SEYMOUR DURST 
 
 "l ' 'Fort nte^uv ^m^erjam. oj^ Je Mtrnha-tans 
 
 (new YORK), 1651. 
 
 When you leave, please leave this hook 
 
 Because it has heen said 
 "Ever'thing comes t' him who waits 
 
 Except a loaned hook." 
 
Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library 
 Gift of Seymour B. Durst Old York Library 
 
THE 
 
 Road of the Rough 
 
 A Simple Story of Life in New York City. 
 
 BY 
 
 MAURICE M. MINTON. 
 
 Illustrations by G. A. Traver and George Varian. 
 
 FROM THE PRESS OF 
 THE ILLUSTRATED AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
 5 & 7 EAST SIXTEENTH STREET, NEW YORK. 
 
Oil 
 PS 
 
 zrvi 
 
 mi- 
 
 Copyright, 1893, 
 By MAURICE M. MINTON. 
 
 (All Rights Reserved.) 
 
 Entered at the New York Post-Office as Second Class Mail Matter. 
 
Travellers on the Road of the Rougn. 
 
 Frederic Raingold, Esq., - - - Master of Wall Street. 
 Frederic Raingold, Jr., (his son,) A Young Man About Town. 
 Alfred Cecil, A Citizen of Bohemia. 
 
 "Gentleman Tom," . . - a Sixth Ward Street Boy. 
 Mrs. Frederic Raingold, - - - A Teader of Society. 
 Miss Mary Raingold, (her daughter,) A Flower of Murray Hill. 
 Widow McCarty, (Tom's mother,) One Who Held Her Tongue. 
 Mabel, (Mildred's maid,) - - . A Flower of the Slums. 
 Miss Mildred Vane, "Comrade," . An Actress and Bohemian. 
 
 Also a Company of Judges, Police Captains, Wardens, 
 Stock Brokers, Clubmen, Sports and Attendants. 
 
 FIRST MILESTONE.— The Sixth W^ard— Little Mother— The 
 Big Tenement — "Gentleman Tom" — Among Italians — An 
 Arrest — Police Stations — "Take Him Back!" — Captain 
 O'Connor's Guests — " The Tombs" — A Fashionable House- 
 hold — "Comrade" — Delmonico's — The Clay Pipe Club — A 
 Delmonico Ball — An Errand of Mercy — Police Headquar- 
 ters — In the Lair of the Tiger — A Corner of Bohemia. 
 
 SECOND MILESTONE.— "The Black Maria"— A Fight for 
 Liberty — An Engagement — Emancipated — Court of General 
 Sessions — "All Aboard for Sing Sing!" — The State Prison — 
 Fourteen Hundred Saints in Cloisters — Hard Hit — An Empty 
 Heart, a Deserted Hearth — Hard Labor — The Rag Shop — 
 The Journalist and the Actress — A Memorable First Night — 
 A Noble Effort Crowned with Victory. 
 
 THIRD MILESTONE.— Wall Street— Bulls and Bears— Panic- 
 In the Face of Victory — Money Fails to Buy Life or Happi- 
 ness — Face to Face — In the Sisterhood of Women — We j\Iay 
 not all Love and Marry — Parting — Dreams of Pardon — Gal- 
 lery 25 — A Lawyer's Errand — A Well-Kept Secret — Justice — 
 Silence. 
 
 Inspector Byrnes, 
 
 "P. K." Connaughton, 
 
 Mr. Huff, - 
 
 - New York's Great Detective. 
 
 - Principal Keeper, Sing Sing. 
 
 A Gambler. 
 
 City and County Milestones. 
 
In life, as in chess, there are pawns set upon the squares of 
 the checker-board. 
 
 They move, as they are moved, by the Master of the Game. 
 
 Problem succeeds problem ; and we ? We watch the prog- 
 ress of the game; the solution of the problem. 
 
 Insignificant mortals in the dark corners of great cities are 
 to him who sees little in the grand problem of life no mo?-e 
 than pawns to the blockhead at chess, who stupidly loses them, 
 and then the game. 
 
 The expert player does not despise the pawn. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Out of the small has come the large ; out of the little has 
 come the great. 
 
 In America many of the foremost men have come out of 
 the narrow streets, out of the shadow of high walls, out of the 
 sink-pots of the city. Pawns they were, indeed, but they 
 
 were moved forward by the Master, square by squarfe. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Back from the bright broad thoroughfares ; back from the 
 well-built sections ; back from the gay places frequented by the 
 rich and the happy; back from the brilliantly illuminated tem- 
 ples of pleasure, are the dark, narrow streets, the rattle-trap 
 quarters of decaying rookeries, the wretched district frequent- 
 ed by the poor and the unhappy, the garishly lighted halls of 
 low entertainment. The difference in localities corresponds 
 with difference in social conditions. They are set apart ; the 
 stronger from the weaker, the richer from the poorer, the high- 
 er from the lower. 
 
 Neither virtue nor vice is the heritage of one class more 
 than of the other. The babe sweetly sleeping under many 
 
folds of soft, lace-trimmed linen may prove in later days as 
 great a rascal as the rag-wrapped infant fretfully sleeping in 
 the broken wicker-basket. If in the moral make-up of either 
 there is a weak spot, time and opportunity will develop the 
 defaulter, the forger, and the swindler, or the pickpocket, the 
 thief, and the burglar. 
 
 In the higher walks of life, man is tame ; in the lower, man 
 is wild. In the higher, he is polished, smooth, elegant ; in the 
 lower, he is rough, coarse, vulgar. These distinctions are but 
 the reflections of environment. So impressed are we with 
 this that we unconsciously associate manners and habits with 
 locality, and look for higher or lower life on what we have 
 been taught to regard the higher and lower planes. There- 
 fore, we naturally expect the morals as well as the manners of 
 the Avenue to attain a higher degree of excellence than those 
 of the alley. Still, as it is not, in the main, the purpose of the 
 author to discuss the moral or social conditions of the fortu- 
 nate, but rather to lead the reader along the footworn pave- 
 ment of the unfortunate, the writer will leave the precincts of 
 the Avenue, enter the quarter of the alleys, and pursue the 
 Road of the Rough. 
 
 In all large cities, as well as in the city of New York, in 
 which, for the sake of convenience, the incidents in these 
 chapters are located, the Road of the Rough is always the 
 same. It has the same milestones to mark off its distances, 
 the same saloon lamps to light it up, the same dark nooks to 
 screen loiterers, the same sunless alleyways to breed pale-faced 
 children, the same damp cellars to shelter families, the same 
 wretched, ill-ventilated hallways, the same broken, creaking 
 stairways, the same roof-tops to facilitate the escape of the 
 police-pursued tough of the district. 
 
 It matters little what the time of the day may be when we 
 set out upon our journey, for, what we meet with, we must 
 perceive with our senses as well as see with our eyes. It 
 matters not whether the sun be shining at high noon, or 
 whether the moon be slanting her silvery beams, for, by day 
 and by night, under the sun and under the stars, the restless 
 tide, sullen and sombre, flows on, 
 
 M. M. M. 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 IN WHICH THE WRITER INVITES THE READER TO STROLL 
 DOWN THE BOWERY, AND SEE FOR HIMSELF WHERE 
 HIS POORER BROTHERS AND SISTERS LEARN 
 THEIR FIRST LESSONS. 
 
 Let us start on the Road of the Rough at Cooper Institute. 
 Here, the Bowery, stretching away to the southward, divides 
 like a two-pronged fork into those great thoroughfares, Third 
 and Fourth avenues. 
 
 How changed is the Bowery of "ye olden times" ! We 
 can scarce believe that where the long line of shops and stores 
 now stand to tempt the passer-by were open fields ; and that 
 once stately elms lined the pavements, affording gentle shade 
 on hot summer days. Beneath those trees in the early morn- 
 ing, as was the custom, walked the gentle maid escorted by 
 her love-touched swain, and if her parents favored her suitor, 
 she would ask him home to breakfast to eat mackerel from 
 the household mackerel barrel. With sounding horn and 
 cracking whip, with jolt and swing, the gay-bellied coach to 
 Boston would rush and clatter on its way ; on high-stepping 
 horses, wearing the brave livery of King George, would trot 
 past a British officer at the head of a company of dragoons ; 
 and in his little wagon, speeding along behind a quick-footed 
 mare, was often seen the Yankee clock-maker — in those days 
 the type of American commercial enterprise. ■ Now all are 
 gone — trees, fields, trysting-place, the coach, the livery of the 
 king — and naught is left save evidences of commercial thrift. 
 
8 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH, 
 
 There is nothing to recall the past as we journey down the 
 Bowery; save, perhaps, now and then, an altered front which 
 has been changed to meet the requirements of changed sur- 
 roundings. These are the signs of deterioration ; the evidences 
 of a street passing from a residential condition to a possible 
 commercial importance. As we jog along we note the pave- 
 ments grow narrower, the curbs creep out into the street, the 
 fronts of buildings come closer together, and overhead the 
 tracks of the railroad on stilts run side by side. The stores 
 are smaller; the walls that divide them thinner ; the merchan- 
 dise the store-keeper offers encroaches on the pavement ; the 
 goods offered are poorer in quality and cheaper in price ; 
 while the people in passing brush one another. Hastily we 
 note the cheap theatres with glaring three-sheet posters, small 
 restaurants with coffee and cake signs conspicuously posted in 
 windows, the three gilded balls over the pawnbroker's glazed 
 door and wire-netted windows; and the signs, "Lodgings, 
 ten cents." 
 
 We feel there is a shadow upon the streets. It is deepest 
 in the gloom of the iron road, it creeps into the small store, 
 into the heart of the store-keeper, and into the hearts of those 
 who sit so close in the cheap lodging-houses. For a moment 
 we feel the shadow upon us, and we turn off the noisy thor- 
 oughfare. We strike across to East Broadway. Here com- 
 merce has not turned her bustling presence. Decay has come. • 
 A poorer class has followed a richer. Tenements have fol- 
 lowed in the wake of residences. Women do the work of men. 
 An aged Italian woman, with her head enveloped in a faded 
 scarf, moves wearily along with a heavy pack swung over her 
 shoulder. A shout of joyous laughter attracts our attention ; 
 it is the laughter of children at play. What a merry, whole- 
 souled chorus of laughter it is I They, those bare-footed 
 youngsters of both sexes, strangely dressed in old-fashioned, 
 ill-shaped clothes, reminders of elder brothers and sisters, 
 perhaps fathers and mothers, are grouped in a circle. In 
 their midst is the cause of the hilarity. The circle breaks, 
 and the writer catches a glimpse of " the cause." A ragged 
 and bedraggled woman, advanced in years, is prostrate upon 
 the pavement, too drunk to rise ; yet, conscious of the jeers of 
 the urchins about her, she resents the gibes with many oaths, 
 hurling her shoe at the gibers. The mission school may 
 throw open its doors, the sweet-faced teacher may tell on 
 Sunday the old, old story of Bethlehem and Calvary, but the 
 pavement is ever ready and the drunkard teaches every day 
 that familiarity with vice robs it of its hideousness. 
 
IC 
 
 I 
 
 What a strange bit of motherhood she is ! " (-Vti / 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 9 
 
 Again we pass through a narrow street. Its windows are 
 literally swarming with people ; young and old are absorbed 
 in watching a procession pass over the rough, sloppy cobble- 
 stones. There are carriages, too, queer old rattle-trap con- 
 cerns which have seen better days ; they seem to moan with 
 age as they go creaking along, closing up behind the hearse. 
 The youngsters glance with timid looks into the long, dark, 
 ill-smelling hallway through which the coffin has been brought; 
 their faces are grave as mourners', but eager with interest. 
 One tiny tot cautiously peeps with one eye over a fold of his 
 little sister's dress, while she — this old-faced nurse — holding a 
 sleeping baby in her arms ; in low, hushed voice volubly ex- 
 plains that " him was burnt in de fire, was took to de 'ospital, 
 an' went dead in de ambulance fir dey got 'im in. His wake 
 was just 'eavenly. The old 'oman says 'is end was more 
 bootiful than all 'is life knocked into one !" 
 
 In this street the writer discovered that nothing, save a riot, 
 when the police use their clubs and the militia are under arms, 
 enjoys the popularity of a well-attended funeral. 
 
 The last coach, two blocks distant, has vanished around 
 the corner', heads are withdrawn from windows, children 
 whisk themselves off, and the street assumes its old, dull, 
 dreary, sleepy air. But not out of sight is the young nurse. 
 What a strange bit of motherhood she is ! With what mother's 
 care this little maid of twelve watches her charges! About 
 her broad shoulders hangs an old waist, a size too small, split 
 in the back, revealing the white skin and a discolored rumpled 
 shirt or bodice. But no thought of dress disturbs her. One 
 thought quickens her pace ; she has stood too long watching 
 the funeral — poor little woman, poor little gossip ! Where is 
 she going? We follow. 
 
 It is scarce possible to believe that the child with the burden, 
 and the infant at her side, could pass so speedily. How per- 
 fect her knowledge of the locality ! Now she passes through 
 an alleyway, now through a hallway, around strange corners 
 of queer streets, which in themselves seem to have no reason 
 for existence, out into a broad street, to pursue it for a block, 
 and then to dive into another hallway. Yet this zigzag course 
 i^ to the southeast. It is a short cut. Once in the open 
 street she pauses before a green-grocer's shop to shift the 
 sleeping infant in her arms. The youngster at her side grabs 
 at a red-faced apple. The thievnsh little hand receives a smart 
 slap, and the rebuke : " Is it fur stalen dem apples ye are out 
 wid me, Thomas Michael, rite under de nose of de peeler." 
 Thomas Michael makes hideous moan. But on they go. They 
 
10 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 reach the Bowery. A big policeman lifts Thomas Michael 
 high on his shoulder, crosses under the elevated railroad, fol- 
 lowed by the little nurse, who cautiously picks her way, nar- 
 rowly escaping being knocked down by a passing carriage. 
 
 On she goes, unconscious of the writer, who follows close 
 behind her. What a strange quarter in the heart of an Amer- 
 ican city ! Chinese signs hang over the pavement. Chinese 
 articles of merchandise are visible in the shop windows, sen- 
 tinels stand guard at the entrance of the fan-tan houses, and 
 scores of Chinese of the lowest order pass in and out of the 
 low-lying buildings. They scarce notice the children, but out 
 of the corners of their cunning, queer-shaped eyes they peep 
 at the writer. Suddenly she turns and passes fearlessly into 
 a black hallway; the writer, reluctantly and timidly, follows. 
 The atmosphere is permeated with a strange, peculiar odor. 
 A young woman with a dull, whitish face passes the writer, 
 jostling him slightly. She is neatly attired. A thin voice 
 from a dark place cries shrilly, " Pleece!" At once there is a 
 shutting of doors, a rattling of bolts, and a stronger smell of 
 the pungent, sickly odor — opium. In a twinkling the farther 
 end of the hall is reached, and another street is beneath our 
 feet. 
 
 A transformation scene in a theatre could not be quicker. 
 Instead of Chinese, the street is swarming with sturdy, mur- 
 derous-looking Italians, who saunter about, talking their native 
 language. On the door-steps are seated fine-looking, dark- 
 skinned, rosy-cheeked Italian women, with big, flashing, 
 beautiful eyes. Italian children by the score are clinging over 
 the rails and racing across the narrow street. On goes our 
 little guide, now almost dragging the weary little tot at her 
 side. She turns into an alley. It leads into a triangular 
 court, across one side of which a tall building — a rear build- 
 ing — raises its frowning front. Rusty fire-escapes break its 
 factory-like exterior, each of which is loaded with a miscel- 
 laneous assortment of discarded pots, pans, boxes, bedding, 
 and packages, put there by the tenants. The court is crossed 
 and recrossed vvith laundry ropes, from which tattered articles 
 of wearing apparel flutter in a dejected sort of way in the 
 chimney-like draught of the yard, Pushing a half-closed door 
 open, the little nurse enters and ascends the stairs. She is at 
 home ! 
 
 It takes more than a moment's thought to determine whether 
 one has a right to venture through a door-way, even if that 
 door-way be in a tenement house. A home is a home, how- 
 ever humble it may seem. Still, let us on ! 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 ir 
 
 Let him who hves surrounded by luxury, by all that tends 
 to the comfort of creature man, congratulate himself, not only 
 upon the carpets on his floors, the pictures on his walls, the 
 handsome furniture in his rooms, the well-cooked meals on 
 his table, but also for the pure fresh air that fills his lungs, 
 uncontaminated by foul odors. Such, however, is far from 
 being the case with many hundreds in the great, rich metrop- 
 olis of the Empire State; hundreds have never slept in a room 
 free from foul odors. 
 
 Into the mammoth tenement house the inquisitive writer 
 went ; through the big, black hall along which a drunken fel- 
 low was staggering ; up the steep, creaking staircase with its 
 shaking banisters. A stench of the sewer and gas filled the 
 place. He could hear the children climbing the stairs. The 
 doors were almost all closed. Rough voices could be heard 
 behind them. Odor of disinfectants came from some rooms, 
 iodoform from others. What a suggestion of disease and 
 death, of accident and injury, these drugs bring! Every 
 room was crowded with young and old of both sexes. Now 
 the cry of a child, and the harsh " shut up !" ; now the whimper 
 of an infant, and the soft " hush-a-by-baby ! " ; now the cry of 
 a woman, and the savage oath of a man. What a human 
 beehive is this dingy, ill-smelling tenement ! how it reeks with 
 its odors of cooking, the sewer, and the stagnant air ! Who 
 owns it? A man of distinguished social position. "Tene- 
 ment property, well managed," he says, "is always a good 
 investment. " 
 
 The children shut a door. All is quiet inside. 
 
 After a brief interval the writer knocks. 
 
 In response to the summons comes the little rnaid herself, 
 who opens the door cautiously. Her sleeves are rolled up to 
 the elbows. " Well?" whispers she. 
 
 " Does Mrs. John Smith live here?" 
 
 "No; she don't," comes the quick reply, and the door 
 slams. 
 
 Again the writer knocks ; again the door opens. 
 " Well?" 
 
 " Do you know where she does live?" 
 " Second floor, back. " 
 
 " I say, little girl," adds the writer; "don't shut the door; 
 I have something to say to you." 
 "Well, be quick, d'ye hear." 
 
 During this brief dialogue the writer had looked over the 
 riotous mass of wavy auburn tresses into the cheerless room. 
 The floor, the walls, the broken window-panes, plastered with 
 
12 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH, 
 
 vari-colored paper, through which the fading light sneaked in 
 a shame-faced sort of way, the broken chair, the rickety table, 
 the battered trunk, the mattress in the corner, seemed endowed 
 with pentacostal tongues eloquent in the cry of human misery. 
 What the writer said to the little girl with the upturned old 
 face made him welcome in this home — the abode of misery. 
 And we, who live well, dress well, eat well, God forgive us ! 
 We, who do not like to think of the misery within a few blocks 
 of us — the misery that has always been and always will be ! 
 
 Upon that mattress lay a woman, ground nigh unto death 
 by the upper and lower millstones of life, her sunken eyes 
 surrounded with deep, eloquent circles, her hollow cheeks 
 marked with the waste of fever and inhuman neglect, her 
 shrunken limbs in need of comfort and nutrition. She was 
 the mother of the three. 
 
 Beside her lay the babe ; on the floor, resting his head — 
 ♦ covered with a shock of red hair — on the mattress, was the 
 small boy, worn out with his travel, and about the room 
 bustled the little maid — the bright, particular star in this poor 
 mother's earthly heaven. It was the old, sad story. "Her 
 man " was a good man, stout and true, until misfortune over- 
 took him. Worry first, then drink — then sickness. In her 
 grief one night she wandered to the docks. The swift river, 
 silent to all but to her, flowed by calling to her : ' ' Come and 
 be at rest!" But her heart echoed the cries of her children 
 and she fled to suffer on. 
 
 ' ' Good nursing, madam, care — care in the hospital, would 
 make you strong again." 
 
 " No," she moaned, with a frightened look. " They took 
 him away to the hospital, and killed him." Always the same 
 story ; the lowly poor always believe the hospital kills. 
 
 " Has none visited you? Have you had no. help?" 
 
 ' ' A charity society man called ; he gave me coal, and he 
 gave me oatmeal, but — my stove was sold for rent." 
 
 " Has none other come to you?" 
 
 ' ' No. I don't want them. " Her eyes glowed with feverish 
 light. " They'd take my babies from me; they'd break up 
 my home. I've only a short time to live. The neighbors 
 feed us now and then, when they can spare it." 
 
 "They'd break up my home." Her home — this misery 
 ennobled with the beautiful name of home. And yet, more a 
 home than the costly houses of some millionaires. 
 
 The writer left this temple of misery. There were police in 
 the court. Clubs were used. Someone was "wanted" in 
 the big tenement. 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH, 
 
 13 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 THE READER IS INVITED TO VISFP "THE BEND," ANT) PEEP 
 INTO PELL AND DOYERS STREETS. 
 
 Once more into the street. A dozen gas jets in a dozen 
 lamps flickered and sputtered as though each signalled to the 
 other that it had come once more to do a sentry's duty through 
 the fast approaching night. What strange creatures pass the 
 lamp-posts, while the imperial monarch of the day treads his 
 post through the firmament, watching the millions creep to and 
 from their toil like ants to and from their hills ! What a tale 
 of woe and misery a single jet of gas in Crosby, Pell and Mul- 
 berry streets might tell if it were-not mute ! Into how many 
 faces it has shot one ray of light to lay bare the secrets of a 
 life! Old and young faces, faces of men and women, faces of 
 boys and girls, have been upturned to the lamps. And through 
 the eyes, those windows of the soul, has gone the searching 
 ray of light ; aye, as the jet flickering in the death wind of the 
 morgue lightens up the face of the river's find, so flickers the 
 street lamp over the human drift of the streets, as a jet in the 
 morgue of manhood and womanhood. 
 
 Here we take our stand. There is an elbow to the street — 
 a turn — " the Bend " it is called — the bend in Mulberry street. 
 Close your eyes for a minute, and the murmur of the night 
 wind seems filled with the voices of the dying. Swing a stone, 
 if you can, by a string two hundred feet long, and in your 
 circle is the district of death. Here the argument is closed with 
 the knife or interrupted with the pistol ; here the Italian brig- 
 and, seduced by steamship companies' glaring posters from his 
 native village, takes up his home to learn that the King's soldiers 
 are less his enemies than Master Byrnes's bluecoats. Here 
 the black-haired, black-eyed Italian maid, whose cheeks have 
 the soft, warm flush of late peaches, sows the seeds of mis- 
 chief. She, too, knows why Antonio died ; she, too, knows 
 more than she told that jury and that stern-faced judge. 
 'Twas not for love, but for fear of Philippo, that she was silent. 
 
 At night, when the stars have willed it that they will not 
 shine into these dismal streets, I have climbed with Master 
 Byrnes's men up the creaking stairs, and have stepped into the 
 sleeping rooms of these people of Italy. What a chamber of 
 
14 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 sleep and smell ! Every window is closed. Every chink is 
 filled. Every foul breath is made more foul with garlic. 
 Twenty people in a room where three might sleep. The aged 
 woman, with loosened clothing, sits in a corner clasping her 
 drawn ap knees, her head hanging forward and down ; young 
 mothers with nursing babes lay on the bare floor ; beneath the 
 craclfix on the wall, younger women clasp their lovers or hus- 
 bands in the abandon of sleep ; while men, and lads, and little 
 children stretch themselves, resting as they will. The sound 
 of the opening door arouses them. They turn ; the women 
 clutch their children closer, the younger women make a move 
 as though to cover their necks, while the men stare and mutter 
 in Italian. They are accustomed to these visits of the police. 
 
 Not infrequently, when Master Byrnes's men leave, one place 
 of sleep is left unoccupied; but sleep is master, and after a few 
 oaths at the disturbance all is quiet. So goes the wheel in 
 itsturning. But " the Bend " is not what it once was. It has 
 learned that there is more liberty in the kingdom of Italy than 
 in the democracy of New York. The iron hand of the police 
 forces law, but it cannot stay the knife or the animal in the 
 man. The law cannot stop the crime, but it effectually stops 
 the criminal. These Italians are as familiar with the quick, 
 nipping sound of the municipal bracelets as they are with the 
 pleasanter strains of the violin. Volumes can be written on 
 the people of Italy as they live and labor, and live and d'e in 
 this district, but this our history will not admit of. 
 
 The same may be said of Crosby and Pell streets. In the 
 dark of the night high up against the shabby fronts of the 
 buildings, are set red lights. It is the sign of a Chinese lodg- 
 ing. Here opium is smoked by Chinese and native born 
 Americans. There is nothmg more extraordinary and more 
 bewildering than the fact that the habitues of "opium joints " 
 are seventy-five per cent, girls or women of American parents. 
 The writer one night noticed a well-dressed young woman in 
 an " L " road car. She was alone. Her nervous manner 
 attracted attention. At Chatham square she got out and went 
 down to the street and was lost in the crowd. 
 
 A few hours later Capt. John McCuUagh, of the Elizabeth 
 street station, decided to raid the ' ' joints. " The raid was 
 made with the usual arrests. In one small room, miserably 
 furnished, was a bed. On this bed was a Chinaman and on 
 each side of him a woman. The one on the left was a poor 
 creature, evidently one who had drifted away on the tide of 
 uncontrolled desire and with whom the world had parted com- 
 pany ; the woman on the right was the nervous passenger who 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 15 
 
 had attracted the writer's attention. In turn, the three had 
 been smoking the pipe. She had not yet been overcome by 
 the fumes of opium and resented the intrusion which held her 
 back from the land of dreams. It was apparent that this 
 woman belonged to a condition of society out of all sympathy 
 with that she had entered at this time ; still, she had lost her 
 modesty and retained nothing but a fear of exposure conse- 
 quent to arrest. This fear and her low nervous condition 
 caused her to break down completely. She cried hysterically. 
 It so happened that events favored her and she escaped. 
 "But," said the detective, "as sure as the sun will shine 
 again, so sure is it that she will be back. Opium is in her. " 
 
 The writer did not lose track of this victim of opium. The 
 next morning, when a trim little maid opened a certain young 
 lady's door, she discovered that mademoiselle had a bad head- 
 ache and would have her breakfast sent to her room. A year 
 later a family of wealth and station went to Europe. Their 
 friends say mademoiselle married a Frenchman. A pleasant 
 social fiction. Mademoiselle, much changed, is the wife of a 
 Doyers street Chinaman. Wife? Well, so says the Chinaman. 
 
 In and around these squalid quarters, in tenement and rook- 
 ery, among the. vile and the vicious, flows the stream of life 
 bearing honest and poor parents, whose children learn vice 
 before they do their alphabet. Is it strange, therefore, that 
 Gentleman Tom was a man of experience before he could wear 
 a man's breeches ? 
 
 "Gentleman Tom!" Without a single 
 uncommon characteristic to mark him among 
 his fellows, this promising young citizen had 
 made a name for himself in the Sixth Ward. 
 His ambition was to live without labor, and 
 he succeeded. Being, therefore, in the main 
 a young man of leisure, with a decided antip- 
 athy for " a steady job," he had early earned 
 the sobriquet "Gentleman." It had been 
 prefixed so steadily and stoutly to Tom that 
 few knew him by any other name. Indeed, 
 Gentleman Tom had little desire to be known 
 by any other. Tor he entertained a suspicion 
 that the stout, kindly Irishwoman who had 
 the honor of being his mother had given him 
 as a surname that which had graced the trunk 
 of her family tree. Loquacious at all times 
 and upon all subjects save that which con- 
 cerned Tom's ancestors, she contented herself by saying: 
 
i6 
 
 THE KDAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 " Tom's a jintlemin, and his father was a real jintlemin before 
 him," and then she would heave a deep sigh. 
 
 Gentleman Tom was evidently not the son of a day laborer, 
 and at times there was that about him which made the old 
 women in alley and court shake their heads as though they 
 believed that a better strain of blood than the widow's had 
 crossed the maternal line. Way down in Tom's soul he cher- 
 ished the idea that a gentleman, renegade though he may have 
 been, was responsible for his being, and to this ne'er-do-well he 
 had laid his indifference to steady work. His mother worked 
 from early day to nightfall keeping two small rooms in the big 
 tenement. Here he slept and te. Sometimes he gave her 
 money, and these occasional evidences of his ability to obtain 
 the essentials of life pleasantly surprised her. He had his way 
 of obtaining it. To many people in the ward, the saloon- 
 keepers, politicians, and store-keepers, he was of use, and they 
 paid him for his services as messenger or porter. During 
 political times he was an invaluable aid to the district leader, 
 and when the May moving engaged the truckmen it was his 
 harvest season. Occasionally he shouted "extras," but the 
 life of "the bluffer" was not to his liking; he preferred 
 errands which kept him moving along to an objective point. 
 A better or more trusty messenger there was not in the Sixth 
 Ward. One night the writer was strolling down the Bowery 
 
 with Captain McC . " Hello !" said the Captain ; " there 
 
 is the guide for you — Gentleman Tom. He knows every alley, 
 staircase, and scuttle in the precinct." As he spoke he point- 
 ed to a tall, slim young man who stood talking to a peddler of 
 peanuts. In the flare of the cart's lamps his figure stood out 
 against the darkness. His hands were thrust into the pockets 
 of trousers that too snugly fit his thin legs, a closely-buttoned 
 short coat strained at the buttons, and beneath a round hat, 
 tilted and pressed down on his forehead, looked out a pair of 
 shrewd, quick eyes. 
 
 " Tom!" 
 
 The young man turned, stood erect, and saluted. 
 
 " I say, Tom ; do you want a job ? Do you want to steer 
 this gentleman ? He is a writer and wants to see the 
 sights." 
 
 Tom saluted. 
 
 "Go with him," said the Captain; "he knows the ropes." 
 And the writer went. 
 
 " Seen you before, sir; seen you at Geoghan's, " remarked 
 Gentleman Tom, giving the writer a swift, comprehensive look. 
 
 " Possibly. I am out for a stroll," the writer replied. 
 
THE ROAD OP THE ROUGH. 
 
 17 
 
 "Well, come on, sir. Wher'll we go? Seen lodgin' 
 houses ? Will yuh take in a speel or a joint, a do-drop-in, or 
 a nigger concert?" inquired Gentleman Tom. 
 
 " Let us stroll through the alleys and side streets." 
 
 And we went on into the dark and crooked streets. 
 
 " You have a queer name, Gentleman Tom. Is Tom your 
 last name ?" 
 
 "Tom's me name; me first name, me middle name, an' 
 me last name. I wuz Tommie when I first heard it, I'm Tom 
 now, an' if I live long enough I may be Thomas ; but stretch 
 an' squeeze it, it's all de same — Tom. Me friends call me 
 " Gentleman." It was poked on in fun, an' it stuck dere in 
 earnest. I know fellers who are mournful if dey don't have 
 work; when out o' work dey are like a whale off de axle — 
 no good. I know fellers who get sick when dey work. I 
 tried it. I can't do it. Strange, yuh think, but it's not. 
 Some t'ings I kin do an' some t'ings I can't do. I kin walk 
 from here to Harlem an' back an' feel aisy. Give me light 
 work, or heavy work, an' reg'lar hours, an' I fell meself dyin'. 
 I go crazy. I3id yuh ever see a monkey on a chain ? When 
 I had a steady job I felt like de monkey — very little music an' 
 a great deal o' climbin'." 
 
 " But you won't get on in the world," suggested the writer. 
 
 " Who does ? Say, if I wuz a writer I'd get up a double 
 extra leaded big head article on dis subject. See ? Do yuh 
 know where I'd write it? I'd sit meself down at de morgue 
 when a lady wuz found in de river. Do yuh suppose only tough 
 girls get in de river ? Not by de little brown jug. Captain 
 
 sent for me one night, an' sez, sez he, ' sich an' sich 
 
 a lady is wanderin' around. Find her.' 'Tain't de peelers on 
 post dat do all de fine work. She didn't ♦ hit de pipe, ' she 
 weren't 'ligious, she weren't wicious, she weren't not'in' but 
 kind o' silly. T'ot it over an' it kind o' t'rowed me. Sez I, 
 • Cap'n, dis 'ere lady is not wanderin' where she kin git hurt. 
 She's doin' up-town beats kind o' lonely like, or is tryin' de 
 river.'" 
 
 " Did you find her ?" 
 
 " No;de river did. As I wuz sayin,' her body wuz took to 
 de morgue an' de newspapers described de .beauty of an un- 
 commonly beautiful corpse. I went up. Wal, I never t'ot 
 dere wuz so many missin' females in de world ! Rich ones 
 an' poor ones wuz up dere a-looking fur missin' Tildas, Mar- 
 garets, an' Marys, an' Annies. Dere wuz men an' dere wuz 
 wimen. Wal, dere wuz a good many folks a-wisitin' up dere 
 who had got on in de world. Dey wuzn't all happy. I use 
 
i8 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 to speel wid Mary Ginter, who wuz sent to de Good Shepherd. 
 One day I wuz up at Harlem to took a peep. Wal, all de 
 folks who wuz up dere a-wisitin' wuzn't from de Sixth Ward. 
 Dey wuz on in de world, but dey wuzn't happy. I tell yer one 
 t'ing, boss, 'tain't de close an' 'tain't de money ; 'tain't de folks 
 dat ride in de carriages, an' 'tain't de people who legs it dat's 
 got de happiness." 
 
 " Some people must be happy," the writer suggested. 
 
 " Wal, I take it dis way. De rain an' de snow, de wind 
 an' de sun, fits all de people about de same ; an' all de people 
 have snow an' rain, sun an' wind in dere lives, without con- 
 sultin' der close or der boodle. Dere's Snoozer's Lane. " 
 
 So speaking, Gentleman Tom pointed to an alley which I 
 had visited one spring night. At least twenty men were 
 sleeping there, their backs supported by vermin-creeping 
 walls. It was a loathesome, ill-smelling place frequented by 
 tramps, when the weather was too warm for the station-house 
 and too cold for park benches. Here, sometimes, could be 
 found men who had been broken on Fortune's wheel, and 
 who had, by misfortune and drink, been lost to the world and 
 their friends. Many a man, who has proudly carried his head 
 in days gone by, has drifted away on the current of Time, to 
 be tossed into Snoozer's Lane. 
 
 Having followed the winding alleys and crooked streets, the 
 writer and his guide issued out upon the entrance to the 
 Bowery without discovering much of interest. A volume of 
 sound, created by alleged musical instruments, announced the 
 immediate presence of one of those rapidly disappearing insti- 
 tutions, the Bowery Dime Museum. "Dis 'ere show is a 
 fake," murmured Gentleman Tom; " de only curiosity is 
 Bender Jim, who is a-walkin' up and down a-lyin' 'bout de 
 freaks inside. Dis bizness is done in style up-town an' is 
 declinin'." Before the door or entrance a rakish looking gent 
 with a decided Jewish cast of features paraded, chanting the 
 charms of the Circassian lady, proclaiming the diminutiveness 
 of the dwarf, declaring the many wonders of the world, and 
 reciting the strange products of, animal creation, all of which 
 have been gathered at great cost, and are now being exhibited 
 for the modest fee of ten cents. 
 
 Gentleman Tom, nevertheless, was an occasional visitor; 
 indeed, it appeared that however slender his purse, sufficient 
 dimes found their way to it for purposes of amusement, or 
 "edication," as he called it. No shooting gallery had not 
 echoed with the shot of his rifle or pistol. In his way he had 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. I9 
 
 been a liberal patron of galleries where a cigar rewarded the 
 skillful marksman. 
 
 A few evenings after the incident related the writer chanced 
 to meet Captain McC . 
 
 ' ' Well, Captain, how is your friend Gentleman Tom 
 getting on ?" 
 
 " Oh, he is getting on," replied the policeman. " Getting 
 on famously. He got into a row up-town, knocked a man 
 down, ran into the Fourth avenue tunnel, and was brought 
 out by an officer. The man was badly hurt, and I fear Tom 
 is in a bad fix. Tom is not a bad fellow, but it goes hard 
 with these chaps when they get into street fights. If the man 
 presses the charge, they are railroaded up at double quick. I 
 guess Gentleman Tom will do 'hard labor ' yet." 
 
 Poor Gentleman Tom ! Born and reared where life is not 
 gentle, he had at last resented coarse language with force, and 
 had met with not an uncommon adventure on the Road of the 
 Rough, which had placed him in a police station cell. 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 IN WHICH GENTLEMAN TOM BECOMES A GUEST OF THE PEOPLE 
 OF THE CITY, COUNTY. AND STATE OF NEW YORK. 
 
 In the days of innocent and imaginative childhood, our 
 young wits were held spellbound by nursery tales of fabulous 
 monsters whose rolling eyes, in search for bad boys and girls, 
 emitted vari-colored sparks, and whose great mouth was ever 
 set to catch them as they drew near. Perhaps some have 
 been reminded of these blood-curdling correctives of juvenile 
 morals and manners in passing the entrance of a police station, 
 with its two green eyes staring out into the half darkness of a 
 sullen, ill-favored looking street, and its flapping mouth ever 
 ready to catch the unfortunate. These, the lamps, and the 
 gleaming doors force upon the memory the entrance to the 
 Nineteenth Precinct police station house. Up and down, 
 eastward and westward, from sunset to sunrise, these green 
 eyes watch for those who are destined to come toward them. 
 
 What a story the lights of a great city could tell — the white 
 electric, the yellow gas, the red fire, and the green police ! 
 Do you suppose, when the morning comes, these lights, like 
 
20 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 departing spirits, spirits of white, of yellow, of red, and of 
 green, join hands and speed away, making sad or merry their 
 flight, with the tale of the night — a night in the streets of a 
 great city ? 
 
 Down the street went Gentleman Tom. His hat drawn 
 down a little tighter than usual over his forehead, his hands 
 thrust in his pockets, his eyes intent on objects far off, and his 
 jaw set and slightly pushed' forward. By his side walked his 
 captor, the policeman. Three small boys at Sixth avenue fell 
 behind and marched to the station house steps, speculating in 
 hushed voices as to the possible crime done by the prisoner. 
 The captor and the captive passed through the swinging doors — 
 the doors that are never locked, the doors that open as a 
 jaw to let in the children of misfortune, and close upon them 
 with unloosening clasp. Outside, for a moment, stand the 
 boys ; then they are off to forget what they have seen. 
 
 To one side of a large room is the Sergeant's desk, which is 
 guarded from too close approach by an iron rail. Here stands 
 the prisoner. 
 
 Sergeant Sheehan picks up his pen, the blotter — the day- 
 book of the police station, the first milestone on the pathway 
 which leads to the prison — which is seldom closed, and 
 glances at the clock. 
 
 " What is your name ? " asks the Sergeant. 
 
 "Tom — Gentleman Tom," answers the lad sullenly. 
 
 "Tom what ?" 
 
 " McCarty, " replies the lad, his chin moving up and his lips 
 thrust forward. 
 
 " Where do you live ? " 
 " In de Sixth." 
 " How old are you ? " 
 " Twenty." 
 
 " What's the charge ? " This of the policeman. 
 
 "Assault." 
 
 "Did you see it ?" 
 
 ' ' No, sir ; I was around the corner. I sav^^ the crowd run- 
 ning to the Fourth avenue stables. When I got there I found 
 a man who had been knocked down. Here's his card. He 
 will be around and make the complaint. He was bleeding 
 and went to the drug store. People told me that the man who 
 did it had run into the tunnel. I went in and fetched him," 
 
 " What have you got to say ?" 
 
 " De feller hit me furst. Sergeant, an' it riled me. I hit 
 'im back. De feller fell down an' I runned into de tunnel. 
 Den I see de copper arter me an' I come back. Dat's all." 
 
« 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 21 
 
 " Search him. " Saying this the Sergeant touched a button, 
 which rang an electric bell and summoned the doorman or 
 turnkey from the rear room. The policeman and doorman 
 took from his pockfets an old knife, a few cents, and some 
 odds and ends. These were handed over to the Sergeant who 
 was making the following entry : 
 
 "6:45 p. M. Tom McCarty, alias 'Gentleman Tom,' aged 20, 
 resides Sixth Ward, assault on P'rederic Raingold, of No. — 
 Madison avenue, arrest made by Officer Hallihan. Charge to be 
 made by Fred. Raingold. Assault not seen by officer." 
 
 Poor Gentleman Tom ! You have taken your first step along 
 the Road of the Rough, the first step in which the People 
 of the City, County, and State of New York have taken any 
 interest, tlie first step in which the good Christians, of Chris- 
 tendom, have helped you ! 
 
 Through the back room, into the narrow yard, down the 
 slippery stairs, past the big iron gate with its heavy steel lock, 
 into the strong house of stone and brick went officer, doorman, 
 and unwilling Tom. Off the narrow corridors are doors, doors 
 of iron with locks of steel. These cell doors frown at poor 
 Gentleman Tom. The black interior, omen of blacker days 
 to come, strike into his heart and he resists. Feeble effort! 
 In an instant his hands are brought to his side, he receives a 
 push, the iron gate closes, and the spring bolt of the steel lock 
 snaps with a sound. He is alone. A slab is his bed ; a sta- 
 tionary bucket, a faucet for running water, and a tin cup are 
 the furniture. And so Misery lies down for the night and 
 waits for the morrow. 
 
 Have you ever, kind sir, or lady fair, sat beside a sergeant of 
 police on duty at the desk ; of course, you have never stood at 
 the rail and answered a few stereotyped questions preliminary 
 to "going back." Oh, no ! You know that just around the 
 corner there are a couple of green lights and a swinging door; 
 you know that at certain hours of the day a squad of policemen 
 march out to patrol their posts, that at times they return with 
 a drunken man or woman, with a ruffian, a shoplifter, a pick- 
 pocket, a sneak-thief, and a burglar ; you know that men and 
 women at night seek it for shelter ; you know that it is a place 
 to go to when your cook defies you and tells you that she 
 " won't be hurried by the likes of you, for you are only a little 
 red Irishman," knowing full well that your hair is black as the 
 crow's wing, and that you are a native born and badly used 
 citizen. Is that all you know ? If that is all, you might know 
 more to advantage. 
 
22 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH, 
 
 It is well worth watching, this human tide that surges past 
 the Sergeant's desk. Here he sits with the blotter before him, 
 recording, as the bell sounds, alarms of fire in every precinct 
 in the city; entering complaints made 'by citizens of their 
 neighbors and of their neighbors' ash barrels, writing down 
 descriptions of missing children, women, men, and horses, 
 and the names of those who, wandering homeless in the cold 
 streets, seek a warm place to sleep. Here, too, he looks over 
 the rail at the prisoner. 
 
