Part 39 (1/2)

”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.