Sing Sing Nights

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  Barton swallowed rather hard. He felt for the first time a disquieting suspicion that he was being coquetted with a little; and he didn’t like this trait in the personality which he had discovered that morning.

  “Princess,” he said, to change the subject, “tell me more of your life in China as you were doing when we were interrupted this morning.”

  She raised a hand. “No, Mr. Jason H. Barton, you have it all. Just lonely little girl — some day to rule over Chinese Empire, since she have no brothers — who was always cooped up with her books to dream and think. I bring you over here to have you talk about you. Tell me where you were born — and how you happen to become writer of news. And about your honourable papa and illustrious mamma. All that interests me much.”

  So, seeing that she was intent upon learning more of him, Barton drew his chair nearer to her and told her of his early days on the Texas farm where he had been left an orphan — that Texas farm which had proved the happy refuge for his grandmother, one English girl of many who had journeyed in a covered waggon half across the Indian-infested plains and burning deserts in response to Brigham Young’s lying London proselytisers. He told how the farm had been lost at his parents’ death, through the mortgages caused by a succession of terrific droughts; how he had been put into the care of an old farmer whose only desire was to make him earn far more than his keep; how he had milked the cows and worked early and late, often fourteen hours a day; how he had finally run away at the age of thirteen, and made a two-thousand-mile trip on freight cars to the City of New York, where he had become a newsboy on the streets of that big metropolis. He described vividly to her how his heart had ached when he saw other children tripping to school every day; and how finally a big-hearted Wall Street broker had taken pity on him and helped him through grammar school.

  He went on to describe how he had finally gone to college in Nebraska, finishing the preparatory school in two years, and supporting himself the whole six years by working in the Nebraska wheatfields during the torrid summers; he described the struggle he had in his impecunious condition, and how he had ultimately met big Fawcett, the one man who had befriended him and helped him; the day he had graduated with the consciousness that the big struggle was ended.

  He related how he had tried to get his first newspaper berth; how he had secured only a space-writer’s job; how he had stumbled accidentally on the whereabouts of Emerich, the missing cashier of the Seattle State Bank; and how he had written up the scoop and landed the position that was to throw his life into new channels. And he described briefly how he had drifted from city to city, finally winding up at Chicago.

  All the while he talked the Princess listened open-mouthed, her even white teeth gleaming, her little red lips parted in utter amazement at his vivid portrayal of phases of life of which she had only dimly heard.

  At the end of it he looked down at her and smiled whimsically. “So you see, Princess, it’s not a particularly illuminating recital. Pretty sordid — and hard. Nothing in it in the way of poetry. All fight and tough struggle — the whole way through. And not a thing accomplished after all.”

  “Oh, but it is the life you have lived!” she breathed enthusiastically. “It — it was all accomplishment. You — have seen and done — while O Lyra has been chained in with her dreams.” She looked curiously up at him. “And you never marry?” she asked with a peculiar wistfulness in her voice.

  He shook his head.

  “Why?”

  He wrinkled up his forehead. “Well, Princess, the reason is connected with those dreams you spoke of. Likewise with that elusive thing you have called personality. In all these years I have been searching hopefully for that companion personality — the one who might understand Jason H. Barton — and never have found her. I knew partly what she was to be like, for she had been in my mind for years; I knew always that when I met her I would recognise her at once.” He looked down at her. “And does that answer your question?”

  Her face was very serious. “But you never yet have found the personality you — you might love?”

  He swallowed with difficulty. Something seemed to rush into his being. A sudden mad impulse came over him to seize the dainty hand of this Celestial flower and tell her fiercely that it was a personality exactly like hers he had been seeking for. But he knew that he dared not; that she had invited him there as a friend — not to break rudely all the conventions of friendship.

