Everybody's/Of the Lost Legion

by by Eugene Manlove Rhodes and Laurence Yates

Illustration: “IS IT YOUR OPINION THAT PROLONGED ABSTINENCE FROM FOOD IS INJURIOUS TO THE HUMAN BODY?”

 

OF THE LOST LEGION

by

EUGENE MANLOVE RHODES

and

LAURENCE YATES

ILLUSTRATIONS BY HENRY RALEIGH

Young Lochinvar came out of the West; and it was Br'er Rabbit who riz up dry, jes' so. Sir James did both.

At 7:41 a.m. and 12° F, the Rah-Rah local emitted Sir James at Vesper, together with the paying passengers.

A bleak wind from Labrador raked the the station. For Sir James it brought late to mind his neglect to provide his overcoat with the Astrakhan collar affected by grand-dukes, politicians, and vaudeville actors. His overcoat was not even fur-lined. In fact, he had no overcoat.

He shivered as he climbed the stairway to the town bridge. Vesper proper lay beyond the Kanakee: the Arrahwanna depot was in “Brooklyn.”

It was a chill quarter-mile across the river. That behind him, Sir James was glad to loiter in the lee of a business block, while he looked patronizingly on the Vesperian world to get his bearings, and at same time made mental inventory. His needs were three and pressing—booze, breakfast, and a shave. His assets were experience and wide knowledge of the effect of causes upon the human heart.

The wind whipped up the street with wolfish eagerness. Lean clerks, sweeping the sidewalk, were cross and blue and looked the part. Sir James gave his back to them with no second glance. He drifted up the street with a shrewd eye a-watch for men of good-will. Within the block came one, prosperous of figure and attire, round as to face, hearty and smiling of mouth and eye. He bore a small black case; and Sir James made a chance for himself.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” The jovial one paused, questioning. “Am I wrong in my inference that you are a physician?” asked the baronet, with an explanatory gesture for the medicine-case.

“You wish——”

“Attendance? No. But do not let me waste your time.” Sir James turned back and fell into step. “Briefly, I would ask for a trifling bit of information to resolve a doubt, which information, I trust, you will deem only semi-professional. For it must be owned,” admitted the baronet frankly, “that I am not able to manage a fee.”

“Well, sir?”

“Is it your opinion”—Sir James tapped his query with a fat, red finger on a fat, red palm—“that prolonged abstinence from food is injurious to the human body?”

“I have heard a theory to that effect, yes,” said the other dryly. “And then, too, many hold that abstinence from strong drink is beneficial.” His eye rested accusingly upon the baronet's nose, whose shape was precisely that of a ruddy pear.

Sir James noted with misgiving that the doctor's front of warm and abstract kindliness hardened to a cold and concrete smile; yet he continued with a brave jauntiness that almost compelled admiration. “Then, I ask you, sir, will you prevent such grave injury to the human body—to my own, in fact? For I would have you know,” said the baronet earnestly, laying his hand upon the spot held by certain of the ancients to be the seat of the soul, “my digestive organs have just reason to suspect that my œsophagus has unfortunately been severed.”

“So you are a man of education—and a common beggar! Shame on you!”

Sir James removed his battered derby and bowed with an air. “Pass by upon the other side!” he said.

The doctor strode down the street; if mere feet ever cursed, his receding soles beat out anathema.

Sir James resumed his constitutional. On the opposite shore of Lake Street a broom-wielding clerk in front of a cigar-store stopped to light a sample of the shop's wares. One match lit the cigar: no slight feat in the swirling winds. Sir James—himself a Foley of Ballyhaise—looked again, and bore across the pavement. His attack was frontal.

“'Tis an Irish face above your two shoulders, la-ad. Have ye ever an Irish heart in you? Your Uncle James is weak from hunger, and th' drouth be upon him sore.”

The clerk, not quite sure of his Irish heart, eyed his Uncle James dubiously. A voice, hearty and deep, broke in upon his doubt. “Do not be botherin' Joey, for he has more mouths than his or yours to feed. 'Tis myself instead ye should be tellin' your troubles. Come within doors, man, but shut th' door tight when ye are in. Well enough for warm lads like Joey to stand bare to winter, but not for old men like th' two of us.”

Captain Michael Quigley, just down from the rolling-room, faced the half-open door. His was a big and kindly heart, even at the worst of times. But now he was fresh from sausage and buckwheat cakes; his plump person tingled pleasantly with his morning glass, the warmth of it glowed pink on his smooth-shaven cheek; and his distaste for hunger and cold amounted to intolerance.

To this pleasant summons Sir James entered jauntily, and closed the door, as instructed.

Scarcely a minute later he came out, pushed past Joey roughly, and stumped up street.

“Hi, you! Kelly and Burke and Shea!” shouted Joey. “The captain's calling you.” But Sir James kept his way doggedly, without turning his head. Captain Michael Quigley came to the door and stared after him.

