Читать книгу The Definite Object - Jeffery Farnol - Страница 11

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It was past three o'clock and dawn was at hand as, by devious ways, Spike piloted his companion through that section of New York City which is known to the initiated as "Hell's Kitchen." By dismal streets they went, past silent, squalid houses and tall tenements looming grim and ghostly in the faint light; crossing broad avenues very silent and deserted at this hour, on and on until, dark and vague and mysterious, the great river flowed before them only to be lost again as they plunged into a gloomy court where tall buildings rose on every hand, huge and very silent, teeming with life—but life just now wrapped in that profound quietude of sleep which is so much akin to death. Into one of these tall tenement buildings, its ugliness rendered more ugly by the network of iron fire-escape ladders that writhed up the face of it, Spike led the way, first into a dark hallway and thence up many stairs that echoed to their light-treading feet—on and up, past dimly lit landings where were doors each of which shut in its own little world, a world distinct and separate wherein youth and age, good and evil, joy and misery, lived and moved and had their being; behind these dingy panels were smiling hope and black despair, blooming health and pallid sickness, and all those sins and virtues that go to make up the sum total of humanity.

Something of all this was in Geoffrey Ravenslee's mind as he climbed the dingy, interminable stair behind Spike, who presently halted to get his wind and whisper:

"It ain't much further now, Geoff, only another two flights and—" He stopped suddenly to listen, and from the landing above a sound reached them, a sound soft but unmistakable—a woman's muffled sobbing.

Slowly, cautiously, they mounted the stair until in the dim light of a certain landing they beheld a slim figure bowed upon its knees in an agony of abasement before a scarred and dingy door. Even as they stared, the slender, girlish figure sobbed again, and, with a sudden, yearning gesture, lifted a face, pale in the half-light, and kissed that battered door; thereafter, weeping still, she rose to her feet and turned, but seeing Spike, stood very still all at once and with hands clasped tight together.

"Holy Gee!" exclaimed Spike beneath his breath; then, in a hoarse whisper: "Is that Maggie—Maggie Finlay?"

"Oh—is that you, Arthur?" she whispered back. "Arthur—oh, Arthur, I, I'm going away, but I couldn't go without coming to—to kiss dear mother good-by—and now I'm here I daren't knock for fear of—father. I've been up to your door and knocked, but Hermy's away, I guess. Anyway, you—you'll say I came to thank her and—kiss her for the last time, won't you, Arthur?"

"Sure I will—but where ye goin', Maggie?"

"A long way, Arthur! I don't s'pose I shall ever—see this place any more—or you—so, Arthur, will you—kiss me good-by—just once?"

Spike hesitated, but she, quick and light-treading, came down to him and caught his hand and would have kissed that, but he snatched it away and, leaning forward, kissed her tear-stained cheek, and blushed thereafter despite the dark.

"Good-by, Arthur!" she whispered, "and thank you—and dear Hermy—oh, good-by!" So saying, she hurried on past Ravenslee, down the dark stairway, while Spike leaned over the balustrade to whisper:

"Good-by, Maggie—an' good luck, Kid!" At this she paused to look up at him with great, sad eyes—a long, wistful look, then, speaking no more, hurried on down the stair—down, down into the shadows, and was gone.

"We used to go to school together, Geoff," the boy explained a little self-consciously, "she never—kissed me before; she ain't the kissin' sort. I wonder why she did it to-night? I wonder—"

So saying, Spike turned and led the way on again until they reached the landing above, across which two doors, dark and unlovely, seemed to scowl upon each other. One of these Spike proceeded to open with a latchkey, and so led Ravenslee into the dark void beyond. Spike struck a match and lighted the gas, and, looking about him, Ravenslee stared.

A little, cramped room, sparsely furnished yet dainty and homelike, for the small, deal table hid its bare nakedness beneath a dainty cloth; the two rickety armchairs veiled their faded tapestry under chintz covers, cunningly contrived and delicately tinted to match the cheap but soft-toned drugget on the floor and the self-coloured paper on the walls, where hung two or three inexpensive reproductions of famous paintings; and in all things there breathed an air of refinement wholly unexpected in Hell's Kitchen. Wherefore Mr. Ravenslee, observing all things with his quick glance, felt an ever-growing wonder. But now Spike, who had been clattering plates and dishes in the kitchen hard by, thrust his head around the door to say:

"Oh, Geoff—I don't feel like doin' the shut-eye business, d' you? How about a cup of coffee, an' I daresay I might dig out some eats; what d' ye say?"

