Part 17

He glanced down at her yellowish face, with the daubed-on red standing out frankly, tossed her a sneer and a foreign expression, and brushed by. She darted back as though he had struck at her, and panic closed her in.

A young giant, tall as a Scandinavian out of Valhalla, with wide shoulders, a wide stride, and heavy-soled, laced-to-the-knee boots that clattered loudly, ran up the steps of the Electric Institute, and she flashed across the sidewalk, her arm reaching out.

"You--please!"

He paused, with the street lamp full on his smiling mouth and wide-apart, smiling eyes, one foot in the act of ascending, after the manner of tailors' fashion-plates, which are for ever in the casual attitude of mounting stairs.

"You--please! Please--"

"Aw, little lady, go home and go to bed. This ain't no time and place for a little thing like you. Here, take this and go home, little girl."

She arrested his arm on its way to his pocket, her breath crowding out her words, and the stinging red of shame burning through her rouge.

"No, no! For Gawd's sakes, no! It's--my mother--"

He brought his feet down to a level.

"Your mother?"

"Yes; she's sick--maybe dyin'. I--please--she wants to see somebody that can't--can't--"

"What, little lady?"

"She's sick--dyin' maybe. She wants to see somebody that can't--can't--"

"Take your time, little lady--can't _what_?"

"Can't come."

"Who can't come?"

"He--my young--he's a young man. She's never seen him; and if--please, if you'd come and act super--just like you was fillin' in at a show; if you'd act like my young man just for a minute--please! My friend, he can't come--he can _never_ come; but she--she wants him. You come, please! You come, please!"

She tugged at his arm, and he descended another step and peered into the exacerbated anxiety of her face.

"On the level, little lady?"

"Please--just for a minute! For somebody that's sick--maybe dyin'. Just tell her you're my young man--tell her everything's all right--everything's comin' all right for all of us, for her and--and my little brother, and--and me--you and me--like you was my young man, please, lovin' and all. And tell her how pretty her poor hair is and how everything's goin'--goin' to be all right. Come, please--it's just next door."

"Why, you poor little thing! I ain't much on play-actin'; and look at my hands all black from the power-house!"

"Please! That ain't nothin'. It'll be only a minute. Just kinda say things after me and don't let her know--don't let her know that I--I ain't got any young man. Don't let her know!"

"You poor little thing, you--shaking like a leaf! Lead the way; but not so fast, little lady--you'll give out."

She cried and laughed her relief and dragged him across the sidewalk; and every step up the two flights she struggled to keep her hysterical voice within the veil of a whisper.

"Just say everythin' right after me. You--you're my young man and real sweet on me; and we're going to get--you know; everythin' is goin' to be fine, and my little brother's going to the Electric Institute, and everythin's goin' to be swell. Be right lovin' to her, sir--she's so sick. Oh, Gawd, I--"

"Don't cry, little girl."

"I ain't cryin'."

"Careful; don't stumble."

"Don't _you_ stumble. Can you see? The landing's so dark."

"Yes; I can see by the shine of your hair, little lady."

"'Sh-h-h-h!"

The door stood open at the angle she had left it, and by proxy of the slab of mirror over the mantelpiece she could see her mother's head propped against her brother's gold-braided shoulder, and the bright eyes shining out like a gazelle's in the dark.

"Essie?"

"We are here, ma--me and Joe." She threw a last appeal over her shoulder and led the way into the bedroom; her companion followed, stooping to accommodate his height to the doorway.

"Ma dearie, this is Joe."

"Joe! It ain't like me, Joe, not to get up; but I just ain't got the strength--to-night, Joe."

He bent his six-feet-two over the bed and smiled at her from close range.

"Well, well, well! So this is ma dear, dearie?"

"That's her, Joe."

"This won't do one bit, ma. Me and the little lady's got to get you cured up in a hurry--don't we, little lady?"

"Ma dearie, Joe's been wantin' and wantin' to come for so long."

"For so long I been wantin' to come, ma dearie; but--"

"But he's so bashful. Ain't you, Joe? Bashful as a banshee."

"Bashful ain't no name for me, ma. I'd shy at a baby."

"Honest, ma dearie, he's as shy as anything."

"If I wasn't, wouldn't I have been up to see my little lady's mother long ago--wouldn't I? Ain't you going to shake hands with me, ma dearie?"

She held up a hand as light as a leaf, and he took it in a wide, gentle clasp that enveloped it.

"Ma dearie!"

Her violet lids fluttered, and she lay back from the gold-braided shoulder to her pillow, but smiling.

"I like your hand, Joe; I like it."

"I want you to, ma."

