The Lash Part 15

"Shaughnessy got his hooks on him years ago; it's a funny story, I guess. The old man hates to give up living decent; he knows if he's elected it'll be the worst administration of graft this city or any other ever saw. He can't help himself; Shaughnessy's claws are in him."

Micky was bending forward. Imagined possibilities were a.s.suming definite shape. "Is it Consolidated Gas?" he asked, eagerly.

"Consolidated Gas!" Slade echoed. "Why, son, that's only the beginning.

It's a long, hard story, a bigger one than you'll want to believe, but I know where you can get the proofs for it. I've been busy for a long time. When I saw the gang wasn't goin' to do anything for me, I began to find out about things on my own hook, and I've got a way of doin' it and I remember what I hear. When this thing was over and Fusion was knocked out, I was goin' to diplomatically introduce myself into a better thing, and then I'd have got it. But that's all changed now. When I remember that those lepers I've done so much for would have liked to murder me tonight, I get h.e.l.l-hot. I want to see 'em downed now. I'm tired of the rotten town anyway. Now, I put you on, see? You have to do the work, for I've got to keep out of sight. 'Twon't be safe for me to be floatin'

around the old diggin's, for I'm a 'traitor' now, you know, and a 'dirty spy.' But don't you care, it's a rich thing for you. You'll be at the top of the newspaper heap. I'll stay around here on the q. t. long enough to see the fun, and then it's me quietly out. There's an Indian streak in me, I guess, and it's doing double duty just now." His malevolent face looked it.

For the next hour Micky listened to a recital that filled him with gaping amazement at a revelation of munic.i.p.al iniquity, spreading to the State-house and even beyond, that was undreamed of by the general public. It thrilled him with the l.u.s.t to secure as big, pulsing, astounding chapters in a vital news story as were ever written. At the close, and when some talk had been devoted to his plan of procedure, Slade arose to depart. "I've got some friends, in a quiet place, that won't give me away," he announced.

Micky accompanied him to the front door. "Good night, Santa Claus," he said, with twinkling eyes, and Slade, somewhat mystified, un.o.btrusively departed.

CHAPTER XVI

HIS BETTER SIDE

When he had seen Slade safely off, Micky returned to the office and reported to Harkins, receiving a late a.s.signment of a night police story which they desired "fixed up" in the style which was peculiarly O'Byrn's own. He contented himself just now with telling Harkins that he had been after something which promised well, but "wasn't ripe enough yet to spring." He felt that the thing was so surprisingly big that it would be better not to mention it officially till he could be sure of being able to secure it. Slade's narrative had opened up thrilling possibilities; it remained for O'Byrn to secure the proofs before he could venture to say anything, much less to write a single line. This would take hard work and subtlety, but Micky looked forward confidently to the prospect of scoring the most brilliant _coup_ in the history of newspaperdom in that town.

It would have to be done quickly, too, for the time was growing short.

The Courier, and the papers which united with it in the support of Fusion, were pounding away on a forlorn hope, thanks to Shaughnessy's masterly checkmate. They were confined to inveighing against the past; which was black enough, to be sure. But the Democracy, having apparently reformed from within, was evidently preparing for a regenerated future.

This called back many who had been temporarily alienated, and Fusion's chances daily grew slimmer. If the proof could be adduced for Slade's revelations, O'Byrn knew that a very simoon of public wrath would at the eleventh hour sweep over Shaughnessy and his crew. His eyes sparkled.

The simoon should be forthcoming.

His work kept him late, and the gray dawn was breaking when he walked wearily back to his lodgings and tumbled into bed. It was long ere he could sleep, for the glittering possibilities of that story whirled through his brain. At last, however, he fell into slumber that was disturbed by dreams in which he engaged continuously in fantastic warfare with Shaughnessy, and in which he continually got the worst of it. It was in the nature of a relief to Micky, on awaking about noon, to reflect a little upon the good old adage that dreams go by contraries.

Having had breakfast at an hour even unfas.h.i.+onably late, Micky sauntered over to the office. He moved with unwonted deliberation, for this was to be his night off. He had thought many times of Maisie, who was ill, and had decided that late in the afternoon would be the best time to make the call her brother had suggested. He must kill a little time till then. So he took his way instinctively to the office, being one of those unquiet newspaper spirits that hover uneasily about the hive, even when they have a brief breathing s.p.a.ce in which to drone a little.

