“Sho!” laughed the widow. “Ef I’se in you place, Miz Mo’ton, an’ you’s in mine, dat money sho’lly, sho’lly nevah would be los’, indeed hit wouldn’t. I dass go in t’ de do’ an’ tu’n right ’roun’ back ag’in an’ go down to dat gyahd an’ say de Dutch gal ’ceive de message wid de bes’ er ’bligin’ politeness an’ sent her kine regyahds to de Dago man an’ all inquirin’ frien’s, an’ hope de Dago man soon come an’ git ’er. To-morrer de same, nex’ day de same—”
“Lawd, ef dat ain’t de beatenest!” cried Mrs. Morton delightedly. “Well, honey, I thank you long as I live, ’cause I nevah’d a wuk dat out by myself in de livin’ worl’, an’ I sho does needs de money. I’m goin’ do exackly dass de way you say. Dat man he ain’ goin’ know no diffunce till he git out—an’ den, honey,” she let loose upon the quiet air a sudden, great salvo of laughter, “dass let him fine Lize Mo’ton!”
Bertha went to live in the tiny room with the canary bird and the engraving of the “Rock of Ages.” This was putting lime to the canker, but, somehow, she felt that she could go to no other place. She told the landlady that her young man had not done so well in business as they had expected, and had sought work in another city. He would come back, she said.
She woke from troubled dreams each morning to stifle her sobbing in the pillow. “Ach, Toby, coultn’t you sented me yoost one word, you might sented me yoost one word, yoost one, to tell me what has happened mit you! Ach, Toby, Toby!”
The canary sang happily; she loved it and tended it, and the gay little prisoner tried to reward her by the most marvellous trilling in his power, but her heart was the sorer for every song.
After a time she went back drearily to the kraut-smelling restaurant, to the work she had thought to leave forever, that day when Toby had not come for her. She went out twenty times every morning, and oftener as it wore on towards evening, to look at his closed stand, always with a choking hope in her heart, always to drag leaden feet back into the restaurant. Several times, her breath failing for shame, she approached Italians in the street, or where there was one to be found at a stand of any sort she stopped and made a purchase, and asked for some word of Toby—without result, always. She knew no other way to seek for him.
One day, as she trudged homeward, two coloured women met on the pavement in front of her, exchanged greetings, and continued for a little way together.
“How you enjoyin’ you’ money, dese fine days, Miz Mo’ton?” inquired one, with a laugh that attested to the richness of the joke between the two.
“Law, honey,” answered the other, “dat good luck di’n’ las’ ve’y long. Dey done shut off my supplies.”
“No!”
“Yas’m, dey sho did. Dat man done tuck de smallpox; all on ’em ketched it, ev’y las’ one, off’n dat no ’count Joe Cribbins, an’ now dat dey got de new pes’-house finish’, dey haul ’em off yon’eh, yas’day. Reckon dat ain’ make no diffunce in my urrant runnin’. Dat Dago man, he outer he hade two day fo’ dey haul ’em away, an’ ain’ sen’ no mo’ messages. So dat spile my job! Hit dass my luck. Dey’s sho’ a voodoo on Lize Mo’ton!”
Bertha, catching but fragments of this conversation, had no realization that it bore in any way upon the mystery of Toby; and she stumbled homeward through the twilight with her tired eyes on the ground.
When she opened the door of the tiny room, the landlady’s lean black cat ran out surreptitiously. The bird-cage lay on the floor, upside down, and of its jovial little inhabitant the tokens were a few yellow feathers.
Bertha did not know until a month after, when Leo Vesschi found her at the restaurant and told her, that out in the new pest-house, that other songster and prisoner, the gay little chestnut vender, Pietro Tobigli, had called lamentably upon the name of his God and upon “Libra Ogostine,” and now lay still forever, with the corduroy waistcoat and its precious burden tightly clenched to his breast. Even in his delirium they had been unable to coax or force him to part from it for a second.
