Part 5 (2/2)

”Hippopotamus! Wouldn't that send you to the Bronx! It's been a year since he heard it; and he didn't miss it so very far. We quit at 469 B. C., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn't have guessed what he was trying to get out of him.”

Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his labor supported.

Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe lay on the sill.

”Will that be you, lad?” he asked.

Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the outset of committing a good deed.

”Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?” he snapped, viciously. ”Have I no right to come in?”

”Ye're a faithful lad,” said old man McCree, with a sigh. ”Is it evening yet?”

Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled in gilt letters, ”The History of Greece.” Dust was on it half an inch thick. He laid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a strip of paper.

And then he gave a short roar at the top of his voice, and said:

”Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?”

”Did I hear ye open the book?” said old man McCree. ”Many and weary be the months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I took a great likings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. 'Tis a fine day outside, lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have gotten used to me chair by the windy and me pipe.”

”Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not hippopotamus,” said Danny. ”The war began there. It kept something doing for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy named Philip of Macedon, in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece by getting the decision at the battle of Cher-Cheronoea. I'll read it.”

With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man McCree sat for an hour, listening.

Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs. McCree was slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were running from old man McCree's eyes.

”Do you hear our lad readin' to me?” he said. ”There is none finer in the land. My two eyes have come back to me again.”

After supper he said to Danny: ”'Tis a happy day, this Easter. And now ye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough.”

”Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?” said Danny, angrily. ”Have I no right to stay in it? After supper there is yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C., when the kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of the Roman Empire.

Am I nothing in this house?”

V

THE FIFTH WHEEL

The ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold. They were alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta of Fifth Avenue and Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their freezing feet, looked at the empty benches in Madison Square whence Jack Frost had evicted them, and muttered to one another in a confusion of tongues. The Flatiron Building, with its impious, cloud-piercing architecture looming mistily above them on the opposite delta, might well have stood for the tower of Babel, whence these polyglot idlers had been called by the winged walking delegate of the Lord.

Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the Preacher exhorted whatever transient and s.h.i.+fting audience the north wind doled out to him. It was a slave market. Fifteen cents bought you a man. You deeded him to Morpheus; and the recording angel gave you credit.

The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. He had looked over the list of things one may do for one's fellow man, and had a.s.sumed for himself the task of putting to bed all who might apply at his soap box on the nights of Wednesday and Sunday. That left but five nights for other philanthropists to handle; and had they done their part as well, this wicked city might have become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all might snooze and snore the happy hours away, letting problem plays and the rent man and business go to the deuce.

The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small, dark ma.s.s of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General Worth's monument. Now and then, shyly, ostentatiously, carelessly, or with conscientious exactness one would step forward and bestow upon the Preacher small bills or silver. Then a lieutenant of Scandinavian coloring and enthusiasm would march away to a lodging house with a squad of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in terms beautifully devoid of eloquence--splendid with the deadly, accusative monotony of truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners fades you must hear one phrase of the Preacher's--the one that formed his theme that night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white ribbons in the world.

_”No man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky.”_

<script>