Now that the first shock of the announcement of the girl's illness was over, Micky viewed the situation with more composure. Her brother had said it was not serious, and Micky knew that the fever to which Maisie had fallen a victim, and which was quite prevalent in the city, existed in a mild form. She would be out in a few days, but--ah! it was too bad, anyway. Micky sought indignantly to blink away the moisture that treacherously gathered in his eyes.

Reaching the office, he hung around aimlessly for a while, watching the rest of them work. He was more silent than usual and made rather brief replies to their greetings and subsequent comments. It was rather odd to see him mooning in this way, and they conspired together to "jounce" him out of it.

It chanced that a certain old gentleman from a near-by village was prowling about the office that afternoon. He was a relative of the business manager, who had asked the boys up stairs to "tell him about things." As he was of a very curious turn of mind, and very unsophisticated to boot, the boys soon saw they were in for it. They spied Micky, moodily gazing out of the window, and swiftly hatched a plan whereby the venerable visitor was soon introduced to Micky with the understanding that O'Byrn should "put him next."

Micky would not allow his mates, who hovered near in expectation of the fun, the satisfaction of any visible annoyance on his part. He grinned affably at the aged seeker after knowledge, and ceremoniously drew up a chair. "I can tell you all about it easier than I can show you," he explained innocently, then launched forth.

In ten minutes he had told the visitor more about the newspaper business than there really is. "Oh, what a pipe!" enthusiastically whispered the delighted listeners, whose presence Micky minded not at all. He dwelt particularly and pathetically upon the amount of work which is expected from a newspaper man by his unfeeling editors. Not content with ascribing to the luckless reporter a stint of forty-eight hours' work in every twenty-four, he calmly outlined an imaginary daily programme for himself that staggered even the credulous old gentleman.

"But, young man," said he vaguely, when Micky had finished and sat regarding him with owlish gravity, "what--er--what do you do in your spare time?"

The boys, knowing what weakness was Micky's crowning handicap, were in a position to appreciate the reply, which might have somewhat puzzled the old gentleman.

"My spare time?" mused Micky. "Well, let me see; what do I do in my spare time? Oh, yes," with a relieved expression, "to be sure. In my spare time I hunt for another job." And he walked out, followed by a roar of laughter in which the bewildered old gentleman did not join.

"What's the matter with me? I'm gettin' to be a woman!" muttered Micky a few moments later, as he turned southward from the avenue to go to Maisie's. For Micky had caught himself, to his disgust, bestowing remorseful thought upon the bewildered old gentleman. Why should Micky have "strung" him, why have made him the sport of his mates? Had he not gray hairs, were not his years of eld?

Now ordinarily these considerations would have troubled Micky not at all, and he might readily be pardoned his dismay at evidences of the growth of a crop of nice scruples, entirely new and perplexing. O'Byrn was not used to the subtleties of conscience. It was not so long ago that he could have dismissed the thought of the gaping old fellow with the moment of parting. But now the wondering blue eyes, the blank old face, dismayed at the concerted burst of shrill laughter, troubled O'Byrn. It would not have done so in former days; why now?

Why, it was the girl, of course. Micky's freckled face softened, his eyes grew wistful as the explanation occurred to him. Could he not trace, in a thousand and one little ways, a change in his life since she came into it? a.s.suredly, and for the better. Micky acknowledged frankly to himself that his love for her, and hers for him, was Christianizing him; not in a concrete sense, to be sure, for O'Byrn's thoughts were little concerned with religion, as such. Thrown upon his own resources at an early age, he was essentially a world-product; but now, through this love for a girl,--a new experience for him,--the little Irishman was undergoing a refining process that surprised even himself. No startling change was there, but in a mult.i.tude of little ways was shown the gentle influence of this new element in Micky's life. More of tenderness; more potent impulses to kindliness; free-flowing charity toward all. For, in the beatific dawn of love, is a summons for the best in poor, dross-ridden human nature to arise; and, at least temporarily, the happy lover radiates peace and good will toward all mankind.

So Micky, sauntering thoughtfully along, continued superfluously to reflect upon his irreverence to the poor old man,--who probably had not minded it half as much as...o...b..rn did,--until the recurrent thoughts of Maisie banished the incident from his mind. He was dancing with her at the Ironworkers' ball, he sat with her in the little parlor, he heard the sweet voice of her--and it was with a distinct sense of bewilderment that he awoke to find himself halted mechanically before the little house in which she lay.

Advancing doubtfully, half fearfully, he rang the bell. The door opened and Maisie's mother greeted him. No, she said, Maisie was not seriously ill, was quite comfortable. She had been asking for him, would be glad he had come. Indeed, said Mrs. Muldoon, she had been wondering if he would come.

