"We all have a conception of life that is more or less confused,"
Marriott generalized. "That is, when we have any conception at all."
"Of course," said Elizabeth, "I presume Dick's conception is as good as mine; and that his life is quite as useful. My life has been every bit as objective--I have a round of little duties--teas and balls and parties, and all that sort of thing, of course. I've been sheltered, like all girls of my class; but poor Dick--he's exposed, that is the difference."
She was silent for a while. Marriott had not known before how deep her thought had gone.
"I'm utterly useless in the world," she went on, "and I'm sick of it!
Sick of it!" She had grown vehement, and her little fists clenched in her lap, until the knuckles showed white.
"Do you know what I've a notion of doing?" she said.
"No; what?"
"I've a notion to go and work in a factory, say half a day, and give some poor girl a half-holiday."
"But you'd take her wages from her," said Marriott.
"Oh, I'd give her the wages."
Marriott shook his head slowly, doubtingly.
"I know it's impractical," Elizabeth went on. "Of course, I'd never do it. Why, people would think I'd gone crazy! Imagine what mama would say!"
She smiled at the absurdity.
"No," she said, "I'll have to go on, and lead my idle, useless life.
That's what it is, Gordon." He saw the latent fires of indignation and protest leap into her eyes. "It's this life--this horrible, false, insane life! That's what it is! The poor boy is beside himself with it, and he doesn't know it. There is no place for him, nothing for him to do; it's the logic of events."
He was surprised to see such penetration in her.
"I've been thinking it out," she hurried to explain. "I've suffered from it myself. I've felt it for a long time, without understanding it, and I don't understand it very well now, but I'm beginning to. Of what use am I in the world? Not a bit--there isn't a single thing I can do. All this whole winter I've been going about to a lot of useless affairs, meeting and chattering with a lot of people who have no real life at all--who are of no more use in the world than I. I'm wearing myself out at it--and here I am, glad that the long, necessary waste of time is over--tired and sick, of this--this--sofa-pillow existence!" She thumped a silken pillow that lay on a long wicker divan beside her, thumped it viciously and with a hatred.
"Sometimes I feel that I'd like to leave the town and never see anybody in it again!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "Don't you?"
"Yes--but--"
"But what?"
"But is there any place where we could escape it all?"
"There must be some place--some place where we know no one, so that no one's cares could be our cares, where we could be mere disinterested spectators and sit aloof, and observe life, and not feel that it was any concern of ours at all. That's what I want. I'd like to escape this horrible ennui."
"Well, the summer's here and we can have our vacations. Of course," he added whimsically, "the Koerners will have no vacation."
"Gordon, don't you ever dare to mention the Koerners again!"
XIX
A few days later Eades and Marriott stood on a step at the Union Station, and watched the majestic Limited pull out for the east. The white-haired engineer in his faded blue jumper looked calmly down from the high window of his cab, the black porters grinned in the vestibule, the elderly conductor carrying his responsibilities seriously and unaffectedly, swung gracefully aboard, his watch in his hand, and there, on the observation platform, stood Elizabeth, very pretty in her gray gown and the little hat with the violets, Eades's flowers in one hand, Marriott's book in the other, waving her adieux. They watched her out of sight, and then Ward, standing beside them, sighed heavily.
"Well," he said, "it'll be lonesome now, with everybody out of town."
They waited for Dick, who alone of all of them had braved the high corporate authority at the gate, and gone with the travelers to their train. He came, and they went through the clamorous station to the street, where Dick's automobile was waiting, shaking as if it would shake itself to pieces. They rode down town in solemn silence. Eades and Marriott, indeed, had had little to say; during the strain of the parting moments with Elizabeth they had been stiff and formal with each other.
"I hope to get away myself next week," said Eades, "The town will soon be empty."
The city day was drawing to a close. Forge fires were glowing in the foundries they passed. Through the gloom within they could see the workmen, stripped like gunners to the waist, their moist, polished skins glowing in the fierce glare. They passed noisy machine-shops whence machinists glanced out at them. In some of the factories bevies of girls were thronging the windows, calling now and then to the workmen, who, for some reason earlier released from toil, were already trooping by on the sidewalk. In the crowded streets great patient horses nodded as they easily drew the empty trucks that had borne such heavy loads all day; their drivers were smoking pipes, greeting one another, and whistling or singing; one of them in the camaraderie of toil had taken on a load of workmen, to haul them on their homeward way. The street-cars were filled with men whose faces showed the grime their hasty washing had not removed.
Suddenly whistles blew, then there was a strange silence. Something like a sigh went up from all that quarter of the town.
The automobile was tearing through the tenderloin with its gaudily-painted saloons and second-hand stores sandwiched between. Old clothes fluttered above the sidewalk, and violins, revolvers, boxing-gloves and bits of jewelry, the trash and rubbish of wasted, feverish lives showed in the windows. Fat Jewish women sat in the doorways of pawn-shops, their swarthy children playing on the dirty sidewalk. In the swinging green doors of saloons stood bartenders; and everywhere groups of men and women, laughing, joking, haggling, scuffling and quarreling. Now and then girls with their tawdry finery tripped down from upper rooms, stood a moment in the dark, narrow doorways, looked up and down the street, and then suddenly went forth.
