Part 22 (1/2)

”But suppose for argument that it is. Don't they control it for good?”

”For good! And every night you see the bread line for a block down the Bowery?”

Applebaum laid down his pipe and spoke with emphasis.

”Oh, I've no sympathy with that. Those are just b.u.ms, nothing else. They wouldn't do a day's job if you gave it to them. They don't mean to work.

All they want is a bite and a drink and a dirty hole to sleep in until they can get the drink again. They ought to be forced to work. The trouble is the men don't have to work long enough. With their eight-hour day you see them in the saloon before they go to work getting a drink.

And they're after it again when the day's work is over or some other foolishness.”

”You fool!” Kathleen said, her eyes blazing, and she lifted her hand as if to strike him.

He seized it in his own and carried it to his lips.

”I'm wise enough to love you, Kathleen.”

Hertha found this an excellent time to slip from her seat and into the kitchen. When she came back the two were seated as before, but talking of indifferent things, and the light had gone out of Kathleen's face.

CHAPTER XVII

It was Sat.u.r.day evening and early December. Kathleen was away for the night on a case, and Hertha, after a dinner alone, decided to go to the library to secure a book to read on Sunday. She was quite accustomed by this time to going out in the evening by herself; yet it always seemed a little an adventure, the streets were so gaily lighted and the people so many. She put a raincoat over her suit for the sky was lowering and there was a chilliness in the air, a harsh feeling that made her s.h.i.+ver and turn gladly, her short walk over, into the warm, brightly lighted reading-room.

Accustomed all her life to having few books about her, with no opportunity for individual choice, she made mistakes at first amid the plethora of volumes that the city offered. It had been disappointing, for instance, to reach home in the evening to learn that _The Four Georges_ was not about four little boys or to find out that _Sesame and Lilie_ had nothing to do with flowers. But part of the stack was open, and she soon found what she desired and drenched herself in the world of romance. Under the guidance of the librarian she read two novels of d.i.c.kens, and carried home and returned with suspicious swiftness one each of Scott and Thackeray; under her own guidance she became intimate with the heroines of those best sellers that a conscientious library board permitted upon the open shelves. Rather to her relief the librarian this evening was very busy and she went at once to the open stack.

It was with a guilty feeling that she habitually walked past the rows of history and travel. Ellen would have stopped here, she knew, and have carried home volumes telling of Europe and China and India and other lands unknown to Hertha even by name. Tom in her place would have asked for Livingstone's _Travels in Africa_, a book he had always wanted to own. She hoped they would surely have it in the school where he was reading or studying that night. Well, Ellen was industrious, and Tom liked to stop and think; but she, Hertha, never had cared for heavy reading--except poetry, and poetry belonged under the pines or by the river, not in noisy New York. So excusing herself, she reached the jaunty, attractively bound fiction and joined the large group of borrowers who were intent on securing a thrilling story for the morrow.

”Excuse me, but do you know anything about these books?”

She turned to see a young man at her elbow. He was tall, not in the least good-looking, with a long, thin face, a small mouth and a sharp nose. His eyes, however, were attractive--deep blue with long lashes like a child's. He was dressed in cheap, conspicuously patterned clothes, and his gay necktie bore a large scarfpin. She hesitated to answer, and yet there was a tone of entreaty in his voice that gave her confidence. She felt sure that he was from the country and was floundering about amid this mult.i.tude of volumes as she had floundered a few weeks ago. He should, of course, consult the official-looking librarian seated at her desk whose business it was to instruct newcomers, but the newcomer is the one who instinctively avoids the official cla.s.s. Glancing down she answered shyly, ”Very little.”

They were between two stacks, and looking along the line of volumes, Hertha saw a familiar t.i.tle and took down _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_.

”Have you read this?” she asked.

”No, ma'am,” was the answer.

She smiled at the ”ma'am” for it reminded her of home. ”I feel like you'll enjoy it,” she ventured.

”There,” the young man cried, so loudly that a number of borrowers turned to look at them both. ”I knew the minute I set eyes on you that you were from the South!”

Hertha was very much annoyed. This forward youth was making her conspicuous. Leaving him she went quickly to the reading-room, and seating herself at a table took up a magazine. In a few minutes, however, she saw him at her side.

”I didn't mean to make such a noise,” he said in a peculiarly penetrating whisper, ”but what the d.i.c.kens do you do after you find your book?”

It is always a pleasure to be placed in the superior position of an imparter of knowledge, and Hertha, unbending from her dignity, found herself whispering instructions.

Once put on the right path, the youth showed no further shyness, and was soon talking familiarly with the librarian who equipped him with a card.

”It's all hunky,” he explained, coming back to Hertha. ”She gave me the book and as long as you think it's good I'm going to read it through.