 Think you, sir, or lady fair, that the woman arrested for 
 drunkenness, for her inability to protect herself from accident, 
 is always some poor wretched creature, ill-dressed, ill-shod and 
 hatless, or one of those erring women who have lost their way 
 on their life's journey ? If so, you are wrong. Do you know 
 that the lurking devil of the glass now and then makes a victim 
 of women who never enter a carriage, save when a footman 
 holds the door, or stoop to unbutton their shoes. So Sergeant 
 Sheehan will tell you. More than one husband has been sent 
 for to take an unfortunate wife home. But these cases, though 
 rare, help to fill the blotter. 
 
 Behind the desk is the old-fashioned dial telegraph, which 
 should be shelved in the store-room of things out of date. Its 
 bells tell the Sergeant when he is wanted, and the index hand 
 or needle spells out, in an orthography of its own, messages 
 from Police Headquarters or other precincts. What messages 
 have been delivered by the electric fiuid ! what stories of riot, 
 bloodshed, fire, and death have been consequent to these mes- 
 sages ! what deeds of heroism and valor, too, have followed the 
 quick circling of the index ! 
 
 But our interest is before the desk, not behind it ; it is not 
 at this writing in the brave fellows who wear the uniform and 
 nightly go to their posts not knowing what the night will de- 
 velop; it is with the tide of humanity that swirls past " going 
 back." Will you wrap the magic cloak about you and sit in- 
 visible to the police and the people, and jot down in your 
 notebook the passing of the tide and what Captain O'Connor 
 has to say about station house life ? 
 
 6 P. M. The night patrol has gone out. Captain O'Con-. 
 nor steps into his neat and cozy room, off the big room and 
 opposite to the Sergeant's desk. He looks up for a moment 
 at the framed photographs of Superintendent Byrnes and his 
 predecessors in this precinct — a precinct which has nightly a 
 floating population of thirty thousand persons who fill the great 
 hotels on Broadway and Fifth avenue, among which are the 
 Fifth Avenue, Hoffman House, Albemarle, Brunswick, Vic- 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 23 
 
 toria, Sturtevant, Gilsey, Holland House, Imperial, St. Cloud, 
 Rossmore, Gedney, and Barrett House, and Daly's, Palmer's, 
 Madison Square, Lyceum, Proctor's, Bijou, Hammerstein's, 
 and Standard theatres — to say nothing of the hundreds who 
 seek doubtful pleasures in shady places of amusement. These 
 predecessors — Williams, McLaughlin, and Reilly — have gone 
 their way, the first two having become inspectors, and the last 
 detailed to another precinct. Captain O'Connor lights a cigar 
 and reenters the large room. The basement door has been 
 opened to the men who want a night's lodging. They have 
 stood in line along the area rail, shivering in the cold rain. 
 What a sturdy set of vagrants they are, too, old and young, 
 grey headed and beardless, with hands thrust in pockets and 
 with coat collars turned up ! And now they give their names, 
 ages, and occupations, and "go back." May the Recording 
 Angel blot out their lives ! 
 
 I have been careful," says the Captain, "about letting 
 people in, on account of the typhus fever. When we take in 
 fifty it crowds the lodging-room and there is not room to lie 
 down. The police justices, too, try to protect the Island and 
 discourage sending up the vagrants. The regulations of the 
 department are against making a lodging-house of the station 
 for ' regulars. ' We are supposed to take care of men who 
 have no money and no work, honest fellows who have come 
 to the city thinking they will get something to do. A cold 
 night like this, however, alters things ; these fellows would 
 freeze in the streets ; so I take all ; but if the word, ' the Cap- 
 tain is going to make prisoners of the lodgers, ' was passed 
 along the line, they would vanish. Some of those fellows 
 never did a day's work and never intend to. Did you notice 
 how happy they were Avhen I told them to ' go back ' ? They 
 have not a care or worry. Some of them are going up the 
 river to-morrow to cut ice ; they are men who are ready to 
 work, but can't find it. Such men need help ; the others are 
 with us all winter, and in the spring they are gone — they dis- 
 appear just like the flies." 
 
 " What time in the morning do you turn them out ?" 
 
 " Oh, they are out early. In the morning between four and 
 five o'clock some of them are put to work by the doorman, 
 who acts as foreman, at carrying out the ashes, in cleaning 
 up, and other odd jobs. The women do the scrubbing. Then 
 they are off. Some of the men and women go to the saloons, 
 and do the cleaning, carry ashes, sweep the sidewalks, and 
 shovel snow. In that way they get a dime or a quarter for 
 breakfast. " 
 
24 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 " Are they strong- ? " 
 
 ' ' As bulls. And mighty careful not to exert themselves. 
 They are a very different grade of men from those we used to 
 have down in the Fourth Ward ; very much better. When I 
 was at the Oak street station men wou'd be brought in full of 
 whiskey — such whiskey as, we are told, kills. But it could 
 not kill those fellows. In the morning they scarcely ever had 
 even a headache. We took away over two barrels of whiskey 
 from the women down there. They would carry it in a flask 
 in their stockings ; up here they seldom ever have it. Those 
 women would not mind being searched until we got near the 
 whiskey ; if it was not in their stockings, it was in their bustles ; 
 then they would scream and fight." 
 
 " Do they come in cut and hurt ? " 
 
 ' ' Sometimes drunks come in badly cut ; up here the sur- 
 geon sends them off to the hospital ; down in Oak street the 
 surgeon would gather up the skin, sew it as you would a bag, 
 stick on a piece of plaster, and in the morning, although they 
 may have lost a quart of blood, they would be as lively as 
 crickets. They are entirely a different set of men down in the 
 Fourth and Sixth. Of course, I am speaking of the rule, not 
 the exceptions." 
 
 7 :3o P. M. A woman comes in. - 
 
 " I want to be after a-bein' arrested," says she, moaning 
 and wiping her eyes. She labors under intense excitement 
 and holds the rail with one rough, red hand. 
 
 ' ' What for } " inquires Sergeant Sheehan, giving the woman 
 a quick, close look, which nothing escapes. 
 
 ' ' Me husband an' meself can't live together. He'll beat me 
 if I return. I'm black an' blue wid a-beatin'." 
 
 Again the button. The matron's bell this time. A neat, 
 comely looking worpan enters. 
 
 " Take her back — for the night." 
 
 " What do you do with such cases. Captain." 
 
 " Let her sleep here to-night. In the morning send her 
 home with an officer. He will tell her husband that if he 
 touches her we'll take him in. She has not a bruise on her, I 
 guess, and if we sent around and made an arrest she would 
 not go to court and make a complaint. It is only a domestic 
 difference. " 
 
 ' ' Do the husbands of such women come around after their 
 wives, or afterwards to find out if they really were here ? " 
 
 ' ' Not a bit — they don't care. After a few years of fighting 
 the man goes his way and the woman hers. Such is life !" 
 
 Standing, where we stand, at the great stove between th& 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 25 
 
 Sergeant's desk and the Captain's room, we hear Sergeant 
 Sheehan say " go back " ; to the doorman, " take him back." 
 We know at once that the shabby looking man who is told to 
 "go back " is one of those unfortunates who has neither home 
 nor money and yet is a free man ; and that the well-dressed 
 fellow who is " taken back " is a prisoner. 
 
 Shall we "go back" and see where the poor are lodged 
 and the transgressor confined? Why not see this municipal 
 lodging-house as it is, this rung on the social ladder, where 
 the climber has been thrust back for his indiscretions or trans- 
 gressions? 
 
 The door swings on easy, well-worn hinges ; we pass through 
 the rear room to the station house, which is the anteroom to 
 the house of cells. Here sit a few policemen. Again we 
 open a door ; it is stiffer at the hinges and stands in a yard. 
 Before us is the reality of the place — the heavy, iron-grated 
 door. Did we say that the green ' lamps at the entrance and 
 the swinging doors reminded us of the eyes and the mouth of 
 a monster ? Well, the teeth grin at us now. They are set 
 and glisten. The matron slips into the great steel lock a thin 
 key. We stand in a narrow corridor lighted by flaring jets of 
 gas and heated by a red hot stove. Inside of this stout build- 
 ing is another house, with many narrow iron doors, all open- 
 ing on a corridor which completely surrounds it. Behind each 
 door is a cell. In these cells are women. 
 
 The matron is summoned to the Sergeant's desk, the iron 
 gate closes upon us, and we are locked in the corridor. Below 
 us is a similar apartment where male prisoners are taken. We 
 hear them talking to one another. Above us are the lodging- 
 rooms for the homeless and the vagrants. We hear the voices 
 of women. We listen. A female voice comes to us from a 
 cell — " How those hens keep a-cackling. " 
 
 We turn to the speaker ; through the grated door we see 
 her. There is a wild look in her eye. 
 
 " What are you in for?" 
 
 " I am visiting the Captain until the decorators finish my 
 boudoir. Can you slip me a ' tener ' for my fine, sweetheart?" 
 " Not this evening." 
 
 ' ' Then I shall once more go out of town for ten days. 
 'Ten dollars or ten days,' says His Honor. 'Thanks, your 
 lordship,' says I ; and society will lose my graceful curves." 
 
 The door opens. Enter a policeman and the matron. A 
 young girl is between them. At the entrance to her cell she 
 whimpers and turns to the matron with a beseeching look in 
 her eyes. "Sorry, miss," says the matron, kindly; " it is 
 
26 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH, 
 
 my duty." She steps in, the iron gate closes, the steel bolt 
 springs back and forward, the ■ policeman retires, and the girl 
 sits down on a slab to weep. 
 
 " Who is that woman ?" we ask. 
 
 " Caught shoplifting." 
 
 " And the one in the next cell?" 
 
 "Oh, she comes often. Can't leave drink alone. It is 
 fearful how they drink. Sometimes I have to watch them all 
 night, for fear they will kill themselves. We have nice looking 
 girls and women here at times. Over eighty were brought in 
 the other night. Raid, you know. Too bad ; it makes really 
 wicked women of some girls whose morals are shady and yet 
 who are good at heart." 
 
 We leave the women's prison and we ask Captain O'Connor 
 how the matron system works. ' ' Capitally, " he replies. ' ' In 
 old times we would get a woman to come in and search the 
 female prisoners ; now the matron does it. The first matron 
 was appointed in October, 1891. There are twenty of them; 
 two to a precinct. All female prisoners taken to a station- 
 house having no matrons are sent to the nearest house having 
 them. It takes a great care off a Captain's mind to have 
 women prisoners in the custody of a matron, and it is a pro- 
 tection to the men. It is very easy for a girl to make a charge 
 against an officer, and it is very hard to prove it false. This 
 makes it impossible. The precincts having matrons are the 
 Fourth, Sixth, Eleventh, Thirteenth, Fifteenth, Nineteenth, 
 Twenty-first, Twenty-fifth, Twenty-ninth, and Thirty-third." 
 
 We go down a few steps on the outside of the stout build- 
 ing and enter the men's prison. 
 
 "Captain," says a hard looking fellow; "that chap is 
 a-busin' me; I'll lick 'im." The man in the next cell laughs. 
 
 As it is impossible for these men to get near one another, 
 threats and offensive gibes are safe. 
 
 " Captain," says another; " I can't sleep." 
 
 " Keep still or I will put you in the street," Captain O'Con- 
 nor replies with grim humor. Then they all laugh. But an- 
 other face looks between the bars. It is sad and sullen. It 
 is the downcast face of Gentleman Tom. He recognizes the 
 writer and says: "Hello, mister; I'm in a fix; I meant no 
 harm. Won't yuh tell de judge; dis ain't me wurk, it's me 
 luck, d'ye see? Say, won't yuh help a feller?" 
 
 Poor Gentleman Tom ! It will go hard with you ! 
 
 And now we go into the air and climb up past the women's 
 prison to the lodging-rooms above. 
 
 Two rooms entered from without, by doors which opened 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 27 
 
 on a platform, give shelter to the homeless, the one to the left 
 is for women, the one to the right for men. We look into the 
 men's room. They lay on the floor, on the board bunks, they 
 crouch in the corners, they sit on the boards. About the 
 rooms hang heavy outer garments, such as overcoats and hats. 
 All are dressed. The heat and the smell are sickening. 
 " Why don't you give them air, Captain?" " Let in air and 
 there will be a riot, " he replies ; ' ' you can't get it hot enough. " 
 The men were quiet ; some were asleep and others trying to 
 make themselves comfortable for the night. 
 
 There is a pretty how-de-do in the room of the-»women 
 lodgers. Fifty tongues are hard at work. One woman in 
 particular is creating the disturbance. She is calling other wom- 
 en names, names not heard in polite society. The Captain 
 is appealed to ; the matron fails to establish order. ' ' Make 
 a prisoner of her," he says quietly. An officer takes her to 
 the Sergeant's desk and prefers a charge of vagrancy. ' ' What 
 will become of her?" the writer asks. " The judge will send 
 her to the Island until spring," he replies. 
 
 These women are old, shiftless, quarrelsome. Many of 
 them have toiled through life as servants and in doing day's 
 work ; at last, weary of the struggle, they throw themselves 
 on the stream which swirls in and out of police stations and 
 workhouse, police stations and asylums, police stations and — 
 well, until at rest in the potter's field. 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 
 THE SECOND STAGE OF THE JOURNEY, SHOWING THE GODDESS 
 JUSTICE DOING BUSINESS WITH STATUTES AND HANDCUFFS. 
 
 In the olden days, when travel was attended with much 
 weariness of flesh, when the bourn of the traveller was ap- 
 proached over roads deep-rutted and furrowed by coach wheels 
 and water-crossings, when post-house lamps danced away 
 into the gloom of the night and left the big brown-bellied 
 coach to jolt and swing along in the darkness, distances were 
 measured off into stages. And so to-day is that other road, 
 the Road of the Rough, along which many a traveller has 
 gone, is going, and will go his weary, hapless way. 
 
 Aye, we have followed those who have toiled through the 
 
28 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 scenes of squalor and misery ; we have seen them, at the end 
 of the first stage, rest for the night at the sign of the never 
 closed mouth and the green, flashing eyes. But how is it on 
 the morrow, the second stage of the journey? Fling wide the 
 doors of the Municipal Inn and show the traveller the well- 
 kept highway, the Municipal lioulevard, with its police station 
 at one end and a State prison at the other. In all Christen- 
 dom where is there a better road? Well paved by the sover- 
 eign people of the City, County, and State of New York ; well 
 cared for by the politicians of the City, County, and State of 
 New York ; well watered with tears by the unfortunate of the 
 City, County, and State of New York. Here stand the temples 
 built by the people of the City, County, and State of New 
 York, where the goddess . Justice is enthroned, with a statute 
 book in one hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other ; here 
 move along, in dignified and stately procession, the high priests 
 of Justice in high court and low court, the learned clerks of 
 the high priests of Justice in high court and low court, the 
 menials who wait on the learned clerks of the high priests of 
 Justice in high court and low court : and wardens, and keepers, 
 and bluecoats, and whatnots. And they — they are all banded 
 together to hurry the traveller along over the second stage of 
 the journey into the third stage, that of Prison, Penitentiary, 
 Reformatory, Workhouse, or Poorhouse. Ah ! they are hus- 
 tling fellows these ; they must look lively, for no less than fifty 
 thousand citizens of the State of New York annually journey 
 along the Road of the Rough. 
 
 And so, when the morning had come, the sun, in a shame- 
 faced sort of way, looked into the stout building where poor 
 Gentleman Tom sat, dejected, spiritless, and broken. The 
 .night had filled him with fears. He felt the high priests of 
 justices and the et ceteras were waiting for him — waiting for 
 him as vultures wait to swoop down for a banquet on carrion — 
 and he thought to himself that to those high mightinesses 
 he was carrion. His time had come, the door opened, the 
 policeman who had arrested him stood at his cell door ; with 
 him he went before the Sergeant ; with him, handcuffed, he 
 went out into the street, up to the avenue, down the avenue, 
 into the courthouse, into the prisoners' pen. 
 
 His Honor, all whiskers and stomach, all learning and humor, 
 sat in his revolving chair ; the clerk, all feathers and fuss, all 
 ink and all papers, busily toiled away with formidable docu- 
 ments, much printed and ruled. Up to the bar came, one at 
 a time, the girl who had been caught shoplifting ; the girl, now 
 §pber and sad, who had asked for ten dollars to pay her fine ; 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 29 
 
 the old woman whose tongue, like a hammer, had made a din 
 in the lodging-room ; the miscellaneous job lot of drunkards 
 and vagrants we had seen in Captain O'Connor's custody. 
 One by one they were passed along; "disposed of," says 
 feathers and fuss; "committed," says whiskers and stomach. 
 Lord of love, how Punch would have sighed had he heard the 
 jokes and seen the jocoseness of whiskers and feathers ! 
 
 And now it is Gentleman Tom's turn. His Honor glances 
 over a paper and peers into the sullen face of poor Tom. 
 Officer Hallihan recites the full particulars of the assault. 
 
 " Is Frederic Raingold in court?" asks His Honor. 
 
 There being no reply, the clerks calls out: "Is Frederic 
 Raingold in court?" 
 
 A fashionably dressed young man steps forward from the 
 rear benches of the room and.approaches the railed-in enclosure 
 in front of the magistrate's desk. 
 
 " Not in court," says the clerk. 
 
 "Do you see him, officer?" asks His Honor. 
 
 "No, your Honor," replies Hallihan. Hope shines as a 
 lamp in »poor Tom's heart, but the flame is soon quenched, 
 for he hears a voice hesitatingly answer, "Yes, sir." This 
 voice is the voice of the young man. He stands at the bar. 
 
 " Look at the prisoner, " says His Honor. The young man 
 looks at him. " Is this the man who assaulted you?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " How is this?" asks the Justice. " Did you not say your ■ 
 name was Frederic Raingold?" 
 
 "No, sir; I . " A tlush comes over the young man's 
 
 face ; he is nervous and desires to explain, but His Honor cuts 
 him short. 
 
 "You did, sir; I heard you say distinctly, 'yes,' when your 
 name was called," His Honor retorted, throwing his pen down 
 on the desk. 
 
 "I said 'yes, sir,' to my father's name." 
 
 " Are you your father, that you say ' yes, sir,' when I asked 
 if Frederic Raingold was in court?" 
 
 " I desired to explain," mildly replied the young man, " that 
 my father's injuries are such that he could not appear this 
 morning, and I have come to present his doctor's letter to that 
 effect. " 
 
 Poor Tom's heart sank. 
 
 His Honor read the letter slowly, folded it deliberately, and, 
 turning to Gentleman Tom, said : ' ' And so you struck him 
 with a stick, did you? Well, it is lucky he is not dead. What 
 have you got to say?" The newspaper reporters crowded 
 
30 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 around poor Tom, Policeman Hallihan, and Mr. Raingold's 
 son. 
 
 " He hit me fust; he called me a teef ; he sed I swiped his 
 ticker; I sed he wuz a liar. It wuz all done sudden like. He 
 hit me an' I hit 'im. " 
 
 " Do you mean that he said you had taken his watch? Did 
 you? Come, now, be honest; tell the truth. Did you?" 
 
 "No, sir; so help me. I'm no teef. " 
 
 "Did your father lose his watch?" asks His Honor of the 
 nervous young man. 
 
 "Yes, sir. Father says he felt a tug at his watch and, 
 turning, saw this fellow " — pointing at Gentleman Tom — 
 ' ' hurrying along. He grabbed him. Then this fellow hit 
 him." 
 
 " What your father told you is not evidence, young man," 
 remarked His Honor sternly; then, turning to the officer, he 
 asked if the watch had been found on him. Policeman Hal- 
 lihan said that it had not. 
 
 " Grand Jury case," remarked the Justice to the clerk; then 
 to the prisoner: " Remanded to the Grand Jury on a charge 
 of highway robbery and felonious assault, to await result of 
 injuries." 
 
 And so closed this scene in the drama. Poor Gentleman 
 Tom, that was an unfortunate blow ! As he passed out to the 
 Black Maria — the municipal carriage from prison to prison — 
 he murmured in a dazed sort of way : ' ' Me a teef ; me a 
 teef!" Officer Hallihan stepped back to be interviewed by the 
 newspaper reporters, for he suddenly realized that he was a 
 considerable person, having captured a desperado who had 
 attacked in the open streets a very prominent citizen; and 
 then it was Officer Hallihan remembered that the capture was 
 attended with very great difficulty, as Gentleman Tom had 
 fought desperately in the tunnel to escape arrest. 
 
 Not far from the City Hall, where the giant wheels of the 
 Municipal Mill are set in motion to grind out public and private 
 grist, there is a modest street which, running midway between 
 the Bowery to the eastward and Broadway to the westward, 
 seems to have been overlooked by bustling Commerce. 
 Fronting this street and the saloons opposite stands a long, 
 low, weather-worn, time-stained, grey granite building of 
 Egyptian architecture ; its flight of stone stairs, its heavy col- 
 umns, its dark corners and recesses give to it a forbidding and 
 dismal appearance. It is dismal in the afternoon, it is dismal 
 to the urchins playing in front of it, it is dismal to the parent 
 whose child is lodged inside of it. Just around the corner is 
 
CITY TRISOX TOMBS. 
 
 " Fronting this street and the saloons opposite stands a Ions, low-, weather-worn, time-stained, grey granite building of Egyptian 
 arcliitecture ; its flight of stone stairs, iis heavy columns, its darli corners and recesses give to it a forbidding and dismal appearance. 1 1 is 
 dismal in the afternoon, it is dismal to the urchins playing in front of it, it is dismal to the parent whose child is lodged inside of it." 
 (Sec />ai;r 30.) 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 31 
 
 the chief entrance — a small doorway, over which in gilt letters 
 is the brief inscription : 
 
 City Prison? Why, half the citizens of the great common- 
 wealth would not know it by this name. It has another — 
 "The Tombs." 
 
 "The City Prison Tombs," we read on Warden John J. 
 Fallon's card. The City Prison Tombs ! Indeed it is the 
 tomb, the place of departed spirits of mischief, a municipal 
 purgatory, a place where Justice, with statute and handcuffs, 
 inters the citizen whose citizenhood is dead in law. The 
 iron gate, with great locks and great bolts of steel, heavily 
 swings on its hinges. We pass into a hall ; to the left is a 
 desk where the business is transacted, to the right is another 
 iron gate, behind which sits an official with a key. We look 
 at the key, at the official, at the heavily barred gate ; then we 
 turn and ask for the Warden. How many have looked as we 
 have looked, but far more anxiously, to turn away disconsolate ! 
 
 " How many have you?" we ask of Warden Fallon. 
 
 " Two hundred and eighty males, sixty females," he replies 
 complacently, and then adds, ' ' five men under sentence of 
 death who will be sent to execution shortly, fourteen men 
 convicted of murder yet to be sentenced, and forgers, high- 
 waymen, misdemeanors, and drunks and disorderlies." 
 
 " And the women?" we ask. " What are they here for?" 
 
 ' ' Three in for murder, several for highway robbery, shop- 
 lifting, house robbery, and for drunk and disorderly." 
 
 Ladies, ladies, what says the poet concerning your hours 
 of ease ? — -" Coy, diffident, and hard to please." 
 
 And as Warden Fallon speaks we pass the keeper who, 
 standing, unlocks, opens, shuts, and locks the big gate. 
 "There, "says the Warden, " is the searching room. Here 
 a matron goes through the clothes of women visitors. Rum 
 things we find, too; everything from a file to a revolver." 
 And then passing along through a tunnel-like corridor, the 
 floor of which could be dusted with a lace handkerchief with- 
 out soiling, the Warden points out the various offices of his 
 hotel. The dining room for the keepers, the bread room, 
 pantries, store rooms, and kitchen. Another door, another 
 gate, and we stand in the yard. Before us is a strong build- 
 ing with rows of small windows. It is the old prison. 
 
 The entrance is approached through an anteroom. At the 
 great gate of steel sits a keeper. Saluting the Warden, he 
 
32 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH, 
 
 swings it open and we stand in a corridor strong with the 
 smell of carbolic. Above us rise three tiers of balconies. Off 
 each is a long row of cells with doors of grated iron, counter- 
 parts of those on the ground floor. 
 
 ' ' Those cells to the north, " says Mine Host of the Sepulchre, 
 "are the condemned. They have been found guilty of mur- 
 der and are yet to be sentenced; and that," says he, pointing 
 to the southward, " is ' Murderers' Row.' Those men you 
 see walking up and down have been sentenced to death ; they 
 are detained by order of the Court, pending some action, ap- 
 peal, or something of that sort. These men," pointing to 
 keepers, "are the 'death watch' ; they watch them day and 
 night." 
 
 "Who is that young man walking in his shirt sleeves?" 
 The young man referred to notices us watching him and he 
 steps into a cell. 
 
 " Carlyle Harris." 
 
 Surely this traveller along the Road of the Rough was not 
 born in the sunless alley or reared in the dismal, rattle-trap 
 quarter. Surely the Avenue and the alley cross at times. 
 
 " On the next tier," continues mine host, " we put the next 
 heaviest criminals " — referring, dear reader, to the crime, not 
 the criininal ; for the building is stout enough, I ween, for a 
 platoon of Goliaths — "highwaymen, and forgers, and above, 
 misdemeanors. The object is to facilitate the watching from 
 the floor of all the most important cases, although every bal- 
 cony has a keeper on duty." 
 
 Can you picture for yourself, good sir and ladies fair, the 
 long line of men as you see them in our artist's illustration? 
 Around and around the balcony, shuffling as they walk, in 
 silence pace the men whose deeds have brought them hither, 
 taking their daily exercise of an hour. Some have been here 
 before, some will come again, and some will never return 
 here or to the places that have known them. 
 
 " Every day we send them off to the State Prison, Peniten- 
 tiary, and Workhouse, but the places they vacate in the morn- 
 ing a.e filled before night." So flov/s the stream, in and out, 
 around and about, whirling and swirling the drift of the streets 
 through court and through prison. 
 
 Once more we stand in the narrow yard ; we pass over the 
 flags where often the gallows had been reared to drop an un- 
 fortunate into another and lower world, and enter the new 
 prison. Here the cells are built into a central house, back to 
 back. This, too, is filled with men serving short time sen- 
 tences for minor offenses, with men waiting trial, with boys to 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 33 
 
 be transferred to the Elmira Reformatory. At the other end 
 of the yard stands a similar prison for females. It is precisely 
 the same in construction and appointments, and is full. 
 
 " We have," says the Warden, " two classes of prisoners — 
 those sent here by police justices for trial in the higher courts 
 whom we keep until sentenced, and those sentenced for a short 
 time, running from one day to ninety days — in the City Prison. " 
 
 " Have you room for the short time prisoners?" 
 
 " Not here; but the Workhouse, on Blackwell's Island, is a 
 branch of the City Prison, and that relieves our cells." 
 
 And so it is, there is always room for one more ; and the 
 one more always comes. 
 
 And so it came to pass that in due time Gentleman Tom 
 was taken in the Black Maria from the Jefferson Market 
 Police Court to the City Prison, on Center street ; was duly 
 ushered to a cell on the tier assigned to the lodging of high- 
 waymen; and his name was entered on the books of Mine 
 Host of the Sepulchre. The sharp clang of the closing iron 
 door found an echo in the poor fellow's heart, and the cold, 
 metallic sound seemed to be as a tonic to his nerves, causing his 
 whole nature to harden. Tossing his hat on the rude slab 
 which was to serve him as a bed, he sat himself down, clasp- 
 ing his head between his hands. And so, overcome by the 
 inexorable decree of Fate, sits a young fellow whose every 
 feeling toward his fellow man is growing harder and harder 
 with each passing hour. 
 
 How slow is the step of Justice ! how she saunters along 
 the legal road, with her heavy statute book under her arm ! 
 how heavy hang the handcuffs on the accused, who, though 
 innocent, is suffering the penalty of the guilty ! Waiting for 
 trial ! Poor Tom, he is told that the Grand Jury has found 
 against him, that he has been indicted, that he has offended 
 against the People of the City, County, and Sate of New 
 York! 
 
 A new sensation is his ; never before has his patronage been 
 sought for ; but now he finds that several persons — function- 
 aries in the high courts and low courts — are desirous of dis- 
 entangling him from the legal mesh into which he has fallen. 
 One who had promised him assistance sends to his aid a cer- 
 tain large red-faced legal luminary who has saved many a 
 rogue from his deserts. Gentleman Tom is escorted to the 
 counsel room, where he is permitted to sit for an hour in 
 consultation with counsel; he relates the full particulars of 
 the circumstance which led to his arrest, and, in the telling of 
 it, is so direct, so eloquent in his innocence, that even the 
 
34 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 counsel, accustomed to pleas of innocence made by guilty per- 
 sons, is for a moment moved to the conviction that the young 
 man is the victim of an Evil Fate. 
 
 "By Heaven, sir; they can't put you here," he cries, 
 thumping the table with his huge fist on which a multitude of 
 diamonds sparkle. 
 
 " But they've done it," says Tom sadly; " but they have." 
 
 "Come now, I tell you they can't do it," reiterates the 
 counsel, his big veins swelling way down to his chest, which 
 is -visible by reason of the enormous size of the collar, 
 
 " They've done it, " answers Tom, wondering if "they" 
 won't continue to do it. For a while they talk it over, the 
 counsel urging the lad not to deceive him, to tell him the 
 absolute truth. "You know," he says persuasively, "what 
 you tell me is a privileged communication ; that is, it don't go 
 in court. What you keep back they will know, and it is for 
 me to knock them out, to show that 'tain't so, see? My job 
 is to free you, to make you innocent if you ain't, and I am 
 somewhat strong in that line." 
 
 Tom assured the distinguished counsel that what he had 
 told him was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
 truth. 
 
 ' ' Well, well, it's his word 'gainst yourn, and such cases is 
 tough before a jury; still you'll come out all right." And so 
 saying he takes his departure, and Tom goes back to his cell. 
 
 Chapter V. 
 
 WHEREIN THE ROAD TAKES A SHARP TURN OUT OF THE 
 QUARTER OF ALLEYS AND ENTERS A 
 MARVELLOUS REGION. 
 
 The country road winds its way along the factory-stained 
 waters of a stream, skirts the osier-trimmed hedges of a land- 
 locked swamp, mounts the gentle rolling hills, passes between 
 fields of wheat and clover, plunges into the shade of forest 
 trees, and breaks unexpectedly forth on a prominence, from 
 which the tourist may look down on a seemingly flat plain 
 dotted with farms and hamlets. As the country road is, so is 
 the Road of the Rough. In and about the haunts of the vi- 
 cious, the home of the poor and the lowly, it has wound its way, 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 35 
 
 and now it issues forth to skirt that marvellous region wherein 
 a people dwell, smiled on by Fortune and frowned on by God. 
 
 Do you, poor Gentleman Tom, while seated on your hard 
 bed, gaze through the grated cell door, through the wall of 
 stone, through the vault of heaven itself, and behold the star 
 of your nativity ? Do you see that it has fallen into bad com- 
 pany ? Do you see it in conjunction with another star, the star of 
 a certain important social and financial personage — a personage 
 who believes himself as far above you as the stars are above 
 him ? No ; you sit in silence moodily gazing at the stone floor, 
 alone with you thoughts, and he, he sits in silence moodily 
 gazing at the picture covered wall, alone with his thoughts ; but 
 up there the stars are crossing and recrossing, acting and re- 
 acting upon one anothei", each feeling the influence of the 
 other; and so you, in your cell, and he, in his library, sit act- 
 ing and reacting upon each other. 
 
 Mr. Frederic Raingold is at home ! 
 
 A condition or circumstance not the most pleasing to Mr. 
 Raingold ; indeed, if the truth be told, it is a condition or cir- 
 cumstance quite distasteful to this shrewd manipulator of 
 those airy fancies pleasantly called " securities "or " stocks " 
 in the classic precincts of the Stock Exchange. Still, whether 
 he would or whether he would not, he was at home ; in fact, 
 he found himself, like a stout ship, which has sailed many seas 
 and buffeted many gales, at last laid up in the stocks for re- 
 pairs. A linen bandage, deftly adjusted by a skillful physi- 
 cian, covered an ugly scalp wound on his forehead and a bruise 
 on the back of his head ; the former was the work of Gentle- 
 man's Tom's stick, the latter the result of the fall consequent 
 thereto. A headache and a thought disturbed this portly gen- 
 tleman, for he was at once suffering physical pain and mental 
 annoyance. 
 
 In his lap lay a morning newspaper. He had read in it a 
 highly colored report of a "daring highway robbery" with 
 his own name flashing in big type in the headlines. The vic- 
 tim of " the daring outrage in broad daylight " was described 
 as lingering between heaven and earth, with the lingering in 
 favor of heaven ; the perpetrator lay in a police station cell ; 
 and the object of the theft, a very valuable gold watch, was 
 being searched for, the police not having found it upon the 
 person of the prisoner. In consequence of the aforesaid article 
 and similar articles in other newspapers, many inquiries had 
 been made at the Raingold front door, touching the health of 
 the battered financial magnate. 
 
 The visitors' cards lay in two small piles, divided, as it were, 
 
36 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 for classification ; separated as we are told the sheep are from 
 the goats — some to the left and some to the right. A faint 
 smile played around the corners of his mouth as he looked at 
 them. These, thought he, regarding the larger pile, are the 
 fellows who get something out of me, who grind their axes on 
 me; and those, as his eyes wandered to the lesser, are the 
 fellows I grind my axes with or on. " I wonder," murmured 
 he meditatively, ' ' what they all would have said if a bit of 
 black stuff hung to the door knob? I wonder what Comrade 
 would have said ; what Comrade would do ? " Then he glanced 
 at a half-folded note, written in a woman's hand, on a dainty 
 little sheet of delicately perfumed robin's-egg blue paper. It 
 was a very little note, but its contents disturbed the strong 
 man ; it disturbed Frederic Raingold, the Master of Wall 
 Street ; and he, whose energy, skill, and foresight had made 
 him a considerable personage in the Knighthood of the Tape 
 and Ticker, stared at the picture covered wall, stared at the 
 landscape by Corot, stared into the shade of the trees, stared 
 into the soft evening lights, stared and stared until lost in the 
 quiet depths of it. 
 
 And as Mr. Raingold sat and Mr. Raingold's v/its went 
 a~travelling, Silence entered the room and filled it ; but Silence 
 was anxious, for Silence knew her time had not come. Silence 
 merely looked in, to wonder how she would settle herself down 
 when the time came — when the black stuff hung at the door 
 knob. And as he sits an ugly frown draws itself down from 
 under the bandage, down over the face as a veil. The door is 
 gently pushed open, a sweet-faced girl looks in for an instant, 
 then the door is even more gently closed, and a pair of tender 
 blue eyes are shut out. " Papa is sleeping," says the owner 
 of the eyes. 
 
 "Well, he needs it," murmurs a middle-aged lady in her 
 boudoir. "Come, my dear, just answer these, " and so say- 
 ing, the mother of the sweet-faced girl, the wife of the starer 
 in the front room, passes over half a dozen notes. "You 
 might begin them, ' Mama is so much distressed about poor 
 dear papa that she has asked me to reply to your kind note 
 of inquiry. ' Write them so they won't have to write again. I 
 shall answer these." 
 
 Ah, my dear Mrs. Raingold, so you, too, have divided your 
 social acquaintances, some to the right and some to the left. 
 Are there axes to be ground here, too ? How your pen flies 
 over your note paper, dear MadamiC ! Is it true that you are 
 writing thanks for "sweet" notes? How gracious the ex- 
 pression in your benevolent face, dear Madame ! Surely you are 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 37 
 
 the salt of the earth ; a salt that has not lost its savor ? Does the 
 perfume of the dainty note on robin's-egg blue paper come to 
 you, Madame, through the door of the front room ? Perchance, 
 on fine days, while taking the air in the Park in your comfort- 
 able victoria, you have not noticed a brougham pass, and the 
 face at the w^indow ; a face that is fair, that has large eyes 
 half veiled with drooping lids ; a face that men turn to look at. 
 Perchahce you have not noticed Spaulding, your well-rounded 
 coachman, slyly squint a side glance at Tiggs, your melancholy 
 faced groom. Nay, good Madame, you have not heard Tiggs 
 the melancholy chant with a jolly grin a ditty in which are 
 extolled "the beauties of the young 'un" and "the frills of 
 the old 'un," to the delight of Spaulding the Jehu. Ah, no, 
 Madame ; of course not ; but if you could read the diary of 
 Tiggs who loves Diana, your maid, you would know ' ' up- 
 stairs " better than you do now. 
 
 And so the stick strongly swung in Gentleman Tom's hand 
 had, as a magician's wand, worked a transformation scene in 
 the household of PYederic Raingold. That estimable lady, 
 Mrs. Raingold, had changed her plans for the day. Instead 
 of attending board meetings of lady managers of the Home 
 of Aged and Indignant Ladies, she had taken up her pen 
 to write notes. Instead of making her round of visits she had 
 been forced to be at home ; not that her wifely presence was 
 necessary to the comfort of the battered pillar of the house 
 of Raingold, but becoming in the eyes of that world in which 
 she moved and breathed like a thing of life, thanking God for 
 her creation and preservation. The rotund Spaulding and the 
 melancholy Tiggs were instructed to join in the procession of 
 wheels through the park, and the thought of the empty car- 
 riage, drawn by its unmatchable pair of chestnuts, suggested 
 to the mind of the fair campaigner the pomp and pageantry 
 of a military funeral — the led warhorse, the empty saddle, and 
 the reversed boots. Doing secretary's work for her was Mary 
 Raingold — doing it as she did many things — "to oblige 
 mama." For to " oblige mama" was a chronic condition of 
 the house of Raingold. Indeed, the stick of Gentleman Tom 
 had fallen on all, even to Diana the maid and Cordelia the 
 kitchen girl. 
 
 How long this state — the staring of Mr. Raingold the 
 father, the writing of Mrs. Raingold the mother and Miss 
 Raingold the daughter — would have continued is beyond the 
 prophetic powers of the writer; but a step on the stairs 
 worked a change ; it was the step of Raingold the son. At 
 once Mary jumped from her desk, looked ruefully at her ink- 
 
38 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 Stained fingers, ran into the hall, and greeted her brother, 
 saying: "Well, Fred, did you see him ? " 
 
 " Did I see him?" repeated this young man. " You bet, I 
 saw him. Come into father's room. Sis ; I will report to the 
 Governor in full. I don't propose to tell you, then father, 
 then mother, and make a job of it. " So speaking, the heir- 
 apparent, swelling with importance, entered his father's li- 
 brary, followed by his sister and Mrs. Raingold. 
 
 Raingold, Senior, hearing the door open, thrust the small 
 note into the folds of his morning gown, turned his face 
 toward his son, rested his head on his hand, and supported 
 his elbow with the table. In his other hand he held his news- 
 paper. Mrs. Raingold seated herself opposite to him, and his 
 daughter stood behind his big chair. 
 
 "Now, Frederic, " said Raingold, Senior, to Raingold, Jun- 
 ior, "your audience is assembled; take the stage." Senior 
 recognized a certain desire Junior very generally had of form- 
 ing his family into an audience when the opportunity afforded. 
 Raingold, Junior, standing in front of the fire, with mock 
 gravity bowed to the assemblage, saying: "Ladies and Gen- 
 tleman," with emphasis on the " man." "We are gathered 
 here on this mournful occasion to note how relentlessly the 
 damning catalogue of crime strode on, till Retribution, like a 
 poised hawk, came swooping down on the Wrong-doer " — here 
 quoting from his favorite book of familiar quotations — "and 
 further to note what befell the Wrong-doer. " 
 
 " Don't be an ass, but go on," interrupted Senior. 
 
 " Silence in the gallery, dear papa," whispered Blue Eyes, 
 tapping the strong hand. 
 
 " And now, ignoring the only gentleman in the room, I " — 
 
 " That's rough on yourself, Fred," whispered Blue Eyes. 
 
 "■ — I desire to invite you to accompany me to the Jefferson 
 Market Police Court. There I saw a tall, slender young man, 
 one of those fellows who are eternally doing a song and dance 
 on the street corners. The policeman who had made the ar- 
 rest said you were not in court, and the Justice was about to 
 dismiss the prisoner when I stepped forward." 
 
 " Why did you not step forward before ?" asked Senior. 
 
 "Before what ? " 
 
 "Before then; well, go on." 
 
 ' ' Well, sir, I stepped forward and presented the doctor's 
 letter. The Judge was much impressed by the fact that the 
 prisoner's victim was yourself. He knew our name, of course, 
 and was polite, although at first he was inclined to bully; 
 but when he realized who it was that had been attacked 
 
" Raingold, Senior, hearing- tlie door open, thrust the small note into the folds of his morning gown, turned his face toward his son, 
 rested his head on his hand, and supported his elbow with the table. In his other hand he held his newspaper. Mrs. Raingold seated 
 herself opposite to him, and his daughter stood behind his big chair." {See j>age 38.) 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 39 
 
 he was more courteous. In fact, I had to read the riot act 
 to him." 
 
 " Did the boy acknowledge striking me ? " 
 
 " Oh, no; he said you hit him first. His dodge is to make 
 it an affair of self-defense. But I knocked that out by stating 
 that your watch had been stolen ; that you felt a tug at your 
 watch, discovered that it had been stolen, and struck at him, 
 knowing him to be the thief." 
 
 " Did they find the watch ? " asked Miss Blue Eyes, her fair 
 cheeks glowing with mterest. " The papers say it was not 
 found on him." 
 
 " Now, my dear, if you will not interrupt I will proceed to 
 tell you that the prisoner denied having stolen the watch ; that 
 it was not found upon him ; that he swears he is not a thief ; 
 and that he is now held on a charge of highway robbery and 
 felonious assault to wait the result of the injuries." 
 
 "The charge of assault would have been sufficient," quietly 
 remarked Raingold, Senior. 
 
 " I don't see why, Governor, " said Raingold, Junior. ' ' You 
 say he took your watch. These fellows have companions, 
 confederates, 'pals,' you know. I gave the police a descrip- 
 tion of it, and they wiU try the pawnshops. The policeman 
 who made the arrest says these fellows always work in couples. " 
 
 " But, perhaps he did not take it, after all," says the soft- 
 hearted daughter, whose sympathies were commonly enlisted 
 with the weak. 
 
 " If he didn't take it, Mary, do you suppose your father 
 could have dropped his watch and chain in the street like a 
 button off a glove? Oh, no; that fellow certainly took it," 
 remarked Mrs. Raingold, with her mind quite made up. 
 
 * ' There is only one thing the police don't quite understand, " 
 continued Junior, plunging into the theory of the case; "and 
 that is, how he took your chain too." 
 
 "I suppose," Raingold, Senior, remarked, with a sneer in 
 his voice as he shaded his eyes with his hand, " you mean by 
 'the police ' the officer who made the arrest." 
 
 "No; I don't. I mean two of Byrnes's men who were in 
 court. Those detectives are fly. " 
 • "Good Heavens! what a row you are making over it all," 
 irritably interrupted Raingold, Senior. "Why did you not get 
 interviewed too ?" 
 
