The Night Operator Part 39

"What is it, Martin?" she asked tremulously.

For a moment more, Bradley stared at her. Strange that she should have spoken like that to-night when there seemed more than ever a sort of grim a.n.a.logy between her life and his, that seemed like a bond to-night drawing them closer--that seemed, somehow, to urge him to pour out his heart to her--there was motherliness in the sweet old face that seemed to draw him out of himself as no one else had for more years than he cared to remember--as even she never had before.

"What is it, Martin?" she asked again.

And then Bradley smiled.

"I've picked her out," he said, in a low voice. "I'm waiting for a little girl that's promised some day to keep house for me."

"Oh, Martin!" cried Mrs. MacQuigan excitedly. "And--and you never said a word!"

Bradley's hand dove into his inside pocket and came out with a photograph--and the smile on his face now was full of pride.

"Here's her picture," he said.

"Wait, Martin--wait till I get my spectacles!" exclaimed Mrs.

MacQuigan, all in a flutter; and, rising, she hurried over to the little shelf in the corner. Then, adjusting the steel bows over her ears, with little pats to smooth down her hair, she picked up the photograph and stared at it--at the picture of a little tot of eight or nine, at a merry, happy little face that smiled at her roguishly.

"She's ten now, G.o.d bless her!" said Bradley simply. "That was taken two years ago--so I haven't so long to wait, you see."

"Why--why, Martin," stammered Mrs. MacQuigan, "sure you never said you was married. And the wife, Martin, poor boy, she's--she's dead?"

Bradley picked up the photograph and replaced it in his pocket--but the smile now was gone.

"No--I don't know--I never heard," he said. He walked over to the window, pulled the shade and stared out, his back to Mrs. MacQuigan.

"She ditched me. I was on the Penn then--doing well. I had my engine at twenty-five. I went bad for a bit. I'd have gone all the way if it hadn't been for the kiddie. I'd have had more to answer for than I'd want to have, blood, perhaps, if I'd stayed, so I pulled up stakes and came out here." He turned again and came back from the window. "I couldn't bring the kiddie, of course; it was no place for her. And I couldn't leave her where she was to grow up with that in her life, for she was too young then, thank G.o.d, to understand; so I'm giving her the best my money'll buy in a girl's school back East, and"--his voice broke a little--"and that's the little girl I'm waiting for, to make a home for me--some time."

Mrs. MacQuigan's hands fumbled a little as she took off her spectacles and laid them down--fumbled a little as she laid them on Bradley's sleeve.

"G.o.d be good to you, Martin," she whispered, and, picking up some dishes, went hurriedly from the room.

Bradley went back again and stood by the window, looking out, snapping his fingers softly with that trick of his when any emotion was upon him. Strange that he should have told his story to Mrs. MacQuigan to-night! And yet he was glad he had told her; she probably would never refer to it again--just understand. Yes; he was glad he had told her. He hadn't intended to, of course. It had come almost spontaneously, almost as though for some reason it was _meant_ that he should tell her, and----

Bradley's eyes fixed on a small boy's figure that came suddenly streaking across the road and flung itself at the MacQuigans' little front gate; then the gate swung, and the boy came rus.h.i.+ng up the yard.

Bradley thought he recognized the figure as one of the call boys, and a call boy running like that was always and ever a harbinger of trouble.

Instinctively he glanced back into the room. Mrs. MacQuigan was out in the kitchen. Bradley stepped quickly into the hall, and reached the front door as the boy began to pound a tattoo with his fists on the panels.

Bradley jerked the door open.

"What's wrong?" he demanded tersely.

The light from the hall was on the boy now--and his eyes were popping.

"Say," he panted, in a scared way, "say, one of Reddy's friends sent me. There's a wild row on at Faro Dave's. Reddy's raisin' the roof, an'----"

Bradley's hand closed over the youngster's mouth. In answer to the knock, Mrs. MacQuigan was hurrying down the hall.

"What's the matter, Martin?" she questioned nervously, looking from Bradley to the boy and back again to Bradley.

"Nothing," said Bradley rea.s.suringly. "I'm wanted down at the roundhouse to go out with a special." He gave the boy a significant push gatewards. "Go on, bub," he said. "I'll be right along."

Bradley went back into the house, picked up his cap, and, with a cheery good-night to Mrs. MacQuigan, started out again. He walked briskly to the gate and along past the picket fence--Mrs. MacQuigan had the shade drawn back, and was watching him from the window--and then, hidden by the Coussirats' cottage next door, he broke into a run.

It wasn't far--distances weren't great in Big Cloud in those days, aren't now, for that matter--and in less than two minutes Bradley had Faro Dave's "El Dorado" in sight down Main Street--and his face set hard. He wasn't the only one that was running; men were racing from every direction; some coming up the street; others, he pa.s.sed, who shouted at him, and to whom he paid no attention. In a subconscious way he counted a dozen figures dart in through the swinging doors of the "El Dorado" from the street--news of a row travels fast.

