The Face And The Mask - Robert Barr
McCrasky called on the chief of police, and introduced himself as the
local editor of the Argus.
"Oh," said the chief, "has Gorman gone, then?"
"I don't know about Gorman," said McCrasky; "the man I succeeded was
Finnigan. I believe he is in Cincinnati now."
When the chief learned the purport of the local editor's visit he
became very official and somewhat taciturn. He presumed that there were
gambling houses in the city. If there were, they were very quiet and no
complaints ever reached his ears. There were many things, he said, that
it was impossible to suppress, and the result of attempted suppression
was to drive the evil deeper down. He seemed to be in favor rather of
regulating, than of attempting the impossible; still, if McCrasky
brought him undoubted evidence that a gambling house was in operation,
he would consider it his duty to make a raid on it. He advised McCrasky
to go very cautiously about it, as the gamblers had doubtless many
friends who would give a tip and so frustrate a raid, perhaps letting
somebody in for damages. McCrasky said he would be careful.
Chance played into the hands of McCrasky and "blew in" on him a man who
little recked what he was doing when he entered the local editor's
room. Gus Hammerly, sport and man-about-town, dropped into the Argus
office late one night to bring news of an "event" to the sporting
editor. He knew his way about in the office, and, finding Murren was
not in, he left the item on his table. Then he wandered into the local
editor's room. The newspaper boys all liked Hammerly, and many a good
item they got from him. They never gave him away, and he saw that they
never got left, as the vernacular is.
"Good-evening. You're the new local editor, I take it. I've just left a
little item for Murren, I suppose he's not in from the wrestle yet. My
name's Hammerly. All the boys know me and I've known in my time
fourteen of your predecessors, so I may as well know you. You're from
Pittsburg, I hear."
"Yes. Sit down, Mr. Hammerly. Do you know Pittsburg at all?"
"Oh, yes. Borden, who keeps the gambling den on X street, is an old
friend of mine. Do you happen to know how old Borden's getting along?"
"Yes, his place was raided and closed up by the police."
"That's just the old man's luck. Same thing in Kansas City."
"By the way, Mr. Hammerly, do you know of any gambling houses in this
city?"
"Why, bless you, haven't the boys taken you round yet? Well, now,
that's inhospitable. Mellish's is the best place in town. I'm going up
there now. If you come along with me I'll give you the knock-down at
the door and you'll have no trouble after that."
"I'll go with you," said McCrasky, reaching for his hat, and so the
innocent Hammerly led the lamb into the lion's den.
McCrasky, unaccustomed to the sight, was somewhat bewildered with the
rapidity of the play. There was a sort of semicircular table, around
the outside rim of which were sitting as many men as could be
comfortably placed there. A man at the inside of the table handled the
cards. He flicked out one to each player, face downward, with an
expertness and speed that dazzled McCrasky. Next he dealt out one to
each player face upward and people put sums of money on the table
beside their cards, after looking at them. There was another deal and
so on, but the stranger found it impossible to understand or follow the
game. He saw money being raked in and paid out rapidly and over the
whole affair was a solemn decorum that he had not been prepared for. He
had expected fierce oaths and the drawing of revolvers.
"Here, Mellish," said the innocent Hammerly, "let me introduce you to
the new local editor of the Argus. I didn't catch your name," he said
in a whisper.
"My name's McCrasky."
"Mr. McCrasky; Mr. Mellish. Mellish is proprietor here and you'll find
him a first-rate fellow."
"I am pleased to meet you," said Mellish quietly; "any friend of
Hammerly's is welcome. Make yourself at home."
Edging away from the two, Mellish said in a quick whisper to Sotty, the
bartender: "Go and tell the doorkeeper to warn Thompson, or any of the
rest of the Argus boys, that their boss is in here."
At 12 o'clock that night the local editor sat in his room. "Is that
you, Thompson?" he shouted, as he heard a step.
"Yes, sir;" answered Thompson, coming into the presence.
"Shut the door, Thompson. Now I have a big thing on for to-night, but
it must be done quietly. I've unearthed a gambling den in full blast.
It will be raided to-night at 2 o'clock. I want you to be on the ground
with Murren; will you need anybody else?"
"Depends on how much you wish to make of it."
"I want to make it the feature of to-morrow's paper. I think we three
can manage, but bring some of the rest if you like. The place is run by
a man named Mellish. Now, if you boys kept your eyes open you would
know more of what is going on in your own city than you do."