 "So I did. The reporters can't get any information here, 
 so they feasted on me this morning. I rather think the inter- 
 view of Frederic Raingold, Junior, will prove not the least in- 
 teresting of to-morrow's news, Governor. It was Freddie's 
 
40 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 chance to rise and shine, and Freddie has risen." Junior 
 accompanied this speech with such an infinite variety of 
 gestures that sweet Mistress Mary laughed heartily, saying : 
 ' ' Was there ever such a clever, ridiculous boy ! " Senior mut- 
 tered "Ass." Then, turning to Senior, Junior continued, 
 ' ' But as to ' row ' — as to ' row, ' why you were swearing ven- 
 geance last night." 
 
 " Well, I'd rather let the thing drop than have the bell ring- 
 1 ing all day, my name in the papers every morning, and gener- 
 ally the deuce to pay. Just tell the Judge I won't prosecute. " 
 
 ' ' Too late, Governor ; it is a Grand Jury case ; you will have 
 to appear." 
 
 " Don't you want to get your watch back, papa ; it was your 
 birthday present from me, you know ?" said Mary softly. 
 
 " It is your duty as a citizen, Mr. Raingold ; your duty to 
 society," adds Mrs. Raingold complacently. 
 
 " And now," says the hopeful son and heir to the Raingold 
 fortunes, ' ' I am off for downtown. Any message for the 
 office ? " 
 
 "No — stay! Tell Benjamin I will be down to-morrow. 
 Now, dear, run away," he said gently to his daughter. "My 
 head aches and I want to be quiet." 
 
 Left alone, left to himself in the quiet of the room, he takes 
 the perfumed note in his hand. "A Grand Jury case," he 
 mutters to himself ; then, mechanically opening the note, he 
 again reads the concluding lines : 
 
 " * -X- -X- ^Yiat the boy is not a thief is plain, for you left your 
 watch and chain here. Shall I send them to you? — Comrade." 
 
 Chapter VI. 
 
 IN WHICH A TRAVELLER OF CONSIDERABLE AND GROWING 
 IMPORTANCE SAUNTERS ALONG THE ROAD. 
 
 If, by any chance, Mrs. Raingold had been compelled to 
 give a definition of heaven, it is safe to say that this estimable 
 matron, upon mature reflection, would have given such a 
 glowing description of her conception of the celestial realm 
 that her listeners would have exclaimed in chorus: Why, it is 
 just like Society! Indeed, to the wife of Frederic Raingold, 
 to the mother of the Raingold boy and girl, no state or condi- 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 41 
 
 tion could be more excellent, more blissful, and more desirable 
 than that which she believed to be summed up in the word 
 Society. 
 
 To her society was no vague, shadowy world of indefinite 
 limits, and without a census ; on the contrary, it was a proud 
 state, with well defined boundaries and a recorded population. 
 For years she had studied it as a geographer his map, and as 
 a historian his authorities. She knew exactly where the line 
 of demarcation ran, and knew precisely who were, as she said, 
 "in society " or " on the outskirts." And, although this fair 
 campaigner could name those who were inside, and those who 
 were skirmishing around for an entrance outside, she was 
 too wise to say. In fact, had she so desired, Mrs. Raingold 
 could have drawn a series of circles within one another, and, by 
 a very simple demonstration, allotted to every family in society 
 its exact social status, its position, or its pretensions. 
 
 And why not ? Had she not had experience on the out- 
 skirts ? Do you think for a moment that Mrs. Raingold had 
 forgotten how she had worked for charity simply because 
 some fashionable grand dames were upon the board ? Indeed, 
 Mrs. Raingold would smile when she thought of those long 
 mornings at various homes, where garrulous old women 
 poured into her accommodating, if not willing ear, their 
 dreary tale about their rooms, their beds, their food, and the 
 matron ; or of the inspection of hospital wards and infirm- 
 aries for the care of objectionable people with objectionable 
 diseases. But she had done her work for Charity, and Char- 
 ity had thrown the gay cloak of Society over her stooping 
 shoulders. To-day her name and her purse were a substitute 
 for her presence at Board Meetings, and she resigned to thqse 
 who "so dearly love those dear skin and cancer people," the 
 work of visitation. 
 
 Society in her youth had been a withheld " promised land," 
 and she often said to her young admirer, Raingold, disdain- 
 fully, when he spoke of certain lofty personages he met in 
 business circles : ' ' Oh ! yes, I have heard of his wife. She 
 is one of those ultra- fashionable people;" which, judging 
 from the toss of her head and the flash of her proud eye, 
 meant moral or social lepers. But when the fair young mis- 
 tress of the proud eye and lofty head became Mrs. Raingold, 
 and the golden stream flowed steadily into the Raingold 
 strong-box, Mr. Raingold discovered that "ultra-fashionable 
 people " were allowed to possess some of the virtues of ordi- 
 nary folk. But Raingold early learned that the easiest way 
 is the best, and never voted with the Opposition, whether in 
 
42 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 her shifting social politics Mrs. Raingold was Liberal or Con- 
 servative. 
 
 Mrs. Raingold had skillfully manoeuvred to be a somebody 
 when she was a "nobody." Society had been her battlefield ; 
 her campaigns had been a series of brilliant battles at Bar 
 Harbor, Lenox, Newport, Washington, and New York. Some- 
 times the warfare went against her, but now her colors flew 
 on the breezes, and she complacently looked about her to en- 
 joy the fruits of victory. Still, although Mrs. Raingold had 
 insmuated herself into the innermost inner circle, she had a 
 sneaking sort of feeling that she was not native and to the 
 manner born, but was rather, a successful invader, holding 
 her place by force and strategy. Like Napoleon, she felt 
 there must be an alliance of blood. Therefore is it to be won- 
 dered at that she had watched with rare satisfaction her fair 
 daughter Mary develop into radiant womanhood ? Not at all. 
 Nothing is more natural. Every mother regards her daughter 
 as a winning ticket in that great lottery of chance — Matri- 
 mony. And so thinking, Mrs. Raingold toiled along in the 
 afternoons over sloppy tea roads, and in the evening sub- 
 mitted to the tortures of symphonies, private theatricals, and 
 weary dinners, waiting the day when Miss Mary would burst 
 as a meteor on society and dazzle the eyes of some eligible 
 swain. 
 
 But, just like those romantic girls, Miss Mary had her way 
 of thinking, if she thought at all about such matters, and it 
 is to be feared that if she did think about " eligibility," it was 
 not exactly Mrs. Raingold's definition of the word. However, 
 Mrs. Raingold was patient. Once she had said, ' ' Mary, my 
 dear, when you marry I hope you will marry well. " 
 
 " I hope so, mama." 
 
 " Men are plentiful, my dear; but eligible men are few." 
 " One will do, mama." 
 
 "Yes, of course, one will do; but it must be the right 
 one." 
 
 " Yes, dear, it will be the right one." There was a quiet 
 snap of the Raingold fire in those blue eyes, a firmness in the 
 words spoken ; and — well, Mrs. Raingold dropped the sub- 
 ject, and waited and watched. She thought she detected 
 light. Was it the light of an enemy's camp fire? 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 43 
 
 Chapter VII. 
 
 IN WHICH WE OBSERVE TWO YOUNG PERSONS AT THAT STAGE 
 IN THE ROAD CALLED "AT THE TURNING POINT." 
 
 " Do you think it will be right for me to go to the ball?" 
 asks pretty Mary Raingold, as she softly strokes her father's 
 hand — the hand which daily holds and passes, passes and 
 holds the tape, that slender bulletin of the prevailing war in 
 the financial battlefields ; the hand which has seized corpora- 
 tions by the throat in a death grip ; the hand skilled in Wall 
 Street legerdemain. 
 
 " Why not, my dear?" asks the owner of the hand, with a 
 pleasant smile, and a slight indication of surprise in his voice. 
 
 "Would it not look unfeeling? Would it not make people 
 say that I was hard-hearted?" The soft, white hand strokes 
 the bony hand more gently. 
 
 "Hard-hearted? Rubbish! Bother the people ; leave them 
 to your mother," he says dryly; then added, with a grim 
 smile : " She will do the correct thing, depend upon it. She 
 will provide all the feeling the case requires. Your mother is 
 a wonder at this sort of thing, Mary." 
 
 " Hush, dad!" 
 
 " Certainly go to the ball, my pet. It is midnight now; 
 run and dress. Remember youth and roses fade quickly." 
 
 " Do you mean by that, sir, that I am fading? Why, you 
 dear, wicked old dad ! " Mary retorts, shaking her finger at 
 him and saucily tossing her head. 
 
 ' ' Fading? What nonsense ! You are the loveliest girl in 
 this town, by . " 
 
 "There, that will do," she breaks in; "no cuss words." 
 Whereupon she presses her pretty finger on his parchment- 
 like lips. 
 
 " Ikit you are, by ." 
 
 "No cuss words, sir; no cuss words, dad. Why, you 
 shocking, wicked old boy!" she says sternly; then laughingly 
 adds: " Of course, I am; I am to you; am I not, dad?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear, you are. Run now ; trot off to the ball. 
 Kiss me good night." 
 
 They kissed and they parted. Raingold watched his daugh- 
 ter close the door behind her, close the radiant presence out 
 from him. As he looked, the pleasant smile, as a veil, lifted 
 itself and showed his strong, stern face, over which soon came, 
 as a second veil, another smile that twisted the comers of his 
 
44 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 mouth, hardened the furrows in his cheeks, darkened his 
 knitted brows, and gave to his eyes a cold, grey light. 
 
 Although in this age of realistic sketching, when Daudet, 
 Zola, and our own genial countryman, Saltus, caper nimbly in 
 a lady's chamber to the lascivious pleasing of a lute and, with 
 peeping eye and recording stylograph, jot down each and every 
 circumstance connected with that dainty, delicate, fascinating, 
 mysterious, and completely bewildering operation presump- 
 tively comprehended in that vague term, ' ' Dressing for the 
 ball," the writer, overcome by reverence for the sacred sanc- 
 tity of a gentle maiden's shrine, halts at the door, and leaves 
 Miss Mary Raingold to her maid. 
 
 While Miss Raingold was thus engaged, that breezy and 
 callow youth, Frederic Raingold, Junior, was in the hands of 
 his friends at the Clay Pipe Club. This is an incubating es- 
 tablishment on Fifth avenue, entirely supported by private 
 contribution. Its object is to hatch and force that wondrous 
 genus of brute creation, quite common to large cities, marked 
 " clubman " for identification if lost, strayed, mislaid, or stolen. 
 These friends, had they lived in the days of good Queen Anne, 
 would have been called " Mohocks," and in our peevish, fretful 
 times, had they chanced to enter this breathing world through 
 Gentleman Tom's bedchamber, would have been denounced 
 by our admirable friend Recorder Smyth as " Whyos. " 
 
 Well, Raingold, Junior, and half a score of other Juniors 
 had been devoting their intellectual abilities to playing bottle 
 pool, and to counting, with the assistance of chalk and black- 
 board, thirty-one, and no more. Indeed, so cramping had the 
 effect been upon their minds that at other times few of them 
 could count above that amount, except when they talked of 
 some peculiarly attractive Wall Street fancy, and then they 
 soared, and soared, and soared — into the millions. A few 
 more quarters, in consequence of his luck and skill, jingled in 
 Junior's breeches pocket, and a few more seductive brandies 
 and sodas than their little heads could stand, tuned up the 
 music in the souls of the other Juniors, resulting in a chorus 
 descriptive of the trials and tribulations of a certain Sally 
 Waters who sat " sighing and singing for a nice young man." 
 At the end of the ballad Mr. Raingold, Junior, favored the 
 company with a most natural imitation of a jackass's bray, 
 which was complacently received with every indication of sat- 
 isfaction. Having rubbed the chalk from his breeches, and 
 having chalked a few darkish spots on his white waistcoat, 
 Mr. Raingold, Junior, left the brilliant assemblage in the Clay 
 Pipe Club and crossed over to Delmonico's. 
 
I 
 
 tH£ ROAD OF THE ROUGlt. 
 
 45 
 
 He entered the Fifth avenue door of this world-famous 
 house of good cheer, stood for a moment tallying with the 
 good-looking young proprietor, Charley Delmonico, glanced 
 into the bright supper room filled with pretty women and men 
 who had just come in from the theatres, and passed back into 
 the caf6. 
 
 Here Phillippe, the head waiter, with his ever-set smile of wel- 
 come, pointed to a vacant table. Walking toward it he cast 
 his eyes about him to see if any of his own special set of pre- 
 cious friends were about, and not noticing any with whom he 
 could sit and chirp away a few minutes, he sat himself down 
 and ordered a small cup of black coffee. After a brief inter- 
 val, during which he sipped his coffee, smoked his cigar, and 
 glanced over the illustrated papers, a middle-aged man, who 
 would generally be aptly described as a " party," sauntered up 
 to young Raingold's table. His hair was grey, his whiskers 
 were grey, and beneath the hair and between the whiskers a 
 red face shone like a rising sun on a grey day. He approached 
 with the ease natural to a man of the 
 world, who had the innate refinement of a 
 commercial drummer. In a half familiar 
 sort of way he said : 
 
 "Why, Raingold, how-de-do? My, 
 but your lordship is as handsome as a 
 two-year-old. It don't take my field- 
 glasses to see you are for the ball up- 
 stairs ; go it, say I ; go it, and you'll make 
 a hard run for the field." 
 
 "Sit down. What will you have.'' 
 Here garcon " — and, putting down his 
 papers, he says: " I have been thinking 
 it over, Stellvvag, but there is nothing in it. 
 The Governor would be dead sore on my 
 having a stable. He don't like that sort 
 of thing." 
 
 " Nonsense, my boy; faint heart, they 
 say. Confess to him that Trumpeter is 
 your own; show him what you cleared on 
 the season ; show him the honor of carry- 
 ing the Raingold colors triumphant to the post," urges 
 rosy face, with a mouth in it, growing more rosy. 
 
 ' ' I tell you the Governor won't have it. I tried it 
 The Governor is business, day, evening, and night," said 
 young man earnestly. 
 
 " Not every evening and every night," suggests Stellwag. 
 
 the 
 
 on. 
 
 the 
 
46 
 
 THE ROAD OP THE ROUGH. 
 
 « 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " 
 
 "Nothing; but father, as well as son, likes amusement as 
 well as business. You should not lose the chance ; the best 
 in the world are going at the sale next Wednesday, and this 
 is the chance of your life." The rosy face grew rosier and 
 rosier, and showed a tinge of violet. 
 
 "Seductive, Stellwag, seductive, but not to me this time. 
 I am out of shape now, and the Governor is not to be thought 
 of. You will have to excuse me, " he said, paying the waiter 
 and consulting his watch. " I must go upstairs. I am just 
 on time. Goodnight." So speaking, Raingold went up the 
 back stairs to the ballroom floor above and waited for his 
 sister. And Stellwag, muttering to himself, went out on 
 Broadway. 
 
 To-night, as upon all nights when a ball is being given in 
 the large Delmonico ballrooms, carriages approach the awning 
 at the entrance on Twenty-sixth street. Each in its turn 
 stops at it. The door is thrown open, and the occupants, 
 heavily muffled in great soft cloaks and heavy coats, alight, 
 hurry over the carpet, pass the outer doors, nod to Johnson — 
 who, in the discharge of his important function of angel at 
 the gate of this earthly paradise, watches that none but the 
 chosen enter — and climb the stairs to the dressing rooms. In 
 due time the Raingold family carriage, specially built to allow 
 plenty of room for Raingold hoopskirts, frills, and furbelows, 
 dashes up to the awning with a great rumbling of wheels, 
 clanking of chains, and stamping of hoofs, for Spaulding the 
 portly dearly loves an imposing entrance into the world of 
 fashion. Like an acrobat, Tiggs the melancholy jumps from 
 his box, presents himself at the carriage door, throws it open, 
 and Miss Raingold alights, followed by Diana, who is made 
 to feel the presence of Tiggs by a decided pinch, slyly admin- 
 istered by that worthy in helping her to alight. 
 
 At the awning, watching the fashionable tide flow through 
 the entrance, stand a policeman, a newspaper reporter, one or 
 two idle-minded passers-by, and a little girl warmly and snugly 
 dressed. When she sees Miss Mary Raingold her eyes kindle 
 and she shrinks back half-abashed. There is something 
 familiar about the face. Is it the little girl of the Sixth Ward, 
 whose wonderful knowledge of the ins and outs of the dismal 
 quarter so surprised us ? Is it the child-mother we saw in the 
 crowded tenement house ? It is, indeed ! 
 
 Mary Raingold sees the child. She stops. " Why, Mabel, 
 what are you doing here?" she says, surprised, and adds: 
 " It is very late for you to be out." 
 
"■ Mary RainKold places her gloved hand on her brother's arm and advances 
 through the hall. Indeed, she is beautiful ; tall, slight, yet well rounded ; her 
 dress is pure white, soft, dainty, virginal ; her neck needs no adornment, and 
 bears none ; her carriage is easy yet dignified ; in a word, she is a woman that 
 can not escape notice, and, when noticed, cannot fail to elicit admiration." 
 {Sec page 47.) 
 
1 
 
 THE ROAD OF* THE kOUGH. 47 
 
 " I wuz waitin' to see you, Miss Mary, go to de ball ? " 
 
 " There now, I am sorry you can't see me ; but never mind, 
 run home, and come and see me at my house and I will show 
 you the dress," replies Mary gently. She felt how great the 
 compliment was to her, and she regretted that she could not 
 show herself to the child dressed for the ball. 
 
 The child hurried away, the melancholy Tiggs mounted the 
 seat by the rotund Spaulding, and, to the accompaniment of 
 the prancing of the Raingold steeds, Mary ascended the stairs 
 followed by her maid. 
 
 Frederic Raingold, Junior, walks up and down the broad 
 hall, lined with palms, putting on his gloves. He nods pleas- 
 antly to his sister, as she, giving a quick look about her for him, 
 passes along to the dressing room. He admits, with a laugh 
 to a friend who says, " your sister is a beauty, by Joe, " that 
 she is, but that "it is not her fault, for it runs in the 
 family, you know," to which his friend replies, "by Joe, if 
 you were dying, Fred, you'd say something funny." And then 
 he strikes a full, resonant he-haw. 
 
 And now Mary Raingold, at the entrance to the dressing 
 room, looks back at her train, which, at the moment, Diana is 
 adjusting, smiles, places her gloved hand on her brother's 
 arm and advances through the hall. Indeed, she is beautiful ; 
 tall, slight, yet well rounded ; her dress is pure white, soft, 
 dainty, virginal ; her neck needs no adornment, and bears none ; 
 her carriage is easy, yet dignified ; in a word, she is a woman 
 that can not escape notice, and, when noticed, can not fail 
 to elicit admiration. As they enter the ballroom Frederic, 
 Junior, says : " Have you a partner ? " 
 
 ' ' No, dear, keep a look out for me. I ordered the car- 
 riage early so that I can escape." 
 
 " Nonsense ; you are all right." 
 
 At this moment, a round, plump, short, eldeny matron, 
 whose ponderous bosom heaved under a triple row of diamond 
 necklace and pendant, stopped them, taking both of Mary's 
 hands in her fat palms, and said : " I am so glad to see you, 
 dear ; how is your father to-night ? I hope the reports are 
 exaggerated." 
 
 " Father is very much better; quite like himself to-night." 
 
 "Exaggerated!" says Frederic, Junior. 
 
 " Do you know my brother ?" adds Mary, introducing him. 
 
 ' ' I was so much relieved when I got your note this morn- 
 ing. I suppose your mother is anxious and did not come on 
 his account. That is easy for us to understand, we who have 
 husbands. Your time will come too, dear," cheerfully re- 
 
48 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 marks the estimable lady whom Mary had been instructed to 
 write to, so that she need not have to write again. 
 
 As Mary and her brother walk off, he says : ' ' Why did you 
 introduce me to that old fluff ? I have been dodging her these 
 two winters." 
 
 Two middle-aged men standing by, having overheard the 
 conversation, looked at each other. One said quietly : ' ' Guess 
 it is a novelty to Raingold to have to pass an evening with the 
 Vv'ife of his bosom. Guess he is not a household joy." 
 
 ' ' Better keep your eye on the market ; he may take this op- 
 portunity to work under cover," adds the other. 
 
 Lander's music in the small, hot loft overhead is playing a 
 march. Around and around the room circle black coats with 
 arms given to tulle, silks, and fluffy stuffs ; in these coats are 
 the male anatomies ; in these tulle, silks, and fluffy stuffs are 
 the female anatomies. Some of these anatomies have been 
 toughened by age and experience ; some were born so — in- 
 herited it ; some are thin, scraggy, loose-jointed, like lambs ; 
 others, stout, fleshy, firm set ; some are bald, grey headed, 
 wizened ; others fresh, blooming, with rosy cheeks that resist 
 the need of the razor. 
 
 Around and around they go. It is a sort of fete day in the 
 marriage market. Those who want to sell are there with their 
 goods, and those who may buy look critically over " the line " 
 offered. On a dais to the east side of room sit the wives of the 
 Patriarchs, " dignified and stately," like the house of peers in 
 ' ' lolanthe. " Some of them have goods on the floor, and they 
 are watching, first, to see that eligible purchasers are being 
 attracted, and, secondly, that youngsters with insufficent in- 
 comes for a lunch counter are not " keeping off " the holy but 
 small squadron of eligibles. All around the room are an un- 
 comfortable row of camp-stools, upon which are seated the 
 dancers, who remind one of ' ' little Miss Moffit, who sat on a 
 tuffit, eating curds and whey," so ill at rest they seem. Two 
 or three youngsters join Miss Mary, but she feels by the pres- 
 sure of Mr. Frederic's arm that the time to leave him has not 
 come. Junior notices a slim youth and points him out. 
 " There's a man, Mary, I want you to know — Teddy Common- 
 wealth, of Boston." 
 
 "Is he nice } " she asks, " He doesn't look it. " 
 
 " He is an ass, but rich; best Boston family and heaps of tin." 
 
 " I thought only clever people came from Boston." 
 
 " Cleverness ran out with A/s dad, I guess." 
 
 Just then, a good-looking man, with a slight trace of silver in 
 his hair, with a square, manly, firm face, came forward, say- 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 49 
 
 ing: " Indeed, I am glad to see you, Miss Raingold. I feared 
 you might not be here. May I have the honor to take you to 
 supper ? " 
 
 Miss Mary Raingold felt the firm pressure of Junior's arm, 
 but she disengaged her hand nevertheless, and said : "With 
 pleasure, Mr. Cecil ; if the honor is yours, may I say the pleas- 
 ure is mine ?" 
 
 And then, as they moved off, he said: "And mine too. I 
 am just in time. There is the supper march. Behold Mc- 
 Allister, like Solomon in all his glory, lead forth to the ban- 
 quet our good friend Mrs. Paran Stevens, who, in all her glory, 
 leaves the Queen of Sheba plunged in heavy shade !" 
 
 Mr. Raingold, Junior, saunters down to supper with a 
 bachelor friend, muttering to himself : "I wonder what Mary 
 can see in that sour, cynical fellow, Alfred Cecil. He seems 
 to look straight through and laugh at me." 
 
 Chapter VIII. 
 
 IN WHICH MISS RAINGOLD HAS GOOD AND SUFFICIENT 
 REASON TO VISIT THE " BIG TENEMENT." 
 
 As we journey through life we learn truths by the wayside. 
 One of these truths is, that matters of the greatest pith and 
 moment often emanate from things small, mean, and inconse- 
 quential. A face in a passing carriage, the momentary meet- 
 ing of two pairs of eyes, a half-hour's stroll, the mere circum- 
 stance of dropping into one's club, of turning a street corner 
 without any special purpose, or the matter of five minutes — 
 (what a difference five minutes, five minutes earlier or later, 
 would have made in our lives !) — and ; well, these unimportant 
 happenings alter the records of a family and change the chroni- 
 cles of a nation. Even so small a thing as ten lines in a great 
 daily newspaper, ten lines tucked away in the glowing history 
 of a day in a busy, bustling, bumptious world, ten lines of such 
 trifling importance that scarce one among a hundred read- 
 ers would notice it at all, has its influence; and ten lines 
 published in a certain morning newspaper had its influence on 
 that important personage, Frederic Raingold. 
 
 It was in Mr. Raingold's newspaper, as it was in the news- 
 papers of his one hundred thousand other fellow-citizens, but it 
 was not an item of interest to him. It was financial, but on 
 the wrong side. In his reading, as well as in his affairs, Mr. 
 Raingold preferred literature suggestive of "surplus" and 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 " plenty," rather than "deficit " and "scarcity," so he passed 
 it by. It was social, but not society. In her reading Mrs. 
 Raingold preferred " cake " to " crusts," so she passed it by; 
 but Mary Raingold was young, impressionable, and tender. 
 The good God had struck flint and steel, and a divine spark 
 had been emitted. 
 
 This paragraph, one of the hundred nightly set in the com- 
 posing room of great papers to be used if required to fill out 
 the columns, was not left out, as many of them are, to make 
 room for more entertaining items, but was printed. In the 
 morning it went out over the world, carried, as the gentle 
 winds carry the seed, to sow it on fertile and sterile fields. So 
 it was this item, lodged in a column descriptive of a grand 
 social event at Tuxedo, between a " Railroad War " on one side 
 and " Higher Coal " on the other, fell before those who, like 
 Mary Raingold, could read, with moistening eyes and a lump 
 in the throat, of a starving, dying woman. Who knows but 
 He who makes the wind to scatter the seeds, does not also so- 
 answer the prayers of the poor ? 
 
 These ten lines were headed " A Sad Case of Destitution." 
 ' ' Eyes off !" it read to Mr. Raingold ; ' ' Eyes ofi ! " it read to 
 Mrs. Raingold ; but to Mary ? — It told the story of a woman 
 ground nigh unto death by the upper and lower millstones of 
 life, of fever, of poverty, of uncared-for children crying for 
 food, of all that there is in such human misery. She laid the 
 paper down quietly and said nothing ; but an hour afterward, 
 accompanied by Diana, armed with a small basket, she left the 
 house and took a Fourth avenue car, instructing the conductor 
 to let her off near Mulberry street. ' ' It's a bad neighborhood, 
 Miss," says Diana. " Them's all Italians down there." 
 
 ' ' Never mind ; no harm will come to us. This tenement 
 house is on a court off Mulberry street. If it looks terrible we 
 will get a policeman to go with us." 
 
 "No one will touch you, Miss; you looks like an angel. 
 But they'll see I'm only human flesh and blood." 
 
 In due course of time they alight and ask their way of a 
 policeman. When this guardian of public safety learns their 
 mission he grows sympathetic, walks with them to the end of 
 his beat and passes them over to a brother officer, who con- 
 ducts them through an alley into a triangular court, across one 
 side of which a tall building raises its frowning, factory-like 
 front. A small boy, with an anxious but highly important air, 
 volunteers to show them the way upstairs, while a group of 
 ragged youngsters, all eyes and mouth, in silence and with deep 
 interest, stand in the narrow entrance and watch them pass 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 51 
 
 i,p the steep, creaking staircase witli its shaky banisters. On 
 the second flight the small guide stops, puffing with his speedy 
 ascent, and says: "A nudder leddy up 'tairs now. I — 
 I 'towed her up. Dat tudder leddy gib me a nickel." Mary 
 felt in her glove and showed him a five-cent piece, wondering 
 if " tudder leddy " had not anticipated her in her mission. " I 
 am glad to hear that, Miss," says Diana, who felt a need of 
 company in these miserable surroundings. The smells, the 
 opening of doors on a crack, the shutting of unseen doors, the 
 voices of unseen people were affecting the nerves of Mary's 
 maid, 
 
 " Dat's it, " says the guide, ' ' Say, " — and he pounds on the 
 door — "more wisitin' leddies." 
 
 Mary gives him the small coin, A feeling of curiosity over- 
 comes her and she says : ' ' What will you do with it, little 
 man ? " 
 
 "Treat." 
 
 " Who will you treat ? " 
 
 " De chillun at de door, Dey's waitin' now." 
 
 " What will you buy ? " 
 
 "Bolivars." 
 
 " Bolivars ? " Mary wondering what " Bolivars " are, gives 
 him a larger coin for heavier expenditures in ' ' Bolivars. " The 
 youngster scampers off to head a procession intent upon de- 
 vouring gingerbread horses, elephants, and strange beasts of 
 the field. The door is opened a little way, and Mary sees a 
 tear-stained face lit up with smiles, and a riotous mass of wavy 
 auburn tresses to which a comb was a stranger. In her hand 
 she held a half-eaten slice of bread. "Can we come in?" 
 says Mary. 
 
 The door is opened. On a mattress in one corner of a bare 
 room, without a stove to heat it, with broken window panes, 
 plastered with bits of paper, lay a woman pale unto death, 
 and so sparely covered that the lines of her shrunken figure 
 eloquently told the story of sickness and poverty. On a bat- 
 tered trunk a newspaper was spread, upon which was a great 
 loaf of bread and two bottles of milk. Before it sat a red- 
 headed youngster whose cheeks, chin, and nose were smeared 
 with butter, as he with rolling eyes devoured slices of bread 
 held in two hands. Near the bed, on a box, was seated a 
 well but plainly dressed young woman, with an air of quiet 
 refinement, holding in her arms a gaunt, hungry-looking little 
 child whom she was feeding with bread and milk. 
 
 As Mary Raingold entered, this young nurse raised her 
 large eyes half veiled with drooping lids as though in wonder- 
 
52 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 ment; she saw at a glance a look in Mary Ramgold's face 
 which plainly read — I am a little surprised to find any one 
 here ; the next instant she said in a low, sweet voice: " Won't 
 you come in ? " 
 
 ' ' I saw a notice in the paper and I thought I might be of 
 service," Mary replied, feeling that since another was ahead 
 of her she might be an intruder. The doing of kind acts 
 was looked upon by Mary as such a blessed privilege, that she 
 felt she might be depriving another of a certain happiness. 
 
 "So did I," spoke the low, sweet voice, "and my little 
 friends here are now having a hearty breakfast. Of course," 
 she continued apologetically, ' ' I did not know exactly what 
 to bring, so I just took what I could find ; you see it — bread, 
 milk, and a boiled tongue. Won't you come and see her ? " 
 So saying she turned her eyes — holding Mary's glance the 
 while — toward the recumbent figure. That eloquent look 
 meant, she needs what we can't give her — life. ICneeling by 
 the mattress Mary whispered gentle words which soothed and 
 comforted ; then, bethinking herself of a flask in her basket, 
 she turned, saying: " I have a flask of brandy; do you think 
 it would be good for her ? " 
 
 " In a little milk ? It might do her good. " Thereupon she 
 gave the child to its sister, who took it as one well accustomed 
 to handling children, and, kneeling beside the woman, raised 
 her head and shoulders in her tender arms, while Mary placed 
 a cup with milk and a tablespoonful of brandy to her lips; 
 "there, drink a little, poor friend." As she was laid back 
 onto her hard bed, with its stained sheets, on a pillow of old 
 clothing, she murmured, ' ' God bless you both ; God love you 
 both." Did this, whispered on earth, echo in heaven.? Did 
 angels speed to the seat of infinite mercy with these whispered 
 words ? Did they, and do they, touched by good deeds, shed 
 tears on the pages of evil and blot out the records ? Do those 
 tears, shed in heaven, fall on hard, sinful hearts of the earth, 
 to soften and cleanse them ? Who knows ? For wondrous are 
 thy ways, oh God ! 
 
 Diana the meantime had been endeavoring "to tidy up," 
 because, as she said afterwards, she would ' ' have had to bust 
 out crying, " and in doing this had taken the little boy in hand, 
 and with marvellous skill sewed up a few holes in the ragged 
 breeches, washed his face and combed his hair, while his sis- 
 ter stood by enjoining Thomas Michael to be " aisy. " Thomas 
 Michael submitted with apprehension to the progress of the 
 ancient comb through his matted locks. Then crossing and 
 standing at the window, sometimes looking at each other, 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 53 
 
 sometimes looking out over the roof tops and between chim- 
 neys, the young women stood with sweet, serious faces, won- 
 dering what had best be done. "I told her," said she with 
 the low, sweet voice, ' ' that it would be best for her to go to 
 the hospital, but she says ' no, I hear the voice of my man 
 whispering to me to come. I can not stay here. For pity's 
 sake let me die with my babies ; I can not stay long. ' Indeed, 
 I think she is dying. She looks at her children — see her now — 
 and now, she does not see them." 
 
 " But she may live if sent to the hospital. What will be- 
 come of the children ? Let us send for a doctor," says Mary 
 Raingold. 
 
 " I have sent," replies her companion, "a boy, the son of a 
 kind-hearted woman on a floor downstairs. He was here with 
 his mother when I came in. They have kept these people 
 alive. He went for a doctor and the mother went for bed 
 clothes, a stove, and a wash basin. Everything has been 
 pawned. Is it not dreadful }" 
 
 " How good you are! " says Mary impulsively, taking her 
 hands. 
 
 A veil of moisture covers the large eyes, then the drooping 
 lids close and open fast, and a slight flush mantles the cheeks. 
 " Not good," she says; " sympathetic." 
 
 As they stand talking together a tall, slim young man enters 
 attended with a physician. The doctor, with a grave face, 
 takes the wrist of the sick woman in his hand, asks a few 
 questions, noting with trained skill each beat of the feeble 
 pulse. Looking up, he says: "Young man, suppose you take 
 the children out in the hall for a while. Will you young ladies 
 stand here for a few minutes ?" The young man leaves the 
 room with the strange bit of motherhood carrying her charge on 
 her left arm and leading Thomas Michael, suppressing a moan 
 with difficulty. After a more careful. examination of the pa- 
 tient the doctor rises, writes a prescription, and talks with the 
 young women, who feel deeply concerned. They have seen 
 for themselves that the flame of life was merely flickering in 
 that poor, wasted human vessel ; but they were young and 
 they had hope. 
 
 " There is nothing to be done," he says in a hushed voice. 
 " It is a mere matter of a few days — hours, perhaps ; it is too 
 late for medicine. It might have been different ; but neglect, 
 want, and lack of nourishment have done the rest. A miracle, 
 not medicine, can cure her. This is merely something to 
 soothe her ; it will ease her, that's all, " And he left the room 
 
54 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 as a rosy-faced Irishwoman entered bearing an armful of 
 blankets, comforters, and sheets. 
 
 After nialiing the woman comfortable in her new bed the 
 two young women left, promising to return the next day. A 
 look of intense gratitude filled the eyes of the sufferer as 
 they passed out of the room. The rosy-faced Irishwoman 
 who Mary had engaged to wait on the sick woman was busy 
 with her son putting up a stove when the door closed behind 
 them. 
 
 A cab stood in Mulberry street. Into it stepped the young 
 woman with large eyes veiled with drooping lids, saying : " If 
 you will be .here to-morrow, I may see you. Good day." 
 
 "Good day," Mary Raingold said pleasantly. 
 
 " It seems to me she might have taken you uptown, Miss," 
 remarked Diana as they walked toward the horse cars; " but," 
 she added, as though borrowmg a leaf from Mrs. Raingold's 
 book of social ethics, " I suppose, not knowin' you, she may 
 not like to make chance acquaintances." 
 
 Chapter IX. 
 
 BESIDE A FLICKERING LAMP SIT IN SILENCE TWO TRAVELLERS 
 ALONG A ROUGH, WELL-WORN ROAD. 
 
 On the following morning Mary Raingold and Diana stood 
 before the entrance of the big tenement laden with pack- 
 ages of various sizes and shapes. A young Irishman, whose 
 cheeks still held the blush of kisses imprinted by the soft 
 winds which caress his native isle, seeing them so burdened, 
 thrust a short clay pipe into his breeches pocket and, with an 
 air of crude courtesy mingled with shyness, offered his serv- 
 ices. He, as well as others in the swarming hive, had heard 
 that ministering angels in human forms had come among 
 them to relieve the necessities of one of their number. After 
 climbing the long stairs Mary entered the room and found 
 her companion of the day before, with sleeves tucked up, 
 hard at work. The two young women greeted each other 
 cordially. 
 
 A change had been wrought by these practical girls. A 
 plain, bright iron bed ordered by Mary Raingold had been 
 put up by the middle-aged woman and her son. On its soft 
 
" A plain, bri.u'it iron bed ordered by Mary Hainjjold had been \mt up l)y ihe nnddle-a,i,'ed woman and her son. On its soft luattress, 
 with her head sinking into pillows the like of which may never have been under it before, lay the sick woman." {See j>age 54.) 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 55 
 
 mattress, with her head sinking into pillows the like of which 
 may never have been under it before, lay the sick woman. 
 At her side, on a chair, a bunch of bright, delicious flowers 
 added a touch of color and freshness. At the foot of the bed, 
 in a basket, slept the child. In the centre of the room a stove 
 gave out a gentle heat, which delighted the soul of Thomas 
 Michael, who persistently touched it to see whether it was hot, 
 and each time scowled while placing the investigating finger 
 into the capacious recess of his cheek. Upon this stove stood 
 a steaming kettle and a tin, the contents of which the young 
 woman with the large eyes busily stirred. " You see," said 
 she, smiling, ' * we are all hard at work. " 
 
 ' ' Yes, indeed ; what a lot you have done ! How is our 
 friend ? " asked Mary, crossing over to the bed. 
 
 " About the same," she replied; then, sinking her voice, she 
 added very softly: " I fear she has little strength left." 
 
 Mary Raingold sat by the bed and talked to the woman 
 who, feeling her hour was coming, was troubled about her 
 children. Mary tried to comfort her as best she could. ' ' If 
 Mabel were only grown," said the mother, looking toward her 
 eldest child; "she would be a mother to them; but Mabel is 
 only a child. Poor Mabel! " And as Mary sat talking and 
 the young cook kept stirring the contents of the tin, Diana 
 busied herself' in fitting a warm gown to Mabel's spare figure. 
 After a while the young woman with the large eyes said to 
 Mary slowly and hesitatingly : "I am going now ; I am going 
 to leave you alone with her, I think she would like to talk to 
 you — to you — about things — about things — you understand ? " 
 
 " Won't you talk to her?" said Mary gently, and added: 
 " Do you think she would like to have a priest ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Please talk to her. I have seen her lips 
 move — move as though in prayer. She tried to speak to me." 
 
 ' ' Oh, why did you not speak to her ? " 
 
 ' ' Don't ask me ! I could not. " 
 
 And so went another day, and still another. For almost a 
 week the woman suffered on, slowly sinking ; and every morn- 
 ing or afternoon her visitors came with their sunny, cheerful 
 presence. 
 
 One day Mary Raingold stood at the window and, turning 
 to Mabel, she said : " I have not seen Mrs. McCarty this morn- 
 ing. Has she been in ? " 
 
 Mabel crossed over to her and, looking about to see whether 
 she would be overheard, said : ' ' Her son, 'im that was 'ere, 
 is put up; an' she's takin'on. " 
 
 "What do you mean?" asks Mary, wondering what the 
 
56 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 child means by "put up," though vaguely surmising that 
 trouble has overcome the bustling Irishwoman. 
 
 " I mane, Tom's been after stalen an' de cop's nailed 'im, 
 an' his mudder is off lookin' arter 'im." 
 
 How much crime, thinks Mary to herself, how much crime 
 and misery there is in the world, and how much trouble and 
 pain each one creates who leaves for a moment the right path. 
 
 At luncheon on the day following the Patriarchs' ball Mrs. 
 Raingold says to her daughter : ' ' Mary, there are two or three 
 places we must go this afternoon, and I will thank you to be 
 ready to go with me. " 
 
 " At what hour, mother ? " 
 
 " At half after four. Suppose we drive first ?" 
 
 " No, mother," says Mary softly; " I do not care to drive 
 to-day. I will try to be ready at half after four. I have some 
 things to look after first." 
 
 "What ?" inquires Mrs. Raingold, thinking to herself that 
 her daughter has not of late been accounting for her time. 
 
 " Some poor, sick people," answers Mary. 
 
 "Oh, tut, you and your poor!" ejaculates Mrs. Raingold, 
 showing annoyance. ' ' Why don't you give them those tickets ? 
 What is the use of subscribing to the Charity Aid Society, if 
 you spend all your time running after these people ! Why 
 should a girl at your time of life give her time to such things ; 
 make an old woman of yourself before you are a woman ? I 
 do not approve." And, so saying, Mrs. Raingold lapsed into 
 sile«ce, much to Mary's satisfaction. Immediately after Mary 
 and Diana started off on their daily errand. 
 
 A change was about to take place in the small room at the 
 top of the long creaking stairs. A fiame of life burning low in 
 a human vessel was flickering, flickering ere it took flight ; a 
 spark was about to be drawn back to the source of all light. 
 Over chimneys and house tops, dancing through queer nooks 
 and cre\'ices, into sullen courtyards and gloomy alleys, through 
 dingy windows, and into the sick room, lighting it with its glory, 
 shone the sun. It stretched itself on the board floor, it crept 
 up the cracked wall, it stole into corners, and finally it fell across 
 the sick woman's bed. The invalid's eyes rested upon it. And 
 she with the dreamy eyes moved toward the window of paper- 
 patched panes to shut it out, fearful that it might disturb the 
 sufferer, but 3he stopped, seeing the woman motion to her. 
 She resumed her seat by the bed. " Let it shine. Miss; can 
 you push me into it ?" whispered she whose light was grow- 
 ing dim, and more dim, with each running hour. When the 
 bed wgs rolled irito the sun, it shone upon her, across her frail, 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 57 
 
 wasted form, and then she murmured half audibly : "As 
 child — loved sun — played in it — sat in it — sang — please sing." 
 With a tear stealing down her cheek, with a lump in her 
 throat, with a feeling of pressure upon her, the girl, holding 
 the wasted hand, sang to her — sang to her such songs of 
 sweetness, tenderness, and devotion that Mary and Diana, 
 standing at the door, stood there, hesitating to enter. After a 
 while, the voice, sinking lower and lower, ceased, a hush was 
 in the room, and they entered. Across the bed the sun lay ; 
 across the bowed head of her who sat silent, with hands clasped, 
 it fell as a halo, and the air, trembling with light- and song, 
 seemed to Mary as the atmosphere of a sacred place. 
 
 Seeing the door open, the girl quickly arose, with finger to 
 lip, enjoining quiet. She moved forward to Mary saying: 
 " She sleeps." 
 