  “Princess, I cannot answer that question exactly,” he fenced quietly. “As I said, I knew I could recognise that personality when I met it, and — ”

  “And so you have been only as I,” she put in hurriedly. “I, too, Jason H. Barton, have waited dreaming all these days for such a personality that I might love. When I was little — so little — I did not know that empire could be complicating influence in my dreams; but later I began to realise it — and a sadness seemed to come into me. Oh, I want so to tell you — for I afraid you never know it. But this morning — when you come — when you come — something seem to tell O Lyra — that you — that you the man — the personality — the kind of man — the — ”

  His jaw fell open. “Princess,” he exclaimed in alarm, “you can’t mean what you say. You — ”

  She snapped her fingers toward the maid and spoke a few quick words in Chinese. The woman, suddenly galvanised into action, rose and passed noiselessly out of the room.

  “I am not girl who pretend. My heart speaks — like heart should always. Love is not something for — for — dissimulation. The heart that first recognises should speak — and the heart of O Lyra Seng — sees — speaks — ” She stopped. A tear rolled down from one of her brown eyes.

  “My God, Princess!” Barton said dazedly. “I — I never dreamed, I never dreamed!” He leaned forward in his chair and closed his big hand on one of her smaller ones. “And you could love me? You — a Princess of the great Chinese Empire? And you are sure it is not a girlish — ”

  He did not know how it happened. In after years it was all confused in his mind in a maze of delirious thoughts and actions. The slim form was in his arms, her moist red lips were close to his, and he was kissing the daughter of the Emperor of China!

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  “EXTRA PAPER!”

  BARTON pulled himself together finally, and leaning back in his chair, stroked the silky black curls of the girl who nestled in his arms.

  “But, Princess, what happiness can all this bring to you and me? I love you — I knew it this morning — I have known it all day — and I think that you love me. If you are sure of yourself, then it would seem that we are two peculiar idealists who have found each other after a dozen years of searching — over half the world. I think that you and I could always be happy together — that we are companion personalities.” She nodded vehemently in his arms. “But of what use is it all? It can only mean bitterness. You are the daughter of the emperor of China, and I am just a plain newspaper-man compounded of a pair of like races which are yet most highly differentiated from yours.” He paused, looking down at her. “If only you were not Princess O Lyra Seng, I should ask a question that I shall only ask of but one girl in this world. But it is not to be.”

  She nodded her head. “No, it is not to be. That I must make myself realise. But I am so happy to be here in your arms — that I like to forget the big world revolving outside — the great empire with its millions of people — and just think there is only you and me in universe.” She sighed a long sigh. “Life is all so — so a tangle. Oh, how I wish I had never studied, nor thought, nor read! then would I be only ordinary Chinese girl — not in mind such as I am. But it is all what East Indians call Ki — Ki — Kismet.”

  He sat for a long time stroking her dark hair. He knew down in his heart that the whole thing was merely a wonderful, fantastic dream.

  They talked. Psychology, science, philosophy were shelved — as always psychology, science and philosophy will be shelved before the more engrossing little nothings
that have been talked even by the cave man and his mate-to-be in the far distant Paleolithic Age. It was 8-30 before Barton pulled himself together and looked down at the girl who seemed so content to be cuddled in his arms.

  “Princess,” he queried meaningfully, “do you see the time? Do you realise it means that honourable Tsung may be back at any moment? He can do no harm to me — but there is your own precious self to be considered. This has been the happiest hour of my life — and it has sped by on wings of quicksilver. But you must not be jeopardised by my staying any longer. And so — it means that we’ll have to say good-bye!”

  She nodded unhappily and looked up at him. “Yes, Jason H. Barton, it means good-bye; I know it too well. But oh, how happy I am, so glad, that I have make you see what I see when first I met you — that I make you realise that race, religion, rank, all these shrink for time in face of biggest thing in the world! But now you see — and some day when you think of little O Lyra Seng far over the Pacific, perhaps you will feel little sad — and yet little glad that you knew O Lyra once in your life.” She arose, and with true feminine instinct smoothed out her disarranged dress.

  He swallowed hard and arose also. “I wish I didn’t have to think of that, Princess. It will mean unhappiness — not happiness.” He looked toward his silk hat. Oh, why, oh why couldn’t Tsung be detained for hours, days, for ever?

  He held out his arms. “Good-bye, O Lyra Seng,” he said.