"We haven't all had the advantage of metropolitan training," said
Thompson humbly.
"I will go there with the police. You and Murren had better be on the
ground, but don't go too soon, and don't make yourselves conspicuous or
they might take alarm. Here is the address. You had better take it
down."
"Oh, I'll find the place all----" Then Thompson thought a moment and
pulled himself together. "Thanks," he said, carefully noting down the
street and number.
The detachment of police drew up in front of the place a few minutes
before 2 o'clock. The streets were deserted, and so silent were the
blue coats that the footsteps of a belated wayfarer sounded sharply in
the night air from the stone pavement of a distant avenue.
"Are you sure," said McCrasky to the man in charge of the police, "that
there is not a private entrance somewhere?"
"Certainly there is," was the impatient reply: "Sergeant McCollum and
four men are stationed in the alley behind. We know our business, sir."
McCrasky thought this was a snub, and he was right. He looked around in
the darkness for his reporters. He found them standing together in a
doorway on the opposite side of the street.
"Been here long?" he whispered.
Murren was gloomy and did not answer. The religious editor removed his
corn-cob and said briefly; "About ten minutes, sir." Thompson was
gazing with interest at the dark building across the way.
"You've seen nobody come out?"
"Nobody. On the contrary, about half a dozen have gone up that
stairway."
"Is that the place, sir?" asked Thompson with the lamb-like innocence
of the criminal reporter.
"Yes, upstairs there."
"What did I tell you?" said the religious editor. "Thompson insisted it
was next door."
"Come along," said McCrasky, "the police are moving at last."
A big bell in the neighborhood solemnly struck two slow strokes, and
all over the city the hour sounded in various degrees of tone and
speed. A whistle rang out and was distantly answered. The police moved
quickly and quietly up the stairway.
"Have you tickets, gentlemen," asked the man at the door politely;
"this is a private assembly."
"The police," said the sergeant shortly, "stand aside."
If the police were astonished at the sight which met their gaze, their
faces did not show it. But McCrasky had not such control over his
features and he looked dumbfounded. The room was the same, undoubtedly,
but there was not the vestige of a card to be seen. There were no
tables, and even the bar had disappeared. The chairs were nicely
arranged and most of them were occupied. At the further end of the room
Pony Rowell stood on a platform or on a box or some elevation, and his
pale, earnest face was lighted up with the enthusiasm of the public
speaker. He was saying: "On the purity of the ballot, gentlemen,
depends the very life of the republic. That every man should be
permitted, without interference or intimidation, to cast his vote, and
that every vote so cast should be honestly counted is, I take it, the
desire of all who now listen to my words." (Great applause, during
which Pony took a sip from a glass that may have contained water.)
The police had come in so quietly that no one, apparently, had noticed
their entrance, except that good man Mellish, who hurried forward to
welcome the intruders.
"Will you take a seat?" he asked. "We are having a little political
talk from Mr. Rowell, sergeant."
"Rather an unusual hour, Mr. Mellish," said the sergeant grimly.
"It is a little late," admitted Mellish, as if the idea had not
occurred to him before.
The police who had come in by the back entrance appeared at the other
end of the room and it was evident that Rowell's oration had come to an
untimely end. Pony looked grieved and hurt, but said nothing.
"We will have to search the premises, Mr. Mellish," said the sergeant.
Mellish gave them every assistance, but nothing was found.
As the four men walked back together to the Argus office, McCrasky was
very indignant.
"We will expose the police to-morrow," he said. "They evidently gave
Mellish the tip."
"I don't think so," said Thompson. "We will say nothing about it."
"You forget yourself, Mr. Thompson. It rests with me to say what
shall go on the local page. Not with you."
"I don't forget myself," answered Thompson sadly; "I've just remembered
myself. The Directors of the Argus appointed me local editor yesterday.
Didn't they tell you about it? That's just like them. They forgot to
mention the fact to Corbin that he had been superseded and the
manager went off fishing after appointing Jonsey local editor, so
that for a week we had two local editors, each one countermanding
the orders of the other. It was an awful week. You remember it,
Murren?" Murren's groan seemed to indicate that his recollection of
the exciting time was not a pleasant memory.
"In case of doubt," murmured the religious editor, this time without
removing his corn-cob, "obey the orders of the new man where the
Argus is concerned. Thompson, old man, I'm wid you. When did the
blow fall?"