 At the window she said that fearing the end she had sent 
 Mabel with the children out for a walk, and Mary, wishing to 
 be left alone, sent Diana to join them, giving her change to 
 buy candy or fruit for them. And then, as the woman slept, 
 they, these two young women, so strangely brought together, 
 stood at the window talking in whispers as to the children's 
 future. The sun touched them both, touched the bed, and 
 seemed to bless them all. Then as the sun shifted, the shad- 
 ows stole dark and deep from the corners, crept over the floor, 
 and followed the moving light as night follows day, and silence 
 follows darkness. Standing at the window Mary took the 
 girl's soft, white hand in hers and said : ' ' We who have met 
 as strangers, we who have seen each other day by day, have 
 never spoken ^our names." She with the drooping lids began 
 to withdraw her hands ever so gently, and Mary, not heeding, 
 continued : ' ' Mine is Mary — Mary Raingold. " 
 
 " Raingold ! " whispers the girl in a surprised, questioning 
 way. "Raingold!" she repeats, closing her eyes for a in- 
 stant, as though it hurt her to speak the name. Then she 
 raised the curtains of those clear, beautiful eyes, clenching one 
 hand tightly and sweeping her forehead with the other, say- 
 ing : ' ' And mine ? — well, pray excuse me — mine is — for- 
 give — I am only an actress." There was a half-suppressed 
 sob of pain in her faltering voice ; but she moved to the bed. 
 A sudden change in her face attracted Mary to her side. It 
 had been caused by the woman whose eyes seemed to be fol- 
 lowing the sunlight, whose mouth seemed to smile with the 
 sunlight, whose aches had been drunk in by the sunlight, 
 whose light had gone out with the last touch of the sunlight, 
 3.nd who was now cloaked with the shadow, and at rest in 
 
58 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 Silence. The Silence that came out of darkness ; the Silence 
 that had waited and watched, watched and waited, to enter 
 the room and fill it. 
 
 And she and Mary sat quiet and motionless by the dead. 
 
 Chapter X. 
 
 IN WHICH THE ROAD TAKES A TURN AND RUNS THROUGH THE 
 HOSTELRY OF MINE HOST OF THE SEPULCHRE. 
 
 And Tom in his cell sat the long days through. He won- 
 dered sometimes if, in the many affairs to be neatly adjusted 
 to the statutes by justices of high court and low court, his had 
 not been overlooked. So small and insignificant he seemed in 
 his own eyes, that he was inclined to believe that Justice, in 
 fixing her handcuffs upon so many wrists, might overlook him 
 and leave him to grow old. Standing, where he stood daily, 
 at his cell door, he had watched the strange, quiet life around 
 him. Along the corridors and in the main hall he could see 
 the keepers doing their long day's work. Sometimes he could 
 see them go on duty at seven in the morning, and frequently 
 he would see their relief come on at seven at night. Twelve 
 hours a day, thought Tom to himself, is a long day's work, 
 and he reflected that a keeper who followed this occuption for 
 ten years was passing five years in jail. Five years is a long 
 sentence, he mused. Often he thought he would like to talk the 
 matter over with one of his guardians, but he did not venture 
 to do so. Then he fell to counting the keepers, their clothes, 
 the buttons on their coats, the number of cells, the number of 
 holes formed by the grating to the cell doors. In this way he 
 occupied his mind. 
 
 Not the least interesting of his observations was the life 
 about him. He seemed surrounded by incessant activity dur- 
 ing the day. The coming and going of his many mates in 
 misery attracted him. He soon learned to divide all prison- 
 ers into two classes. Those who had come for the first time 
 showed it by a blush of shame, or in pallid, nervous faces. 
 "They often hung their heads, or looked cast down and trou- 
 bled. But those who had been in "the Tombs" before 
 showed little or no concern. They carried themselves as 
 though their present dilemma was in the natural sequence of 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 59 
 
 events. Some nodded to keepers as much as to say — ' ' Well, 
 old man, here we are again." He could not fail to note the 
 varied range of facial expression. There were some men 
 with faces indicative of high qualities, manhood, honesty, 
 staunchness ; and there were others — low, cunning, and treach- 
 erous. He soon learned the Warden's classification of pris- 
 oners, and he wondered sometimes, to see what delicate, 
 refined looking men were apparently held for violent deeds ; 
 indeed, he began in an idle sort of way to connect faces and 
 crimes ; at length the incongruity of faces and alleged crimes 
 bewildered him, and he looked on with perplexity. 
 
 In the morning there always seemed to be an air of expect- 
 ancy about the place. At many cell doors, in fact, at most of 
 them, the prisoners stood as Gentleman Tom did, looking out 
 in the corridors. He saw those who were going to court for 
 trial step out of their cells. Their clothes were better brushed, 
 their faces cleaner, their hair more carefully combed. Each 
 figure seemed to indicate a greater nervous strength ; it was 
 plain each prisoner was determined to summon every power to 
 carry him through the ordeal before him. If liberty was not 
 to be attained, a short sentence might be possible; hope 
 burned in each breast as a flame in a lamp. Then there was 
 the removal of the sentenced. How different ! These men 
 stood in line, limp, spiritless, broken. The State Prison was 
 before them, and hope, the flame in their breast, was quenched. 
 It seemed to Tom that no sooner was a cell vacated than 
 another miserable unfortunate crossed its threshold, and so 
 thinking, he wondered how long the line would be if all who 
 sat in his cell before he had entered it, and all who would fol- 
 low in the days to come, could stand in a row. In the fore- 
 noon he would hear the rumble of the "Black Maria" entering 
 the prison yard, and soon he recognized the sound to signify 
 the arrival of more boarders to Mine Host of the Sepulchre. 
 And then, glancing down, he would see the new arrivals, just 
 committed in Police Courts, conducted to their cells to wait 
 trial, as he was now drearily waiting. 
 
 At first the sight of food was enough for Tom, but in a 
 day or two his nervousness wore off, and he ate his meals 
 with a hearty appetite. He noticed that the man in the cell 
 next to his had certain dishes not served him, and discovered 
 that these were not the prison fare, but extra dishes ordered 
 and paid for by the prisoner. And so, thought Tom, even in 
 prison a little money makes the rough road smoother. But 
 what he chiefly wondered at was that his neighbor should buy 
 food when what was given was good enough for any one. 
 
6o 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 Still, in gastronomic matters, Tom was scarcely a man of 
 refined tastes. 
 
 His mother daily visited him, and moaned at his door, tell- 
 ing him amid her choking sobs to be cheerful, to be brave, for 
 in a little while he would prove his innocence. These visits, 
 although they broke into the oppressive monotony of his. life, 
 disturbed him greatly ; he felt very keenly the pain and anguish 
 she suffered. One afternoon a keeper told him that a young 
 girl had come to see him. 
 
 " Wat's 'er name?" asked Gentleman Tom, looking sur- 
 prised. 
 
 " She says it's Mabel — thought it was your sweetheart that 
 is to be — being too young for sweetheart, let alone wife — and 
 says she is only a friend," answers the keeper. 
 
 Presently the young maiden, " too young for sweetheart, let 
 alone wife," comes to Master Tom's door and looks through 
 the grating. ' ' Tom, " she whispers. 
 
 ' ' Hello, Mabel. Sorry can't inwite yuh into me parlor, as . 
 de spider remarked to de fly — we'll have to tune our conwer- 
 sation to dis 'ere lattice as dey do up at de con went." Poor 
 Tom, he wants to show he has a stout heart! 
 
 "Say, Tom, is dat yer dungeon?" Mabel whispers in a 
 hushed voice, peering into the cell. 
 
 ' ' Dat's a penetratin' obserwation, Mabel, partly right, 'nd 
 partly wrong. Dis sumptuous 'partment is a dungeon cell, 'nd 
 is mine 'cause I can't get rid o' it ; but, remarkin' de sudden 
 changes dat takes place 'ere most all de time, 'twon't be long 
 mine." 
 
 "Where's yuh goin', Tom ? " 
 
 "Up." With this Gentleman Tom motions, casting his 
 thumb over his shoulder. 
 
 " Up where ? Mudder's gone up ! " says Mabel. 
 
 " No, wat ? " Tom's pronunciation of the word"wat" 
 is accompanied with a gathering of the lips as though he were 
 about to whistle, and the word is sustained upon a long and 
 exhaustive breath. 
 
 " Yes," says Mabel, with the tears stealing down her cheeks. 
 " She's gone up — gone to hev-hen. We's buried de remains 
 to-day." 
 
 Tom shook his head, 
 
 ■ ' Dose ladies wuz angels, Tom. Dey did everyt'in'. Here's , 
 flowers from de grave fur you. Mudder wuz fond o' you, 
 Tom. Thomas Michael an' de baby is in de mstitootion, an' 
 I'se goin' to be a maid to de udder lady, de one wid de sleepy. 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 6l 
 
 eyes. I say, Tom, de tenants down first floor say dat de fash- 
 ionable lady's fadder's name an' de lan'lord's is de same." 
 
 " Wal, Mabel, dat's not queer to me. Sittin' 'ere playin' 
 t'oughts — sort o' solitaire, ye know — I t'inks 'bout life a good 
 deal, an' I sez not'in' is surprisin' — t'ings er just as dey is to be 
 an' dere's no use buckin' 'gin fate. Yuh see de lan'lord col- 
 lect de rent, as dat lecture feller sed de sky collects de water 
 from de ocean, an' his daughter pours de money as charity as 
 de sky pours down de water as rain. Dat's motion. De only 
 t'ing dat don't move is Justice, an' I guess de t'in-dressed 
 woman with de bandage 'round her peepers is 'sleep. Wat 
 did yuh say de lady's fadder's name wuz ; what's hern ? " 
 
 " Raingold." 
 
 "Raingold! Why, jimminy crimps, dat's de name o' de 
 feller who sez I swiped his clock ! " Gentleman Tom's voice 
 trembled with emotion, he held the gate firmly in his hands. 
 Noticing his agitation, Mabel said softly : ' ' Why, Tom, 
 you've jes' been after sayin' not'in' wuz a 'sprise to you. 
 Look at ye now ! " 
 
 ' ' By jimminy crimps !" 
 
 That evening Gentleman Tom had thoughts. He sat 
 looking, as it were, for them — looking down deep into a 
 bunch of withering flowers — flowers from the grave. 
 
 Chapter XI. 
 
 A POINT ON THE ROAD WHERE WE MEET RAINGOLD, OF WALL 
 STREET, AND BYRNES, OF MULBERRY STREET. 
 
 Frederic Raingold has business this morning on his 
 way downtown. 
 
 A note had been the cause of it. It was a very plain look- 
 ing note, enclosed in a very plain looking envelope — just such 
 a looking envelope as one receives inviting the reader's atten- 
 tion to a reaping machine, to a new button fastener, or to any 
 of those many articles for which we may, might, could, 
 would, or should not have any possible use or desire. It lay 
 at Mr. Raingold's place at the breakfast table. He opened 
 it, read it, and looked at Junior. 
 
 If there was anything in the world that Junior might desire 
 to avoid, it was this daily breakfast with Senior. Upon this 
 particular morning Junior had the outward and visible appear- 
 
62 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 ance of being absorbed in the news. He hdd his newspaper 
 up, ostensibly to read it, in fact to screen himself from 
 Senior's' eyes; for, if the truth be told, there was that half 
 burned out look about his eyes, which it were better for 
 Junior for Senior not to see. Junior the evening previous 
 had been detained very late, or rather very early, at the Clay 
 Pipe Club, and after such outings Junior was conscious of an 
 increased appreciation of ice-water and newspapers and a 
 decreased appreciation of truffled eggs and conversation. 
 
 Raingold, Senior, looked toward Junior as though about to 
 speak; Raingold, Junior, behind his newspaper, felt that 
 Senior was looking toward him. Senior changed his mind 
 and audibly muttered, "Donkey." Junior, hearing this ob- 
 servation, made a wry face, opening his warm, cotton lined 
 mouth, which seemed to say — Now I'll catch it. After a 
 brief, but seemingly long interval Junior, not hearing the awful 
 question — "What time did you get in, sir ?" closed his mouth 
 and waited. 
 
 The butler, moved perhaps by a fellow feeling, quietly filled 
 
 his goblet for the third time. "Donkey ass," ejaculated 
 
 Raingold, Senior. Meaning me, thought Junior, to whom 
 the page of murderers, suicides, divorces and the other choice 
 tid-bits of daily news seemed to dance and blend. To his 
 relief Senior arose, strode from the room and from the house. 
 
 "Spriggs," says Junior, laying down his paper; "the Gov- 
 ernor is onto me." 
 
 "Well, sir," remarks Spriggs smoothly; "your father did 
 look pretty sharp at you ; but 'twasn't because you was out 
 late, sir; the cause, sir, was a note in his mail, sir." 
 
 "What in the deuce could it have been?" says Junior, 
 wondering if he had any bills. "I wonder if Stellwag has 
 written to the Governor. Confound him !" Thereupon Junior 
 rushes out of the house m search of Stellwag. 
 
 This note was not from Stellwag. It was from Chief In- 
 spector Byrnes, politely requesting Mr. Raingold to stop at 
 Police Headquarters on Mulberry street on his way down- 
 town. And so Mr. Raingold has business this morning. 
 
 A hansom dashes up to the entrance and Mr. Raingold 
 passes into the building, between two green lamps which are 
 just as green and jealous looking in the daylight as at dark ; 
 just the same looking lamps and just the same looking door 
 as when Gentleman Tom passed into the police station : they 
 seemed, to his fancy, the flashing eyes and flapping mouth of 
 a great monster. 
 
 Mr. Frederic Raingold is ushered into the Superintendent's 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 63 
 
 office, where he meets Chief Inspector Thomas Byrnes, Acting 
 Superintendent. 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Raingold," says the Inspector pleas- 
 » antly, coming forward. ' ' I hope it did not inconvenience 
 
 you to call. I would have stepped into your office, but I am 
 on duty here and don't get down to the Wall Street bureau 
 very often." 
 
 "No inconvenience, Mr. Byrnes; not in the least. What 
 can I do for you ?" says Mr. Raingold quietly, looking keenly 
 at the great detective. 
 
 " Nothing. Take a chair. Have a cigar ?" So speaking, 
 the Inspector stands before his desk, his undress sack coat or 
 blouse unbuttoned, and knocks the ashes from his cigar. He 
 continues quietly : ' ' You were attacked, Mr. Raingold, a few 
 days ago, and your son told my men that the party who struck 
 you took your watch and chain. Well, the man was caught 
 and is locked up ; it is our duty to find the stolen goods. My 
 men say no watch of this description," handing Mr. Raingold 
 a type-written description of the watch and chain, "has been 
 pawned in New York, Brooklyn, or Jersey City ; in fact, in 
 Boston or Philadelphia. The description, perhaps, is faulty; 
 will you correct it ?" 
 
 Mr. Raingold reads the paper slowly and says : ' ' That is 
 sufficient. Oh, don't bother; let it go. " 
 
 "Oh, that is not it, Mr. Raingold," quietly adds the detect- 
 ive, puffing his cigar. "It is my duty to protect the citizen 
 and catch the thief. To catch the thief I must find the stolen 
 property. You must see it won't do to let a thief go free ; he 
 sets a bad example." 
 
 "But haven't you got him?" questions Mr. Raingold. 
 
 " Well, it appears that we have ; does it appear so to you ? " 
 answers and questions the Inspector, brushing the ashes 
 from his coat. 
 
 "It certainly does." 
 
 "That's it," said Byrnes; "it certainly does appear so, but 
 I never go by appearances; appearances are misleading." 
 
 Mr. Raingold, who had begun to smile, ceased and as- 
 sumed an air of incredulity. 
 
 "This particular young man in a particular tough district," 
 added the Inspector, ' ' has earned a reputation for honesty, 
 and deservedly. Many people, I am told, have reason to 
 believe him honest. They are surprised that he struck you. 
 Can there be any mistake about that ? " 
 
 " None; he admits it," answered Mr. Raingold with a flush 
 of color. 
 
64 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 " But he denies taking your watch ? " 
 " What does that amount to ? " 
 
 " Did you wear that coat the day you were assaulted ? " 
 " Yes; this one and an overcoat," 
 " Your overcoat was buttoned ? " 
 
 "No, it was open, thrown back," says Mr. Raingold, 
 showing how it was thrown back. 
 
 "And this one?" adds Inspector Byrnes, touching the 
 coat, ' ' was buttoned, top button only ; well, well, that cer- 
 tainly does expose the vest. Your watch was in the right- 
 hand pocket; there, very easy to get at, certainly; easy to 
 snap on the ring, very easy ; and the chain heavy linked gold, 
 and bar passed through this button-hole. Wore the same 
 vest, I suppose ? " 
 
 "Yes," replied Mr. Raingold, feehng uncomfortable. 
 
 ' ' Button-hole good and strong ; not broken ; scarcely worn. 
 Did you feel a tug ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Supposed not. Bar must have been passed through. 
 Not easy ; not easy thing to do. It was a cold day, cold day, 
 Mr. Raingold," Mr. Byrnes drawls, puffing his cigar. 
 
 " Yes, it was pretty cold," replied Raingold, getting more 
 red and more uncomfortable. 
 
 ' ' Cold day to be out with your overcoat open like that ; 
 must have been feehng warm?" Mr. Byrnes drawls and 
 smiles. 
 
 Raingold gave the Inspector a steady look and said : ' ' Look 
 here ; I am neither a fool nor a child. What do you mean by 
 this examination? Are you working the third degree on 
 me?" There is a moment's pause and Mr. Raingold con- 
 tinues irritably : ' ' Confound it, do you know who I am ? 
 Do you think I stole my own watch, or what do you think ?" 
 
 "Well, be quiet, Mr. Raingold; you are a man of busi- 
 ness. Everybody in Wall Street knows you. You know 
 what my business is and what my duty is ; you know it is my 
 duty to protect lives and property. I know that New York 
 shall be the safest city in the world. When a citizen says he 
 has been knocked down and robbed on a public highway, I 
 must not think who the thief is, but I must know. You 
 must know and I must know. Every theft is a mark against 
 my record. Now we understand each other. I won't go 
 further than the first degree, Mr. Raingold ; however, I shall 
 ask you one question more. It is not impertinent. Did you 
 ever see your assailant before he struck you ? " 
 
 " No. I never saw him before." 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 65 
 
 " Now, Mr. Raingold, in my way of having to know things 
 I am glad to know firstly, that your watch was not stolen by 
 your assailant ; secotidly, that I know why you felt so warm 
 that you did not button your overcoat which, allow me to 
 suggest, was imprudent, as it was a very cold day ; thirdly, I 
 know that you might like to say the watch was returned by 
 the police; fourthly, . I know you will not charge the boy 
 with stealing your watch ; fifthly, I will ask the last question : 
 Come now ; shall I send the watch and chain to your office, 
 or will you get it yourself ? " 
 
 " Don't bother about it. We understand each other — you 
 can appreciate the fix I was in." 
 
 "Certainly," drawled the great detective; "perfectly. 
 Stock brokers are very apt to get in a fix at the stage door. 
 Take a cigar." 
 
 The great manipulator of millions feels very small as, smok- 
 ing the cigar, he reenters his hansom ; and Inspector Byrnes, 
 stroking his moustache, laughs quietly. He is accustomed to 
 seeing big men crowded into small corners. 
 
 On the same evening Raingold, Junior, and his sister Mary 
 went to the theatre, and afterwards to Delmonico's to have a 
 bite of supper. There are many who go to this famous 
 place of entertainment after the theatre, not so much because 
 they feel the need of supper, or because they are tempted by 
 the delicious dishes Delmonico only knows how to set before 
 his guests, but for the amusement it affords one to meet 
 friends. Indeed, Delmonico's restaurant after eleven at night 
 is a congress of delegates from the many social sets that 
 compose that marvellous organization called Society, while 
 the cafe adjoining it is, in fact, a cosm.opolitan club. Here 
 they sat for a while eating a light supper. From his place in 
 the doorway Mr. Cecil saw Mary Raingold and entered. As 
 he approached the table at which she was seated with her 
 brother, he stopped for a moment to chat with friends. 
 Junior noticed him, and, turning to his sister, said: "There 
 is that fellow Cecil, Mary. I guess he is coming over to 
 speak to you." 
 
 ' ' Why do you say ' that fellow, ' Fred ? " said Mary, feeling 
 a slight color coming to her cheeks. 
 
 " I don't like him ; he is a cad," answered Junior. 
 
 "You wrong him, Fred. He is not 'a fellow' simply be- 
 cause you don't like him, and if I am any judge of men, I 
 should say he is very much the gentleman. You have no 
 business to call a man a cad," she said warmly. 
 
 ' ' Oh, come now, Mary ; don't scold. Can't a chap say what 
 
66 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 he wants to without being jumped on ? You are a pretty good 
 defender. Confess ; are you a little touched there ? " her 
 brother asks with a slight sneer. 
 
 " When you say I am a pretty good defender, you speak 
 from experience, Fred ; but you need not make any nasty in- 
 sinuations, my dear, because you will make me ' a pretty good 
 defender ' of myself. Here comes Mr. Cecil ; tell him he is a 
 cad, and, if I am not mistaken, you will need more bandages 
 than father did." Mary spoke hastily and with anger. 
 
 Mr. Alfred Cecil shook hands with Mary Raingold, who in- 
 troduced him to her brother. The young man put a glass in 
 his eye and sat silently staring. Not the least disconcerted, 
 Mr. Cecil completely ignored this hopeful, and chatted pleas- 
 antly with Miss Raingold. Finally, after some ten minutes or 
 so, Mary Raingold rose from the table saying it was time to 
 go home. 
 
 In the street Raingold, Junior, said: " There, now, Mary, 
 did you notice that that friend of vours never spoke to me ? 
 Cut me, by gracious." 
 
 " I notice he paid less attention to you than to the waiters," 
 said Mary ; ' ' and I knew he did it because you looked at him 
 so insolently when he sat down. If you were the man of the 
 world you think you are, you would not have made such a 
 goose of yourself." 
 
 After this there was a long pause. 
 
 Silently they strolled along, noticing the bright lights 
 shining through the windows of the Hotel Brunswick restaur- 
 ant. It is a picturesque corner, this corner of the Brunswick, 
 with its stained glass windows and its queer recesses formed 
 by bay windows. For some reason or other the idle passer-by 
 is seized with a fit of curiosity — a desire to peep into these 
 snug corners. This desire seized Mary Raingold, and she 
 looked in. An exclamation of surprise on her part caused 
 Frederic Raingold, Junior, to do likewise. 
 
 At a table sat a middle-aged gentleman and a pretty young 
 woman with large eyes, half veiled with drooping lids. Before 
 them were the remnants of a finished .supper. "Why, it is 
 the Governor, by all that is wonderful ! " exclaims Raingold, 
 Junior ; ' ' and isn't she a stunner ? " 
 
 "How curious! Why, Fred, I know her. And father?" 
 Mary looked intently into the fair face which seemed to her 
 to wear a colder, harder look upon it. 
 
 " Who is she ? " asked Junior, now doubly surprised. 
 
 " She said she was an actress," said Mary in a low voice, as 
 
" At a table sat a middle-ayed gentleman and a pretty young' woman with 
 large eyes, half-veiled with drooping iids. liefore them were the remnants of a 
 finished supper. ' Why, it is the ( lovernor, by all that is wonderful ! ' exclaims 
 Raingold, junior ; ' and isn't she a stunner ? ' " (See page 66.) 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 67 
 
 though thinking to herself, then added : " I met her while 
 visiting some poor people; but she did not say she knew pa." 
 
 "No, dear, come away; and pa did not say he knew her. 
 We have hit one of the Governor's secrets on the head, Mary. 
 Oh! this is a mad world, my masters! We are onto the 
 Governor's curves. An actress, by jingo — little supper — dear 
 papa — Bah ! bah ! black sheep, have you any wool ? " And 
 Raingold, Junior, roared with laughter. 
 
 But Mary — a sadness came over her. Her thoughts closed 
 out the sounds of her brother's mirth. And so they returned 
 home — he laughing heartily ; she silent and sad. 
 
 Chapter XII. 
 
 IN WHICH A "tiger" IS BEARDED IN HIS "LAIr" ON 
 THE ROAD BY JUNIOR. 
 
 It was uncommonly dull at the Clay Pipe Club the evening 
 after Frederic Raingold, Junior, and his sister went to the 
 theatre, as recorded in the last chapter, and this worthy 
 young man, perhaps in consequence of a long sleep the night 
 previous, did not find his fellow-members' society either 
 agreeable or entertaining. He had sauntered into the bil- 
 liard-room, but finding those choice spirits, among whom he 
 was a prince, absent, making night hideous elsewhere, he had 
 gone into the reception room. Here a few members, in a 
 semi-somnolent condition, were seated with newspapers on 
 their laps, looking for all the world like a newspaper literary 
 club overcome by mental dyspepsia. Upstairs he wandered 
 and joined a group of tall collared youngsters, who were 
 gravely discussing the ups and downs of the stock market, as 
 though each endeavored to remember something he had read 
 or heard. Frederic I^aingold, Junior, may have, at times, 
 in outbursts of juvenile exuberance of spirits, placed himself 
 at the head of the vanguard of asses, but when Wall Street 
 matters were touched upon, he preserved a silence concerning 
 all affairs on 'Change so persistently and consistently, that his 
 associates believed him to be a veritable storehouse of finan- 
 cial knowledge. This impression was heightened by the 
 fact that all the young men of his acquaintance knew that the 
 youngster's father was an adroit manipulator of shares, and 
 that it was only a matter of time when he would be his father's 
 
68 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH, 
 
 partner. And so when Fred Raingold joined the group they 
 felt that one who knew more than they had come among 
 them ; and the observations they made were noticeably more 
 conservative. 
 
 "After all," said one sagely, "the question of merits, that 
 is, the real worth of a property, has little or nothing to do 
 with the market value of stocks. The price of a stock is sus- 
 tained more by manipulation than by actual value. It is a 
 gamble pure and simple." 
 
 "I have always said," added another, " that the Stock Ex- 
 change is a greater gambling hell than Monte Carlo. You 
 play with bigger chips; that is all the difference." 
 
 By easy transition the conversation passed from stocks to 
 roulette, and the possibilities of winning at the latter game 
 were discussed by all present. This afforded Junior an oppor- 
 tunity, and he advanced a theory by which he believed the 
 game could be beaten. All laughed, for all present had had 
 "systems," and each was conscious that "systems" proved 
 fiat and unprofitable upon trial. 
 
 Finally the group was reduced to Raingold and a manly 
 young fellow of five and twenty, who frankly confessed that 
 no game possessed for him the fascinations of roulette ; true, 
 he lost invariably, but whether a winner or a loser, it was all 
 the same; indeed he did not know but the pain of losing was 
 a more intense feeling than the pleasure of winning. 
 
 ' ' I will tell you what I will do, " said Junior. ' ' I have got a 
 hundred. Suppose we go and buck the tiger ? " 
 
 " What is the use of losing a hundred ? Try fifty. Leave 
 fifty at the desk," said his friend. 
 
 "Well, I will play fifty." 
 
 " Will you leave the other here ? " 
 
 ' ' No ; what is the use ? Do you suppose I will lose my 
 head ? If I say fifty I mean fifty. Come." 
 
 The young men rose and left the club-house. 
 
 They walked down the Avenue for a few blocks, and turned 
 to the westward smoking their cigars. After a few minutes 
 they ascended the stoop of a brown stone house of quiet and 
 aristocratic appearance. Two things were noticeable about 
 the exterior; first, every blind was closely drawn, and, sec- 
 ondly, one side of the outer door was opened. Ringing the 
 bell, they waited within the vesibule. Presently the glass 
 panel of the inner door was half opened by a colored boy who 
 looked out cautiously. He recognized Junior at a glance and, 
 discovering Raingold's friend standing in the shadow, asked : 
 " Is that gentleman with you ? " 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 69 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The look of caution vanished, and the dark, intelligent face 
 lighted up with smiles. The panel closed and the front door 
 swung open. 
 
 The young men crossed the threshold. The door closed 
 behind them ; they had entered the most fashionable gambling 
 house in the city. Here the tiger was kept. Here was the 
 tiger to be bucked. Many in their turn had crossed the 
 threshold to tackle the tiger, but no information could be here 
 obtained of the disposition of the remains. All such particu- 
 lars are the well-kept secrets jealously guarded by the cour- 
 teous owners of the tiger. 
 
 Immediately upon entering, a tall, stylish, well-dressed 
 man, with grey hair and moustaches, steps out of the parlor 
 
 into the hall, saying : ' ' Why, how-de-do, Mr. R ? You 
 
 are quite a stranger." 
 
 Raingold laughed to himself. He had been in the tiger's 
 lair only two nights before. 
 
 ' ' My gracious ! Mr. C , I have not seen you in years. 
 
 I scarce remember you. You were in with a party from 
 Chicago. " 
 
 ' ' Right you are, Huff. I was in with a party from 
 Chicago, and, I may add, out with the said party. Your tiger 
 
 did me up. I have been recuperating," says Mr. C with 
 
 a laugh. 
 
 ' ' You were a big winner at one time. You should have 
 cashed in," said Mr. Huff, who has a lively memory for 
 mythical winnings. 
 
 By this time the young men are in a long parlor. They 
 give their coats to the colored waiter, look over the illustrated 
 papers on the centre tables, greet a second official keeper of 
 the tiger who has been taking a nap on a sofa, and glance 
 about them. In the front room is a library table, a rack for 
 hats and coats, a writing-desk, and a handsome piece of 
 Venetian furniture loaded with costly bric-a-brac. Through 
 the second room they see the large supper table being set for 
 the guests or victims of the tiger. 
 
 " Now, what will you have ?" says Mr. Huff. 
 
 " Cigars, Richard," says his partner. 
 
 " All right, I'll take a cigar," says Junior. " I don't care 
 for anything to drink. " 
 
 "Ditto," adds Mr. C . 
 
 ' ' Well, Huff, since we did not come to flirt with you, sup- 
 pose we go upstairs and see what kind of luck we will have 
 with the tiger," laughingly says Raingold. 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 "All right, Mr. R ." Mr. Huff never invites any one 
 
 to go upstairs. It is a little way he has. Those who wish to 
 see the tiger spin always request that pleasure. 
 
 They ascend the front stairs, and a colored boy, without a 
 word, runs swiftly up the back stairs and touches a button. 
 At once electric lights flash in the lair, and when Huff opens 
 the cage door the lights shine as though they had been shining 
 all the evening. 
 
 Raingold pulls out a chair from beneath the table of the 
 roulette wheel, lights a fresh cigar, and passes over fifty 
 dollars, saying: "Five stacks. Huff; when these are gone, 
 I go." 
 
 " That is what you always say," laughs Huff, passing over 
 five stacks of twenty ivory checks. "Is that your limit.-* 
 Say so, and I will hold you to it. " 
 
 " Go ahead; give it a spin." 
 
 Mr. C sits at the end with bank notes in his hand, 
 
 placing them at the ends of columns and on the colors. 
 
 "Won't you have checks, Mr. C ?" inquires Mr. Huff, 
 
 lighting a cigar, as the tiny ivory ball spins along the groove 
 in the perfectly balanced wooden wheel. 
 
 "No; I'll play these," answers Mr. C , feeling that 
 
 money changed into chips seems to lose value. 
 
 "32, red, second column, " announces Mr. Huff, and adds: 
 
 "Nobody on it." He takes Raingold's chips and C 's 
 
 money. 
 
 And now is the tiger at work. 
 
 Since there are many thousands who have often heard of the 
 world-famous game of roulette as played in Baden-Baden and 
 Monte Carlo, in New Orleans and other American cities, it 
 may not be amiss to glance over Raingold's shoulder as he sits 
 wasting his money endeavoring to flirt with Dame Fortune, 
 and see what manner of thing is this fascinating game of 
 chance. This particular table is a double-ender — that is, on 
 each side of the wheel is a similar design, thereby enabling 
 players at both ends to place their stakes to be decided by one 
 spin of the ball. This design is neatly, and with great finish, 
 painted on a green smooth cloth which covers the entire table. 
 We observe that down the centre of the table, extending from 
 the wheel toward the end, are three parallel columns of gilt 
 figures on round discs, alternately black and red ; they are 
 placed in the centre of squares formed by the intersection of 
 white lines on the green cloth. Further, we note that the 
 longitudinal lines forming the columns are crossed by latitu- 
 dinal lines forming the rows, which make — there being three 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 71 
 
 columns and twelve rows — thirty-six squares, numbered from 
 I to 36, as described by gilt figures on round discs, alternately 
 black" and red. The figures on all boards are universally the 
 same so far as color and arrangement are concerned. When 
 arranged as columns we discover — 
 
 *i 4i 7i io> i3i 16, 19, 22, 25, 28, 31, 34 to be in the first column. 
 2i Si 8, II, 14, 17, 20, 23, 26, 29, 32, 35 to be in the second column. 
 3, 6, 9, 12, 15, 18, 21, 24, 27, 30, 33, 36 to be in the third columa. 
 
 When arranged as to color we find 
 
 ii 3i 5. 7i 9. 12, 14, 16, 18, 19, 21, 23, 25, 27, 30, 32, 34, 36 to be red. 
 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, II, 13, 15, 17, 20, 22, 24, 26, 28, 29, 31, 33, 35 to be black. 
 
 ^ A quarter section of the board would be as follows : 
 
 By comparing the above figures we would 
 see that 2, 4, 6, and 8 are black, and i, 3, 
 5, 7, and 9 are red. 
 
 At the end of the board, between the row i 2 3 and the 
 wheel, is a section divided into equal parts. Here the colored 
 disc is green, and upon them are the letters O and O O. At 
 Monaco and elsewhere in Europe there is but one O. The 
 significance of this will be shown later. 
 
 On both sides of the figures the white line is painted on the 
 green cloth, and each is divided in three sections. In the two 
 centre sections are diamond-shaped designs — one black, the 
 other red. To one side of red the section is marked i to 18, 
 to the other side ODD ; to one side of black the section is 
 marked 19 to 36, and the other EVEN. At the foot or end 
 of the figures are three unmarked squares where players place 
 their stakes on the colunms, and to each side of these squares 
 three sections are marked, ist doz. , 2nd and 3rd doz. 
 
 The wheel in the centre is cleverly poised on a pivot, upon 
 which it can be made to revolve with great rapidity. It is set 
 in a circular frame or form sloping toward the wheel, at the 
 top of which is a groove. On the edge of the wheel are 
 thirty-eight cups or loges; two are painted green and are 
 marked O and O O ; these are directly opposite each other, 
 or separated by the thirty-six numbers, eighteen to each side ; 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
 7 
 
 8 
 
 9 
 
72 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 these numbers correspond in figures and colors to those on 
 the board as described. 
 
 The croupier or dealer sharply spins a small ivory ball in 
 the groove of the frame and twirls the wheel in the opposite 
 direction; finally the ball falls into a cup, and the wager is 
 decided as to number, color, column, odd or even, dozen, or 
 however the player may have placed his stake. 
 
 The game is mathematically arranged so far as payments 
 and chances are concerned. . A player puts one chip on a 
 number and if that number wins he keeps that check and 
 receives thirty-five as a winner ; if he places it on the white 
 line he covers two numbers and wins seventeen ; if where two 
 lines cross he covers four numbers, and is paid eight should 
 one of the four numbers win. To prove this, cover the thirty- 
 six numbers with a check on every number. One number 
 wins. He loses thirty-five checks and is paid thirty-five 
 checks. But we find the O and O O — if either of these should 
 turn up, the player loses all he has put down. Should he" 
 cover these as well, he would put down thirty-eight checks, 
 save one, and win thirty-five, thereby losing two checks. This 
 is the percentage of the dealer or bank, or about five per cent. 
 In whatever way a bet is made this five per cent, stands un- 
 shaken, and is sure to win in continuous play. At Monte 
 Carlo, thei-e being but one O, the percentage is just one-half. 
 
 And now we find this hopeful youngster, Raingold, Junior, 
 backing his luck against the bank's percentage, forgetting that 
 luck runs against a player as well as with him. 
 
 "I don't seem to strike them, Huff," remarks Raingold, 
 Junior, putting his last chips down on the table. He places 
 two chips on No. 14, one of the four reds in the centre 
 column, and two on the line between 1 1 and 14, two between 
 13 and 14, two between 14 and 15, and two between 14 and 
 17, mentally calculating that if any of the numbers so covcFed, 
 except 14, should win, he would get thirty-four checks, and 
 should 14 win, he would get 206 checks. As the ball spins 
 he says: "There has not been a centre column red turned 
 up since the first roll, and not one of the 2nd dozen." 
 
 " That is true," says Huff, and adds : " It may turn up this 
 time or not again to-night. You are not in luck, Mr. R ." 
 
 " Cash these," says Mr. C , pushing in three stacks of 
 
 chips. " I am going to try the bank." He rises, taking his 
 winnings, and crosses over to the faro table. 
 
 " O O," says Huff, raking in Raingold's checks. " It is the 
 first time you weren't there," he adds. 
 
 Raingold, Junior, throws away his cigar and takes another. 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 73 
 
 ** Give me a brandy and soda," he says. Huff puts the small 
 ivory ball in its place on the wheel and talks of losses made 
 on backing horses on the race-track. 
 
 At the present moment Junior's mind is so occupied with a 
 thought concerning the mischievous 14 and the 2nd dozen, 
 that he pays no attention to Mr. Huff's tale of unfortunate 
 'bets on horses. Mr. Huff knows what is passing through 
 Junior's mind as well as though it were painted on the green 
 cloth in large letters. 
 
 "Give me fifty more," he says, passing in five crisp bills. 
 
 C at the faro table, mindful of his despised admonition to 
 
 Raingold to leave half of his money in safety at the club, calls 
 over : ' ' There you are, old man ; did I not say so ? Try your 
 hand here." 
 
 " This suits me better; it is quicker," says Raingold. 
 
 With five stacks of chips in his hands Junior feels better. 
 -Somewhere down in the depths of all natures there lurks a 
 spirit which seeks control ; a man at play calls this mania of 
 play "pluck," "sand," and other names, but it is nothing 
 but the spirit of gambling. The player has it, not the banker : 
 all he wants is time and his five per cent. " I shall make five 
 bets, a stack each time, starring the 14," he says, placing his 
 checks as before, doubling each wager. Again the ivory ball 
 spins and he waits. 
 
 "14, red," says Huff. 
 
 "Ah, ha. I thought they would come." The whole tone 
 of his voice changes, his face lights up, and he calls to his 
 companion: " I have struck it this time." 
 
 "Well, I should say so, " says Huff. "One hundred and 
 forty flat, or seven stacks " — he passes over the the ivory chips 
 from his rack — " sixteen times 17 on the sides, or two hundred 
 
 and seventy-two chips. I tell you what, Mr. R , the game 
 
 you play gets you even quick — you're a plunger." 
 
 Junior counts his checks. Besides his stakes he finds he 
 has won three hundred and thirty-two checks, each worth fifty 
 cents. He leaves his bet where it lay, not caring whether it 
 wins or loses. 
 
 " Repeater ! " says Huff. The same number has won again. 
 And again he passes over a winning of four hundred and 
 twelve checks. ' ' I will give you two stacks of reds and twelve 
 whites ; the reds are five dollars each — one hundred dollars a 
 stack — or two hundred white checks." 
 
 " Now give me a hundred in cash," says Junior, passing in 
 a stack of reds. "I'll keep that in my clothes." 
 
74 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 " Come, cash up and trot," says C . "I am busted — 
 
 it is late, and I am going." 
 
 " Oh, no," replies Junior, " I am three hundred and fifty 
 in, and I am in luck. I am going to win five hundred. Don't 
 wait." 
 
 C leaves him. As he goes out Junior says : "I am 
 
 glad he has gone. It annoys me to have a friend around 
 when I am playing," 
 
 Raingold, Junior, keeps on. Luck moves his hand to win- 
 ning numbers. Two men enter. They are older men ; club- 
 men evidently, and all the worse for wine. They sit beside 
 him and talk loudly. He finds he cannot make his bets as he 
 wishes, as they stretch over the table and interfere. He dis- 
 covers after the ball has fallen that certain numbers he has 
 been playing have escaped his attention. Noticing his annoy- 
 ance, Huff says: "Won't you play at the other end, Mr. 
 R ?" 
 
 The other players, noting his discomfort, say they will make 
 the change, and beg him not to move. They walk to the other 
 end, laughing, chaffing, and talking, growing quieter as they 
 see their chips grow less. 
 
 "They have brought me bad luck," mutters Raingold. He 
 loses his checks ; he buys more checks ; they go quickly. Money 
 has lost its value. His bets each time cost him thirty to fifty 
 dollars. The spirit of play rollics in his blood ; it flushes his 
 face and darkens it ; his nerves are high pitched. He takes 
 off his coat and sits in his shirt sleeves. Now a winning or 
 two encourages him, but he feels he must win successively to 
 win successfully. At it he keeps, and time and percentage 
 are having their harvest. At last his money and his chips are 
 gone. 
 
 " Give me a hundred and put up a marker," he says. 
 
 Huff smiles at him. " You asked me to hold you at fifty, 
 and you have lost a hundred," he says. 
 
 " Am I good for a hundred?" he asks in a surly sort of a way. 
 
 " For anything you want; but you asked me to hold you. 
 Try it some other night." 
 
 ' ' Give me five stacks — no ; ten stacks — put up two markers." 
 
 "What limit ? Fix a limit," says Huff. 
 
 "A thousand: no more." 
 
 "All right. If you get there I will stop you, Mr, R ." 
 
 " Go ahead ; don't talk so much. Spin." 
 
 And so the banker, polite, always polite ; the player, reckless 
 and discourteous, always discourteous, watch the ball spin- 
 ning, spinning, spinning ; spinning the poor man's coat. 
 
" ' If I had only 1 should have 1 am an ass how in the deuce shall I 
 
 make my account good to meet those accursed checks? what a confounded 
 
 idiot I am! ' " {Sec/ag-e 75.) 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 75 
 
 Junior has trod the path of those who have flirted with the 
 tiger, and he has felt the tiger's teeth in the region of his 
 poclcet. He now assumes an air of indifference ; he follows 
 Huff into another room, where a library table with writing 
 materials upon it is always ready for the victim to record his 
 adventure with the tiger. As he writes two checks for five 
 
 hundred each. Huff says: "Well, now, Mr. R , you 
 
 should have cashed in when you were five hundred ahead." 
 
 "Five hundred grandmothers," says Junior, thinking of 
 five hundred asses with heads like his own. Handing the 
 checks to Huff, he says : " Deposit this one to-morrow ; hold 
 this one until Saturday." 
 
 " All right, Mr. R . Won't you have some supper ? " 
 
 As he puts on his coat on the floor below, he declines a 
 second invitation to supper and goes into the street. He 
 walks up the Avenue, passes the Worth monument, with both 
 hands in his breeches pockets, his overcoat thrown wide open, 
 and his silk hat pushed back on his head. His soliloquy, 
 though not like Hamlet's, is better known to the young men 
 of fashion. It is quite as mad and quite as melancholy. It 
 
 begins with "HI had only 1 should have 1 am an 
 
 ass how in the deuce shall I make my account good to 
 
 meet those accursed checks ? what a confounded idiot 
 
 I am!" 
 
