OY
 
 JOEY THE DREAMER 
 
 OP CALIF. LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES
 
 JOEY 
 THE DREAMER 
 
 A TALE OF CLAY COURT 
 
 By 
 
 Henry Oyen 
 
 GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 1911
 
 AIX RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT O* TRANSLATION 
 INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 
 
 COPYRIGHT, igil, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
 
 JOEY THE DREAMER 
 
 21^1893
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IT ALL began through a letter that was awaiting me 
 upon my return to the city after two months spent 
 in close association with trout, bass, pines, and 
 other desirable things of the North in summer time. It 
 was the year 19 , a year of a Presidential election. The 
 letter was from the secretary of the Society for the Im- 
 provement of Civic and Commercial Conditions in the 
 City, and it announced a meeting Monday, the third, 
 eight p. M., at the club. My attendance was particularly 
 desired; there was a matter which was certain to de- 
 velop to my interest. Could I come? 
 
 A glance at the calendar showed that it was Monday, 
 the third, and the clock showed seven forty-five. I had 
 come back just in time; nothing remained but to call a 
 cab and bid the man hurry. 
 
 The Society was sitting in comfortable state, the small 
 of its various backs resting solidly on the seats of the 
 big club chairs. It was a notable gathering. There 
 was, first of all, Dicky Clews, the youngest and the richest 
 of them all. Then came the ex-minister to Austria. Seated 
 beside him was the senator's brother, and the man whose 
 money had bought the senator's seat, and who controlled 
 him to his last opinion. Next were four ordinary 
 millionaires, then the Rev. David Arthur, the celebrated 
 
 3
 
 4 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 divine, and half a dozen others who merely made up the 
 quorum. It was a gathering of City Barons, and to my 
 amazement my arrival was received with something 
 resembling enthusiasm. Even the listless Dicky Clews 
 rose on his long legs to shake hands. 
 
 "As I live and breathe, 'tis John Lord," said Dicky. 
 "The man we are yearning for, and at the psychological 
 moment." 
 
 Even the ex-minister was genial. The signs were 
 obvious; the Society had decided that I could be of 
 use to it. 
 
 It seemed that an article under my signature, "The 
 Extravagance of the Indigent," had done the work. It 
 had been printed recently and had attracted the Society's 
 attention. It was, said the Society, true to life. 
 
 "The very man," repeated Dicky Clews. "Swear if 
 'tisn't a regular godsend." 
 
 "What?" I asked. 
 
 "Your dropping in here now, fit and brown, full of 
 steam, ready to work like a reg'lar little dynamo." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because we need you, dear man. Crave your expert 
 knowledge, and all that. We were just talking about 
 about these." Dicky thrust a reprint of the article 
 under my nose, and nodded westward at the same time. 
 " Tenementers, you know. They they're getting rest- 
 less, you know, uneasy; and we can't have it, you know, 
 this Presidential year of 19 ." 
 
 I did not know, of course, having been in a land of 
 peace, where newspapers were not. The great, gray-
 
 Joey the Dreamer 5 
 
 headed ex-minister, smiling indulgently at Dicky's 
 attempt at explanation, hastened to help him out. 
 
 "This summer, Mr. Lord," he began, "unfortunately, 
 so far has been one of strange unrest in that portion of 
 the city which you treat so clearly in your excellent and 
 much discussed paper." The ex-minister's delivery was 
 classic; the impression he gave out was that of a monu- 
 ment a monument to civilization speaking. He 
 bowed. I bowed. It was very pretty. "As Mr. 
 Clews so succinctly states, the people over there " 
 his long white hand indicated the West Side "for 
 some unknown reason seem to be disturbed. An 
 unusual condition seems to exist. No specific tur- 
 bulence of the ordinary sort, such as strikes or riots, 
 has taken place; but, on the other hand, there has 
 developed a hitherto unknown undercurrent of rest- 
 lessness which is deeply affecting the people. This, 
 of course, is seriously detrimental to their welfare, and, 
 also, is not a desirable condition to prevail in a year 
 when an important Presidential campaign is to be made. 
 It is the purpose of this body to strive to regulate all 
 things vitally connected with the affairs of the munici- 
 pality in a manner most conducive to civic order and 
 welfare. To do this we must have intelligent and 
 comprehensive information regarding all the phases of 
 the city's life." 
 
 "And that's what we want you to get," interrupted 
 Dicky. "Go over there and see what the deuce is the 
 matter with 'em." 
 
 The ex-minister smiled again indulgently upon Dicky.
 
 6 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 He could afford to; Dicky's fortune topped them all by 
 an uncomfortable margin. 
 
 "Your familiarity with the subject, Mr. Lord, as 
 demonstrated in your paper, seems to us to make you 
 the logical man to conduct such an investigation," 
 continued the great man. " In short, this Society wishes 
 to appoint you its special commissioner to study the 
 unusual conditions prevalent in that quarter of the city 
 this summer." 
 
 "Yes," said Dicky, "you've read up on 'em; you know 
 about 'em. Beside," he continued, rising to go, "you've 
 got the what d'you call it ? cold, mathematical 
 faculty of accurate observation. Accept? That's the 
 stuff." 
 
 Accept? Of course I would accept. I was hungry 
 for work, and this promised to be interesting. I hastened 
 to express my satisfaction. The Society sighed a sigh 
 of real relief. 
 
 "Now," said Dicky, yawning, "we'll know how to 
 handle 'em." 
 
 The Society adjourned at once, and the Rev. David 
 Arthur and I walked from the room together. 
 
 "Strange," said he, in his scholarly tones, "what a 
 vast amount of interest at present is being displayed in 
 that comparatively unimportant quarter of the city 
 which you are to study. It amazes me. Who would 
 have thought, say ten or fifteen years ago, that the class 
 which lives over there ever could force itself into a position 
 that calls for close attention from cultured, superior 
 people? And now, why, everybody seems to have given
 
 Joey the Dreamer 7 
 
 some thought to the subject. More than that, Mr. Lord, 
 this thought is having a strange, undesirable effect upon 
 some of our best people our young people, of course. 
 Would you believe it, my daughter Ruth has been so far 
 carried away by her interest in this subject that she 
 is actually living over there, at a Settlement House, 
 I believe!" 
 
 I said: "What?" in a tone that made his Reverence 
 pause and ponder. He thrust his under-lip forward 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Yes, yes," he said slowly, "that is so: you have some 
 acquaintance with Ruth, haven't you?" 
 
 And that was how it all began. 
 
 Thirty minutes later I stood in the hallway of the 
 Tenement, and in those thirty minutes I had passed 
 from one world to another. A car ride to the Settlement 
 House had proven the Rev. David Arthur in error. 
 Ruth was not there, was in no way connected with the 
 institution. They merely knew that she was living in 
 the Tenement at the head of Clay Court. Another car 
 hurried me up the crowded, well-lighted Avenue and 
 dropped me into the gut-like darkness of Clay Court; 
 and I had only to go straight forward, to where the 
 Tenement's lights appeared like bleary red eyes in the 
 dark, to walk straight into the ever-open hall. 
 
 The hallway was a pit, with a stingy gas jet near the 
 door, and, for an instant, the sense was upon me of hav- 
 ing stepped into the path of a storm. Two men stood at 
 the farther edge of the light, their shoulder-blades against 
 the plasterless wall, and a can of beer gleamed between
 
 8 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 them. In two open doors, on either side, stood women. 
 They were quarrelling; everybody seemed to be quar- 
 relling. It seemed the natural thing to do in that en- 
 vironment. Out of the medley thus produced came 
 intelligible snatches. 
 
 "Pitch?" rumbled a fuzzy masculine voice above the 
 can. "Why that guy couldn't pitch pine." 
 
 This was argument, the argument of base-ball con- 
 troversy, as a long course in newspaper reading helped 
 me unravel. 
 
 "Yes, and you keep your kids outa my house, too." 
 This in feminine falsetto; weary, married feminine. 
 
 "Outa your house?" An incredulous duplicate of the 
 previous. "My heavings! Has my kids been in your 
 house? Come here, Mabel; come here, Petey and get 
 fummigated quick!" 
 
 The storm rose suddenly 'til the words were mingled 
 inextricably. Then a door opened in the greasy darkness, 
 far back at the end of the hall. It seemed impossible 
 that any one should be living there, for it was like a hole 
 burrowed in the back wall of a cave; but behind the 
 shape that nearly filled the doorway a gas jet revealed a 
 table and a chair there was a home back there. And 
 the shape was the shape of a Man. He was so big that 
 he hever belonged in that trap at all; the poise of his 
 head was too free; his voice rang too true to the Yankee 
 twang. 
 
 "Shut up," said he. And they shut up. "Keep 
 this helling up any longer and I'll come out there and 
 break bones." They were very still. "The baby's
 
 Joey the Dreamer 9 
 
 gettin' worse, that's why." Then he shut the door, and 
 there was peace upon the scene. 
 
 In the wholesome silence that followed, I managed to 
 make my query. 
 
 "Miss Arthur?" 
 
 "He means Miss Ruth. Third floor front, on the 
 right, going up." 
 
 As I started forward dubiously I heard: 
 
 "Wonder what's his game?" 
 
 "Inspector, mebbe." 
 
 "Oh, Mamie! Hide the phonygraft." 
 
 I had reached the first step, going up, when a tiny boy, 
 sitting alone in the darkness near the foot of the stairs, 
 rose up and said in a tired voice, yet with something akin 
 to eagerness in it: 
 
 "I'll show you up there, mister; I know where Miss 
 Ruth lives." 
 
 In the darkness it was impossible to see much of him, 
 save that he was very small and apparently old for his 
 size. He went up slowly in the lead, mounting each 
 step with difficulty, as if the lift was too much for him. 
 
 "Do you live here?" 
 
 His answer seemed strange in the Tenement. He 
 said: "Yessir." 
 
 As we reached the second floor he pointed to the rear. 
 
 "That's where we live," he said. The door was open, 
 and a big, red-faced woman was sitting inside. 
 
 "Do you know Miss Miss Ruth?" 
 
 "Yessir," he said. 
 
 "What is your name?"
 
 10 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Joey Bruggers," said he, and kept toiling up. 
 
 The air was so thick and he was so small that I won- 
 dered he did not stifle. A white painted door marked 
 the third floor front, right, going up, apart from its 
 neighbours. To this the boy led, opened it without 
 knocking and peeped in. 
 
 "Come in, Joey," came in a voice which, in that 
 medley of discords, was like a blessing; and I knew that 
 we had found Ruth in. Said Joey,v walking gravely in and 
 seating himself in a corner, "Here's a guy wants to see 
 you, Miss Ruth. 
 
 At which a tall, freckled young man, with a violin 
 case under one arm, and a young girl, with yellow hair, 
 arose together from their chairs on the farther side of 
 the room and together said: "Well, I guess we gotta be 
 on our way, Miss Ruth." 
 
 "You!" said Ruth, upon seeing me. "What are you 
 doing over here?" 
 
 It was on my tongue to ask her the same question, 
 but she held out her hand, and before that patient smile 
 and the quiet blue eyes and the aura of faith that sur- 
 rounded her, I stammered wretchedly; and I felt as an 
 abashed scoffer might feel who has wandered by mistake 
 into the temple. 
 
 "Yes, we gotta be going," repeated the yellow-haired 
 girl. But instead there were introductions all around. 
 
 "Delia." The girl greeted me with her head high up, 
 her quick, unabashed eyes appraising me with a glance. 
 She was small, and she came perilously near being beauti- 
 ful. A pretty butterfly no, a pretty little canary-bird,
 
 Joey the Dreamer 11 
 
 who obviously longed for a chance to beat her wings 
 against the bars. 
 
 "Freddy." The young man ducked a head as nearly 
 red as heads grow and grinned a grin that was made to 
 win the hearts of men or dogs. In fact, his face was 
 strangely uncertain in repose; it was made to be twisted 
 amiably in that grin. 
 
 "Joey." This was the shock. In the light he was 
 even smaller than in the darkness of the hall. His head 
 was sizes too big for his body. His face was terribly 
 thin; but in it shone two great eyes with the clear, hunger- 
 ing look in them of those who are touched by God. 
 And he lived on the second floor, rear, with the big woman 
 of the red face. 
 
 We sat down, Delia and Freddy on the edge of their 
 chairs, as 11 sitting down were merely the final preparation 
 for their going. 
 
 "We was just up giving old Mag a little cheer-up, 
 anyway," said Freddy. 
 
 "Sure." Delia fussed with the back of her wonderful 
 pompadour. "We was only going to stay a second." 
 
 They spoke to Ruth; I was present only as a restraint 
 to conversation. 
 
 "I heard you was playing, Freddy," piped Joey. "I 
 was sitting down on the steps." 
 
 That saved the situation; the tension fell. 
 
 "Why didn't you come on up, Joey?" demanded 
 Delia. "You could of come up." 
 
 "You know it, Joey." Freddy winked at the little 
 fellow in a way that forced even Joey's tiny old face to
 
 12 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 attempt a smile. "Any time Joey wants anything when 
 I'm around, he knows all he's got to do is to ask, eh, kid? 
 Joey'n me's old pals, ain't we, Joey? How'd you like 
 that new tune of mine, kid? Know what I call it? 'Why 
 Do They Blow the Whistle When I Ought to Be Sound 
 Asleep?'" 
 
 Freddy himself bid for the laughter that followed, with 
 his face one big grin. Joey did not laugh. He pondered 
 gravely and said: 
 
 "Why do they, Freddy?" 
 
 But Delia would have no more of this frivolity. Ap- 
 parently she knew Freddy's weakness and was afraid that 
 he would "make a fool of himself" if permitted to go on. 
 She promptly turned the talk to serious matters, indica- 
 ting by her manner that they must leave soon. 
 
 "You going to have a meeting in the park, Sat'day 
 night, ain't you, Miss Ruth?" 
 
 "If nothing happens, dear." 
 
 "Me'n Freddy '11 be there," said Delia decisively. She 
 said it without consulting Freddy. 
 
 "Wonder if old Rinehart'll have his spiel-fest at the 
 corner again?" said he. 
 
 "Oh, sure," snapped Delia. "You know how them 
 guys are; they gotta talk or they can't live. And now 
 with all this talk about cutting our wages down at the 
 Fact'ry, and a strike, and all the row Oh, he'll be there, 
 all right. No need to ast. Well, come on now, Freddy; 
 we gotta be going sure." 
 
 "Sure," said Freddy, rising obediently. "We was 
 just going to stay a minute, anyway."
 
 Joey the Dreamer 13 
 
 "Pleased to met you," said Delia smartly. Freddy 
 ducked his head and grinned. Joey, too, took his leave. 
 The last sight we had of them was as they went down the 
 stairs, Freddy in the middle, Delia on his left arm, the 
 violin case under his right, his right hand resting frater- 
 nally on Joey's little shoulder. 
 
 "Good heavens!" I said. "I thought the people who 
 lived here were the ones who belonged here." 
 
 "Yes," said Ruth, smiling patiently as if this were a 
 mistake one was expected to make. "And now what 
 excuse have you to offer for straying so far from your 
 true environment?" 
 
 I thought of my mission, and of what I had seen. 
 I said: "I came to ask questions of you about these 
 people, but I find I do not know what to ask." 
 
 Before that week came to an end, several things had 
 happened. I had apologized profusely to a bewildered 
 editor for foisting upon him a didactic article about 
 something of which I was more densely ignorant than of 
 the agricultural statistics of Finland, had resigned my 
 position as special commissioner for the Society, saying 
 that sometime I might know enough to write something 
 about "those people over there," but not what the 
 Society expected; and on Saturday afternoon I took 
 possession of a thoroughly renovated room on the fourth 
 floor, front, right, of the Tenement, and it looked as if 
 I was going to be permitted to become acquainted with 
 Clay Court, to the enlightenment of my benighted soul.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IT IS on this Saturday that our story really begins, 
 for it is on Saturday night that things happen in 
 Clay Court, and this was the Saturday that little 
 Joey committed the Awful Crime. 
 