"Is this—your sister?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee, taking up a photograph from the little sideboard.

"Yep, that's Hermy all right—taken las' year—does her hair different now. How about some coffee, Geoff?"

"Coffee?" said Mr. Ravenslee, staring at the picture, "coffee—certainly—er—thanks! She has—light hair, Spike?"

"Gold!" said Spike, and vanished; whereupon Mr. Ravenslee laid the photograph on the table, and sitting down, fell to viewing it intently.

A wonderful face, low-browed, deep-eyed, full-lipped. Here was none of smiling prettiness, for these eyes were grave and thoughtful, these lips, despite their soft, voluptuous curves, were firmly modelled like the rounded chin below, and, in all the face, despite its vivid youth, was a vague and wistful sadness.

"Oh, Geoff," called Spike, "d' ye mind having yer coffee à la milko condenso?"

"Milk?" exclaimed Mr. Ravenslee, starting. "Oh—yes—anything will do!"

"Why, hello!" exclaimed Spike, reappearing with a cup and saucer, "still piping off Hermy's photo, Geoff?"

"I'm wondering why she looks so sad?"

"Sad?" repeated Spike, setting down the crockery with a rattle, "Hermy ain't sad; she always looks like that. Y' see, she ain't much on the giggle, Geoff, but she's most always singing, 'cept when her kids is sick or Mulligan calls—"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, Hermy mothers all the kids around here when they're sick, an' lots o' kids is always getting sick. And when Mulligan comes it's rent day, an' sometimes Hermy's a bit shy on the money—"

"Is she?" said Mr. Ravenslee, frowning.

"You bet she is, Geoff! An' Mulligan's an Irishman an' mean—say, he's the meanest mutt you ever see. A Jew's mean, so's a Chink, but a mean Harp's got 'em both skinned 'way to 'Frisco an' back again! Why, Mulligan's that mean he wouldn't cough up a nickel to see the Statue o' Liberty do a Salomy dance in d' bay. So when the mazuma's shy Hermy worries some—"

"Don't you help her?" demanded Mr. Ravenslee.

"Help her—why, y' see, Geoff, I—I ain't in a steady job yet. But I do my best an'—why, there's d' kettle boilin' at last!" saying which, Spike turned and vanished again, leaving Mr. Ravenslee still staring down at the pictured face. Presently he sank back in his chair, and, lolling thus, looked sleepily at the opposite wall but saw it not, nor heard the clatter of cups and saucers from the kitchen accompanied by Spike's windy whistling; and, as he lounged thus, he spoke softly, and to himself.

"An object!" he murmured.

"Hey, Geoff," Spike called, "this ain't goin' to be no à la carte, hock an' claret feedin' match, nor yet no table-de-hoty eat-fest, but if you can do in some bacon an' eggs, you're on!"

"Why, then," said Mr. Ravenslee, rising and yawning, "count me decidedly 'on.'"

"Then d' you mind givin' me a hand wid d' coffee?"

"Delighted!" and forthwith Mr. Ravenslee stepped out into the kitchen; and there, in a while, upon a rickety table covered with a greasy newspaper, they ate and drank with great relish and gusto, insomuch that Mr. Ravenslee marvelled at his own appetite.

"Say, Geoff," enquired Spike as hunger waned, "how long are you stoppin' at Mulligan's—a week?"

"A week—a month—six months," replied his guest sleepily. "It's all according—"

"Accordin' to what?"

"Well—er—circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"Circumstances over which I have no control—yet!"

"You don't mean me?" queried Spike, with an anxious expression.

"Lord, no!"

"And you'll never tell nobody that I—that I—"

"Meant to be—a thief?" drawled Mr. Ravenslee. "Not a word!"

Spike flushed, took a gulp of coffee, choked, and fell to sulky silence, while Mr. Ravenslee filled his pipe and yawned.

"Say," demanded Spike at last, "where'll you live while you're here?"

"Oh—somewhere, I suppose; I haven't bothered about where yet."

"Well, I been thinkin' I know where I can fix you up—perhaps!"

"Very kind of you, Spike!"

"There's Mrs. Trapes 'cross d'landing; she lost her lodger last week—mean guy skinned off without paying d' rent—she might take you."