 Dear young calf, some very estimable citizens, now sere 
 and sage, did, when they were juvenile farmers, engage in 
 sowing a goodly crop of wild oats — precisely what you have 
 been doing; and, further, they pursued a train of thought 
 identical with yours. Your road and that of Gentleman 
 Tom's run side by side. You have your Delmonico's, Bruns- 
 wick, concert halls, and gambling houses ; he has his cnffee- 
 and-cake places, dime museums, and pool rooms. You are 
 smooth, polished, veneered; he is rough, unpolished, and 
 coarse. You have friends and influences ; he has neither. 
 Circumstances favor you ; they are against him ; but you are 
 both good or evil as your natures may be virtuous or vicious. 
 The only difference between you is the difference of station. 
 
76 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 Chapter XIII. 
 
 IN WHICH THE ROAD PASSES THE OLD UNIVERSITY BUILDING 
 ON WASHINGTON SQUARE. 
 
 Raingold, Junior, the morning after his adventure with 
 the tiger, awoke troubled and perplexed. He did not mind 
 the loss of money half as much as the mortification attending 
 his inability to settle his obligations promptly. His father 
 gave him a liberal allowance, and his salary at the office added 
 to it gave him a handsome income, but, at this time, he had 
 a small balance at the bank wholly inadequate to his immedi- 
 ate wants, to say nothing of his loss at roulette. He won- 
 dered what he should do. He dared not ask his father, and a 
 thousand dollars was too much to borrow. Thinking over 
 various ways and means as he dressed himself, he finally de- 
 cided, as he always did when in hot water, to consult his 
 sister. 
 
 Mary Raingold knew when her brother came into her 
 room — for that young lady always had breakfast sent up to 
 her — that Frederic was in trouble. ' ' I want to talk to you, 
 Mary," he said, approaching her bed. "Send your Diana 
 away, will you ?" He sat on the edge of the bed. As Diana 
 closed the door, Mary said gently, putting her fair hand on 
 his: "In trouble, Freddy?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, dear, I am in hot water again. I say, Mary, have 
 you got any money ? I need some awfully." 
 
 " I have got some — not much, " she said. ' ' How much do 
 you want ?" 
 
 " Never mind ; how much have you got ? " he said 
 anxiously. 
 
 "About twenty in my desk; will that do?" she asked. 
 And, feeling it was not sufficient, she added : " A littje over a 
 hundred in the bank. " 
 
 "Good gracious ! Is that all you have ? " 
 
 ' ' How much do you need ? "' 
 
 "A thousand." 
 
 "Oh! Freddy, you have been gambling again. What a 
 foolish boy ! " 
 
 "Now don't preach, sister; I am in a hole." And Junior 
 then told his sister everything. She was much distressed. 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 n 
 
 After a brief consultation she said : ' ' My allowance will 
 come in a few days. I will have five hundred next week. 
 Ask father to lend it to you for a few weeks. You can take 
 rny allowance, and, with yours, you can pay him back." 
 And she sits up, thinking what could be done. 
 
 " No ; the Governor will ask me questions which I don't 
 intend to answer. Do you think I can tell him what I tell 
 you ? By jimminy, how he would swear ! As to my allow- 
 ance, that is mortgaged already." 
 
 "Well, then, I will get father to give me my allowance 
 now. I will get it this morning and send you a check as soon 
 as I can deposit it. You can pay one check. Why don't you 
 ask them to wait for the other ? " 
 
 " I have not got the brass to do it," he replied. "I prefer 
 to pay it somehow." His face became a brown study; he 
 was only a callow youth after all. Mary's face was very 
 grave. Finally an idea came to her. She said : ' ' Fred, I 
 cannot advise you what is best to do. Don't you know some 
 older man in whom you can trust, and take his advice ? You 
 may do something foolish — something which will make things 
 unnecessarily bad ; take the advice of an older man — a man 
 of the world." 
 
 "I don't know anybody," Junior said, shaking his head. 
 When he was in trouble he relied upon Mary for counsel. 
 
 " Go and see Mr. Cecil." 
 ' ' ' Cecil ? After the way he cut me the other night ? By 
 jimminy crimps, that would be fine." And Junior laughed. 
 
 "Go to him. Say I sent you. He is a good fellow ; he 
 will keep your confidence and give you the best advice," she 
 said quietly, and added : " I am sure he will understand you 
 in this, as he understands you and your airs. Go to him." 
 
 ' ' I don't want advice — I want money. I could not borrow 
 it of him," he said sharply. 
 
 ' ' Fred, you always come to me for advice. My advice is, 
 go to Mr. Cecil. If you do, I will give you the money as soon 
 as I get it." Then she added quickly, as he gazed at her in 
 wonder and alarm : ' ' Oh, no, dear ; you are wrong. If you 
 do not go you shall have it." 
 
 " Am I to visit a brother-in-law, Mary.?" he said gently. 
 "Is that it, Mary ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; no," she said warmly. " He is a friend I admire 
 and respect. " Mary's cheeks blazed. 
 
 " And love ? " 
 
 ' ' Fred, how can you tease me so ? I hate you when you 
 are so disagreeable. Will you go ? " 
 
78 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 ' ' Yes, I will go to your admired and respected friend. He 
 will say : ' I like your cheek, young man ; you have a grand, 
 well-developed nerve to cut me one night and ask my advice 
 the next. ' Then he will look through me like a window, and 
 tell me I need washing like a dirty pane of glass, or some- 
 thing of that sort. But I'll go for your sake." 
 
 It was a straw. Junior was sinking and he clutched it. 
 Other men have swallowed the leek before. 
 
 Late that afternoon Frederic Raingold called at Mr. Alfred 
 Cecil's bachelor apartments in the dreary, picturesque old 
 University Building, on East Washington square. Many of 
 the old schoolrooms had been leased to bachelors, for the 
 university had steadily, through long years, lost its place in 
 the front rank of educational institutions, and had little need 
 of the immense building. Junior was surprised to find Cecil's 
 chambers a suite of handsome square rooms, with high ceil- 
 ings, beautifully and artistically furnished. Pictures by the 
 first painters of the English, Spanish and French schools 
 were upon the walls, heavy Turkish rugs covered the painted 
 floors, grand pieces of Dutch and Venetian carved furniture, 
 loaded with art treasures, added an air of comfort and luxury. 
 He had expected to find a bare, cheaply furnished apartment, 
 and instead was ushered into rooms of magnificent propor- 
 tions, upon which large sums of money must have been 
 expended by the owner. 
 
 Junior gave his card to a manservant, and was summoned 
 into the study. At a great desk in the centre of a room, with 
 walls lined with books, sat Alfred Cecil. He wore a loose, 
 heavy silk shirt, a great pair of loose, grey colored velveteen 
 trousers, and a dark blue velvet smoking coat. Junior felt 
 like laughing. He had never seen so strange a costume. 
 Cecil looked up from his desk. He said nothing. 
 
 ' ' I called, Mr. Cecil — no doubt you are surprised ; to er — 
 to er— see you," stammered Junior, much embarrassed. 
 
 " So I should imagine, young man." 
 
 The " young man " cut deep. "However," he continued 
 hesitatingly, ' ' I am in a hole, to be brief and frank, and sister 
 said I had better see you. You see, sister thinks you are a 
 man of the world and that I need advice. So I promised 
 sister I would call. Strange, is it not ?" And Junior laughed 
 in a nervous sort of way. 
 
 "Miss Raingold," said Mr. Cecil slowly and gravely, 
 ' ' compliments me by sending her brother to me for advice. 
 From superficial observations I should say that if it be Miss 
 Raingold's opinion that her brother needs advice, I concur 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 79 
 
 with it. How far my advice by reason of being a man of the 
 world may extend, I am doubtful. Still, sir, I am at your serv- 
 ice, and I will give you the best advice my ability will afford. 
 James, shut the door. I am engaged. Now, sir, describe 
 the hole into which you have fallen, and let us consider how 
 the lamb, who has evidently gone astray, may be allowed the 
 privilege of skipping once more in the pastures. Have a 
 cigar ? " 
 
 Junior then related his exploits, his embarrassment, his 
 sister's generosity, and his mortification. He concluded by 
 saying: " Now, the absurd part of it all is, here I am telling 
 you about it. I do it to oblige Mary." 
 
 " My young friend," said Cecil, " it is a good thing for you 
 that you have a sister as wise, as good. Evidently she was 
 as much distressed as you, or she would have preferred to 
 keep this a secret. You lose money, you give checks, you 
 try to borrow the money to pay these checks, to keep your 
 credit good with the gamblers. Hush ; hear me out. To do 
 this you would deprive yourself of many things, and you de- 
 prive your sister of such things as she would purchase with 
 her allowance. There is no sin in spending money at the 
 gambling table any more than in other ways. Everything is 
 a matter of taste. Money can be used rightly and wrongly. 
 Gambling is not the only way to misuse money. It is the 
 same way about debt. There is an allowable way to get into 
 debt ; there is also a wrong way. It is wrong to get into debt 
 with gamblers. They give you a chance — it is a small one, to 
 be sure ; but it is a chance, nevertheless — to win their money. 
 It is worse, in my judgment, to got into debt with your sister 
 and others in order to pay gambling debts than it is to be in 
 debt with the gamblers." 
 
 "A gambling debt is a matter of honor," says Raingold, 
 Junior. 
 
 " Who says so ? " 
 
 " Society." 
 
 "What does society say about paying the washerwoman, 
 the grocer, the fishman ? Are those declared to be debts of 
 honor ?" asks Cecil gravely. 
 
 " No; they are different." 
 
 • ' Yes ; they are. These small people give their labor and 
 goods in exchange. Society preaches many false doctrines, 
 and this one of distinction between debts is one of them." 
 
 "But you don't understand society, Mr. Cecil; fashionable 
 society, I mean." 
 
 " No ? Why not ? " <• 
 
to 
 
 THE ROAD OV THE ROUGH. 
 
 " You mean a bigger society than I mean, " said the young 
 man confusedly. ' ' When I speak of society, I mean the 
 fashionable New Yorkers. .Of course,. I know you are invited 
 everywhere; but if you belonged here — been born in New 
 York, or had people here — don't you think you would look at 
 it the way I do ?" 
 
 "Let me see," said Cecil, straddling the chair of his desk 
 and folding his arms across the back. "My great-great- 
 grandfather was a soldier of this State, who served as aid to 
 General Washington ; my great-grandfather was the first Gov- 
 ernor of the State of New York ; my grandfather served in the 
 war of 1812. What were yours ? " 
 
 Cecil smiled, because he had spoken with feeling. ' ' But 
 to come back to your situation. Place this matter entirely in 
 my hands. I will arrange it so that you will have no trouble, 
 and with honor to yourself. I am sorry you took your sister's 
 money. It will be unnecessary for me to say that gambling is 
 rank folly. You will learn that in time. We all do. Leave 
 this to me. Sometime I will tell you something about gam- 
 blers and gambling if you desire it." And Cecil rose from his 
 chair. 
 
 "Well, how will you fix it ?" 
 
 ' ' Leave it to me. I will think it over. Give my regards to 
 Miss Raingold, and say I thank her for the privilege of being 
 of service to her. Come, now, think no more about it ; leave 
 roulette alone, and come and see me. I will have your check 
 on Saturday. It won't go to your bank, and you won't be 
 compromised. 
 
 And Junior, feeling like a schoolboy, left Cecil at his desk. 
 
' Lcl iiu: si-i-,' saiJ Cecil, slraddlinv;' the cUaii' of his desk and fukUng his arms across the back. ' ^^y yrcat-tircat-yrandfathcr was a 
 soldier of this Stale, wlio ser\ ed as aid to ( '.eiieral \Vashin,v;t<m ; my .ureat-xrandfather was the lirst Governor of the State of New York ; my 
 grandfather scr\ cd in lliu war of iSi j. What were yours ? ' " (^Sec /lagc So.) 
 
Chapter XIV. 
 
 IN WHICH GENTLEMAN TOM FINDS HIMSELF IN THE PRESENCE 
 OF RECORDER SMYTH. 
 
 To-day Gentleman Tom rides over the Municipal Boule- 
 vard. To-day, he who has ridden through the city either 
 standing on the steps of a horse car while the conductor was 
 inside collecting his fares, or seated— ^making a backward 
 progress — on the tailboard of an unloaded truck, is rattled 
 over the streets in the Municipal carriage, a guest of the City, 
 County, and State of New York. From his early days of tod- 
 dling childhood this carriage had been an object of deep and 
 grave curiosity. It was the only equipage which could share 
 with one of Barnum's wagons that feeling of mingled awe and 
 wonder with which youngsters regard the brilliant, gilt let- 
 tered panels of the showman's vans. One contained the 
 criminal, the other the lion ; and each the destroyer of man 
 and man's propert)^ Both to the childish mind were equally 
 fearful. One of the first names he could remember was that 
 of the prison van — Black Maria ; and to-day, as he sits on his 
 way to the Court of General Sessions, he thinks of his feelings 
 as a child when he had seen it jolting along between court- 
 house and prison. 
 
 Yes, Gentleman Tom has taken his place in the procession ; 
 he is to pass into the temple of the People of the City, County, 
 and State of New York, where the goddess Justice is en- 
 throned, with a statute book in one hand and a pair of hand- 
 cuffs in the other. The Black Maria rolls up to the curb in 
 
82 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 front of a mean looking brown stone building on Chambers 
 street ; it wheels, backs up after the fashion of a coal cart ; the 
 driver steps down from his seat, carefully blankets his horses, 
 and stands at the door. A small crowd congregates. These 
 people, the drift of the streets, stand looking at the iron-bound 
 door; stand looking at the brown building. These people are 
 always looking; their entire occupation in this busy, bustling 
 world of laughter and tears seems to be looking ; looking at the 
 illustrated newspapers on the newsdealer's stand ; looking at 
 a man who has been run over ; looking at a fire ; looking at a 
 safe being hoisted or lowered from street to tenth story ; look- 
 ing at any thing from a boy on roller skates to a woman in a 
 crinoline. And as they look they see the door of the van open. 
 Men step out with gyves upon their wrists, and with them 
 Gentleman Tom, with his round hat tilted and pressed down 
 on his forehead. Other men in civilian's clothes, wearing 
 shields under their coats — the what-nots in high court and low 
 court — step up to them and hurry them in to the prisoners' pens 
 at the back of the court-rooms in the brown stone building. 
 
 The court-room is filled to overflowing. It is always filled 
 to overflowing. There are men who have been summoned on 
 jury duty, who look at their watches and wonder if they will 
 be excused for the day ; there are friends of prisoners to be 
 sentenced this morning ; there are relatives of men and women 
 who may be tried this morning, and among them, with a 
 tear-stained face, sits Tom's mother; there are witnesses, 
 lawyers, and there are more of those who are looking, looking 
 at the drama of life in the real theatre on the Road of the 
 Rough. The clerk sits reading his newspaper, the jurors sit 
 reading their newspapers, the reporters to the left of the 
 judge's bench sit discussing their chiefs in the manufacturing 
 establishments for which they toil, or in pointing out their 
 own contributions of wit and wisdom. 
 
 Suddenly a side door opens, the learned clerk of the high 
 priest of Justice raps the table smartly with a gavel, and cries 
 "Hats off in court!" There is a sudden removal of head- 
 gear and the high priest of Justice enters, ascends the plat- 
 form, seats himself at the long desk, nods to a reporter or 
 two of his acquaintance, to the clerk, to the Assistant District 
 Attorney, and proceeds to cut cigars into small lengths for 
 "dry smokes," as refreshment during the long smokeless 
 day. Up to the desk steps a lawyer, the Assistant District 
 Attorney, and a clerk. All eyes watch the actors in this 
 seemingly important conference. Then the prisoners who 
 have been tried and found guilty are sentenced — to peni- 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 83 
 
 tentiary, reformatory, and State Prison ; then, in turn, come 
 those who are to plead "Guilty" or "Not Guilty" to the 
 indictments of the Grand Jury. 
 
 "Call the Calendar!" says His Honor Recorder Smyth. 
 
 The case of the People against several individuals is called. 
 Each time the prisoner's counsel responds " Ready! " but the 
 Assistant District Attorney states that witnesses can not be 
 found, etc., and the People are not ready. Then the stern 
 face of the Recorder shows a slight trace of anger, and he 
 proceeds to express his indignation in no measured terms. 
 He wishes the District Attorney to understand that time to 
 the Court and to the jury has value, that prisoners have the 
 right to be speedily tried, that it is an injustice to prisoners to 
 hold them untried, to punish the innocent by confining them 
 in the City Prison untried, and so on. The young assistant 
 of the District Attorney nervously fumbles over his papers, 
 selects one packet, consults an assistant, and informs the 
 Court that the People are ready in the case of the People vs. 
 Tom McCarty. 
 
 "Ready! " responds the prisoner's counsel. 
 
 And now, with beating heart and a tight feeling in his 
 throat, Tom McCarty — " Gentleman Tom " — comes out of 
 the prisoners' pen and takes a seat beside his counsel. His 
 clothes, never new, looked uncommonly old, uncommonly 
 shiny, and uncommonly creased. His prison cell had not 
 improved them and had added to them a faded odor of car- 
 bolic and other disinfectants. His mother sat beside him 
 bidding him be cheerful ; and Mabel — ' ' too young for sweet- 
 heart, let alone wife " — sat behind them folding and clasping 
 her hands. 
 
 "D'ye t'ink, " says Tom to his red-faced counsel, "dat 
 dey'U make me innercent } " He looks at the jurors, who have 
 now all been called. 
 
 "No counting on a jury. You never can tell what they 
 will do. You are better off than you were. You might have 
 been tried for stealing the watch, " replies his counsel, busily 
 turning over papers which Tom uneasily sees do not concern 
 his case. 
 
 " I didn't take 'is clock," says Tom. " Dere wuz not'in' to 
 conwict me on to dat." 
 
 " Never saw a man who stOiC a watch in all my life," an- 
 swers his counsel. 
 
 The Assistant District Attorney brilliantly set before the 
 jury the case of the People. It was truly wonderful to hear 
 how a certain Tom McCarty, better known in the dangerous 
 
84 
 
 THE KOAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 Sixth Ward by his alias, "Gentleman Tom," had outraged 
 the majesty of the sovereign People of the State of New 
 York. ' ' This man, we will show you, wandered far away 
 from his quarter — from his ward — a ward in which he was 
 the member of a band of young desperadoes, whose chief 
 business in life seems to be to live without work and to insult 
 and assault the good and virtuous citizens who live in this 
 city. For what purpose ? What was he doing at six o'clock 
 in the evening at Thirty-second street and Fourth avenue ? 
 Certainly, he was not visiting friends, and he had no occupa- 
 tion in that vicinity. Have we not all seen young men of his 
 age and general make-up at all times of night, and particu- 
 larly as business men return home, soliciting alms — money — 
 money that they have not the manhood to earn. We will 
 show you that one of our wealthiest citizens was passing that 
 point. That this young man struck him a savage blow ; that 
 the mark of the blow is still on the citizen's forehead. Had 
 the blow so savagely struck cracked the victim's skull, you 
 would be here, not to try a case of felonious assault, but 
 a case of murder." After a moment's pause he called, 
 "Frederic Raingold ! " 
 
 Mr. Frederic Raingold rose from his seat at the back of 
 the room and came forward. He was, as usual, well dressed. 
 What a crushing contrast to poor Tom, who sat nervously 
 spreading the fingers of one hand which he traced with the 
 index finger of the other ! Raingold took his seat in the wit- 
 ness chair, bowing to the Recorder, swore to tell the truth, the 
 whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The jurors had often 
 heard of this great magnate and their eyes plainly showed— 
 they being men in humble circumstances — that they were 
 ready to worship the golden god now set up before them. 
 
 Frederic Raingold stated that on a certain evening he had 
 passed the corner of Thirty-second street and Fourth avenue, 
 much occupied in thought. (Railroads, bonds, etc., of course, 
 thought the jury.) Suddenly he was jostled, he stretched out 
 his hand instinctively, and was then struck twice. The first 
 blow knocked off his hat ; the second struck him on the fore- 
 head. He fell. When he arose blood was streaming from a 
 wound. He went to a drug store : thence home. 
 
 "Your witness," said the District Attorney. 
 
 Mr. Raingold crossed his leg. He had a recollection of a 
 certain cross-examination which was/ not wholly agreeable. 
 Gentleman Tom's counsel arose. Diamonds flashed in his 
 broad shirt front and on his huge knuckles. He smiled a 
 broad, circling smile, which seemed to ripple away from his 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 85 
 
 big mouth until lost in the region of his voluminous jowl. 
 While the smile lasted he turned it toward the jury, toward 
 the reporters busily engaged in describing Mr. Raingold's ap- 
 pearance and attire, and toward the Recorder, and finally 
 toward the witness. 
 
 "You are a man of good memory, Mr. Raingold ? " coun- 
 sel asked, giving a twitch to his collar as though his great red 
 neck with its swelling veins required more room. 
 
 " I am." 
 
 "Your memory is to be relied upon, as a rule ? " 
 " As a rule," answered Mr. Raingold, in a moderately low 
 voice. 
 
 ' ' Speak so the jurors can hear you, if you please. Thanks. 
 These gentlemen don't always have the pleasure of hearing 
 our Wall Street kings talk, you know. " The counsel's face 
 was lost in waves of smiles. 
 
 " Did you not call the prisoner ' a thief ' .'' " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 "Are you sure ? " 
 
 " Quite sure." 
 
 " Did you not think you had lost your watch at that time ? " 
 
 " No, sir. I did not miss it until afterwards. I was con- 
 fused by the blow or by the excitement, and did not think 
 of the watch. " 
 
 " Did the prisoner speak to you ? " 
 
 ' ' He might have ; if so, I did not hear him. I felt some 
 one push against me ; I stepped to one side. He struck me 
 and I fell." 
 
 "That will do, Mr. Raingold." 
 
 Policeman Hallihan testified that he had made the arrest 
 and that his prisoner had told him he had struck the man for 
 calling him a thief. 
 
 " Tom McCarty!" 
 
 Gentleman Tom stepped into the witness box. All eyes 
 were upon him. The stern-faced judge sat at his right, the 
 reporters at a table and the jury to his left, and in front the 
 District Attorney, his counsel, and the distressed face of his 
 mother. Mabel's eyes rested on the calm, iron face of Mr. 
 Raingold. Tom felt that his word — the word of a poor name- 
 less boy — was to be set against that of a powerful man. He 
 saw the jury were in sympathy with the magnate. 
 
 Tom admitted that he had struck Mr. Raingold. Mr. 
 Raingold had seized him in passing and had called him a thief. 
 And then he added in an under tone, as though talking to 
 
86 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 himself : " I don't kind o' t'ink dat he has de right to call me a 
 teef for notin'." 
 
 After the District Attorney had addressed the jury in behalf 
 of the People of the City, County, and State of New York, 
 Tom's counsel launched forth in his behalf a mighty wave of 
 eloquence. It flooded the jury, the Judge, and the delegates 
 of the looking-on contingent; it splashed up against the 
 benches, it dashed against the wall, and it filled the place with 
 noise. At first Tom was impressed ; then he wondered what 
 " Ccesar's wife above suspicion" had to do with striking Mr. 
 Raingold ; then he seemed to be carried and tossed, twisted 
 and turned around the room, and finally every thought was 
 centred on the swelling veins, the reddening face, and he lost 
 himself wondering whether lobsters in the boiling felt as his 
 lawyer did as he grew hotter and hotter. He heard his bul- 
 wark of defense, his only hope between liberty and prison, cry 
 out : ' ' Shall it be said of you, gentlemen, that the word of a 
 rich man is more weighty than' that of a poor, but honest lad ? 
 The learned counsel for the People has shown no cause for 
 this assault. The boy says Mr. Raingold called him a thief. 
 Would you allow any man to call you a thief and not strike 
 him down ? No ! " And then there was a pause and the wave 
 of sound surged back. ' ' We have heard Mr. I^aingold say 
 that at the time of this lamentable affair he was lost in thought. 
 That we can understand, although we do not think of millions 
 and millions. He is jostled. Who is not jostled ? What do 
 we know of Mr. Raingold's thoughts ? Suppose, broken sud- 
 denly from his reverie, he utters a thought in his mind con- 
 nected, perhaps, with some great enterprise, and that thought 
 is about theft. Would he not cry ' thief ' ? " Now the wave 
 is swelling. Tom listens amazed. ' ' We learn he has mislaid 
 his watch ; has not worn it that day. He is jostled, misses his 
 watch, and cries out ' thief ! ' Put yourself in the boy's place : 
 would you not strike the man who cries ' thief ! ' at' you ? The 
 witness has said he did not cry ' thief ! ' He may have done 
 so and forgotten it." And the waves rose and fell, and poor 
 Tom felt he was drowning. 
 
 And then His Honor recited the evidence to the effect that 
 if the jury found that if six and six, on one hand, made 
 twelve, then it must find for the prisoner — for acquittal ; but 
 if, on the other hand, it found that half-a-dozen and half-a- 
 dozen made twelve, then it must find against the prisoner — for 
 conviction. The case was then given to the jury. 
 
 Poor Tom watched the jurors file out of the room. He 
 hoped, faintly hoped, that a few, if not all, of them would 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 87 
 
 believe the blow had been struck by a man outraged in being 
 called a thief, and not by a ruffian. Still he had always seen 
 the strong crush the weak, and he fortified himself to hear the 
 worst. He sat by his mother and Mabel, anxiously waiting 
 the verdict. As he glanced about him he saw that Mr. Rain- 
 gold was no longer in court. 
 
 It was to determine whether Mr. Raingold did or did not 
 call the boy a thief, and whether the blow had been struck in 
 self-defense or for some reason best known to the prisoner. 
 After a few minutes the jury of twelve gold worshipers re- 
 turned, having found the prisoner guilty of felonious assault. 
 
 " Wal, mudder, dem twelve ain't as wise as de twelve 
 apostles, an' dere's no use buckin' agin fate. Dere's no use 
 in weepin', mudder; de sooner I wuz in de sooner I wuz out. 
 Come, now, what's de use o' kickin' aginst de wall o' de 
 well 'cause you'se at de bottom o' it. I'll do me time like a 
 man." As Tom spoke his eyes filled with tears. He was 
 then taken back to "the Tombs" to await his sentence. 
 
 And Tom's mother and Mabel went their dreary way. 
 Tom's mother was bewildered. She believed, indeed, the 
 iron hand of relentless Fate had again, through the same 
 instrument, stricken her down. 
 
 Chapter XV. 
 
 IN WHICH COMRADE COMES TO CONCLUSIONS MUCH TO THE 
 SURPRISE OF A FELLOW-TRAVELLER. 
 
 How little one man or woman knows another ! Still, in 
 spite of the injunction, "Judge not," we do form our judg- 
 ments. Think you, good sir or lady fair, when in the humor 
 of it, you say of your neighbor, she is so and so and he is 
 this and thus, your judgment is worth utterance? You do? 
 Then write "Simpleton " to your name. 
 
 How well do you know yourself ? What is the scope of 
 your undeveloped, dormant possibilities ? What pressure 
 will break the bonds that hold you as you are and set free the 
 good and evil springs of action ? How far have you been 
 tried ? How long have you lived without consciousness of 
 change within you ? Having looked backward, have you 
 faith in yourself in looking forward — forward into the future 
 
88 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 with ' its multiplicity of cares, trials, affections, sorrows, for- 
 tunes, good and bad, which change us as chemicals change 
 one another ? If you, good sir and lady fair, know how you 
 would be whatever the future might bring you, hasten to an 
 asylum, for you are not safe outside of it. 
 
 If, however, you have the consciousness of changes within 
 yourself, you must allow changes in others ; if you recognize 
 the possibilities in yourself and in others, your prayer is 
 "Lead us not into temptation"; if you do not know how 
 you would act if all the world was different to you than it 
 now seems, how do you know how your neighbor acts with 
 whom the world has changed in some respects since a day or 
 an hour before you sat yourself down in judgment ? Are you 
 so shallow that the lead quickly falls to the bottom, and is 
 your neighbor as shallow as yourself ? Or are you deeper 
 and more complex ; or is he deeper and more complex than 
 you ? Since you cannot find the scope of your own nature, 
 how can you sit in judgment on that of another ? 
 
 Do you judge man or woman by deeds ? If so, judge the 
 size of a field of clover by a leaf. No, gentle sir and lady 
 fair, the man or woman who can measure the soul of his 
 neighbor can count all God's worlds with the naked eye. If 
 there was no change, there never would have been virtue and 
 vice, good and evil, beauty and hideousness, harmony and 
 discdrd, health and disease, and religion — the physic of the 
 soul. 
 
 A certain young woman we have seen, moved by a kind 
 and tender impulse to relieve the necessities of a broken, dying 
 human creature, visited a tenement, and there for several 
 days came in contact with another young woman by the name 
 of Mary Raingold. The lives of these two young women had 
 been different, were different, and would ever be different. 
 And she who knew of the difference thought much concern- 
 ing certain matters, and she became mentally restless. 
 
 This afternoon Comrade stands at the window. Her large 
 eyes, veiled with drooping lids, are not attracted by passing 
 objects. For a while she has stood there and moved away, 
 only to return. Backward and forward through the elegantly 
 furnished rooms she has walked ; now stopping to break the 
 sputtering lump of coal ; now lifting a book from a massive 
 carved table loaded with rich objects of art, to restore it to its 
 place on shelves resplendent with the fine bindings of superb 
 editions of standard books ; now seating herself at the piano ; 
 now rising to pass out of the boudoir into her bedroom, with 
 its dainty hangings of lace and all its thousand and one lux- 
 
" This afternoon Comrade stands at the window. Her lar.ije eyes, veiled willi 
 drooping lids, are nut attracted by passing objects." {See page 88.) 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 89 
 
 uries, to brush her hair before the mirror. Nothing seems to 
 rest her. All that wealth can buy to furnish the house, nay, 
 to convert it into the most delightful of earthly paradises, has 
 been found in the great establishments of the city, and she, 
 Comrade, walks among her possessions apparently finding lit- 
 tle enjoyment in any of them. An idea possesses her — an 
 idea is a monster that devours all things. Finally she turns 
 from the window, touches a bell, and waits. A maid comes. 
 She says in a low, sweet voice: " I will not dine downstairs, 
 I want a very light dinner. I will have it here." 
 The maid retires. 
 
 It is almost nine by the French clock on the mantel. Com- 
 rade looks at its face and at the slow, sure moving hands. 
 The heavy tapestries are drawn, the lamps about the room 
 give a soft pleasant light, and the flashing, darting flames 
 from the crackling, sputtering, soft coal fire ligliten the pol- 
 ished brasses of the hearth. A great, deep cushioned chair, 
 too heavy and masculine for such an apartment, stands 
 before the fireplace, and beside it a low table set with a silver 
 after-dinner coffee service, dainty cups of delicate china, and 
 a silver covered glass jar containing cigars. Suddenly she 
 with the large eyes with drooping lids hears the front door 
 close. She starts, passes into the hall, looks over the stairs, 
 and calls to a man who is taking off his overcoat : ' ' You 
 are late, Comrade." 
 
 " Am I ? Not more than ten minutes." 
 
 "Fully half an hour, sir." He ascends the stairs, enters 
 the room, and seats himself in the big chair. Frederic I-lain- 
 gold has settled himself for the evening in his accustomed 
 place. 
 
 The maid enters with coffee, and the two Comrades chat 
 over many things, about the trial of his assailant this morning, 
 and about matters which do not concern us. 
 
 Frederic Raingold is a shrewd observer, and he notes that 
 something is disturbing the mind of Comrade. He waits, for 
 he knows it will come, whatever it may be ; so he smokes his 
 cigar and sips his coffee. 
 
 Finally, he sets his cup down and says : "By the way, my 
 dear, I was surprised to see that young girl you have added to 
 your household in the court-room this morning. How did 
 she get there ? " 
 
 " I can not imagine. You surprise me." 
 
 After a pause Comrade closed the door. She seated herself, 
 encircling her knees with her arms, clasped her hands, and 
 looked steadily into the fire. On each cheek glowed a tiny 
 
go 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH, 
 
 flush. Raingold gave her one quick searching glance, yet said 
 nothing. Finally Comrade looked toward him and said: " I 
 have something I wish to say to you. It has troubled me 
 much all day. May I say it?" 
 
 " If you wish," he replied. " But would it not be better to 
 leave it until some other time ? " This was the wisdom, not the 
 tenderness of the man. He knew confidences were danger- 
 ous ; were often the result of nervousness. 
 
 "No; now. Mr. Raingold, I am going to leave you," 
 Comrade burst out. It was off her mind — she had made the 
 plunge. It would be easier now to explain. Mr. Raingold 
 looked into the fire and settled himself just a little bit lower in 
 his chair. 
 
 "I have been thinking it all over. Comrade " — it was a habit 
 they had these two of calling each other Comrade — " and I have 
 concluded we must part. It is best for you and best for me. 
 I am fully sensible of all you have done for me, but it is all to 
 no purpose. My path is not your path ; my way of looking at 
 things is not your way. I am a young woman in years, a 
 young woman in strength, an old woman in experience, an old 
 woman in heart ; yet my life is not as it should be, as I would 
 have it. We must part. What do you think ? " 
 
 Raingold heard every word, weighed every word ; still he 
 said nothing. He shaded his eyes from the fire's dancing 
 flames and listened and thought. 
 
 "No," Comrade continued; "I have determined to step 
 into a new path, to seek life and life's battles. This way of 
 living is revolting to me. I am not a human being fighting 
 my way ; I am a doll in a doll house, a mere toy. " She spoke 
 with trembling voice, with increased respiration, with rising 
 and falling bosom. Mr. Raingold said nothing. 
 
 " I am not in the world. I have no friends, no acquaint- 
 ances ; my condition will allow of none such as I would have. 
 What are my interests? A brougham, a house, furniture, 
 servants, plenty. Do these fill a woman's mind — her heart ? 
 Some, perhaps ; not mine. A few days ago I stood at a poor 
 woman's death-bed ; she thought me good and I despised 
 myself ; I stood by the side of a pure, sweet, lovely young 
 girl who seemed willing to like me, and I felt I must shrink 
 from her. Had I been one of the world's workers, earning 
 my own way, fighting my own battle, living as my own affec- 
 tions — if you will not allow me to say conscience — dictate, I 
 would have felt that whatever my faults might be I was not 
 wholly contemptible. I have finally succeeded in getting an 
 excellent engagement, and to-day I went to the first rehearsal. 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 91 
 
 When I stepped through the stage door of the Star Theatre 
 onto the pavement, I felt hke my old self ; the air I breathed 
 was the air of liberty. Well, have you nothing to say ?" She 
 stopped and turned to Mr. Raingold. 
 
 He had listened to every word. He was accustomed to 
 earnest talkers, he knew how to weigh words ; but they were 
 the words of men. He endeavored to read between the lines. 
 He turned his face slowly toward hers, a smile, half cynical, 
 half sad, played about his mouth, and he said slowly : 
 
 ' ' My dear, I am old enough to be your father. Tell me ; 
 is he young " 
 
 Comrade jumped to her feet. Her hands clenched, her eyes 
 flashed, her lips trembled. For a moment she stood as though 
 about to strike him, as poor Tom had done, or to heap indig- 
 nation and scorn upon him. She walked into her bedroom 
 and returned ; thus she mastered herself. Looking at him she 
 said : 
 
 ' ' I suppose, Mr. Raingold, I am exposed to remarks quite 
 as brutal as your question." 
 
 " Well, well. Comrade, you are not a fool, I hope. I never 
 knew any one who liked handsome things better than you, who 
 could spend money more freely ; in fact, who could bask in the 
 sunlight of wealth more complacently. I thought you might 
 have some intention of turning me in, like an old certificate of 
 stock, for a newer and fresher one ; if not, I can't understand 
 your giving up your home for a hall bedroom in a theatrical 
 boarding-house. Affections change, we all know ; hence love 
 is a lottery. I can understand your foolish idea if connected 
 with sentiment, not otherwise." 
 
 "No, Mr. Raingold; I know you cannot. Your view of 
 life is absolute materialism ; mine — well, I am a woman. I 
 told you at the start what I wanted. I wanted help ; help in 
 my profession. You promised to let me have a company of 
 my own. Instead of that you loaded this house with things 
 of luxury, gave me jewels, carriages, horses, and all such 
 things, when what I needed was a man to give me a stage 
 wardrobe, to help me win a place with the talents I know 
 I possess. For two years," she burst out passionately, " I 
 have struggled with all this, and I can stand it no longer." 
 
 "Well, since you have an engagement, you should be satis- 
 fied," he said, and added : " Why give up this house ?" 
 
 "Because I hate it. It is a pleasant place for you to come 
 and smoke in the evening, to amuse yourself; but I hate it. 
 It is a gilded prison." 
 
92 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH, 
 
 " Have you ever been more comfortable — happier ? Have 
 you ever had half the affection that I have given you ? " 
 
 Comrade looked at him and laughed. " Now, my dear old 
 Comrade, you are a very good old fellow, but don't call your 
 selfish love of yourself and your pet failings affection for me. 
 You don't know what true love is ; you have not the least idea 
 of it. No drug, however powerful, can affect the human 
 body like it. It is magic. Have I been ever happy ? God 
 knows I have been happy, and miserable too. I have seen 
 love give to a room the magnificence of a palace and to a chop 
 grilled over a grate fire a deliciousness Delmonico cannot equal 
 with the combined art of his chefs. Perhaps it is because 
 there is no love here," she said, half to herself, "that this 
 lovely house is so dreary. But why talk this way? We un- 
 derstand each other. I am resolved to leave you." 
 
 And what said Frederic Raingold then? What did this 
 manipulator of millions say to this fair, trembling, excited 
 woman ? How " the boys on 'Change " would have laughed 
 had they seen him, with his strong, upturned face glowing 
 with deep inner emotion, and heard him say : ' ' Why can 
 there be no love here. Comrade ? All that there has been in 
 my life has been here — can you not love me ? " 
 
 She turned swiftly. His voice had a new sound to it. She 
 took both his hands in hers and, stooping over, kissed Tom's 
 mark on his forehead. Softly, with trembling voice, she 
 said : 
 
 ' ' No ; I can never love you now. My mind is set. We 
 must part. You have your way, I have mine ; go your way 
 and let me go mine. You have a daughter ; be tender to her ; 
 she will need all a father's love. Leave us alone — we are not 
 worth it." 
 
 So speaking she fled to her room, and he heard the spring- 
 lock snap. It closed him out — it closed him out forever. 
 
 Chapter XVI. 
 
 IN WHICH THE ROAD LEAVES THE TEMPLE OF JUSTICE AND 
 WINDS ITS WAY TO THE PRISON, 
 
 Once more back from " the Tombs " ; once more back 
 in the prisoners' pen at the Court of Sessions. Once more 
 Gentleman Tom is to face the high priest of justice ; once 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 93 
 
 more he is to hear how he has outraged the people of the City, 
 County, and State of New York. He rubs his head, wonder- 
 ing how it was that in stri]<ing a single man he has apparently 
 dealt a blow to the entire community, from the Governor of 
 the State to the court officer holding the key of the pen. He 
 wonders what his sentence will be, how long his term in 
 prison will be, how many years and months of his young life 
 he must give to the people of the City, County, and State of 
 New York in payment of damages done to the aforesaid 
 people. And then he wonders if it is not all a bad dream ; 
 if he is not upset by fever, by drink, or insane. He speaks 
 to the man next to him. The man talks to him. No; it is 
 not a dream. And then he hears the clerk cry "Hats off 
 in court ! " and he knows the Recorder is upon the bench. A 
 lump comes up into his throat; he dreads seeing his mother; 
 he dreads the ordeal of standing at the bar to be sentenced. 
 A companion in misery, one who has travelled the road many 
 times, says to him: " Take a brace on yerself; dat bloke's 
 chin is guff; he's kind o' tender, in spite of his cast iron 
 face, to fust 'fenders. He'll be a picter when he gets on to 
 me photograph. It's been there before, an' he ain't furgettin' 
 not'in'. " 
 
 At last Tom hears his name. He is conducted through the 
 long court-room and is placed at the bar. His Honor Re- 
 corder Smyth is busily engaged in signing papers, and he 
 does not notice the slim lad, with drooping head, standing at 
 the bar. Every body seems busy; no one seems to notice 
 him ; he wonders if he could not walk out of court unnoticed. 
 Glancing about him, he sees his mother holding a very crum- 
 pled and soiled looking handkerchief to her eyes; the sight 
 distresses him and he turns away. After a few minutes the 
 Recorder turns to him. He looks at the boy and says : 
 
 "Tom McCarty, you have been tried by a jury and found 
 guilty of felonious assault upon a prominent citizen of this 
 city. Without apparent cause you struck him a blow — a 
 blow which might have resulted in death. You are one of 
 many young men in this city who despise honest work ; you 
 endeavor to go through life without earning your bread. You 
 are idle, and idleness creates mischief. Instead of putting 
 your energies into work you put them into mischief. I am 
 determined to break up the bands of idle men who stand about 
 the streets insulting the peaceful, law-abiding citizens of this 
 city. The law contemplates the protection of the honest 
 workingman, the peaceful pedestrian. It is the duty of the 
 police and the courts to enforce the law. The gangs of idle 
 
94 
 
 tHE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 ruffians who menace life and property shall be broken up. 
 You have never learned how to discipline yourself. You have 
 never learned a trade. You have never learned how to labor. 
 It is about time that your education should begin. The sen- 
 tence of this Court is that you be taken to the State Prison 
 and there confined for two years and eight months at hard 
 labor." 
 
 Poor Tom listened. He held the wooden rail firmly, fear- 
 ing his trembling knees would not hold him ; his head drooped 
 and down his cheek a tear ran. As the court officer hurried 
 him back to his pen he heard a cry — it was his mother's. 
 
 Hurry! What haste from pen to prison, from prison to 
 railroad train ! Hurry, hurry, hurry, sing the wheels of the 
 street cars ; hurry, hurry, hurry, shrieks the whistle. All is 
 hurry ! 
 
 "Two years an' eight months," mutters Tom to himself. 
 He looks across the frozen river, looks at the Palisades, dark 
 and frowning, and wonders how long they have been there. 
 Two years and eight months ! He glances about the smoking- 
 car in which he was travelling from the city to Sing Sing, and 
 wonders if it is two years and eight months old. And then he 
 looks out of the window again and sees a great wide crack 
 in the ice. ' ' That won't be here in two years an' eight 
 months," he says to himself reflectively. Two years and 
 eight months ! Where will mother be then ? How many 
 months are there in two years and eight months ? How many 
 weeks ? How many hours ? And so thmking, and so 
 counting, he silently watches the long, wide river. 
 
 Handcuffed to him sits a youngish-looking middle-aged 
 man, who hair is grey and whose bushy whiskers are 
 streaked with white hairs. He finishes his newspaper, folds 
 it carefully, and then tosses it across the car. Turning to- 
 ward Tom he says : "It is scarcely a pleasant day to travel. 
 Rather gloomy." 
 