 I moved in at five. The room was everything that a 
 room should not be for size, and, being under the roof, it 
 was shamefully stunted for height; but it had a window 
 looking squarely down the Court, and, for this, much was 
 to be forgiven it. There were other compensations. 
 Being four stories removed from the street level was one 
 of them; and the view ah, that view made up for all. 
 Every window, every fire-escape, every inch of the street, 
 and most of the roofs were mine for the looking, and 
 all from a strictly original point of view. 
 
 I threw up the window and leaned out. The walks 
 and the street below were dotted out to the Avenue with 
 crawling infants. Children just over the toddling age 
 tended them. These made up the bulk of the people to 
 be seen in the Court at this hour; the women were begin- 
 ning odorous preparations for the evening meal, and all 
 the others, it seems, were at work. 
 
 At five-thirty Ruth stood in the doorway with an 
 invitation. It was her custom to walk down the Avenue 
 to the Factory and meet Joey and Delia as they came 
 
 14
 
 15 
 
 from work. Would I care to come with her this evening? 
 I hastily put off my attempt to become acquainted 
 with the place I had decided to live in for awhile, 
 and came. And by so doing we walked straight into 
 the heart of the little drama which the next few days 
 were to unfold. 
 
 The great brick barracks of the Consolidated Factory 
 Company lay a mile down the Avenue from the Tene- 
 ment, and in them most of our people over three feet 
 high found employment. When the wind was from the 
 east, we had the smoke from the Factory chimneys roll- 
 ing over us in fat, black clouds; and, from the outside, 
 the buildings had an uncomfortable way of giving out 
 an impression of jail. 
 
 "Does Joey work in the Factory?" I asked, as we 
 walked along. The Avenue was quiet, as the lull before 
 the storm. The peddlers and fakirs were getting ready 
 their displays; the beggars were uncovering such in- 
 firmities as they had to offer. They all increased in 
 numbers as we neared the Factory, and all were waiting, 
 ready to receive the swarm of home-goers that soon would 
 break over the Avenue like a flood. And Joey's eyes 
 seemed out of place there. 
 
 "Yes," said Ruth. 
 
 "And Delia, too in the Factory?" 
 
 "Yes. And Freddy, and most of the working people 
 here, large and small. Saturday night is pay-night, so 
 I like to go down and meet my little friends to-night 
 especially." 
 
 I had horrible visions of Joey and Delia in the grasp of
 
 16 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 burly ruffians and being forced to give up tlnir meagre 
 week's wage. 
 
 "No, no," said Ruth when I suggested this. "But 
 pay-day means money, and money means drunkenness. 
 I don't like to think of Joey or Delia alone in it. Not 
 that they are in danger, physically. But you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 I felt that I did. 
 
 "I am thankful," continued Ruth, as we neared the 
 Factory, "that you didn't ask the usual questions: 
 'Why do you bother about this place?' 'How in the 
 world can you live here?' 'What do you expect to do 
 here?' The worst of it is," she said with her slow smile, 
 "I can't answer them to any one's satisfaction. I can 
 only ask them to open their eyes and see." 
 
 "I, too, am blind and wofully ignorant," I said. 
 "But give me credit for this: I never thought of asking 
 those questions after last Monday night." 
 
 "You are credited," she said laughing. Then we came 
 to the Factory. 
 
 And Joey, little Joey, had committed the Awful Crime. 
 Being privileged characters we will step inside and take 
 a first-hand view of his misdoing. 
 
 The scene is the much-too-dark and dusty finishing- 
 room of the Consolidated Factory, the time nearing six 
 of this fine Saturday in August; and Joey had looked at 
 the clock! 
 
 One really must know something of the Factory to 
 appreciate the complete depravity of Joey's action. No 
 one must look at the clock before six in the Factory. At
 
 Joey the Dreamer 17 
 
 six comes the end of the day's work. At that hour a 
 whistle blows sullenly somewhere down in the dark 
 regions near the engine-room, and somewhere in the same 
 vicinity somebody moves a lever that shuts off the power. 
 The big building, packed to the walls with machinery and 
 humanity, answers the signal like a storm dying in full 
 flight. The dizzy whirling of hundreds of wheels stops; 
 the strident note of the machinery drops gradually to a 
 droning key. Belts move slowly from pulley to pulley, 
 listlessly flapping together as they complete their final 
 journeys for the day; and, finally, with many creaks and 
 groans, as if protesting against the cessation of easy, 
 humming motion, the wheels make their last revolutions, 
 stop, and grow still. And then, and not until then, the 
 flesh and blood beings who tend the machines give vent 
 to a sigh of escape. Slowly and carefully they straighten 
 their bent backs. Slowly, and with an expression in 
 which incredulity liberally mingles with the sense of 
 relief, they look around. It is six. The day is over. 
 They are free to go home; but it is hard to believe that 
 the end has come after one has resolved that the day will 
 last forever. 
 
 And then, also, one may look at the clock. 
 
 But Joey was tired. He was always tired. He was 
 so small that he could just rest his chin on an ordinary 
 table, and his shoulders hung in front of his chest like two 
 round bone-knobs. His face looked something like the 
 face of an old man who doesn't get enough to eat, but, as 
 if to make up for all this, his eyes were two of the brightest 
 that ever shone in a child's head. The flesh might grow
 
 18 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 weary under the steady strain of work, but those eyes 
 gleamed always with a light that belonged not in that 
 weary Factory. 
 
 The work was hard. It came pouring on to the table 
 between Delia's and Freddy's machines. Joey's Two- 
 fifty a week depended solely upon his ability to keep 
 the table cleared, so the machines would not be stopped 
 or delayed in the furious pace which the power set for 
 them. Sometimes Joey's legs gave out; and then he had 
 hit upon an ingenious scheme to save himself. Leaning 
 forward on the waist-high table, he rested the middle 
 portion of his little body upon its edge, thus taking most 
 of his weight off the wabbly legs. It was hard on the 
 stomach, of course, but time and again the scheme had 
 saved the day. 
 
 To-day, being Saturday, was worse than ever. The 
 scheme had been tried often throughout the day, and still 
 the legs refused to hold up as they should. Little by 
 little Joey felt them giving way. His mouth was drawn 
 out of shape in the corners, from chewing his lips to keep 
 from crying; his little old face was covered with a coating 
 of brown dust that the tired hands could not wipe away; 
 and Joey, looking for the coming of six as the shipwrecked 
 sailor looks for land, paused for an instant in his steady 
 task and looked at the clock. 
 
 "Gee!" he muttered as he noted that the hands showed 
 many minutes from six. His eyes moved appealingly 
 from the clock up to the ceiling. Up there in the murky 
 dusk the shafting continued its dizzy whirl, and the belts 
 sang from pulley to pulley as if they would never stop.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 19 
 
 "Aw!" whined Joey. "Won't it ever be six?" 
 
 That was all; but that was enough. He had looked 
 at the clock! 
 
 "The little villain!" The Superintendent got down 
 from his spying perch on the other side of the room, his 
 eyes ablaze and his big under-lip fairly quivering with 
 righteous indignation. "What thieves they are!" he 
 thought as he started down the aisle. "How a man's 
 got to watch them to keep them up to snuff!" 
 
 Keeping his work people up to snuff was this Superin- 
 tendent's specialty, and having only the other day 
 turned a woman into the street, because he had discovered 
 that she was too sick and feeble to keep up to the required 
 speed, he was particularly pleased at the opportunity 
 offered him by Joey's conduct. Here was another chance 
 to demonstrate his eternal vigilance. Surely the Di- 
 rectors soon must take notice of the way he handled help. 
 
 Behind the now frantically hurrying Joey the great man 
 stopped. He smiled a small smile of great self-satisfaction, 
 and stood for a moment studying the thin back as it 
 moved to and fro, fro and to, under the ceaseless call 
 of the work. 
 
 "Hmm!" said the Superintendent suddenly. 
 
 Joey, for some reason that would have been hidden 
 to a stranger, jumped as if he had been struck. But he 
 did not stop or turn around. Another pause. Joey's 
 legs began to tremble. 
 
 "Hmm!" repeated the Superintendent. Then, deliber- 
 ately, his big hand fell upon one of Joey's shoulders, the 
 big fingers took a firm hold on the round, bony knob, and
 
 20 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 slowly the shoulder was twisted around until Joey, trem- 
 bling like a rabbit in a trap, was forced to face the 
 Superintendent. 
 
 "Young man" the voice was terrible, but the glaring 
 eyes were worse "young man, don't you need your job? " 
 
 "Oh, yessir," stammered Joey. 
 
 "Don't you care to work here any longer?" There 
 was fine sarcasm in the accent that the Superintendent 
 put upon the "here." 
 
 "Yessir. I I " 
 
 "Do you know the rules?" 
 
 Joey gulped and nodded guiltily. 
 
 "And yet "the great voice of the Superintendent rose 
 to a roar "and yet, you little rascal, you looked at the 
 clock!" 
 
 A tremor ran through all who heard. Now they realized 
 for the first time the truly heinous qualities of Joey's crime. 
 He had looked at the clock! It was not six! Nothing 
 more need be said. They waited to hear the verdict. 
 
 It came in the form of a surprise. The Superintendent 
 merely turned Joey around so he again faced the table, 
 pushed him roughly against it, and said: "Next time, out 
 you go. Now speed along and catch up your work, you 
 little loafer!" 
 
 And with this the Superintendent passed down the 
 aisle, while behind him Joey tore wildly at his work, sick 
 from the shock, but happy because he had not been 
 "fired." And all around there was a strange atmosphere, 
 an atmosphere that might fit around nothing so well as 
 the scene of an interrupted execution.
 
 CHAPTER HI 
 
 DON'T you care, Joey." 
 Delia was first to recover courage and speak. 
 Delia usually did speak first as well as last, 
 when the occasion required. Even in factory garb Delia 
 was very pretty; her little red lips being rather too full for 
 her white face, and her light blue eyes too much like the 
 eyes of a china doll to win her the title of beautiful. The 
 eyes had done the work for Freddy, however, and the tall 
 and thin, freckled, and grinning fellow hovered about her 
 in a way that Delia pretended to despise. She couldn't 
 do anything else; it isn't proper in the district to show a 
 fellow that he stands high in your opinion. 
 
 Freddy was a person of some importance. As a gentle- 
 man who played the violin in such startling and original 
 fashion as to have won him a certain degree of fame among 
 the cheaper variety theatres, he was some one to look up 
 to in the Factory. He practised whenever he wasn't 
 calling on Delia when the day's work was over. Some 
 day, said Freddy, his name would be on the bills; at 
 which Delia would toss her head and sniff in false 
 contempt. 
 
 "Don't you care." Delia's cheering voice came rat- 
 tling through the clatter of the machines, for the machines 
 did not pause for the convenience of conversation. 
 
 21
 
 22 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "When he just talks you're all right. Cheer up. Six 
 o'clock soon. Ain't so, Freddy or don't you know 
 that, either?" 
 
 "Cheer up is right, Joey," said Freddy, performing 
 his wonderful feat of wriggling his scalp, ears, and all. 
 "As her leddyship says: 
 
 '* "Six o'clock will soon be here, 
 Oh, hear the whistles blow! " 
 
 "Get out!" A supercilious raising of the upper lip by 
 Delia. "You and your funny work. I suppose you'd 
 do a song and dance at your own funeral." 
 
 "I might if I was asked, yer leddyship." 
 
 "Come off!" 
 
 "But I don't see anybody wearing any wooden over- 
 coats around here." 
 
 Although Freddy's words were full of leisure and 
 banter, there was no hitch in the fierce speed of the 
 machines. 
 
 "No. Nobody dead." Delia's sarcasm, too, crept 
 through the clatter. "World ain't come to an end yet, 
 either, has it? But with the Supe throwing the boots 
 into Joey, and the big row staring us in the face 
 
 Ah! She bit her tongue. She had forgotten. They 
 must not discuss the Dread Subject before Joey. He 
 had enough to stand without worrying about that, 
 poor kid. 
 
 But Joey had heard and understood, for the subject was 
 on the tongues of all, inspiring an atmosphere of dread 
 throughout the Factory.
 
 23 
 
 " Will there be a row, and will they lay us off, as some 
 say, Freddy?" he piped. 
 
 "Don't know, Joey." 
 
 "I heard some men talking at noon. They said they 
 were going to cut our pay. That right?" 
 
 "Don't know. Talk's cheap, Joey. Everybody's 
 talking. They act like they knew it all, and all they've 
 been doing is sucking in the gas that Rinehart hands out 
 up at the corner nights." 
 
 "But will they cut our pay, d'you think?" asked 
 Delia anxiously. She looked concerned, and the effect 
 spoiled the pretty red mouth. 
 
 "I don't know," replied Freddy, curtly. "Ain't I 
 telling you nobody knows. Rinehart's the boy to wise 
 you up. He'll dish out the gas up at the corner again 
 to-night, I s'pose." He waited a moment, straightened 
 himself on his stool, and then delivered himself of this 
 portentous remark: "As for me, know all men by these 
 presents that I ain't worrying." 
 
 "Hah?" Delia flashed a look from the china-doll eyes 
 that frankly admitted the proportions of the surprise 
 that Freddy's words had wrought. 
 
 "I ain't worrying." 
 
 "You ain't?" 
 
 "Nope." 
 
 Delia flashed over three or four looks of shrewd investi- 
 gation, but Freddy was serious, or, at least, as nearly serious 
 as that merry young man could be on such short notice. 
 
 "Why ain't you worrying? Everybody else is. It's 
 got the place hah* crazy."
 
 24 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Because I don't have to, that's why." Freddy 
 wriggled his ears. Evidently something was up. 
 
 "You don't have to worry about whether there's a 
 cut in our pay, or whether there's a strike, or any- 
 thing?" 
 
 Words cannot express the amazement and incredulity 
 which were expressed hi Delia's broken speech. Not to 
 worry about one's pay? Not to worry about the chance 
 to work? Surely there was no such condition in 
 all this world! 
 
 "Wait, only wait, yer leddyship," retorted Freddy in 
 the sepulchral tones of West Side melodrama. "To- 
 night to-ni-yut you shall know all." 
 
 "Ah, cut it out. You think you're too wise." 
 
 "Not a bit." Freddy resumed his normal tone of 
 voice. "It's the Gawd's truth, Delia, and you don't 
 have to worry either." 
 
 But that was too much for Delia, and she broke into 
 a little bitter laughter, her under-lip trembling as she 
 remarked casually that it wasn't funny to make fun of a 
 pal like that. 
 
 "No kidding, Delia. You'll see to-night," said 
 Freddy. 
 
 "I suppose," said Delia scornfully, "that you've made 
 such a hit with your fiddling that you can quit work and 
 retire?" 
 
 But Freddy only wriggled his ears. 
 
 "To-night, to-ni-yut," he repeated, "you shall know 
 all. We go to a show, you and me, to-night, understand? 
 We scramble into two orchestra chairs down near the
 
 25 
 
 front of the Imperial. And there, right then and there, 
 yer leddyship, I'll I'll slip you some big news." 
 
 "Orchestra chairs! You can't afford it, and you know 
 I know you can't. What's the use of dreaming?" 
 
 "Ssh! Not a word to mother. I got two passes." 
 
 "Yes, you have." Delia persisted in being a little 
 cynic. "Where from?" 
 
 "Ah! That's part of the fatal secret, to be continued 
 in our next. But, anyhow, we go, don't we?" 
 
 "Sure," said Delia, her eager nod hinting at what the 
 treat meant to her. Then, "O-oh, say!" she cried, "I 
 forgot. I promised Miss Ruth to go with her to her 
 
 meeting in the Park this evening, and oh, say; 
 
 it's too bad, ain't it?" 
 