"Yesterday afternoon," said Thompson, almost with a sob; "I'll be
dismissed within a month, so I am rather sorry. I liked working
on the Argus--as a reporter. I never looked for such ill luck
as promotion. But we all have our troubles, haven't we, Mac?"
McCrasky did not answer. He is now connected with some paper
in Texas.
STRIKING BACK.
George Streeter was in Paris, because he hoped and expected to meet
Alfred Davison there. He knew that Davison was going to be in Paris for
at least a fortnight, and he had a particular reason for wishing to
come across him in the streets of that city rather than in the streets
of London.
Streeter was a young author who had published several books, and who
was getting along as well as could be expected, until suddenly he met a
check. The check was only a check as far as his own self-esteem was
concerned; for it did not in the least retard the sale of his latest
book, but rather appeared to increase it. The check was unexpected, for
where he had looked for a caress, he received a blow. The blow was so
well placed, and so vigorous, that at first it stunned him. Then he
became unreasonably angry. He resolved to strike back.
The review of his book in the Argus was vigorously severe, and perhaps
what maddened him more than anything else was the fact that, in spite
of his self-esteem he realized the truth of the criticism. If his books
had been less successful, or if he had been newer as an author, he
might possibly have set himself out to profit by the keen thrusts given
him by the Argus. He might have remembered that although Tennyson
struck back at Christopher North, calling him rusty, crusty, and musty,
yet the poet eliminated from later editions all blemishes which musty
Christopher had pointed out.
Streeter resolved to strike back with something more tangible than a
sarcastic verse. He quite admitted, even to himself, that a critic had
every right to criticise--that was what he was for--but he claimed that
a man who pretended to be an author's friend and who praised his books
to his face, had no right to go behind his back and pen a criticism so
scathing as that which appeared in the Argus: for Streeter knew that
Alfred Davison had written the criticism in the Argus, and Davison had
posed as his friend; and had pretended as well, that he had a great
admiration for Streeter's books.
As Streeter walked down the Boulevard des Italians, he saw, seated in
front of a cafe, the man whom he hoped to meet: and furthermore, he was
pleased to see that the man had a friend with him. The recognition of
author and critic was mutual.
"Hallo, Streeter," cried Davison; "when did you come over?"
"I left London yesterday," answered Streeter.
"Then sit down and have something with us," said Davison, cordially.
"Streeter, this is my friend Harmon. He is an exile and a resident in
Paris, and, consequently, likes to meet his countrymen."
"In that case," said Streeter, "he is probably well acquainted with the
customs of the place?"
"Rather!" returned Davison; "he has become so much of a Frenchman--he
has been so contaminated, if I may put it that way--that I believe
quite recently he was either principal or second in a duel. By the way,
which was it, Harmon?"
"Merely a second," answered the other.
"I don't believe in duelling myself," continued Davison: "it seems to
me an idiotic custom, and so futile."
"I don't agree with you," replied Streeter, curtly; "there is no reason
why a duel should be futile, and there seem to be many reasons why a
duel might be fought. There are many things, worse than crimes, which
exist in all countries, and for which there is no remedy except calling
a man out; misdemeanors, if I may so term them, that the law takes no
cognisance of; treachery, for instance;--a person pretending to be a
man's friend, and then the first chance he gets, stabbing him in the
back."
Harmon nodded his approval of these sentiments, while Davison said
jauntily:
"Oh, I don't know about that! It seems to me these things, which I
suppose undoubtedly exist, should not be made important by taking much
notice of them. What will you have to drink, Streeter?"
"Bring me a liqueur of brandy," said Streeter to the garcon who stood
ready to take the order.
When the waiter returned with a small glass, into which he poured the
brandy with the deftness of a Frenchman, filling it so that not a drop
more could be added, and yet without allowing the glass to overflow,
Streeter pulled out his purse.
"No, no!" cried Davison; "you are not going to pay for this--you are
drinking with me."
"I pay for my own drinks," said Streeter, surlily.
"Not when I invite you to drink with me," protested the critic. "I pay
for this brandy."
"Very well, take it, then!" said Streeter, picking up the little glass
and dashing the contents in the face of Davison.
Davison took out his handkerchief.
"What the devil do you mean by that, Streeter?" he asked, as the color
mounted to his brow.
