Читать книгу Gordon Craig, Soldier of Fortune - Randall Parrish - Страница 17

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I drew in my breath sharply, my lips set in a straight line. Already had I half-suspicioned this truth, and yet there was that about the girl—her manner, her words, even her dress—which would not permit me to class her among the homeless, the city outcasts.

"You mean that you are actually upon the streets, with—with no place to go?"

She did not answer, her head bowed, her face suddenly showing white and haggard. I stared at her with swift realization.

"My God, girl! and—and I actually believe you are hungry!"

Her eyes uplifted to my face dumb with agony, her hand grasp upon the rail tightening. Then she pitifully endeavored to smile.

"I—I am afraid I am, just a little." She acknowledged slowly, as though the words were wrung out of her.

I straightened up, with shoulders flung back. All that was strong, determined in my nature, came leaping to the surface. It was my time to act.

"Then that settles it. You are coming with me. No! don't shake your head; I shall have my way this time. There is a respectable all-night place over there on Desmet Street. I ate there once a week ago. We 'll go together."

She drew back, still clinging helplessly to the rail, her eyes on my face.

"Oh! you must not—I—"

My hand touched her arm.

"Yes, but I shall," I insisted, almost sternly. "Good Heavens, do you suppose I will leave you here on the street hungry? I 'd never rest easy another night as long as I lived. You are going with me."

Feeling my determination she made no further resistance, and I half supported her as we moved slowly forward through the mist, her face turned away, her arm trembling beneath the firm clasp of my fingers. As we advanced I became conscious that my own position was an awkward one. I had no money of my own with me—not a cent other than those two five-hundred dollar bills handed me by Vail. The uselessness of attempting to pass one of these was apparent; it would be better to plead lack of cash, and put up some security if the man in charge refused credit. At whatever cost the girl must have food.

It was much brighter on Desmet Street, numerous electric signs, advertising various places of business, even at this late hour, continuing to exhibit their rotating colors, while not a few of the shop windows remained brilliantly illuminated. Occasionally a belated pedestrian passed, while trolley-cars clanged their way through the fog, approaching and vanishing in a purple haze. Three doors around the corner was the all-night restaurant, through the glass front revealing a lunch counter, and a number of cloth-draped tables awaiting occupants. A few of these were in use, a single waiter catering to the guests; a woman was scrubbing the floor under the cigar stand, while a round-faced, rather genial-looking young fellow, stood, leaning negligently against the cashier's desk. Rather doubtfully I glanced uneasily up and down the deserted street, and then aside into the still averted face of my chance companion. I had no desire she should comprehend my dilemma.

"Would you mind waiting out here on the step a moment?" I questioned awkwardly, attempting to explain. "Only until I make sure who are inside. There are some fellows I am not friendly with, and I am not hunting a rough house with a girl to look after. You won't care for just a minute, will you?"

"No," wearily, "I won't mind."

"You 'll promise not to go away?"

She shook her head, her eyes staring dully into the mist.

"No; I won't go away. Where could I go?"

Scarcely satisfied, yet feeling obliged to take the chance, I stepped within, and advanced across the room toward the man at the cashier's desk. He glanced up curiously as I approached, and spoke low, so as not to attract the attention of others.

"Pardner, is my credit good for two meals?" I asked genially. "I guess you 've seen me in here before—I drive for the Wooster Lumber Company." A night cashier in that neighborhood becomes early habituated to tales of hard luck. It requires but a few lessons to render suspicion paramount. The round-faced man, all geniality vanished, stared directly into my face.

"Oh, yes, I 've seen you before, I reckon," he acknowledged noncommitally. "But that does n't necessarily mean we are ready to do a credit business. Been fired?"

"No; just happen to be short of cash, and need to eat. I 'll hand it to you tomorrow."

"I 've heard that song before. I reckon you 'll have to try your luck somewhere else, unless you 've got the price."

"That's the last word, is it?"

"Sure thing," indifferently. "Nothing doing."

Realizing the utter uselessness of argument, or of exhibiting my large bills, I reached inside my coat, unpinned, and held before him on the desk a bronze medal, fastened to a colored ribbon.

"Well, is this good for the price?" I questioned. "There 's two of us."

The round-faced cashier bent forward to look, his eyes widening with aroused interest. Then he glanced up inquiringly into my face.

"Yours?" he asked in open suspicion.