Bradley burst through the doors, still on the run--and brought up at a dead halt against a solidly packed ma.s.s of humanity; Polacks and Swedes and Hungarians from the construction gangs; a scattering of railroad men in the rear; and more than a sprinkling of the harder element gathered from all over town, the hangers-on, the sharpers, and the card men, the leeches, the ilk of Faro Dave who ran the place, and who seemed to be intent on maintaining a blockade at the far end of the barroom.

The place was jammed, everybody craning their necks toward the door of the back room, where Faro Dave ran his stud, faro and roulette layouts; and from there, over the shuffling feet of the crowding men in the bar, came a snarl of voices--amongst them, Reddy's, screaming out in drunken fury, incoherently.

Bradley, without ceremony, pushed into the crowd, and the foreigners made way for him the best they could. Then he commenced to shoulder through the sort of self-const.i.tuted guard of sympathizers with the house. One of these tried to block his way more effectually.

"You'd better keep your hands off, whoever you are," the man threw at him. "The young fool's been putting the place on the rough ever since he came in here. All Dave wants to do is put him out of the back door, and----"

"Thash the boy, Reddy! Don't lesh him bluff you--saw him change cards m'self. d.a.m.n thief--d.a.m.n cheat--thash the boy, Reddy!" It was old John MacQuigan's voice, from the other room, high-pitched, clutter-tongued, drunken.

Then a voice, cold, with a sneer, and a ring in the sneer that there was no mistaking--Faro Dave's voice:

"You make a move, and I'll drop you quicker'n----"

Bradley's arms swept out with a quick, fierce movement, hurling the man who tried to block him out of the way; and, fighting now, ramming with body and shoulders, throwing those in front of him to right and left, he half fell, half flung himself finally through the doorway into the room beyond--too late.

"Thash the boy, Reddy!"--it was old John's maudlin voice again. "Thash the----"

The picture seared itself into Bradley's brain, lightning-quick, instantaneous, but vivid in every detail, as he ran: The little group of men, three or four, who had been sitting at the game probably, seeking cover in the far corner; Reddy MacQuigan, swaying a little, standing before a somewhat flimsy green-baized card table; old John, too far gone to stand upright alone, leaning against the wall behind Reddy; Faro Dave, an ugly white in his face, an uglier revolver in his hand, standing, facing Reddy across the table; the quick forward lunge from Reddy, the crash of the table as the boy hurled it to the floor and flung himself toward the gambler; the roar of a revolver shot, the flash of the short-tongued flame; a choking scream; another shot, the tinkle of gla.s.s as the bullet shattered the ceiling lamp; then blackness--all but a dull glow filtering in through the barroom door, that for the first instant in the sudden contrast gave no light at all.

Bradley, before he could recover himself, pitched over a tangled ma.s.s of wrecked tables--over that and a man's body. Somebody ran through the room, and the back door slammed. There were shouts now, and yells--a chorus of them from the barroom. Some one bawled for a light.

Bradley got to his knees, and, reaching to raise the boy, wounded or killed as he believed, found his throat suddenly caught in a vicious grasp--and Reddy's snarling laugh was in his ears.

"Let go!" Bradley choked. "Let go, Reddy. It's me--Martin."

Reddy's hands fell.

"Martin, eh?" he said thickly. "Thought it was--hic--that----"

Reddy's voice sort of trailed off. They were bringing lamps into the room now, holding them up high to get a comprehensive view of things--and the light fell on the farther wall. Reddy was staring at it, his eyes slowly dilating, his jaw beginning to hang weakly.

Bradley glanced over his shoulder. Old John, as though he had slid down the wall, as though his feet had slipped out from under him, sat on the floor, legs straight out in front of him, shoulders against the wall and sagged a little to one side, a sort of ironic jeer on the blotched features, a little red stream trickling down from his right temple--dead.

Not a pretty sight? No--perhaps not. But old John never was a pretty sight. He'd gone out the way he'd lived--that's all.

It was Martin Bradley who reached him first, and the crowd hung back while he bent over the other, hung back and made way for Reddy, who came unsteadily across the room--not from drink now, the boy's gait--the drink was out of him--he was weak. There was horror in the young wiper's eyes, and a white, awful misery in his face.

A silence fell. Not a man spoke. They looked from father to son. The room was filling up now--but they came on tiptoe. Gamblers, most of them, and pretty rough, pretty hard cases, and life held light--but in that room that night they only looked from father to son, the oaths gone from their lips, sobered, their faces sort of gray and stunned.

Bradley, from bending over the dead man, straightened up.

Reddy MacQuigan, with little jabs of his tongue, wet his lips.