To Him That Hath

by Leroy Scott

  CHAPTER III

  THE SUPERFLUOUS MAN

  The next day the search for work had to be begun, and David felt himselfsquarely against the beginning of his new career as an ex-convict. Hesaw this career, not as a part to be abandoned when it wearied him, likea role assumed for a season by a sociological investigator, but as thepart he must play, must _live_, to the end of his days. His immediatestruggle, his whole future, would not be one whit other than if he werein truth the thief the world had branded him. Writing for the magazineswas not to be thought of, for he needed quick, certain money. He wasfriendless; he had no profession; he had no trade; he had never held aposition; he had no experience of a commercial value. All in all hisequipment for facing the world, barring his education, was identicalwith the equipment of the average discharged convict.

  David did not look forward into this career with resignation. There wasnothing of the willing martyr in him. The life he must follow was notgoing to be easy; it would demand his all of courage and endurance. Helonged to stand before the world a clean man, and the longing was attimes a fierce rebellion. He had bought a great good, but he was payingtherefor a bitter price, and every day of his life he must pay theprice anew. Yet he faced the future with determination, if not withhappiness. He believed that earnest work and earnest living would regainthe world's respect--would slowly force the world to yield him place.

  He tried to forbid himself thinking of Helen Chambers as having theslightest part in his future. She was a thousand times farther removedthan four years before, when his name had been fair, and then the spaceof the universe had stretched between them. And yet the desire some dayto appear well in her eyes was after all the strongest motive, strongereven than the instinct of self-preservation, that urged him upon thelong, uphill struggle.

  David had determined first to seek work on a newspaper. Some of thethings he had written in that far-away time beyond the prison, came backto him. They were not bad--they were really good! If he could get on oneof the papers, and could manage to hold his place for a few monthswithout his story being learned, perhaps by then he would have so provedhis worth that he would be retained despite his prison record. He woulddo his best! Who knew?--life might have a very endurable place for himsomewhere in the years ahead. He grew almost excited as he gazed at thedimly-seen success.

  Before starting out upon his first try at fortune, he gazed into themirror above his wash-stand and for a long time studied his face,wondering if the men he was going to meet would read his record there.The forehead was broad, and about the grey eyes and the wide mouth werethe little puckering wrinkles that announce the dreamer. The chin wasthe chin of the man of will. In health the face would have suggested arare combination of idealism and will-power; but now there brooded overit that hesitancy, that blanched gloom, which come from living withinthe dark shadows of prison. No one looking at his thin, slightlystooping figure would have ever guessed that here was Dave Aldrich, thegreat half-back of '95.

  After filling the forenoon by writing for his belongings, which his NewJersey landlady had promised to keep till he should send for them, andby dreaming of the future, David set out for the hurly-burly thatseethes within and without the sky-supporting buildings of Park Row. Atthe entrance to the first newspaper office, his courage suddenly allflowed from him. Would he be recognised as a jail-bird? His ill-fittingprison-made suit, that clothed him in reproach, that burned him--was itnot an announcement of his record? He turned away in panic.

  But he had to go in, and fiercely mastering his throbbing agitation, hereturned to the office and entered. The city editor, a sharp-faced youngman, after hearing that David had no newspaper experience, snapped outin a quick voice, "Sorry, for I need a man--but I've got no time tobreak in a green hand," and the following instant was shouting to a"copy" boy for proofs.

  At the next place the slip on which David had been required to write hisbusiness, came back to him with the two added words, "Nothing doing." Atthe third place the returned slip bore the statement, "Got all the men Ineed." The fourth editor, whom he saw, gave him a short negative. Thefifth editor sent word by mouth of the office boy that his staff wasfull. It required all David's determination to mount to the sixthoffice, that of an able and aggressively respectable paper.

  The boy who took in his request to the city editor returned at once andled David across a large dingy room, with littered floor, andgrime-streaked windows. Young men, coatless, high-geared, sat at desksscribbling with pencils and clicking typewriters; boys, answering thequick cries of "copy!" scurried about through the heavy tobacco smoke.The room was a rectangular solid of bustling intensity.

  The city editor, who occupied a corner of the room, waved David to achair. Again David repeated the formula of his desire, and again he wasasked his experience.