 "Miss Ruth?" repeated Freddy with great respect. 
 "Well, if you promised her " 
 
 "Don't think for a minute I don't want to do it." 
 Delia instantly was all afire. "Don't think I don't 
 like to hear Miss Ruth talk, because I love it. Yes, I 
 love it, honest. She jerked me up all right. I certainly 
 was something fierce until I met her, and goodness 
 knows what I might have come to. When she begins 
 to talk to you it's like like " 
 
 "I know." Freddy searched his soul for the accurate 
 phrase. "Like Sunday morning after a bath at the 
 barber shop, and the bells ringing up the Avenue." 
 
 "Something like that." Delia was silent for awhile. 
 
 The machines ran on. 
 
 "They got a swell show down at the Imperial this 
 week," said Freddy, casually. Delia's eyes glistened.
 
 26 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Well," she said, yielding grudgingly to temptation. 
 "Passes won't keep, will they?" 
 
 "Nit," said Freddy. 
 
 "Well," sighed Delia, "I suppose Miss Ruth'll have 
 other meetings." 
 
 "Sure, said Freddy. "And to-night's a big night 
 for us." 
 
 "Shut up," warned Delia. "The Supe's coming back 
 this way." 
 
 The machines clattered on. The weary hands moved 
 to and fro. It grew darker. The air grew warmer. 
 It was like .the air of a vault dead, sickening. And 
 little Joey, between pondering on the problem of the 
 possible wage-cut, wondered if he would last out the day. 
 
 But all things must have an end, even a factory 
 Saturday afternoon. In spite of Joey's growing dis- 
 belief in such an eventuality, the whistle finally gave the 
 welcome signal, and Joey leaned forward and rested 
 heavily against the table. Freddy promptly leaped off 
 his stool and made for the wash room, and Delia promptly 
 fussed with her back hair. 
 
 "See?" she said triumphantly. "What'd I tell you, 
 Joey? Six o'clock always comes. S'pose Miss Ruth'll 
 come to see us home?" 
 
 "I don't know." Joey was feeling bad. Even this 
 name, at which ordinarily his great eyes would have 
 shone with delight, failed to rouse him. 
 
 "I guess she will all right," continued Delia, diving 
 under the table for her hat, which lay there covered by 
 a newspaper. "Ain't she the grandest ever, though?
 
 Joey the Dreamer 27 
 
 Think of anybody who could be riding around in ottos 
 bothering about us! Wouldn't catch me doing it; I 
 tell you those." 
 
 The paper was off the hat now, and the hat was 
 being pinned on the light hair. Joey still leaned against 
 the table. 
 
 "Get your ca^ and why why, what's the matter, 
 Joey? What's matter witchou?" 
 
 Joey was leaning farther over the table. His face 
 could be no whiter than usual, but it was plain that some- 
 thing more than usual was wrong. 
 
 "I donno," he said, and slid into a queer little bundle 
 on the floor. 
 
 "Why, Joey!" cried Delia, shocked at such conduct. 
 Then in alarm: "Here, here! Look here. Joey's gone 
 and fainted dead away!" 
 
 In the eager hurry of all to get out of the Factory in 
 the shortest time possible, the cry failed to arose any 
 great excitement. A group of half a dozen gathered 
 around, jostling one another for a better view of the 
 little white face, proffering several kinds of advice, and 
 calling for water with great enthusiasm. Delia took one 
 of the limp hands between her own and proceeded to rub 
 it aimlessly, and after awhile somebody brought the water. 
 Under these ministrations Joey began to betray feeble 
 signs of life, but hiseyes failed to open, and the group 
 grew hushed in alarm. Fainting was nothing out 
 of the ordinary in the Factory, but this looked like 
 something worse. 
 
 "What shall we do? What shall we do?" cried Delia.
 
 28 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 And instantly she answered her own question. "Some- 
 body run and see if Miss Ruth is waiting outside." 
 
 But there was no need for this, for one of the girls 
 called: "Here she is now," and the circle opened up and 
 Ruth came hurrying to Joey's side. And the girls forgot 
 about Joey and began to study the vision. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Ruth ! " cried Delia. " How good you come ! 
 Here I was pinning on my hat, and all of a sudden down 
 goes Joey, and we've soused him with water and every- 
 thing and he don't come to." 
 
 The vision knelt down. She lifted Joey's head to her 
 arm and wiped the dust from his water-streaked face. 
 She lifted him in her arms, and started down the aisle. 
 Her lips were set tightly. 
 
 "Bring his cap, please, Delia, and ring up his time," 
 she called. 
 
 Near the door she met the Superintendent. 
 
 "What's wrong?" he asked. 
 
 "Nothing," said Ruth. "It was after Six when he 
 fainted."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 RUTH came out and seated herself on the Factory 
 steps with Joey on her lap. This sort of thing 
 was new to me; what was the proper thing to do? 
 
 "Let me hold him," I said lamely. "He is too heavy 
 for you." 
 
 "Too heavy! Look!" She drew the collar down 
 from Joey's neck and opened his shirt. I looked once, 
 then I am afraid I looked away. Much newspaper work, 
 some roughing it, and a little big game shooting has, I 
 believe, left me with at least as little squeamishness as 
 the average man. I had seen these things before, too, 
 but never in one that I knew. It makes a difference. 
 I stood helpless. 
 
 Joey lay as if sleeping. His head hung limply over his 
 shoulder, and his breath came in hungry little gulps 
 gulps that lifted the breastbone and ribs till they seemed 
 ready to burst the skin. He did not move. And the 
 out-going crowd rushed past with scarcely a look. Kid 
 dropped in the shops? Ought to be glad he wasn't dead. 
 
 The Factory emptied itself. The tumult of home- 
 going died down from a crazy roar to a steady murmur. 
 Twilight began to come on in the smoky cross street. 
 Joey lay as if sleeping in Ruth's arms. 
 
 I was able to utter the conventional thought now. 
 
 29
 
 30 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "We must have a doctor, mustn't we? Where can 
 I find one?" 
 
 Ruth shook her head. "It isn't worth while. He 
 will be able to go home soon." 
 
 "But he's really ill, isn't he?" 
 
 Faith, he looked more than ill. 
 
 "Only a faint. Call it what you please. It's common 
 over here. He will be able to walk soon." 
 
 Here Joey stirred and opened his eyes, looking around 
 with that puzzled expression peculiar to returning 
 consciousness. 
 
 "Feeling better, Joey?" 
 
 "Yes'm." 
 
 "Do you feel strong enough to walk?" 
 
 "No'm." 
 
 Joey's eyes closed again, but presently he sat up and 
 laid a hand on his stomach. 
 
 "It's here, Miss Ruth." 
 
 "What is it, Joey?" 
 
 "Nothing." Which, considering that Joey that day, 
 as many others, had gone without his luncheon, prob- 
 ably was an accurate diagnosis of the case. Noticing 
 that he was on Ruth's lap the boy scrambled up on his 
 shaking legs. 
 
 "I'm all right," he said stoutly. But he wasn't. He 
 took two steps down the stairs and promptly collapsed. 
 
 "Wait a little, Joey. There's no hurry. Wait until 
 you're stronger." 
 
 "Yes'm." He was quite satisfied to sit down where 
 he was. He had found that his legs still lacked strength
 
 Joey the Dreamer 31 
 
 to be proper articles to walk on. So he curled up and 
 waited. 
 
 Ruth sat in a silence that suggested complete ab- 
 straction. She had dropped her chin in her hands, and 
 her great eyes looked mournfully out into the barren 
 street and saw nothing, as the eyes of one who dreams. 
 There was pain in her eyes now, and in the firm little 
 mouth, pain and wonder, for she, too, was not yet ac- 
 customed to the ways of the life about her. And she 
 was too tender, too much a vessel of emotion to hide the 
 workings of her pitying heart. 
 
 The street grew empty and darker. Presently Ruth 
 began to speak, her voice little more than a passionate 
 whisper, the words rolling from her tongue with no 
 perceptible effort, her eyes still looking unseeingly into 
 the gathering gloom around us. 
 
 "Joey fainted at his work. He is too weak to work. 
 He doesn't get enough to eat. Yet he must work or 
 starve. So he works, and drops at his bench. . . . 
 Can the thing really be true in this great, rich city?" 
 
 She paused and her breath came in like a sob. She 
 wanted no answer, and I made none. After awhile she 
 went on as before. 
 
 "They are talking of a wage-cut in this Factory. Think 
 of it ! Joey's wages can't buy him enough to eat. 'Here,' 
 says the world, 'are some helpless ones; let us take ad- 
 vantage of them, because they are helpless. They have 
 no champions, no ministers to take their part, they can 
 make no defence. We will load on them the burdens 
 which we would not dare to load on those who are not
 
 32 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 helpless. We will do as we please with them, because 
 we can.' Isn't it strange conduct in a world that pro- 
 fesses to have accepted Jesus Christ?" 
 
 Her words ceased abruptly and there was silence. A 
 steamer whistled hoarsely down hi the river. Joey arose 
 and looked up inquiringly. And his thin neck showed 
 plainly what ailed him. 
 
 "How can that be?" whispered Ruth. "Surely there 
 is plenty of food in this world at least in this country?" 
 
 There was, certainly there was. 
 
 "Well, can't the world see that Joey hasn't had his 
 share? Are people blind? Is the world blind? Does 
 it know what it does to the helpless?" 
 
 "It doesn't appreciate as you do. It wouldn't 
 sleep well if it did," I suggested. 
 
 "No. If it knew there would be an end to it. And 
 we who have seen, we must tell the others and make them 
 see. Oh, John! I feel that I must do what little I can. 
 I am driven to it. This crisis over the wage-cut is a crime 
 a crime ! I will beg and plead with the world for it to 
 open its eyes and see. And it must see. Good is domi- 
 nant in man. He does not know how unfair he is that 
 is all. When he hears, when he knows, and sees, and 
 understands all these things will change. They will, 
 I know they will." 
 
 It grew quiet in the cross street. Out on the Avenue 
 the feet of the home-going army sent up their steady 
 murmur. Joey stood still and looked up at Ruth's face, 
 and in his eyes there was something of the dumb hunger 
 that is in the eyes of a faithful dog when he looks into
 
 Joey the Dreamer 33 
 
 his master's eyes and wishes to speak and to be understood. 
 I said: "You are going to speak to these people in the 
 Park to-night, aren't you?" 
 
 "Yes." She arose and stretched out a hand to Joey. 
 The dreamer vanished with that movement, and she was 
 again the practical, deft-handed helper. 
 
 "Feeling stronger, Joey?" 
 
 "Sure. I'm all right." 
 
 He took a few steps to prove it. This time the legs 
 held up. 
 
 Ruth took him by one hand. 
 
 "We will go home, then," she said. 
 
 It was a new experience. I took him by the other hand 
 oh, my masters, what a hand! 
 
 "We'll all go home together," I said. 
 
 "Gee!" said Joey, gripping feebly. "That'll be swell." 
 
 Westward into the Avenue we went, that great 
 thoroughfare which, like a giant sword-cut slits the dis- 
 trict in two, and through which each evening passes a sul- 
 len, defeated army, the army of the workers going home. 
 
 It was lighter out there in the Avenue. The sun, a 
 blood-red wafer in the distant smoke haze, hung at its 
 end like a lantern at the mouth of a tunnel. But all the 
 heavens and all the universe seemed filled with a jumbled 
 pall of greasy gray smoke, through which the light of 
 day filtered down to the city, not as daylight, but as 
 illumination from some great sulphurous lamp. Yes, it 
 was lighter in the Avenue, but it was not a light to cheer. 
 
 And in this light the army was going home. The 
 greater part of its numbers had passed, for it was. late, and
 
 34 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 the stragglers remained, the halt, the weak, the ex- 
 cessively weary and unfortunate; but even these were an 
 army in numbers. And like an army they moved, a 
 broken army, hopelessly wriggling its way up the Avenue, 
 one idea dominating it, one desire drawing it to a common 
 goal: to get home and feed. Beyond this nothing. 
 The dragging feet beat a certain rhythm; but the motif 
 was not nice to hear. 
 
 In that smoky light all things were dirty to the eye, and 
 this very murkiness seemed to make certain things stand 
 out which might not have been striking in the light of 
 day. Seen in the gloomy light, the weariness of flesh 
 and bone and soul was all too evident. The emptiness 
 of the faces cried out as faces from some master-painter's 
 brush, for here and at this time one could not fail to note 
 the tale that rode in the stream of countenances, the tale 
 of all things missing save the spark of life. 
 
 White, weary faces. The white skin hugs the ill- 
 formed bone, following the contour closely for want of a 
 red meat cushion between. The eyes eyes drunk with 
 the unconscious pleading of dying souls, eyes as hopeless 
 as the blank eyes of the dead, or worse. The dragging 
 bodies, hopelessly dragging, dragging on. And the curses, 
 the lack of hope, everywhere apparent. 
 
 For there was none here to whom life had been, was, 
 or promised to be, a thing of pleasure. The game was 
 too serious, the rules too strict, the penalty for losing too 
 awful, the reward too small, to make the playing of it 
 any fun. One might have wondered why these hopeless 
 ones saw fit to play at all.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 35 
 
 This is what one may see in the smoky Avenue at this 
 time in the evening if he cares to look. It was appalling, 
 it was too big. I told Ruth so. 
 
 "Can't you hear the song?" She was looking far 
 away toward the setting sun where the head of the 
 straggling army lost itself somewhere in the coming night. 
 
 "The song?" 
 
 "The song of hope. A tiny song; but can't you hear 
 it in the roar of hopelessness?" 
 
 " Can you really hear it? " The time and the place had 
 me, too, in its grip, for the scene is one of awe. 
 
 "Distinctly. It is a song of brotherhood. Hear the 
 rhythm of those hundreds of feet! Hear their bea 
 upon the walk! Can't you hear that note? All one, one 
 flesh, one blood, one family; alike in joy, and hope, and 
 sorrow; brothers and sisters in humanity! It's there, 
 John, it's there! I can hear it; and all that it needs is a 
 tongue to utter it and make us understand. Brotherhood ! 
 It is there. Surely, John, you can't fail to hear it?" 
 
 I tried hard to follow her and failed. 
 
 "I don't hear anything of the sort," I said. 
 
 "Your ears are deaf from the din of down town." 
 
 "Perhaps. They ah!" 
 
 Clay Court was before us, and a few steps down the 
 Court a small man stood on a soap box and talked to a 
 crowd; and the crowd swore back its approval. 
 
 "Is this, too, part of the song?" I asked. 
 
 "Even this," said Ruth. "It is God stirring hi the 
 hearts of men that makes them discontented." 

 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE man on the box was Rinehart. He was a 
 yellow little man with little wild eyes that showed 
 too much of the whites, and a voice that seemed 
 to shriek, even in a whisper. Under the stress of ex- 
 citement, which was whenever he spoke, he trembled from 
 head to finger tips, like the vibration of an over-engined 
 boat. He was our prophet, and he had been educa- 
 ting Clay Court ever since the Presidential campaign 
 had begun. 
 
 His teaching was awful. 
 
 "Bloody Murder," the young men called him. But 
 after all he was as inevitable then and there on that soap 
 box as the rumble of thunder in the gathering clouds of 
 a storm. He was our safety-valve, and during these hot, 
 excited weeks a safety-valve was of all things what we 
 needed. Rinehart told us what we wanted to hear, what 
 we would have said had we had his tongue. A safety- 
 valve? Nay, more than that, greater than that! Rine- 
 hart was an epic poet, viciously chanting the bitter song 
 that brewed in the hearts of men day by day. 
 