 Tom, not knowing he is spoken to, lost in his own thoughts, 
 does not reply. The man gives the handcuff a sharp jerk. 
 Tom turns. The man quietly remarks, as he puffs his cigar, 
 " I said it is .a rather gloomy day to travel." 
 
 Tom shakes his head affirmatively. The man looks at him 
 again and says : " I suppose I may say with a certain degree 
 of confidence that you and I are going to stop at the same 
 hotel." 
 
 Tom's eyes opened very wide. Certainly, his companion 
 was taking his ordeal lightly. " Ever stopped there ?" asks 
 the man, puffing his cigar. 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 95 
 
 " No," answers Tom. 
 
 "Oh, well, it is not bad. I don't know what kind of a 
 table Brown sets. Brush, you know, gave up the house two 
 or three years ago. I stopped with him twice. But they 
 manage the cuisine about the same. The food is wholesome 
 and there is plenty of it. The coffee is rank. The soup is 
 altogether an acquired taste. Have a cigar?" 
 
 "No," says Tom. "Who's dem fellers. Brown an* 
 Brush?" 
 
 " B. and B. ? Why, my boy, they are appointed by the 
 State to keep the hotel. Brush is out and Brown is in. Brush 
 did his time, Brown's doing his. When Brown is spoken of 
 as a hotel-keeper he is called the Warden ; when spoken of as 
 the manager of the flourishmg industries, he is called the agent. 
 How long will you stop with him ? " 
 
 "Two years an' eight months." 
 
 " Why, my boy, it is scarcely worth the trip. Two years 
 and eight months ! Dear me, you have hardly time enough 
 to make yourself comfortable. Why, I should not think of 
 coming for so short a time." 
 
 ■ " How long's you up fur? " asks Tom, looking at his com- 
 panion with interest. 
 
 ' ' Don't say ' up for ' ; it is very grating on one's nerves, you 
 know. It makes you feel like a convict. I shall stay this time 
 about seven years. I can, if I like, stop for ten. All my 
 affairs have been arranged for me, so that my mind is free for 
 ten years. It is always well to stay some time. You notice 
 the changes when you return to town. City life is so monot- 
 onous. First time, eh ; what did they accuse you of ? " 
 
 " F'lonious assault. Wha'd' yuh do ? " 
 
 " Nothing; victim of circumstances. My handwriting ran 
 into another man's name, and the District Attorney called it 
 forgery. Very clever young man, but without heart, without 
 experience. Undoubtedly thought he was right, and con- 
 vinced twelve of my fellow-citizens that I needed a change of 
 air. Shocking!" 
 
 " Sing Sing ! " shouts the brakeman. 
 
 Some twenty men and boys step out. They are handcuffed 
 in couples. The train speeds away and the men, formed into 
 line, move down the track toward the prison. Before them 
 rise the high brick walls guarded by sentry towers. In these 
 sentinels stand by day and by night armed with repeating 
 , Winchester rifles. Every man selected for this duty is a 
 
 I marksman of proved ability. Unhappy the fate of him who 
 
 dares to scale these walls ! From these towers the approaches 
 
 i 
 I 
 
96 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 from the outside, as well as the yards inside, are perfectly 
 guarded. A high, narrow building of grey granite looms up 
 above the walls. Its narrow windows, like so many slits, 
 nierce the great, flat stone surfaces. They are barred with 
 •.steel. Near this building of forbidding appearance are many 
 low buildings of brick and wood, suggestive of factories. As 
 a whole, it resembles a factory town with a prison in its midst. 
 
 As they walked along with their guards all the prisoners 
 scrutinized the buildings with curiosity. The prison filled the 
 minds of those who were sent to it for the first time with feel- 
 ings of despair and horror, but those who had served out 
 their time before, examined the premises to see what changes, 
 if any, had been made. Tom's companion, in a low voice, re- 
 marked : " Architecturally, this whole establishment is a dis- 
 grace to the State ; but, like everything else in this infernal 
 new country, the noble and beautiful are sacrificed to base and 
 sordid utility." 
 
 " It looks strong an' sort o' discomfortin'," says Tom. 
 
 " It is a darned sight stronger than it looks," says his com- 
 panion with a laugh. 
 
 " Keep quiet there, you fellows," shouts the guard. 
 
 And they pass through the gate, through the enclosure, and 
 into the prison office. Here their guardians deliver them like 
 so many sacks of wheat at a mill, presenting with them the 
 necessary commitment papers. 
 
 One by one, each in his turn stood before the Warden's 
 clerk, who holding the commitment papers in one hand, with 
 the other copied into the prison register the name of the pris- 
 oner, his crime, sentence, and name of trial judge. This done, 
 he asked Tom question after question concerning his parent- 
 age, place of birth, age, and occupation. Tom noticed that 
 the clerk asked him all these questions in a mechanical sort of 
 way, and he wondered how often these same questions were 
 asked, and if he ever felt sorry for those who, like himself, 
 were to pass behind the iron gate to remain there for years, to 
 remain there perhaps for life. 
 
 "Gentleman Tom," now Convict McCarty, was ordered 
 through the iron gates. He was conducted to a bath room, 
 where he was told to strip himself for a bath. Standing naked 
 by his bath, he noticed his keeper making notes of a scar on 
 his knee and a birthmark on his side. He was then measured 
 for height and weighed. He knew an accurate description 
 was being taken for the records. How pitiful it seemed to 
 Tom ! How close a watch upon him was to be kept by the 
 People of the State of New York ! 
 
 / 
 
Till-; l.OCK STEP. 
 
 " A squad of convicts was passinjr through the yard. The tallest man was at 
 the head, the shortest at the tail. They were graded tliroughout in accordance 
 witli tlieir heights. Their arms were folded, their eyes were fixed straight be- 
 fore them, and they glanced not to either side. So close they stood, breast to 
 back, that as each leg was thrown forward it locked its owner in the long striped 
 line, which, with a swaying movement and a rhythmical shuffling sound, passed 
 on, looking for all the world like a huge striped serpent," (.SVf />agc 97.) 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 97 
 
 "There are your clothes," said the keeper, pointing to the 
 prison striped suit. 
 
 With trembling hands he dressed himself, and his heart 
 seemed to swell to bursting as he slipped on the convict suit 
 of black and grey. " What'U I do wid dem ? " he asked, 
 pointing to his clothes. 
 
 "Say good-bye; you'll never see them again," said the 
 keeper. " When you leave you will get another suit." 
 
 He was then taken into the office of Principal Keeper James 
 Connaughton, who has for nineteen years been a prison official. 
 He was told to fold his arms and face the wall. Beside him 
 stood the man who had been handcuffed to him in the train, 
 bereft of whiskers. These had fallen before the convict bar- 
 ber's shears. The Principal Keeper then recited to them the 
 prison regulations, and told them of a time allowance given 
 every prisoner for good behavior. He then assigned them to 
 their cells, their tasks, and to the under keepers. Besides the 
 new comers there were others in the room ; they stood, faces 
 to the wall, waiting their turn to speak to Principal Keeper 
 Connaughton. 
 
 Convict McCarty was ordered to stand behind his compan- 
 ion of the morning, and behind him was placed a shorter man 
 than himself. He noticed his companion's shoulders sway from 
 side to side and that he then stepped forward with a slow, meas- 
 ured step. ' ' Close up ; fold arms ; eyes front ; step together, " 
 said a keeper sternly, and the three men marched along. A 
 squad of convicts was passing through the yard. The tallest 
 man was at the head, the shortest at the tail. They were 
 graded throughout in accordance M'ith their heights. Their 
 arms were folded, their eyes were fixed straight before them, 
 and they glanced not to either side. So close they stood, 
 breast to back, that as each leg was thrown forward it locked 
 its owner in the long striped line, which, with a swaying move- 
 ment and a rhythmical shuffling sound, passed on, looking for 
 all the world like a huge striped serpent. After a while they 
 found themselves in a rag shop, where long lines of convicts 
 were sitting before heaps of rags. Every convict looked up 
 from his work at the new arrivals. A keeper received them, 
 assigned them to places, gave them huge shears, explained to 
 them the work to be done, and walked off swinging his cane. 
 
 The quiet of the place impressed him. There were at least 
 one hundred and fifty men at work, and no sound save the 
 click, click of the shears could be heard. Every man seemed 
 deaf and dumb, and Tom noticed, to his surprise, that they 
 all appeared aged and feeble. As he glanced about him, his 
 
98 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 feelings divided between curiosity and distress ; he wondered 
 if he too would look as old as they in a few weeks. Sud- 
 denly he heard a distinct voice, low as a whisper, say : 
 "Keep up your pluck. Don't trust your voice. You will 
 learn to use it later. Is not this a fine sewing class of indi- 
 gent old ladies ? Give them night-caps and a cup of tea and 
 this place would look like an old ladies' home." 
 
 Tom glanced hastily in the direction of the voice and saw 
 his acquaintance of the morning, with motionless lips, com- 
 pletely absorbed in cutting rags. He bowed his head over his 
 work. He felt the hot tears in his eyes. His prison life had 
 begun. 
 
 Chapter XVII. 
 
 IN WHICH MR. FREDERIC RAINGOLD, SENIOR, DECIDES UPON A 
 POLICY OF MASTERLY INACTIVITY. 
 
 A NOTE, enclosed in an envelope, of robin's-egg blue note- 
 paper, lay beside Mr. Raingold's plate on the breakfast table the 
 morning after the interview recently recorded. Junior, who 
 had preceded his father, saw it. He raised it to his nose and 
 laughed aloud. There was a delicate oder to it, and this was 
 the cause of the young man's merriment. He had not for- 
 gotten the glimpse he had caught of his father at supper with 
 a pretty young woman at the Brunswick ; indeed, if the truth 
 must be told, Junior had kept a close watch upon his parent, 
 wondering if his stern-faced father had a softer side to his 
 character than that shown at home. When Senior opened 
 his note he little suspected that Junior was watching his face, 
 hoping to see upon it some trace of feeling indicative of its 
 contents. But the sphinx was not more void of expression. 
 A tiny key fell out of the note. Then Mr. Raingold read the 
 note slowly, folded it, and put it down beside him. After a 
 while he took it up and read it again. It ran as follows : 
 
 My dear Comrade : 
 
 I have locked my diamonds and jewels in the jewel case and en- 
 close you the key. The box I gave to Marie, with instructions to give 
 it to you when you call. Everything you have given me I 
 leave behind. I have nothing more than I had when you first 
 knew me. 
 
 I told Marie I would be away for a few days, in order to avoid 
 unnecessary talk. Will you dismiss the servants and make a 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 99 
 
 proper disposition of the things ? Whatever you do will be the 
 right thing. Remember, I will need none of them again. 
 
 Do not think ill of me. Do not believe me cruel or heartless. 
 I am much touched with your great kindness, but the step I have 
 decided to take is the result of long thought. If you really are my 
 friend you will not follow me. Let me go. Forget me. Think 
 of me as one dead. 
 
 Good-bye for the last time. Comrade. 
 
 Mr. Raingold put the note in his pocket and ate his break- 
 fast. 
 
 Once during the busy day he took the note out of his pocket 
 and read it through. " It's only a whim," he said to him- 
 self; "she will be back in a few days." Little did the men 
 in his office suspect the thoughts that now and then intruded 
 themselves in his busy brain. Of all men, Frederic Raingold 
 was the last man to be suspected of a secret affection ; indeed, 
 of an affection at all. Sometimes he was annoyed by the 
 thought that Comrade had left him ; sometimes he experienced 
 a feeling of relief. "It was getting rather tiresome," he 
 mused as he passed the tape through his fingers. ' ' I wonder 
 if she will come back ? " he asked himself. 
 
 He decided that on his way uptown he would stop at the 
 house which Comrade had endeared to him with her presence, 
 and see her maid. He would give her to und-rstand that 
 Comrade was away on a visit. It would never do to let the 
 servants suspect the truth. After a while Comrade would re- 
 turn; in the meanwhile he would leave her to her own re- 
 sources, which undoubtedly would soon fail her. She would 
 miss the comfort and luxury of the house he had given her and 
 would, like Bo Peep's sheep, wander home. He would ac- 
 cept the situation as it was, adopt a policy of masterly inactiv- 
 ity, and take a holiday himself. I will have more time for 
 the club ; and, after all, I have been living a pretty prosy sort 
 of life," he said to himself. 
 
 That afternoon Mr. Raingold stopped before a pretty red 
 brick house and, opening the door with his key, entered. He 
 rang a bell. A maid answered it. Mr. Raingold detected in 
 her face an unmistakable look of uneasiness. " Oh, sir," she 
 said, ' ' I have a package for you. Madame told me to put it 
 in your hands." 
 
 "Yes, I promised to stop for it this morning but forgot it. 
 By the way, Marie, as Madame will not be back before next 
 week, it will be a good time to have a thofough house clean- 
 ing. " He said this in a loud voice, suspecting other servants 
 of listening. He walked upstairs. The rooms were as he 
 
lOO 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 had left them the previous evening. There was no indication 
 of the flight. In the sitting room everything was as though 
 Comrade would enter at any moment. Her bedroom was the 
 same as when she was at home, and as he passed through her 
 dressing room he noticed that the toilet articles were in their 
 customary places. And what did this hard man engaged in 
 the making of millions then do ? 
 
 He looked into the bedroom to see whether the maid had 
 followed him up the stairs. Finding he was alone, he hur- 
 riedly opened and shut the drawers of the bureau, hastily 
 glanced into the commodious closet, and satisfied himself by 
 personal inspection that Comrade had left all her clothing. 
 " I wonder what she wore," he said to himself as he left the 
 house. 
 
 That evening after dinner he sat in his library and said to 
 himself: "I don't think I'll go to the club to-night, after all." 
 Way down in his heart he felt troubled. 
 
 Chapter XVIII. 
 
 LIFE AS IT BEGINS TO UNFOLD ITSELF TO GENTLEMAN TOM IN 
 THE HOTEL AT SING SING. 
 
 In spite of the tears poor Tom could not hold back, and the 
 sick feeling about his heart, he looked about him curiously. 
 The rag shop was a mere shed. The swallows built their 
 nests among the beams and rafters overhead, and the hard- 
 trodden clay floor gave no sound to the keeper's tread as he 
 walked up and down between the rows of convicts. All the 
 rags were wool. They were first assorted for color and then 
 heaped in piles before the men. Every convict held a huge 
 pair of shears in his hand, and each man busily occupied him- 
 self in cutting the fabric into small pieces. All of the rags 
 had once been clothing, and in cutting them the object was to 
 free the fabric from seams, folds, and linings. The bits so 
 cut were thrown into barrels. No noise save the click, click, 
 click of the shears could be heard. It seemed so strange, so 
 unnatural, these long rows of smooth-faced men — mostly old 
 men — working hour after hour, motionless and silent. A 
 few who had completed their work sat with folded arms or 
 kneeled, half leaning, against the barrels. He wondered what 
 had brought them together. He learned that the old man in 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 lOI 
 
 the corner, with the German-looking face, was De Leon, who 
 had sent so many poor fellows in search of work to South 
 America, there to die in wretchedness ; and that the burly- 
 negro was Goode, the slayer of the policeman in Wall street. 
 He felt he was in a museum of criminals. Tom heard Princi- 
 pal Keeper Connaughton say to a visitor : ' ' There are one 
 hundred and sixty men at the rag industry. The men as- 
 signed here are chiefly old men who can do nothing else." 
 And Tom wondered if he were an old man. 
 
 At half-past four o'clock the keeper ordered the men to lay 
 down their shears and stand. They were formed in a line, 
 just such a line as he had noticed crossing the prison yard in 
 the morning. One keeper placed himself at the head of the 
 column and a second at the end of it. " March ! " Every 
 man stepped forward on his left foot. How unlike soldiers, 
 thought Tom. There was no step, no clean, free movement, 
 but a shuffle. Each man folded his arms and moved along 
 with breast to back. As he moved his legs Tom felt that his 
 body was locked into the line, and if he fell the whole line 
 must fall too. In this way they shuffled along toward the 
 bucket shop on the river front, where each man got a bucket 
 which he hung on his left arm. Then the line approached the 
 long, narrow building with the many windows. In every 
 direction Tom could see the squads of convicts returning from 
 the various shops. 
 
 At the entrance of the prison long tables were placed, laden 
 with bread, cut in slices. The first table held the large slices, 
 the second smaller ones. Tom noticed that every man took 
 a large slice and as many small ones as he desired. Then the 
 line passed into the long building. In the centre, twelve feet 
 from the walls, there arose a second building with numberless 
 iron-grated doors. Five galleries encircled this building, and 
 Tom could see squads of convicts, similarly armed with buckets 
 and bread, pass toward their cells. Penally the guard cried 
 "Halt!" Everyman stood before his cell. At a word of 
 command every man stepped inside, closing his door behind 
 him. Then there came a grating sound as though the heavy 
 bolt of a lock had been shot into its place. At the end of the 
 gallery a keeper, by means of a lever, locked every cell door 
 on the long gallery. 
 
 Tom was not alone in his cell. His companion was the 
 man who had been handcuffed to him in the train. One 
 small bed was down, the other was turned up against the 
 wall. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Tom's com- 
 panion spoke first. He said : " It is an outrage to double 
 
I02 
 
 THE ROM) OF THE ROtTGH. 
 
 men up in this way. It is ruinous to manners, morals, and 
 health. As we came in I heard the clerk say that there were 
 1,411 boarders, or, to be absolutely truthful, 1,411 convicts. 
 I know there are just 1,284 cells, therefore there are one hun- 
 dred and twenty-seven cells with two men in them. I have 
 known one-half of all the cells to have two men in them, and 
 the harm arising beggars description. By the way, there is 
 your coffee. You had better cultivate a taste for it, as it will 
 be a regular feature of the evening meal, sick or well, during 
 your visit. Did you ever have a room so void of all creature 
 comforts ? No electric bells. Would it not be delightful if 
 we could just have a small bottle of ' the widow, ' or even put 
 our shoes out to be cleaned ? No, my boy ; puritanical, to say 
 nothing of Jeffersonian, simplicity reigns here. You will cul- 
 tivate ignorance of wealth in this place, so filled with innocence 
 and health." 
 
 " Wuz life kind o' tough here ? " asKS Tom. 
 
 ' ' Tough, my lad } No ; tender — tender and juicy. You 
 will learn resignation — submission to the will of your fellows 
 who have sent you here. You will rise at six, get your break- 
 fast, do your household duties — which will not take you long 
 — go to your office, be busy during the morning, go to din- 
 ner, go back to your office, return to supper, and pass an 
 evening at home. At nine you fall to sleep — and so the 
 days of Tom McCarty will pass by." 
 
 " Wat wuz yuh doin' before ? " 
 
 ' ' I was in the kitchen. You should have seen me, my lad, 
 stirring the soup in the huge cauldrons containing gallons of 
 a savory fluid. If more salt were required — just ' a pinch of 
 salt,' as the saying is — in went a bag of it. Everything is 
 done a la wholesale. Did you ever see a dainty lady serving 
 soup with a silver ladle and with matronly dignity ? Well, my 
 boy, she is simply not in it ! Why, my mate and myself used 
 a double-handled ladle. The steam from our tureen was a 
 regular Russian bath ! Wait until we go to dinner to-morrow 
 and you will see the dining room. It is simplicity itself. We 
 march in and take oar seats on wooden benches. In front of 
 us is the table. The board is scrupulously white. No old 
 mahogany here, my lad ; plain, democratic pine. It is about 
 fourteen inches wide and the fellow opposite sits with his back 
 towards you. You will learn more about the backs of heads 
 here than you will of faces. Some twelve hundred dine at one 
 time. The waiters will fill your tin soup plate, give you all 
 the bread you want, and afterwards give you meat and vege- 
 
I.V THE KITCHEN — SOUP. [Sff /a^'-f IOC.) 
 
SKKVI.NG Ul.NNEK TO TWELVE HI NDKKU. (.S'l V /<( j,V I'JJ.) 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 103 
 
 tables on a dn plate and fill your tin cup with coffee. There 
 is lots of everything. It's wholesome; but, oh my ! " 
 
 Tom scarcely heard all his companion had to say concerning 
 prison life; he knew he would learn it during the long two 
 years. It was too horrible. Besides, his thoughts were far 
 away. He was wandering back among the well-known alleys 
 of the city, climbing the stairs of his house, talking with his 
 mother and joking with the little, old, motherly girl who had 
 visited him in the City Prison. At nine o'clock the lights were 
 put out and he fell asleep, dreaming that he was a zebra in 
 a museum ; a zebra entrapped by hunters and put in a garden, 
 where children came in the afternoon to look at him. 
 
 Chapter XIX. 
 
 IN WHICH TWO ROADS CROSS AND TWO OLD FRIENDS GOING 
 THEIR WAYS MEET AGAIN. 
 
 A LADY, closely veiled, stands at Alfred Cecil's door in the 
 University Building on Washington square. She stands 
 knocking for admission. The manservant — he who had 
 opened the door to young Raingold — opened it to her. ' ' Is 
 Mr. Cecil at home ? " she asked. 
 
 The man looked at her closely, but the veil defied his at- 
 tempt to see the face. Taking her card, he replied : " I think 
 not, but I will see." 
 
 She sat down in the large room and waited. Presently the 
 man returned, saying : " This way, miss. " 
 
 Following the servant, she passed into Alfred Cecil's study. 
 He arose from his desk and approached her with a pleasant 
 smile, saying : " Why, Mildred Vane, how do you do ? " The 
 servant drew the heavy portiere and closed the heavy door. 
 
 " Surprised to see me ? " she said softly. 
 
 ' ' Never surprised by anyone or at anything. Well, how 
 are you ? Let me see- — it is a long time since we have met. 
 Won't you throw off your coat ? " 
 
 "If you are not surprised, I hope you are at least pleased 
 to see me. But are you very busy ? No ? Good, for 1 have 
 much to say to you." And she took off her hat, her coat, 
 and seated herself in a big chair. 
 
 ' ' How comfortable everything is here ! I suppose you are 
 
I04 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 rich now ; well — well, you deserve it. ' And she looked about 
 her. " Some of the same old books ! " 
 
 " And how fares the world with you ? Are you playing 
 now? " asked Cecil in a careless sort of way. 
 
 ' ' I will play next week. I have an excellent part in a new 
 piece," she said softly, and then added : " Alfred, I must make 
 it a success; my whole life and future depend upon it." She 
 spoke with great earnestness, and her dreamy eyes seemed 
 kindled with the glow of deep burning fire. "Oh, my dear 
 Alfred, if I had only followed your advice I would have Deen 
 a happier and better woman. I have suffered terribly. Your 
 advice always seems so hard, so cold ; but it is right. Are 
 you happy ? " 
 
 "Happy? Happiness, my girl, is peace of mind, rest of 
 body, freedom from cares, incapacity to feel for others. I am 
 as happy as men of work and feeling can be, but I am not 
 conscious of any special emotion which I believe is a general 
 symptom of the condition termed happiness. Are you ? " 
 
 ' ' No and yes. I have a strong hope of gaining lost ground, 
 and that makes me happy, and I have a sad feeling about cer- 
 tain matters which upsets me. I want to talk everything over 
 with you. Will you be my confessor once more ? " Her large, 
 dreamy eyes looked into his kind face very wistfully, and then 
 they were veiled with the drooping lids. She told her story. 
 He listened, asking no questions and she mentioning no names. 
 She spoke to him with entire frankness, knowing him a man 
 who hears everything and repeats nothing. He heard her 
 through, and then he said, very kindly : 
 
 " My dear Mildred, of course you have done the right thing. 
 Every life is a season of trials. Now and then an individual 
 can stand trial and come out with flying colors, more frequently 
 the colors have to be lowered. When persons know they are 
 living wrong and deliberately continue to do so, they must 
 expect to be unhappy either until conscience is dead within 
 them or until they resolve to live right. There is nothing- 
 more awful than moral callousness. A person with a dead 
 conscience is a fearful object ; it is generally accompanied with 
 such a host of attendh:ig circumstances that the person becomes 
 absolutely unlovable to his or her fellow creatures. On the 
 other hand, when a person resolutely breaks away from wrong 
 living to right living there is a grand moral victory accom- 
 plished, and it brings its peace and happiness. We men and 
 women, unfortunately, find ourselves governed entirely by our 
 neighbors, and by what our neighbors have to say of us, al- 
 though we know hnw little our brothers and sisters in human- 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 105 
 
 ity will do to save us from falling the victim of circumstances. 
 You and I know this ; therefore, I say, live for yourself and in 
 yourself in accordance with the dictates of your conscience, 
 and through conscience you will find yourself in communion 
 with the universe." 
 
 " I don't think I quite understand you," said Mildred. 
 
 ' ' I can not explain all I mean. All I will say is this : You 
 are two in one — a body and a spirit. The health of the spirit 
 is the conscience. Seek the welfare of the spirit, follow the 
 dictates of conscience ; do not mind the body or the history of 
 it ; there is no record worth the writing that is not the record 
 of the spirit. Whatever lives may be, they are not as men 
 know them ; the laws of society are conventional, not spiritual ; 
 the laws that make men and women good or evil are spiritual, 
 not social or conventional. You have been dominated for a 
 while by the power of evil, and now you are dominated by the 
 power of good. You have had your experiences, and you have 
 turned from the evil to the good ; follow the good and you will 
 be less unhappy. " 
 
 " Don't you think I will be happy ? " 
 
 "No. Only children and angels are happy," Cecil said 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " Alfred, you are so strange : the strangest man I have ever 
 met. Do 3'oii think I will get on in the world ?" 
 
 " Why not ? Every one can get on who has health and 
 strength ; that is, if they find their levels. It is a hard thing 
 for people to find their labor levels. Many try to make their 
 social levels and their labor levels correspond. The banker's 
 son with the capacity of a mechanic strives to be a lawyer, 
 and the laborer's son with the capacity of a clerk strives to 
 become a financier." 
 
 "And women; what do they strive to be?" Mildred said 
 mischievously. 
 
 ' ' Everything except what God intended them. But come, 
 it is late; will you dine with me at the Martin ? " 
 
 The Hotel Martin, on University place, enjoys a local repu- 
 tation as a French cafe and restaurant. At one time it was 
 the favorite resort of artists, actors, and journalists. In recent 
 years it has received the patronage of a larger class, but it still 
 remains a chosen corner in Bohemia. Among the diners are 
 to be found many of its old customers, who live in the vicinity 
 in the old studio buildings around the Square and in Tenth 
 street. It was to this place Alfred Cecil and Mildred Vane 
 went to dinner. They entered the main dining room' to the 
 right of the hall. 
 
io6 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 " Oh, there is our old table in the corner," she said, point- 
 ing to a vacant table near the window. ' ' Let us sit there. " 
 
 And they sat themselves where they had sat in former years, 
 and talked of days now long since passed away. During the 
 dinner Mildred talked of her part, her ideas concerning it, the 
 dresses she would wear, and of her hopes and fears. ' It has 
 been so long," she said, "since I have had a chance to play 
 that I am fearfully nervous. It was the strangest thing in the 
 world that I got it at all. The woman who was to have played 
 it got sick, and I happened in to see the manager just as he 
 was wondering who could take her place. He gave me the 
 part to try. I rehearsed it with the book in my hand. This 
 morning I went through it letter perfect. You see, I had 
 nothing to commend me but my own exertions. I had to tell 
 them that I had been resting. I could not say that I had been 
 starred in a private role by Mr. Raingold." And Mildred 
 laughed merrily. 
 
 "Raingold — Frederic Raingold?" he asked, and then 
 added : ' ' The young lady — his daughter — was Mary Rain- 
 gold ? " 
 
 "Yes. I did not intend to mention names; but do you 
 know them ? " she asked, her voice now quite serious. 
 
 " I have met her, but I do not know him," Cecil said, and 
 added : ' ' And so Mr. Frederic Raingold, the money-maker, is a 
 man with taste for forbidden fruit ?" 
 
 " Are you surprised ? Indeed, I should not have mentioned 
 his name." 
 
 ' ' Nonsense ; not surprised, merely startled. It is a small 
 world, and we all bump shoulders in the crowd." And then 
 they talked of the stage, its manners, morals, and oppor- 
 tunities. 
 
 "The theatre," said he, seriously, "offers to all men and 
 women an honorable living. It has its difficulties and its 
 temptations, but so has every other business. It is ridiculous 
 for actors and actresses to believe they may set up a code of 
 morality different from that of general society. A moral 
 principle is, in this century, a rule of life which allows of no 
 exceptions. When a man or woman, by reason of their own 
 exertions, command or attract special attention, they may 
 consider that the rest of the world is seated with opera glasses 
 raised to catch every false step. Of course, after the fashion 
 of the world, they may be often misjudged ; but society, as a 
 rule, is willing to respect those who respect themselves. As 
 for me, my life is what 1 make it. Let the world blow warm 
 or cold, it matters little to me. I go where I will and how I 
 
IN THE HOTF.L MARTIN RESTAURANT. 
 
 " The theatre offers to all men and women an honorable living-. It has its 
 difficulties and its temptations, but so has every other business. It is ridiculous 
 for actors and actresses to believe they may set up a code of morality different 
 from that of general society. A moral principle is, in this country, a rule of life 
 which allows of no exceptions." (See page io6.) 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 107 
 
 will, and the world may turn up its eyes or turn them down, 
 it is all the same. But when a woman does as I do, she 
 sometimes suffers for her independence ; and yet she may be 
 wholly blameless. As the old poet said : ' Woman is too 
 slight a thing to tread the world and not feel its sting.' " 
 And so in pleasant chat the hours passed away. 
 
 Chapter XX. 
 
 IN WHICH MR. FREDERIC RAINGOLD WONDERS WHICH IS THE 
 ROAD HE SHOULD TAKE — HIS DILEMMA. 
 
 For a day or two after Comrade's flight Mr. Frederic 
 Raingold experienced a feeling not unlike that of men whose 
 wives have gone in the country for a week or two. He 
 seemed so free — his evenings so much his own. To be sure, 
 Mr. Raingold had his family. But he had long since emanci- 
 pated himself from the thraldom of domestic bliss by resign- 
 ing the household sceptre to the firm hand of his worthy 
 spouse, who accepted it complacently, asking no questions as 
 to the outgoings or incomings of her lord. 
 
 Yes, indeed, for a day or two Mr. Raingold felt marvel- 
 lously free. He buttoned his coat more tightly, stopped at 
 the florists for violets for his buttonhole more frequently, and 
 in walking seemed to step out more briskly. From time to 
 time he found himself walking down Fourth avenue in the 
 vicinity of the stage door, or stopping before the billboard at 
 the entrance. He read her name, Mildred Vane, in big let- 
 ters, one morning shortly after the bill had been pasted up, 
 and he seemed possessed by an impulse to destroy it. "I 
 wonder," he said to himself, "if I should send her flowers 
 on her first night. What would she think of it ? If she 
 thought by my not doing anything at all that I had forgotten 
 her, would it not be best ?" And so, from time to time, he 
 asked himself questions. 
 
 At the end of the week he decided to call at Comrade's 
 late residence. The door was locked and he rang the bell. 
 This annoyed him somewhat. Comrade's maid, Marie, an- 
 swered the bell. As Mr. Raingold entered he said : ' ' Leave 
 the front door unlocked from the morning until ten at night, 
 and keep the lights lighted in the evening. Any letters ? " 
 
io8 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " Any bills or anything ? By the way, have you heard from 
 Madame ? " 
 "No, sir." 
 
 Mr. Raingold, with a dull feeling in his chest, walked up- 
 stairs and roamed through the deserted rooms. Finally he 
 fell into the big chair. Marie entered, saying : ' ' Will you 
 have the fire, sir ? " 
 
 " No. By the way, Marie, have you seen the coachman ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, most every day. He wants to know if Madame 
 wants to drive, and he wants to know if Madame is comin' 
 back, and we girls was worryin' a bit about citywations." 
 
 " Tell the servants that I will keep them, and when I dis- 
 charge them I will give them all a month's wages. I want 
 everything kept up to the handle." 
 
 " Is Madame comin' back, sir ? " asked Marie. 
 
 " Why, certainly, she is. For the first time he really 
 doubted it. The distrust of the servants had penetrated his 
 selfish soul ; it had not seemed possible to him for a penniless 
 girl to fly from him and his millions. His heart swelled with- 
 in him as he saw Marie leave the room shaking her head. He 
 called her back, saying : ' ' Did Madame ever receive notes or 
 visitors, Marie ? " 
 
 " Gentlemen, sir ? " asks Marie, desiring to have him declare 
 himself. " No, indeed, sir. Poor lady, she was as lonely as 
 a nun in a convent, sittin' here all day readin', or drivin' in 
 the park in the afternoon. I kind o' think, Mr. Raingold, you 
 had better make your mind easy about Madame. I don't 
 suspect you'll ever see her again; not here noways." So say- 
 ing she left the room. 
 
 This visit and the freedom of the servant's remarks annoyed 
 Mr. Raingold. He began to wonder where she was living 
 and what time she would be leaving the theatre. The stage 
 door! "How absurd! I never did such a thing when I 
 was young. I wonder what would happen if I paid the 
 manager to discharge her. Those fellows are always in hot 
 water," he murmured to himself. " Yet, poor child, it is per- 
 haps best for her. I wonder if she needs money for clothes ? " 
 And his thoughts about her changed from hour to hour. He 
 scarce knew that he thought about her at all ; yet the fair face 
 with large eyes half veiled with drooping lids never passed 
 away. It seemed to be before him all the time. 
 
 One morning the office boy came out of the private office of 
 Frederic Raingold, his face beaming with smiles, and he whis- 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 log 
 
 pered into another office boy's ear a tremendous communica- 
 tion : " Say, do you know what the Guv'nor's doin' ? " 
 " Naw." 
 
 "Well, I'll be blowed, if he ain't readin' all de dramatic 
 papers ! " 
 
 It was true. Like a youngster with the first sweetheart 
 from the stage, he was reading the gossip of the theatre. 
 For sixty years he had escaped the contagion that lays so 
 many low at thirty. 
 
 Chapter XXI. 
 
 IN WHICH ALFRED CECIL IS VERY INNOCENTLY CAUSED 
 A SHARP THROB OF PAIN. 
 
 Evening service has just been concluded this bright, 
 sunny Sunday afternoon in the Church of the Heavenly Rest. 
 The deep, full notes of the organ swell through the sacred 
 edifice as the people move down the aisles and pass out into 
 Fifth avenue. Among them is Mary Raingold. She is 
 simply dressed — as she always is — and carries in her hand a 
 small leather bound prayer-book. Her mind during the short, 
 eloquent sermon had, perhaps by reason of some word spoken 
 by the clergyman, drifted away from his to her thoughts. 
 They so weigh upon her that she scarcely notices those who 
 stand about the doors, chatting very much as they would 
 have at an afternoon tea — of entertainments they had at- 
 tended and of those to come. Slowly she walks down the 
 Avenue. 
 
 It so happens that at this time Alfred Cecil, with coat tight 
 buttoned, walks briskly down the Avenue, steps to the edge 
 of the pavement, to avoid the congregation, and passes ahead. 
 In a moment he discovers Miss Raingold in advance of him. 
 He stands beside her and, raising his hat, says : " Good after- 
 noon, Miss Raingold." 
 
 "Oh, how you frightened me!" she answers in a startled 
 sort of way, and adds : ' ' You are such a stranger, Mr. Cecil, 
 that I might rightly think you an apparition." 
 
 "I am no shade, but a substance," Cecil replies with a 
 laugh. ' ' One, I regret to say, that is gaining in weight with 
 years; indeed, since confession is good for the soul, I must 
 
irO 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 admit that my long walks on Sunday afternoons are taken 
 largely with the purpose of becoming more sylph-like. And 
 you ? You have been to church ? " 
 
 " Yes. I like the afternoon services at the Heavenly Rest. 
 Have you ever heard Doctor Morgan ? " 
 
 ' ' No. The fact is, Miss Raingold, I have given up many 
 things of late years. Some time ago I was a reporter on a 
 newspaper, and every Sunday I was assigned to do churches ; 
 that is, report sermons. During that unhappy period of my 
 existence I listened to many preachers and thought over their 
 sermons when 1 sat myself down to the dreadful task of writ- 
 ing my copy. I came to the conclusion that most newspaper 
 men could write sermons better than the average of those 
 preached in the majority of churches. Since then I have 
 not gone to church except to a wedding or a funeral." 
 
 " Which means, my dear sir, that on Sunday mornings you, 
 like all men, love the newspapers. " 
 
 " On the contrary, the Sunday newspaper is a journalistic 
 abomination, excellent for working people and servants ; but 
 to every body else a mass of dreadful rubbish, forbidding in 
 appearance and unattractive in every way. I got into the 
 habit some time ago of staying in my rooms on Sunday 
 mornings, and it has grown upon me. I love to potter about 
 doing something which is in fact absolutely nothing." 
 
 In this way, talking about everything and anything, they 
 came to the steps of Frederic Raingold s massive front door 
 on Madison avenue. Cecil touched the button and the elec- 
 tric bell sounded in the hall. At once the doors were flung 
 open by a servant in livery. 
 
 "Won't you come in, Mr. Cecil?" Mary Raingold asked 
 as Alfred Cecil raises his hat to bid her good-bye. He seems 
 to hesitate. Then she looks at him and adds : ' ' Do. I have 
 something important to say." 
 
 He follows her into the great oak-panelled hall. There is 
 sometimes more eloquence in the expression of the eye, the 
 lifting of the eyebrows, and the nervous muscular movement 
 of the mouth than in all language. It was the look which 
 Mary gave him that determined him, for he did not intend to 
 enter the house; indeed, it was against his wish. 
 
 They walked into a reception room to the left of the hall. 
 A log fire is burning brightly. They stand beside it, for its 
 genial glow seems to invite their approach. 
 
 "Shall I put on a log, miss?" asks the servant, who had 
 followed them in. He did so and withdrew. 
 
 Cecil stands beside the great mantel, hat in hand, while Mary, 
 
" Cecil stands boside the Kfeat mantel, hat in hand, while Mary, half kneeling, 
 stirs the embers with the poker. Looking up, slie asks shyly : ' Did you think it 
 strange of me to send Freddie to you ? ' And she gives the glowing embers such 
 a stir that they glare fiercely, throwing light and heat into her down-turned 
 face." (Sre />n^f tig.) 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. Ill 
 
 half kneeling, stirs the embers with the poker. Looking up, 
 she asks shyly : ' ' Did you think it strange of me to send 
 Freddie to you ? " And then she gives the glowing embers 
 such a stir that they glare fiercely, throwing light and heat into 
 her down-turned face. 
 
 "Not at all. I can assure you I felt highly honored," he 
 says earnestly. 
 
 "I was afraid you would," she says softly. " And yet I 
 thought you would understand. P>eddie is a very good boy, 
 you know; he really is; but at times he is foolish — wild. 
 Young men are allowed to be a little wild though ; are they 
 not ? " There was a roguish look in her eyes as she spoke — 
 and then she arose from before the fire. 
 
 Alfred Cecil laughed. ' ' I believe that is the doctrine. 
 Every young man is allowed to indulge his vicious propensities 
 to a limited extent. These are called 'wild oats.' Having 
 sown them in his youth, he is considered by society a member 
 worthily and duly qualified to indulge in the domestic virtues; 
 that is, sow his, well — ' domesticated oats.' So far as my ob- 
 servations extend," Cecil continues, with a sly twinkle in his 
 eyes, ' ' young men who are not a little wild, like your brother, 
 are not considered examples of rugged health. Indeed, it is 
 considered unnatural. Youth and Folly are merry, boon com- 
 panions ; even more — sort of Siamese twins. Just think, Miss 
 Raingold, how the gravity and wisdom of age would suffer if it 
 were not for the contrast afforded by the levity and folly of 
 youth ! " 
 
 "Is it not strange that girls do not like grave and wise 
 youths — call them 'prigs '}" Mary says thoughtfully. 
 
 ' ' Not at all. Our conventional laws have declared that 
 woman is the embodiment of human perfections. In order to 
 establish a contrast, it declares that man is the embodiment of 
 human imperfections. To prove the power of good over evil, 
 of perfection over imperfection, woman is presumably able to 
 conquer the savage bachelor and make " 
 
 " The tame husband," interrupts Mary with a smile. 
 
 " No ; the domestic man ; the lover of wife, children, home. 
 This victory is the glory of women — their pride. Our laws all 
 favor the woman ; woman is the conqueror, man is the vassal ! " 
 
 "You believe in woman ? " Mary asks, for she is pleased to 
 hear her sex praised. ' ' You do not think her the daughter of 
 Eve, with an hereditary taint — a desire to do mischief ?" 
 
 " Bless my soul! " Cecil replies lightly. " I am no enemy 
 to the worst of Eve's daughters. They may tempt, as Eve 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 did, but it is a poor sort of man who has a taste for green 
 apples, which stick in the throat. No, indeed ; I always be- 
 lieved woman an afterthought of the Creator — a sort of majes- 
 tic humor or sarcasm. That is, accepting the Mosaic idea of 
 creation." 
 
 "Good gracious! How? " she asks, quite astonished, 
 
 ' ' Why, after all had been created ; all the waters, land, 
 fishes of the sea, birds of the air, and beasts of the field, God 
 made man and gave him dominion over them. Man was then 
 monarch of all he surveyed ; then, as an afterthought, probably 
 to humble the pride of man. He made woman, and gave her 
 dominion over him. Was not woman, therefore, a rather 
 humorous creation — humor with a touch of sarcasm ? " 
 
 ' ' I don't think, " says Mary gently, ' ' that I like your idea. " 
 
 After a short chat Mr. Alfred Cecil left. As he walked 
 down the Avenue he said to himself: "And such is life. 
 Always a new pain. I would that it could be, for she is so 
 noble, pure, and beautiful. Poor girl, if she only knew how 
 she stirred dead ashes in me when she poked those glowing 
 embers." Sadly, with a pain in his heart, he walked slowly 
 and thoughtfully homeward. 
 
 "Mother," says Mary Raingold this same Sunday evening, 
 as she laid the book she was reading down in her lap ; " I 
 wish you would invite Mr. Cecil to the next dinner." 
 
 "Mr. Cecil?" Mrs. Raingold repeats, adding to the name 
 an inflection of voice which unmistakably means — Who in 
 the world is Mr. Cecil ? " And why Mr. Cecil ? " 
 
 "Why?" Mary's voice and Mary's cheeks betray a feel- 
 ing of annoyance ; nay more — temper. ' ' Why ? Why do 
 we ask any one ? " she asks in her turn, and adds : "To eat 
 and be entertaining, I suppose." 
 
