CHAPTER VII
Floe
Jimmie was very happy as he gave Bill and Mrs. Cook "Good-night." "Don't yer worry erbout nothin'," he said to Mrs. Cook. "Yer got Jesus ter help yer, an' he'll take care of yer all. I'll see yer in der mornin'. So long."
He started for Dave's barn, where he "roomed." His nerves were all unstrung, he was much too excited to go to bed. He sat down upon the curb in front of the barn and went over the whole evening in his mind. The best he knew how, he prayed and thanked God for answering his prayer. As he sat with his head in his hands, he heard a piercing scream which came from the direction of the Dolly resort. There was nothing unusual about a scream in Bucktown any time of the day or night; but Jimmie jumped to his feet and started on a run to the direction from which it came.
"Dat sounded like Floe's voice," he said to himself. "I hope she ain't hurted."
Floe had been very kind to Jimmie, many times giving him something to eat, and she had given him the pair of shoes he was wearing when Morton first saw him. She always put herself out to speak to him, and when he was "stuck" with his evening papers she would persuade the other inmates of the house to help him out by buying them.
Let it be understood now that Jimmie's ideals of morality were based entirely upon the Bucktown standard. Floe was the best dressed woman in Bucktown; she lived in the best house in Bucktown; she was the handsomest woman in Bucktown; and these facts, to Jimmie's child mind, put Floe and the Dolly resort far in the lead of anything in Bucktown. He knew nothing of their business, and the question of their being wrong had never entered his head. Had any one asked Jimmie a question about the character of this black-eyed woman, his answer would have been, "She's an angel, sure."
The little girls in the neighborhood would say, "When I git big I'm goin' ter have clothes like them girls, an' go ridin' in hacks with white horses. Gee, won't I shine!" The highest ideals of womanhood to these little girls were the women of the Dolly resort. Is it any wonder that Jimmie was interested when he heard Floe scream? When he reached the house he saw her lying at the foot of the stairs; he rushed to her side as others were trying to get her upon her feet. They put her upon a couch and sent for a doctor.
"Did yer fall downstairs?" asked Jimmie.
"Oh, Jimmie, what are you doing in this awful place?" she said. "This is worse than hell itself; do go out, child; I can't stand to see your pure face in a place like this."
"If it ain't er good place fer me, it ain't fer you, Floe. Yer better 'n I am, er ever could be. Are yer hurted much?"
Just then Doctor Snyder came in, and after a brief examination said he found a broken arm and three broken ribs. Floe would not tell how she happened to fall; but several who saw it said that a girl by the name of Maud, in a fit of jealousy, had pushed her downstairs.
"Hello, kid! What are you doing here?" said Doctor Snyder to
Jimmie. "You should be in bed at this time of night. How's Bill
Cook getting on?"
"Bill's better," said Jimmie, "an' Mrs. Cook got converted at der Mission ter-night, and she's happy all over. When I left there she was prayin' at Bill's bed and he was cryin'. I'll bet he gits saved next."
"You better go home and go to bed, Jimmie; you're excited to-night. You'll feel better in the morning," said the doctor, with a knowing wink at the people standing around. "We must get this girl to her room now."
"Can I come ter see yer to-morrow, Floe?" asked Jimmie.
"If the doctor will let you come; but I don't like to have you come into this awful house."
"I'll be here jus' the same; I'm goin' ter ast Jesus ter help yer," he whispered to her, and slipped quietly out into the street and started for the barn. When he reached there, Dave sat in his old office chair smoking and trying to look unconcerned; but it was plain to Jimmie that he had something on his mind besides his hat.
"Where have you been so late?" he said to Jimmie. "Sit down and tell me about it."
"Mrs. Cook got saved ter-night and Bill's comin' next, I'll bet," said Jimmie in one breath. "Yer see, we's prayin' fer him at der Mission, an' he's got ter come. Say, Dave, Floe jus' got hurted, an' I went ter see her when I heard her holler, an' she said she didn't like ter see me in such a bad house. Is that nice house bad, an' what's Floe doin' dere if it is?"
"Well, the house is anything but good, Jimmie, and I wish Floe lived somewhere else. If you can go to see her I wish you would talk to her just like you did to Mrs. Cook. Tell her about, well, tell her about yer Friend, you know."
"Who do yer mean? Morton?" asked Jimmie.
"No, I mean the Friend you say Morton works for."
"Oh, yer means Jesus," said Jimmie.
"Yes, that's who I mean; she has heard of Him before, and maybe you can do her good. The poor girl has had lots of trouble and has lost heart in life. Tell her that—that Je—er—that yer Friend loves her and will fergive her all her past and—well, you can tell it better than I can."
"I'll do it, yer bet," said Jimmie, "'cause Jesus loves every one of us, don't he, Dave?"
"Most every one, but not all of us," said Dave.
Jimmie made a dive for his Testament and turned to John 3:16; the page was so dirty and soiled from handling that it could scarcely be seen.
"Der yer see that word marked wid red ink?" asked Jimmie.
"Yes, I see it."
"Well, what is she?"
"It's 'whosoever.'"
"Well, who does that mean?"
"I guess it means just what it says; but you see, with me it is different. I was raised to do right; my father was a Methodist minister, and he taught me to pray and read the Bible when I was a child. I knew what was right, but with my eyes wide open I went into the most awful sin, and God can never forgive one who sins against the light."
"Say, read der whole verse," said Jimmie.
"I know it without reading it; I learned it at my mother's knee before I could talk plain."
"Well, git busy and say it then."
"God so loved the world——"
"Loved der what?" asked Jimmie.
"The world," said Dave.
"Go on," as Dave hesitated.
"That He gave His only begotten Son——"
"Dat's Jesus, ain't it?"
"Yes, that is who it means."
"Go on," said Jimmie.
"God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever——"
"Who?" asked Jimmie.
"Whosoever," said Dave.
"Don't that mean you?" asked Jimmie.
"I'm afraid not," said Dave.
"Den dis is der way ter read it," said Jimmie, "'Dat whosoever, 'cept Dave Beach, kin have everlastin' life.' Not on your fottygraff; it ain't writ dat way."
"Well, in another place it says that if you know to do right and do it not it's sin," said Dave.
"And dat makes yer a sinner, don't it?" said Jimmie.
"Yes, it does, and a bad one, too," said Dave.
Jimmie put his thumb into his mouth to wet it and turned leaf after leaf. At last he said, "Read dat."
Dave took the book and looked hard and long in silence.
"Read her," said Jimmie.
Dave read very slowly: "This is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners."