"We--I was afraid, Joe, I wouldn't, you never comin' at all. Shake it, Jimmie, and see."

"Aw!"

"It's a strong hand, like your papa's was, Essie. Shake it, Jimmie. I feel just like cryin', it's so good. Shake it, Jimmie."

Across the chasm of youth's prejudice Jimmie held out a reluctant hand.

"And this is the big brother, is it, little lady?"

"That's what he calls hisself, Joe--he calls me his little sister."

"He's gotta be a big brother to her, Joe; she's so--so little."

"Shake, old man; and take off that grouch. Over where I live a fellow'd be fined ten cents for that scowl. If we got anything to square, you and me'll square it outside after school. What do you say to that, ma dearie? Ain't it right?"

"Jimmie's tired out, Joe."

"Like fun I am!"

"He's been proppin' me up all these hours so I could breathe easier--plunkin' and doin' all his funny kid stunts for his old ma, Essie--plunkin' like a banjo, and plunkin'. I liked it. Sometimes it was like I was floatin' in a skiff with your papa on Sunday afternoons in the park, Essie. I liked it. He's all tired out--ain't you, Jimmie, my boy?"

"Naw!"

"He's sore at his sister, Joe. But he's a good boy and _smart_; you wouldn't believe it, Joe, but when it comes to mechanics he--he's just grand."

"Aw, cut it, ma! I ain't strikin' to make a hit."

"He's only tired, Joe, and don't mean nothin' he says."

"Naw; I'm only tryin' my voice out for grand opery!"

"You're a regular sorehead with me, ain't you, old man?"

"Aw!"

"He ain't easy at makin' up with strangers, Joe; but he's a smart one. See that on the table? That's his self-chargin' dynamo; it's a great invention, Joe, the janitor says. You tell him about it, Jimmie."

"There ain't nothin' to tell."

"Don't believe it, Joe; the janitor's a electrician, and he says--"

"Aw!"

"See! There it is, Joe."

"Aw, I don't want everybody pokin' and nosin'!"

"Lemme have a look at it, old man. I know something about dynamos myself. Say, that looks like a neat little idea. How does she work?"

"See--you generate right down in here. See? She worked that time, ma."

"Jimminycracks! Where'd you get your juice and--Well, well! Whatta you know about that? Don't even have to reverse. I guess that storage down there ain't some stunt!"

"See, Jimmie, my boy! I told you it was a grand invention. Hear what Joe says?"

"Say, kid, you bring that--take that over to the Institute to-morrow. I know a fellow over there'll protect your rights and work that out with you swell."

"See, Jimmie, your--your old ma was right!"

"Aw, the generator don't always work like that--only about four times out of six. I'm kinda stuck on the--"

"Say, kid, what you wanna do is protect your rights on that, and--and bring it over--take it over to the Institute. You'll give 'em the jolt of their lives over there. I know a fellow's been chasin' this idea ten years, and you're fifty per cent. closer to the bull's-eye than he is."

"Hear, Jimmie! Hear, Essie! Just like I been sayin'. I been beggin' and beggin' him, Joe, but he--he's so stubborn; and--"

"Aw, ma, cut it, can't you?"

"He's so stubborn about it, Joe."

"There's no use tryin' to force him, ma; but he's gotta good idea there if he handles it right."

"Aw, she ain't finished yet--she don't spark right."

"That what I'm telling you, kid. What you need is a laboratory, where you've got the stuff to work with and men who can give you a steer where you need it, and--"

"Aw!"

"I'll go over with you. I know a fellow over there--he's the guy that helped Kinney win his transmitter prize. You'll give him the jolt of his life, old man. Huh, kid? Wanna go over?" He placed his hand on the gold-braided shoulder and smiled down. "Huh? You on, old man?"

"Aw, I ain't much for buttin' in places."

"Are you on, Jimmie? It's your chance, old man."

"Aw!"

"Jimmie! Jimmie, my boy, I--"

"Aw, I said I was on, didn't I, ma?"

"Sure, he said he was on, ma dearie. Shake on it, old man!"

"Jimmie! Jimmie, my boy--honest!--it's just like your papa was talkin'! Don't leggo my hand, Joe. Layin' here with my eyes shut, it's just like he was talkin' hisself. He's--he's like your papa was, Essie, big and strong."

"Yes, darlin'."

"Is that the doctor? Is Lizzie Marks come back? Is that--"

"No; not yet, ma."

"You're all tired out, Essie baby. Look at your little face! Go wash it, baby, and cool it off before old man Gibbs comes."

"It ain't hot, ma."

"He brought you into the world, Essie baby, and I don't want him to see it--to see it all--all--"

"I'm all right, ma. Lemme stay by you."

