggested the old man.
"Which?" she said. "No; it wasn't that way--he didn't say nothin' aboutmarryin' me and I didn't expect him to. He told me that I should be hisgirl--that was all; but he didn't keep his word--no, sir; right from thevery first he broke his word to me! It wasn't more'n a month after I gothere before he quit comin' to see me at all. Well, after that I stayed aspell longer at the house where I was livin' and then I went to anotherhouse--Vic Magner's. You know who she is, I reckin?"
The major half nodded, half shook his head.
"By reputation only I know the person in question," he answered a bitstiffly.
"Well," she went on, "there ain't so much more to tell. I've been sicklately--I had a right hard spell. I ain't got my strength all back yit.I was laid up three weeks, and last Monday, when I was up and jestbarely able to crawl round, Vic Magner, she come to me and told me thatI'd have to git out unless I could git somebody to stand good for myboard. I owed her for three weeks already and I didn't have but ninedollars to my name. I offered her that, but she said she wanted it allor nothin'. I think she wanted to git shet of me anyway. Mister, I wasmighty weak and discouraged--I was so! I didn't know what to do.
"I hadn't seen Rod Bullard for goin' on more than a year, but he was theonly one I could think of; so I slipped out of the house and went acrostthe street to a grocery store where there was a pay station, and Icalled him up on the telephone and ast him to help me out a little. Itwasn't no more than right that he should, was it, seein' as he wasresponsible for my comin' here? Besides, if it hadn't been for him inthe first place I wouldn't never 'a' got into all that trouble. I talkedwith him over the telephone at his office and he said he'd do somethin'for me. He said he'd send me some money that evenin' or else he'd bringit round himself. But he didn't do neither one. And Vic Magner, she kepton doggin' after me for her board money.
"I telephoned him again the next mornin'; but before I could say more'ntwo words to him he got mad and told me to quit botherin' him, and herung off. That was day before yistiddy. When I got back to the house VicMagner come to me, and I couldn't give her no satisfaction. So about sixo'clock in the evenin' she made me pack up and git out. I didn't havenowheres to go and only eight dollars and ninety cents left--I'd spent adime telephoning so, before I got out I took and wrote Rod Bullard anote, and when I got outside I give a little nigger boy fifteen cents totake it to him. I told him in the note I was out in the street, withoutnowheres to go, and that if he didn't meet me that night and dosomethin' for me I'd jest have to come to his office. I said for him tomeet me at eight o'clock at the mouth of Grayson Street Alley. That giveme two hours to wait. I walked round and round, packin' my baggage.
"Then I come by a pawnstore and seen a lot of pistols in the window, andI went in and I bought one for two dollars and a half. The pawnstore manhe throwed in the shells. But I wasn't aimin' to hurt Rod Bullard--jestto skeer him. I was thinkin' some of killin' myself too. Then I walkedround some more till I was plum' wore out.
"When eight o'clock come I was waitin' where I said, and purty soon hecome along. As soon as he saw me standin' there in the shadder he bulgedup to me. He was mighty
mad. He called me out of my name and said Ididn't have no claims on him--a whole lot more like that--and said hedidn't purpose to be bothered with me phonin' him and writin' him notesand callin' on him for money. I said somethin' back, and then he madelike he was goin' to hit me with his fist. I'd had that pistol in myhand all the time, holdin' it behind my skirt. And I pulled it and Ipointed it like I was goin' to shoot--jest to skeer him, though, andmake him do the right thing by me. I jest simply pointed it athim--that's all. I didn't have no idea it would go off without youpulled the hammer back first!
"Then it happened! It went off right in my hand. And he said to me: 'Nowyou've done it!'--jest like that. He walked away from me about ten feet,and started to lean up against a tree, and then he fell down right smackon his face. And I grabbed up my baggage and run away. I wasn't sorryabout him. I ain't been sorry about him a minute since--ain't thatfunny? But I was awful skeered!"