In the business heart of Vesper, Front Street, Lake, and Main form an H. Exactly opposite the head of Lake Street, the bar of the H, is the office of the Vesper Eagle. Ben Starr, the junior editor, lounged in the broad window, reading the morning papers.

Many wrecks have drifted in the high, narrow door of the Eagle's editorial room. It is likely that some cabalistic character is traced on post or lintel of that narrow door, which reveals to the initiate the generous heart within—or, as civilization aptly has it, the Easy Mark; it may be that in the guide-book for Broken Men, Ben Starr's name is followed by a cross. Perhaps, too, for that sign-mark, the Destroyer may once pass over that narrow door, when he smites in wrath; perhaps, for the last book, the Great Compiler may take one line from that humble record.

Sir James was one of the clan. His entry was superb. From around the end of the tall counter supposed to hedge the public from the editorial aerie, he ambled slowly into Ben's field of vision, confident and debonair. The ancient derby swept low; he bowed urbanely,

“You see before you, friend, one who has weathered every vicissitude of life; a wanderer like Ulysses, like him a soldier; twice left for dead on the field of battle; loved, feared, hated, and admired in two half-worlds; known in Mexico, the Indies, Chile, and Peru; on African veldts; in England, Barbary, and Spain. Like Ulysses, too, I have felt the force of Circe, heard the siren's song——”

Illustration: “YOU SEE BEFORE YOU, FRIEND, ONE WHO HAS WEATHERED EVERY VICISSITUDE OF LIFE; A WANDERER LIKE ULYSSES, LIKE HIM A SOLDIER; TWICE LEFT FOR DEAD ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE; LOVED, FEARED, HATED, AND ADMIRED IN TWO HALF-WORLDS.”

“Fine music, what?” said Ben enthusiastically. The newspaper slipped through his fingers.

“Ah! we have mutual friends? Allow me, then, to introduce myself—your Uncle James——”

“Oh, my prophetic soul!” murmured Starr. “Uncle—I am pleased—an unexpected pleasure—I am joyed. Smoke?”

The baronet tucked the proffered cigar away, “Thanks. I will smoke it,” he said with a slight but eloquent pause, “after breakfast. You have heard, doubtless, of the Ninety and Nine?”

“Heavens, man, they live here! I trust for your own sake that you were not expecting to breakfast with them?”

“The Ninety and Nine have no lot nor part in me, sir! I am the other one—the Hundredth Man——”

“Sheep,” corrected Starr dispassionately. “Black sheep. Wool-less. By the way, I am going out presently to do a little shopping. Perhaps you will join me? In the meantime, be seated. As we say in the first act, your story interests me strangely. Take a running start and try again. You are not of the Ninety and Nine, you were saying. That doesn't sound dull. Proceed, my Uncle James!”

Uncle James proceeded, not without a tinge of bitterness.

“Yes—your Uncle James—one who has fallen out with fortune; Sir James once. Sir in deserving, if not by sword-stroke, bold, fortunate, and free; Uncle James now, battered, scarred, broken, outworn, stiffened, waxing old, knowing miseries; citizen of the world, gay in camps, foremost in fields, stern in retreat; pioneer, path-maker, foregoer in the wilds; in cities master of many arts, orator, poet, actor, musician—a sometime journalist. It is in the latter capacity that I now address you, asking. Is there an opening here for a young man of small principal—capital, perhaps I should say? Barely past seventy, you observe, and exceptionally well equipped as to the other qualifications.”

“Not a crevice. Sorry, Major, but I am precisely filling that opening myself. But, still, yet—Eureka!—Hot Springs!” His face lit up; vaguely groping in black space, his mind had clutched booty. Quitting his dreamy drawl, he sat upright, energetic.

“The Business Men's Club is going to pull off a little doings to-night—feast of reason and a keg of beer—joy as a side-line—that sort of thing. You tell me you've been an actorine. What say I get you on for a sketch—monologue, song, or some such stunt? I've got the pull, if you can come across with proper dope. We'll warm you up back of third base and hold you in reserve.”

“The proposition does credit alike to your head and heart. I am at your orders. Samples cheerfully furnished on approval,” said the baronet. “But, if you will allow me, let me suggest that I also do impersonations to please young and old. My imitation of a hungry man, in particular, has been thought marvelously good. Would you—ah—like to see me put that over the plate?”

“I get you,” said Ben, grinning joyously. He balanced a coin on his middle finger and tapped it slowly with his eye-glasses. “Here, Uncle James, is one-half a plunk. Observe now! A little piece of money, but it will—might—buy one breakfast, one frugal shave, and a couple of drinks. But only one shave and two drinks, mind you—two.” He held up two fingers. “You come back along about ten o'clock for a try-out and we'll see what you got.”

“Eaglet,” said Sir James, “I will not fail you. 'Tis a pleasure to deal with a man of heart. Thanks are dreadful, alike to say and to hear. Would you add to my gratitude by taking it for granted? Two drinks, I think you said?”