The Need of Money
* * *
FAR BACK in his corner on the Democratic side of the House, Uncle Billy Rollinson sat through the dragging routine of the legislative session, wondering what most of it meant. When anybody spoke to him, in passing, he would answer, in his gentle, timid voice, “Howdy-do, sir.” Then his cheeks would grow a little red and he would stroke his long, white beard elaborately, to cover his embarrassment. When a vote was taken, his name was called toward the last of the roll, so that he had ample time, after the leader of his side of the House, young Hurlbut, had voted, to clear his throat several times and say “Aye” or “No” in quite a firm voice. But the instant the word had left his lips he found himself terribly frightened, and stroked his beard a great many times, the while he stared seriously up at the ceiling, partly to avoid meeting anybody’s eye, and partly in the belief that it concealed his agitation and gave him the air of knowing what he was about. Usually he did not know, any more than he knew how he had happened to be sent to the legislature by his county. But he liked it. He liked the feeling of being a person to be considered; he liked to think that he was making the laws of his State. He liked the handsome desk and the easy leather chair; he liked the row of fat, expensive volumes, the unlimited stationery, and the free penknives which were furnished him. He enjoyed the attentions of the coloured men in the cloak-room, who brushed him ostentatiously and always called him (and the other Representatives) “Senator,” to make up to themselves for the airs which the janitors of the “Upper House” assumed. Most of these things surprised him; he had not expected to be treated with such liberality by the State and never realized that he and his colleagues were treating themselves to all these things at the expense of the people, and so, although he bore off as much note-paper as he could carry, now and then, to send to his son, Henry, he was horrified and dumbfounded when the bill was proposed appropriating $135,000 for the expenses of the seventy days’ session of the legislature.
He was surprised to find that among his “perquisites” were passes (good during the session) on all the railroads that entered the State, and others for use on many inter-urban trolley lines. These, he thought, might be gratifying to Henry, who was fond of travel, and had often been unhappy when his father failed to scrape up enough money to send him to a circus in the next county. It was “very accommodating of the railroads,” Uncle Billy thought, to maintain this pleasant custom, because the members’ travelling expenses were paid by the State just the same; hence the economical could “draw their mileage” at the Treasurer’s office, and add it to their salaries. He heard—only vaguely understanding—many joking references to other ways of adding to salaries.
Most of the members of his party had taken rooms at one of the hotels, whither those who had sought cheaper apartments repaired in the evening, when the place became a noisy and crowded club, admission to which was not by card. Most of the rougher man-to-man lobbying was done here; and at times it was Babel.
Through the crowds Uncle Billy wandered shyly, stroking his beard and saying, “Howdy-do, sir,” in his gentle voice, getting out of the way of people who hurried, and in great trouble of mind if any one asked him how he intended to vote upon a bill. When this happened he looked at the interrogator in the plaintive way which was his habit, and answered slowly: “I reckon I’ll have to think it over.” He was not in Hurlbut’s councils.
There was much bustle all about him, but he was not part of it. The newspaper reporters remarked the quiet, inoffensive old figure pottering about aimlessly on the outskirts of the crowd, and thought Uncle Billy as lonely as a man might well be, for he seemed less a part of the political arrangement than any member they had ever seen. He would have looked less lonely and more in place trudging alone through the furrows of his home fields in a wintry twilight.
And yet, everybody liked the old man, Hurlbut in particular, if Uncle Billy had known it; for Hurlbut watched t
he votes very closely and was often struck by the soundness of Representative Rollinson’s intelligence in voting.
In return, Uncle Billy liked Hurlbut better than any other man he had ever known—except Henry, of course. On the first day of the session, when the young leader had been pointed out to him, Uncle Billy’s humble soul was prostrate with admiration, and when Hurlbut led the first attack on the monopolistic tendencies of the Republican party, Representative Rollinson, chuckling in his beard at the handsome youth’s audacity, himself dared so greatly as to clap his hands aloud. Hurlbut, on the floor, was always a storm centre: tall, dramatic, bold, the members put down their newspapers whenever his strong voice was heard demanding recognition, and his “Mr. Speaker!” was like the first rumble of thunder. The tempest nearly always followed, and there were times when it threatened to become more than vocal; when, all order lost, nine-tenths of the men on the other side of the House were on their feet shouting jeers and denunciations, and the orator faced them, out-thundering them all, with his own cohorts, flushed and cheering, gathered round him. Then, indeed, Uncle Billy would have thought him a god, if he had known what a god was.
