"The broadening trickle of blood on Delafield's face dripped down the white shirt front, but no one stirred or spoke.

"'Then I wa--want to say'--here he lurched forward from the door and stood rocking slightly at the end of the table. 'I want to say that I--I'm drunk an'--and I know it. But I'm--I'm a gentleman. An'--and yonder's nothing but a cur--a low-lived cur--drunk or sober. You--you've heard him--now see him!'

"Something flashed before his eyes, and then a wine-gla.s.s struck Hawkins square on the forehead, scattering in fragments over the table.

"And Hawkins stood there, his face dripping with the wine, and his clothes showing great stains of it--stood there without moving as Delafield leaned over the table and laughed--

"'If--if you only had as much re--red blood in you--you--you----'

"And then he fell fainting across the table, crashing among the bottles.

"The Governing Board expelled Delafield, but the club sentiment was so strongly in his favour that they afterward rescinded the expulsion, and suspended him for three years. But that never satisfied his friends."

"I should think not, indeed," exclaimed Joline, "it was outrageous! I've always claimed you can't be sure a man's a thorough gentleman until you've seen him drunk. And that proves it."

"Oh, the many times I've heard your theory debated in this place! The walls fairly ached with listening to the discussions."

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't know the chap," interrupted Chandler. "Let's drink to his memory!"

He struck the bell as he spoke. As the waiter filled the orders, I noticed one of the older members on the stairs bending close to the bulletin board and peering through his gla.s.ses at the notice of John Delafield's death.

Chandler touched me on the shoulder.

"To the memory of a gentleman--Jack Delafield!" he cried. We rose to the toast.

The old man on the stairs turned quickly and saw the lifted gla.s.ses. His face was a study.

"Hush!" I whispered, "that's Hawkins."

THE DISTANT DRUM.

"Some for the Glories of this World; and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; Ah, take the Cash and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!"

--_Rubaiyat._

I.

Almost everyone knows Governor Tilden's residence in Gramercy Park, but those who don't know it as such, may remember a big house with bas-reliefs over the door, on the south side of that quiet square.

However, the house has nothing to do with this story, except that it was upon its door-steps I encountered Sandy McWhiffle, on my way to the club. I use the word "encountered" advisedly, for Sandy, finding the bottom step somewhat narrow for a couch, had allowed one of his legs the freedom of the sidewalk, and it was over this protruding member that I stumbled into the arms of the gentleman slumbering on the Governor's steps.

It was late at night--and Sandy protested. His opening remarks served to advise me that the cop couldn't get around the Square again for at least fifteen minutes--that he (Sandy) hadn't slept five, and that I'd destroyed his night's rest. It did seem unfair.--I certainly could have discovered his leg if I'd looked sharp, and twenty minutes' rest is--well, it's twenty minutes' heaven when you need it--and Sandy needed it--there was no question about that. But the advent of the cop making slumber inexpedient, if not impracticable for the time being, we adjourned, at my suggestion, to the all-night restaurant on Fourth Avenue, near Twenty-fifth Street. You know food is a fair subst.i.tute for sleep at times, especially after one has experimented considerably with sleep as a subst.i.tute for food. Sandy had made quite thorough investigations along that line. But experiments were difficult, what with the grey Bastinado Brigade in the Squares and Park, and their blue accomplices in the side streets.

I agreed with my vis-a-vis over the poached eggs and ale at Gibson's that it did seem queer the air wasn't free, and that sleeping in public was a misdemeanour. Of course one does it when pressed, but while the Island gives the needed respite, it lessens the chances of earning money to buy a sleeping privilege--and many trips over the river are apt to permanently impair claims to good citizenship. Sandy hadn't been obliged to cross the upper East River yet, but he was getting very weary and careless about concealing it. Hadn't he been able to get any work?

Not for a long time. Didn't he do anything at all? Yes--he looked for a job about four hours a day. Why only four hours? Because he tired easily and had to save his strength for the line at night. The line? Yes--the bread line at Fleischmann's.

On the main artery of the chief city of this land of plenty--on Broadway under the shadow of Grace Church--there forms nightly a line of men that stretches for more than a block. Men with pale faces that show haggard under the white electric light, and haggard faces that show hideous,--shiveringly cold men who blink at you like dazed animals or glare at you like wild beasts;--hot, panting, almost pulseless men who gasp in the scorched atmosphere of the city's streets--solemn, mournful creatures, with their filthy rags loosened for any breath of air, no matter how fetid--miserables of every type, exhausted, wretched, but human beings all--stand every night at the edge of the curb on Broadway and Tenth Streets waiting for a baker's over-baking.