"Save what?" asked Jimmie.
"Sinners," said Dave.
"Are yer a sinner, Dave?"
"Yes, I am a bad one."
"Worser dan dis guy? Read der rest of 'er."
"Of whom I am chief," David read.
"All right," said Jimmie, "if He kin save der chief of sinners, can't He save Dave Beach?"
Before he could answer, Jewey, Oily Ike and Fred Hood came in.
"Send the kid home," said Jewey.
"He's at home now," said Dave; "he sleeps here. You can do all the business you have with me in a minute er two. I'm tired of this crooked business; and for my part, I'm going to cut it out. Whatever your haul is to-night you can keep it or let Ike there handle it; I'm done.
"No, don't get leery; I won't turn you. But I don't want no more of it here."
"You'll be havin' Sunday school here every day if that kid hangs around much longer," said Jewey.
"Well, he'll be here just as long as he wants to," said Dave. "It's two o'clock, Jimmie; you had better turn in and I'll call you at three-thirty. Good-night."
Jimmie lay down upon a horse blanket without taking off his shoes or clothes and was soon fast asleep. His day had been a long one and he was very tired, but happy.
After Dave's callers had gone, he stood looking down into Jimmie's tired face. "Poor little Jimmie," he said, "if I knew your paper route, I'd carry it myself rather than wake you up this morning. There's no use talking, that kid don't get enough to eat. I saw him give his little sister his supper money last night, and I know he went to sleep hungry; I never saw his beat. He preaches to every one in his sweet child way and he makes me feel as though I was the biggest devil on earth. By thunder, it breaks me all up." Dave was talking to himself, or thinking out loud.
He was very much moved by Jimmie's life and words; he pulled his old office chair beside Jimmie's pallet and began to weep. Big, strong Dave had broken down and was once more a boy. He was ashamed of his tears and tried to brace up and stop them; but when he would look at Jimmie's little pinched face on the old horse blanket, the tears would start afresh and creep through his dirty fingers and fall to the floor in spite of all he could do. Dave Beach was a strong, big fellow; he had drunk and fought his way through the world and for many years had suppressed his emotional nature. Tears to him were a sign of weakness and he would rather have lost his barn and horses by fire than that any one should see him cry. He jumped to his feet and started to pace up and down the office. "D—— fool that I am! I'm bawling worse than a yearling heifer. It's time to call Jimmie and he must not see me this way." He went to the hydrant out in the barn and washed and pulled himself together as best he could, and then went back to call Jimmie.
"It's time to get up, Jimmie," he said as he kicked the bottom of the boy's foot. Jimmie rose and rubbed his eyes, but was so tired and sleepy he fell back again upon the blankets.
"Come, my boy, I want you to go to the lunch counter with me and have a cup of coffee." He reached down and picked the boy up bodily and held him in his great, strong arms a moment, but had to drop him for safety; he would be weeping again if he did not get busy at something else.
"Go out and wash your face, Jim, and you'll feel better."
The cold water did its work.
"Guess I's hard to wake up, wasn't I, Dave?" said Jimmie, as he wiped his face on the lining of his cap—a trick of the newsboys.
"You're all right, Jimmie; but you need more sleep. After you get your papers carried, come back and go up into the haymow and sleep all morning."
"I can't do 'er, Dave. I got ter see Bill and call on Floe and take me first lesson from Mrs. Price and go ter Morton's house, all dis mornin'."
"Well, come, we'll go over and get something to eat," said Dave.
"I don't feel very hungry," said Jimmie, "and I guess I won't go over jus' now. I'll git somfin later."
Dave knew what the trouble was and took Jimmie by the hand and started for the all-night lunch counter.
"You're going to eat with me this time, Jimmie; I have enough money for both of us. No, you'll never pay me a cent of it back. Just a little treat, you know."
Jimmie never wanted something for nothing, but he grew so hungry as he thought of the good things at the counter that he could not say No. Dave ordered their meal, and when it came upon the table Jimmie's big gray eyes stuck out. "Is dis all fer us, Dave? Der meat, an' eggs, an' taters, too, an' coffee 'sides! Gee! it must of cost a quarter, didn't it, Dave?" As he grabbed his knife and fork to start his meal, he looked up at Dave with such love in his eyes that Dave lost his appetite for food and wanted to finish the "bawl" he had started in the barn.
"Go on and eat, Jimmie. You'll be late for your papers," he said.
"I mus' pray 'fore I eat, Dave," he said as he jammed his cap into his coat pocket. "Now, Jesus, I'm glad yer give us all this here good stuff ter eat. It's more'n we got comin'; but yer always givin' us more'n we could ast er tink. Dave's a good man fer payin' fer it, and he's feedin' you when he's feedin' me, 'cause I'm your'n. Make Dave gooder and gooder fer Jesus' sake. Amen."
Dave jumped to his feet and started for the door. "You eat, Jimmie; I'll be back in a minute." He was overcome and the "bawl" had got the best of him. He stood outside the door in the dark and cried as if his heart would break.
"D—— fool that I am! I wish some one would come along and call me names so I could lick him within an inch of his life. I'd feel better anyhow."
After several unsuccessful attempts to control himself, he went to the door and told Jimmie to eat both meals, as he had to go.
"I'll pay you, Mose, when I come over." Before Jimmie could answer he was gone.
He went to Fagin's, got several drinks, tried his best to pick a fight with Mike, then went home and went to bed.
Jimmie ate all there was in sight, and with a full stomach became very cheerful and talked to Mose, the colored waiter.
"Gee, I guess me belly t'ought me t'roat was cut. I bet if it could talk it would ast me what I was doin' up dere."
CHAPTER VIII
Bill's Pension
After Mr. and Mrs. Morton had listened to Jimmie's story of Mrs. Cook's prayer, Floe's "gittin' hurted" and Dave's talk, he went into detail as he described the wonderful breakfast he had eaten. "Gee, I was scart I'd bust when I straightened up. I don't feel like I wanted nothin' for a week."
"Tell me more about Floe," said Mrs. Morton, much interested.
"Do you think she would come to live with us while she is sick?
I would love to care for her and be her friend if she would
let me."
"Do yer mean she can board here?" asked Jimmie in surprise.
"No, I want her to come and live with us; I want her for my friend and companion. She can be our Floe and make this her home."
"Will her name be Floe Morton then?" asked Jimmie.
"Yes, you may call her that if you like, but I do want her to come and live with us. When you go to see her this morning, ask her if she will allow me to see her. If she will, you come right back for me and we will go down together."