  "I've had no experience on a paper," he replied, "but I've done a lot ofwriting in a private way."

  "You're practically a new man, then." The editor thought for a moment,and David eagerly watched his face. It was business-like, but kindly."Why, I guess I might take the trouble to lick a man into shape--if heseemed to have the right stuff in him. Anyhow, I might give you a trial.But you're not very young to be just beginning the game. What've youbeen working at?"

  David felt the guilty colour warming his cheeks. "Writing."

  "All the time?"

  He tried to speak naturally. "The last few years I have been trying todo some--manual work."

  "Here in the city?"

  "No. Out of town."

  The editor could not but notice David's flushed face and its strainedlook. He eyed David narrowly, and his brow wrinkled in thought. Davidstrove to force a natural look upon his face. "Aldrich," the editor saidto himself, "Aldrich--David Aldrich you said. That sounds familiar.Where have I heard that in the last few days?"

  "I don't know," said David, his lips dry; but he thought of a paragraphhe had read on the ride from prison announcing his discharge.

  "O-o-h!" said the editor, and his eyes sharpened. David understood. Theeditor had also remembered the paragraph.

  The editor's gaze dropped to his desk, as though embarrassed. "I'm verysorry--but I'm afraid I can't use you after all. I really don't need anymen. But I hope you'll find something without trouble."

  The blow was gently delivered, but it was still a blow--one that, as hewalked dazedly from the office, made his courage totter. He told himselfthat he had counted upon just such experiences as this, that he hadplanned for a month of rebuffs--and gradually, as the evening wore away,he preached spirit back into himself. However, he would make no furtherattempts to find newspaper work. Even should he be so lucky as to securea place, some one of the score or two score fellow-workers would becertain to connect him with the newly-liberated convict, as the editorhad done, and then--discharge. For the present, it would be better toseek a position among the large business houses.

  At dawn the next morning David was reading the "Help Wanted" columns ofa newspaper, and two hours later he was sitting in the office of thesuperintendent of the shipping department of a wholesale dress-goodshouse that had advertised for a shipping clerk. The superintendentscrutinised David's face, making David feel that the prison mark wasappearing, like an image on a developing plate, and then demanded: "Whydo you want a job like this? This ain't your class."

  "Because I need it."

  "Had any experience as a shipping clerk?"

  "No. But I'm mighty willing to learn."

  "Well, let's see your letters from previous employers."

  David hesitated. "I have none." He felt the red proclamation of hisrecord begin to burn in his cheeks.

  "Have none!" The superintendent looked suspicious. "No references atall?"

  David shook his head; his cheeks flamed redder.

  "Who've you worked for?"

  To mention here his four years of writing would be absurd. "No one," hestammered--"that is, I've had no business experience."

  The superintendent's reply came out sharply: "N
o experience--noreferences--can't use you. Good morning."

  David stumbled out, not noticing the relief his dejection gave the otherapplicants waiting outside the office. He saw the difficulty of hissituation with a new, startling clearness; the superintendent had summedit up with business-like conciseness--"no experience, no references." Asudden fear, a sudden consternation, clutched him. Would he ever be ableto pass that great wall standing between him and a position?--that wallbuilded of his prison record, of no experience, of no references?

  Whether or not, he must try. He hurried to another office that hadadvertised for help, and to another, and to another--and so on for days.Usually he was turned away because there was really no work, but severaltimes because to the penetrating questions he could return only hisdistrust-rousing answers. His courage tried to escape; but he caught itand held it, desperately.

  Saturday evening an expressman delivered a box sent by his old NewJersey landlady. The charge was a dollar, and the dollar's payment was atragedy. The box contained only a few of the things he had left behindhim. His landlady, though kind, was careless, his things had becomescattered during the four years, and the contents of the box were allshe had been able to get together. There were a few of his books, a fewphotographs and prints, a few ornaments, a pair of boxing gloves, mostof his manuscripts, and an overcoat. The overcoat at least was worthhaving, with cool weather but a few weeks off.

  The second week was an elaboration of the first few days, and the firsthalf of the third was the same. Then he had three days' work ataddressing envelopes--girls' work and boys' work, for which he was paideighty-five cents a day. Then the search again.