Sometimes Uncle Billy saw him in the hotel lobby, but he seemed always to be making for the elevator in a hurry, with half-a-dozen people trying to detain him, or descending momentarily from the stairway for a quick, sharp talk with one or two members, their heads close together, after which Hurlbut would dart upward again.
Sometimes the old man sat down at one of the writing tables, in a corner of the lobby, and, annexing a sheet of the hotel note-paper, “wrote home” to Henry. He sat with his head bent far over, the broad brim of his felt hat now and then touching the hand with which he kept the paper from sliding; and he pressed diligently upon his pen, usually breaking it before the letter was finished. He looked so like a man bent upon concealment that the reporters were wont to say: “There’s Uncle Billy humped up over his guilty secret again.”
The secret usually took this form:
Dear Son Henry:
I would be glad if you was here. There is big doings. Hurlbut give it to them to-day. He don’t give the Republicans no rest. he lights into them like sixty you would like to see him. They are plenty nice fellows in the Republicans too but they lay mighty low when Hurlbut gets after them. He was just in the office but went out. He always has a segar in his mouth but not lit. I expect hes quit. I send you enclosed last week’s salary all but $11.80 which I had to use as living is pretty high in our capital city of the state. If you would like some of this hotel writing paper better than the kind I sent you of the General Assembly I can send you some the boys say it is free. I think it is all right you sold the calf but Wilkes didn’t give you good price. Hurlbut come in while I was writing then. You bet he can always count on Wm. Rollinson’s vote.
Well I must draw to a close, Yours truly
Your father.
“Wm. Rollinson” did not know that he was known to his colleagues and the lobby and the Press as “Uncle Billy” until informed thereof by a public print. He stood, one night, on the edge of a laughing group, when a reporter turned to him and said:
“The Constellation would like to know Representative Rollinson’s opinion of the scandalous story that has just been told.”
The old man, who had not in the least understood the story, summoned all his faculties, and, after long deliberation, bent his plaintive eyes upon the youth and replied:
“Well, sir, it’s a-stonishing, a-stonishing!”
“Think it’s pretty bad, do you?”
Some of the crowd turned to listen, and the old fellow, hopelessly puzzled, stroked his beard with a trembling hand, and then, muttering, “Well, young man, I expect you better excuse me,” hurried away and left the place. The next morning he found the following item tacked to the tail of the “Legislative Gossip” column of the Constellation:
UNCLE BILLY ROLLINSON HORRIFIED
Yesterday a curious and amusing story was current among the solons at the Nagmore Hotel. It seems that the wife of a country member of the last legislature had been spending the day at the hotel and the wife of a present member from the country complained to her of the greatly increased expenditure appertaining to the cost of living in the Capital City. “Indeed,” replied the wife of the former member, “that is curious. But I suppose my husband is much more economical than yours, for he brought home $1.500, that he’d saved out of his salary.” As the salary is only $456, and the gentleman in question did not play poker, much hilarity was indulged in, and there were conjectures that the economy referred to concerned his vote upon a certain bill before the last session, anent which the lobby pushing it were far from economical. Uncle Billy Rollinson, the Gentleman from Wixinockee, heard the story, as it passed from mouth to mouth, but he had no laughter to greet it. Uncle Billy, as every one who comes in contact with him knows, is as honest as the day is long, and the story grieved and shocked him. He expressed the utmost horror and consternation, and requested to be excused from speaking further upon a subject so repugnant to his feelings. If there were more men of this stamp in politics, who find corruption revolting instead of amusing, our legislatures would enjoy a better fame.
