"Oh, now, Susie, don't you be so hard on that there old base-ball finger! I didn't know it was a-going to touch your lovely dimple,"

and he held the offending member behind his back, as he slowly circled around the table towards the haughty Susan. "By gum! I b'lieve I left a mark on your chin. Lemme see." She thought she understood the ruse, but when he kissed her she pretended deep indignation and flounced out of the room, but the look on her face caused James to drop his left eyelid over a twinkling orb and shake his sides with satisfaction as he removed the dishes after Miss Gertrude had withdrawn from the dining-room.

IV.

The visit to the Spillini family had, indeed, led to strange complications and far-reaching results. No one who had known young Seldon Avery and his social life would ever have suspected him, or any member of his set, of a desire to take part in what, by their club friends or favorite reviews, was usually alluded to as the "dirty pool of politics." For the past decade political advancement, at least in New York, had grown to be looked upon by many as a mere matter of purchase and sale, and as quite beneath the dignity of the more refined and cultured men. It had been heralded as a vast joke, therefore, when young Selden Avery, the representative of one of the most cultured families and the honored son of an honored ancestry, had suddenly announced himself as a candidate for the a.s.sembly. His club friends guyed him unmercifully. "We never did believe that you were half as good as you pretended to be, Avery," said one of them, the first time he appeared at the club after his nomination, "but I don't believe a man of us ever suspected you of the depths of depravity that this implies. What ever did put such a ridiculous idea into such a level and self-respecting head? Out with it!"

Banter of this nature met him on every hand. He realized more fully than ever how changed the point of view had grown to be from the historical days of Washington or even of Lincoln. He recalled the time when in his own boyhood his honored father had served in the Legislature of his native state, and had not felt it other than a crowning distinction. Nor had it been so looked upon then by his a.s.sociates.

Nevertheless the constant jokes and gibes, which held something of a real sting, had become so frequent that, young Avery felt like resenting his friends' humorous thrusts.

"I can't see that I need be ashamed to follow in the footsteps of my father," he said, a little hotly. "Some of the n.o.blest of men--those upon whom the history of this country depends for l.u.s.tre--held seats in the a.s.sembly, and helped shape the laws of their states. I don't see why I need apologize for a desire to do the same."

"It used to be an a.s.sociation of gentlemen up at the state capital, my boy. Today it is--Lord! you know what it is, I guess. But if you don't, just peruse this sacred volume," laughed his friend, sarcastically, producing a small pamphlet.

"Looks to me as if you'd be rather out of your element with your colleagues. 'M-m-m! Yes, here is the list. Hunted this up after I heard you were going to stand for your district."

The English form of expression was no affectation, for the speaker was far more familiar with political nomenclature abroad than at home. He would have felt it an honor to a man to be called upon to "stand" for his const.i.tuency in London, but to "run" for it in New York was far less dignified. Standing gave an idea of repose; running was vulgar. Then, too, the State Legislature did not bear the proportionate relationship to Congress that the Commons did to Parliament, and it was always in connection with that latter body that he had a.s.sociated the term.

"Let me see. One, two, three, four, 'teen 'steen--yes, I thought I was right! Just exactly nineteen of your nearest colleagues are saloon keepers. One used to keep that disorderly house on Prince Street, four are butchers, one was returned because he had won fame as a base-ballist and--but why go further? Here, Martin, I'm trying to convince Avery that it will be a trifle trying on his nerves to hobn.o.b with the new set he's making for. Don't you think it is rather an anti-climax from the Union to the lower house at Albany? Ye G.o.ds!" and he laughed, half in scorn and half in real amus.e.m.e.nt.

John Martin had extended his hand for the small pamphlet of statistics.

He ran his eye over the list, and then turned an amused face upon Avery.

"Think you'll like it?" he asked, dryly. "Or are you taking it as my French friend here says his countrymen take heaven?"

"How's that?" queried Avery, smiling. "In broken doses--or not at all?"