  At length he found a place. It was in a small department store in OneHundred and Twenty-fifth Street--a store that in fifteen years haddeveloped from a notion shop occupying a mere hole in the wall. Theproprietor was one of those men who do not see the master chances, thethousands and the millions, but who see a multitude of little chances,the pennies and the dollars. He squeezed his creditors, his customers,his shopgirls--kept open later than other stores to squeeze a few lastdrops of profit from the day. His success was the sum of thousands ofpetty advantages.

  When David came to him he saw that here was a man in cruel need. Thelabour of a man in cruel need is yours at your own price--is, in fact, abargain. He had had enough experience with bargains in merchandise toknow that when a rarely good bargain offers it is best to snap it up andnot question too closely into the reasons for its cheapness. So heoffered David a place in the kitchen furnishing department. Salary, fivedollars a week.

  David accepted. His first week's salary, minus ten cents a day for carfare and ten cents for luncheon, amounted to three dollars and eightycents. He had begun a second month in his room, and his landlady, seeinghow poor he was, again demanded her rent in advance. After paying her,David had a dollar and a quarter left. But he had a job--a poor job, butstill a job.

  The following Sunday afternoon, as he sat at his window, pretending toread, but in reality staring dreamily down through the spider's-web ofclothes lines into the deep, dreary backyard, Kate Morgan came in. Itwas the first time he had seen her since her visit of a month before,though he had called several times at her flat, to be told by her fatherthat she was away at work.

  "Good afternoon!" she cried, and giving him her hand she marched inbefore he could speak. "Take the chair yourself this time," she said,and sat down on the bed, her feet hanging clear.

  She wore a black tailored suit and a beplumed hat. Evidently she hadjust come in from walking, for the warm colour of the late October airwas in her cheeks. There was no doubt about it this time--she waspretty. And there was a lightness, a sauciness, in her manner that hadnot showed on her previous visit.

  "Well, sir, how've you been?" she demanded, after David had taken thechair.

  He tried, somewhat heavily, to fit his mood to hers. "I can't say I'vecornered the happiness market. You haven't noticed a rise in quotations,have you?"

  "Nope," she said, swinging her feet--and David had to see that they werevery shapely and in neat patent leather shoes, and that the ankles werevery trim. "I just got back this morning. How's dad been? And how manyloans has he stuck you for?"

  "To be exact, he's tried seven times and failed seven times."

  "Good! But dad's better now than he used to be. When I first began to goaway I'd leave him enough money to last for a week, or till I'd be homeagain. He always went off on a spree--never failed. So now I mail himthirty cents every day. It ain't quite enough to live decent on, and atthe same time it ain't quite enough to get drunk on. See? So I guess hekeeps pretty sober."

  "I guess he does," said David, not quite able to restrain a smile. "Buthow've you been?"

  "Me?" She shook her head with a doleful little air. "I've been having aregular hell of a time. I've been nurse girl in a swell house on FifthAvenue. It's built out of gold and diamonds and such stuff. The missuswas one of these society head-liners. You know the sort--good shape,good complexion, swell dresses, and that's all. Somebody made thedresses, her make-up box made her complexion, and her corset made herfigure. Soul, heart, brain--pst! Once every day or two she'd come to thenursery just long enough to rub a bit of her complexion on thechildren's faces. And she treated me like I wasn't there. Oh, butwouldn't I like to wring her neck! But I'll get square with her, youbet!"

  She gave a grimly threatening jerk of her little head, then smiledagain. "But what's your luck? Got a job yet?"

  "Yes."

  "What doing?"

  David shrunk from telling this brilliantly-dressed creature how lowlyhis work was, but he had to confess. "Clerking in a department store."

  "How much do you make?"

  That awful inquisitiveness!

  "Five dollars a week."

  Her black eyes stared at him, then suddenly she leaned back and laughed.He reddened. She straightened up, bent forward till her elbows rested onher knees, and gazed into his face.

  "Five--dollars--a--week!" she said. "And you a king crook!" She shookher head wonderingly. "And, please sir, how do you like being honest atfive dollars a week?"

  "Hardly as well as I would at six," he answered, trying to speaklightly.

  She was silent for almost a minute, her eyes incredulously on him. "Mr.David Aldrich," she remarked slowly, "you're a fool!"