"Ought to be; cost me a Mauser bullet, a dozen bolo cuts, and eight weeks' hospital."

The cashier was visibly impressed, turning the medal over in his hands.

"So! Where was all this?"

"Down in a rice paddy; place called Baliancan."

"What regiment?"

"Third Cavalry."

The cashier's black eyes flashed, and he extended a cordial hand.

"Put her there, Amigo," he broke forth warmly. "Lord! but maybe I don't remember! Say, but you fellows were a husky lot o' bucks. Knew ye? I rather guess I did. I was bunkin' then with the First Nebraska. Sure, I 'll stand ye for the meal. Put back yer plaything, and bring in yer pardner—this spread is on the house. The Third Cavalry has divided chuck with me mor'n once, an' I ain't goin' back on one of the boys for the price of a meal."

Our hands met, clasped closely lying across the desk, our eyes glowing with suddenly aroused memories of comradeship in a foreign land. Then I repinned the medal to the front of my rough shirt, gulping a bit as I strove to speak calmly.

"It's a woman," I explained, nodding toward the door. "I found her out there hungry. Could we have that table yonder behind the screen?"

"Sure; and don't be afraid to order the best in the house. Damn me, but that was some fight we had at Baliancan, even if the history folks don't say much about it. I can see you Third Cavalry fellows goin' in now, up to yer waists in water, an' we wa'nt mor'n a hundred feet behind. Did you see them Filipino trenches after we took 'em?"

I shook my head.

"No; I was down and out long before then."

"Hell of a sight, believe me—jammed full o' little brown men, deader than door nails. They died a fighting, all right, an' they sure gave us a belly full that day. Lost sixteen out o' my company."

Our eyes lingered an instant on each other's faces; then I turned away, and walked to the door. She was waiting motionless, her back to the window, and, when I spoke, followed me in without a word. I led the way to the secluded table behind the screen, seated her, and took the chair opposite. Without questioning her wishes I ordered for both, the girl sitting in silence, her face bent low over the menu card, a red flush on either cheek. Still obsessed with vague suspicion of her character I could not forbear a suggestion.

"What will you have to drink?" I asked, as the waiter turned aside. "I 'd rather like a cocktail to drive the wet out of my system. Shall I make it two?"

She glanced up quickly from under shading lashes, her eyes, big and brown, meeting my own.

"I prefer coffee; that will be quite sufficient."

I ran my hand through my hair.

"Don't you ever drink anything stronger?" I asked, almost tempted to apologize. "You know lots of women do."

"I have never formed the habit."

"Cocktail for you, sir?" said the waiter briskly, flipping his towel on the table. "Martini, or Manhattan?"

I dropped my gaze from the girl's face to the menu card. It seemed to me her eyes had pleaded with me.

"No; make mine coffee too," I replied gravely, "and hurry the cook up, will you."

We sat there waiting without further speech, she nervously fingering the card, her eyes veiled by lowered lashes. I glanced cautiously across at her, conscious of my cheap clothing, and vaguely wondering why my usual off-hand address had so suddenly failed. I felt embarrassed, unable to break the silence by any sensible utterance. My eyes rested upon her hands, white, slender, ringless. They were hands of refinement, and my gaze, fascinated by the swiftly recurring memory of other days, arose slowly to a contemplation of her face. I had seen it heretofore merely in shadow, scarcely with intelligent observation, but now, beneath the full glare of electric light, its revealment awoke me to eager interest. It was a womanly face, strong, true, filled with character, not so apt, perhaps, to be considered pretty, as lovable—a face to awaken confidence, and trust; a low, broad forehead, shadowed still by the wide-brimmed hat, and the flossy brown hair; the skin clear, the cheeks rounded, and slightly flushed by excitement; the lips full and finely arched; the chin firm and smooth. Her greatest claim to beauty was the eyes, now securely veiled behind long, downcast lashes. Yet I recalled their depth and expression with a sudden surging of red, riotous blood through my veins. As I sat there, uncertain how I might break the embarrassing silence, she suddenly glanced up questioningly.

"You—you do not at all understand my position, do you?" she asked timidly. "I mean why I should be homeless, on the street, alone at—at such an hour?"

"No," I responded, surprised into frankness, "you do not seem like that kind."

A wave of color flooded her clear cheeks, the brown eyes darkening.

"And I am not that kind," she exclaimed proudly, her head flung back, revealing the round, white throat. "You must comprehend that fact at once."