"Across the landing? She'll do!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee.

"But I'm wonderin' if you'll do; she's a holy terror when she likes, Geoff."

"Across the landing? I'll put up with her!" murmured Mr. Ravenslee.

"But, say, you don't know Mrs. Trapes."

"Not yet, Spike."

"Well, she ain't no easy mark, Geoff! Most everybody in Mulligan's is scared of her when she cuts loose; she can talk ye deaf, dumb an' paralysed, she can so. She sure is aces up on d' chin-music, Geoff!"

"But then she lives just opposite, and that circumstance, methinks, doth cover a multitude of—" Mr. Ravenslee yawned again.

"Anyway, it's a sure thing she won't take you if she don't like ye, Geoff."

"Why, then, she must like me!" said Mr. Ravenslee and proceeded to light his pipe; whereupon Spike produced a box of cigarettes, but, in the act of lighting one, paused, and sighing, put it away again.

"I promised d' Spider I wouldn't, Geoff," he explained. "Y' see, I'm sort of in trainin', and Spider says smoke's bad for d' wind, and d' Spider knows."

"Spider?" said Mr. Ravenslee, glancing up, "do you mean Spider Connolly the lightweight?"

"That's d' guy!" nodded Spike.

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"Sure! Him an' Bud M'Ginnis is goin' to get me some good matches soon."

"Boxing matches?"

"That's what they call 'em, Geoff—but there ain't much boxin' to it; real boxin' don't go down wid d' sports, it's d' punch they wanter see—good, stiff wallops as jars a guy an' makes his knees get wobbly—swings and jolts as makes a guy blind an' deaf an' sick. Oh, I been like that, an' I know—an' it ain't all candy t' hear everybody yellin' to the other guy to go in an' finish ye!"

"Does your sister know you fight?"

"Not much, she don't! I guess she'd like me to be a mommer's pet in lace collars an' a velvet suit, an' soft an' pretty in me talk. She's made me promise t' cut out d' tough-spiel, an' so I'm tryin' to—"

"Are you really, Spike?"

"Well—when she's around I do, Geoff!"

"And she doesn't like you to fight, eh?"

"Nope! But y' see—she's only a girl, Geoff!"

"And that's the wonder of it!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee.

"Wonder? What d' ye mean?"

"I mean that all these years she has managed to feed you, and clothe you, and keep a comfortable home for you, and she's—only a girl!"

"Well, and ain't I tryin' to make good?" cried the boy eagerly.

"Are you really, Spike?"

"Sure! There's lots o' money in d' fightin' game, an' I'm fightin' all for Hermy. If ever I get a champ, I'll have money to burn, an' then she'll never be shy on d' dollar question no more, you bet! There'll be no more needlework or Mulligan's for Hermy; it'll be a farm in d' country wid roses climbin' around, an' chickens, an'—an' automobiles, an' servants to come when she pushes d' button—you bet!"

"Is she so fond of the country?"

"Well, I guess yes! An' flowers—Gee, she nearly eats 'em!"

"On the other hand," said Mr. Ravenslee, watching the smoke from his pipe with a dreamy eye, "on the other hand I gather she does not like—Mr. M'Ginnis! I wonder why?"

"You can search me!" answered Spike, shaking his head, "but it's a sure thing she ain't got no use for Bud."

"And yet—you go around with him, Spike."

"But don't I tell ye he's been good t' me! He's goin' t' match me with some top-liners; he says if I can stick it I'll be a champion sure."

"Yes," nodded Mr. Ravenslee, "but when?"

"Oh, Bud's got it all doped out. But say—"

"And in the meantime your sister will go on feeding you and clothing you and—"

"Cheese it, Geoff," cried the boy, flushing. "You make a guy feel like a two-spot in the discard! I told you I'd try to get a steady job, an' so I will—but I ain't goin' to quit the fightin' game for nobody! 'N' say—I'm sleepy. How about it? You can have my bed, or the couch here, or you can get in Hermy's—"

"Thanks, the couch will do, Spike."

"Then I guess it's me for the feathers!" said Spike, rising and stretching, "so long, Geoff!"

And in a while, having finished his pipe and knocked out the ashes, Mr. Ravenslee stretched his long limbs upon the chintz-covered sofa, and, mirabile dictu, immediately fell asleep.