"Go wash your face, Ess. Ma says go wash your face."

"You shut up, Jimmie Birdsong--it ain't your face!"

"You know all righty, missy, why she wants you to wash it--you know--"

"Ma, he keeps fussin' with me! Jimmie, please don't."

"Aw, I ain't, neither, ma. She's always peckin' at me. I--I ain't mad at her; but I want her to wash that--that stuff off her face."

"Jimmie!"

Her lips quivered, and she glanced toward the stranger, with her lips drooping over her eyes like curtains to her shame; and he smiled at her with eyes as soft as spring rain, his voice a caress.

"Go, little lady. You're all tired out and too pretty and too sweet not to wash your face and--cool it off."

"She's gotta go, or I'll get her in a corner and rub--"

"I'm goin', ain't I, Jimmie? Honest, the minute we make up you begin pickin' a fuss again."

"Oh, my children!"

"Oh, Gawd, there she goes off again! Why don't old man Gibbs come? Lay her down, Joe; she can't breathe that way. Look! Her hands are all blue-like. Hold her up, Joe! Oh, Gawd, why don't old man Gibbs come? She's all shakin'--all shakin'!"

"No, I ain't. What you cryin' there at the foot of the bed for, Essie? It ain't no time to cry now, darlin'. It's like it says on the crocheted lamp-mat your papa's aunt did for us--'God is Good!' Where is that mat, Essie? I--I ain't seen it round for--so--long. God is good! God--is--good! Where is that mat, Essie?"

"It's round somewheres, ma. It's old and worn out--in the rag-bag, maybe."

"Well get it out, Essie."

"Yes, ma."

"Promise, Essie!"

"Sure, ma; we'll get it out and keep it out."

"Oh, Joe, why did you keep us waitin' and waitin'? She's so little and pretty. Look at her dimples, Joe, even when she's cryin'. The prettiest girl in the notions, she was; and I--I been so scared for her, Joe. Why did you keep us waitin' and waitin'?"

"Me and the little girl was slow in getting here, ma; but we--we're here for good now--ain't we, little lady? Little lady with the hair just like ma's!"

"She gets it from me, Joe. Her papa used to say her hair was like the copper trimmings of his machines. Such machines he kept, Joe! His boss told me hisself they were just like looking-glasses, Essie, come closer, darlin'. You won't forget the lamp-mat, will you, darlin'--the lamp-mat?"

"Oh no, ma. Oh, Gawd! Ma, you ain't mad at me? Please--please! Honest, ma, your little Essie didn't know."

"Ma knows we didn't know, little lady. She ain't mad at us. She's glad that everything's going to be all right now; and you and her and Jimmie and me are--"

"Oh, my children!"

She smiled and slipped her fingers between her daughter's face and the coverlet.

"Look up, Essie! I feel so light! I feel so light! It's like it says on the lamp-mat--just like it says, Essie."

"Ma! Ma darlin', open your eyes!"

"Ma!"

"Here, Jimmie, lend a hand! Lemme hold her up--so! No; don't give her any more of that black stuff, Jimmie, old man. Wait till the doctor comes. Let her lie quiet on my arm--just like that; and hand me that ammonia-bottle there, Essie, like a sweet little lady. See there! She's coming round all right. Who says she ain't coming to? Now, ma--now!"

"Joe, don't leggo me!"

"Sure I won't, ma dearie."

She warmed to life slightly, and the tears seeped through her closed eyes, and she felt of his supporting arm down the length of his sleeve.

"Joe! Essie, that you?"

"Ma darlin', we're all here."

"Don't cry, little lady. See, she's coming out of it all right. Here, gimme a lift, Jimmie. See there! She's got her breath all right again."

They laid her back on the pillow, and she folded her hands lightly, ever so lightly, like lilies, one atop the other.

"Children! Children, I'm ready."

"Ready for what, ma? Some more black medicine?"

"Just _ready_, Jimmie, my boy! Here, Joe; hold my hand. It's like his was, children--big and strong."

"Aw, ma! Come on! Perk up!"

"I am, Jimmie, my boy."

"Perk up for sure, I mean. Gee, ain't there enough to perk about? Look at Joe and Ess--enough to give a fellow the Willies, pipin' at each other like sugar'd melt in their mouths!"

"My Jimmie's a great one for teasin' his sister, Joe."

"And look at me, ma--ain't I going to take my dynamo over to the Institute? And ain't the whole bunch of us right here next to your bed? And just look, ma--look at the two of 'em turning to sugar right this minute from lovin' each other! Ain't it the limit? Look at us, ma--all here and fine as silkworms."