After prayer Jimmie started for Bucktown, very happy, and confident that the day would be a day of victory for Jesus. His faith was wonderful. His prayers were so simple and childlike; he prayed to God and asked Him for things in the same language and tone of voice he used when he talked to any one else. He had not acquired the professional whine as yet, and for that reason he received answers to his prayers, because he prayed to God and did not whine to the people who might be around to hear him. Many godly people have been shocked in the Mission because some redeemed drunkard would use slang in his fervent prayer to the Almighty. He simply prayed in his own language. The language of the slums is just as much a language as German or French; it must be learned before it can be understood. The idea that these men must not pray until they have learned that professional, unnatural, painful whine, is as absurd as confining prayer to Latin. When a man or woman is occupied by the wording of a prayer and not with the prayer and with their God, it may be beautiful, but it never gets higher than the bald spot on their head.
Jimmie prayed as he ran along the railroad tracks, and asked
God to help him say the right thing at the right time.
"Hello, Bill, yer up, are yer? Yer must be feelin' better."
"Yes, he's up and he ain't had a drink ter-day nor las' night, have yer, Bill?" said Mrs. Cook proudly. "And what's more, yer ain't goin' ter have none, are yer, Bill?"
Bill was eating canned tomatoes from a can with a spoon. Tomatoes taste good to a man in Bill's condition and they will stay down when nothing else will. "He's got ter git out ter-day an' sign his pension papers, 'cause he won't git his money on the fifth if he don't," said Mrs. Cook. "I wish you'd go with him, Jim," she whispered. "He ain't very strong yet."
"I'll do it, yer bet," said Jimmie. "What time do yer want ter go, Bill?"
"About ten o'clock I'll be ready." Bill spoke with great difficulty; he was very weak and nervous.
"Dat'll gi' me time ter go and see Floe," said Jimmie. "I'll be back at jus' ten o'clock. Yer make him wait fer me, won't yer, Mrs. Cook?"
"Yep, I'll keep him if I can."
The colored cook let Jimmie into the Dolly resort through the kitchen, and he was shown to Floe's room by the nurse, who had been called in by Doctor Snyder the night before.
"Oh, Jimmie child, I'm so glad to see you. I've been thinking of what you said about asking Jesus to help me. He can't help me now; it's too late. Come here, Jimmie dear, I want to ask you to do something for me." Jimmie went to her bedside.
"Will you do what I want you to do?"
"I'll do der best I kin ter help yer," said Jimmie proudly. "Yer was good ter me and I want ter be good ter you. I'll never forgit the dollar yer sent ter Ma when Pa was sick, and the shoes yer——"
"Oh, never mind any of that, Jim; I want to ask you to do me this favor before you get started to talk and say something I don't want to hear," said Floe.
"For years the whole aim of my life has been to forget, forget, forget the past. I had succeeded to some extent and begun to believe that I was away from even the thought or desire for anything better than this kind of life. What you said last night has brought it all back to me and I have been living in the past all night, only to awake this morning to this awful reality. Now, Jimmie child, I don't want to hurt you, but I want you to promise me that you will never mention anything of that kind to me again. It can never do me any good and it only makes me miserable."
"Jesus never makes yer miserable, Floe. He makes yer glad yer livin'," said Jimmie, and before she could answer he went on in his enthusiastic way: "Say, Floe, you know Mrs. Morton at the Mission? Well, she's the best that ever happened. Talk 'bout der limit; what der yer tinks she wants now? I went up ter der house this mornin' and tol' 'em about yer gittin' hurted, den I tried ter tell 'em 'bout Dave Beach, but Mrs. Morton, she says, 'Tell me more about Floe.' 'Do yer know Floe?' I ast. 'No, I do not, Jimmie, but I want to know her.' And dis is what she said: She wants yer to come up ter her house while yer hurted and live with her. She says it ain't so bloomin' noisy, er somfin like dat. You'll git well quicker and she says she wants ter take care of yer, and yer can live dere all der time if yer wants ter, and be Floe Morton. Gee, dey got a swell house with carpets, an' pictures an' things jus' like yer got here, and grass and trees outside and a hummock ter swing in, an' I'll come ter see yer every day. Mrs. Morton tol' me ter come jus' any ol' time I wanted ter. Won't that be fine, me an' you both there?"
Floe tried to speak, but Jimmie talked so fast she couldn't get a word in edgewise.
"Dis here lady with a white doo-bob on her top-knot says I can't stay only fer a minute, so I wants ter tell yer what we're doin'. Me an' Mrs. Morton is comin' up ter see yer, and she's goin' ter tell yer what she wants, and if Doctor Snyder and dis lady says yer can be took, Mrs. Morton is goin' ter get a hearse wagon an' take yer home, an' I'm goin' along. I never rid in one of 'em tings yet. I must go now, but I'm comin' back with Mrs. Morton. So long."
"Wait a minute, Jimmie," cried Floe. "Don't bring that woman in here, Jimmie, do you hear?" But he was gone, or at least he did not give her a chance to talk back.
Jimmie went straight to the Cook home. Mrs. Cook said Bill had just left, but had promised not to take a drink. Jimmie hurried out of the house, and for some reason, unknown even to himself, started for Fagin's. He slipped in unnoticed and there stood Bill on one side of the bar and Fagin on the other. Bill had just got a drink to his mouth with great difficulty after Fagin had poured it out. When he set the glass down upon the bar, Fagin filled it up again and Bill "downed" it. As Fagin filled it for the third time, Jimmie rushed up with his canvas bag, in which he carried papers. Swinging it around his head with all his strength, he hit the glass and bottle and sent them across the room, breaking both on the floor. Bill thought it was his wife. As he ducked his head, he said, "I didn't drink no booze, that was for Fagin."
"Don't lie, Bill. I saw yer git two, but I don't blame yer fer it. Fagin knows how near yer come ter cashin' in and how weak yer are, and wants ter git yer goin' agin 'cause yer pension's 'bout due; he knows he'll git it if yer drunk."
