Jimmie Moore of Bucktown Part 2

"Aw, yer go on," replied the boy. "Yer don't know wot you're talkin' about. Dis ain't no graft dat we's a-workin'. Jesus is our friend an' He loves us; dat's why He takes care of us.

He'd love yer, too, if you'd let Him, but when yer takes Him for your friend yer got to cut out dose cuss words an' de growler, too. Dat's wat me an' Pa has done, and we belongs to Jesus now.

'Twouldn't be de square ting by Him for us ter tank anybody else, and we ain't afeard but wat He'll give us all we needs."

As for Moore, while he never doubted his salvation, there were times when he was despondent and gloomy. The memory of his misspent life and the consciousness that he had nearly reached the end lay heavily upon his mind, and, left alone as he was for hours at a time, with no one but Jimmie and the other children in the house, he brooded upon his troubles until he grew very miserable. At such times it was interesting to hear Jimmie hold up Jesus and preach the gospel of love as his juvenile mind comprehended it.

"Pa, yer act jus' as though Jesus didn't love yer," he said one afternoon, when the superintendent's wife was present. "He knows yer coughin' spells hurt yer, and He'll help yer to stan'

'em, 'cause He was hurted once Hisself. Ain't He takin' care of us, and didn't He send der Mission Guy ter help us? Yer ain't got no right ter worry; just look how good He's been ter all of us."

One morning when Dr. Snyder, who had been called in on the advice of the Cook family, came to see the sick man, Moore anxiously inquired if there was no chance of his recovery. While he was conceded to be an able man in his profession, the doctor, himself a drinking man, was sometimes rough and heartless in his manner, and, replying to the question, said:

"Well, if you've got any unfinished business on hand you better call a special session and close it up. You'll be pus.h.i.+ng clouds within a week."

"Do you mean he's goin' ter die?" asked Jimmie, whose quick ears had caught the remark.

"That's just the plain English of it, my boy," replied the doctor.

"The old man's a goner, and no doctor on earth can save him."

"Well, he'll go straight ter Jesus," said Jimmie, "'cause he got saved las' Friday. Gran'ma and Gran'pa er up dar, and Pa an' Ma an' the rest of us is all a-goin'."

"What's the matter with the kid, Moore?" asked the doctor. "Has he gone daffy?"

"No, Doc, the boy's all right. Leastwise if he's daffy, as you call it, I wish to G.o.d we'd all got that way long ago. Then we wouldn't be in the condition you find us to-day. Say, Doc, don't you ever expect to be a Christian? If you were in my place you'd see what it means to face death without G.o.d."

"Gee, you're good!" said the physician. "The way you talked to Gene Dibble when I sewed up your head after the fight didn't sound much like a prayer to me. You want to get forgiven here before you ask G.o.d to do anything for you there. Now, kid, you'd better forget about this religion and tend to the old man. Give him his medicine every hour, and I'll be in again to-morrow.

Good-bye."

He slammed the door, and Jimmie sat for a moment in deep thought.

Then he turned to his father and said: "Pa, Gene'll forgive yer if yer ast him. I'll go over ter f.a.gin's and if he ain't dere I'll tell Mike ter send him over wen he comes in."

"How's the old man, Jimmie?" asked f.a.gin as the boy entered the saloon.

"Doc says he's dyin'. Is Gene Dibble here? Wish't you'd tell him Pa wants ter see him," said the boy as he turned to go.

"Wait a minute, Jimmie; I want to send a little medicine to your father."

He took a bottle from the back bar and began to wrap it up in a sc.r.a.p of old newspaper. "This is about all the poor devil lived for," he said to himself, "and he ought to have a taste now that he's dyin'."

"Is dat booze?" asked Jimmie.

"It's just a nip for the old man. It's his favorite brand,"

said f.a.gin.

"Not his'n; he's got saved an' don't need it in his business,"

replied the boy, starting for the door.

"Come here, you little fool, and take this bottle to your dad with my compliments," said the saloon-man in anger.

"It's your compliments wat's ailin' him now," answered Jimmie.

"Yer got his nine dollars last Tuesday night, and now he's dyin'.

I seen yer Ralph goin' ter school wid new shoes and rubbers dis mornin', an' I'm wearin' yer compliments," said the boy, holding up one of his feet encased in a worn-out lady's shoe.

"I promised Pa dat I'd take care of Ma an' der kids, and we don't need no booze ter help us, not us."

Jimmie ducked and dodged out of the door just in time to escape a soaking wet bar towel the saloon-man had thrown at him, and at a single bound jumped to the middle of the sidewalk just in time to collide with Bill Cook.

"h.e.l.lo Bill," he said. "Why ain't yer workin'? Drunk agin? Gee!

you'll be seein' 'em agin. Der las' time yer was crazier den a bed bug."

"You be d----!" said Bill. "Guess I'm all right. Only had three drinks. You's is gittin' too good for this neck o' woods. Yer orter move up on der boulevard amongst der bloods."