Rocking her body back and forth from the hips, she put her hands up toher face. Major Stone stared at her, his mind in a twisting eddy ofconfused thoughts. Perhaps it was the clearest possible betrayal of hisutter unfitness for his new vocation in life that not until that verymoment when the girl had halted her narrative did it come to him--and itcame then with a sudden jolt--that here he had one of those monumentalnews stories for which young Gilfoil or young Webb would be willing tobarter his right arm and throw in an eye for good measure. It was ascoop, as those young fellows had called it--an exclusive confession ofa big crime--a thing that would mean much to any paper and to anyreporter who brought it to his paper. It would transform a failure intoa conspicuous success. It would put more money into a pay envelope. Andhe had it all! Sheer luck had brought it to him and flung it into hislap.
Nor was he under any actual pledge of secrecy. This girl had told it tohim freely, of her own volition. It was not in the nature of her to keepher secret. She had told it to him, a stranger; she would tell it toother strangers--or else somebody would betray her. And surely thissickly, slack-twisted little wanton would be better off inside thestrong arm of the law than outside it? No jury of Southern men wouldconvict her of murder--the thought was incredible. She would be kindlydealt with. In one illuminating flash the major divined that these wouldhave been the inevitable conclusions of any one of those ambitious youngmen at the office. He bent forward.
"What did you do then, ma'am?" he asked.
"I didn't know what to do," she said, dropping her hands into her lap."I run till I couldn't run no more, and then I walked and walked andwalked. I reckin I must 'a' walked ten miles. And then, when I was jestabout to drop, I come past this house. There was a light burnin' on theporch and I could make out to read the sign on the door, and it saidLodgers Taken.
"So I walked in and rung the bell, and when the woman came I said I'djest got here from the country and wanted a room. She charged me twodollars a week, in advance; and I paid her two dollars down--and sheshowed me the way up here.
"I've been here ever since, except twice when I slipped out to buy mesomethin' to eat at a grocery store and to git some newspapers. At firstI figgered the police would be a-comin' after me; but they didn't--therewasn't nobody at all seen the shootin', I reckin. And I was skeered VicMagner might tell on me; but I guess she didn't want to run no risk ofgittin' in trouble herself--that Captain Brennan, of the SecondPrecinct, he's been threatenin' to run her out of town the first goodchance he got. And there wasn't none of the other girls there thatknowed I ever knew Rod Bullard. So, you see, I ain't been arrested yit.
"Layin' here yistiddy all day, with nothin' to do but think and cry, Imade up my mind I'd kill myself. I tried to do it. I took that therepistol out and I put it up to my head and I said to myself that all Ihad to do was jest to pull on that trigger thing and it wouldn't hurtme but a secont--and maybe not that long. But I couldn't do it,mister--I jest couldn't do it at all. It seemed like I wanted to die,and yit I wanted to live too. All my life I've been jest that way--firstthinkin' about doin' one thing and then another, and hardly ever doin'either one of 'em.
"Here on this bed tonight I got to thinkin' if I could jest tellsomebody about it that maybe after that I'd feel easier in my mind. Andright that very minute you come and knocked on the door, and I knowed itwas a sign--I knowed you was the one for me to tell it to. And so I'vedone it, and already I think I feel a little bit easier in my mind. Andso that's all, mister. But I wisht please you'd take that pistol awaywith you when you go--I don't never want to see it again as long as Ilive."
She paused, huddling herself in a heap upon the bed. The major's shortarm made a gesture toward the cheap suitcase.
"I observe," he said, "that your portmanteau is packed as if for ajourney. Were you thinking of leaving, may I ask?"