Fagin was white with rage and started for Jimmie, but Jimmie straightened up and made himself as large as he could, and, with his big gray eyes fastened upon Fagin, said, "I'm not scart of yer bluff; yer coward 'nough ter hit me 'cause I'm little, but yer goin' ter listen while I tell yer somfin. Yer killed me Pa, an' yer know it. After yer got all his dough, yer put him out and he was left in Rice's wagon box ter freeze, while yer slept in yer good bed. When it come ter buryin' him yer didn't give nothin' but a lot of poor booze ter git der people drunk, and der funeral broke up in a free-for-all; now yer after Bill 'cause yer tinks yer can git his pension. His woman's got her second washin' out so fur dis mornin' an' when I ast her how she did it she said she washed all night long, 'cause rent was up and Bill was sick. Then she said she'd wash her finger nails off if she could help Bill git saved. She loves Bill and her kids jus' as much as your woman loves yer and yer kids, and I don't see what yer want ter kill him off fer. Dey never done nothin' ter you. Ah, go on! he wouldn't either git it nowhere else if he didn't git it here." A big tear stole down Jimmie's face as he stood looking first at Fagin and then at poor Bill.
"Der Bible say that God loves everybody, and I believe it 'cause it says so, but I can't see no show fer a dog like you, Fagin. You're worser than any guy I ever see'd. You go ter church every Sunday mornin', and Sunday afternoon and the rest of the week yer booze and steal and raise h——. Yer got ter——"
"Oh, shut up, you little fool; some one told you to say that; no kid your age got off such a temperance talk without some one helping him. That fresh guy from the Mission put you up to rubbing it into me; I'll fix him, and you, too, if I ever hear any more of it." Fagin was beaten by the boy and he felt the defeat keenly.
"I suppose you'll hit him in der back of der head wid a stone, like yer did der poor dago last spring. If yer lookin' fer a good square game I tink Morton could fix yer so you'd need one of yer fottygraffs on yer shirt front ter tell yer wife who was comin' home ter dinner. Come on, Bill, let's git out of here and go sign yer papers. Dis is no place fer gentlemen like me and you."
Jimmie took Bill by the hand and started for the door. Bill had not spoken during the "temperance lecture," and when Jimmie took him by the hand he allowed himself to be led away and seemed glad to have a chance to get out of the place. He did not want to drink, and yet he could not help it.
"So long, Fagin," said Jimmie when he had reached the door with Bill. "When yer confess next Sunday mornin' be sure ter tell 'em 'bout dis hold-up, and tell 'em dat all der money yer gits is money yer steals from der women and kids of Bucktown. An' say, Fagin," Jimmie yelled from the sidewalk, "tell 'em erbout Bill's pension yer didn't git. So long."
Jimmie got Bill back home after the papers were signed and Mrs. Cook put him to bed. Neither spoke of the two drinks to her and she was very happy as she thought of the wonderful things ahead of her. "Fer thirty years Bill's been havin' spells," she said to herself. "Now I believe it's goin' ter change. He can't help gittin' saved if he hears them people at der Mission tell how Jesus kin save 'em."
CHAPTER IX
"Auntie's Favorite Horse"
Dave Beach had traded for an old pacing mare. She was very sore forward, at least sixteen years old, but had a world of speed for a short distance. In the harness she was quiet and kind, but in the barn she would drive nearly every one from her. To feed her was a trick few men cared to learn. She would kick and bite, and any one who was the least bit timid could do nothing with her. Dave had traded for her in another city. She was not known to horsemen around here. He expected to make some money with her, so he kept her out of sight as much as possible until he got her "fixed up a bit," as he put it.
He had her teeth filed until she had a six-year-old mouth. Her shoes were pulled off to let her feet spread and grow. The clippers had removed her long hair, and Dave had fed her to bring the best results for looks and speed. He knew nothing of her breeding, but that was "easy" for a man as horsy as Dave. When she was ready for the public to see she looked as racy as even Dave had hoped for.
The morning paper contained the following advertisement:
"For Sale.—The bay pacing mare Becky Wilkes, by Forward, by George Wilkes, by Hamiltonian 10, by Abdallah 1. Dam: Mamie B, by Brown Hal, by Tom Hal, Jr., by Kitrell's Tom Hal, by old Kentucky Tom Hal. This mare is six years old, kind and gentle, perfectly sound, and can show a 10 clip to wagon. With proper work she would be a world beater. Reason for selling—death in the family. Call mornings at Beach's Livery, Brady St."
After Dave's experience with Jimmie he went to bed and slept until ten o'clock. He was standing in the big double door of the barn, thinking what a fool he had made of himself, when a young fellow drove up to the curb and stopped.
"Is this Beach's Livery?"
"Yes, sir, this is the place," said Dave.
"I see by the paper that you have a pacer for sale." The speaker was a fine-looking young man, with a good face and an easy manner. He was dressed in the pink of fashion, and his general make-up would denote wealth. Dave was not sure of the kind of man he had to deal with. He looked him over carefully, but somehow he was unable to tell whether he was "horse wise" or not. "He'll soon show his hand," said Dave to himself. "He's either 'dead wise' or 'dead easy.'"
"Yes, sir, I have a very fine bay mare and she's for sale to the right party," said Dave. "No one can get that mare to abuse, as she is very dear to our family. Do you want a horse for yourself, sir?"
"Yes, I want one that can go faster than these," pointing to his own team.
"I have the one," said Dave.
"Can I see it?" asked the stranger.
"Sure you can; I'll hitch her up. (Did you hear him say 'it'? Mamma, he's easy!) Oh, Hank!" he shouted. "Put the harness on Becky. (I knew that he'd soon show his hand," said Dave to himself. "He don't know no more about a horse than a jack-rabbit knows about ping-pong, or he'd never say 'it.' Just watch me hand it to him.) Ginger up a bit, Hank, this man is in a hurry." Of course Hank, the barn man, knew what that meant, and when Becky came out she was champing the bit and pawing like a race horse. Dave was proud of the way she was acting.
"She's perfectly safe and kind, but full of life. Not a mean thing in her make-up, and if you can find an 'out' about her I'll give her to you."
As he was hitching her to his light wagon he kept up his horse talk, and no one could beat him talking horse if he thought the man had money.
"You see this mare is out of Colonel Thompson's celebrated string. The Colonel's wife was my aunt, and when this mare was a colt auntie fell in love with her and would not allow her to be raced down through the circuit. When Johnny Seely broke Joe Patchen he used Becky to work him out and she would go away from him like he was tied to a post. Yes, siree, man, this is the greatest mare on earth and she never had but one chance to show what she could do, and I'll stop and tell you about that right now. Just once we got her away from the home stables and I'll never forget that day. There had been much good-natured bartering among the owners and drivers down through the grand circuit during the season and much money had changed hands among them that did not reach the 'bookies.' When we got to Lexington, Kentucky (our old home), at the close of the season, the owners got together and put up five hundred dollars each for a special race. Mile dash, free-for-all, either gait, association rules to govern. Harry Loper to start them and the first horse under the wire to take the jack-pot. The Lexington association added five thousand dollars.