“Two,” said Starr. “Gentleman's size. Adios—au revoir—auf wiedersehm—in fact, fare you well! Until ten.”

A quarter would have done less harm. Shave, ten cents; sandwiches, ten; thirty cents for necessities. The coin crossed the Morehouse bar; six tall glasses of amber liquid followed one another down Mr. Foley's parched throat. Then, assuming the center of the stage, he created the part of Sunny Sir James for cheerless early morning patrons of the café. He sang, he danced, he recited—not badly. The delighted audience gave largess, in unwise variety, to keep him going. Thereafter, events became involved and hazy.

It was four in the afternoon when, with a violent effort and after several previous failures, Sir James remembered his appointment with Ben Starr. He came, a penitent, to the Eagle office, abject in apologies.

“You see before you, lad, a waster of opportunity, an abuser of kindness, a promise-breaker, a wine-bibber, a poor, pitiful clown. I boasted myself a man of parts, but what I really am is a most unhappy combination of knave and fool. I have not the wit to pour water from a boot if the directions were printed on the heel.”

“Nix on that remorse thing, Colonel!” said Ben cheerfully. “Keep your shirt on. The Government at Washington still lives. Nobody is pained, injured, disappointed, grieved, or particularly surprised. Leaving ancient history, what do you now propose for your stunt to-night?”

“Monologue, impersonations, rag-time, the ballads of the people, what you will.” Uncle James displayed a resilience of spirit worthy of all praise. His pudgy hand waved airy gesture; he puffed out his chest and strutted—a stuttering strut.

On the way to the club rooms Ben picked up Vance Devine and pressed him into service as pianist. Frank O'Connell went along as volunteer critic. To these gentlemen his protégé must needs be presented at once and in form, as Sir James, to the disturbance of traffic.

At the try-out the artist failed to show form, having adventured too far down the primrose path. That joyous repertoire which had so charmed the morning hours dwindled until soon the only thing he would do was to sing “The Low-Backed Car,” in a wobbly tenor.

“Much-endured Ulysses,” said Ben resignedly, “you are over-trained. I can not longer conceal from you that you are tanked-up—or, as they say in polite circles, soused. About the only thing you could get away with now would be an imitation of that well-known moving picture—'The Curse of Drink, in three reels.'”

“What's the matter with taking that song on the phonograph?” asked O'Connell. “It wouldn't be so worse for our collection.” He rummaged out the recorder and adjusted it.

“Oh, hell!” growled Vance. “Think I'm going to fool any more time away on that old sop? Say, you, can't you whistle a tune and accompany yourself on the jew's-harp?”

“I usht—I use to, but I'm too fat,” Sir James replied lightly enough, but he withdrew himself from the piano somewhat stiffly.

“Know any more old stuff, Uncle?” Ben nodded toward the pianist. “Knock out some real old-timers, Vance.”

Grudgingly, Vance ran through the opening bars of three or four world-known Scotch and Irish ballads. Then he struck the first chords of “Allan Percy.” By the mantel, Sir James braced himself visibly; his head came up. The electrics were yet unlit; without, the wintry day was fading; dusk, the merciful, crept about him, hid the sodden features, curtained the dull, stained eyes.

“Start again,” he said. He tried the chanting, crooning notes, and then began. Low and uncertain at first, his misused voice cleared, steadied, grew firm and sure.

“...Well knows that earl how long my spirit pined;
I loved a forester, gay, bold and free;
And had I wedded as my heart inclined—
My babe had cradled 'neath the greenwood tree.
Lullaby!—Lullaby!”

It thrilled with memory, loss, and regret; dim ghosts beckoned from the shadowy corners.

“Slumber, thou sweet, my innocent, my own,
While I call back the dreams of other days;
In this dim forest I feel I'm less alone
Than where yon palace splendor marks my gaze.
Fear not, mine arms shall bear thee safely back.
I need no squire, no page on bended knee,
To bear my darling o'er the greenwood track.
Where Allan Percy used to roam with me.
Lullaby!—Lullaby!”

There was that in the voice for which crabbed Vance Devine, for the last verse, fingered the keys softly: poignant, pulsing, strong, the broken man's tenor floated to them over lost and irrevocable years.

“...From mine own hair the pearl chain I'll untwist,
And with a peasant's heart sit down and weep.
Thy bright and broidered robes, my precious one,
Changed for a simple covering shall be.
And I will dream thee Allan Percy's son,
And dream poor Allan guards thy sleep with me.
Lullaby!—Lullaby!”

There was a silence in the dim room as the words died away. O'Connell was first to speak. “Say! that's fine! Sing the first and last verses again, Uncle Jimmy,” he said, slipping a blank upon the phonograph and swinging the horn forward. “Let her go, professor! Easy with that accompaniment, will you?” Under his breath he added, “Why, the battered old rascal!”