 " Good gracious, Mary, how you fly up! If you desire to 
 invite your Mr. Cecil, pray do so ; but don't get in a passion 
 about it. May I, your mother, with very great deference to 
 this gentleman, ask who he may be ? " And, so speaking, 
 Mrs. Raingold, with great dignity, continued to check off cer- 
 tain entries in a leather bound memorandum book. 
 
 Mary looked toward her father, who was sleeping in his big 
 chair, overcome by the dullness of the morning newspapers. 
 She then raised her book, disregarded her mother's question, 
 and proceeded to read. The amiable Mrs. Raingold laid 
 down her book and took up another. She ran down the an- 
 notated margin to the letter C, opened at that letter, and with 
 her pencil ran over the names. Having done this, she ran 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 backward over them. Mary slyly watched this action, and the 
 color in her cheeks heightened. 
 
 " My dear Mary, I don't think I know your Mr. Cecil. Has 
 he ever been here ? I do not find his name on my visiting 
 list." 
 
 " Thank God! " responds Mary. 
 
 " My child," says'Mrs. Raingold, closing her book; "what 
 Tanguage ! " 
 
 " Uttered from the bottom of my heart. I rejoice to think 
 that there is at least one man who has escaped that tedious 
 catalogue of aristocratic cattle. Your visiting list, mother, 
 always makes me think of Mr. Havemeyer's book of regis- 
 tered Jerseys, with the exception that his is a list of magnifi- 
 cent, high-bred cows and yours a list of stupid, ill-bred 
 donkeys. " 
 
 Frederic Raingold overheard this verbal combat and roared. 
 He loved to hear the shot rattle through the rank and file of 
 Mrs. Raingold's light squadron of fashionable people. He 
 sat himself up and, turning to Mary, said : " What's the mat- 
 ter, daughter ? Who is the person your mother has overlooked 
 in her stock ledger ? What's the difficulty, anyway ? " 
 
 " Nothing," replied Mary, whose temper had, like scudding 
 summer clouds, disappeared, and left her trembling between 
 laughter and tears. ' ' I asked mother to invite a gentleman 
 to the next dinner and she did not find his name on her visiting 
 list. I ought to have a card printed for distribution — ' If you 
 want to know me and be invited to our house, be polite to 
 mama.' Anyone would suppose I was a bud." 
 
 "Don't talk nonsense, Mary," retorted Mrs. Raingold 
 angrily. Then, turning to her husband, she said: "Mr. 
 Raingold, you are always encouraging Mary." 
 
 "She requires encouragement, my dear; but, as you are 
 such a perfect reservoir of self-reliance, it is unnecessary for 
 me to say anything to you. But who is this gentleman, Mary, 
 whose digestion is to be attacked by one of your mother's 
 gastronomic festivals ?" 
 
 "Mr. Cecil, of Washington square." 
 
 "Mr. Cecil, lodging on Washington square, you should 
 say," adds Mrs. Raingold. 
 
 "How do you know where he lodges, or — rooms, if you 
 prefer it better, mother, since he is not one of the immortals 
 embalmed in the crypt of noble names ? " 
 
 " Your brother told me that such a person, living in cham- 
 bers in the dreary old University Building, knew you — that 
 is all. It had escaped me for the moment." 
 
114 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 "Cecil? — Cecil?" said Raingold slowly. "What is his 
 first name ? " 
 
 " Alfred Cecil," replied Mary. 
 
 "Of course you will ask him. The fellow has made an 
 enormous fortune within the last five years. He is the owner 
 of the Daily Planet. I have tried every way to meet him. 
 1 understand he is as queer as Dick s hat-band, and can't be 
 gotten c'lt. How in the deuce did you ever meet him ?" 
 
 .Mr. Raingold, now thoroughly interested, stood up, threw 
 down his paper, and said: "Look here, Mrs. Raingold; for 
 years you have been inviting your precious crew of useless 
 and highly connected friends. On this occasion Mary and 
 I will have a dinner. We will have Alfred Cecil. When 
 shall it be?" 
 
 "My invitations for the next two dinners are out," stiffly 
 responds Mrs. Raingold, half dazed with anger and amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Oh, bother your two dinners. We will have another! 
 You write to him, Mary; make it informal. If it is a big 
 dinner he won't come." So speaking, Mr. Raingold strode 
 out of the house. 
 
 And Mary wondered why it was that her father seemed 
 more desirous than she to have Alfred Cecil dine at their house. 
 
 Chapter XXH. 
 
 TOM WANDERS ALONG THE ROAD OF SHADOWS AND VISITS 
 AN OLD HABITATION. 
 
 Nine o'clock. Nine o'clock in the evening. Nine o'clock 
 in the main prison at Sing Sing. Lights out ! 
 
 Fourteen hundred men lay down for the night. 
 
 And Tom lay himself down this first night in the prison and 
 thought to himself that sleep would not come to him. Was 
 he not too wretched to be visited by sleep ? 
 
 But sleep came.. It stole through the small barred windows 
 of the great main wall, crossed the space between it and the 
 house of cells, slipped in between the grated doors of Master 
 Tom's narrow chamber, touched his eyelids with its magic 
 fingers, and Tom wandered out into the night. 
 
 He passed along the gallery and saw the convicts sleeping 
 in their narrow beds; down the steep iron stairs, past the 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 "5 
 
 keepers at their posts, into the yard ; into the rag shop where 
 old men wearily plied great shears through musty rags ; 
 through the kitchen, dining rooms, and down to the river. 
 Between the bars he saw the river glistening, and on the fence, 
 at the sentry box, he saw the guard with the gleaming rifle. 
 
 He saw the long striped columns of men shuffling through 
 the yards from dining room to factory; he saw the keepers 
 pacing their beats, switching the light canes in their hands; 
 he saw those who had grown weary of confinement move 
 about spiritless, broken, and miserable ; he saw those who had 
 recently arrived growing stouter, the tension of trial- and dis- 
 grace having passed off. 
 
 And then ? He found himself climbing the stairs of the 
 old dingy tenement. Over her work with bowed head sat his 
 mother. He saw the tears stealing down her cheeks and he 
 knew that it was for him that she wept. He stretched out 
 his hand. He laid it upon her head, yet it seemed as though 
 he did not touch it. He spoke to her ; it seemed as though 
 his voice did not reach her. A sense of happiness thrilled 
 him. 
 
 Poor Tom's mother laid down her work, rubbed her eyes, 
 and said to herself : "It must be late and I am dreaming. It 
 seemed just as though Tom had been here and said : ' Good- 
 night, mother.' " 
 
 Chapter XXIII. 
 
 COMRADE MAKES HER BOW TO AN AUDIENCE, AND A NEW STAR 
 SHINES IN THE DRAMATIC HEAVENS. 
 
 The doors of the Star Theatre stand open to all comers. 
 At the iron gate the door-keeper sits taking tickets. Beside 
 him the press agent, to whom the ticket-taker refers a number 
 of young men and an occasional woman who present cards. 
 They are the representatives of newspapers published in towns 
 not found on the railroad maps of to-day, but possible centres 
 of cash and culture in the next ten years. A little further 
 back stands the manager talking with his friends. He 
 watches the throng enter, he sees the line at the box-office, he 
 notices the tickets fall into the big tin box, he notes the critics 
 from the great dailies. It is an important night for him. 
 
 " Who is Mildred Vane ?" asks a newspaper reporter who 
 
ii6 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 usually does dog fights for the New York Herald, and when 
 not so engaged is assigned to the theatre. 
 
 "Miss Vane? Who is Miss Mildred Vane? Why, my 
 boy, she played here with Henry Irving, and on her return to 
 England made the sensation of the season. I got her over 
 for this part. Wait until you see her," replied the manager. 
 
 The canine artist straightened his cream-colored satin tie 
 and felt he had exposed his ignorance. After a few minutes 
 he proceeded to his seat, first looking at a great basket of roses 
 with an envelope attached marked "Miss Mildred Vane." 
 
 The orchestra plays an overture. 
 
 Just as the curtain is being lifted on the first scene, Frederic 
 Raingold and his sister Mary walk down the centre aisle. 
 The usher turns down their seats and hands the young man 
 his checks. Frederic throws off his coat, looks quickly about 
 the theatre, and sits down. 
 
 The play begins. It is a drama with a fine line of comedy 
 through it. It is the story of a young woman whose past. is 
 clouded with mystery. She has won the love of a good man 
 and treasures it, but his curiosity as to her early life, which has 
 been heightened by the remarks of his friends, makes him 
 suspicious of her. A former admirer of hers — the orthodox 
 villain .of the theatre — endeavors to poison the mind of the 
 husband, hoping that she may leave him. The husband is 
 worked up into a state of suspicion and jealousy when the wife 
 enters the drawing room. The wife is impersonated by Mil- 
 dred Vane. 
 
 Her entrance was greeted by the audience with applause. 
 It had heard her singing before she appeared. The young, 
 fresh voice had a delicious charm to it. Her personality was 
 winning in itself. She possessed magnetism. Her reception 
 was evidently a surprise, for she stopped, smiled, bowed, and 
 proceeded with her role. The moment she appeared Mary 
 turned to her brother. He was looking at the stage, with his 
 lips parted in evident astonishment. " Well! " he cried. 
 
 " Why, Freddie, that is , " Mary whispered. 
 
 "Well, I'll be blowed! That is the girl the Governor had 
 to supper, " Frederic Raingold whispered. 
 
 " Hush ! " And Mary pressed his arm. 
 
 And as they watched the play Mary's mind would wander 
 from the scene to the tenement house, from the tenement 
 house to the restaurant in the Hotel Brunswick. And Fred- 
 eric ? He wondered how his father could have met her. 
 
 The first act was concluded with great applause. Miss 
 Vane was called and recalled. Trembling with pleasure and 
 
THE ROAl> OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 117 
 
 excitement, the young actress stood before the curtain and 
 bowed her thanks. At last and unexpectedly she had tri- 
 umphed. Frederic rose from his seat to go into the lobby. 
 As he did so he discovered his father seated in the centre 
 aisle, alone ; and across the house to the left he noticed Alfred 
 Cecil leave his seat. 
 
 As Frederic walked up the aisle he stopped and said to his 
 father : ' ' Hello, Gov. , I did not know you were coming here. " 
 
 ' ' No. Had nothing to do and dropped in. Pretty good, 
 isn't it ? " 
 
 ' ' Capital. How do you like her ? " 
 
 "Who? The heroine?" 
 
 "Yes; Miss Vane." 
 
 " I thought she was fair. It is a strong play." So speak- 
 ing, the two Raingolds passed into the lobby. There they met 
 Alfred Cecil. Frederic introduced Cecil to his father. As 
 the two men stood talking together Frederic sauntered off and 
 looked at the flowers. Here he made a discovery. It seemed 
 to him that the handwriting on the envelope attached to the 
 basket was unmistakably his father's, and that on the card 
 attached to the bouquet was Cecil's. 
 
 " I wonder whether they both know her," he said to him- 
 self. Then he walked to his seat. Looking back he saw his 
 father and Cecil about taking their seats. Cecil had left his 
 to sit by Mr'. Raingold. 
 
 The second and third acts were even more successful than 
 the first, and, when the curtain fell, Mildred Vane had won 
 for herself a first place in the ranks of those who struggle and 
 suffer to win applause. 
 
 And Raingold ? He did not share Cecil's unmistakable 
 pleasure in the success of the new favorite. He had watched 
 her performance with great interest, but the success she had 
 attained smote the chord of self, and he felt that now a certain 
 pretty house would never be made cheerful with her sunny 
 presence. 
 
 That night he wrote her a note congratulating her upon her 
 triumph ; that night the editors of the Daily Planet were in- 
 structed to publish an article which Cecil himself contributed. 
 
 That night Mildred Vane thought of a poor woman's dying 
 blessing : ' ' God bless you both ! " 
 
 Ah, fair young woman with large eyes and drooping lids, 
 your time has come ! The wheel of fortune for a while turned 
 in the mire, but to-night it is garlanded with roses. One 
 cannot mistake the sentiment of the audience. It has wel- 
 comed you as an unknown ; it has showered you with its ap- 
 
ii8 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 plause. You have been a surprise to it, to your manager, to 
 the author, to the company, and to yourself. Neither they 
 nor you suspected the existence of that within you which 
 seemed to go out from you to the audience. At this moment 
 the critics are writing of you. Some are wondering whether 
 it is art or genius, or art and genius combined. They know 
 you possess something uncommon and it must be given a 
 name. Some prattle about "intensity," "reserve force," 
 " natural charms of voice, face and figure," "graces of mind 
 and a manner free from affectation." Our dear old friend 
 Winter compares you to the antediluvian dames that pleased 
 him in the springtime of his content ; he will say you are ' ' a 
 soul," and he will, like Silas Wegg, "drop into poetry," 
 while the Herald reporter will declare you ' ' fetched laughter 
 and tears to the eyes of a fashionable audience." But let 
 them wriggle and write ; they never make, they never mar. 
 
 And what is this you are doing with your basket ? Divid- 
 ing the flowers among the ladies of the company ? And what 
 are you doing with the card of Frederic Raingold, the Master 
 of Wall Street ? Surely you are not tearing it into little bits ? 
 And why do you frown as you do so ? Come, my lady, is it fair ? 
 Let the good man cast a rose or two on the grave of a dead 
 love ! No. You wish to forget. Very well, but not by bury- 
 ing your pretty face in that bunch of roses. Surely ; there is 
 no sentiment in Cecil's bouquet ! 
 
 And who is it that comes to you now and asks permission 
 to put you in a cab } The manager. No cab ! How sur- 
 prised he is! Behold his smile and his soft — "You must 
 always have your carriage. It shall go into the contract. 
 Would rather have a maid ? Ah, Miss Vane, why not both .?" 
 Poor Mildred ; she is in a dream. The wheel has indeed 
 turned. Yesterday Mr. Manager sighed as she rehearsed ; to- 
 night his rosy face is illumined with smiles. He has a lion- 
 ess — and a cheap one at that — and he proposes to guard her 
 very tenderly. 
 
 She leaves the theatre heavily veiled. Beside her walks a 
 slight young girl who has helped her in the dressing room, 
 helped her while the regular dresser had done her hair and ad- 
 ministered the finishing touches. They walk down Fourth 
 avenue a few blocks, then cross over to University place, and 
 thence down to the University Building. 
 
 Mr. Cecil's manservant, as he stands at the door, is watch- 
 ing for them evidently. They enter Mr. Cecil's apartments. 
 " Won't you wait a few minutes, miss ? Mr. Cecil is just fin- 
 ishing his article. Soon as it is done he will be out." 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 119 
 
 Wait ? Of course, she would wait. What queen of the 
 stage would not wait for the man who is writing, writing of 
 her ? And the Daily Planet has a very large audience. 
 Should they not hear of her triumph ? vShould they not know 
 that a star has arisen ? Let the journalistic Magi write. 
 
 The door opens ; Cecil comes out of his den. As he shuts 
 it behind him, Mildred hears the tic, tic, tic of the telegraph 
 key, and she realizes how the news of the world flashes into 
 this one room of the old University Building. 
 
 He has thrown off his dress coat and now wears his even- 
 ing vest and a smoking jacket, while she has laid aside her 
 ulster, hat, and veil. 
 
 " Congratulations, full, round, and hearty," he says, coming 
 forward. 
 
 " Was I a success ?" she asks, impulsively holding out her 
 two hands, her face intensely anxious and shining with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " Indeed you are. You are more than a success ; you are a 
 revelation! Honestly, a grand surprise. " 
 " And they liked me ? You liked me ? " 
 " More than that — they loved you ! " 
 
 ' ' I did not overdo it ? How v<!as, I in my first scene ? Was 
 I good in the second act ? In my great scene with my hus- 
 band, did I tower as you told me ? I really made a great im- 
 pression, did I ? " She asked question after question, and 
 then burst into tears. The excitement was more than she 
 could stand. 
 
 "Come, come; this won't do. This means failure, my 
 child ; nerves must not be strained ; calm yourself. Come now, 
 we will have a bite of supper, and then you must go home." 
 And so speaking, Alfred Cecil, like an elder brother, led her 
 into another room where a supper was awaiting them. 
 
 Poor "Comrade " — poor Mildred Vane; how thanks swell 
 your heart ! You only hoped to be acceptable that you might 
 keep your place among the breadwinners, but more had come 
 to you — -more than you dared expect. The bread cast on the 
 waters had returned after many days. 
 
 An hour later Mildred, with Mabel half asleep, stepped 
 into a cab and was driven rapidly to her boarding house. 
 
 After the theatre Mr. Frederic Raingold, silent and 
 ♦ thoughtful, walks up Broadway with his son and daughter. 
 
 Both he and Mary listen to the young man, yet say little. 
 His mind is engaged with thoughts foreign to the play, yet 
 closely surrounding the player. Perhaps it is the effect of his 
 mood upon her that causes Mary to be so unusually quiet. 
 
I20 
 
 THE ROAU OF THE RUUGH. 
 
 Her surprise in discovering in Mildred Vane the young 
 woman who had won her esteem on a certain occasion was 
 complete and absolute, and her pleasure in witnessing her 
 grand success was genuine and hearty. Still, there would 
 come back to her a remembrance of two faces through a win- 
 dow, which caused her an uncomfortable feeling. Her nature, 
 so frank and loyal, revolted at the possession of knowledge 
 which daily became burdensome as a secret. But the younger 
 Raingoid had no such feelings. He merely wondered 
 whether his father would drop a word or two which would 
 give him any information. But the father's lips were as silent 
 as the portals to a vault. 
 
 " I wonder where she comes from ? " he asks. " I don't 
 think I have ever seen her play before ? Have you ? " 
 
 " No," Mr. Raingoid replies, with an unnecessary stress on 
 the word. 
 
 "Well, I suppose she will prove the sensation of the sea- 
 son," adds Raingoid, Junior. " She will become the fashion, 
 I wonder who knows her ? I must meet her." 
 
 The young man covertly looks at his father's face, but no 
 trace of thought passes over it. Evidently the words did not 
 touch him. But Mary ? She pressed her brother's arm, cau- 
 tioning him to be silent. 
 
 After walking a few blocks Mr. Raingoid excused himself 
 and walked down a side street, saying he was going to the 
 club. Did he change his mind or was this only strategy? 
 He stops ; he turns. Where is Mr. Raingoid going ? Back 
 to the theatre ; to the stage door ? 
 
 He paces the block between Thirteenth and Fourteenth 
 streets on Fourth avenue. The stage door opens and he sees 
 several members of the company step out from a gloomy, 
 badly lighted interior. He stops. 'No; he will not wait. 
 He is off ; briskly he walks uptown. Surely, Mr. Raingoid, 
 you are not the man of decision we are told you are. 
 
 One hour later Mr. Frederic Raingoid stands before the 
 fireplace in a prettily furnished house. He has lighted all the 
 lights and the fire crackles and sputters. He glances about 
 him. He walks into the back room with its dainty hangings ; 
 he lifts the silver-backed brushes fiom the table and smooths 
 his own grey hair and then — he throws the brush under the 
 bed. 
 
 Up and down he walks ; there is a hard, cold look in his 
 face. He catches up a photograph and tears it into shreds. It 
 is his own. He lifts "a framed photograph from the table. It 
 is hers. With violent hands he drags the card from its place 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 121 
 
 and hurls the costly frame into the fire. Impetuously he tears 
 the card and throws it on the hearth. Suddenly he stoops and 
 seizes the two pieces. The effort forces the blood to his face. 
 He looks in the glass. He sees the mark of Gentleman Tom's 
 stick ; how the scar glares ! It seems like red lips flushing 
 and paling in anger, like lips mocking him, like lips taunting 
 him. There comes a ringing in his ears. Sounds come to 
 him. The lips seem to say : Suffer, suffer, suffer ! 
 
 A sense of weakness comes over him ; he sinks into a chair ; 
 he feels that the waters are closing over him. 
 
 Silence hovers at the threshold. Silence hovers about the 
 man of millions. 
 
 And in the small hours of the morning he rises from the 
 big chair, looks at his watch, and wonders at the lateness of 
 the hour. His face is pale, very pale, in the early morning 
 light. 
 
Chapter XXIV. 
 
 MR. RAINGOLD STANDS V.Y "THE TICKER " AND WATCHES THE 
 WAGING OF BATTLE. 
 
 Every nation has its capital and its street. The capital in 
 comparison with the street is as a mere local point to a nation. 
 The street is one of the world's centres. 
 
 In European cabinets and counting-rooms grave ministers 
 of state and the Rothschilds, Bleichroeders and Barings of 
 finance sit, from hour to hour, scanning the news from Wall 
 Street. Wall Street is to them the pulse to the American 
 financial body, and they sit like doctors, watch in hand, 
 counting the pulsations. 
 
 And Wall Street ? 
 
 On bright, sunny mornings before the great clock in Trinity 
 chimes the hour of ten, Wall Street is calm, impressive, mag- 
 nificent. Great buildings of granite, marble, stone, brick and 
 iron raise their lofty heads on its two sides, which slope away 
 from the head of the street like a funnel. The large end rests 
 on the river which madly swirls past, the small end at Broad- 
 way is stopped by Trinity, which raises its slender, lofty steeple, 
 as a finger, ever pointing to the sky. But the men and the 
 boys, with smooth faces, fresh in the morning air, raise their 
 eyes to the clock and no higher. 
 
 In the afternoon all is different. In and out of the temples 
 of Mammon pass hastily the men and boys of the morning. 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 123 
 
 Their faces are lined and parched. The air is full of sounds, 
 and every sound seems laden with excitement. Even the 
 buildings, with ever swinging doors, have lost their calm, im- 
 pressive look. They seem to be seething cauldrons. All is 
 movement, anxiety, impatience. The fortunes of the world 
 are in motion, swinging like great celestial bodies in the firma- 
 ment, drawing into the engulfing vortex behind them the 
 luckless speculators. 
 
 The Stock Exchange rests on Broad street, with a door on 
 Wall street, and so does the Mills Building, where Frederic 
 Raingold, the manipulator of millions, has his offices. 
 
 In his private office Frederic Raingold walks up and down 
 the floor. There is a strange look in his face this morning, 
 and his son is anxious. He knows that his father did not re- 
 turn to his home until a very late hour, an unusually late hour 
 even for Mr. Raingold, so he believes the whitish blue and 
 grey look may be due to loss of sleep. 
 
 The morning newspapers lay on the table and on the floor. 
 He has read them all this morning, read the critics' reports of 
 the new play. But there is other reading for you, Mr. Rain- 
 gold. That little instrument with the tape issuing from it is 
 printing something besides comedy ; it is telling what is going 
 on in that great white building up the street. How the wheel 
 spins, as the hammer falls marking the tape, that record of 
 fortunes lost and won ! 
 
 But Mr. Raingold is in no humor for a battle ; he would it 
 were time to go home ; he would that it were three o'clock. 
 His brain feels dull, his eyes seem heavy, his heart is op- 
 pressed with weight. Money, the god he had worshipped for 
 many, many years, seemed to have lost its power to heal his 
 wound, to soothe and comfort him. To-day, for the first 
 time in his life, he feels it cannot purchase everything. 
 
 " I will go home early," he says to himself as he stands 
 watching the tape. ' ' I am not feeling just right. Strange I 
 should have fallen asleep. I wonder what it was. Hello ! 
 Hello! " What is this that conies from the Stock Exchange ? 
 What is this flurry ? Raingold passes the tape rapidly through 
 his fingers — the dull, heavy look is leaving his eyes — some- 
 thing is WTong across the street. The optimistic legions are 
 being forced back by the pessimistic forces — the fight is evi- 
 dently waging hot. 
 
 Mr. Frederic Raingold smiles. It reminds one of a wood- 
 chuck trap — all teeth. 
 
 Rumors fill the street. They are telegraphed and recorded 
 on the " news-ticker." Mr. Raingold passes from one ticker 
 
124 
 
 THE RUAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 to the other. Brokers rush in to see him — his clerks consult 
 him. He is reported inactive. The fox has covered himself 
 with a sheep's skin. 
 
 Stolid and grim he stands, passing the tape through his 
 fingers. He is fighting a silent battle. It has come sooner 
 than he expected, but he is ready. Not one of the brokers 
 who come into his office suspect how deep is his concern in 
 the fearful fight. All is quiet where he stands. The only 
 sound is the tic, tic, tic of the telegraph instrument record- 
 ing the sales on 'Change. Frederic, Junior, constantly comes 
 and goes, writing down a few mumbled words on small bits 
 of paper which he slips into envelopes and sends over to the 
 Exchange. 
 
 A Napoleon or a Wellington decides a battle in half an 
 hour — the strain on the nerves does not last all day ; in Wall 
 street it lasts many days. To hold a market is more terrible 
 than to hold a line ; to break a market the effort is sometimes 
 more tremendous than to penetrate an enemy's front. 
 
 For days Raingold has marshalled his forces. The enemy 
 is on the run. Ladd's time shows the delivery hour. Mes- 
 sengers run from office to office to compare stocks. There is 
 a lull on 'Change. Suddenly Raingold's hand is discovered; 
 his brokers charge. The market again breaks, and the stock 
 is hammered, hammered, hammered. There are men shriek- 
 ing on the floor ; there are men with pale faces and red faces, 
 men struggling in the pressing throng, wildly endeavoring to 
 save themselves from impending ruin. 
 
 And Raingold ? He sees nothing of this. Mechanically he 
 passes the tape through his fingers. But his eyes ? There is 
 a strange glare in them ; it is the glare of a beast of prey as it 
 pounces on a victim. 
 
 It is three o'clock. Failures are read from the rostrum. 
 Frederic Raingold smiles as he counts the list of the fallen. 
 And then his son enters and speaks to him : — " Father ! " 
 
 The tape is crunched and broken in the iron hand. The 
 man of millions leans against the frail wooden box of the 
 ticker. Pushed from its place, the glass cover of the instru- 
 ment disarranges the flowing tape, which forms strange pat- 
 terns inside of it. This man of millions sways beside this 
 flimsy box. Frederic jumps to his father's side and catches 
 him as he is about to fall. He calls to the chief clerk : " Here, 
 quick ; father has fainted ; lay him on a lounge. Send for a 
 doctor. Keep it quiet; not a word outside." 
 
 Raingold, clutching a slender bit of tape, lays on the lounge 
 
THE ROAD OK THE ROUGH. 
 
 125 
 
 breathing heavily, while his son loosens the shirt at the 
 neck. 
 
 ' ' Water ! " he cries faintly. ' ' Water ! " 
 
 How livid is the scar on the forehead ! how ghastly the set 
 grin of the teeth ! Do you know that men are cursing you, 
 Frederic Raingold, while you lie here so heavily, breathing so 
 loudly ? But you — you are wandering off into a hilly country, 
 where waters flow with a murmuring sound, where linnet and 
 lark chant their evening and morning'hymns, where people 
 pass rich on little a year ; yes, once more you are wandering 
 along over dusty roads, a meagre looking, barefoot boy. 
 
 Chapter XXV. 
 
 IN WHICH MR. FREDERIC RAINGOLD DECIDES TO PLACE HIS 
 HOUSE IN ORDER. 
 
 Seven o'clock. Seven o'clock by all the clocks of the city. 
 Seven o'clock in the evening. Seven by the hands of Trinity's 
 great dial ; seven by the small timepiece on the table in poor 
 Tom's mother's humble home ; seven by the Star Theatre's 
 stage doorkeeper's little clock ; seven by the clock in the I^rin- 
 cipal Keeper's " private office " ; seven o'clock by the great, 
 deep-voiced clock in the fashionable church not far from 
 Mr. I^aingold's residence. Seven o'clock in prison, palace, 
 and tenement. 
 
 It is dinner time in all the grand houses in the aristocratic 
 section. Mrs. Raingold's butler has flung open the doors to 
 the dining room and has announced to her that " dinner is 
 served." They — Mrs. Raingold, Mary, and Frederic, Junior — 
 are seated at the handsome table covered with a shining white 
 cloth, upon which rest beautiful china, sparkling glass, and 
 costly silver. Two men wait upon them while the butler 
 stands by watching the serving of the courses. Frederic 
 talks of many trivial things. Mary scarce opens her lips, and 
 Mrs. Raingold's brow shows a trace of anxiety. One thought 
 is on all their minds, but they do not speak of it, for are there 
 not three human phonographs moving about them to catch 
 every word — three very much interested manservants who 
 have been reading all the evening papers in the pantry? 
 
 But where is Mr. Raingold? Where is he who has again 
 proven himself the Master of Wall Street? Where is he 
 whose iron wnll and busy brain has coined the gold that Mrs. 
 
126 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 Frederic Raingold jingles in the pursuit of the gilded butter- 
 fly? Oh, Raingold! Why, he is sitting upstairs in his library; 
 sitting with an ugly frown on his forehead, staring at the pic- 
 ture-covered wall, staring into the landscape by Corot, staring 
 at a rough road which winds away under the shade of the 
 trees, wondering where it will lead. 
 
 You do not sit like a strong man in your big, comfortable 
 easy chair, Mr. Raingold. Your large, powerful frame ap- 
 pears to have lost its robustness ; you seem to sink into the 
 soft, cushioned chair as though you were more than weary. 
 Are you worn, and jaded, and weary? Do you hear the loud 
 tongue of the clock tell the half hour? Time is creeping 
 on you, man, as you go travelling away in your fancies. 
 They are dining without you, Mr. Raingold. Are you thinking 
 because your medical man looked grave as he stood beside 
 you a short time ago that it may not be long before they may 
 soon be compelled to form the habit of dining without you? 
 Are you ready to wander away into the shade of the trees, 
 into the soft evening lights, and to be lost to them in the quiet 
 depths beyond? 
 
 And now the loud tongue in the church clock calls to you. 
 Eight — eight o'clock. Eight o'clock in the evening. Come 
 back from your dreams, Mr. Raingold, for you have arranged 
 to set yourself down to work to-night although your physician 
 has told you to be careful — to rest. He has cautioned you, 
 but you are headstrong — just as headstrong this evening as 
 you have been ever since you came to this city determined to 
 wrest wealth out of iron hands. You start, you look at your 
 watch, you take a letter from your pocket. 
 
 This is no dainty, perfumed paper. How common it looks 
 with its ruled lines of faded red I The envelope, too, has a 
 cheap look ; there is no need to turn the flap for the name of 
 a fashionable stationer. Who is your correspondent, Mr. 
 Raingold? Who is it that writes a hand so cramped, who 
 has toiled, no doubt, to make the writing legible, who has 
 scratched out the blots with a dull knife? 
 
 Come, come, Mr. Raingold, don't sit there like a dull 
 schoolboy with wandering mind, but to your letter. Does it 
 annoy you? Open, majestic sir, and let the curious peep 
 over your shoulder. No ? Why not ? Is it because the front 
 door bell has sounded that you push it back into your pocket ? 
 There are sounds on the stairs ; your son, your heir, is ascend- 
 ing. He is talking with wise-faced men- — men who know 
 your affairs, men who have tied and loosed legal knots for you 
 
THK ROAD <)I" THE ROUGH. 
 
 127 
 
 during many years. They come sometimes before the doctor 
 and always after. They enter your library. 
 
 "Well, Crote, I am glad you have come.''" says Mr. Rain- 
 gold. ' ' How are you, Logan ? Shut the door, Fred. " 
 
 " Had a bad spell, I hear, Raingold; stomach, I suppose," 
 Lawyer Crote replies, taking Ramgold's hand in his, and 
 adds: " You will probably be all right in a day or two." 
 
 "Vertigo," suggests I^ogan, "is apt to come from the 
 stomach when the nervous system is overtaxed." 
 
 ■ " Well, gentlemen, you may be right, but I have a different 
 idea. The doctors do not say much, but advise me to ar- 
 range my affairs so that I need not be troubled if I find my- 
 self ill, which means, get ready should the train start. I want 
 to have my affairs in shape should the cry come : , ' All 
 aboard.' " 
 
 "Oh, you take this attack too seriously, Mr. Raingold." 
 "You ^re unnecessarily worried, father," adds his son 
 very gently. 
 
 "Come to business, gentlemen," cries Mr. Raingold, with 
 his old, energetic way. " First of all, I desire to say that my 
 son Frederic is to become my partner in business. I want 
 the co-partnership to begin to-day — now; the notice to ap- 
 pear in to-morrow's papers; the firm name to remain the 
 .same — simply, Frederic 1-laingold. The transactions of the 
 office during the last six weeks must be closed out, and I 
 have instructed my son as to my wishes in every respect. 
 Should I die, my will will regulate the disposition of my prop- 
 erty. .Should I live, I have determined to retire from business. 
 When the accounts in the office are adjusted the co-partner- 
 ship will be dissolved. Fred will have ample means to con- 
 tinue in business or to retire. I want my money put in good 
 securities so that, in the event of my death, there will be no 
 trouble to divide it." 
 
 The co-partnership papers were duly drawn up, signed, 
 and executed, and F'rederic Raingold, Junior, was, by a stroke 
 of his father's pen, made his partner. A feeling ofc, pride 
 shot through the young man's heart, and, turning to his 
 father, he said with tears in his eyes : ' ' Governor, I do wish 
 this was to be a firm created for achievement, not just to 
 wind up matters. How I should love to fight the battles 
 beside you !" 
 
 " My boy," said his father kindly; " listen to me. I have 
 fought and I have been victorious. Your mother, Mary, and 
 you are, or will be, independently rich — rich as fortunes are 
 to-day; but, honestly, I would be happier now if I had re- 
 
128 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 tired from business on my first hundred thousand dollars. 
 When you hunt riches they are shadows ; when you have 
 them they are as intangible. Enough is as good as a feast. 
 Take my advice — and Crote, " said he with a smile, " we old 
 fellows advise youngsters and the youngsters do just as we 
 have done, and when they are old fellows they give advice to 
 those who won't follow it, just as I am doing — get out of busi- 
 ness, live on your money, enjoy what is enjoyable in the. 
 world, and leave money getting to others." 
 
 " Don't you believe in work, father ? " 
 
 ' ' I have believed in work, but working for money is a mere 
 passion. Work to build up something besides a hill of gold. 
 When you reach the limitations of your wants money has lost 
 its value ; it has ceased to become a means of acquisition. " 
 
 The lawyers concluded their work and departed, leaving 
 father and son together. 
 
 "Fred, "said his father softly, " w^e have not ^een very 
 intimate ; but you are a good boy, though foolish. I have 
 tried to keep you down by not giving you much money, but 
 it has not been a success. Hush, my boy, I know exactly 
 what you are. Had I been a rich man's son I might have 
 been like you. Whether I live or die you are a rich man. 
 Look out, my lad ; you are in danger. I should like you to 
 marry a good wife. Don't get a woman smiply because she 
 is beautiful, or fashionable, or rich. Marry her if she has not 
 a rag or a cent, if you think her good and fond of you. Pro- 
 tect her and protect yourself. If you find her thoughts going 
 to society and fashion, blot them out. The curse of my Hfe 
 was your mother's love of fashion. " Saying this, Raingold 
 struck the table with his fist violently. 
 
 " The best wife for you," he continued, " will be some girl 
 who has been hawked about the fashionable marriage market 
 and whose family have had means. Such a girl is sick of 
 fashion and money. My ambition for money and your moth- 
 er's ambition for society have sent us along separate paths. 
 A girl who has had nothing will be like a beggar on horseback." 
 
 " I have no idea of marrying, father." 
 
 " I suppose not. It is the fashion, but a bad one. But do 
 as I tell you. Now, my son, it is late. Tell Mary I want 
 her. And, by the way, remember, close up the campaign — 
 no more speculation." 
 
 The young man left the room and Mary entered. She 
 kneeled beside her father. " Daughter, is there any wish I 
 can grant you ?" 
 
 " Why, no, father, dear; none. Why, what can I wish 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 129 
 
 for ? " she asked, looking up into liis face. His was so grave ; 
 hers so troubled. 
 
 ' ' Daughter, I have given you a fortune. I wish you to be 
 free to marry whom you please, and to be absolutely inde- 
 pendent. Be careful in your choice. How I should like to 
 see you settled in your own home, with a good, kind husband, 
 with lots of curly-headed little youngsters, and — " 
 
 " Oh, papa!" And the tender-hearted girl let her head fall 
 on her father's knee and wept bitterly. 
 
 Chapter XXVI. 
 
 IN WHICH MARY RAINGOLD AND MILDRED VANE ONCE 
 MORE MEET FACE TO FACE. 
 
 The morning after the performance at the Star Theatre, as * 
 related in a late chapter of this history, two young women in 
 two sections of the city, at about the same hour, sent to the 
 news-stands in their neighborhoods for a complete set of 
 morning newspapers. Each sat up in her own bed and turned 
 the leaves rapidly, looking for the theatrical news. One was 
 Mildred Vane in her small boarding house bedroom ; the other 
 was Mary Raingold in her beautifully draped and exquisitely 
 furnished chamber. 
 
 Mildred's face wore an anxious look. She wondered what 
 the critics would say, for although she knew the audience had 
 been greatly pleased, she had seen so much written about 
 plays in a mean and carping spirit that she feared the writings 
 about her own performance. The first glance at the headlines 
 in the Herald brought reassurance and a flush of pleasure ; 
 
 MARVELLOUS MILDRED. 
 
 Miss Vane Achieves a Grand Triumph at the Star 
 Theatre in a New Play. 
 
 Oh, young man with the white satin tie, your article may 
 not have been a literary gem or a criticism to be transcribed 
 to the sacred books of dramatic criticism, but every word of it 
 delighted the fluttering heart of Mildred Vane. What en- 
 
130 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 couragement it brought her ! what strength it gave her to keep 
 a firm step on the new roadway ! Every word of it pressed 
 itself upon the tablet of her memory. The Sun, World, 
 Phmet, Times, Tribune, praised her work, the play, the per- 
 formance ; further, they expressed the hope of seeing her in 
 other roles. She threw herself back on the pillows and 
 clasped her hands. To her it seemed as though the Red Sea 
 had parted and there was a way out of Egypt, even though 
 the stony hearted Pharaoh, with his chariots, pursued her. 
 
 And Mary, too, read with pleasure. She rejoiced in her 
 calm way that good fortune had waited upon the girl who 
 had been so kind and good to those who needed help. She 
 was wise in her simple way, far wiser than she looked. In 
 her visits among the poor she had learned how often necessity 
 was an inexorable taskmaster, bent upon breaking the will of 
 those who desire to stand on their own feet. She had seen 
 that 'want pressed men and women down the hill of hfe. 
 Mary felt for those who could not stand against the terrible 
 . temptations which beset the poor and struggling. "We do 
 not realize the depths of pitfalls," she used to say to herself, 
 " who have never been forced to the brink of the precipice." 
 She knew that artistic success meant popularity ; popularity 
 money; and money a right to elect a course of conduct. 
 
 That morning these young women went shopping. 
 
 In the course of her visits to many stores Mary Raingold 
 walked into a great dry goods establishment on Broadway 
 and proceeded to the silk department. She took a seat on 
 the revolving stool beside the long, smooth-polished counter. 
 Before her were placed silks of many qualities, shades and 
 weights. These she was examining when, turning her head 
 somewhat, she noticed the slight, familiar figure of a young 
 woman busily engaged in looking at several pieces which she 
 was comparing with a small sample. At a glance Mary rec- 
 ognized Mildred Vane. 
 
 The young actress sat with her face set toward the counter 
 so fixedly that the covert glances, slanted sideways by Mary 
 Raingold, did not catch her eye. There was that about her 
 wiiich seemed to Mary to be a resolution on Mildred's part 
 not to see anyone or anything but the silks. Indeed, she 
 turned somewhat to the side opposite to Mar-y, thereby re- 
 moving the face from Mary's point of observation. This 
 action, though slight in itself, implied a consciousness of 
 Mary's presence, and indicated to her a desire on Mildred's 
 part to avoid meeting her. For a moment Mary Raingold, 
 who was less than ordinarily impulsive, was moved to go 
 
THE ROAD OP THE ROUGH. 
 
 over to where Mildred sat, but a second thought — that which 
 connected the young girl with her father and the mystery of 
 it — controlled her, and she sat mechanically looking at silks, 
 with her mind occupied with other thoughts. 
 ■ Our estimable friends, Messrs. Howell and James, would at 
 this juncture place the head of Miss Mary Raingold before 
 them, and treat the readers of this history to a psychological 
 clinic and account for every shade of expression now sweep- 
 ing over her fair face. It is enough for us to know that 
 Mary's mind was greatly disturbed. She realized that Mildred 
 Vane had always avoided her, and that there must be a reason 
 for it ; that she, Mary, was a woman of a conventional world, 
 and that women of the conventional world always gathered 
 their skirts lest they should brush the skirts of an actress ; 
 that Mildred was an actress. But why should she, who knew 
 nothing )f the young actress, except what was good and kind, 
 assume anything beyond the facts ? Why should she be gov- 
 erned by her education rather than by her womanly feelings } 
 This, all this, swept through her mind in a half-detined sort 
 of way, in a series of short, quick, controlled impulses, then, 
 yielding to the greatest of all, Mary arose, walked over to Mil- 
 dred, and, putting out her hand, said: "Well, Miss Vane, let 
 me congratulate you." 
 
 " Thanks! how kind of you! Did you see me ? " Mildred 
 replied, the color coming and going from her cheeks, while a 
 glance of pleasure and gratefulness flashed from under the 
 drooping lids. 
 
 " I went last night. The play was capital, so strong; and 
 you were lovely, charming; I was delighted with you. Don't 
 you feel very proud ?" Mary asked, her eyes beaming with en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 ' ' I feel very happy. That performance meant so much to 
 me." Mildred's voice quivered as she spoke. " Indeed, I am 
 proud ; for many years I have worked and worked, but never 
 could get an opening. It was a pure accident that I got the 
 part this time. The lady was taken ill who was to have 
 played it and I got it just by chance, the merest accident." 
 
 " If it meant so much to you. Miss Vane, don't believe it 
 accident. Chance and accident are in the sequence of events. 
 Don't you think we call many things chance and accident sim- 
 ply Decause they are unexpected ?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know. I fear I am not deep enough to 
 know what to expect and what not to expect. I did not ex- 
 pect last night's success, and I may expect success the next 
 time and be a failure," Mildred said reflectively. Then, rising 
 
132 
 
 THE kOAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 from her seat, she held out her hand to Mary saying, ' ' Clood- 
 bye; I must go now. I am so glad to have seen you." 
 
 " When will I see you again ?" Mary asked, feeling that 
 she would have liked to have said : " Do come and see me." 
 
 Mildred looked at her beneath her drooping lids and said, 
 after a pause, very gently, in a faltering sort of way, yet 
 firmly: " Miss Raingold, may I cherish the hope that you will 
 come to the theatre once in a while to see me, not in the same 
 piece of course, but at different times. It would be a great 
 pleasure to me to know that you took that much interest in 
 me." 
 