"The day of the race was ideal, clear and warm and no wind blowing to speak of. Oh, my! I'll never forget the excitement of that day till I die. There was Splan with Newcastle, Geers with Robert J., McHenry with John R. Gentry, Curry with Joe Patchen, Curtis with Walter E., Wade with Dr. M., Kelly with his California wonder. You see every one had to start some horse, even if he was outclassed. Old Dad Hamlin said to the Colonel, 'What are you going to start, Colonel?' 'I don't know; I'll find something,' he said."
The young man did not understand a word that Dave said, but looked at him in wonder.
"After a talk with Seely," Dave went on, "it was decided that they would slip this mare over to the track. Yes, sir, this very mare here, and Johnnie was to drive her in the special race. In the betting she was never mentioned until the Colonel went up and asked for a price on her. 'Oh, about fifty to one,' said Al Swarengen. 'Do you want a dollar's worth of her?' 'Give me a hundred dollars' worth,' said the Colonel. He bet a hundred dollars with every bookie in the bunch at fifty to one. When they scored for the word, Johnnie was in fifth position. They got away the third time down. Every horse was on their stride. Mack had the pole, Curry lay alongside, and Geers, with Robert J. going strong, moved in from the outside just after they left the wire. A blanket would cover the three horses at the quarter pole. Johnnie was trailing close up with Becky, but the trotters Newcastle and Walter E. with Dr. M. were outclassed. The pacers went the first quarter in 30 3/4 seconds, but slowed some in the back stretch. At the half Gentry made a skip, but recovered quick and still held the pole in the upper turn. No one in the grand stand seemed to notice the little bay with her nose at the wheel of Gentry's sulky. The Colonel knew she was there, and he knew also that if Johnnie could get her though the bunch at the head of the stretch there'd be a horse race in Kentucky that day that would make the Doble-Marvin days look like deuces in the Mississippi steamboat jack-pot. As the horses entered the stretch Geers spoke to his knee-sprung bay and he responded as only Robert J. could. Patchen, the big, honest black, was pacing the race of his life. McHenry can team 'em in the stretch like few men, and Gentry was on his tiptoes but holding his place. Johnnie could see no opening to get through as they entered the stretch, so he made a long swing clear to the outside with Becky and then pulled her together for the finish. A hundred yards from the wire it was anybody's race. Mack was reefing Gentry; Geers was talking to Robert J. in his own way; Patchen kept his feet, although Curry was standing up yelling at the top of his voice. The people in the grand stand hardly breathed as Seely came up strong on the outside with Becky. 'Who is that?' they cried. 'See that bay horse come up on the outside. What horse is it? Who's driving her? Come on, boys!' they cried. When within fifty yards of the wire Johnnie shifted both lines into his left hand and cut Becky with the whip the full length of her body. She shot forward with a mighty lunge and Johnnie rained blow after blow upon her. Just before they reached the wire Robert J. and Becky were neck and neck, with Gentry and Patchen at their throat-latch. Drivers and horses were straining every nerve. The great crowd in the stand were holding their breath. The judges and timers forgot their duty. Never will the excitement of that moment be forgotten. Just in reach of the wire Johnnie let go of Becky's head and she shot her nose under the wire about two inches ahead of Robert J. For a moment all was still, then that crowd of Kentuckians threw their hats in the air and yelled themselves hoarse. As the drivers came back to dismount, Johnnie was lifted high in the air and was literally carried into the weighing-room, while Becky was led to the stables to be cooled off. The niggers rushed to the Thompson mansion on the river and told Mrs. Thompson about Becky's victory. When the Colonel drove back home, with Johnnie leading Becky, Mrs. Thompson came at once to the stables and said to Johnnie, 'Uncover that mare.' 'She is very warm, ma'am,' said Johnnie. 'You can see her in the morning all right.' 'I want to see her now,' she said, and she did. When she was those whip marks she was very angry and said, 'That mare will never race again while I live, nor after, if I can help it.'
"When auntie died she gave the best she had to her favorite nephew, with the understanding, of course, that I would never enter this mare in a race, and I meant to keep her for my own use, but every time I see her it reminds me of my poor, dead aunt, and I am determined to let some good man have her, but he must use her right. It would kill me to think that auntie's favorite horse was abused."
Hank got a coughing spell and started on a run for the back end of the barn. He fell into a box stall and rolled and laughed until it seemed he would never get his breath.
"Oh, mamma!" he said, "if that dood gits that old blister he'll wish she was in heaven with Dave's auntie about the first time he goes to feed her." He doubled up again and rolled in the straw and laughed until he cried. "I like a liar, but Dave suits me too well," he cried. He peeked out of the stall just as Dave and his victim started out of the door. "Becky sure feels her ginger this morning," he said, and then fell back in the stall and rolled and laughed some more.
Dave drove down over the pavement slowly, talking "horse" as he went. When he got down on the river bank, where there was about eighty rods of good dirt road, he "cut her loose." She was used to a "brush" and liked the dirt, and the way she threw dust into that "dood's" eyes pleased Dave. "Did you ever see anything like it?" said Dave as he pulled her up. "And she only got started on that short road. She goes a mile better than a quarter." Dave turned her around and handed the lines to the young man and said, "You drive her down this time."
He fell in love with her on the way to the barn and said to
Dave, "How much do you want for her?"
"That's the trouble," said Dave, almost ready to cry. "When it comes to parting with her it almost breaks my heart; but I can't keep her around the barn, as she constantly reminds me of dear auntie. I hardly know what to say. You'll be kind to her, won't you?"
"Oh, yes, I'll be kind to her for your aunt's sake," the young man replied kindly.
As they got back to the barn Dave looked at the slick, fat team that belonged to the young man and said, "Where did you get that pair of farm horses? They'll do for plowing, but you want something that will beat anything in town, and Becky can do it."
After much talk about breeding and speed, Dave finally made him an offer to trade Becky for the team of five-year-olds and one hundred dollars. The man counted out the money without saying a word and Dave nearly fell dead, as he said afterward. "I could just as well got five hundred. What a chump I was!"
As the young man's coachman led the mare away that afternoon after delivering the five-year-olds, Dave called to him and said, "Say, watch her a little in the stable. She's cross, but if you ain't afraid of her you can handle her easy. Don't let her bluff you."
"Thrust me for that, laddy. Oi've seen the loikes of this before," pointing with his thumb to the mare. "Oi sure feel sorry fer paple and harses that are in their second choildhood. Shure, if yer aunt was old enough to remember when this mare was a colt she was old enough to die."