 He used to shift his box from one side of the Court to 
 the other. One evening he was on the side before the 
 refreshment establishment of Mr. Mehaffey; the next he 
 was across the street, bringing his enthralled hearers 
 
 36
 
 Joey the Dreamer 37 
 
 within the glare of the lights of Mr. Sodders. The two 
 saloons stood like sentinels at a lodge gate to the Court. 
 On the west the ornate place of Mehaffey, with this sign 
 over the side door: 
 
 LADIES CAN MAKE THEIR PURCHASES HERE 
 
 On the east: 
 
 SODDERS, THE BIGGEST BEER ON THE WEST SIDE, 
 BAR NONE 
 
 And on a good hot day the odour of stale beer 
 swept forth into the street from the door of each 
 place, met half-way, and established a rich, fat 
 barrier which one must penetrate to enter Clay Court. 
 At night the saloon lights helped out the single gas lamp 
 in its unequal struggle against the sooty gloom. There 
 was only one other night light beside these the lamp 
 sign in the basement of the Tenement: 
 
 MRS. O. HANSEN, MIDWIFE 
 
 So perhaps it was only a desire for light that prompted 
 Rinehart to speak at the corners. 
 
 He was a wizard. Promptly at eight he would step 
 forth from some hidden corner, an old disciple would 
 produce the box, Rinehart would mount it, and five 
 minutes later the men let their pipes go out while they 
 listened. But he had outdone himself to-night. He
 
 38 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 had caught his crowd going home. It was a triumph. 
 They were hurrying hunger driven to the evening food, 
 and he stopped them. He held them. They forgot the 
 emptiness in the belly, they forgot the food. Rinehart 
 was feeding them stronger stuff, and in these days these 
 men were growing ravenous for something beside mere 
 food. For food without hope is a useless diet for man. 
 
 We must listen to Rinehart as he pours out the fires 
 of his soul this warm Saturday evening. He is wordy 
 and he is wild, but he was the tongue of the people with 
 whom we are dealing. Others felt; Rinehart thought 
 and put it in harsh, hot words. And he was at his best, 
 or worst, as we sent Joey on to the Tenement and stepped 
 into a hallway to listen. His eyes gleamed with a hint 
 of the power of the devils that drove him, and there was 
 a fleck of white foam in each corner of his mouth. 
 
 "And this year," Rinehart was saying, "they're going 
 to do two things to you; they're going to elect a President 
 to boss you, and they're going to cut your wages. What? 
 You think you've got anything to say about this elec- 
 tion that's coming on? Well, let me tell you that you 
 haven't, not any more than you have about your wages. 
 They fix it up for you; they elect him; they pick him 
 out both parties and you vote for him, and they win 
 no matter who's elected." 
 
 He exploded a series of gestures indicative of severe 
 contempt. 
 
 "You why, they don't know you're living. You 
 keep so quiet, and take your medicine so much as if you 
 liked it that they forget you're alive. Why, if
 
 Joey the Dreamer 39 
 
 you was to go up to the President and say: "Here, 
 Mr. President, I voted for you, and you ought to 
 do something to make 'em stop this wage-cut, he'd look 
 you over and say: 'Who the hell are you? A working 
 man? Why, the gall of you! Ain't you getting wages? 
 Ain't you living? What more d'you want? Go on. 
 Get to hell out of here back to where you belong.' 
 That's what he'd say. And you got to get, too, because 
 you haven't got anything to say about it." 
 
 As usual, he began to tremble now, legs, hands, head,, 
 voice, quivering with the fires that drove him. 
 
 "Oh, we're a fine bunch of suckers! Ain't we men? 
 Ain't we got heads, and arms, and hands? Sure, we 
 have. Then what right has another man got to kick us 
 around? What right? It ain't the right of might, 
 because we've got the might, if we want to use it. Yes- 
 sir; you've got the might. You've got the numbers. 
 Right here in the grip of your good right fist you've got 
 the power to make the other fellow take his feet off your 
 neck and turn white and run. You've got the strength 
 to change yourself from the worm to the boss. You've 
 got the strength, brothers, you've got the strength if 
 you'd only use it!" 
 
 He drove his fist against his forearm to indicate how 
 strength might be used. 
 
 "Just stop and think it over for awhile, fellows; see 
 what it means. Here you're going along like a lot of 
 whipped dogs, taking whatever the boss slips you, and 
 glad to get it. The other fellow looks you over, we'll say, 
 and he thinks you're getting too strong for his good
 
 40 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 thinks you're getting wages enough to make you half- 
 way independent, we'll say. What happens? He shuts 
 up his fist and squeezes the heart out of you, with a cut, 
 and you're good and helpless for a long while again. And 
 at the same time you're the strongest. You could pick 
 these bosses of yours off their feet and hold 'em up in 
 your two good hands and say, 'Whistle for me or I'll 
 break you in two.' You're the master, if you want to 
 be; but you let them run you into the dirt without 
 a word. 
 
 "Why, fellows, it's like some great big six-footer with 
 a big arm and hair on his chest letting a little five-foot-two 
 rat in spectacles run him. The big guy that's you 
 makes something brings something into this world with 
 his skill and strength wagon wheel spokes, we'll say 
 and the little fellow takes 'em away, sells them, and 
 hands the fellow who made them you, remember 
 enough to live on so he can keep on making more 
 spokes. Big guy keeps on working; little guy gets rich 
 on the product. Whenever he feels that his slave is 
 getting fresh, or beginning to think for himself, he hands 
 him a slap in the face and says, 'Cut it out, now; or I'll 
 fire you and won't let you make any more spokes for me 
 to get rich on.' And that's just about what the situation 
 is between labour the men who do the work and 
 capital which gets all the benefit. 
 
 "Ain't it a fine situation for men to submit to? Why, 
 now, just to show you how you stand right here this very 
 day; you're fine examples right now. You had your 
 wages cut last winter, didn't you? How much were you
 
 Joey the Dreamer 41 
 
 getting before that cut? Enough to live on decently? 
 Hah? No. Enough to exist on? Sure. Just enough 
 to exist on no more. What were they getting the 
 Company? Hah? Well, I don't know, because I ain't 
 used to figuring in millions, but I know that Warman, 
 the president, spent four million on his new place out 
 near Lake Forest, and his youngest kid got delirium 
 tremens in New York. Too much champagne, while 
 your kids were dying of rotten milk. But you had to 
 stand the cut, just the same; they didn't need the 5 
 per cent, they took off, but they wanted it; and they knew 
 right where to go for it without making any trouble. 
 So they cut your wages; they soaked the fellow who 
 didn't have guts enough to make the come-back." 
 
 He paused for breath but was at it again before the 
 spell lifted. 
 
 "Well, that left you how much? How much? How 
 much you getting now? Enough to live on? Answer: 
 are you?" 
 
 "No," growled a surly voice. "No, no," grumbled 
 others and there was an uneasy clearing of throats. 
 
 "No. No! Not enough to live on. Just enough 
 just enough to keep you alive and now what next?" 
 
 Rinehart stopped dead short and sneered in their 
 faces. 
 
 "Why what d'you expect? What can you expect 
 so long as you stand for all they hand you? Another cut, 
 of course. Another cut on top of the others. Another 
 cut into the wages that give you only enough to keep the 
 breath of life in your bodies ! Another cut into the bread
 
 42 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 and potatoes and meat you put into the mouths of your 
 kids! Another cut into your lives! Because you 
 stand for it." 
 
 His voice had risen to a shriek, a cry almost wild 
 animal like, and suddenly it subsided. The sneer came 
 back to his face. He had placed them on trial. What 
 would they say in reply? What could they say? 
 " Well they ain't made the cut yet," said a surly young 
 man. 
 
 "No," Rinehart nodded gravely. "They hain't made 
 it yet. You're still living." 
 
 "Maybe it's all talk. Maybe they won't do it. How 
 d'you know?" 
 
 The young man did not relish being laughed at. 
 
 "Maybe the last one was all talk, too. Maybe it was; 
 look in your pay envelope and see." 
 
 That told. They knew from experience that the talk 
 preceded the actual event. They were breathing hard. 
 Rinehart singled them out with his snapping eyes, one 
 after another, accusing them as individuals. Then, 
 with a wild sweep of his arm above them: 
 
 " What fools we are, brothers ! How long are we going 
 to stand it? How long are we going to wait like sheep 
 until the knife hits us? Haven't we heard that there's a 
 'contemplated cut?' What does that mean? Hah? 
 It means that they sat down and talked it over and said, 
 'Will they stand for it?' They're kind of surprised them- 
 selves at your easiness, you know, and they don't know 
 how much farther they dare push you. 'Sure,' they 
 figure, 'they've always stood for it before. They don't
 
 Joey the Dreamer 43 
 
 know any better, and they can't help themselves if they 
 did.' And in a few days you'll get the word: 'Owing 
 to business depression because of the election another 
 cut in wages.' And then then what are you 
 going to do? What are you going to do?" 
 
 He stopped with a snap, clicking his thin lips together 
 like scissors. He looked around at them again. In- 
 wardly he smiled; he saw that he had struck home. 
 Outwardly he maintained his tense, agonized expression. 
 
 "You can't stand it much longer," he said in a low, 
 confidential tone. "And you won't. It's got to be too 
 heavy for you, and you're going to shake it off. The 
 time is ripe now; this is the year to do it in. You can't 
 elect a President, but you can make the men who do 
 elect him understand that you're Boss. And there's 
 only one way to do it" he was back in the old fierce 
 mood again "only one way to get yourself a square 
 deal in this land of the free and the home of the brave 
 make the whole country damn good and afraid of you! 
 
 "You've tried begging. You've been the sucker long 
 enough. Now it's time to turn things over. Nobody 
 is afraid of a fellow until they feel his muscle. Let them 
 see yours. Let them see that you could knock over all 
 these millionaires and big guns, and the President himself, 
 like so many mud dolls. Show them that they're on 
 top only because you let them be, and if you get mad 
 you can dump 'em over. Show them that while they're 
 riding on your shoulders they mustn't bear down too 
 hard or you'll shake 'em off. Don't you suppose that 
 would make a change in the way they treat you? Don't
 
 44 J Joey the Dreamer 
 
 you suppose if you showed them that that they'd 
 think a long time before voting themselves more profits 
 out of your wages? Well, I guess they would. Why, 
 you'd have them taking you into consideration when they 
 made their big moves, then. In other words, you wouldn't 
 be slaves, which is just what you are now." 
 
 Such was the gentle little way of Rinehart. This was 
 his favourite ending. A stinging slap across the face 
 "slaves!" then he would step down, the old disciple 
 would gather to him the box, and together they would 
 disappear behind the swinging doors of Mr. Mehaffey's or 
 Mr. Sodders's, leaving the crowd behind dazed and 
 dumbed by the verbal explosion. Rinehart had done it 
 so many times that he was shocked when he turned 
 and found himself face to face with a man who held up 
 a hand and said: "Stay on your perch just a minute, 
 you; I want to ask one question." 
 
 The man was a giant. The tufts of hair in his ears 
 and nostrils were black from the engine-room. There 
 was a steadfast solemness on his face as if he hadn't 
 smiled for years. With his size, his bearing, and the 
 tones of his voice, he suggested some great outdoor 
 creature who had been trapped and held prisoner in the 
 Tenement. He was distinctly out of place. It was 
 the man who had brought silence to the Tenement hall 
 last Monday evening. 
 
 "What," continued the giant, "what are you going to 
 do about it?" 
 
 Rinehart leaned forward eagerly. 
 
 "Come to the meeting in the basement at ten
 
 45 
 
 to-morrow morning, Mr. Perkins," he hissed. "Come 
 with us. You'll learn that we are going to do something, 
 and you'll learn what it is.'* 
 
 Perkins turned away, apparently satisfied. Rinehart 
 got down from his box, and he and the old disciple dis- 
 appeared. The crowd dispersed. 
 
 "What does it all mean?" It all was bewildering to 
 me. 
 
 "The song is stirring them," said Ruth, "but they've 
 never learned how to sing." 
 
 We turned toward the Tenement. Although it was 
 early evening when, at this season of the year, the world 
 normally is light and pleasant, the Court, being walled 
 in on three sides by buildings and up above by the cloud 
 of smoky haze, had grown so dark that already lights 
 were showing in the Tenement, gleaming behind greasy 
 panes, like gas lamps in a foggy night. And the babel 
 of Saturday evening was upon the place, for Saturday 
 is pay-day in the Factory, and the Tenement had begun 
 to boil. Housewives were hurrying to buy food with the 
 newly arrived money; kids were hurrying after beer. 
 One might have laughed, but the wailing of a babe per- 
 sisted in reaching the ear through all the turmoil. 
 
 "The Perkins baby," said Ruth. "The doctor has 
 given it up." 
 
 An Early Drunk began to carol blithely; the Court was 
 livening up. But Ruth was right; it had not learned 
 to sing.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 WE ARE back home in the Tenement at last, and 
 we will follow Joey to his home; for they were 
 waiting at home for Joey, waiting for him with 
 longing hearts. 
 
 What spectacle so sure to touch the heart and stir it 
 to warmer and greater beating as that of an anxious 
 mother eagerly awaiting the return of her little son from 
 his day's labours? What so doubly touching as the 
 thought of the father, as well, sitting beside his spouse 
 as they look at the clock, then at each other, mutually 
 anxious because the little 'son is late? Natural maternal 
 anxiety, stern fatherly solicitude; truly the picture is one 
 to arouse good feelings on the part of all who behold. 
 
 And this was the situation with our little Joey on this 
 particular Saturday night. 
 
 The Bruggers lived in two rooms and a closet at the 
 end of the second-floor hall, and Mrs. Bruggers had a way 
 of leaving the door open while discussing the innermost 
 secrets of family life that made it no trouble at all to know 
 all about the Bruggers. Their joys and sorrows were an 
 open book, or, rather, an open phonograph, to all the 
 Tenement. And do not fancy that there is no joy in 
 life lived in two rooms and a closet at the end of a dark 
 hall. There is. It was a treat not soon to be forgotten 
 
 46
 
 Joey the Dreamer 47 
 
 to hear Mr. Bruggers pipe up and sing, "When You And 
 I Were Young, Maggie," after the can had made a suffi- 
 cient number of trips to the corner. 
 
 But there was no joy in the household to-night. 
 In the room which served as kitchen and living room Mr. 
 and Mrs. Bruggers sat with expectant but mournful eyes 
 and ears. The table, containing what remained of a 
 rather scanty supper, was between them, and they faced 
 the door. Bruggers, his thin legs crossed, and elbow on 
 the table, leaned his little head upon his hand, and gazed 
 at the entrance in pensive, dreamy expectation. He 
 was a thin, little man all around, with a high forehead 
 which, by virtue of almost complete baldness, seemed to 
 run back to his neck, and no chin. His nose was red, 
 very red; his mouth was a smirk that reached from one 
 side of the thin face to the other; while scattered ir- 
 regularly over the lower part of his countenance were 
 tufts of woolly black hair which Bruggers flatteringly 
 referred to as a beard. 
 
 Mrs. Bruggers on the other side of the table was builded 
 on different lines. She was as full-bodied as Bruggers was 
 thin. She filled her red wrapper to the point of bursting 
 and even beyond, for beneath each of the lady's armpits 
 a sharp rent appeared in the seams through which loose 
 red flesh protruded in a way distinctly suggestive of 
 overstuffing. The redness that was upon Bruggers 's 
 nose was all over the face of his spouse, a face which, 
 moreover, was more than life size, whether through a 
 strange puffiness that marked it, or from natural con- 
 struction, would have been hard to say. It's expression
 
 48 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 now, and always when in a normal condition, was that of 
 a scowl amounting to a direct threat; the whole attitude 
 of Mrs. Bruggers at this moment, which was one of bold 
 uprightness, the hands on the hips, the big head to one 
 side, while the eyes watched the door with something of 
 the same expression of the cat at the mouse hole, bore 
 out this impression. Mr. and Mrs. Bruggers were await- 
 ing their child's home-coming on a Saturday night. 
 