  He was startled--and his wonderment about her returned. "I've often saidthe same," he agreed. "But do you mind telling why you think so?"

  "A man that can make his hundreds a week, works for his living at five."

  He assumed such innocence of appearance as he could command. "I'm alittle surprised to hear this, especially from a woman who also worksfor her living."

  Her look of wonderment gave place to a queer little smile. "Hum!" Shestraightened up. "D'you mind if I smoke?" she asked abruptly, drawing asilver cigarette case from a pocket of her skirt.

  The women David had known had not smoked. But he said "no" and accepteda cigarette when she offered him the open box. She struck a match, heldthe flame first to him, then lit her own cigarette.

  She drew deeply. "To-day's the first time I've dared smoke for a month.Ah, but it's good!"

  She stared again at David, and now with that penetrating gaze of herlast visit. A minute passed. David grew very uncomfortable. Then sheannounced abruptly: "You're on the dead level!"

  The queer little smile came back. "Yes, I work for my living. And I keepmy flat, keep my father, dress myself, have plenty of money for goodtimes, and put aside enough so that I can knock off work whenever Ilike--all on a maid's twenty a month. And how do you suppose I do it?"

  David wondered what was coming next, but did not answer. A fear that hadbeen creeping into his mind suddenly grew into definiteness.

  "People around here think I've got a rich old lover," she said.

  He felt a sinking at his heart. This had been his sudden fear. And shetook the shame in such a matter-of-fact way!

  "I let 'em think so, for that explains ev
erything to them. But they'rewrong." The queer smile broadened. "What do you think?"

  "I could never guess," said David.

  She leaned forward, and her voice lowered to a whisper. "You andme--we're in the same trade."

  "What! You're a----" He hesitated.

  "That's it," she said. "A nurse girl or a maid in a rich house sees alot of things lying around. Or, if she wants to, she can stay for two orthree weeks or a month, learn where the valuables are kept, make a planof the house, get hold of keys. Then she gets a pal, and they clean theplace out. That's me."

  There was a glow of excitement in her eyes, and pride, and a triumphantsense of having startled him. For the moment he merely stared at her,could make no response.

  "There, we know each other now," she said, and took several puffs at hercigarette. "But ain't you tired of the honesty life at five per?"

  "No."

  "You soon will be!" she declared. "Then you'll go back to the old thing.All the other boys that try the honesty stunt do. They're up against toostiff a proposition. You're way out of my class, but when you get tired,mebbe I can put something in your way that won't be so bad. By-the-by,you ain't ready for something now, are you?" A vindictive look came intoher face. "Mrs. Make-Up-Box gets it next. And she'll get it, too!"

  "I'm going to stick it out," said David.

  She gave a little sniff. "We'll see!"

  Her eyes swept the room, fell upon the little heap of photographs andprints lying on the box in which he had stacked his books. "Why don'tyou put those things up?"

  "I don't know--I just haven't."

  "We'll do it now."

  She slipped to her feet, went out the door, and two minutes laterreappeared with a handful of tacks, a hammer, and a white curtain. Shetook off her hat and coat, and for the next half hour she was tackingthe pictures upon the scaling walls--first trying them here and there,occasionally asking David's advice and ignoring it if it did not pleaseher. Then she ordered him upon the chair, and made him, under herdirection, fasten the curtain into place.

  "Well, things look a little better," she said when all was done,surveying the room. Then, without so much as "by your leave," she washedher hands in his wash-bowl and arranged her hair before his mirror,chatting all the while. Hat and coat on again, she opened the door."Mister," she said, nodding her head and smiling a keen little smile, "Igive you two months. Then--the old way!"

  She closed the door and was gone.

  On the third morning of the new week, as David left the elevated stationto walk the few blocks to the store, he noticed that a policeman's eyeswere on him. David thought he recognised the officer as one who had beenpresent at his trial, and hurried uneasily away. A block further on heglanced over his shoulder; the policeman was following. The uneasinessbecame apprehension, and the apprehension would have becomeconsternation had he, a little after entering the store, seen theofficer also come in.

  A few minutes after he had begun to dust his tinware, he was summoned tothe office. The proprietor's little pig-eyes were gleaming, his greatpig-jowl flushing. He sprang to his full height, which was near David'sshoulder. "You dirty, lying, cut-throat of a convict!" he roared. "Getout o' my store!"