"My which?" she said. "Oh, you mean my baggage! Yes; I ain't neverunpacked it since I come here. I was aimin' to go back to my home--I gota stepsister livin' there and she might take me in--only after payin'for this room I ain't got quite enough money to take me there; and now Idon't know as I want to go, either. If I kin git my strength back Imight stay on here--I kind of like city life. Or I might go up toCincinnati. A girl that I used to know here is livin' there now and shewrote to me a couple of times, and I know her address--it was backed onthe envelope. Still, I ain't sure--my plans ain't all made yit.Sometimes I think I'll give myself up, but most generally I think Iwon't. I've got to do somethin' purty soon though, one way or another,because I ain't got but a little over three dollars left out of what Ihad."
She sank her head in the pillow wearily, with her face turned away fromhim. The major stood up. Into his side coat pocket he slipped therevolver that had snuffed out the late and unsavory Rodney Bullard'slight of life, and from his trousers pocket he slowly drew forth hissupply of ready money. He had three silver dollars, one quarter, onedime, and a nickel--three-forty in all. Contemplating the disks of metalin the palm of his hand, he did a quick sum in mental arithmetic. Thiswas Thursday night now. Saturday afternoon at two he would draw a payenvelope containing twelve dollars. Meantime he must eat. Well, if hestinted himself closely a dollar might be stretched to bridge the gapuntil Saturday. The major had learned a good deal about the noble art ofstinting these last few weeks.
On the coverlet alongside the girl he softly piled two of the silverdollars and the forty cents in change. Then, after a momentaryhesitation, he put down the third silver dollar, gathered up the fortycents, slid it gently into his pocket and started for the door, theloose planks creaking under his tread. At the threshold he halted.
"Good night, Miss La Mode," he said. "I trust your night's repose may berestful and refreshing to you, ma'am."
She lifted her face from the pillow and spoke, without turning to lookat him.
"Mister," she said, "I've told you the whole truth about that thing andI ain't goin' to lie to you about anythin' else. I didn't come fromIndianapolis, Indiana, like I told you. My home is in Swainboro', thisstate--a little town. You might know where it is? And my real name ain'tLa Mode, neither. I taken it out of a book--the La Mode part--and Ialways did think Blanche was an awful sweet name for a girl. But my realname is Gussie Stammer. Good night, mister. I'm much obliged to you ferlistenin', and I ain't goin' to disturb you no more with my cryin' if Ikin help it."
As the major gently closed her door behind him he heard her give a long,sleepy sigh, like a tired child. Back in his own room he glanced abouthim, meanwhile feeling himself over for writing material. He found inhis pockets a pencil and a couple of old letters, whereas he knew heneeded a big sheaf of copy paper for the story he had to write. Anyway,there was no place here to do an extended piece of writing--no desk andno comfortable chair. The office would be a much better place.
The office was only a matter of two or three blocks away. The negrowatchman would be there; he stayed on duty all night. Using the cornerof his washstand for a desk, the major set down his notes--names,places, details, dates--upon the backs of his two letters. This done, hesettled his ancient hat on his head, pi
cked up his cane, and in anotherminute was tiptoeing down the stairs and out the front doorway. Onceoutside, his tread took on the brisk emphasis of one set upon animportant task and in a hurry to do it.
* * * * *
Ten minutes later Major Stone sat at his desk in the empty city room ofthe Evening Press. Except for Henry, the old black night watchman, therewas no other person in the building anywhere. Just over his head anincandescent bulb blazed, bringing out in strong relief the major'sintent old face, mullioned with crisscross lines. A cedar pencil, newlysharpened, was in his fingers; under his right hand was a block of cleancopy paper. His notes lay in front of him, the little stubnosed pistolserving as a paper weight to hold the two wrinkled envelopes flat.Through the loop of the trigger guard the words, Gussie Stammer, aliasBlanche La Mode, showed. Everything was ready.
The major hesitated, though. He readjusted his paper and fidgeted hispencil. He scratched his head and pulled at the little tuft of goateeunder his lower lip. Like many a more experienced author, Major Stonewas having trouble getting under way. He had his own ideas about afitting introductory paragraph. Coming along, he had thought up a fullsonorous one, with a biblical injunction touching on the wages of sinembodied in it; but, on the other hand, there was to be borne in mindthe daily-dinned injunction of Devore that every important news itemshould begin with a sentence in which the whole story was summed up.Finally Major Stone made a beginning. He covered nearly a sheet ofpaper.