Streeter took out his card and pencilled a word or two on the
pasteboard.
"There," he said, "is my Paris address. If you do not know what I mean
by that, ask your friend here; he will inform you."
And with that the novelist arose, bowed to the two, and departed.
When he returned to his hotel, after a stroll along the brilliantly-
lighted Boulevards, he found waiting for him Mr. Harmon and a
Frenchman.
"I had no idea you would come so soon," said Streeter, "otherwise I
would not have kept you waiting."
"It does not matter," replied Harmon; "we have not waited long. Affairs
of this kind require prompt action. An insult lasts but twenty-four
hours, and my friend and principal has no desire to put you to the
inconvenience of repeating your action of this evening. We are taking
it for granted that you have a friend prepared to act for you; for your
conduct appeared to be premeditated."
"You are quite right," answered Streeter; "I have two friends to whom I
shall be pleased to introduce you. Come this way, if you will be so
kind."
The preliminaries were speedily arranged, and the meeting was to take
place next morning at daylight, with pistols.
Now that everything was settled, the prospect did not look quite so
pleasant to Streeter as it had done when he left London. Davison had
asked for no explanation; but that, of course, could be accounted for,
because this critical sneak must be well aware of the reason for the
insult. Still, Streeter had rather expected that he would perhaps have
simulated ignorance, and on receiving enlightenment might have avoided
a meeting to apologizing.
Anyhow, Streeter resolved to make a night of it. He left his friends to
arrange for a carriage, and see to all that was necessary, while he
donned his war-paint and departed for a gathering to which he had been
invited, and where he was to meet many of his countrymen and
countrywomen, in a fashionable part of Paris.
His hostess appeared to be overjoyed at seeing him.
"You are so late," she said, "that I was afraid something had occurred
to keep you from coming altogether."
"Nothing could have prevented me from coming," said Streeter,
gallantly, "where Mrs. Woodford is hostess!"
"Oh, that is very nice of you, Mr. Streeter!" answered the lady; "but I
must not stand here talking with you, for I have promised to introduce
you to Miss Neville, who wishes very much to meet you. She is a great
admirer of yours, and has read all your books."
"There are not very many of them," said Streeter, with a laugh; "and
such as they are, I hope Miss Neville thinks more of them than I do
myself."
"Oh, we all know how modest authors are!" replied his hostess, leading
him away to be introduced.
Miss Neville was young and pretty, and she was evidently pleased to
meet the rising young author.
"I have long wanted to see you," she said, "to have a talk with you
about your books."
"You are very kind," said Streeter, "but perhaps we might choose
something more profitable to talk about?"
"I am not so sure of that. Doubtless you have been accustomed to hear
only the nice things people say about you. That is the misfortune of
many authors."
"It is a misfortune," answered Streeter.
"What a writer needs is somebody to tell him the truth."
"Ah!" said Miss Neville, "that is another thing I am not so sure about.
Mrs. Woodford has told you, I suppose, that I have read all your books?
Did she add that I detested them?"
Even Streeter was not able to conceal the fact that this remark caused
him some surprise. He laughed uneasily, and said:
"On the contrary, Mrs. Woodford led me to believe that you had liked
them."
The girl leaned back in her chair, and looked at him with half-closed
eyes.
"Of course," she said, "Mrs. Woodford does not know. It is not likely
that I would tell her I detested your books while I asked for an
introduction to you. She took it for granted that I meant to say
pleasant things to you, whereas I had made up my mind to do the exact
reverse. No one would be more shocked than Mrs. Woodford--unless,
perhaps, it is yourself--if she knew I was going to speak frankly with
you."
"I am not shocked," said the young man, seriously; "I recognize that
there are many things in my books that are blemishes."
"Of course you don't mean that," said the frank young woman; "because
if you did you would not repeat the faults in book after book."
"A man can but do his best," said Streeter, getting annoyed in spite of
himself, for no man takes kindly to the candid friend. "A man can but
do his best, as Hubert said, whose grandsire drew a longbow at
Hastings."
"Yes," returned Miss Neville, "a man can but do his best, although we
should remember that the man who said that, said it just before he was
defeated. What I feel is that you are not doing your best, and that you
will not do your best until some objectionable person like myself has a
good serious talk with you."
"Begin the serious talk," said Streeter; "I am ready and eager to
listen."
"Did you read the review of your latest book which appeared in the
Argus?"