 Though there was no clock in the room, they knew 
 that Joey's regular time of arrival had come and passed. 
 This, apparently, was the cause of their concentration in 
 waiting. At times Bruggers cast a glance at a little 
 shelf above the table. The shelf was empty. Bruggers 
 smiled and resumed his watching, indulging himself, as 
 was to be seen by his expression, in the joys of remi- 
 niscence and anticipation, in lieu of anything more 
 substantial. 
 
 "Bruggers." The voice came out of the corner of 
 Mrs. Bruggers's mouth, that energetic body not deigning 
 to direct her gaze in the direction of her speech. 
 
 "Yes, my love?" Bruggers was all attention. 
 
 "What d'you s'pose the brat's doing?" 
 
 "I can't imagine, my dear." 
 
 "Aw, you can't anything." 
 
 "My dear " 
 
 "Shut up." 
 
 Bruggers obeyed, smiling indulgently after the manner 
 of masterful man humouring an irritable helpmeet. 
 Minutes passed. 
 
 "Bruggers."
 
 Joey the Dreamer 49 
 
 "My dear." 
 
 "Get the can." 
 
 "Why, my love?" 
 
 "Get it. He's coming. He's here." 
 
 It was true. The more vigilant ears of the woman had 
 detected Joey's steps in the hall, and at the moment when 
 Bruggers was arising to obey his spouse's command, the 
 boy opened the door and entered his home. 
 
 Immediately he had crossed the threshold, Joey 
 stopped and his bright eyes ran from one to the other of 
 the two faces that had awaited his coming with such 
 eagerness. The door he left open behind him. This 
 was strategy, strategy born of much experience. But 
 there was another strategist in that room, an older 
 strategist, a more experienced strategist, and, therefore, 
 a more capable one. Bruggers, divining the possible 
 purpose of the open door, innocently proceeded to carry 
 from the table to the sink, as if for the improbable purpose 
 of cleansing, a large tin pail. The sink was near the door. 
 Suddenly Bruggers moved with a swiftness that was 
 remarkable in one of his apparent lack of energy. The 
 door slammed shut. Joey turned around and found 
 himself face to face with Bruggers, sr., who, with his 
 back against the door, smiled shrewdly down upon the 
 outwitted young strategist. 
 
 "Thought you were going to duck out and leave your 
 mother an' me without your comp'ny, Joey?" queried 
 the father, lightly. 
 
 "Bruggers!" 
 
 "My love?"
 
 50 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Shut up." 
 
 "Yes, my " 
 
 "Joey." 
 
 "Yes, ma." 
 
 "You're late." 
 
 "I was sick." 
 
 "Sick!" 
 
 "Sick!" 
 
 Mrs. Bruggers said it first. Her husband chimed in 
 to lend emphasis to her meaning. 
 
 "Bruggers! Shut up. Keep shut. Joey!" 
 
 "Yes, ma." 
 
 "Who did you come home with, Joey?" 
 
 "Miss Ruth and Mr. Lord." 
 
 "Ah-ha!" "Ah-ha!" As before, Mr. Bruggers echoed 
 his wife's exclamation. 
 
 "Swells!" said Mrs. Bruggers. " 'Sociating with 
 swells while me 'n your pa is sitting here suffering." 
 
 "Yes;" said Mr. Bruggers, solemnly shaking his head 
 over the enormity of such conduct, "while we was 
 suffering." 
 
 "Joey!" Mrs. Bruggers stretched out a huge, fat hand, 
 palm up, and went through the motion of closing and 
 reopening the fingers in suggestive fashion. 
 
 "Money," said she, whereupon Joey dutifully stepped 
 forward and deposited his weekly earnings in the itching 
 palm. Mrs. Bruggers without a word or change of 
 expression cautiously hit the half-dollar, scanned the 
 solitary bank-note, and slapped both down on the table 
 with unnecessary noise and vigour. She looked at
 
 Joey the Dreamer 51 
 
 shaking her head, an attitude of deep, personal 
 injury. 
 
 "Two'n a half," said she, mournfully. "Only two'n 
 a half. Oh, well, you can't expect much from such kids. " 
 She spoke to the world at large now. "No, you can't 
 expect much. Now, if you was strong and tough, Joey, 
 like some men's kids, you might be a big help to your 
 poor ma. But, no; what wasn't to be wasn't to be. 
 Well, such is life for a poor, lone woman." 
 
 And Mrs. Bruggers treated herself to the luxury of a 
 colossal sigh of self-pity. 
 "Bruggers." 
 "My dear?" 
 
 "The ticket for the clock." 
 "But, my love; I was going, wasn't I?" 
 "You was. But you ain't. The ticket." 
 "My love, it isn't necessary that you should go chasing 
 out on these little errands. You tire yourself unnec- 
 
 sarily. I'll run these errands, my love. I '' 
 
 "You'll do nothing of the sort." 
 "I I'll come back with the change, my love." 
 "You won't. Because you won't get a chance. The 
 ticket." Mrs. Bruggers again stretched out her great 
 hand and again made the suggestive movements with 
 her fingers. Bruggers surrendered. From an inside 
 vest pocket he drew a paper covered memorandum book 
 a patent medicine advertisement and with a serious 
 expression he began to search through its leaves. Brug- 
 gers grandiloquently called the book his wallet, and as- 
 sumed a very business-like air when handling it. From
 
 52 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 a distance one might have supposed that the book con- 
 tained a long list of priceless memoranda; on close 
 inspection it could be seen to contain one thing a 
 yellow ticket from a pawn shop. This Bruggers fumbled 
 over several times as if searching vigorously through a 
 mass of material. At last he drew it forth with an 
 expression of relief. 
 
 "Ah, here it is, my dear. Thought I never would 
 find it. There you are, my love, there you are." 
 
 Mrs. Bruggers took the ticket without a word. 
 
 "Bruggers." 
 
 "Yes " 
 
 "The can." 
 
 Slowly, reluctantly Bruggers surrendered the pail in 
 his hand. Wistfully he eyed Mrs. Bruggers as she arose 
 and moved toward the door. She had thrust the pawn 
 ticket and money into some sort of a pocket above her 
 swelling bosom, and now she stopped and posed for a 
 moment at the doorway in her favourite position, arms 
 akimbo, head thrown back and to one side, expression 
 vigorously critical. 
 
 "Joey." 
 
 "Yes, ma." Joey by this time had climbed into the 
 chair vacated by his father and was voraciously eating 
 of what remained of the miserable excuse for a meal. 
 
 "What's your friend, Miss Ruth, doing now?" 
 
 "She's going to have a meeting in the Park to-night," 
 said Joey. 
 
 "Huh! She'd better slip a-body a piece of change. 
 Well, remember this, young man: next Sat'day night
 
 Joey the Dreamer 53 
 
 don't go running 'round the streets. Nice son, you are. 
 Loafing on tlis way home while your pa an' ma sits here 
 without a cent in the house and the clock in hock, and 
 the poor-house always staring us in the face. That's 
 the thanks a body gets for raising you. Bruggers!" 
 
 "My love?" 
 
 "If you lay a hand on 'im while I'm out I'll kill you 
 when I come back. Hear me?" 
 
 "Yes, my dear," said Bruggers humbly; and as the 
 door closed upon the swelling back of his wife he treated 
 himself to a huge and significant wink. 
 
 Joey meanwhile was eating away with an energy that 
 told plainly the reason for his collapse of the evening. 
 Bread and potatoes as the exclusive items of a meal are 
 not things to tempt the ordinary appetite, but Joey's 
 appetite was so far removed from the ordinary that there 
 may be no comparison. In fact, his was no mere appetite, 
 it was hunger. He ate ferociously, swallowing the poor 
 food whole, and a glass of water from the greasy tap 
 served as his drink. And all the time his father watched 
 him with a sinister touch to the perpetual smirk of his lips. 
 
 Presently this model parent approached his feasting 
 son, and, leaning on his knuckles on the table, bent 
 forward in an attitude of judicial examination. 
 
 "Joey," he said. It was his peculiarity that when the 
 mistress of the house was absent he assumed as nearly as 
 might be her tone and manner. 
 
 "Yes, pa." 
 
 "Tell me, what made you late?" 
 
 "I was sick," said Joey.
 
 54 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Joey! Don't lie to me." 
 
 "I ain't lying." 
 
 "I suppose, Joey, you didn't happen to run an errand 
 after hours to-night?" Mr. Bruggers waited only until 
 Joey shook his head, and continued: 
 
 "And I suppose you didn't get a quarter for running 
 it, either, eh?" 
 
 "I didn't run any, I tell you." 
 
 "No," sneered Mr. Bruggers, "and I suppose your 
 swell friend, Miss Ruth, didn't happen to slip you a 
 piece of change for good luck, either, did she? Nor 
 that Mr. Lord didn't either, I suppose. No, I suppose 
 not. But Joey Joey," Mr. Bruggers's voice tried to take 
 on a tone of firmness. "I think we'll see for ourselves 
 about this." At this he suddenly leaned over, caught 
 the boy by the shoulder and jerked him violently away 
 from the table. Joey cried out with the pain and 
 squirmed under the tight fingers, but Bruggers held on. 
 
 "We will see for ourself, Joey," he continued softly, 
 tightening his grip. "We will see with our own eyes. 
 Not that I doubt you, Joey. Oh, no. Who could doubt 
 such a sweet little angel as you, who makes friends with 
 swells and leaves his parents sitting home without a cent 
 in the house? Who could doubt you, eh, you little 
 precious?" 
 
 As his words rolled out faster his fingers sank farther 
 into the boy's flesh until Joey bent double with pain, and 
 at last in desperation tore feebly at the fingers that held 
 him. Bruggers had been waiting for this. 
 
 "You filthy little ingrate!" he cried, and knocked Joey
 
 Joey the Dreamer 55 
 
 down with a blow on the temple. " Strike the hand that 
 feeds you, will you? Get up." 
 
 From a man with a man's strength such a blow might 
 easily have been fatal, but from a wreck like Bruggers 
 it was only sufficient to knock the little victim off his 
 feet. To be knocked down was no novelty to Joey and 
 he fell with his elbows instinctively thrust beneath him. 
 He was not even stunned. He knew better than to dis- 
 obey his father's orders, and slowly he arose, guard- 
 ing another possible blow with his arm crooked before 
 his face. 
 
 "Come here." 
 
 Joey advanced in fear and trembling. 
 
 "Turn around," commanded Bruggers, and when Joey 
 had obeyed he thrust two hands simultaneously into the 
 boy's pockets with a dexterousness that warranted the 
 supposition that Mr. Bruggers had done this sort of 
 thing several times before. Finding nothing, he vented 
 his disappointment in a blow in the middle of Joey's back 
 that sent him reeling across the room to the wall. 
 
 "Now, go on with your meal," he commanded, seating 
 himself at the table, "and if you say a word about this 
 to anybody you know what you'll get." 
 
 Joey went back to his bread and potatoes and water 
 in silence. He would have loved to run away, to dash 
 out of the door, down the hall, into the street, anywhere, 
 to get away from that room; but his stomach was crying 
 insistently for food. 
 
 "Well!" said the father lowering across at him as he 
 sat down.
 
 56 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "What, pa?" said Joey. 
 
 "I said you know what you'll get if you say anything." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I won't say anything." 
 
 "Huh! You'd better not. You fought me. Don't 
 forget that, Joey; be sure that I won't." 
 
 He glowerd fiercely at the poor little figure, as if dar- 
 ing him to dispute his authority and power. He was 
 emphatically dominant when dealing alone with Joey, 
 was Bruggers, and he never failed to make the most of 
 it. He had just caught the child's eye as he stole a 
 glance across the table and had cowed him into abject 
 terror with his threatening mien, when the door creaked 
 and Mrs. Bruggers entered the room. 
 
 The instantaneousness and significance of the change 
 that went over the countenance of Mr. Bruggers at this 
 is indescribable. It seemed that he lost inches in height; 
 it was as if the sycophantic fool had been playing with 
 the mask of the king. 
 
 "My dear!" said Mr. Bruggers in a tone that oozed 
 respect, admiration, and affection, rising to his feet, and 
 beaming upon the overflowing can. 
 
 "Bruggers." 
 
 "Yes, my love." 
 
 "Tut it up," said Mrs. Bruggers, handing him a little 
 metal clock, unquestionably the most valuable piece of 
 furniture in the room. 
 
 "I shall hasten, my dear," said Bruggers, responding 
 to the command with alacrity. The clock went up on
 
 Joey the Dreamer 57 
 
 the shelf above the table, and Bruggers jumped down from 
 the chair from which he had performed the opera- 
 tion, eagerly expectant, his tongue moving between his 
 lips suggestively. 
 
 Mrs. Bruggers walked to the table, placed the can before 
 her, and seated herself hi the chair opposite her child. 
 Something long and flat showed sharply beneath the 
 tight bosom of her wrapper. Bruggers licked his chops 
 more avidly as he saw this; he knew a bottle even when 
 he couldn't see it, did Bruggers. 
 
 "Joey," said Mrs. Bruggers,, her hands guarding the 
 can. 
 
 "Yes, ma." 
 
 "Did he touch you?" 
 
 "No, ma," lied Joey promptly. 
 
 "Joey is such a good little boy, who could touch 
 him?" purred the man. 
 
 "Bruggers.'* 
 
 "My love?" 
 
 "Here's luck," and with this Mrs. Bruggers hid her 
 face behind the can for a length of time that made the, 
 waiting Bruggers grow alarmed. 
 
 "Clara, my love," he said warmly. "Not too much, 
 not too much, all to onct." 
 
 Mrs. Bruggers, finally having slaked her thirst, burst 
 into a fit of yeasty coughing, and smiling cheerfully, 
 handed over the can. As Bruggers repeated her per- 
 formance she took the bottle from her bosom and placed 
 it upon the table. Joey looked from one to the other as 
 they drank. They scarcely noticed him. Presently,
 
 58 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 having finished the food that had been left for him, he 
 arose and slipped noiselessly from the room. It was 
 Joey's regular Saturday night, but to-night there was a 
 gleam of light in the darkness. He had some place to 
 go beside out on the hot, stinking curb. Miss Ruth was 
 going to have a meeting in the Park, and he would go 
 out and lie on the grass and listen.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 MEANWHILE let us remember that Delia 
 had weighed the meeting and the theatre 
 in the balance and had decided in favour 
 of the latter. 
 
 " What, ho ! yer leddyship? The carriage waits without. 
 What? Not dressed yet? Say! Wish I had so many 
 glad rags it took me four hours to get inside of 'em. I'd 
 soak 'em and hire a vally to help me dress, I would 
 honest." 
 
 Freddy sat outside the closed door of Delia's little 
 room Delia being an orphan who had to keep 
 gentlemen out of her room and professed to grumble 
 over her tardiness. He was gloriously attired for the 
 evening; the height of his collar was wonderful to behold; 
 the crease in his striped trousers was metallic; his tie 
 was fearsomely red; and he smelled abundantly of the 
 barber shop. 
 
 Inside the room Delia, before a mirrored wash stand, 
 was putting the finishing touches to her Saturday evening 
 metamorphosis with loving hands, for she loved to be 
 prettily dressed, did Delia. Her idea of a paradise would 
 have been a place where one was dressed up seven days 
 out of the week. 
 
 All over the Tenement this same Saturday evening 
 59
 
 60 
 
 transformation was going on to a certain degree. Satur- 
 day night of all nights in the week is the night to see the 
 Tenement. Then it lives. The sense of temporary 
 release from labour is in the air. The Tenement's 
 dwellers become individuals. Through the week they 
 are cowed members of a class. Now the natural being 
 asserts itself. The place of labour is left behind, the 
 grip of toil for awhile shaken off, and the fear of late 
 rising on the morrow has vanished. A man relieved 
 from strain stretches himself, rubs his arms, perhaps 
 yawns a little. The Tenement on a Saturday night 
 suddenly finds itself unshackled and proceeds in its 
 own sweet way to demonstrate its appreciation of 
 the blessed state of freedom. Other week nights it is 
 mainly a place to eat and sleep in, preparatory 
 for next morning's early rising. But on Saturday 
 Saturday night the Tenement flares into rosy, dawn- 
 ing life. 
 