In some of the cheap theaters, the miserable tunes that never ended, day or night, were jingling from metallic pianos. They passed on into the business district. Shops were closing, the tall office buildings, each a city in itself, were pouring forth their human contents; the sidewalks were thronged--everywhere life, swarming, seething life, spawned out upon the world.
BOOK II
I
All day long Archie Koerner and Curly Jackson had ridden in the empty box-car. They had made themselves as comfortable as they could, and had beguiled the time with talk and stories and cigarettes. Now and then they had fallen asleep, but not for long, for their joints ached with the jolting of the train, and, more than all else, there was a constant concern in their minds that made them restless, furtive and uneasy. The day was warm, and toward noon the sun beat down, hotter and hotter; the car was stifling, its atmosphere charged with the reminiscent odors of all the cargoes it had ever hauled. Long before daylight that morning they had crawled into the car as it stood on a siding in a village a hundred miles away. Just before dawn the train came, and they heard the conductor and brakeman moving about outside; now and then they caught the twinkle of their lanterns. Then the car was shunted and jolted back and forth for half an hour; finally the train was made up, and pulled out of the sleeping village they were so glad to get away from. With the coming of the dawn, they peeped out to see the sun come up over the fields. They watched the old miracle in silence until they saw a farmer coming across the field with a team. The farmer stopped, watched the train go by, then turned and began to plow corn.
"Pipe the Hoosier," Curly had said, the sight of a human being relieving the silence imposed by nature in her loneliness. "We call 'em suckers.
He'll be plowing all day, but next winter he'll be sitting by a fire--and we'll--we'll be macing old women for lumps at the back doors."
Archie was not much affected by Curly's sarcastic philosophy; he had not yet attained to Curly's point of view.
Two days before, at evening, they had left the city and spent the first half of the night on foot, trudging along a country road; then a freight-train had taken them to a little town far to the south, where, in the small hours of the morning, they had broken into a post-office, blown open the safe with nitroglycerin, and taken out the stamps and currency. Curly considered the venture successful, though marred by one mishap: in the explosion the currency had been shattered and burned.
But he had carefully gathered up the remnants, wrapped them in a paper, and stowed them away in his pocket with the stamps. The next day they hid in a wood. Curly made a fire, cooked bacon, and brewed tea in a tomato can, and these, with bread, had made a meal for them. Then he had carefully sorted the stamps, and had hidden in the ground all the five- and ten-cent stamps, preserving only those of the one- and two-cent denominations. After that he had lain down on the grass and slept.
While Curly slept, Archie sat and examined with an expert's loving interest and the fascination of a boy a new revolver he had stolen from a hardware store in the city three days before. Curly at first had opposed the theft of the revolver, but had finally consented because he recognized Archie's need; Archie had had no revolver since he was sent to the workhouse. The one he had when he was arrested had been confiscated--as it is called--by the police, and given by Bostwick to a friend, a lawyer who had long wanted a revolver to shoot burglars in case any should break into his home. Curly had consented to Archie's stealing the revolver, but he had commanded him to take nothing else, and had waited outside while Archie went into the hardware store.
Archie had chosen a fine one, a double-acting, self-cocking revolver of thirty-eight caliber, like those carried by the police. He had been childishly happy in the possession of this weapon; he had taken it out and looked at it a hundred times, and had been tempted when they were alone in the woods to take a few practice shots, but when Curly ordered him not to think of such nonsense, he drew the cartridges, aimed at trees, twigs, birds, and snapped the trigger. Every little while in the box-car that day he had taken it out, looked at it, caressed it, turned it over in his palm, delicately tested its weight, and called Curly to admire it with him. He thought much more of the revolver than he did of the stamps and blasted currency they had stolen, and Curly had spoken sharply to him at last and said:
"If you don't put up that rod, I'll ditch it for you."
Archie obeyed Curly, but when he had restored the revolver to his pocket, he continued to talk of it, and then of other weapons he had owned, and he told Curly how he had won the sharp-shooter's medal in the army.
But finally, in his weariness, Archie lost interest even in his new revolver, and when Curly would not let him go to the door of the car and look out, lest the trainmen should see them and force them into an encounter, Archie had fallen asleep in a corner.
It was a relief to Curly when Archie went to sleep, for in addition to his joy in his revolver, Archie had been excited over their adventure.
Curly was in many ways peculiar; he was inclined to be secretive; he frequently worked alone, and his operations were as much a mystery to his companions and to Gibbs as they were to the police. He had had his eye on the little post-office at Trenton for months; it had called to him, as it were, to come and rob it. It had advantages, the building was old; an entrance could be effected easily. He had stationed Archie outside to watch while he knocked off the peter, and Archie had acquitted himself to Curly's satisfaction. The affair came off smoothly. Though it was in the short summer night, no one had been abroad; they got away without molestation. Now, as they drew near the city, Curly felt easy.