"Yes, yes, Jimmie; that's why I feel so light. I never felt so light before. It's like it says on the lamp-mat, Jimmie--just like it says. I'm ready for sure, my darlin's."

"Oh, Gawd, ma--ready for what? Look at us, ma dearie--all three of us standing here--ready for what, dearie?"

"You tell 'em, Joe; you--you're big and strong."

"I--I don't know, ma. I don't think I--I know for sure, dearie."

"Ready for what, ma? Tell us, darlin'."

She turned her face toward them, a smile printed on her lips.

"Just ready, children."

THE PARADISE TRAIL

At five o'clock the Broadway store braced itself for the last lap of a nine-hour day. Girls with soul-and-body weariness writ across their faces in the sure chirography of hair-line wrinkles stood pelican-fashion, first on one leg and then on the other, to alternate the strain.

Floor-walkers directed shoppers with less of the well-oiled suavity of the morning; a black-and-white-haired woman behind the corset-counter whitened, sickened, and was revived in the emergency-room; the jewelry department covered its trays with a tan canvas sheeting; the stream of shoppers thinned to a trickle.

Across from the notions and buttons the umbrella department suddenly bloomed forth with a sale of near-silk, wooden-handled umbrellas; farther down, a special table of three-ninety-eight rubberette mackintoshes was pushed out into mid-aisle.

Miss Tillie Prokes glanced up at the patch of daylight over the silk-counters--a light rain was driving against the window.

"Honest, now, Mame, wouldn't that take the curl out of your hair?"

"What's hurtin' you?"

"Rainin' like a needle shower, and I got to wear my new tan coat to-night, 'cause I told him in the letter I'd wear a tannish-lookin' jacket with a red bow on the left lapel, so he'd know me when I come in the drug store."

Mame placed the backs of her hands on her hips, breathed inward like a soprano testing her diaphragm, and leaned against a wooden spool-case.

"It _is_ rainin' like sixty, ain't it? Say, can you beat it? Watch the old man put Myrtle out in the aisle at the mackintosh-table--there! Didn't I tell you! Gee! I bet she could chew a diamond, she's so mad."

"She ain't as mad as me; but I'm going to wear my tan if it gets soaked."

Tillie sold a packet of needles and regarded the patch of window with a worried pucker on her small, wren-like face.

"Honest, ain't it a joke, Til?--you havin' the nerve to answer that ad and all! You better be pretty white to me, or I'll snitch! I'll tell Angie you're writin' pink notes to Box 25, _Evenin' News_--Mr. Box 25! Say, can you beat it!"

Mame laughed in her throat, smoothed her frizzed blonde hair, sold a paper of pins and an emery heart.

"Like fun you'll tell Angie! I got it all fixed to tell her I'm going to the picture-show with you and George to-night."

"Before I'd let a old grouch like her lord it over me! It ain't like she was your sister or relation, or something--but just because you live together. Nix on that for mine."

"She don't think a girl's got a right to be young or nothin'! Look at me--a regular stick-at-home. Gee! a girl's got to have something."

"Sure she does! Ain't that what I've been tryin' to preach to you ever since we've been chumming together? You ain't a real old maid yet--you got real takin' ways about you and all; you ought to be havin' a steady of your own."

"Don't I know it?"

"Look how you got to do now--just because she never lets you go to dances or nothin' with us girls."

"She ain't never had it, and she don't want me to have it."

"Say, tell it to the Danes! She ain't got them snappy black eyes of hers for nothin'. Whatta you live with her for? There ain't a girl up in the corsets that's got any use for her."

"She's been pretty white to me, just the samey--raised me and all when I didn't have no one. She's got her faults; but I kinda got the habit of livin' with her now--I got to stick."

"Gee! even a stepmother like Carrie's'll let her have fun once in a while. It's Angie's own fault that you got to meet 'em in drug stores and take chances on ads and all."

"I'm just answerin' that ad for fun--I ain't in earnest."

"I've always been afraid of matrimonial ads and things like that. You know I was the first one to preach your gettin' out and gettin' spry--that's me all over! I believe in bein' spry; but I always used to say to maw before I was keepin' steady with George, 'Ads ain't safe.'"

"I ain't afraid."

"Lola Flint, over in the jewelry, answered one once--'Respectable young man would like to make the acquaintance of a genteel young lady; red hair preferred.' And when she seen him he had only one eye, and his left arm shot off."

"I ain't afraid. Say, if Effie Jones Lipkind can answer one, with her behind-the-counter stoop and squint, and get away with it, there ain't no reason why there ain't more grand fellows like Gus Lipkind writin' ads."