  "What's that?" gasped David.

  The proprietor shook a fat fist at David's face. "Get out o' here! Youcame to me as an honest man! I hired you as an honest man! You deceivedme. You're nothing but a dirty, sneaking jail-bird! You came in herejust to get a chance to rob me! You'd have done it, too, if a policemanhadn't give me a tip as to what you are! Get out o' here, or I'll haveyou kicked out!"

  David grew afire with wrath. It was useless to plead for his place; butthere was a dollar and seventy cents due him. For that he choked hisanger down. "Very well, I'll go," he said, as calmly as he could. "Butfirst pay me for my two days."

  "Not one red cent!" David's two days' pay was one of the kind of atomsof which his success was composed. "Not a cent!" he roared. "You sayanother word about pay, and I'll have you arrested for the things you'vealready stolen from me. Now clear out!--you low, thieving jail-birdyou!"

  A wild rage, the eruptive sum of long insults and suffering, burst forthin David. He took one step forward, and his open hand smackedexplosively upon the flesh-padded cheek of the proprietor. Theproprietor tottered, sputteringly recovered his balance--and again thehand smacked with a sharp report.

  When the proprietor gained his balance a second time, it was to findDavid towering over him, face inflamed, fists clenched.

  "My money, or by God I'll smash your head off!" David cried furiously.

  The proprietor blanched, trembled. A fear-impelled hand drew silver fromhis pocket and gave David the amount. David glanced at it, and obeyingan impulse that he was to regret again and again, flung the hard coinsstraight into the man's face. Then he walked out of the office, securedhis hat from the cloak-room near by, and marched through the store. Atthe door the frantic proprietor, who had rushed ahead to call for thepolice, tried to block David's way, but David bore down upon him with somenacing a look that he stepped aside.

  Fortunately the street was filled with people, and the next instantDavid was lost among them. For half an hour he aimlessly walked thestreets with his wrath. Then the realisation of his situation began tocool him. However unjust had been his discharge, and however brutish itsmanner, the great fact was not thereby changed. He was discharged, andhe had in his pocket less than a dollar.

  Then the wearying, heart-breaking search for work began anew. That hehad found one situation made him think he might find another, but at theend of a week he had met with nothing but failure. He still kept on themarch, but the spirit was gone out of him. The search for work becamepurely an affair of the muscles: his legs carried him from office tooffice, at each his lips repeated their request. Muscle, that wasall--muscle whipped to action by the fear of starvation.

  But though his spirit was worn weak, his resentment was not. Heraged--at times frantically. Why did the world refuse work to the poorbeings the prisons sent back to it? Some of them were inspired by goodresolutions; to them life was dear; they were worth saving. How did theworld expect them to live and be honest, if it refused them means oflife and of honesty? He could find but one answer to his questions: theworld was selfish, heartless. He cursed the world, and he cursed the Godthat made it.

  And he cursed himself, his foolishness that had brought him here; and hecursed Morton and St. Christopher's. At times he burned with the desireto clear his name, come what might to the people of the Mission. It isso hard for one, unfed, cold, hopeless, to be heroic. But his judgmenttold him that the truth from him would go unbelieved; and the greatresolution behind his bargain, the long habit of silence, alsorestrained his declaration of innocence.

  But even amid these gloomy weeks there were gentler periods. He oftenslipped at night into the neighbourhood of St. Christopher's, andstealthily gazed at the club-house, its windows aglow with friendlinessto all but himself; at the chapel, with the Morton memorial windowsending its warm inspiration into the streets--as it did, so he hadlearned, throughout the night. He told himself, when he thus stood withhis work before his eyes, that he should be content. His struggles werehard--yes; his suffering was great. But that his suffering, thesuffering of one man, should hold these hundreds a little nearer to theplain decencies of life, to truth and purity and honour, a little nearerto God--this was worth while. Yes, the bargain was a great bargain.

  And every Wednesday evening he looked forth from the shadow of a doorwayupon Helen Chambers as she left the Mission. And at the moment shepassed his door he each time felt the same supreme pang. Three feetaway!--as far away as the stars!