“At your service, gentlemen,” said Uncle Jimmy patiently. But after the record was made, and while the three were eagerly trying it, he slipped away unnoticed.

An hour later, Ben Starr found him, moody and alone, in the dismal back room of a “Brooklyn” bar; and drew him aside, saying, with some hesitation:

“See here. Uncle James—I knew a man once who let himself be hanged, just to oblige a friend. Now, I seldom sometimes goat-in—it isn't my forte. But just to oblige me this once, don't lap up any more of it to-night. We have another day promptly to-morrow. Let me get you a room and you sleep a few lines. I'll do as much for you some time.”

II

The Business-men's Club did not look it. By ten-thirty that night the term uproarious would have been grievously misapplied. Fee, fi, fo, went the fiddles; click, click, click, went the billiards; pray do, went the bridge-players, as merry as could be. By mention of bridge there is no intent to slight the euchrers, pinochlers, and rummyists, whose strange cries filled in any possible chinks in the grand Wagnerian crash.

Big rooms, high-ceilinged, sober-tinted, thrown together by wide, uncurtained arches; the dark-papered walls cheered by water-colors, etchings, and copies of old chef d'œuvres. Which brings to mind the clam-chowder famed through the Southern Tier.

The club kitchen would have gladdened the heart of Charles Dickens: Gargantuan coffee-boiler, clam-steamers, salad-bowl, punch-bowl; the trusty beer-pump; orderly battalions of good ironstone cups, saucers, and plates, durable, masculine; noble platters of sandwiches; shelves of good cheer; such staples as pretzels, pitted shrimp, olives. Counting both together, can-openers and corkscrews totaled a strenuous score. Browsing was a continuous performance, every man—except, indeed, the fortunate guests—being his own waiter.<refNote. Groaning tables, etc., omitted through inadvertence. Also, in first paragraph, sound of revelry by night and merry marriage bell.</ref

To resume. Many things hung on the walls, besides the work of brush and pencil: trophies of the hunt, “the peculiar treasure of kings and provinces ... musical instruments and that of all sorts;” a priceless Navajo blanket, Yuma basketry, rare Mexican featherwork; panel photos, autographed by famous actors, and snapshots of wild game and other scenery, especially one of a young lady under an apple-tree—Eve, perhaps.

On the central table under the clouded chandelier posed a loving-cup, pride of the club, wrought from, of, and around a short X and ugly rhino's foot, gift of that great hunter whose exploits received modest mention in poster type for a time, times, and half a time. A Vesperian, Tod “Square” Deal, had field-naturalized, in small caps., across East Africa in the train of that great hunter, what time Wall Street expected every lion to do his duty.

Enough of upholstery. Ben Starr, as master of ceremonies, rapped for order, and failed to get it. Persistent, he managed to announce the fun-fest about to begin. The Vesperians were divided in the usual proportions: about ninety per cent. were spectators and ten per cent. were spectacles.

For the opening number, the Zobo Hoboes, six masked Happy Hooligans, pranced down the stairway, and circled raucously about the rooms, producing a concord of sounds (said to be “Oceania Roll”) which moved the card-players and turned their thoughts to treason, stratagem, and spoils.

Next came a solo by Wee Winkie Goodrich, leader of the sextette. With a Zobo trombone he took spot-light station and rendered the “Mysterious Rag” with earnest and faithful artistry, his body a-sway to the quavering time, cunning hand and curving wrist rippling the silver slide with instinctive grace. Too impetuous, in mid-blare he slid his trombone in two.

Despite this distressing circumstance, the weird refrain marched on with sprightly fanfare; miraculous rather than mysterious. The luckless artist cast one frantic glance over his shoulder, jammed the instrument half together, and made a gallant, desperate effort to overtake the anonymous and ghostly melody: barely a length behind and still gaining when, at the wire, Archie Taylor, the real trombonist, stepped from his hiding-place behind the piano to share the roaring applause.

Ex pede Herculem. (See dictionary.) Sketches, monologues, duodittoes, solos, duets, triplets, musical glasses and steins. The Road to Mandolin, by the Mandalay Club. Heigh-ho! Tis a poor heart that never rejoices!

 

The kitchen was dark; the caterer homeward dragged his weary way. Singly—some doubly—and by whole battalions, the revelers drifted off. In the corridor the last echoing footstep)s died away and left the banquet-hall deserted, the garlands dead, one solitary sleepy light in the reading-room, and all but three departed: Ben Starr, late Master of the Revels; Frank O'Connel; and Captain Michael Quigley, interested spectator, peering somberly at the coals in the open grate.

O'Connell sprawled comfortably in a leather-padded chair, made to order for Og, King of Bashan, and conjured a low and wandering air from his banjo. “Now, you're setting a fine example for us young fellows. Captain, I don't think! Look the clock in the face if you dare!” he said.