"Did I?" said Streeter, somewhat startled--the thought of the meeting
that was so close, which he had forgotten for the moment, flashing over
him. "Yes, I did; and I had the pleasure of meeting the person who
wrote it this evening."
Miss Neville almost jumped in her chair.
"Oh, I did not intend you to know that!" she said. "Who told you? How
did you find out that I wrote reviews for the Argus?"
"You!" cried Streeter, astonished in his turn. "Do you mean to say that
you wrote that review?"
Miss Neville sank back in her chair with a sigh.
"There!" she said, "my impetuosity has, as the Americans say, given me
away. After all, you did not know I was the writer!"
"I thought Davison was the writer. I had it on the very best
authority."
"Poor Davison!" said Miss Neville, laughing, "why, he is one of the
best and staunchest friends you have: and so am I, for that matter--
indeed, I am even more your friend than Mr. Davison; for I think you
_can_ do good work, while Mr. Davison is foolish enough to believe you
are doing it."
At this point in the conversation Streeter looked hurriedly at his
watch.
"Ah! I see," said Miss Neville; "this conversation is not to your
taste. You are going to plead an appointment--as if anyone could have
an appointment at this hour in the morning!"
"Nevertheless," said Streeter, "I have; and I must bid you good-bye.
But I assure you that my eyes have been opened, and that I have learned
a lesson to-night which I will not soon forget. I hope I may have the
pleasure of meeting you again, and continuing this conversation.
Perhaps some time I may tell you why I have to leave."
Streeter found his friends waiting for him. He knew it was no use
trying to see Davison before the meeting. There was a long drive ahead
of them, and it was grey daylight when they reached the ground, where
they found the other party waiting.
Each man took his place and the pistol that was handed to him. When the
word "Fire!" was given, Streeter dropped his hand to his side. Davison
stood with his pistol still pointed, but he did not fire.
"Why don't you shoot, George?" said Davison.
Harmon, at this point, rebuked his principal, and said he must have no
communication with the other except through a second.
"Oh!" said Davison, impatiently, "I don't pretend to know the rules of
this idiotic game!"
Streeter stepped forward.
"I merely wished to give you the opportunity of firing at me if you
cared to do so," he said; "and now I desire to apologize for my action
at the cafe. I may say that what I did was done under a
misapprehension. Anything that I can do to make reparation I am willing
to do."
"Oh, that's all right!" said Davison; "nothing more need be said. I am
perfectly satisfied. Let us get back to the city; I find it somewhat
chilly out here."
"And yet," said Harmon, with a sigh, "Englishmen have the cheek to talk
of the futility of French duels!"
CRANDALL'S CHOICE.
John Crandall sat at his office desk and thought the situation over.
Everybody had gone and he was in the office alone. Crandall was rather
tired and a little sleepy, so he was inclined to take a gloomy view of
things. Not that there was anything wrong with his business; in fact,
it was in a first-rate condition so far as it went, but it did not go
far enough; that was what John thought as he brooded over his affairs.
He was making money, of course, but the trouble was that he was not
making it fast enough.
As he thought of these things John gradually and imperceptibly went to
sleep, and while he slept he dreamt a dream. It would be quite easy to
pretend that the two persons who came to him in the vision, actually
entered the office and that he thought them regular customers or
something of that sort, while at the end of the story, when everybody
was bewildered, the whole matter might be explained by announcing the
fact that it was all a dream, but this account being a true and honest
one, no such artifice will be used and at the very beginning the
admission is made that John was the victim of a vision.
In this dream two very beautiful ladies approached him. One was richly
dressed and wore the most dazzling jewelry. The other was clad in plain
attire. At first, the dreaming Mr. Crandall thought, or dreamt he
thought, that the richly dressed one was the prettier. She was
certainly very attractive, but, as she came closer, John imagined that
much of her beauty was artificial. He said to himself that she painted
artistically perhaps, but at any rate she laid it on rather thick.
About the other there was no question. She was a beauty, and what
loveliness she possessed was due to the bounties of Providence and not
to the assistance of the chemist. She was the first to speak.
"Mr. Crandall," she said, in the sweetest of voices, "we have come here
together so that you may choose between us. Which one will you have?"
"Bless me," said Crandall, so much surprised at the unblushing proposal
that he nearly awoke himself, "bless me, don't you know that I am
married?"