 The change from a scene of sobriety and labour is 
 prompt and sudden. With the coming of darkness the 
 workers return home. Some, fortunate dogs that they 
 are, have ceased work at one, and the manner in which 
 the afternoon has been spent adds to the noise if not the 
 life of the evening scene. But the manner of all in arriv- 
 ing betokens that a different purpose actuates them 
 than prevails on other nights. It is not to get home 
 for a rest between days; it is to get ready for joy, 
 and the manner of preparation is as varied as the 
 enjoyment itself. 
 
 By seven the Tenement has received the full quota
 
 Joey the Dreamer 61 
 
 of its working brood. By seven-thirty it has seen them 
 prepared, and at eight they are in full pursuit of the 
 enjoyment for which this night exists. 
 
 The girls, of course, are best of all. Drab little fe- 
 males, tired and dusty from the work place, they come 
 tripping up the stairs with a step that belongs to Saturday 
 night and to Saturday night alone. They are unpleasing 
 little spectacles to the eye then, dressed for utility alone, 
 with a minimum regard for ornament or attraction. 
 Within the space of that hour, between seven and eight, 
 they trip down those stairs, altered even as is the dull 
 slug emerging radiantly into the gaudy butterfly. Their 
 dress is changed from head to toe if they are so fortu- 
 nate to possess a complete change. If not, ribbons and 
 other things beyond masculine knowledge are distributed 
 about the person with so broad and free a hand as to 
 create the same impression, and amid the dark, dis- 
 coloured halls and walls of the tenements their bright 
 colours and their crisp newness stand out with an effect 
 of butterflies upon a prison wall. It is the fairy, Joy, 
 emerging from creation in the Palace of Rats. She is a 
 slangy, flippant fairy, and she chews gum, yet she rises 
 and soars from her environment on this one occasion. 
 She is gay, she is clean, she is merry. The Tenement 
 is dark, murky, and without hope. She is in colours 
 red, pink, green, white what not. The tight ribbon 
 around her neck is an offering to the spirit of carnival; 
 the fluffy little curl of her hair flaunts defiance to all 
 that is harsh and cumbering in this life. She is dressed 
 up, and is going to dance, theatre, or wherever her
 
 62 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 mite of pleasure has been made possible, is our meta- 
 morphosed little woman of the Tenement; and in 
 none of them was the change so complete, so start- 
 ling, as in our own frivolous little Delia. And with 
 none did the change require so much time. Where- 
 fore Freddy must cool his patent-leather heels in the 
 adjoining room while Delia completed her toilet behind 
 a locked door. 
 
 A muffled snicker came through the key-hole in re- 
 sponse to the young man's last words.. 
 
 "That a joke?" asked Delia with hairpins in her 
 mouth. 
 
 "What? That? No, that ain't no joke. That's 
 what we call light raypurtea in society." 
 
 "Hah! Fat lot you know 'bout society!" 
 
 "Who? Me? Well, I guess yes. Scrapped a coach- 
 man once." 
 
 "Bet he licked you." 
 
 "Not so you could notice. But that ain't got nothin' 
 to do with our gettin' late to the show." 
 
 "Don't wait if you don't want." Delia evidently had 
 removed the hairpins from her mouth. She now spoke 
 in her normal tones. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Don't wait if you're getting tired." 
 
 "Say. That's too raw a slam." Freddy sat up. 
 "You know I was only kidding." 
 
 "Did I?" Quick and sharp. 
 
 "Sure. An' you know I'd wait for you until the show 
 was done an' over with if you said so."
 
 63 
 
 "Would you?" 
 
 "Don't you know I would?" He rose to his feet and 
 lowered at the door which separated them. "Haven't 
 you got to know that by this time?" 
 
 "How can I know?" 
 
 "How can you help knowing? Hain't you got eyes? 
 Can't you see?" 
 
 "See what?" 
 
 " See see that aw, coine on, Dell, you know 
 what I mean. You know you do." 
 
 "Don't, either." 
 
 " Why well, haven't I showed you by the way I 
 come here " Freddy stopped abruptly. He was at a 
 loss for what to say. This thing had come on rather too 
 quickly to find him prepared, though, had he known it, 
 Delia was secretly rejoicing over the way in which she had 
 drawn him out. He sat regarding the door with a look 
 of deep disappointment, his brows puckered tightly, 
 after the manner of a man struggling with a hard 
 problem. At last he had it. 
 
 "If I haven't showed that I want to go with you," he 
 blurted, "how is a guy going to show it, that's all I 
 want to know." 
 
 "Is it?" 
 
 "Don't you believe me?" 
 
 "Oh, sure like a clam." 
 
 "Cut that out, Delia," said Freddy gravely. "I 
 ain't kidding not a kid." 
 
 It was out now. Freddy sat down, tugging fiercely at 
 his tight, creased trousers. In the other room Delia was
 
 64 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 silent. Her hat was on, and she was ready to go, but she 
 waited a moment that she might compose herself and 
 present a calm, disinterested exterior upon her appearance. 
 There are advantages hi a closed door under certain 
 circumstances. She made no retort to Freddy's last 
 statement. 
 
 "Well," she said, presently, rattling a comb on the 
 stand as if in a great hurry. "I guess that'll do, since 
 you're getting nervous." She came flouncing out with 
 unnecessary energy. "Come on, now. S'pose you're 
 pretty tired, eh? Gee, I wish we was there. How do 
 I look, eh?" 
 
 Freddy rose and stood staring at her, nonplussed by 
 the change that the hour had wrought. Never, perhaps, 
 had Delia been so successful in her weekly metamor- 
 phosis. No trace of the factory in this young woman. 
 No sign that she worked for her living. For the time 
 being she was a thing made for pleasure, a pretty, hectic 
 little flower, as attractive as a pansy, as care-free as a 
 daisy in a dell. The paleness was gone from her face; 
 but the rouge was scarcely visible. Her light hair dropped 
 over her forehead in tiny, coquettish curls, and her 
 china-blue eyes glistened, while the mouth, well the 
 mouth was red and full, like a poppy, as if it had drawn 
 on the rest of the little face for its life and warmth. The 
 spirit of light-heartedness and joy romped in her being, 
 and Freddy, as he stared, more than half expected to 
 hear her burst out into joyous song. It would have 
 seemed the natural thing for her to do, so seething was 
 she with the spirit of jubilation.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 65 
 
 "Dell," he blurted, "even if I do say it myself you've 
 certainly got 'em all skinned when you doll up." 
 
 "Yah!" laughed the girl in his face. "Soft soap 
 Freddy,' eh? Come on, let's duck. I'm crazy to get 
 down by the lights, and the crowds, where there's some- 
 thing to see, and some one to see you, and everything 
 is fine and lovely. Hah!" i 
 
 "Sure," agreed Freddy, following dumbly. He was 
 stricken hard. He had pictured her so in his dreams, 
 and here the dream stood before him in the flesh. Per- 
 haps Delia never had thought of it that way. Perhaps 
 not ! Innocent, unsophisticated, serpent- wise little Delia ! 
 
 "Say," he repeated blunderingly. "You certainly 
 are rich!" 
 
 "Go on!" She struck at him playfully and he caught 
 the soft arm in his long, strong fingers. He drew her 
 toward him and turned her around so she must look up 
 at him. The magic of the flesh-touch flew through them 
 like a new flame. 
 
 "Delia," he murmured hoarsely. 
 
 "Yes." Delia, too, was breathing hard. 
 
 "You know this ain't no kidding game for me, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "Sure, I know, Freddy," she whispered, after a 
 moment's scrutiny of his face. "Sure, I know." She, 
 too, was serious for the moment. It was a big moment. 
 Then the babbling frivolity of her soul leapt back to 
 its own. 
 
 "Come on; come on!" she cried, leaping away. "We're 
 late. Come on; let's beat it."
 
 66 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 Out^ol the dark hallway she sprang and whirling on 
 the walk 'filled her lungs to their limit with air, as a bird 
 freed from a dark cage gulps in its freedom before it begins 
 to trill. The Saturday-night life of the Court roared 
 around them, a medley of peddlers, gasolene, and 
 smells. 
 
 "Gee!" sighed Delia, ecstatically. "Ain't it a grand 
 night!" She took his arm vigorously. She hung on to 
 him as they stepped along, and she began to sing some 
 words that she had heard Freddy hum, and which he 
 had said belonged to some old song, he couldn't remember 
 what. The thing probably had come out of Freddy's 
 own head : 
 
 **Who are you waiting for, Kitty, Kid? 
 
 (No one knows.) 
 Why do you turn when I tip my lid? 
 
 (No one knows.) 
 
 Standing alone in the hall so swell, 
 Togged to the ears like a dawl. 
 
 Oh, I know that you're 'waiting the guy you ain't hating, 
 I hope that he's treating you well." 
 
 She did a little dance step out of sheer exuberance, 
 and then : 
 
 "Hey! You little divils! Can't you see where you're 
 going?" 
 
 A circle of little tots in play had swung against 
 them, and Delia smacked them away from her im- 
 maculate skirts right merrily. Then, from a window 
 above:
 
 Joey the Dreamer 67 
 
 "Here, you! Leave that kid alone." A vigilant 
 mother was guarding her young. "Just because you 
 got somebody buying you clothes " 
 
 "Oh, you horrid thing!" giggled Delia. "Show's 
 where your mind is at. 
 
 "Who are you waiting for Kitty, Kid? 
 
 (No one knows.) 
 Why do you turn when I tip my lid " 
 
 "Peg a brick at 'em, Larry," called the mother to the 
 object of her solicitude. 
 
 - "(Wo one knows.') Oh, there's a car, Freddy!" 
 
 "Soak 'em, Larry!" 
 
 "Come on, Freddy." And before Larry could find 
 the desired brick, Delia and Freddy were running for 
 the Avenue, the vituperation of the enraged woman 
 following them in an unheard stream. 
 
 At the corner Delia pulled up abruptly. 
 
 "There isn't any car," said Freddy. 
 
 " 'Course not." 
 
 "Then what did you sprint for?" 
 
 "To get out of the dump. To blow off steam. Gee!" 
 She faced him laughing, and pressing her elbows tightly 
 to her sides, her hands hanging limply before her, she 
 broke into a pivoting dance step, her feet as light as the 
 wind, her fluffy skirts rising and falling, a picture that 
 never, never had any business inside a factory. 
 
 "Standing alone in the hall so swell, 
 Togged to the ears like a dawl "
 
 68 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 " Oh, Freddy, Freddy, I feel too good to be true. 
 Let's walk down a block 
 
 " 'Oh, I know that you're 'waiting, the guy you ain't hating, 
 I hope that he's treating you well.' ' 
 
 "You are feeling flossy, ain't you?" 
 
 "Oh, like a boid, like a boid. Whew! Don't it feel 
 good to get out of the dump? Hah? Don't it feel like 
 busting out of jail? Oh, jiminy! I felt like lamming 
 Mrs. Lavin, though. Nasty thing! If she'd wash her 
 kids' noses once in awhile she wouldn't have so much 
 time to talk 'bout her neighbours. I know all about her. 
 No better'n she ought to be. 'Me dear, dead husband, 
 Mister Lavin.' Husband! In her eye! Husband!" 
 Delia stopped with a significant sniff. 
 
 "Well, anyhow, yer leddyship, you handed the kid a 
 slap on the ear, so you needn't care," said Freddy. 
 
 "Ain't it the truth! Who'd care for the likes of her on 
 the likes of a night like this?" 
 
 "Who, indeed, yer leddyship?" 
 
 "You only lower yourself by talking to them." 
 
 "Sure, yer leddyship." 
 
 They went on gaily, talking merely to ease their over- 
 flowing hearts. They met and greeted in passing a 
 police officer lumbering heavily up Avenue. 
 
 "H'llo, kids," said he. 
 
 "Kids, yer eye," called back Delia. "Can't yuh tell 
 a lady'n a gentleman when you see 'em?" 
 
 "Sure," laughed the officer without turning. "Show 
 'em to me."
 
 Joey the Dreamer 69 
 
 "Ooh, poo-ey!" said Delia. "Ain't he the mean one!" 
 "They wouldn't be none of yer kin, old bull!" cried 
 Freddy pleasantly. "Don't stop tuh chew the rag, 
 Dell. We got no time." 
 
 They had walked a block. At the corner a cable car 
 overtook them, a car crowded to the doors with a crowd 
 made up of other Delias and Freddys likewise bent 
 upon the radiant Saturday evening chase of lamp-fed 
 Joy. But Delia outshone her sisters as the born artist 
 outshines the crude beginner. Her dress was dainty 
 where the others were loud. Her ribbons hinted at the 
 possibility of colours, the others flared blood-red and 
 grassy green. And her little nose was not tilted pug- 
 naciously upward, as the others, whose expression plainly 
 bespoke that good old West Side sentiment, "A perfect 
 lady, and I'll scrap to prove it." Delia's whole bearing, 
 her attire and her expression, precluded the possibility 
 of needing to furnish such proof; and her sisters looked 
 and hated her, with the primitive hate of woman out- 
 shone by her kind. 
 
 "Like tuh know how she pays for the togs?'* 
 "Don't work in a laundry, I can tell yuh that." 
 From a corner had come the loudly whispered in- 
 sinuation, and like a flash came Delia's snapping rejoinder. 
 The first speaker hid her telltale red hands. 
 "Sam," said she, casually to her escort, "why ain't 
 yuh careful 'bout th' comp'ny yuh make me meet?" 
 "Gowan," sneered Delia, "you wash my clothes." 
 "Sam," continued the laundress, paying no attention, 
 "can't yuh pertect a lady when she's in yer comp'ny."
 
 70 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 Freddy, one arm around Delia's waist, the other 
 stretched up to a strap, sniggered delicately. 
 
 "Yes, Sam," said he, "can't you pertect a lady when 
 she's in yer comp'ny?" 
 
 Sam, a stocky young man of Semitic stock, turned 
 with threatening mien. 
 
 "What've you got to do with this?" he demanded, 
 eying Freddy up and down. 
 
 "Or didn't yuh ever have a lady in yer comp'ny?" 
 continued Freddy sweetly. 
 
 "Oh!" said the laundress, bringing her red hands back 
 in sight. "D'you hear that?" 
 
 " 'Course if you never did, Sammy," said Freddy, 
 "yuh can't know how." 
 
 "Getting pretty fresh, ain't yuh?" growled Sammy. 
 
 "And if you don't know how, Sam, you're to be 'xcused, 
 sure." 
 
 'Spose you run a night school of how to behave, 
 don't you?" 
 
 "Sure. Couldn't wise you up any, though; I can see 
 that from here." 
 
 "You're a wise guy. You certainly couldn't." 
 
 "Of course not. You're the candy boy, all right, 
 Sammy. I bet you're the kid that put the salt in the 
 ocean." Freddy grinned self appreciatively. There is 
 this thing certain about Clay Court; it does appreciate its 
 own jokes. "Sammy, what was your name before you 
 were vaccinated?" 
 
 Delia was snuggling against Freddy's wiry arm in 
 great comfort. The adroitness with which he had so
 
 Joey the Dreamer 71 
 
 quietly taken the fuss upon himself excited her admiration 
 and as she watched the faces of the opposing couple 
 grow purple under his care-free repartee, she covered 
 her mouth in glee, and dug an elbow in Freddy's ribs 
 to indicate her approval. He was a man, her Freddy. 
 In that moment the deep, secret pride of a woman in the 
 possession of a large, capable male sprang quick in 
 Delia's heart, and she nudged Freddy again in an 
 excess of feeling. 
 
 Said Sam: "In about two minutes you'll get a sur- 
 prise, if you don't shut up." 
 
 "If I thought there was any chance yer ever getting 
 into a lady's comp'ny " 
 
 "Gawd!" said the laundress. 
 