 " Indeed, I do take an ihterest in you — -a great interest. Of 
 course, I will come to see you play, but I did not mean that. 
 Can't you " — and Mary's eyes fell and he"- voice faltered — 
 " can't you — come — and see me } " 
 
 " Oh, Miss Raingold, don't ask me. You cause me great 
 pain. I do think of you so much; you are so good, kind, and 
 sympathetic. I would love to feel that you thought kindly of 
 me. Do not think unkindly of me when I say that it is im- 
 possible, quite impossible." Great tears stood in the corners 
 of Mildred's eyes. Then she added passionately, yet in a low 
 voice: "Miss Raingold, I endeavored to avoid you for fear, 
 in the innocence of your nature, in the sweetness of your dis- 
 position, in the kindness of your heart, you would speak to 
 me. I must not be seen talking to you. Your world and 
 mine are not the same ; you have no place in mine and I 
 would be driven out of yours. It would hurt you to be seen 
 talking to me. Do not say you know me ; cut me when we 
 pass each other ; but think kindly of me. Good-bye. " 
 
 Mary's heart, ever ready to swell with affection for those 
 who needed help, pained her with its fullness. She trembled 
 with her own emotion as they stood talking in the quiet corner 
 of the store near the door. Her impulsive, magnanimous 
 nature throbbed in sympathy with the woman whose consid- 
 eration for her forced her to an expression of herself, which 
 must have been cruelly hard. 
 
 "No; no," Mary exclaimed, holding the hand. "Dear 
 Miss Vane, there is something better than the conventionali- 
 ties of society and the unwritten laws of — shall I say Bo- 
 hemia ? — something better than the wisdom of men. Come, 
 I know a higher, better, and nobler law — that law causes me 
 to hold you by the hand. Dear Miss Vane, can it help you ? — 
 hold it then. Are we not both women, young women? Every- 
 thing essential to life is mine, everything essential to life you, 
 I take it, must earn ; one is stronger therefore, one weaker. 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 Dear Miss Vane, if I am protected in so many things, can I 
 not protect you in some things ? " 
 
 "Oh, don't speak like that, I beg of you," Mildred pro- 
 tested; "you do not know what you say. It is not— I do not 
 mean because I work — you cannot understand. Miss Rain- 
 gold, why do you force me? It hurts me, but I must — you are 
 a pure woman, and I — I — " 
 
 " Hush," said Mary sweetly, her face shining with an almost 
 holy light. " Remember, the Master said : ' Though your sins 
 be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.' Dear Miss 
 Vane," (Mary took both Mildred's hands in hers and pressed 
 them,) " let us not live wholly for the estimate the world shall 
 put upon us. One who stood at the foot of the cross was a 
 woman of the sisterhood of women, whom society would have 
 stoned had not the gentle Master said : ' He that is without 
 sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.' " 
 
 And then, after a brief interval and fervid pressures of the 
 hand, the two young women went their respective ways. 
 
 Chapter XXVII. 
 
 IN WHICH ALFRED CECIL SAYS FAREWELL TO MARY RAINGOLD 
 
 AND AMERICA. 
 
 ' ' There will be no necessity, mother, of writing to Mr. 
 Cecil," said Mary slowly, as she I'eplaced in its envelope a 
 square looking note ; "he declines." 
 
 "Declines! " repeats Mrs. Raingold in a matter of fact sort 
 of way. 
 
 "Yes; declines on the plea of a previous engagement." 
 
 Mary's voice gives to the sentence a touch of irony, which 
 causes Mrs. Raingold to turn from her costly secretary of in- 
 laid Japanese wood where she is busy writmg notes, for when 
 not otherwise engaged in the morning, Mrs. Raingold is gen- 
 erally discovered at her desk. The worthy matron has a mania 
 for correspondence, social and philanthropic. 
 
 ' ' My dear Mary, do you not suppose this Mr. Cecil has en- 
 gagements as well as you and I ; and yet you speak of his ' pre- 
 vious engagement ' as though it were an excuse ? Have you 
 so poor an opinion of my invitations that any one seeks an 
 excuse ? " Mrs. Raingold, at this moment, was a picture of 
 dignity. 
 
134 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 " I think Mr. Cecil cares little or nothing about our invita- 
 tions, and I do not believe we could name any date upon which 
 he has not an engagement," Mary replied. 
 
 " If your Mr. Cecil is a person of so much consequence, it 
 is strange that I should never have heard of his being in de- 
 mand; indeed, if the truth were known, I imagine your Mr. 
 Cecil is not invited, and refuses so that he can be the more free 
 to attack people in his paper. These newspaper men are sort 
 of half flesh and half hsh, like mermaids. One half above wa- 
 ter, the other half beneath. They seem to consider themselves 
 critics of everybody in the world, except those who happen to 
 follow the same spying, eavesdropping profession. I have 
 met editors in my time, and a prosy, ill-natured, cynical, sour 
 crew they were too. What airs they put on ! Good gracious ! 
 why " 
 
 " I do not know, mother, what your experience has been," 
 said Mary softly, her eyes lighting with that steady light which 
 always indicated rising temper; "but so far as Mr. Cecil is 
 concerned, I know him to be a modest, retiring, highly edu- 
 cated man, who is not fond of society, and believes it to be 
 largely constituted of persons conspicuous for wealth, vanity, 
 show and sham. However, he is not coming, so let him drop. 
 I do not wish to discuss him." 
 
 Scarce half an hour had been marked by the tell-tale hands 
 of Mrs. Raingold's clock when a servant entered the boudoir 
 with a card on a silver tray. This he handed to Mary Rain- 
 gold. She looked at it and said quietly: " Tell him I will be 
 down in a few minutes." 
 
 There was a faint flush of color on her cheeks and a more 
 joyous tone in her voice as she spoke. She arose at once and 
 was about leaving the room in order to change her light morn- 
 ing gown for a more suitable dress, when her mother's voice 
 arrested her. 
 
 " Who is it, my dear } Is it not rather early for a visitor }" 
 " Perhaps, " she replied. 
 " But who is it ?" 
 
 " Mr. Cecil. " The mirror told the tale she would have con- 
 cealed. Her cheeks flushed as the morning. 
 
 " Oh ! " That was all Mrs. Raingold said, but with what a 
 wealth of meaning she saturated this little word of two letters ! 
 Mary closed the door, and Mrs. Raingold ? — She tossed down 
 her pen and seizing one with a broad point wrote vigorously. 
 
 Alfred Cecil walked up and down the reception room look- 
 ing at the pictures on the wall, at the photographs, books and 
 bric-a-brac on the table and cabinet, and yet, if the truth be 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 ' told, only one thing made an impression on his mind, and that 
 was a photograph of Mary Raingold. Something disturbed 
 this usually calm, quiet man, and that was a thought not re- 
 motely connected with the photograph. He sat himself down 
 first in one chair and then in another, wondering to himself 
 that he had called; but having called, he must wait; yet the 
 idea did come to him that if it were possible he would like to 
 cross the hall stealthily and close the front door behind him. 
 Just then he heard the light descending steps of Mary Rain- 
 gold and he stood awaiting her entrance. In a moment she 
 was in the doorway, so fair and beautiful, that a great longing 
 and a vast regret came into Cecil's heart. 
 
 With a smile' which was indeed glad, she approached, ex- 
 tending her hand. He took it in his. The clasp he gave it 
 was more firm than allowed by the conventionalities. He held 
 it for a few seconds, she not withdrawing it, saying: " 1 am 
 so glad to find you. This morning call you must excuse, as I 
 could not come this afternoon." 
 
 "Well, sir; I will forgive you," she said archly, with a 
 roguish look from her eyes as though it pleased her to forgive 
 at this time this one particular transgressor. ' ' But why not 
 sit down ? " 
 
 " Thanks ! How is your father ; quite himself this morning, 
 I hope ? " rejoined Cecil, placing his hat on the table and hold- 
 ing his walking stick. 
 
 "Father is quite well this morning, but we were dreadfully 
 shocked when he was brought home last night. He is much 
 upset, but we do not think it was anything but a fainting fit." 
 Mary's voice trembled as she spoke and her beautiful eyes 
 clouded. 
 
 " I sincerely hope so." Then twirling his stick between his 
 hands, he said: "I came to say good-bye, Miss Raingold; I 
 sail for Havre Saturday, and between now and then I shall be 
 very busy, as I go to Washington to-night." 
 
 The light faded in her eyes and she said softly : ' ' Will you 
 be gone — long ?" 
 
 " Some years." He picked out certain points in the Turk- 
 ish rug with his stick, while Mary's eyes lisdessly followed the 
 ferule in its erratic movements. 
 
 "Weary of home, I suppose; tired of our matter of fact 
 city life ? " she said softly. 
 
 " No. Not weary of New York. My life is a very quiet 
 yet very busy one. New York is the theatre in which I have 
 played many parts, and it has a fascination for me ; still, cer- 
 tain things have come up which I feel I should best deal with 
 
136 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 by going abroad. You spoke of home. Home is a very 
 sweet word to me, Miss Raingold ; it contains every beautiful 
 thought of which I am capable — it is an earthly paradise ; but in 
 the years gone by, long since gone by, something entered into 
 my life and it irrevocably closed the doors of home. Some- 
 times I am made painfully conscious of .this. Then I suffer. 
 In the old days I plunged into work, now I travel — seek new 
 faces, new fields." 
 
 As Alfred Cecil spoke his voice was low, distinct, and very 
 sad. There was that about him 'which caused Mary to know 
 that he was speaking of some deep sorrow, and she felt as 
 though she wished it were possible for her to lay her hand 
 gently on his head, but this she could not do, so she merely 
 clasped her hands and remained silent and motionless. After 
 a pause Cecil continued : 
 
 "I make few friends, Miss Raingold, and offer few my 
 friendship, but I cannot go away without saying to you one 
 thing. It may be you will never need a friend, a true, loyal 
 friend ; but if you should, will you let me be that ? " 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Cecil, how " 
 
 " Excuse me. Let me be that friend. Wherever I am I 
 will in the blessed name of friendship come to you even though 
 I have to come from a very distant corner of the earth. Mere- 
 ly send word to my apartments that you wish to see me. 
 With your permission I will leave word 'to communicate your 
 message, which, thanks to electricity and ocean cables, will 
 reach me very quickly. This is what I have come to ask you 
 this morning; to ask you to let me be your friend should you 
 require one; to offer all I can offer — -my friendship." 
 
 " I will remember this, Mr. Cecil; indeed, I will," answered 
 Mary very gently. Impulsively she held out her hand. He 
 took it, pressed it, and dropped it. Then he arose saying with 
 a pleasant smile which did not conceal the twitching in the 
 corners of his mouth: " It is a compact. Now, good-bye." 
 
 They clasped hands. 
 
 " Bid me a pleasant voyage." 
 
 She did not speak. Her eyes were cast down, her face, pale 
 with inward excitement, was averted. They unclasped hands 
 and parted. 
 
 And then — Mary sank into a chair and pressed a handker- 
 chief to her eyes. A great sadness had come over her. 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 Chapter XXVIII. 
 
 IN WHICH THE READER ONCE MORE SEES TOM IN THE 
 GRIM, GREY PRISON. 
 
 And while all the world was busy seeking the illusive but 
 necessary dollar, and made sad or happy by changing circum- 
 stance, Tom went his dull, monotonous way from morning to 
 night. At first he was restive under the restraint of prison 
 discipline, but soon he became calm and almost contented, 
 counting off the days which seemed to pass more quickly. 
 His companion cheered him considerably with his observations 
 on prison life. One night as Tom lay in the upper bunk, he 
 heard coming from the darkness below the voice of his cell- 
 mate asking him if he were asleep. 
 
 " No," answered Tom. 
 
 ' ' I was thinking to-day, friend of my evil days, that you 
 do not adapt yourself to circumstances with Christian forti- 
 tude, but seem to mope and cherish resentment. This is a 
 mistake. Look at me ; I forgive those whose zeal has re- 
 moved me from the brilliant thoroughfares, from the tempta- 
 tions of the gay metropolis, and bear no malice. This place, 
 so deficient in modern conveniences, so simple in its life, is a 
 grand health resort, a great rest cure. Just think what it 
 would cost us if we should seek rest in any one of the adv-er- 
 tised resorts ! Here we have bed and board, washing and 
 medical attendance furnished by a paternal government. My 
 boy, be thankful, and, above all, be cheerful. It jars upon 
 me to see you mope." 
 
 "Well, I ain't a teef ; I ain't no thug." 
 
 " Of course not. There is not a thief or a plug-ugly in the 
 hotel. What a dreadful idea! Wait until Sunday, my lad, 
 and you will see how pious this little community can be. The 
 Protestant and Roman Catholic chapels will be full. Why, 
 my boy, not one of Hotel Keeper Brown's guests could be 
 induced to stay away from service. And the singing ! The 
 chorus is simply grand. I have always regretted that I was 
 not musical. Our string orchestra is the finest in any one of 
 the Hotels at Auburn, Dannemora, or Sing Sing. Every 
 evening they play at Brown's house. My lad, music hath 
 charms, and here musicians are at a premium." 
 
138 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 " Yiih ain't uncomfortable in dis place?" asked Tom, 
 leaning over his bunk. 
 
 "Uncomfortable? Never been uncomfortable in my life. 
 When I go to a new place I learn the ropes, and there are 
 lots of ropes. Society is mixed, but, with a little care, you 
 find yourself where you want to be. The old chap next to 
 me is a life man, and he has done ten years already. He 
 knows all the gossip." 
 
 " Gossip? " says Tom. " Dere ain't no gossip." 
 
 "My lad, the habitue of this hotel knows everything that 
 is going on inside and out. There is the ' underground rail- 
 road,' and it brings us everything but whiskey and firearms. 
 How do you suppose I could tell you that Harris was coming 
 up if it were not for the ' underground ' ? " 
 
 " Guessed it." 
 
 " Not a bit of it. I read it in this morning's paper. My 
 newsdealer furnishes me with newspaper clippings almost 
 every day. He cuts the columns in narrow slips, wraps them 
 around a match, and delivers them. He sometimes leaves out 
 important items, but the next day I get them from the other 
 fellow. About four of us get the same paper. Now, go to 
 sleep. Good night ! " 
 
 When Bunk No. i said good night, Bunk No. 2 realized 
 that it was time to go sleep and that conversation was at an 
 end. For a while Tom lay in his narrow bunk listening to 
 the sounds in the long corridor. Through the windows of the 
 outer wall the silver moonbeams stole, dispelling the gloom. 
 He could hear the keeper making his rounds, his step sound- 
 ing on the stone floor ; and, as though to make the stillness 
 of the night more impressive, he could easily detect the 
 rhythmical breathing of six hundred sleeping men. Now and 
 then a shrill cry would ring out, and he knew some one of his 
 number had shrieked in his sleep, dreaming, no doubt, of 
 some hideous crime. Little by little he grew drowsy and it 
 seemed to him that the cell door was thrown open. The 
 striped suit was laid aside for that of a civilian. Once more 
 he breathed the air of liberty, and I^rincipal Keeper Con- 
 naughton had given him a paper, saying: " Here, Tom, is the 
 Governor's pardon." And then he slept soundly, the happy, 
 dreamless night. 
 
 With the morning came a surprise. He rubbed his eyes 
 and Vi'Ondered if he had been asleep, because a keeper told 
 him to go to the IMncipal Keeper's office. Tom wondered if 
 there was a pardon for him. He could not help thinking of 
 all the dreams he had been told had come true, and, as he 
 
" In his new capacity as messenger I'om saw the industries of the prison, 
 was surprised to lind how much there was done in them." (.SVc page 139.) 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 hurried across the yard, his heart beat with hope. Once 
 inside the small room he took his stand face to the wall, hat 
 in hand. There were others there waiting their turn to be 
 called by Principal Keeper Connaughton. Some had requests 
 to make, others complaints to enter, while others were to re- 
 ceive advice. Finally he heard his name and turned. 
 
 " McCarty, " said the Principal Keeper, "you are at work 
 in the rag shop ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied Tom, twirling his cap. 
 
 " I am going to make you a messenger, my lad. This is 
 a nice job for a bright, intelligent boy and has its privileges. 
 You must be quick and respectful." 
 
 A sad look came over his face, which Mr. Connaughton 
 noticed. 
 
 " Well, what is the matter ? " 
 
 "I dreamed I wuz pardoned, sir; I t'ot dat wuz wot 
 yuh wuz a-goin' ter say." A tear stole down his cheek; he 
 brushed it hastily away. 
 
 "Don't dream that, my boy; 3'our time will pass more 
 quickly than you think for." 
 
 In his new capacity as messenger Tom saw the industries 
 of the prison. He was surprised to find how much there was 
 done in them. In the manufacture of clothing he saw nearly 
 four hundred men at work, cutting, sewing at machines, and 
 finishing garments ; in the manufacture of overalls some one 
 hundred and fifty, and in the shoe shop about one hundred. 
 His prison life hitherto had been restricted to the rag shop, 
 and although he had seen squad after squad file through the 
 yards and main building, he did not know what kind of work 
 was done. 
 
 He was often sent to the room where the idle men sat 
 waiting to be assigned to some of the industries. It always 
 amused him to see the young and the old with shaven faces 
 waiting for "a job," like so many others he had seen in the 
 Bowery lodging houses. But nothing impressed him so much 
 as the night shift to Dannemora. One evening he had been 
 kept out later than usual and he saw a double row of convicts 
 pass through the snow-covered yard toward the railroad gate. 
 They were handcuffed in couples and carried small bundles 
 under their free arms. Beside them walked several keepers, 
 with lanterns in their left hands and sticks in their right. He 
 learned that at certain intervals the Superintendent in Albany, 
 in order to relieve the pressure on Sing Sing, authorized the 
 removal of a given number of convicts to Clinton and Auburn. 
 Sing Sing to Tom seemed bad enough, but to be sent fur- 
 
I40 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 ther away from New York was like adding exile to imprison- 
 ment, and he wondered, if in time, he too should be hurried 
 away in the gloom of the night to serve out his sentence on 
 the bleak hillside at Dannemora. 
 
 One afternoon just as the sun was setting Gentleman Tom 
 crossed the prison yard with a message from the Principal 
 Keeper's office. Suddenly he stopped, attracted by the gestic- 
 ulations of a fellow messenger who was endeavoring to attract 
 his attention. The man came up saying : 
 
 "Say, Cully; de Cap'n sez dat yuh, Brennan, an' me is 
 to go out to ' Gallery 25 ' wid spades an' picks." 
 
 "What is ' Gallery 25 ' ? " asked Tom. 
 
 " ' Gallery 25 ' ? Why, ain't yuh done noplantin' in 'de Gal- 
 lery' ? Ain't yuh ever locked in de doctor's incurables? Why, 
 Cully, ' de Gallery ' is de buryin' ground." 
 
 Shortly after Tom and two other convicts, under the watch- 
 ful eyes of a keeper, dug a deep trench and into it placed a 
 long narrow pine box, containing the wasted form of a man 
 who had served his life sentence in the great granite prison. 
 Many and quick were the thoughts that flashed through Tom's 
 brain as each spadeful of earth fell with a thud on the coffin, 
 and he wondered if he too might not be laid to rest among the 
 unvisited graves of the prison cemetery. 
 
 How many men are sent to the State prison to serve out 
 sentences of ten years, who after a year or two succumb to 
 prison life, are sent to the hospital, and are finally locked in 
 the earth of the prison cemetery, forgotten by friends, forgotten 
 by keepers, forgotten by society whose laws they have broken! 
 
 Chapter XXIX. 
 
 IN WHICH MR. RAINGOLD LEARNS THAT WILD OATS SOWN IN 
 THE SPRING MAY SOMETIMES RIPEN IN AUTUMN. 
 
 And now our travellers, who for some weeks have journeyed 
 through the country traversed by the Road of the Rough, 
 find themselves — as tourists in foreign climes sometimes do — at 
 a point where the limitations of time and the exactions of cir- 
 cumstance compel the dismemberment of a pleasant company, 
 that each may pursue his or her own way in accordance with 
 the inflexible rules which govern the smallest and greatest of 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 141 
 
 mankind. Or, if we who more wisely consider life governed by 
 laws not wholly intelligible to our limited understanding seek in 
 the oracular stars a ruling and directing governance, we will find 
 a great change in the horoscope of each and every traveller. 
 The stars of some are moving toward opposite and distant 
 points, thereby diminishing the influence they exert upon one 
 another. Still, though separated by space, the stars of Mary 
 Raingold and Mildred Vane exert a kindly influence on each 
 other, while those of Alfred Cecil and Mary Raingold, now so 
 affecting each other, must, by reason of their own orbits, lose 
 force from month to month, from year to year. Tom's star is 
 moving toward a happier position and good fortune shines in 
 his horoscope. One star, the star of one whose career has 
 been briefly indicated in this record, is still gleaming with 
 malignant force, although its rays are now intermittent, not con- 
 stant. It goes its way, flashing toward the very rim of our 
 observation, as stars that plunge from the visible firmament 
 into the limitless, undefined vaults beyond. 
 
 In spite of the paragraphs in morning and afternoon papers 
 that Frederic Raingold, the Master of Wall Street, was rapidly 
 recovering from his sudden prostration and would soon reap- 
 pear in "the Street," that able and powerful leader of the rank 
 and file of financiers remained in his library. His physician 
 daily visited him and daily cautioned him to avoid all matters 
 of business ; but the habit of years was not so easily broken, 
 although he had taken his son into partnership with him for 
 that very purpose. His lawyers, too, had visited him frequently, 
 and when they left, Mary noticed her father seemed much 
 weaker. She remonstrated, but without effect. He always 
 replied: "My dear, there are some matters which I must 
 discuss with Crote & Logan." Fred and Mary were much 
 troubled about their father ; they viewed with alarm the pallor 
 which had settled down on his usually florid face, and heard him 
 complain of being cold when his room seemed oppressively 
 warm. But Mrs. Raingold assured them that as soon as their 
 father was able to go into the air he would recover his strength. 
 She believed him to be suffering from nervous prostration, and 
 ascribed the grave, solemn look on the doctor's face to pro- 
 fessional deportment. 
 
 Frederic Raingold was seated as usual in his big chair this 
 Saturday morning looking over the newspapers. Two para- 
 graphs attracted his attention more than all the other news. 
 One informed him that among the passengers on the La Gas- 
 cogne was Alfred Cecil, and the other that Mildred Vane had 
 signed a two years' engagement with her manager. The 
 
142 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 second paragraph further chanted a pasan of praise in honor of 
 the young actress, who it declared had deservedly won popular 
 approval by her admirable impersonation of a difficult role. 
 He sat vacantly looking into the fireplace, when he was aroused 
 by a knock on the door. In response to his command the 
 door was opened by a servant who announced Mr. Crote. 
 
 ' ' Well, Crote, " said Raingold with a faint smile ; "I thought 
 you would never come." 
 
 " I came as soon as I could. How are you feeling this 
 morning?" asked Mr. Crote, placing his hat and stick on the 
 table. "Better, I hope?" 
 
 ' ' No ; about the same. Would you mind shutting that 
 door? Thanks. Well, did you see her?" 
 
 "Yes. I saw her." Mr. Crote took several papers from 
 his pocket and selected from them two letters written on com- 
 mon looking paper with red ruled lines. These he handed 
 to Mr. Raingold, saying : ' ' Here are her letters. She is not 
 after money." 
 
 "What does she want ? I have not seen or heard of her 
 for over twenty years, " he exclaimed petulantly, and added: 
 ' ' I thought she was dead ; in fact, I have not thought of her 
 at all." 
 
 " I fear, Raingold, I have a disagreeable surprise in store 
 for you. It certainly was to me." • 
 
 " Go on ! What is it ? " Raingold asks, as he settles him- 
 self back in his chair with the air of a sick man about to hear 
 trouble. He rests his head on the open palm of his hand and 
 supports his elbow on the table. About his firm mouth hard 
 lines form and there is a cold, grey light m his eyes — a look 
 which had no mercy in it. 
 
 " This morning," began the lawyer, " I went to the tene- 
 ment house which, strangely enough, is yours, and climbed the 
 stairs to Mrs. McCarty's floor. The place smelled of cabbage 
 and sewer gas. It is in a shameful condition. You should 
 order it made habitable." 
 
 " Never mind the improvements, Crote; you found her in?" 
 Raingold interrupted impatiently. 
 
 ' ' I knocked on the door and asked if she were the Widow 
 McCarty. She said she was. I told her I came from you. 
 To my surprise she replied, ' I don't know any such party.' 
 I produced the letters and asked her to explain. She replied 
 that as her business was purely personal she could not explain 
 it to me. I said you were a very ill man and could not see 
 her. She said she would wait until you got well. I then told 
 her that I was your friend, that you desired her to speak to me 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 just as though you were present, that you were going abroad 
 as soon as you were able. I saw by the set, determined look 
 in her face that she was a woman of uncommon strength of 
 will and steadfastness of purpose, and that it would be diffi- 
 cult for me to make her talk if she were determined not to 
 do so. She asked me to sit down. She sat herself down by 
 a washtub and gave me a seat by a table with potatoes and 
 carrots upon it." 
 
 " Never mind the room, Crote; you don't expect a Murray 
 Hill drawing room in a Mulberry street back alley tenement 
 house, do you ?" 
 
 " If I did, I did not find it," the lawyer replied dryly, and 
 continued: "She sat with one hand on her knee and the 
 other on the washtub and said to me — ' You fetch letters to 
 me sent to him, the only letters I have ever sent hivi, so you 
 must know hi7n. I would rather have cut off my hand than 
 have written to him, but it could not be helped.' " 
 
 "That is true; I have never seen or heard from her in all 
 these years," Raingold remarked reflectively. 
 
 " I then said, ' Mr. Raingold instructed me to help you with 
 money.' 'Stop there! Stop right there !' she cried, slapping her 
 knee. ' Don't you soil these walls with his name; don't you 
 say help me with his dirty money. I^ook at these ! ' and she 
 held up her big, coarse hands. ' Tell hii7i how big and rough 
 they are ; tell him these are the hands he used to kiss ; look 
 at them now ! Washing clothes and floors have done this. 
 Tell him the rings he put on them I pitched in the sewer and 
 the memory of Jiim after them.' " 
 
 " Twenty-five years, and as dramatic as ever," murmured 
 Raingold with a sneer. 
 
 Lawyer Crote looked at his client. There was that in his 
 eyes which Frederic Raingold did not see, and had he seen 
 he would not have understood, for Crote was an honorable 
 man. He believed in the Great Judge, and wondered some- 
 times how some men would be able to stand at the great bar 
 to receive their sentences. 
 
 "Perhaps," answered Crote slowly. He looked at Mr. 
 Raingold steadily and then told his story, not sparing his client 
 in the least. He continued, saying : ' ' But she does not want 
 money !" 
 
 " What in thunder does she want ?" 
 " She makes no requests; she demands." 
 " Demands ! " Raingold sat upright and clenched his fist. 
 " Yes, demands of you, your influence for her son ; for her 
 boy who is in Sing Sing — for ' Gentleman Tom.' " 
 
144 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 ' ' The fellow who marked me ? " Raingold whispered hoarsely, 
 pointing to the mark on his forehead. 
 " The very same." 
 " I'll see her d . " 
 
 ' ' No, you won't, Raingold ; not by any means. Calm your- 
 self." 
 
 "Why not ?" 
 
 " Because — he is your son ! " 
 
 "My son!" Raingold sank back into his big chair. He 
 closed his eyes and swept his damp forehead with his hand. 
 After a pause Raingold said faintly : " Do you believe her ?" 
 
 ' ' You ought to know whether she is to be believed. Do 
 you ? " 
 
 Raingold made no answer. 
 
 "I believe every word she uttered was true," said Crote 
 slowly, and added : "If her story were told in court it would 
 convince a jury." 
 
 "That — that — must not be." 
 
 ' * The woman has kept her secret ; your name has never 
 been on her lips. Save her son — your son — and your family 
 will be spared^ " 
 
 "She has no legal claims!" Raingold interrupted. The 
 mention of his family awakened the fighting spirit in his na- 
 ture. 
 
 ' ' Oh, no. She has none and pretends to none. She does 
 not set up any claims of any kind. In fact, she does not want 
 anything from you." 
 
 " Does the boy — does her son know who ?" 
 
 " She says he knows nothing and will know nothing." 
 
 Again there was a pause. 
 
 " Why did she not send to me before the trial ? " 
 
 " Because she did not connect you in any way with Tom's 
 trouble. Since then her letters to you have remained unan- 
 swered. " 
 
 Again there was a long pause. The lawyer walked up and 
 down the floor while Raingold sat looking into the fire. He 
 was the first to speak, he called : " Crote " 
 
 The lawyer approached and sat down. 
 
 " What do you advise ? " Raingold's voice was husky. He 
 did not change his attitude. He sat staring into the flaring 
 coals, busy with his troubled thoughts. 
 
 ' ' Advise ! The situation is briefly this. The woman is 
 determined to release her s©n if possible. She has neither 
 influence nor money. You enjoy both. What is impossible 
 to her may be possible to you. This she understands. She 
 
"'Mvsim!' Rainyold sank back in his big chair. He closed his eyes and swept his clamp forehead with his luind. Alter a pause 
 Raingold said faintly : ' lio you believe her? ' " (6tv /(i^v 144.) 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 is determined to force you to use your influence. If you do 
 not she will go to the newspapers." 
 " What good will that do her ? " 
 
 " None, perhaps, but it will be her revenge on you for not 
 helping her. You can not afford the scandal. The public will 
 say you knew it was your son ; that you had him sent to prison 
 to get him out of the way. You must act." 
 
 " But what can I do ?" 
 
 "I will draft a petition for his pardon. You can sign it. 
 We can arrange to have the other signatures. Will you try 
 to get the boy out ? " 
 
 "Will this keep the affair quiet?" asked Raingold cau- 
 tiously. 
 
 " You may rely on her. If for all these years she has pre- 
 served the secret of the great wrong done her, and has struggled 
 to maintain herself without ever appealing to you, you may de- 
 pend upon it that she will continue to do as she has done." 
 
 "Well, draw up the papers." 
 
 " Very well; I will send them Monday." 
 
 "Can't you do it now? Something may happen between 
 this and Monday. It is like putting off a will." 
 
 " I may as well do it now," replied the lawyer, taking his 
 seat at the desk. He was thinking perhaps that by Monday 
 Mr. Raingold might change his mind, and he thought that 
 this single act of justice had best be done while the man was 
 in the mood for it. 
 
 Lawyer Crote sat writing and Mr. Raingold sat thinking. 
 
 After an interval the latter surprised his lawyer by saying : 
 " Crote, devise some scheme by which the boy and his mother 
 can receive a comfortable monthly allowance if they go to 
 Australia, and to continue so long as they remain there. It 
 can be made payable at a bank in Melbourne. Say, $3,000 a 
 year ; that is what I used to allow Fred. When he is pardoned 
 it will be best for him to go away." 
 
 " And best for all the others, eh ? " 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
146 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 Chapter XXX. 
 
 IN WHICH FREDERIC RAINGOLD SITS IN HIS LIBRARY AND 
 SILENCE ENTERED THE ROOM AND FUELED IT. 
 
 Mr. Raingold's mind is busy, busy with many matcers he 
 feels he must dispose of this afternoon. He has much busi- 
 ness to transact, much more than he had intended, much more 
 than Mr. Crote had expected to cope with ; indeed, the lawyer 
 had said once or twice : " Look here, Raingold, why not leave 
 this until Monday ? " But each time the worn and weary man 
 of millions had said : " Oblige me, Crote, by helping me 
 complete these arrangements to-night. " 
 
 And so the lawyer yielded to his old friend's request and 
 toiled on with the papers which were destined to effect Tom's 
 pardon, with a letter of private, instructions concerning per- 
 sons who were to be provided for under a bequest to a certain 
 Trust Company, and with other arrangements of a secret and 
 private character. Dinner ti.ne came. Still there remained 
 papers to copy, sign, and seal; and Mr. Crote expressed his de- 
 sire to go to his own home, promising to return immediately 
 after; but Mr. Raingold, fearing something might prevent, 
 urged him to remain, and he yielded against his will. 
 
 At the table Mrs. Raingold talked lightly of the people who 
 flitted through society like so many comedy characters in a 
 play, and contrasted her mood with that of . the man he had 
 just left, who was arranging his affairs so that when his time 
 came the goods and chattels he had spent his life in accumu- 
 lating, might be preserved for the benefit of his family. He 
 was impressed with the change in Fred's manner, which had 
 become grave, deliberate, and dignified, probably due to his 
 elevation from clerk to principal in the firm. He had never 
 seen the young man in so favorable a light, and he thought at 
 times he saw in him strong evidences of traits inherited from 
 the father ; but Mary interested him the most. She was an 
 intimate friend of his own daughter's, a girl about her own 
 age, and therefore had seen more of her than he had of her 
 brother. The face usually so bright only now and then lighted 
 up with a smile, and even then there was sadness in it ; the 
 eyes usually sparkling with merriment and innocent mischief 
 had a dull, pained look and bore slight traces of tears. Know- 
 
THE ROAD OK THE ROUGH. 147 
 
 ing her to be impulsive and tender, he ascribed the cause of this 
 to anxiety for her father. He also noticed that Fred seemed 
 very gentle and considerate to Mary, indicating that the young 
 man was in sympathy with her. 
 
 After dinner Mr. Crote made his excuses for withdrawing, 
 saying that he still had unfinished business with Mr. Raingold 
 and would go up to the library. 
 
 " Father really ought not to exert himself," said Fred ; " the 
 doctor told him to leave business alone. It is bad for him." 
 
 ' ' Mr. Raingold has these furious bursts of energy and 
 nothing can check him," said Mrs. Raingold complacently ; 
 ' ' and, Mr. Crote, you know how wearing they are. I never 
 saw such a man; he is and always has been an engine." 
 
 *' I fear, Mrs. Raingold," replied Mr. Crote gravely, "that the 
 conditions of modern life compel men to make engines of them- 
 selves to keep up with the furious pace we travel through it." 
 
 "Ah, yes," said the dignified and stately matron whose 
 energies for spending were quite equal to her husband's for 
 attaining. "But Mr. Raingold is a rich man." 
 
 " There is about as much difficulty in staying rich, Mrs. 
 Raingold, as there is in getting rich ; besides, the habit of work 
 acquired during a man's younger days is not easy to break in 
 after years. " 
 
 Mr. Crote bowed and went up the grand staircase to the 
 library. At once he resumed his task, and as the deep-voiced 
 clock in the fashionable church not far from Mr. Raingold's 
 front door of oak, iron bound and iron studded, struck ten, 
 the last paper had been signed, sealed, and witnessed. 
 
 "And now, Raingold, I will say good night," said Mr. 
 Crote, rising and securing the papers with a rubber band, pre- 
 paratory to putting them into his overcoat pocket. 
 
 ' ' Good night, Crote ; I am very much obliged to you. I 
 know how hard it comes to work on Saturday evening, but I 
 felt this must be done. It may be a whim. Good night." 
 
 They shook hands and parted. 
 
 A few minutes after Mrs. Raingold, Mary and her brother 
 came in, but they did not stay long, for they saw their father was 
 worn out, and he promised to take their advice and seek the 
 relief of sleep. After they had gone he removed his clothing 
 and prepared for the night ; but, though weary, his mind was 
 active and he determined to sit by the fire and smoke one cigar 
 before going to sleep. He turned out all the lights save the 
 lamp on the table, seated himself in his armchair, gathered 
 the skirts of his dressing gown about him, struck a match, lit 
 
148 
 
 THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 his cigar, and gazed into the fire. Just then the deep voice in 
 the steeple tolled the hour in eleven slow and solemn strokes. 
 
 Eleven o'clock. Eleven o'clock by all the clocks in the city. 
 The only voice, Mr. Raingold, you hear from the church has 
 gloomily, solemnly told you the hour. It is Saturday night, 
 too. But there are lights and there is life in the streets, Mr. 
 Raingold ; the lights and the life we know you are fond of. 
 Why are you not up as in the days that are gone, instead of 
 sitting here puffing, and burning and turning your cigar into 
 ashes ? Why do you sit with eyes wandering from fire to 
 picture, glancing from the heat and the glow of the coals to the 
 shade and the cool of the landscape by Corot ? Surely the 
 shadow of the Hand has not fallen upon you — the Hand that 
 will wipe you off the slate as cleanly as you have wiped off the 
 names of your customers ? Surely you are not at the end of 
 your margin } 
 
 Eleven o'clock. Come, puff your cigar with some of the 
 "furious energy," Mr. Raingold. Do you not know that at 
 this moment the stage door is opening and closing ? That 
 she, she with the large eyes and drooping lids, is about to step 
 over its threshold } Come, man, do not sit there all sunken, 
 all jaded, but briskly go out to escort her! No? Is it true, 
 then, she sends you back your letters unopened ; unopened to 
 you, the maker of millions ? Tut, tut, man ; show some of 
 the pluck of the sportsman and follow your game to the end. 
 Is it possible that she has escaped you ; you who have walked 
 over the field of your battles among the bones of your victims, 
 heedi ig not the cry of the orphans 
 
 Come, come, Mr. Raingold, do not sit there so glum. Do 
 you not see that j^our cigar has fallen to the floor ; that it is 
 still burning ? Come, man, where is your energy ? Why do 
 you sit there with an ugly frown drawing itself down over your 
 hice as a veil ? Come, come. Sir Knight of the Tape and 
 the Ticker, your house is in order, your goods and your chat- 
 tels are labelled and ticketed ; stir yourself ; enjoy your hour 
 of ease ! Is it love or resentment or only the flame of the fire 
 that makes your eye kindle ? Are you thinking of her who, 
 in the days of her youth, cajoled by your praises and promises, 
 left the land of her fathers, only to learn the meanness and 
 vileness of man through you ? Or of her son who, in the 
 strangeness of things, is through you and by you sleeping in 
 the stone corridor with grated doors ? Why do you clasp the 
 arms of your chair and cry out, " Oh, God ! " And now you 
 sink back into your easy chair with a cold sweat on your fore- 
 head. What is this tremor that runs through your frame ? 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH, 
 
 149 
 
 Do you see Silence looking in at the door ? Do you hear the 
 clock in the church yonder striking, so slowly, so solemnly, 
 the hour of twelve ? Why do you move your hand so feebly 
 over the rounded end of your armchair ? Think you it a door 
 knob ? Think you the black stuff hangs from it ? Why do 
 you start and let your frown grow grey? Think you that Silence 
 has come to stay ? 
 
 Come, come, Mr. Raingold, don't sit in your big, cushioned 
 chair, so limp and so bent. Come, come, majestic sir, we 
 who know you are not accustomed to see your powerful frame 
 so bent, so lacking in energy. Arouse yourself ; your head is 
 hanging to one side — the head you carry so proudly ; raise it, 
 man, or the neck will be stiff in the morning. And why do 
 you stare at this landscape by Corot ? Do you find rest in the 
 soft evening lights ? Do you wander ajpng the endless road 
 winding away beneath the shade of the trees ? Do your eye- 
 lids never close ? Do you never grow weary of staring ? 
 
 One o'clock. Two o'clock. Three o'clock. Still staring I 
 Still hanging your head ! Your neck will be stiff in the morn- 
 ing! How still the room is! Wake up, man; wake up; do 
 you not see the fire is almost out and you are cold ? Warm 
 yourself ; poke the ashes ; stir the embers. No ? You will not ? 
 Obstinate as ever. Very well, then, stay cold. How expres- 
 sionless are your hands ! Straighten out your fingers ; they are 
 drawn and look like claws. Come, come, don't let anyone see 
 them ; you know what they have done, but now be secret. 
 You will not, then, let ihem tell their tale. Your lamp is burn- 
 ing low. The oil is almost gone. Keep your lamp burning or 
 you will be in darkness. No? Then be in darkness. 
 
 Three o'clock. Four o'clock. The mice are playing at your 
 feet. Go to bed, man. Your snowy linen sheets await you. 
 There are ashes on the hearth. Your lamp is flickering and — 
 it is out. You are in darkness. You are not alone. The mice 
 run over your bare feet ; they sniff at you, sniff at you, Mr. 
 Raingold. What disrespect — and you, you the Master of Wall 
 Street ! Have you lost your power ? Is the pen to your check- 
 book no longer a sceptre ? Shall men, like mice, sniff at you 
 to-day? Come, come, don't sit there as though the Hand 
 were upon you; but move, drive these tiny foragers away. 
 Are you not able to cope with even a mouse ? 
 
 Five o'clock. Five o'clock and a half hour. There are 
 sounds in your house, Mr. Raingold. Some one is astir. 
 The mice hear them ; do you ? Do they hear what you can- 
 not hear ? Has Silence so filled the room with her presence 
 tl)3t no sound can reach you ? Are you, then, no more than a 
 
THE ROAD OF THE ROUGH. 
 
 clod of clay ? The light of the morning is filling the room. 
 It is cold and grey, and you — how cold and grey you look seated 
 before the hearth with its ashes ! Have you not stirred all 
 night ? The light of the morning is brighter and more cheery, 
 and you — your face is a deep and whitish grey, your hands 
 pale and pasty, your frame rigid and bent. Come, awake ! 
 awake ! Your servants are going to early mass, this Sunday 
 morning; going to worship their God, the God of your fathers, 
 the God you have sold for a few millions. Halloa ; halloa ! will 
 nothing stir you ? Hush : let Silence reign — the spirit stands 
 in the presence of God. 
 
 THE END. 
 
Mr. Maurice M. Minton's 
 
 NEW STORY OF LIFE IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS 
 OF NEW YORK, ENTITLED 
 
 Qountry Lanes and 
 
 Qity Pavements, 
 
 WILL SHORTLY BE PUBLISHED AS A SERIAL IN 
 
 m mmm mmai 
 
 " \ A M^NTON writes of life as he has seen it, feels it, 
 2yJ[ knows it. Ilis effort is to make the reader see it, 
 feel it, know it. His style is simple, almost severe. 
 He is content to be the showman. He does not strive to fasci- 
 nate his reader with chapters glowing with the rhetorician's art, 
 or to dazzle with the magic juggling of words. His people 
 breathe the breath of life, and they act as do the men and women 
 who jostle us as we walk through the crowd." — jVew York 
 Herald. 
 
 ' "Country Lanes and City Pavements " is a picture. It is 
 boldly, roughly, and in places even crudely painted. Still, it tells 
 the true story of innocence, joy, sorrow, sin, suffering, misery, and 
 wretchedness. Each character might step out of the frame and 
 walk Broadway, and be recognized as a familiar personage. 
 
y-jAVE YOU SKKN 
 
 Illustrated 
 
 The 
 
 A 
 
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 IT is conceded to be the handsomest news-magazine in the 
 world. It combines the charm of the weelilies with the 
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 are terse, instructive, entertaining; its illustrations reliable, 
 truthful, and admirable. 
 
 The pictures of the World's Fair are beyond the wildest 
 dreams and hopes of any competitor. 
 
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