Illustration: POIGNANT, PULSING, STRONG, THE BROKEN MAN'S TENOR FLOATED TO THEM OVER LOST AND IRREVOCABLE YEARS.

“Well, I couldn't leave you to go home talking to yourself and bowing to lamp-posts,” retorted the Captain. “Some one had to stay.”

“Me!” said O'Connell, highly indignant. “I could walk a cobweb over Niagara Falls. Ben, you mean.”

Starr, who was taking twenty winks on the davenport, roused up at mention of his name. “What's the matter with Ben? He's all right! Say, Captain, Frank, don't go talking about breaking up the party—it's early yet! I've got a good song here, fine song—bully song! Let me play it for you, Captain. Phonograph record. I got an old duffer to sing for us this afternoon. Old buck came into the office this morning. Negotiated loan. Surprising good!—this song. Real thing! Frank, you were here. You tell him!”

“Some song! It's worth hearing, all right,” agreed Frank. “But the record won't carry over like the real thing did, of course. The old chap was in pretty bad, but he seemed to sober up as soon as ever Vance played the first few bars of it. Along toward the last he had us going. Cold chills chasing up and down my back like some one was walking on my grave. Not the thing you'd expect from a hard lot like him. For if he was not an undesirable citizen he could get damages from his face in any court.” He wagged his head slowly. “It sounded ... as if he meant it. There was a story, I'm thinking.”

“I wonder if that wasn't the old fellow who came to my shop in the morning?” mused Quigley. “Wasn't he out in the street with you, obstructin' traffic, along in the afternoon?”

Ben nodded. “That was Sir James. Good old scout! I'll get the record for you.”

Quigley straightened up in his chair. “Sir James! That's the man, and a fine start he gave me! He's been in the back of my head ever since. D'ye know, when I first clapped my two eyes on him I thought 'twas the ghost of a man dead these fifty years gone!” The Captain puffed solemnly at his cigar. “He set me dreamin' of old times. 'Tis why I am here, associating with some of our most promising young rascals near cockcrow in the morning.” Michael Quigley looked into the fire again, and stooped to stir it up as if dissatisfied with what he saw there.

Ben fumbled for the record in the secretary's desk. “How's that, Captain?” he threw back over his shoulder.

“Why,” explained Quigley, “your company is better than none, and I have little mind for sleeping.”

“No, no! The ghost, I mean. If you've a good, lively, sociable 'hant,' have him in. Just the time for ghost stories—and I'm afraid to go home in the dark. Hark to the wind! W-u-u-u-u-g-g-h! Stir up the fire, Frank! The ghost—the ghost, give—us—the ghost! Not if it's a family skeleton—secret crimes, or anything like that. But if you've got a good, reliable, unattached phantom—trot him out!” He came back to the fire, setting the record on the mantel. O'Connell laid the banjo down.

“It is not a short story,” objected Quigley, “and it will be a sore hardship on you boys to sit quiet and hear another man talk.”

“Oh, I'll make him keep still!” said Frank and Ben in unison.

Quigley shuffled in his chair uneasily. “How may I tell it—and you before my two eyes wriggling like a can of angleworms? 'Tis in the fire I must see the faces there, the hills and the valleys. Sit you down, you young scape-gallows, and hear of better men.”

“Oh? Autobiography?” said Ben. “'Me fathers were kings of Ireland'—how does it start?”

“Shut up, ye wastrel!” Michael Quigley flung his half-smoked cigar into the grate, filled a brier-wood pipe, tamped it carefully, hesitated, and slowly began his story, clutching the unlit pipe in his hand.

 

“Born in County Leitrim on the River Shannon, two and seventy years since, I was; five, or near it, when the Black Famine fell upon Ireland, and my father, God rest him, flitted with the brood of us to Mayo, to bide with the fisher folk till better times. So my earliest memories and deepest are of the great salt sea, the boats white against the low sun, the blue slope of Slieve League north beyond the bay, the twelve pins of Connemara watchful behind me, the mackerel drying on the racks, and my brothers mending the nets.

“Nine of us there were, all told. Mother was first to go. She died there at Killala Bay. Not one is left of us now.... I was youngest but Katy—and she died a slip of a girl. Laughing eyes she had, always.... A good maid, a happy maid.... Sixteen, she was.

“Well, we went back to Leitrim after three years and Nora was mother to us. 'Twas then I was friend to Jimmy Foley of Drumhierney House. He was older than me by two years. He could beat me and most at the wrestling; at leaping, running, swimming, fishing. I thought him wonderful then. Maybe I do now. Man or boy, there were few things where he could not be first when he cared to.

“We were best friends, for all his father lived in a fine, great house, with sixty broad acres to his own and more rented, and mine was but a poor tenant who burned charcoal in the high hills, of winters, to help out. 'Tis like he was thinking no worse of me for that he knew I made a hero of him. 'Tis so we are made.