The French gentleman stood with that poise which belongs to the successful man. He glanced from one to the other and spread his hands to either side.

"All Frenchmen desire to go to ze heaven, zhentlemen. Why? Ah, zere air two at-traczions which to effrey French zhentle-man air irresisteble.

Ze angels--zey air women--and I suppose zat ze G.o.d weal also be an attraction. Ees eet not so?"

Every one in the group laughed and he went on gravely on.

"I zink zat eet ees true--ees eet not?--zat loafly woman will always be vara much ob-searved even in ze heaven eef we zhentlemen are zere. Eef?"

He cast up the comers of his eyes, and made another elaborate movement of his hands.

The others all laughed again.

"Yes, zhentlemen, ze true Frenchman cares for two zings: a new sensation--someings zey haf not before experienced,--and zat ees G.o.d; and for zat which zey haf obsearved, but of which zey can naavear obsearve enough--loafly woman!"

The explosion of laughter that greeted this sally brought about them a number of other gentlemen, and the talk drifted into different channels.

Presently young Avery glanced at his watch and started, with rather a sore heart toward the door. He remembered that he had promised the managers of his campaign that he would be seen that evening at a certain open-air garden frequented by the humbler portion of his const.i.tuency.

He concluded to go alone the first time that he might the better observe without attracting too much attention. This plan was thought wise to enable him to meet the exigencies of the coming campaign when he should be called upon to speak to this element of this supporters.

Once outside the club house, he took a card from his pocket and glanced at the directions he had jotted upon it.

"I'll walk across to the elevated," he thought, "and make my connection for Grady's place that way. It will save time and look more democratic."

V.

The infinite pathos of life was never better ill.u.s.trated, perhaps, than in the merrymaking that night at Grady's Pavilion. The easy camaradarie between conscious and unconscious vice; the so-evident struggle the young girls had made to be beautiful and stylish, and the ghastly result of their cheap and incongruous finery; their ignorant acceptance of leers that meant to them honest admiration or affection, and to others meant far different things; their jolly, thoughtless, eager effort to get something joyful out of their narrow lives; the brilliant tints in which they saw the future, and the ghastly light in which it stood revealed to older and more experienced eyes, would have combined to depress a heart less tender and a vision less clear than could have been attributed to Selden Avery. Not that Grady's Pavilion was a bad place.

Many of the girls present would not have been there had it been known as anything short of quite respectable; but it was a free and easy place, where vice meets ignorance without having first made an appointment, where opportunity shakes the ungloved hand of youth and leaves a stain upon the tender palm too deep and dark for future tears to wash away.

"I wonder if I am growing morbid," mused Avery, as he sighed for the third time while looking at the face of a girl not over eighteen years old, but already marked by lines that told of a vaguely dawning comprehension of what the future held for her. Her round-eyed companion, a girl with a childish mind and face, sat beside her, but all the world was bright to her. Life held a prince, a fortune and a career which would be hers one day. She had only to wait, look pretty, and be ready when the apple of fortune fell. Her part was to hold out a pretty ap.r.o.n to break its descent.

"Oh, the infinite pathos of youth!" muttered Avery, feeling himself very old with his thirty years of wider experience as his eyes turned from one girl to the other. "It is hard to tell which is the sadder sight; the disillusioned one or the one who will be even more roughly awakened to-morrow."

His heart ached whenever he studied the face of a young girl. "There is nothing so sad in all the wretched world," he sometimes said, "as the birth of a girl in this grade of life. I am not sure that the nations we look upon as barbarous because they strangle the little things before they are able to think--I am not at all sure that they are not more civilized than we after all. We only maim them with ignorance and utter dependence, and then turn them out into a life where either of these alone is an incalculable curse, and the combination is as fatal as fire in a field of ripened grain."

The younger girl was looking at him. Her wide expectant eyes rested on his face with a frankness and interest that touched his mood anew.