Dave smiled, but made no reply. Generally after a good trade Dave took every one out for a drink and felt very happy. The boys stood around and waited, but Dave failed to say anything. At last Hank ventured to say, "Are yer any good, Dave? We're spittin' cotton."
"You go treat the boys, Hank; I don't want a drink now," said
Dave, throwing him a dollar.
For the first time in his life he felt as if he had robbed some one. Everything is fair in a horse trade, and he figured that the fellow could afford to get beat once. "It will teach him a lesson," he said.
"I think he is too game to come back and holler, and I'm not afraid of that; but it sort of looks like taking advantage of his ignorance."
Jimmie and his Friend kept coming up before him until Dave almost wished the old mare was back in the barn.
"I'd give this hundred dollars if I didn't feel so much like an old fool woman. I don't know what's ailing me. I've traded my dead aunt's favorite horse at least fifty times and it never hurt me before like it does now. I guess I need a drink. I'm losing my nerve."
CHAPTER X
Jimmie's Education
"Don't it beat the Dutch, Fagin, the way things is goin' in Bucktown?" said Mike, the bartender, to Fagin one afternoon. "The gang all seem ter be on the bum. When I went home fer dinner this noon, my old lady said she was goin' ter the Mission with Mrs. Cook and Bill ter-night. Ever since that funeral of Moore's, she's been sendin' the kids to the Mission Sunday school and not one of 'em will come inside of this place now. I've been thinkin' I'd put a stop to the whole business and not let her nor the kids go near that place, but I guess I'll keep my hands off until they git to interferin' with my business; then I'll stop 'em hard."
"Has Bill Cook been down to the Mission?" asked Fagin.
"Yes, and I guess they've got him, too. His woman says he's converted, er whatever they calls it, and he told me this mornin' that he wasn't drinkin'. I ast him to have one, but he said he'd foller the water wagon the rest of his life. I give him the laugh, but he wouldn't stand fer it."
"This is pension day, isn't it?" asked Fagin.
"I think so," said Mike.
"Well, if Bill stays sober after he gets his money, then I'll think there's somethin' ter this Mission business," said Fagin.
"That kid of Moore's is makin' most of this trouble and Jewey says that Dave Beach is stuck on him. Dave always had good sense, but he don't show it now. He paid for the ambulance that Mrs. Morton used to take Floe to her house with, and that must 'a' cost three dollars anyhow."
"Does he come here much now, Mike?"
"Not much, and when he does come he acts sore all the time. The other mornin' about four o'clock he came in here and got a couple of drinks and he was so mad he was cryin'. When I ast him what was eatin' him he wanted to lick me. I tell you, things are changin' in Bucktown, Fagin, and I don't like it a little bit."
The women of Bucktown were talking the same way, and little groups of them could be seen here and there in earnest conversation about Mrs. Cook, Bill Cook, Floe, Jimmie, etc.
"I'll bet Bill'll be drunk when he gits his money," said Mrs. Kinney. "You git her mad and she'll swear like she always did. Where der yer suppose she got that hat she's wearin'? When I ast her she said the Lord give it to 'er, and she says she's goin' ter have a carpet and curtains. I wish Bill would git drunk and just teach her a good lesson. She's gittin' too smart. She'll quit speakin' to us next thing we know, and that Floe that Mrs. Morton took home with her, I'll bet she'll be a bad girl agin. If I don't miss my guess, they'll be sorry they ever saw Bucktown."
Even the children would stand and look at Bill when he passed by on the street. Morton had gone with him to his old employer and told him how he was saved, and he gave Bill back his old place in the shop. He worked ten hours each day and went to the Mission every night.
Jimmie was getting on well with is studies under Mrs. Price. She gave him an hour each morning and he worked hard to get his lessons. On Saturday morning he rushed into Morton's office very much excited. "What's the matter, Jimmie?" said Morton.
"Matter? Matter 'nough, I guess. What yer been steerin' me up against? I was jus' gittin' my lesson up at Price's and her man comes home. He's a travelin' man and gits home once a month. He stood lookin' at me and, pointin' his finger at me, says, says he, 'What's dis?' His woman says, says she, 'Dat's Jimmie Moore and I'm teachin' him ter read and write. He's one of der Sunday school boys at der Mission.' 'I don't want no such cattle in my house,' he said ter his woman. 'He's covered wid vermum (er somfin like dat) and'll steal yer blind when yer ain't lookin',' and said he wa'n't runnin' no mission, and 'f I didn't git he'd sling me out der winder."
"Well, what did you do, Jimmie?" asked Morton.
"Do? I ducks out, and ducks out fast is what I do. Did yer ever see him? He's one of them tall, skinny guys and he's got er high shiny hat dat makes him taller and skinnier. He'd go fer a lead pencil at der masquerade in Bucktown, if he had a rubber on his head. Den his overcoat is so big dat he's got a belly-band buttoned on behind it ter make it littler. Gee, he looked like er rat-tail in er quart cup. I wouldn't care so much, but I left my book dere, and I'm scart ter go after it."
"Did you say anything to him, Jimmie?" asked Morton.
"Not on yer life, I didn't have time; he came near beatin' me to der door as it was."
"Well, never mind, Jimmie. It may be all right. I will get your book for you and you will learn to read and write yet," said Morton kindly. "Romans 8:28 says that 'all things work together for good to them that love God.'"
While Jimmie's experience with Price was hard for one so sensitive, before the day ended he was very glad it had happened as it did.
As Mr. and Mrs. Price started for down-town that evening to do some shopping, Mrs. Price took Jimmie's book with her. When they reached Brady Street, where the Mission is located, she turned suddenly to Mr. Price and said, "I have that boy's book with me and I want to take it to him at the Mission. Please walk down with me; it is rather rough on Saturday night and I am timid alone." For what followed, hear Mr. Price's own words as he stood up to speak in the Mission at the end of the service.