“For all his grand ways, he was a kind-hearted lad and generous. There was a pony—for he was an only child—and none of us but was as free to ride it as himself. And while I was yet too young for much work afield, he was about our cottage full as much as in Drumhierney House.

“Jimmy was to be sent to Dublin to the university. Father Roche was tutor to him betimes. The years were to hold great things for him: while I was for the Hiring Market of Carrick-on-Shannon, when I should come to fifteen. But it was before these days that a girl came into the lives of the two of us—Janey Considine.

“Indeed, she had been neighbor to us all the while, but we had been taken up with the birch and pinewood of the high hills, the moor-fowl, the pony, Jimmy's punt in the sedges, fireside tales of the Gentle People, or strange lands which Jimmy was to see when he grew up. And, all at once, there was nothing but Janey.

“It was Janey who now joyed in the greenwood when we walked there with her—but the two lads of us had no eye for oak or beach or birch or pine; for her, the punt was new painted.... Those were days.

“I am not telling you of Janey. Oh, yes, her eyes were gray and merry, and warm with little flecks of brown-gold; and they had great, long lashes to them; her face was the true Irish oval, for all her mother was a lass of Cumberland; her hair was soft and brown and curly, and short like a boy's; but that was not Janey Considine.

“She was brave and sweet and witty;
Let's not say dull things about her.”

The old man paused and became aware of the unlighted pipe. He held a match to it, shielded by cupped hands.

“Nor am I to tell you of the years that next followed, for ye would not understand—now. When you are come to my age you will know. Moonlight was mellower then. And though I have seen your New-World mountains, the green hills of Leitrim are grander still.

“Jimmy grew up young—an' he grew up wild. At seventeen he was as fine a young rascal as ever played with the cudgels at frolic or fair, or kissed a lass under a thorn-tree. He had the come-hither eye, and hair as curly as Janey's own. Well set up an' active, but not over tall. Where he went, high and low, he was the most loved or hated—the handsome, roarin' young blade! Sing! it was his voice that carried all before him. He had got songs of the old tongue at my father's knee; but the one he sang best of all, the one he sang when we lay on the green turf and watched the stars go down, was one Janey had taught him—as it had been taught to her when her mother grieved for Solway Firth and the walls of merry Carlisle. 'Allan Percy' the song was. Times I hear the sound of it yet, when the streets are still, and I lie warm in my bed.”

O'Connell shot a keen glance across the table, but Ben did not or would not meet it.

“There was another decent lad, Danny Fallon from up Killashandra way, steady and hard-working, but with a way of his own, too. I am thinking it was Jimmy Foley that Janey liked best at the beginning, but later I was not so sure. Nor yet was Jimmy sure of her, nor Dan Fallon, nor even, as I mistrust, Janey herself.

“But after Jimmy Foley's father was laid away and Drumhierney was Jimmy's own, he grew wilder yet and broke all bounds when the drink was in him. A ne'er-do-well he was—as it is like I should have been myself, God knows, but for the poverty on me.

“Brawling, gaming, drinking—so it went from bad to worse with James Foley, and him ever promisin' Janey to do better; until at the last there were high words atween them under the hawthorn by the Monk's Well, and he flung away back to Dublin. An' within year and day she was promised to Dan Fallon.

“And now we are come again to what you may not compass nor understand, you who walk free and safe; and words will not clear it for you. For England bore on us harder then than now, and there were sore hearts in the land and hot heads—and more's the pity, unwise heads, it seems, else more would have come of it all. For it is a curious thing that Irishmen, who fight so well for other lands—yes, and lead too!—can do naught but blunder for their own green island.

“Well, those were the days of the I. R. B.—the Revolutionary Brotherhood—with their Circles and Head Centers, 'V's, A's, B's, and C's'—whispers at the door and empty beds at night—and all come to nothing but death and ruin and shame. Myself, I think it was most because, being a secret society, it fell under the ban of the Church. However it was, all things went awry with it.

“The hillmen of Leitrim were a stubborn folk, and held out after all just hope of a rising was rightly past; but even they came to see that all was lost and by for that time. And it came that on a fair night of August a score were gathered together for the last time, to hide their few rusty and worthless muskets and set a word against a brighter day—happen to hearten each other and bear away a poor spark of hope. And of them were James Foley and Danny Fallon.

“It was a dread and fearsome place in the hills—a nook called the Dermott's Grave, because it was there that a robber sept of that name was overtaken in the wild old days and cut off to the last man. Fear sat with them; and, as it proved, with reason. Traitor, spy, or chance, it is not known; but barely had they hidden what scanty arms they had when the constabulary broke in upon them, headed by young Squire Brookfield of Lough Sheelin—a fiery man and overbearing.