Then, becoming suddenly dissatisfied with it, he tore up what he hadwritten and started all over again, only to repeat the same operation.Two salty drops rolled down his face and fell upon the paper, andinstantly little twin blistered blobs like tearmarks appeared on itsclear surface. They were not tears, though--they were drops of sweatwrung from the major's brow by the pains of creation. Again he poisedhis pencil and again he halted it in the air--he needed inspiration. Hisgaze rested absently upon the pistol; absently he picked it up and beganexamining it.
It was a cheap, rusted, second-hand thing, poorly made, but no doubtdeadly enough at close range. He unbreeched it and spun the cylinderwith his thumb and spilled the contents into his palm--four loadedshells, suety and slick with grease, and one that had been recentlyfired; and it was discolored and flattened a trifle. Each of the fourloaded shells had a small cap like a little round staring eye set in theexact center of its flanged butt-end, but the eye of the fifth shell waspunched in. He turned the empty weapon in his hands, steadying itsmechanism, and as he did so a scent of burnt powder, stale and dead,came to him out of the fouled muzzle. He wrinkled his nose and sniffedat it.
It had been many a long day since the major had had that smell in hisnostrils--many a long, long day. But there had been a time when it wasfamiliar enough to him. Even now it brought the clamoring memories ofthat far distant time back to him, fresh and vivid. It stimulated hisimagination, quickening his mind with big thoughts. It recalled thosefour years when he had fought for a principle, and had kept on fightingeven when the substance of the thing he fought for was gone and thereremained but the empty husks. It recalled those last few hopeless monthswhen the forlorn hope had become indeed a lost cause; when the fortycents he now carried in his pocket would have seemed a fortune; when thesorry house where he lodged now would have seemed a palace; when,without prospect or hope of reward or victory, he had piled risk uponrisk, had piled sacrifice upon sacrifice, and through it all had borneit all without whimper or complaint--fighting the good fight like asoldier, keeping the faith like a gentleman. It was the Smoke of Battle!
The major had his inspiration now, right enough. He knew just what hewould write; knew just how he would write it. He laid down the pistoland the shells and squared off and straightway began writing. For twohours nearly he wrote away steadily, rarely changing or erasing a word,stopping only to repoint the lead of his pencil. Methodically as amachine he covered sheet after sheet with his fine old-fashioned script.Never for one instant did he hesitate or falter.
Just before one o'clock he finished. The completed manuscript, each pageof the twenty-odd pages properly numbered, lay in a neat pile beforehim. He scooped up the pistol shells and stored them in an inner breastpocket of his coat; then he opened a drawer, slipped the emptiedrevolver well back under a riffle of papers and clippings and closed thedrawer and locked it. His notes he tore into squares, and those squaresinto smaller squares--and so on until the fragments would tear no finer,but fluttered out between his fingers in a small white shower like stagesnow.
He shoved his completed narrative back under the roll-top of Devore'sdesk, where the city editor would see it the very first thing when hecame to work; and as he straightened up with a little grunt ofsatisfaction and stretched his arms out the last of his fine-linenshirts, with a rending sound, ripped down the plaited front, fromcollarband almost to waistline.
He eyed the ruined bosom with a regretful stare, plucking at the gapingtear with his graphite-dusted fingers and shaking his head mournfully.Yet as he stepped out into the street, bound for his lodgings, he jarredhis heels down upon the sidewalk with the brisk, snapping gait of a manwho has tackled a hard job and has done it well, and is satisfied withthe way he has done it.
* * * * *
Under a large black head the major's story was printed in the Fourth ofJuly edition of the Evening Press. It ran full two columns and lappedover into a third column. It was an exhaustive--and exhausting--accountof the Fall of Vicksburg.
The Escape of Mr. Trimm Page 5