"If any one had told me this morning that I would be in a place like this to-night, I would have considered that person insane. It was all a mistake on my part, but I thank God for the mistake. For years I have been a traveling man. To hold my trade and be a good fellow I have always treated my customers right. In this way I got into the habit of drinking. Never got drunk very often at first, but the habit kept growing until it has been the other way—never got sober very often. Ten days ago, in another city, fifteen of us boys met at the supper table in the hotel and one of them bet the drinks for the crowd with another one. I do not know what the bet was about, but after supper we all adjourned to the barroom to drink with the loser. Before we stopped we had all treated and every one was ready for anything. To make a long story short, we have all been drunk for ten days. I reached home this morning without money; I left my hotel bill unpaid. My firm does not know where I am. When I went into the house my wife had company, and I was mad in a minute. I tried to kick a boy out of doors that she was teaching to read. I have not spoken a pleasant word all day. To-night my wife asked me to come to this place with her, as she had a book she wanted to deliver to that boy. He was nowhere to be seen, so I sat down with her in the back part of the building to wait for him. Two large women came in and we moved in against the wall to make room for them. I became very nervous and wanted to get out, but I couldn't get past those women. I was angry enough at my wife to choke her, but she sat there and sung those old songs and never once looked at me. When my eye caught sight of the motto there, 'How long since you wrote Mother?' I almost fell from my chair. Listen, fellows; I had as good a mother as God ever gave a boy. I had promised her many times that I would not take another drink, but never could keep my word. One day when I was in a barroom, I received a telegram from my wife which read, 'Come at once. Mother is dead.' When I reached home they told me that the last conscious words were a prayer for her boy. I had promised her to meet her in Heaven, but I've gone lower and lower since her death. I thank God for that boy; I thank God for those words on the wall and for Mr. Morton's invitation to come to Mother's God. Since I came to this altar, Jesus has saved me and I mean to live for Him and meet Mother over there."
As he sat down there was scarcely a dry eye in the house. Jimmie went up to him and put his hand on his arm and said, "I was sore at yer ter-day, but I love yer now, Mr. Price." Price took the boy in his arms and hugged him. "I love you, my boy, and will always be your friend. You will always find my home open to you."
CHAPTER XI
The Meeting in the Market
The first day that was warm enough for people to stand outside and listen, Mr. Morton had his big, white stallions hitched to the gospel wagon, which was also white. The team had wintered well and weighed 3400 pounds. As they stood champing their bits outside of the Mission, Jimmie watched them for a few minutes and then, turning to Morton, said, "Please, kin I go erlong, Mr. Morton?"
"Where shall we go, Jimmie? We want to have about three meetings this afternoon if the weather stays warm, as it is now."
"Have all t'ree of 'em in Bucktown," said Jimmie. "I bet I kin git Dave Beach ter come over ter the corner ter see dem dere horses, and I'll bet Fagin and Mike'll come over ter hear Bill Cook make his speel, and say, come here er minute." Jimmie took Morton off to one side, away from every one, and whispered into his ear: "If you'll git Floe ter go down there an' sing dat dere song erbout 'Tellin' yer Ma I'll be dere' [Tell Mother I'll be There], it'll git der whole bunch out to der meetin'."
"Floe is not very strong, Jimmie, and I hardly think she would care to sing in the open air."
"If she'll do et, will yer let her?"
"Oh, yes, if she cares to go I will be glad to take her with
us on the wagon. You must not tell her I wanted you to ask her,
Jimmie," said Mr. Morton as the boy started on a run to ask
Floe to sing.
"She'll be dere by der time der wagon is," said Jimmie, all out of breath, "an' I'm goin' down now ter tell der gang you're comin'."
Before the second song had been sung at least two hundred people stood before the gospel wagon at the corner of the Market. All ages, sizes, colors, kinds, some drunk, some under the influence of morphine and opium, and some Greeks and Russians who could not understand one word of the English language. On the edge of the crowd were three or four girls from the Dolly resort, and as many more from other houses of this same type near by. Oily Ike, Fred Hood and Jewey were there; but Fagin, Mike, Dave Beach and Jimmie were nowhere to be seen. When the male quartet arose to sing, every one became very quiet and listened attentively to the singing.
Morton read the first Psalm and then told the crowd just why they were there. "We are here to tell you about the Lord Jesus Christ and His power to save; because we know that every one of you needs Him," said Morton.
This class of people can never be "fooled," and one endeavoring to help them in a spiritual way must be very frank and honest, and never, never use "nice" words or sayings to catch them. They are very suspicious of everybody and when any one attempts to win them to his way of thinking he must do it in a straightforward, honest manner. Do not call them "dear friends" or "dear brothers and sisters"; do not tell them that they are all good people, as they at once begin to look for a collection box or expect you to have something to sell. They say, "He's either a fool or thinks I'm one."
"The City Rescue Mission stands for the old Gospel of Christ, to save from sin," Morton continued. "And on this wagon to-day are those who were once far in sin, but who are now happy in Him. Every one here knows Mr. Cook. He is your neighbor and I believe your friend. You all knew him in his old life and most of you know how God has kept him these past weeks. I know that you will all want to hear from him, and after he speaks to you I shall ask a lady to sing. She will sing, by request, 'Tell Mother I'll be There.' I take great pleasure in introducing to you Mr. William Cook."
"What's the matter with Bill?" yelled a voice.
"He's all right!" came from nearly every throat as Bill stood up to speak.
Jimmie stepped from the side entrance of Fagin's saloon and was quickly followed by Mike, Fagin, Dave Beach and Gene Dibble. Bill started to speak just as they lined up in front of him, and he became so nervous he could scarcely stand up, much less say anything. Fagin was quick to notice his embarrassment and laughed a rough Ha! Ha!
"Cut that out, Fagin!" said Dave, stepping up to him.
The look in Dave's eyes told Fagin that he meant all he said.
"Go on, Bill, you're a winner," he said. "We want to hear you speak."
"Well, fellows, yer know that this is a new one on me. I've never been up against this gospel wagon game before in my life. My trainin' has been along other lines. I can't make no speech, but I can tell yer this, that fer six weeks I ain't wanted no booze and I've been workin' most of the time and got money in my pocket to buy booze if I wanted it. See?"
"Good boy, Bill," yelled Dave. "You're getting your second wind; all you need is a little more weight forward and jogged every morning in hopples for about ten days and you've got 'em all skinned in your class."
"Go on, Bill," said Jimmie, "tell 'em what yer told 'em in der
Mission last night."