 " I'd advise you to go out an' get some practice, 
 Sam " 
 
 Suddenly Sam made as if to move forward valiantly. 
 
 "Don't you hit me, Sammy; remind me of my old 
 mother kissing me and make me cry." 
 
 "I wouldn't have no row with you," said Sam con- 
 temptuously. Then Delia's mirth broke out like a 
 little bubbling fountain defying all bounds and control. 
 
 "Good as a show!" she murmured amongst the 
 laughs. 
 
 "Oh, Freddy! You certainly did fix his clock." 
 
 " Who? Me? I only told him the truth, didn't I? " 
 
 "Sure. But it was as good as a lie oh, say! 
 Here!" 
 
 She pulled his arm and motioned for the conductor at 
 the same time. She sprang for the door, and was in the
 
 72 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 street, dancing toward the walk, before Freddy had fairly 
 got started. 
 
 "What's the rush, yer leddyship?" he asked when he 
 caught her. 
 
 "Rush 'nough," laughed Delia. " We're here." 
 
 The lights of theatredom blazed around them, filling 
 the thick hot night with a fat yellow glow. Two play- 
 houses facing each other made the street a caldron of 
 electric lights. Into the flashiest they hurried, and 
 near the box office a short, shiny man, heavy in every 
 feature from feet to lips, caught Freddy by the arm and 
 drew him to one side as if he had been waiting for him. 
 Delia looked the man over, carelessly at first, then with 
 considerable interest. He was a very impressive and 
 elegant man to Delia. She saw that he must be one of 
 the powerful ones of the earth, a rich gentleman. His 
 clothes were so swell and new, the diamond rings on his 
 finger so obvious, the stud in his shirt so blinding. He 
 looked at Delia with leaden eyes, looked again, and 
 grew interested. 
 
 "Who's 'at?" demanded Delia looking back over her 
 shoulder when Freddy returned to her. She started, for 
 the impressive man was following her with brightened 
 eyes, and when he saw her turn he smiled. 
 
 "That, yer leddyship, is the key to the awful secret. 
 Mr. Binger, that's who it is; J. Q. A. Binger, half owner 
 of Electric Park, a big gun in the show business* the uy 
 who give me the passes." 
 
 "What's he got to do with you?" 
 
 " Why take it easy now he's got everything to do,
 
 Joey the Dreamer 73 
 
 yer leddyship. He's going to gimme a chance on the 
 programme at the park a week from this eve' a real, 
 real chance to make good and to-night he's going to 
 blow me and you off to a swell feed after the show." 
 
 Delia looked up at the honest, freckled face above her, 
 looked long and carefully and saw that Freddy was tell- 
 ing the positive, solemn truth. 
 
 So she said : " Gowan ! What d'you want to lie for? "
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 AT ABOUT this same time, while Freddy and 
 Delia were hurrying for hot red-plush seats to 
 bask in the joys of summer vaudeville, Ruth 
 and I were walking from the Tenement up the Avenue 
 toward the Park, with a straggling party of the Tene- 
 ment's women and children, including little Joey, 
 following half a square behind. 
 
 Rinehart was talking again at the corner. Never was 
 there a man so cursed with the Curse of Gab. The crowd 
 was gathering around him. He had to shriek to make 
 himself heard in the Saturday night babel, but shrieking 
 was what Rinehart loved, and what his hearers applauded. 
 He laughed when we passed, and most of his hearers 
 laughed with him, and one of them, the little old man who 
 had charge of the box, quitted the group and slouched 
 sullenly along on the other side of the street. Neither 
 Ruth nor I noticed, but the little man paused at times 
 and nodded at us and threw his head up and laughed as 
 if he knew a good joke and was going to play it. 
 
 Ah! that little, smudged-up Park that dotted like a 
 green comma the long, hopeless line of the Avenue! 
 One must have sweltered in a tenement's windowless 
 room to know what that little spot meant to us in 
 the days when the heat turned the buildings into 
 
 74
 
 Joey the Dreamer 75 
 
 ovens wherein one might sit, and stew, and sweat, and 
 go mad. 
 
 It was only a little breathing space, at the edge of the 
 congested district, but it was Clay Court's one ray of 
 hope. It was living testimony that there were pleasant 
 things in the world, fresh air, green grass, bubbling waters, 
 and freedom. The air had a taint of soft coal smoke, it 
 is true, the grass was trodden till it was greasy, and the 
 waters bubbled out of a concrete goose fountain, but, oh ! 
 it was good to go there at the end of the day and throw 
 the bone-weary body on the ground and rest, rest, rest! 
 It was a little taste of the Promised Land. 
 
 Here, on the hot summer nights, the sweltering 
 brick boxes poured out their load of trapped 
 humanity; and talk and tobacco, love and laughter 
 filled the air like a cloud. Here also those stricken 
 with the curse of the prophet rose up on boxes, chairs, 
 and benches at strategic points and filled the air with 
 gestures and words, begging the race to cease in its head- 
 long rush to destruction, no matter what the particular 
 route. At one corner the lights shone upon the venerable 
 head of a loose-limbed patriarch who quaveringly sounded 
 a call to turn from the delights of the flesh to the simple 
 existence. "Since the earliest dawn of human hist'ry 
 to the present ere-a, man has worshipped blindly the 
 golden hand of the fatted calf. Wine, women, and 
 money is what he's wanted, and that's why he's been 
 unhappy. He deserted his natur'l life for the worship 
 of Baal in other words wine, women, and money an* 
 he won't never be happy until he cuts 'em out."
 
 76 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 Nearby on a bench a hollow-chested young man, 
 watery eyes hidden behind thick glasses, lectured 
 didactically upon that marvellous problem: "Equal 
 Division of Wealth." Half contemptuously, interested 
 not at all in his audience, striving not in the least for an 
 impression, he reeled off statistics, history, and quotations 
 like a bloodless automaton, driven only by the desire to 
 mouth the erudition to win which the eyes had grown so 
 watery. Farther on, near a corner, a workingman, a 
 lather, he announced, with a limp-covered Bible in his 
 hands, condemned his hearers to the stern old hell of 
 liquid fire and brimstone "that burns ye and burns ye 
 through all eternity" unless they came forward and 
 were saved then and there. 
 
 But mostly there were tired, sweaty mothers, who lay 
 prone on the grass with half-naked children playing 
 around them; tired men, who made the air pungent with 
 smoke and spoke heavily at times and in monosyllables; 
 kids, who romped incessantly and noisily, and the "young 
 people," who, being at an age to be interested in one 
 Great Problem to the exclusion of all else, ogled one 
 another as they passed, walked arm around waist, or 
 sought the most secluded benches according to their 
 natures and the length of their acquaintance. A police 
 officer paraded ponderously among them all, a heavy man 
 with menacing tread, who, as shepherd of this strange 
 flock, had one motto: "Pet the kids and soak the big 
 ones," and who, following this principle, ruled with such 
 success that Eternal Damnation, Equal Division of 
 Wealth, and Simple Life held forth within shouting
 
 Joey the Dreamer 77 
 
 distance night after night and never came to blows. 
 And the peace of trees and grass and open space was upon 
 it all, and for the nonce wild eyes grew sane, and weary, 
 distorted mouths straightened and were at peace. Small 
 parks are more than the lungs of the city; they give the 
 street-bred a little chance to get near to God. 
 
 Ruth and her following came into the park by one of 
 the paths that led to the little fountain in the centre. 
 Here, under a pair of sputtering lamps, there was an open 
 space of grass with a small, make-believe knoll at one end, 
 and it was toward this that Ruth bent her steps. Part 
 of her audience was on the scene, comfortably squatting 
 on the grass, and the rest gathered quickly at her appear- 
 ance so when Ruth stepped up on the knoll and faced her 
 following she found herself the cynosure of a goodly 
 number of eyes ranged before her in a crude semicircle. 
 
 The women and children were to the fore. It was to 
 these that Ruth meant the most. The men slouched in 
 the rear. They knocked their pipes out in respect of 
 her, but it is to be feared that they were drawn mainly by 
 the fact that here was a pretty, neatly Qicssed young 
 woman to look at. For she was that, and more than that. 
 I sat back on a bench and caught my breath as I saw 
 for the first time how beautiful she was. And a little 
 child, tumbling up from his mother's arms at the sight 
 of her, tottered forward and went to sleep with his head 
 resting against her toes. 
 
 Ruth folded her hands before her, and the murmuring 
 noises of the crowd, which are a part of its being as the 
 murmur of waves is a part of the sea, died down, and it
 
 78 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 grew still. She was smiling a little, and it was only in the 
 gleam of her eyes that one might have seen the fervour 
 and zeal that burned within. After she had spoken 
 awhile, this quality seemed gradually to communicate 
 itself to the rest of her features, and even to the body 
 itself, until at last, in the flood of her pleading, she became 
 a mere medium of expression, her whole being caught and 
 consumed in the delivery of her message. Before begin- 
 ning, her eyes seemed to search out each individual in the 
 crowd and signal that her words were meant directly for 
 him, and then in her low, clear voice she spoke: 
 
 "Dear Brothers and Sisters: I am going to speak a few 
 words to you to-night, and try to give you a message 
 that lies so close to my heart that I cannot help but try 
 to pass it on. It is a very old message, and yet one that 
 is always new. It is the message of Jesus Christ: Love 
 one another." 
 
 She paused, and a faint expression of surprise, tinged 
 here and there, perhaps, by a flicker of disappointment, 
 was apparent upon some of the faces before her; surprise 
 because of her last words, disappointment because it was 
 not going to be something sensational. 
 
 "It may seem strange to say that here to you, and just 
 at this time when our troubles seem heaviest and the 
 idea of loving one another seems farther away than ever, 
 but just now, dear friends, is the time when we most need 
 to speak of it, and think of it, and take it into our hearts." 
 
 Her voice, low and throbbing, had in it something of 
 the blessed peace of the open space, of the grass, the 
 trees, the quiet air, and the stars above, and these weary
 
 Joey the Dreamer 79 
 
 souls leaned forward, eager at once to come within its 
 sway and let it soothe them. They were disappointed 
 no longer. 
 
 "We are sorely oppressed, dear friends," she went on. 
 "Life at its best isn't a great pleasure to us. We work 
 too hard; we get too little for what we do; and we get 
 bitter. We work hard all day, and when we come home 
 at night we are all tired out, and we don't feel good, and 
 we don't take much time to think about what we do or 
 what its effect may be on ourselves or others. We don't 
 care about any rules; and we live in that careless way, 
 and it makes a lot of trouble for us sometimes, and for 
 others. Because there are rules that we should not 
 transgress; and, oh, dear friends, how much better it 
 would be for all of us if we only stopped to think of these 
 rules, and didn't break them! How much easier life 
 would be for all of us, how much more joy there would be 
 in living. I know there isn't so much joy for many of 
 us who are here to-night. The world doesn't seem to 
 treat us fairly, and at times we feel that all the misery is 
 loaded onto us, and that nothing can help us nothing 
 will lighten the burden. But a long time ago there lived 
 on this earth a Being whom men called Jesus Christ, 
 the Son of God. He was a very simple Being, and he 
 saw the woe and misery of the less fortunate people of the 
 world, people like ourselves, and he gave us Hope. Ye 
 who are weary and heavy laden, come unto me, and I 
 will give you rest. That was what Jesus Christ said, 
 this Being who had God's wisdom in His brain and a 
 child's tenderness in His heart. He knew how hard
 
 80 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 life becomes at times. He lived with the common people, 
 people like ourselves, and He understood. Yes, He 
 understood all that fell to our lot, for He was one of us. 
 Dear friends, did you ever stop to think of that? He 
 didn't spend his time with the great people of the land., 
 the rich and the powerful, but among the common people. 
 People like ourselves. For He loved all men, and those 
 who had need of Him most. He loved more than all 
 others. He knew who needed Him, too. He knew how 
 those who are oppressed grow weary of trying to do right 
 as we do and how they must have a ray of light, a 
 hope, if they are going to be kept from plunging into 
 misery and unhappiness. We need that light and hope 
 more than any one else, dear friends; and that is why 
 Jesus Christ came to us." 
 
 She looked around the little group slowly, her eyes 
 resting upon each one with an expression that was a 
 caress. Her eyes told more than her words; they were 
 all together, all of one great family, and she merely was 
 telling them the things they ought to know. There now 
 was none of the feeling among them of listening to a 
 "preacher"; it merely was one friend talking to many. 
 They sat perfectly silent, eagerly waiting for more. 
 Even the blase girl pursuers of twenty sensed that 
 she was "different." 
 
 "He came with His message of hope, and His great 
 command that we love one another. He spoke of Heaven, 
 too, but also He told us how to live most happily here 
 on earth. His religion is our religion, our guidance, and 
 oh! dear friends, how much more happy our lives would
 
 Joey the Dreamer 81 
 
 be if we only would heed his advice if we would live 
 as He commanded. 
 
 "He told us to love our neighbours. By neighbours 
 he meant all people. It's pretty hard to think of loving 
 all people, and especially is it hard for us to think of it 
 just now. We hardly can think of loving those people 
 whom we feel are doing us great harm; it doesn't seem 
 that the rule can apply to them. We cannot love them, 
 perhaps, but we must not hate them. For when we hate 
 we begin to think of violence, and of hurting somebody, 
 and that is a sin." 
 
 An ugly little laugh broke out from somewhere in the 
 rear; but it was too dark to see the interrupter and Ruth 
 went on. 
 
 "We mustn't think of hurting people because we think 
 they have hurt us. That isn't Christ's will, and we must 
 listen to His will, for only in that way will we be happy. 
 And, dear friends, we will be happy if we do follow Him." 
 
 Again came the short, sneering laugh. It was louder 
 and bolder this time; yet the one who laughed remained 
 hidden in the darkness beyond the circle of light. Ruth 
 continued : 
 
 "Did you ever stop to think what a good world this 
 would be to live in, friends, if we all remembered and 
 obeyed that old command to love one another? Think 
 of it! There would be no cruelty and oppression; no 
 fighting, no stealing none of the things that make life 
 so troublesome at times. We don't harm those we 
 love. You mothers here don't hurt the little children 
 in your arms; you love them; you would do anything in
 
 82 
 
 the world to make them happy. And that is how 
 Christ meant and hoped this whole world among all 
 people would be if we followed His rule, if we loved 
 one another." 
 
 The'children wondered why their mothers gripped them 
 so warmly. She had struck at the heart of her people: 
 No, they wouldn't hurt their children; yes, it was because 
 they loved them. Two or three of the women sobbed, 
 just why they probably didn't know. 
 
 "It's true that we haven't got much time to waste in 
 loving or thinking of loving people like us. We're too 
 busy trying to make a living, and trying to get some 
 clothes, and trying to have meals cooked at a certain time, 
 and keep the rooms in as good condition as possible too 
 busy scrubbing and cleaning to think about loving 
 anybody. And yet isn't it so that you do all you can for 
 those near you because you love them? And they do 
 everything they can for you for the same reason they 
 love you! And how would it all be if we could have the 
 same kind of feeling for everybody, for our neighbours 
 and they for us? Of course, we don't expect to feel 
 toward outsiders as we do toward those in our own family, 
 and it isn't well that we should; but we can feel in a way 
 toward them as we do toward our dear ones. We can 
 feel kindly toward them. We can wish them all sorts 
 of good things, wish that they keep their jobs, and their 
 health, and that they may be happy. And we can feel 
 that we can never, never want to harm them, any more 
 than we would want to harm those who are dear to us in 
 our own families. And that is what Christ meant, dear
 
 Joey the Dreamer 83 
 
 friends. He meant that we all of us should feel 
 like that toward our neighbours, and that our neighbours 
 should feel that way toward us. And if we did oh ! 
 what a difference it would make in this world! How 
 much difference it would make to us above all people! 
 Why it would " 
 
 "Would it keep the Company from cutting our wages?" 
 It was the man who had laughed who spoke. He had 
 moved toward the speaker until he stood within the 
 circle of light. He was the man who had followed from 
 the corner and he was playing his joke. 
 