"Poor little thing," he said, half aloud; "if I were to see her bound hand and foot and cast into a den of wolves, I might hope to rescue her; but from this, for such as she there is absolutely no escape. How dare people bring into the world those who must suffer?"

"Huh?" said a voice beside him. He had spoken in a semi-audible tone, and his neighbor had responded after his habitual fashion, to what he looked upon as an overture to conversation.

"I did not intend to speak aloud," said Avery, turning to glance at the man beside him; "but I was just wondering how people dared to have children--girls particularly."

The man beside him turned his full face upon him and examined him critically from head to foot. Then he laughed. It was the first time he had ever heard it hinted that it was not a wholly commendable thing to bring as many children into the world as nature would permit. His first thought had been that Avery was insane, but after looking at him he decided that he was only a grim joker.

"I reckon they don't spend no great deal of time prayin' over the subject," he said, laughing again. Then he crossed his legs and added, "an' I don't suppose they get any telegrams tellin' them they're goin'

to _be_ girls, neither. If they did, a good many men would lick the boy that brought the despatch, for G.o.d knows most of us would a dam sight ruther have boys."

The laugh had died out of his voice, and there was a ring of disappointment and aggrieved trouble in it. Selden Avery shifted his position.

"I was not looking at it from the point of view of the parents of unwelcome girls," he said, presently, "but from the outlook of the girls of unwelcome parents. The reckoning from that side looks to me a good deal longer than the other." His voice was pleasant, but his eyes looked perplexed and determined. His neighbor began to readjust his opinion of Avery's sanity, and moved his chair a little farther away before he spoke.

"Got any children of your own?" he inquired, succinctly. Avery shook his head. The man drew down the comers of his mouth in a contemptuous grimace. "I thought not. If you had, you'd take it a dam sight easier.

Children are an ungrateful lot. They're never satisfied--or next to never. They think you're made for their comfort instead of their bein'

for yours. I've got nine, and I know what I'm talkin' about. If you've got any sympathy to throw away don't waste it on children. Parents, in these days of degenerate youngsters, are pa.s.sin' around the hat for sympathy. In my day it was just the other way. If one of the young ones went wrong, people pitied the father and blamed the child. Now-a-days they blame the father and weep over the young one that makes the mischief. It makes me mad."

He shut his teeth with a suddenness that suggested a snap, and flashed a defiant look about the room.

Avery glanced at his heavy, stubborn face, and decided not to reply. He was in no mood for controversy. And what good could it do, he said to himself, to argue with a mere lump of selfish egotism?

"That is an unusually pretty girl over by the piano," he said, in a tone of mild indifference which he hoped would serve as a period to the conversation.

"She's Tom Berton's girl," was the quick reply. "Berton's up to Albany most o' the time, with me. I represent our district. She's a nice little thing. She'll do anything you ask her to. I never see her equal for that. It's easier for her to do your way than it is to do her own. She likes to; so everybody likes her. I wish I had one like her; but my girls are as stubborn as mules. They won't drive, and they won't lead, and they'd ruther kick than eat. I don't know where they got it. Their mother wasn't half so bad that way, and the Lord knows it ain't in _my_ family. The girl she's with is one o' mine. She looks like she could eat tenpenny nails. She might be just as pretty an' just as much liked as Ettie Berton, but she ain't. She's always growlin' about somethin'. I'll bet a dollar she'll growl about this when we get home. Ettie will think it was splendid. She'd have a good time at a funeral; but that girl of mine 'll get me to spend a dollar to come here and then she'll go home dissatisfied. It won't be up to what she expected.

"Things never are. She's always lookin' to find things some other way.

Now, what would you do with a girl like that?" he asked suddenly.

Then without waiting for a reply, he added, "I give her a good tongue lashin', an' as she always knows it's comin', she's got so she don't kick _quite_ so much as she used to, but she just sets an' looks sullen like that. It makes me so mad I could--"