"Come out of the dark room, Til! Effie had two hundred saved up."

"I ain't ashamed of not havin' any steadies. Where's a straight-walkin' girl like me goin' to get 'em? Look at that rain, will you!--and me tellin' him I'd be there in tan, with red ribbon on the lapel!"

"Paper says rain for three days, too. Angie's a old devil, all-righty, or you could meet him in your flat."

"He's going to wear a white carnation and a piece of fern on his left coat lapel; and if he don't look good I ain't going up."

"What did he call hisself--'a bachelor of refined and retiring habits'? Thank Gawd!--if I do say it--George is refined, but he ain't over-retirin'. It's the retirin' kind that like to sit at home in their carpet slippers instead of goin' to a picture-show. Straighten that bin of pearl buttons, will you, Til? Say, how my feet do burn to-night! It's the weather--I might 'a' known it was goin' to rain."

Tillie ran a nervous finger down inside her collar; there was a tremolo in her quail-like voice.

"A fellow that writes a grand little letter like him can't be so bad--and it's better to have 'em retirin'-like than too fresh. Listen! It's real poetry-like: 'Meet me in the Sixth Avenue Drug Store, Miss 27. I'll have a white carnation and a piece of fern in my left buttonhole, and a smile that won't come off; and when I spy the yellow jacket I'm comin' up and say, "Hello!" And if I look good I want you to say "Hello!" back.' ... The invisible hair-pins only come by the box, ma'am. Umbrellas across the aisle, ma'am.... That ain't so bad for a start, is it, Mame?... Ten cents a box, ma'am."

"You got your nerve, all-righty, Til--but, gee! I glory in your spunk. If I was tied to a old devil like Angie I'd try it, too. Is the back of my collar all right, Til? Look at Myrtle out there, will you--how she's lovin' that mackintosh sale!"

"Water spots tan, don't it?" said Tillie, balancing her cash-book.

At six o'clock the store finished its last lap with a hysterical singing of electric bells, grillingly intense and too loud, like a woman who laughs with a sob in her throat.

Tillie untied her black alpaca apron, snapped a rubber band about her cash-book, concealed it beneath the notion-shelves, and brushed her black-serge skirt with a whisk-broom borrowed from stock.

"Good night, Mame! I guess you're waitin' for George, ain't you? See you in the morning. I'll have lots to tell you, too."

"Good night, Til! Remember, if he turns out to be a model for a classy-clothes haberdashery, it was me put you on to the idea."

Tillie pressed a black-felt sailor tight down on her head until only a rim of brown hair remained, slid into her black jacket, and hurried out with an army of workers treading at her slightly run-down heels and nerves.

Youth, even the fag-end of Youth, is like a red-blooded geranium that fights to bloom though transplanted from a garden bed to a tin can in a cellar window. A faint-as-dawn pink persisted in flowing underneath the indoor white of Miss Prokes's cheeks--the last rosy shadow of a maltreated girlhood, which too long had defied the hair-line wrinkles, the notion-counter with the not-to-be-used stool behind it, nine hours of arc-light substitute for the sunshine on the hillside and the green shade of the dell.

At the doors a taupe-colored dusk and a cold November rain closed round her like a wet blanket. She shrank back against the building and let the army tramp past her. They dissolved into the stream like a garden hose spraying the ocean.

Broadway was black and shining as polished gunmetal, with reflections of its million lights staggering down into the wet asphalt. Umbrellas hurried and bobbed as if an army of giant mushrooms had suddenly insurrected; cabs skidded, honked, dodged, and doubled their rates; home-going New York bought evening papers, paid as it entered, and strap-hung its way to Bronx and Harlem firesides.

The fireside of the Bronx is the steam-radiator. Its lullabies are sung before a gilded three-coil heater; its shaving-water and kettle are heated on that same contrivance. It is as much of an epic in apartment living as condensed milk and folding-davenports.

All of which has little enough to do with Miss Tillie Prokes, except that in her lifetime she had hammered probably a caskful of nails into the tops of condensed-milk cans. Also she could unfold her own red-velours davenport; cold-cream her face; sugar-water her hair and put it up in kids; climb into bed and fall asleep with a despatch that might have made more than one potentate, counting sheep in his hair-mattressed four-poster, aguish with envy.

Miss Prokes yawned as she waited and regarded a brilliantly illuminated display window of curve-fingered ladies in exquisite waxen attitudes and nineteen-fifty crepe-de-Chine gowns. Her breath clouded the plate-glass, and she drew her initials in the circle and yawned again.

With the last driblet of employees from the store a woman cut diagonally through a group and hurried toward Miss Prokes.

"Come on, Tillie!"