"Come?" echoed Micky, as he followed her in. "Come? Why, I've been thinkin' of her ever since I heard it. Gee! I'm glad she's feelin' so well. h.e.l.lo, Terence!" He clutched playfully, in a rush of relieved feeling, at the thick thatch of the youngest Muldoon, who stood agape in the doorway, eyeing him. Terence grinned and took to his heels.

Maisie's mother ushered Micky upstairs. A light streamed through a partially opened door at the end of the hall. It was from Maisie's room, and Micky entered slowly, timidly,--as a devotee would approach a shrine.

As it had been through a mist, for the blood rushed tumultuously to his head, he saw her sweet face, radiant with welcome and love for him; saw the little white hands, eagerly outstretched toward him. In an instant they were lost to sight within his trembling own; he bent over her, murmuring broken words, with an odd choke in his throat and big tears gathering in his eyes. He winked them indignantly, strove to clear his burred throat. The attempt ended dismally in a strangling gasp.

The girl laughed tremulously; but the tears, summoned by the sight of the lad's emotion, were very near her own eyes. "Why, Micky!" she said softly. "What's the matter? Why, I'm not really sick, you know; that is, not bad. Only--"

"Yes, little girl, I know," he interrupted, recovering himself. "I didn't mean to go up in the air like that, honest I didn't. But seein'

you laid up like this, why, it just hit me where I live, that's all."

His lip quivered.

"There, there!" Maisie's mother, good old soul, was patting him on his meagre shoulder. "Of course it hit ye where ye live; in yer warm Irish heart, to be sure. But ye needn't worry, for the doctor says Maisie has a mild case and will be out soon. Well, I'll leave ye now, she's been lookin' for ye. Of course, ye can't stay long, for the doctor says she's got to be quiet. But have a little chat wid her, an' I'm glad ye came up, me boy." And she bustled out, radiating hearty, wholesome, everyday motherliness.

For some moments after she had gone the boy and girl were silent. O'Byrn had drawn a chair close to the small white bed and sat quietly, her hand in his. It was hot, the little hand, and fevered roses bloomed in her soft cheeks. Her beautiful eyes, alight with joy at his coming, gazed happily into his own for a moment, then closed, a little wearily, as she lay content.

Softly pressing the little answering hand, Micky looked dreamily about the room. It spoke eloquently of her, small and modest and instinct with peaceful purity. It was appointed simply in white, from the pretty curtains at the two small windows to dresser and bureau and quaint old-fas.h.i.+oned chairs. On a small stand a lamp burned dimly, for the outer dusk had turned into early autumn night. The tiny clock struck the half-hour.

Her eyes opened. "I'm glad you're here, Micky," she said softly. "I've been hopin' you'd come. I hate to lie here all day long. 'Tisn't natural," with a rueful laugh. "But I don't want you to feel bad, Micky.

You don't need to, I'm all right."

"I know you are, girl," he answered heartily. "But it struck me all of a heap, somehow, seeing you stretched out like this. I knew you would be laid up, of course; but, don't you know, you can think about a thing all right, but it's different when you actually run up against it."

She laughed gaily. "Does anyone else say things just like you?" she wondered. "That sounds just like your dear old slangy self, Micky. But anyway, you hit the nail on the head, every time."

"And drive it through." He grinned joyfully at her. "Talk some more like that, Maisie," he urged her. "You sound like yourself. Oh, we'll have you on your pins in no time."

"You bet!" She smiled back at him. "Oh, I hadn't ought to complain, I know. Others are having it worse than me. There's poor Julia Orr, worked in the store with me once. She died yesterday--"

"Don't, Maisie!" His voice was unsteady. "Don't speak of dying--anybody!

I can't stand it! I hate the thought of it!"

"Why, Micky!" Her blue eyes were solemn. "We all die, don't we? You've known it almost since you were born. You've got to get used to it."

He forced a smile. "Well, we won't talk about it now," he declared.

"It's depressing. How'd you like your flowers?"

"Oh!" she cried, in distress. "And I meant to thank you for 'em when you first came in, and I forgot it. You ought to feel complimented. You drove 'em out of my mind. Bring 'em here."

"Match the room," he commented, as he complied. She smiled a.s.sent, and, selecting one of the white roses, raised herself upon her pillows and pinned it upon his coat lapel. "There!" said she, admiring the effect.

"You'll do, now."

Again his wide grin cleft his freckled face. "The whole conservatory wouldn't help much," he observed.