  “Is there not another word,” she asked, “that — that goes before my name?”

  “Dear O Lyra — ” he began.

  “But still ending on adjective?”

  He smiled as he understood. “Good-bye, dearest O Lyra Seng.”

  She smiled up at him, and standing on tiptoe threw her arms about his neck. She kissed him — a long, tingling, lingering kiss; then, with a sudden frightened little cry, unloosed her arms and fled from the room. He stood bewildered alone, feeling the warm pressure of her lips. Then, realising that the dream was over for good, he seized his silk hat and tip-toed out of the room into the silent corridor. He went up the fire-escape into the night, rocking with the dizziness of the past hours. He found himself finally descending in the elevator, then out on the street, staring stupidly along the rows of brilliant arc lamps.

  A newsboy was going by the Michigan Avenue corner crying out his extras. The words were garbled, but Barton caught his breath as he seemed to hear in them the “Washin’t’n Fly’r.”

  “Here — boy — here, a paper!” He tossed the boy a nickel.

  The urchin shoved a damp paper into his outstretched hand and moved on up the street to where an elderly gentleman was beckoning. Oblivious to the traffic on the sidewalk, Barton stood under one of the flaming arc-lamps and devoured the contents. For him, indeed, the news that the big black headlines screamed forth was startling news — yet so meagre that it filled less than two hundred ems of type. It ran:

  “WASHINGTON FLYER GOES INTO THE DITCH

  SENATOR AND TWO CONGRESSMEN

  AMONG THE INJURED

  “At 7 o’clock to-night the Washington Flyer struck a defective switch just outside of Bentleyville, Ohio. The front half of the train ran into the ditch and overturned completely. All of the injured passengers were rescued from the overturned cars before the sparks from the engine set fire to the coaches. The baggage car, mail car, smoker and first coach are burned to a cinder, and the inhabitants of Bentleyville are fighting the flames which bid fair to consume the rest of the train. Among the most seriously injured of the passengers are Senator Fealy, Congressman Opp, Congressman Rann — all of Illinois — and Jason H. Barton, a Chicago newspaper man. A relief train is on the way from Dayton, Ohio.”

  With the knowledge of the trained newspaper man, Barton, scarcely comprehending as yet, ran his eyes across the page to what is known as the drum paragraph. There, printed in cheap red ink, not even proof read, were a few further details which had come in by telegraph while the edition was on the presses. They read:

  “DYING PASSENGER CLEARS UP CHICAGO

  TONG MURDER

  (Special telegram to the News)

  “Among the passengers injured in the overturning of the Washington Flyer to-night was one Charles Fawcett, an Omaha newspaper man. On account of cards found on his person his name was erroneously reported as Jason H. Barton. He was removed to a temporary hospital in Bentleyville, but lived only an hour. Before he died he made a brief statement in which he declared that he stabbed a Chinese laundryman late last night in the Central West metropolis, during a struggle which followed an attempt on his part to take out his laundry on credit. He stated also that the weapon he used was one which was lying on the counter, and that he feared he had mortally injured his opponent. The stabbed Celestial, according to Chicago police headquarters, is the man Sam Toy of 144, West Huron Street, whose death was supposed to be the result of a Chicago Tong war.”

  That was all there was to the news thus far. Barton, completely stupefied, stood staring down at the paper, trying to realise that it was all true. “Peor, poor Charley!” he found himself saying mechanically again and again. “Poor, poor Charley. Poor old boy.” He thought dazedly of the clean linen which he had helped the other pack into the suitcase, and now in a flash everything seemed to fly together with devilish accuracy: the clean shirt and collars themselves; Fawcett’s drinking that morning; the location of the Chinaman’s laundry not three blocks from the Star Hotel; the newspaper man’s great physical strength in former days; his trembling fingers that morning; his mood of utter depression …

  But as Barton read the two paragraphs for perhaps the fifth time, a sudden deathly sickness seemed to seize him in the pit of the stomach, and a wave of frigid cold seemed to sweep over his whole nervous system. For the first time one sentence stood out at him as though printed in 100-point type instead of agate: “The baggage car, mail car, smoker and first coach are burned to a cinder.” In that baggage car was Fawcett’s suit-case, and in that suit-case was the leather bill-fold containing the other half of Yuan’s dying message.