"Don't Ma do was.h.i.+n' up dere now, smarty? We got friends up dere; see? Why don't yer come over an' see Pa? He's dyin'."

"Go on!" said Bill. "Ye don't mean it! Kin I see him?"

"Sure, come on."

Bill staggered into f.a.gin's and took two more big drinks and then followed Jimmie across the street. He was badly intoxicated, but the sight of Moore's pinched features and fever-lighted eyes nearly brought him to his sober senses.

Bill was rough and wicked; but his heart within was almost as tender as a babe's. Drink was his worst trouble, and when he was sober he was rather a decent sort of fellow. His effort to appear at ease and say something encouraging to Moore was painful. He stammered and hawed and finally said, "It's all off, Bob; I can't make no speech. Let 'er go t' 'ell."

He pulled up the box, sat down at the bedside and began to cry.

The sick man stretched forth his emaciated hand, and, placing it on Bill's head, said:

"Never mind, old man, I know what yer mean. You're my friend all right; but you can't say nuthin' that will help me now.

I guess I must cash in pretty soon; but I ain't no coward, Bill; I've just been prayin' and everything is all right 'tween me and G.o.d. I don't know what'll become of the old woman and the kids, but I guess He'll take care of them. Maybe they will be better off when I'm gone than when I'm here. I'll tell you, Bill, booze don't get yer much when the doctor says you're up.

I wish I'd cut 'er out the first time we saw the gospel wagon down on the square. The Mission man was here just a little while ago, an' he says he will help Jimmie take care of Ma and the kids. He says Jesus loves me, and when he prayed I put in too and says, 'I'm ready, Lord.'"

Moore's effort to talk exhausted his strength and brought on a sinking spell. He gasped and coughed and grasped his throat as though he was strangling. Bill thought he was dying, and grabbing his hat started for the door, telling Jimmie to stay there while he brought the doctor. The scene had been too much for his shattered nerves, and, reaching the middle of the sidewalk, he stood and yelled at the top of his voice:

"Moore's dyin'! Moore's dyin'! Git the doctor and the undertaker and der Mission man, quick! Moore's dyin'! Moore's dyin'!"

CHAPTER III

_"The Busted Funeral"_

The commotion that followed made dying a hard matter for Moore.

When the doctor and Mrs. Moore reached the house it took them ten minutes, with the help of Dave Beach, to clear the room of the people. When Mr. and Mrs. Morton came, quiet had been restored on the inside, but on the street and at f.a.gin's they were talking about the funeral expenses, etc., before they had a corpse. In this neighborhood a funeral was looked upon as something of a party or social function, not to be missed. Every one turned out, never failing to dress for the occasion. Mrs.

Rose, Mrs. Kinney and Mrs. Was.h.i.+ngton (colored) were easily in the lead when it came to professional mourners. As Dave Beach said one time, they "could cry real tears at a moment's notice, and keep it up as long as the water lasted and occasion demanded."

When Charlie Slater was drowned in the Slough they cried for three days with Mrs. Slater, never going home for meals. Both they and their children put black c.r.a.pe on their arms and lived and cried with Mrs. Slater until Charlie was found. Mrs. Rose kept the c.r.a.pe, and after a funeral would wash and iron it and put it in the "burer" drawer until some one else died. When she heard Bill's cry, she came running with a piece tied on each arm and at least twenty pieces in her hand to supply the neighbors. That she considered her first and solemn duty. Inside of five minutes after Bill yelled and gave the alarm, every one of the regulars was decorated for action.

Bill went to f.a.gin's and got three big drinks without money, on the strength of Moore's death. He went into the back room, buried his face in his hands and began to weep. He was honest in his weeping, but he had too many drinks aboard and his snores soon told their own story. Bill's cry of "Moore's dyin'!" was soon turned to "Moore's dead; Bill says so." Of course Bill knew nothing of the disturbance he had created, and slept peacefully on in f.a.gin's back room. In the meantime Mrs. Cook was trying to "square" Bill with the neighbors. After the mistake was discovered every one blamed Bill that Moore was alive. Bill and his wife would fight with each other almost daily. Bill would swear that he had not tasted a drop when he was so drunk he could scarcely see. He contended that he was never drunk so long as he was sober enough to deny it. Mrs. Cook was possessed of an uncontrollable temper, and when she became angry--and she always did when Bill lied to her--she would completely lose control of herself. As Jimmie said one day:

"Gee, der old girl'll bounce irons er any old thing she can git her mitts on when she's sore. Her nose and her chin comes together so fast when she talks dat she's got corns on both of 'em."

She washed and worked until three or four o'clock in the morning to care for her children, and would do anything she could for any one, but when she got "sore," as Jimmie said, every one gave her the right of way. "She calls Bill every name on der calendar, but when it comes ter any one else saying a word about him, she won't stand fer it."