“You may guess they were all for going, when only a choice of death was to be gained by boldness. 'Twas their own hills, and they might well have won clear at the cost of a broken crown or so; but in the dark and hap-chance an evil thing befell; and in the dawning the young Saxon lordling lay slain on the Dermott's Grave, Jimmy Foley's blackthorn by his side; and young Jimmy Foley was fled away with the price of blood on his head.

“High and low and far and near they sought him; the blood-money was doubled. But Jimmy Foley was gone, as if he had dropped through a hole in the bottom of the sea. A many must have seen him in his flight. But no red gold could win one of those poor and wretched to betray him.

“There was a story that he won through to Galway, another that he perished in the Bog of Allen; but the tale whispered by the trustiest, and most like the devil's daring of Jimmy Foley, was that he pressed through to Belfast itself, where he was least looked for, and took ship in the Maid of Meath under the very noses of the Englishry. The Maid of Meath went down the Irish Sea, the sun broad on her sails, outward bound for the Americas, and was never heard of more. And that was the end of the story of Jimmy Foley for more than twoscore years.

“In the '61, Janey and Dan Fallon were wed in the parish church of Killashandra. Then there was no more for me to do in Ireland. The great war was breaking in the States. So my last look of Ireland was the blue line of Wicklow Mountain dimming through the mist, and I have not since seen a sight so fair.

“Dan Fallon came to this country in the seventies, and all things prospered to his hand. He took root at Painted Post. There I have seen him many times, and Janey with her grandchildren at her knee. It was there he died, nine years since; and on his last bed he told me the story of that night at Dermott's Grave.

“As you may guess, 'twas himself that did the deed, and not James Foley. It was kill or be killed, Danny told me. He had gone amiss in the murk and was cornered, the young squire would hear naught of reason, but ran in upon him, cursing him for a damned rebel, and striking with his sword; so Fallon struck out, and struck home.

Illustration: “AT LAST THERE WERE HIGH WORDS ATWEEN THEM UNDER THE HAWTHORN BY THE MONK'S WELL, AND HE FLUNG AWAY BACK TO DUBLIN.”

“Now Jimmy, hearing Danny cry out, had turned back from flight for no reason but to save for Janey the man she loved best, and he came upon the two just as the squire went down. So what did he but take Fallon's stick from his hand, and, in the dark, cast his own stick down by the dead man, and Danny not knowing to it.

“And so they crouched and crept and ran and came clear, it being not yet known the Englishman had been slain. At last, when they were in a safe place, Jimmy Foley said what he had done, and that it was himself that would bear the blame.

“That was a sad case for poor Danny, and it is him that I pity most. For he could better nothing by claiming the deed, only to hang two instead of one. For Jimmy's known blackthorn was by the body; it was no question of proof, but catch and hang. Danny was shaken and torn with horror, and his thought was on Janey; and there in the dark night Jimmy made him swear a terrible oath that the thing should bide so, that Janey should have her happiness, and that she should never know.

“Now this thing saddened all the days of Dan Fallon's life, useful and happy but for that; yet he could not do else in this cruel pass. And Jimmy was an ill man to thwart when his hand was set to a deed: who knows better than I? More than once I have been sorely minded to tell what he did to her for whom the thing was done—for she lives still. And as often I have drawn back, fearful lest James Foley should rise from the Atlantic ooze to forbid.

“Now that is the story of my first friend and my best—God be good to him!—Judge then the shock it was yesterday when that poor old hulk came into my shop and spoke to me with the voice of James Foley! 'Your Uncle James gives you greeting,' says this sodden wreck of a man, 'and asks could ye find it in your heart to help a fellow mortal to drown such a thirst as would do fair to burn the bristles off the back of his neck;' and with that he tosses his head with just the trick of poor Jimmy Foley as he tossed back his black forelock when we were boys together.

“'Love of God, man, who are you?' says I. 'Who were you once, Uncle James?' I says, correcting myself.

“The old duffer stared me in the face for a blink of time, out of his bleary eyes. 'An' who the divil might ye be yourself?' says he, impudent as you please.

“'Can't you read, man?' says I. 'Look in the window. Tis my name you see there.'

“'Michael Quigley, Manufacturer of Fine Cigars,' he reads. 'It's pleased I am to meet so grand a figure of a man. Sorry not to have made your acquaintance before. Th' loss is all mine,' he says, and he gives me an ugly look out of his eyes. Insolent piece, he was!

“'What is your name then,' says I, 'and what parts are ye from in th' old country'?' I asks.

“He blinked at me with that impudent, fleering eye of his. 'Though it's none of your business. Mister Michael Quigley, Manufacturer of Foine Cigars,' he says. 'I don't mind tellin' ye that I'm Uncle James Corrigan—Sir James when I'm drunk—an' I come from Dublin town, where I was born me father's own son, Hiven rest his soul!'

“Then he turned to the door and was for going out without a word more and with out turning his head. 'Here, man!' I called after him, 'here's a dollar for the sake of the old sod. Ketch!' I tossed him the coin, but he let it fall to the floor beside him. He shuffled out with his head lowered and no look behind.”