"It's this way," said Bill, great drops of perspiration standing on his forehead. "It's this way. In the army I learned to drink. After I came home I took up my old trade and have always worked when I could keep sober. Since I have lived in this part of town I've been drunk more than I have been at work. Every time it happened, I'd swear that it would never happen again, but I'd go and git it before I'd git my breakfast. I tried to stop, but couldn't handle myself at all. Every one round here knows how my family suffered. I could make enough ter keep 'em good, but I'd spent it fer likker. My wife has took in washin' to keep the kids from starvin' and freezin'. She had to work all night, more'n one night, and when Freddie died—Oh, my God! I wish I could forgit that! When Freddie died—I was drunk. Just before he passed away I promised him I'd never drink another drop, but I went out and got into the delirium tremens before I stopped. When I came to myself I found that my wife had sold everything in the house but the stove, table, a few chairs and one bed to pay the funeral expenses. You can call it fun, if yer want to, but I tell you it's hell on earth. Most of you know what's happened lately. When my old pal, Bob Moore, died, I was in bad shape; but I never got away from what God did fer him before he died. When I got out of bed, Jimmie took me to the Mission and Jesus saved me the first night I went there. My wife was saved the night before, and I tell you we're havin' different times at our house nowadays. We had chicken fer dinner to-day and we've had meat once a day fer two weeks. I've eat garlic sausage and rye bread on the free lunch counter fer thirty years, but now I'm eatin' chicken and givin' the old lady and kids a chance ter eat too."
When he sat down some tried to clap their hands, but the crowd did not feel that way. Every one knew that Bill had told the truth and they were touched with the earnest way in which he told his simple, straightforward story.
"Now, while you are quiet, I will ask our friend to sing for us," said Morton. "Please come to the wagon, sister," he said to Floe.
As she stepped upon the wagon every eye was upon her. She was dressed in a dark tailor-made suit, very plain but neat. Mr. Worden at the organ started to play softly. Floe walked to the front of the wagon and looked down into the faces of many she knew. Her large black eyes beamed with love for them all. She was very pale, but calm, and as she stood there she looked like a queen.
"It's Floe," said Dave. "She can beat 'em all singin'."
"Gee, don't she look swell! I'd hardly know her," said Gene
Dibble.
"Before I sing this song for you," she said in a clear, sweet voice, "I wish to say something about it. Most of you, no doubt, know this song and many of you like it, but to me it means more than any song I could sing. It simply tells my life story. Let me read it to you.
"When I was but a little child, how well I recollect,
How I would grieve my mother with my folly and neglect.
And now that she has gone to Heaven, I miss her tender care,
Oh, angels, tell my mother I'll be there.
"Tell mother I'll be there, in answer to her prayer,
This message, guardian angel, to her bear.
Tell mother I'll be there, Heaven's joys with her to share,
Yes, tell my darling mother, I'll be there.
"When I was often wayward, she was always kind and good,
So patient, gentle, loving, when I acted rough and rude.
My childhood griefs and trials, she would gladly with me share,
Oh, angels, tell my mother I'll be there.
"When I became a prodigal and left the old roof-tree,
She almost broke her loving heart in grieving after me.
And day and night she prayed to God to keep me in His care,
Oh, angels, tell my mother I'll be there.
"One day a message came to me, it bade me quickly come,
If I would see my mother ere the Saviour took her home.
I promised her before she died for Heaven to prepare,
Oh, angels, tell my mother I'll be there.
"This last verse has been enacted in my life within the past week. Mrs. Morton had written home and told father and mother that I was with her. This message came the next day, 'Come at once. Mother is dying'; it was signed 'From your Father.' In company with Mrs. Morton I reached the old home at four o'clock the next afternoon. I used to think the place was lonely and dreary, but I can never tell you how glad I was to set my foot in the old yard once more. Everything looked so good to me, and the same old apple tree where I used to swing when I was a little girl seemed to welcome me home. Dear old Rover came to meet me and, although it had been three years since he saw me, he knew me. We hugged each other and in his dog way he made me feel that I still had a place in his warm heart. The night I left home, the old dog followed me down the road and it nearly broke my heart when I had to send him back; he loved me when I thought all the world hated me. As I reached the porch, father came to the door. Oh, how different he looked! When I left home he was strong and active and now he is bent with sorrow, sorrow that my sin has brought to him. He took me in his arms and kissed me again and again. I tried to ask him for forgiveness; but he would not listen to me. 'You have been forgiven ever since you left home that awful night, and I have searched for three years to find you and tell you so. But come, my child, you must see your mother; she has been calling for you ever since her sickness.' He led the way into mother's bed chamber. 'Here's daughter, Mother,' he said.
"'Oh, I knew you'd come,' she said with a feeble voice; 'I just knew that God would send you to me before He called me home. Raise me up, child, I can't see you.'
"I lifted her frail body and held her in my arms and—and—well, after I made the promise that is in this last verse, she smiled and, with her eyes turned heavenward, my dear, sweet mother went to be with Jesus. You all know my life, how I suffered for my sin; I tried to forget father, mother, home and God. Loving hands have lifted me back to life once more and Jesus has saved me from it all and I can truthfully say, 'Oh, angels, tell my mother I'll be there.'"
The song that followed carried everything before it, and nearly every one was weeping. The rich contralto voice was never better and Floe was singing from her very soul. She forgot the people around her, she was in another world. When the chorus had been sung for the last verse the male quartet took it up, singing softly, and seemed to carry that crowd into the very heaven of which Floe had been singing.
Morton closed the meeting in prayer and was inviting them to accept Jesus as their Saviour. While he was talking, Floe stepped from the wagon to join Mrs. Morton; as she passed Jewey he made a remark to her and insultingly referred to her past life.
Gene Dibble, hearing it, threw his coat to Dave Beach, and stepping up to Jewey said, "Get out of your clothes and square yourself. No man can insult a girl that's tryin' ter trot square and make me like it." There was an old grudge of long standing between these men and every one knew that a fight was unavoidable; both men were strong and each had a reputation as a fighter to sustain.
"Give 'em room," cried Dave. "We'll see fair play."
"Oh, Mr. Dibble," cried Floe, "don't fight for me. I deserve all he said and more."
Gene turned to Floe, and awkwardly raising his hat was about to speak, when Jewey said, tauntingly, "Oh, I guess he ain't looking fer it very bad; he was just bluffin' anyhow."
Jimmie took Floe by the hand and pulled her away from the ring that Dave had formed by crowding the people back. Every one wanted to see Jewey whipped, but all knew that Gene had his hands full to do it.
It is not the purpose of the story to describe this fight, but, from a fighter's standpoint, it was a beauty. Gene had just come from the North woods and he was hard and strong, and had better wind than his antagonist. It was give and take from the start; blood was flowing freely on both sides. Jewey was becoming winded and began to beat the air and strike very wild.
"Keep out an upper cut," said Dave, "you've got him coming all right."
Gene pulled himself together and went in to finish his man.
With a right swing, he caught him square on the point of the
jaw; in short, as Dave said, "Gene won it in a walk. Bully for
Gene!"
On the way to the Mission, Morton sat with his head in his hands. "Beat again," he said. "Every time I get that people together the devil spoils the whole business."