  “Good-night, Coins of Confucius!” groaned Barton softly to himself. “Good-night, dreams! Good-night, love! Good-night, everything! Oh, why — oh, why, does everything in life go wrong?”

  CHAPTER XL

  A BARGAIN IN INFORMATION

  FOR ten long minutes Barton stood on that Michigan Avenue corner, oblivious to the passers-by, oblivious to the time, oblivious to the fact that he was in evening clothes, oblivious to everything, lost in the deepest of blue funks. The clue, if ever there had been a clue to the Twelve Coins of Confucius, was gone now. Of that there was no doubt. Mentally he berated himself as all kinds of an idiot for ever letting the other half of the Sam Toy message get out of his possession. But the thing was done now; and all that remained was to go back to his rooms and think of the most wonderful girl in the world — the girl he couldn’t have — the girl from whom he was now farther away than ever.

  But instead of going home he decided to make one last hopeless effort from the wreckage of his plans; so he turned disconsolately to the drug store back of him, and entering the telephone booth, riffled over the directory till he came upon a certain name. Then he dropped his coin and rang his party.

  A man’s voice — terse and businesslike — answered.

  “Am I speaking to Mr. Shanahan, renting agent for the laundry at 144, West Huron Street?” Barton was appalled at the dullness, the lifelessness of his own voice.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Barton is my name,” the newspaper man went on. “I’d like to look over the store you have for rent there. Could I drop into your place in the next twenty minutes and get the key? I think I may find a party to take the place.”

  The renting agent laughed. “Indeed, you could, my friend; but a prospective renter is looking it over now. A Chinaman just came in and got the key from me; says he wants to open up a Chinese laundry there for his brother.”

  “Was he — ” Barton began. But
he stopped. “Thank you,” he said. And he hung up.

  He stood in the booth for a moment, thinking. He held a faint suspicion that that Chinaman might be a Chinaman he knew, yet he could conceive of no manner in which Li Hwei Tsung might have become involved in the Sam Toy affair, since he, Barton, had not even had a chance to mention it to the Princess. But he decided then and there to verify or disprove his suspicions.

  He hurried from Michigan Avenue and over west, where he boarded a North State street car. A number of rowdies grinned and nudged each other at the sight of a man in a dress-suit and silk hat on that plebeian branch of the traction system, but Barton saw nothing and heard nothing. He arrived at Huron Street within eight minutes. He walked westward on the dirty, dark, narrow thoroughfare, and passing La Salle Avenue caught sight of a taxicab stationed up the street a short distance in front of a saloon, and as he passed the saloon he saw the chauffeur’s cap bobbing over the green baize doors.

  “A taxi on Huron Street,” commented Barton curiously. “And a hundred feet from Number 144.” He hurried on a short distance, and came to Sam Toy’s laundry. It was lighted up both front and rear by the hanging coal-oil lamps; but the space in front of the pine partition appeared to be quite devoid of any inspecting renter. The key, however, was in the door, and on the outside; so Barton stepped in on off the sidewalk, and closing the door noiselessly behind him strode into the room back of the partition.

  There he stopped dumbfounded. The whole place had been torn up till it presented a picture of indescribable confusion. The cheap wooden cot had been ripped apart; the thin mattress had been torn up, and its hairy contents scattered over the whole room. On the floor along the wall were ranged utensils, the yellow bowl and chop-sticks, the cups and saucers; the tiny pantry had been ripped out from the wall, and the kitchen table stood upside down. The gas range, pulled partly out from the wall, showed how forcibly the rigid pipe connections had been twisted. A number of loose boards in the floor had been bodily ripped up, and a great patch of loose plaster had been dislodged by a well-directed kick. And in the midst of all the confusion stood Li Hwei Tsung in his American clothes, and Chan Fu of the University of Chicago, his gorgeous robes producing the most emphatic contrast to the sordid surroundings.