Quigley paused. “I had a bad morning for it.... But no, that could never have been young Jim Foley of Leitrim. He dropped through the hole in the bottom of the sea—dead these fifty years, God be thanked! Better dead than like that!” He tapped out the unburned tobacco of his pipe. “Come, Ben, give us your song on the machine, and then we'll go home.”

“Oh, never mind the song,” said O'Connell bruskly. “It's late.”

“Late, ye night-hawk?” scoffed the Captain. “One hour is as good as another to the likes of you. Give us the song that I interrupted with my long-winded yarn. 'Tis good of ye both to listen so patient to an old man's maunderings.”

Ben Starr rose, swayed a little, wavered toward the mantel.

“Oh, cut it out, Ben, and go home,” said Frank. “Go while you can get there. You can talk all right, but you can't walk!”

The Captain, deep in retrospection, hardly noticed the by-play.

“Don't butt in, buddie,” said Ben in a queer voice.

O'Connell hesitated: Ben's obstinacy in unfavorable moments was well known. Ben took up the pasteboard box, turned, and tacked toward the phonograph. A chair stood in his path. He lurched to avoid it, swayed back, tripped, and fell: the record of “Allan Percy” was crushed beneath his weight.

“Captain—Captain, my foot slipped!” he said in part, remorsefully trying to gather up the scattered fragments. “Sorry! Devilish luck! Bully song! Too bad!”

“Leave that mess, Ben, and come on,” snapped O'Connell, darting a look of admiration at Ben as he spoke. “The Captain is ready; I'm going to put out this light.”

 

The morning after—not precisely in the cold gray dawn, yet early enough—Ben Starr waited in the dingy office of the “Brooklyn” hostelry while a boy went to arouse Sir James, and word came after a little that the gentleman was to come up.

Sir James was a sorry sight: his face pasty and gray, his eyes puffed unwholesomely, his hand trembling.

“And how do you find yourself, old scout?” said Ben.

“As you see, Eaglet.” The old man cast a look around the sordid room and shrugged his shoulders. “Have a chair. Have the chair! As you see, sitting, if not sleeping, on the bed I have made for myself. I am glad to see you once more, for I am leaving your fair city soon—on my private car. And I carry with me one pleasant memory from this town, and one that will last long. 'Tis of yourself, sir, who did not stint an old man the courtesy and kindliness he was far from deserving.”

Ben came to the point. “You need not leave Vesper again, if you care to stay. I think I may say that a home, rest, comfort—yes, and friends—wait for you here if you care to claim them, Mr.... Foley.”

The man's face changed, his voice grew hard and tense. “Not Quigley—he never knew me? Not after I insulted him to his face when it was fair breakin' my heart to do it? No, no—Michael Quigley was not the man to let me go—even the thing I am now—if he had known.”

“He did not know you,” said Ben gently. “He thinks you dead—gone down with a lost ship. But you reminded him of—of yourself, of that dead man. It shook him, and last night he told me of his youth—and yours. Did you know—” Ben rose and looked from the window into a cheerless back yard—“did you know that Dan Fallon was dead, that Janey Considine is still living—less than five hours from here;—that before he died, Dan told Michael Quigley what happened on that luckless night before you—went away?”

Foley shook his head. “Dan did not tell—her?” he said in a strained half-whisper.

“No.”

“Or Michael—did he tell?”

“No. He thought you dead. He thought you would not wish it.”

“He thought right. Let the girl keep her dead! She must not know—now nor ever.”

“And Quigley?” said Ben. “Is he not to know?”

“Let Michael keep his dead, too. Would he be glad to see me alive—like this? And his heart to be always torn with the wish to tell her? If you have one kind thought for me, keep your counsel. Do more than that. Forget what you have heard. Dead I am and dead I will stay. What good would life do me? How did Macbeth have it?

“'That which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have.'”

“James Foley is dead, sunk in the sea, as you say. I am Uncle James Corrigan—now on my way to consult my solicitors in New York. And so good-by, sir.”

“If I could help you——”

James Foley fluked. “Keep your dirty money! I did not throw away life for hire.—No; no!—you did not deserve that I should say that, lad. You mean well, but—don't you see? I couldn't take money for—that one thing. And besides—you have seen me. What good is money to me? You can do this, if you will. Get me a ticket for the next train—New York, or anywhere. I will take that as a free gift from you, partly to make up for my ill words, and partly to make sure that Michael does not see me again.”

Ben called the aged “bell-boy” and sent him for the ticket. Then he came back in the room.

“James Foley—” he began.

“Uncle James, if you please.”

“Sir James—you would not take my money—will you drink with me?”

He held a silver flask in his hand; he unscrewed the cup from the top, and poured it full. Sir James took it; cup and flask met in air. Ben Starr gave the toast clearly:

“To a gallant gentleman—now dead.”