Uncle Billy had always been agitated by the sight of his name in print. Even in the Wixinockee County Clarion, it dumbfounded him and gave him a strange feeling that it must mean somebody else, but this sudden blaze of metropolitan fame made him almost giddy. He folded the paper quickly and placed it under his coat, feeling vaguely that it would not do to be seen reading it. He murmured feeble answers during the day, when some of his colleagues referred to it; but when he reached his own little room that evening, he spread it out under his oil-smelling lamp and read it again. Perhaps he read it twenty times over before the supper bell rang. Perhaps the fact that he was still intent upon it accounted for his not hearing the bell, so that his landlady had to call him.
What he liked was the phrase: “Honest as the day is long.” He did not go to the hotel that night. He went back to his room and read the Constellation. He liked the Constellation. Newspapers were very kind, he thought. Now and then, he would pick up his pile of legislative bills and try to spell through the ponderous sentences, but he always gave it up and went back to the Constellation. He wondered if Hurlbut had read it. Hurlbut had. The leader had even told the author of the item that he was glad somebody could appreciate the kind of a man Uncle Billy was, and his value to the body politic.
“Honest as the day is long,” Uncle Billy repeated to himself, in the little room, nodding his head gravely. Then he thought for a long while about the member who had, according to the story, gone home with $1,500. He sat up, that evening, until almost ten o’clock. Even after he had gone to bed, he lay awake with his eyes wide open in the darkness, thinking of the colossal sum. If anybody should come to him and offer him all that money to vote a certain way upon a bill, he believed he would not take it, for that would be bribery; though Henry would be glad to have the money. Henry always needed money; sometimes the need was imperative—once, indeed, so imperative that the small, unfertile farm had been mortgaged beyond its value, otherwise very serious things must have happened to Henry. Uncle Billy wondered how offers of money to members were refused without hurting the intending donor’s feelings. And what a great deal could be done with $1,500, if a member could get it and still be as honest as the day is long!
About the second month of the session the floor of the House began steadily to grow more and more tumultuous. To an unpolitical onlooker, leaning over the gallery rail, it was often an incomprehensible Bedlam, or perhaps one might have been reminded of an ant-heap by the hurry and scurry and life and death haste in a hundred directions at once, quite without any distinguishable purpose. Twenty men might be rampaging up and down the aisles, all shouting, some of them furiously, others with a determination that was deadly, all with arms waving at the Speaker, some of the hands clenched, so
me of them fluttering documents, while pages ran everywhere in mad haste, stumbling and falling in the aisles. In the midst of this, other members, seated, wrote studiously; others mildly read newspapers; others lounged, half-standing against their desks, unlighted cigars in their mouths, laughing; all the while the patient Speaker tapped with his gavel on a small square of marble. Suddenly perfect calm would come and the voice of the reading clerk drone for half an hour or more, like a single bee in a country garden on Sunday morning.
Of all this Uncle Billy was as much a layman spectator as any tramp who crept into the gallery for a few hours out of the cold. The hurry and seethe of the racing sea touched him not at all, except to bewilderment, while he was carried with it, unknowing, toward the breakers. The shout of those breakers was already in the ears of many, for the crisis of the session was coming. This was the fight that was to be made on Hurlbut’s “Railroad Bill,” which was, indeed, but in another sense, known as the “Breaker.”
Uncle Billy had heard of the “Breaker.” He couldn’t have helped that. He had heard a dozen say: “Then’s when it’s going to be warm times, when that ‘Breaker’ comes up!” or, “Look out for that ‘Breaker.’ We’re going to have big trouble.” He knew, too, that Hurlbut was interested in the “Breaker,” but upon which side he was for a long time ignorant.
Hurlbut always nodded to the old man, now, as he came down the aisle to his own desk. He had begun that, the day after the Constellation item. Uncle Billy never failed to be in his seat early in the morning, waiting for the nod. He answered it with his usual “Howdy-do, sir,” then stroked his beard and gazed profoundly at the row of fat volumes in front of him, swallowing painfully once or twice.
Booth Tarkington Page 64