It all flashed before my eyes in a moment.

You can see it any night, winter or summer--January or July--from ten o'clock till two, gentlemen. Look at it and pity it--you who have pity in your hearts. Look at it and fear it--you who have none!

Had he been there to-night? Yes, but there was a fellow near the end of the line whose wife and children were waiting for him, so he and Sandy exchanged places, and--well, the supply gave out about one o'clock, so of course---- Yes, he would take another egg. Was he married? No, thank G.o.d!

There was nothing romantic about Sandy McWhiffle, and nothing Scotch about him except his name. Neither was his face in any way remarkable, nor his speech, nor his story; but it struck me then that there were dramatic possibilities in him as a man--dramatic probabilities in him as a type.

II.

I was in a hurry to have the position filled; it wasn't much of a job, and I wanted to waste as little time as possible, so I advertised and gave my office address. Of course it was foolish, but I was pressed with work and did it without thought. However, I saw no reason why the janitor should lose his temper. Anyway, I can't abide impertinence in an inferior, and I let him understand this before the elevator reached the top floor. Once there I admitted to myself he had reason for--well, for respectful annoyance. A pathway was forced for me through the crowd of men which choked the hallway and blocked the entrance to my office, but I couldn't get in until a score or so were driven down the stairs. I locked myself in my private room and cursed my folly and the janitor's impudence. But there was no time to lose--we had to be rid of those men--so I slipped a note under the door directing my clerk to send them in to me, one at a time, until further orders.

It didn't take long to find the man I wanted. He was the third in line, I think--a respectable fellow--far above the position, I should have said, but he told me he wasn't, that he had a family to support, and all that sort of thing, so I engaged him and sent him out with a note to the superintendent. As he left the room I hastily tore open a letter which looked as though it needed an immediate answer. At the same moment my door opened again.

"Confound that a.s.s Junkin, why the devil didn't he give me time to ring the bell and tell him I'd engaged a man!--Why the devil doesn't he----"

It was just as I expected. That letter was important to a degree, and during the next ten minutes I was so deeply absorbed that when I looked up from my reading and saw a man standing beside me, I started with a nervous exclamation which turned to a surprised greeting as I recognised Sandy McWhiffle. He had changed somewhat since I'd seen him last--six months before--and not for the better. His gaunt face was even more sallow than before, giving to the features a harder caste, chiselling the nose into more of a hook, and deepening the lines under the eyes.

He looked ravenous, but not with the hunger of appet.i.te, and I thought--yes, I was quite sure--he smelt rather strongly of liquor.

"Well, Sandy," I began, "where did you come from?"

"From the hospital," he answered.

"Ah," I observed, "bad places--those--er--hospitals, Sandy. They breed a great deal of sickness. There are seventy-two in my district."

"You think I've been in a saloon, drinking?"

"No, I don't think so," I answered, with a mental reservation favouring knowledge.

"Well, I haven't been, anyway. You smell whisky on me. They gave it to me at the hospital so's I could get down here. I ain't discharged yet, but I was bound to come when I saw your name in the papers and knew I'd get the job if I could only see you. I've been here since six this morning. Will you give me a try at it?"

"Well, no, I can't, McWhiffle," I said, with a good deal more ease than I could have felt if I hadn't smelt the liquor and heard that hospital story. "The fact is, I've taken a man on, and so the job's gone."

Sandy gazed at me with a bewildered, frightened look, but his answer was only a mumble about his being sure of a steady job this time, seeing how he knew me and all.

Mechanically I made a memorandum of the hospital at which he was allegedly a patient, but my mail was awaiting me, and he must have gone while I was intent upon its contents. Anyway, he'd disappeared when I looked up, but the odour of whisky in the room was strong enough to destroy any interest I might have felt in my late supper companion.

Whisky and "that tired feeling" are mainly responsible for the army of the "unemployed." They talk about there not being enough work to go around! One good job'd last the whole shiftless lot a year. They don't want work, they want help--permanent and increasing help.

Some such thoughts occupied me until I happened to see a telegram protruding from the bundle of unopened letters on my desk.

"G.o.ds and powers! Will that triple idiot never learn to separate the telegrams from the letters? What the devil--Junkin! Junkin!" I crashed the bell with each repet.i.tion of the fool's name, at the same time tearing open the yellow envelope.

"For G.o.d's sake, Junkin, how many times must you be told to keep these things separate? Half an hour gone, and here's this cipher still untranslated. Do you think you've nothing to do but draw your salary----"

"I'm sorry, Sir, but you see these men came----"