LITMIR.BIZ

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dishevelled blossoms lie

      On the rumpled moss for token

      Of the day’s mad errantry—

      Still the tacit pines will keep

      Darkly in their sighing sleep

      All the sweet and perilous story;

      And the oaks and willows hoary

      For unheeding ears will tell

      Only things ineffable;

      And the later eyes that look

      On the pool-delaying brook,

      Shall not see within its glass

      Two that came to kiss and pass.

      DOUBLE-SHUFFLE, by Edwin Baird

      Sammy the tramp owned a discontent—a perplex­ing, irritating discontent. At a sloppy table in his favorite Chicago saloon he sat and scowled and es­sayed self-analysis. But it was no use. His distemper eluded diagnosis.

      He lowered his head, glared sullenly at his glass, and in a low voice swore so vividly that his pot-companion, sitting opposite, was moved to a pipe of tobacco and compassion­ate utterance.

      “Why, Sammy,” he asked with brotherly concern, “what’s bitin’ you, pal? I declare, you’re a cross between a mildewed squash and G. Bernard Shaw eat­in’ pickles and lemons. Come, why so pensive—”

      “Aw, freeze up,” growled Sammy, “and have another drink,” he added penitently.

      He motioned to the bartender and from a pocket of his patched and grimy trousers plucked a wad of ragged money the size of his wrist. This occasioned no riot. Since it was on dit in lower Clark Street circles that an uncompromising switch-engine had recently sent Sammy to a St. Louis hos­pital, that a compromising claim agent had given him three hundred dollars, and that about one hundred and fifty dollars of this sum yet remained with him, the barroom foregathering evinced no surprise at the plethoric display.

      But a trembling, whisky-crazed wretch, who had just entered, noticed, and his watery eyes glistened with a feverish anticipation. With timorous humility he sidled to the table, sat down, and looked meekly, plead­ingly at the wealthy one.

      Silently Sammy pushed back his chair and rose. Irately he pointed to the door.

      “Get out o’ here!” he roared. “You and your greasy leer. Get out, you—you—rat! Quick, or I’ll bounce this booze-jug off your knob.”

      He seized the bottle from the returning bartend­er. The intruder hastily departed, upsetting two or three chairs en route. Sox surveyed his comrade in meek wonder.

      “Sammy,” he began timidly after the excitement had subsided, “what—”

      “I’ll tell you what!” blazed Sammy, leaning across the table with right fist clenched. “I’m sick of this”—he waved his left hand around the smutty barroom. “I’m sick of associatin’ with pigs like you; I’m sick of not seein’ and knowin’ nobody but a lot of ragged guys who don’t do nothin’ but soak up cheap booze and sleep and cuss. I’m sick of it all—see?”

      He glanced contemptuously at his audi­tor, then moved his chair round and turned his back.

      Somewhere below the unwashed surface of Sox’s poltroonery smoldered a spark of spunk. It flared up now defiantly.

      “And who are you,” he cried hotly, “to talk about ragged pigs! What’re you, I’d like to know. You’re a fine-lookin’ swell, ain’t you! Huh!” He spat vigorously. “A fine-lookin’ swell! You look like a last year’s scarecrow daubed wit’ mud—”

      He stopped, awed by his own temerity and the fact that Sammy had risen and was standing over him threateningly.

      But the next second the malcontent had turned away and was striding toward the swinging doors. Near the end of the bar a group of frowsy men hailed and sur­rounded him jovially, but drew back as he made no response and let him pass in peace.

      Several blocks down the street he stopped and sardonically eyed his reflection in a full-length mir­ror of a corner haber­dasher’s. Not a very prepossessing reflection, modish reader, as you shall see.

      From top to bottom thus: Hat of a der­by species and an obsolete vintage, cracked and rusty its crown, and from its dis­jointed brim straggles of unkempt hair curl­ing up over ears caked with the grime of many cities; the face as seamed and swollen as a twelve-cent chuck steak and thickly covered with a dark-red beard hacked to a convenient length with a pocket-knife; the eyes, faintly suggesting a bygone pride and intelligence, bloodshot from many potations; in lieu of linen, a greasy undershirt, insufficiently concealed by a buttonless waistcoat, faded and soiled beyond surmisal of its original pattern; the coat of a different hue; the trousers of another still; and woefully shielding his naked feet, shoes ragged and torn and precariously held together by wire and bits of twine.

      Not in many years had Sammy seen a mirror larger than his hand, and now that he deliberately viewed himself from tat­tered tile to battered boot, an intense self-disgust welled up within him and he de­spised and loathed himself. He wheeled round suddenly, looked up and down the street, and strode savagely toward a bril­liantly lighted hostelry in the next block.

      A minute later Sammy the tramp, who for the greater part of his twenty-six years of life had shunned bathtubs as though they were vats swarm­ing with rattlesnakes, was descending a marble staircase at the top of which blazed this sign:

      TURKISH BATHS

      An hour later, having meanwhile dispatched a messenger and twenty dollars to the corner haberdashery, he got into a bar­ber’s chair and ordered ­every­thing from shoe-shine to shampoo. From the bar­ber­shop he went to a unique establishment in State Street, where, on short notice, one could be supplied with all the proper habili­ments for evening wear. Silk hat, gloves, pumps, full-dress, all could be supplied while you waited—one hour.

      So, after this space had elapsed, there stepped from this swift-aid-to-the-hurried firm a gentleman eminently correct in every detail, even to Inverness cape, gold-headed cane, and Turkish cigarette. His face was not unlike that of the average man of the world; its marks of dissipation had been softened, if not eradicated, by the barber’s massage; the mouth and chin were firm and well-shaped; his fingers care­fully mani­cured; his hair freshly trimmed. And in a pocket of his white pique waistcoat was a crumpled ten-dollar bill—all he had in the world.

      Probably not the keenest of his associates could have pierced the masquerade and discerned beneath its elegance Sammy the tramp.

      As he stood there, drawing on his gloves with a leisurely air, a shambling object, shivering in rags, dropped from the hurry­ing street throng, slouched dejectedly a few feet away, then shuffled over and touched his arm

      “Can’t you help us a bit, sir?” whined the object piteously. “S’help me, I’m starvin’, sir. I ain’t eat nothin’ in forty-eight hours—” The rest was lost in a meaning­less mumble.

      Without hesitation Sammy reached for the crumpled tenner. But quite as quickly changed his mind and interviewed his new watch.

      Then he buttoned his coat, switched his cane up under his arm, and nodded to the beggar.

      “Come on,” he said. “We’ll dine together.”

      CHAPTER II

      At about the same moment Sammy was swearing at Sox in the saloon, one of two young men sitting in the library of a hand­some home two miles away was acting rather uncivilly toward the other. His name was Hathaway Allison, and he belonged to a family rich enough to hire a professional genealogist to trace its lineage back to a tadpole.

      “Are you asleep, Hathaway?” politely inquired his guest, who had repeated another question three times without eliciting even a monosyllabic response. “If you are, just say so, and I’ll quietly withdraw and leave you to your slumbers. I’m not ex­actly fond of

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