 "Your Jesus of Nazareth!" he cried scornfully. "Don't 
 you know that's all old stuff? He's a back number. 
 He didn't ever know what conditions would be to-day. 
 He's no good to us. Organize! Organize! That's all 
 that will help us!" 
 
 His voice rose to the regular shriek of his breed. Then 
 he was gone, and a child cried out in the stillness that 
 followed. 
 
 A vagrant whiff of wind ruffled the light leaves in the 
 tree tops, but, beneath, all was still and grave. Ruth 
 stood a moment with tears in her eyes. Then: "Dear 
 friends," she said abruptly, "let us pray: Oh, Thou, 
 who seest all things, remember us, the least fortunate of 
 Thy children. Help us in our struggle toward the light. 
 Help us to keep faith in Thee. Make the burden less 
 heavy, so that faith may be borne, too. And 
 bring Thy light to those who are fortunate; let them, 
 too, see their blindness. We pray in the name of the 
 Nazarene. Amen."
 
 84 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 Stooping she raised the sleeping child in her arms and 
 kissing him upon the forehead bore him to the waiting 
 mother. 
 
 "God bless you!" said the woman brokenly. "Bless 
 
 you 
 
 But the men began to relight their pipes. 
 
 "Thank you, sister," said Ruth warmly, kissing her 
 upon the cheek. Then bidding them all a good night, 
 she turned down the path to where I sat waiting. Back 
 at the knoll the crowd remained sitting. The Park 
 seemed strangely cool and restful on this night. 
 
 "Failed ! " murmured Ruth bitterly. " Failed utterly. 
 They could not accept what I told them. I had no 
 message; it meant nothing to them. And yet it all seemed 
 so simple, so evident, and so true to me. What he told 
 them, that man, that was what they wished to hear, for 
 that meant something to them, they understood. Oh, 
 it is hard, hard!" 
 
 "How can you say you failed?" I cried. "Did you 
 not see the women?" 
 
 I thought of her father in that instant. The great 
 Rev. David Arthur never questioned the success of his 
 message, never doubted for an instant himself. Self- 
 sufficient, revered, powerful! Verily; what will not an 
 assured position do to the souls of the best of men! 
 
 We walked out slowly. The night life of the district 
 droned about us. We were, so it seemed to me, shoulder 
 to shoulder with ten thousand of our kind. And they 
 were men and women together. In all that maze of 
 humanity I began to feel lonesome. It was the first
 
 Joey the Dreamer 85 
 
 time I knew the sensation. I stepped nearer to Ruth. 
 She looked up, even as I looked at her. The lonesomeness 
 began to go away. 
 
 So do the great moments come to a man; they But 
 I am writing the story of Clay Court. 
 
 "What were you thinking of?" she asked. 
 
 How could I answer? The scheme of the world seemed 
 to have been made over for me in the last four hours. 
 What had been, was not. What never had been, was. 
 The things that I had known that all my world had 
 known to be true, were lies, builded on a mire of error. 
 The world was not what we thought, and wrote, and said 
 it was. It was a world that we did not know; we had 
 touched the pleasant shores, but never had sought to 
 explore the interior. And our gods were Ignorance and 
 Self-Deceit. 
 
 But at all events my discoveries here, few as they were, 
 had left me sure of a few specific conclusions: Joey 
 must be taken out of the Factory and away from the 
 Tenement, and placed where he could live, and where his 
 great soul might have its chance to flower into its destiny; 
 Delia must be seen safely into marriage with Freddy; 
 Perkins and his family well, something must be done, 
 that was sure. 
 
 "I was wondering," said I, "how many Joeys, and 
 Delias, and Freddys, and Perkins babies there are in 
 these United States!"
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 AD now, where shall we go?" 
 The "show" at the Imperial was over, the 
 crowd was emptying itself into the street, and 
 Freddy and Delia stood hi the lobby and basked hi the 
 effulgence of Mr. J. Q. A. Binger. 
 
 The introduction was over. Mr. Binger beamed, the 
 diamond in his shirt front beamed, the gold in his teeth 
 and the rings on his fingers beamed, and he, Binger, the 
 effulgent, was asking Delia to name the place where 
 they should sup. 
 
 That was the greatest, the most lasting impression of 
 the evening for Delia. He, Binger, a swell gentleman, 
 judging her solely by appearances, presumed that she was 
 accustomed to supping after the show. 
 
 The show had been spoiled for Delia. So little had 
 she noticed what was going on across the foot-lights that 
 she would scarcely have attempted to say whether the 
 show was good or bad; and normally Delia was a 
 critic, bold and free. But there were greater things 
 afoot to-night. The great, glittering dream of months 
 was to be realized; after the show supper in a swell 
 restaurant! So Delia, being by nature a blooming 
 little butterfly, and by circumstance a drab little moth, 
 sat impatiently until the end; and then, when she 
 
 86 

 
 Joey the Dreamer 87 
 
 met Binger, she trembled, though she couldn't guess 
 why. 
 
 "And now, where shall we go?" 
 
 "Oh, any place," said Delia. "Don't ask me." 
 
 " Dere is Toussang's. A nice place. K-viet. Goodt 
 foodt. Nice crowd. Do you like Toussang's?" 
 
 "Sure." Delia had passed the place once. "Respect- 
 able ain't it?" 
 
 "Ha ha!" laughed Binger till his fat throat rippled. 
 "Respectable? Toussang's? Dat's goodt. Come; I 
 haf a cab waiting." 
 
 He led the way to a hansom and Delia, whose nearest 
 acquaintance with hansom was dodging them, looked 
 it over with a critical eye and said: "This respectable, 
 too?" 
 
 And Binger was won, for he was something of an 
 epicure was Binger, and he prided himself on his 
 reputation for having a good eye. 
 
 As for Delia, it must be admitted that she was in a state 
 of exhilaration that was a step toward a condition of 
 complete intoxication. The lights in the lobby, the 
 golden teeth of Binger, the shining diamond, the soft 
 seat of the hansom, all of them helped her on. Already 
 she had flown a thousand miles away from Clay Court; 
 already she was floating in a strange new world of pleasure, 
 a delightful world, a world where the ugly necessities of 
 life did not exist, where pleasure and luxuries were the 
 only things considered; the world, in short, where Delia 
 felt that she belonged. Never for an instant did she feel 
 that she was out of place. Nay, on the other hand, she
 
 88 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 felt instinctively that she had found her true environ- 
 ment. The little hot-house plant had sniffed its native air. 
 
 But Freddy poor Freddy was out of place. 
 Delia, carefully watching out of the corner of her eyes, 
 compared Jiim with Binger, Binger the magnificent, 
 Binger the shiny; and Freddy suffered terribly. No 
 slickness about Freddy, no glittering smile, no fat hands 
 on which to display diamond rings. Nothing of the sort. 
 Big hands, big feet, freckles, humble grin, old-fashioned; 
 Delia's plumes tossed in anger. Why should Freddy be 
 like that? Why couldn't he be swell, like Binger? Well, 
 he would have to be pretty soon, or Delia wrecked her 
 train of thought guiltily; but in her heart that was a little 
 pang that Freddy, being with her, betrayed her as from 
 Clay Court. 
 
 "Here y'are, sir." The cab pulled up before Dous- 
 sang's, the lights beckoned them in, and Binger, more 
 magnificent than ever, ushered them through the glitter- 
 ing portals, gazed for a moment around the crowded 
 room and crooked a jewelled finger at the head waiter. 
 
 "Two to-night, Mr. Binger?" 
 
 "T'ree to-night." 
 
 "Yessir, yessir. Three for Mr. Binger. Quick!" 
 
 ("Ah!" thought Delia, "this is what it is to be a swell 
 rich gentleman!") 
 
 They found themselves at a favoured table in a corner. 
 The head waiter hovered anxiously about; the omnibus 
 fairly flew to set the table, and the guests at the nearby 
 tables, wonderful, well-fed women with wonderful faces 
 and marvellous busts, elegant men, with wonderful
 
 Joey the Dreamer 89 
 
 clothes, and oil-slicked hair, turned red necks and whis- 
 pered that, yes, that was Binger, the showman, but 
 what was that with him, d'you know? 
 
 "A nice place. K-viet; goodt service andt andt 
 always respectable. Ha, ha, ha! Now, for indstance 
 Binger picked up the menu with the air of a man to 
 whom ordering midnight suppers is a delight "for 
 indstance, what shouldt we begin with?" 
 
 The crowd, the wonderful, well-fed women and the 
 elegant men; the perfume; the grand waiters; the music 
 from the band in the red suits; the swish of costly clothes, , 
 all went to Delia's head. She scarcely heard Binger. 
 She leaned back far in her chair, and drank it all in with 
 staring eyes. 
 
 "A cocktail? Nice Rossington's here." 
 
 "No," said Freddy. 
 
 "Martini?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Don't drink," said Delia coming out of her dream. 
 "Not to-night, anyhow," she added, and relapsed into 
 her state of pleasant bewilderment, while the blood came 
 with a rush into her face and her eyes sparkled, and her 
 lips grew redder than ever. She heard Freddy say 
 critically: "Bad 'cello in that orchestra," heard Binger 
 give his orders. She answered "Yes" to hah* of his 
 suggestions and shook her head at the rest. But mostly 
 she dreamed, and this was her dream: that Doussang's 
 was her world and that dusty, sweaty finishing-rooms 
 did not exist. 
 
 "Ain't it grand?" she whispered once to Freddy.
 
 90 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The the whole thing." 
 
 "Oh, sure," said Freddy, in such a curt tone that 
 Delia had to laugh. 
 
 Singer's piggish little eyes followed her movements 
 when Freddy was not looking. Before the supper was 
 half over he had given Freddy a permanent place in the 
 Saturday evening bill at Electric Park, with the under- 
 standing that it was to be a regular all-week thing if he 
 "took." Near the end of the meal he assured him 
 heartily that he would "take" without a doubt. 
 
 "You're goodt enough," said Binger lolling fatly back 
 in his chair. "Dere issn't anny chanct dat you ain'dt 
 goodt enough. Budt idt iss hi gedtting going righdt 
 that coundts. I vill fix you up righdt." 
 
 Oh, what an evening that was for Delia! Lights to 
 the left, the right, and all about her. Lights on the table 
 beside them. Flashing, shimmering gowns, and jewels, 
 and always the wonderful women and the well-dressed 
 men, and she, the little stitcher, sitting there in the 
 midst of them, and as good as any of them. As good 
 as any! She knew it. Instinctively she knew it. 
 Binger knew women, knew how to appraise them, and 
 were not his eyes upon her even when the grandest of 
 those big, full-busted women swept swishing past? 
 And did not the men who passed gaze upon her with 
 significant eyes? 
 
 She was attractive. Even there in the midst of all that 
 competition she was more than holding her own Eve-like 
 own. Delia shook herself and tilted the soft little chin
 
 Joey the Dreamer 91 
 
 in the air. She was happy, drunkenly happy. She 
 had glimpsed her paradise. This was where "she 
 belonged. 
 
 She looked at Freddy, and the red mounted into her 
 temples and her eyes once more felt hot with shame. The 
 sign of Clay Court was writ large upon him. Even to 
 the honesty that showed flagrantly in his merry blue 
 eyes was he of the earth earthy. It was a shame, thought 
 Delia. Freddy certainly would have to become more 
 stylish. On second thought she drew considerable com- 
 fort from the meditation that the crowd around them 
 couldn't possibly know but what she was with the large, 
 the ornate, the stylish Binger. But Freddy would be 
 all right when he got more style, when he was more like 
 the elegant gentlemen who ordered waiters around as if 
 they had been born in a restaurant. 
 
 They parted from Binger at a corner after midnight; he 
 went to his gleaming hotel, they took the car for Clay 
 Court ; and Delia choked down something in her throat 
 as Freddy seated her beside a dust-covered night labourer. 
 How dirty and unpleasant it was! How commonplace 
 the crowd that went home with them. How dim the 
 lights. How different from the world they had just 
 stepped out of. 
 
 She discouraged all of Freddy's efforts at conversation. 
 Her thoughts were running in a bitter circle. She saw 
 the dirty, hopeless court to which they were going. 
 Then the Tenement which they called home. Then the 
 Factory. Then the Tenement again, and then the 
 Factory once more. An endless circle, punctuated
 
 92 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 occasionally by excursions with Freddy, but in the main 
 that was life to her: The Tenement and the Factory 
 in a ceaseless round. 
 
 "Oh, Freddy!" she cried suddenly in a whisper. 
 "Wouldn't it be swell to have enough money to eat in 
 those swell places all the time." 
 
 "Sure," said Freddy, doubtfully. "Get the gout, 
 though, I guess." 
 
 She laughed, not at his remark, but at him. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose you would," she said. But Freddy 
 did not notice that the accent was on the "you." 
 
 He helped her off the car with great solicitude, and she 
 shuddered as the dark court, rendered all the more gloomy 
 by two gas lamps, loomed up before them. And near the 
 corner stood the inevitable group of men with Rine- 
 hart as their leader, discussing the impending trouble 
 at the Factory. 
 
 "Aw, gee!" pouted Delia. It was the proverbial cold 
 water. "Why can't they shut up. They'll be spoiling 
 things for everybody first thing they know." 
 
 "Oh, I guess not," said Freddy cheerfully. "Not for 
 us. You notice how things are coming my way, don't 
 you? I tell you, Delia" he bent over her earnestly 
 "when a man goes along tending to his own business, and 
 leaves the booze alone, and tries to do something the best 
 he knows how, it's pretty hard for others to spoil things 
 for him. A man's his own spoiler if he's spoiled. All 
 a fellow has got to do to get going right is to keep away 
 from things like this, and set his mind on something, and 
 keep plugging away at that one thing, and keep his
 
 J 
 
 Joey the Dreamer 93" 
 
 nerve, and the first thing you know things' 11 be turning 
 out the way for us all to the rosy." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Delia. 
 
 " Sure. And we don't have to worry about all this 
 disturbance, not me and you. Understand?" 
 
 She made no answer. They were in the Tenement 
 hallway. 
 
 "Well?" said Freddy. She turned and faced him. 
 Instinctively they leaned toward each other. He took 
 her in his arms, and she gave in and pressed closely to 
 him. After all Freddy was her fate. ... It was dark 
 in the hallway. They were all alone. 
 
 "Next Saturday night tells the story, Dell," said 
 Freddy, when the time for parting came. "It's all right, 
 Dell, say you know it's all right." 
 
 "Yes." She hung on him fiercely for a moment. 
 Then she laughed recklessly. "I'll dream of diamonds 
 to-night, anyhow." 
 
 "All the time," said Freddy. "Because it's as good 
 as settled and me and you get out of this mess for good." 
 
 "Do we?" 
 
 "You bet!" he said, shaking his fist at Clay Court. 
 "You bet. We've got this game beat to a fare ye 
 well!" 
 
 Poor Freddy! Poor Delia!
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE Tenement sleeps. The noise and the brawl- 
 ing die down. Footsteps on the stairs grow fewer 
 and fewer until at last there are none. The 
 lights go out save the single flickering jet in each hall. 
 The fat, stinking darkness of the Tenement night 
 comes into its own; and the rats run scampering here 
 and there, searching with avid noses for food bits 
 in the halls. 
 
 Up in the blackest corner of the fourth floor hall 
 little Joey cowers against the wall till the last stray noises 
 have vanished and the darkness and silence are complete. 
 Like a fugitive hiding from his pursuers, he crouches in the 
 gloom, the single spot in the Tenement where the sicken- 
 ing night brawls can not reach him. 
 
 He had come home slowly from Ruth's meeting. He 
 had wandered back to sit on the curb before the Tenement 
 and wait until the sounds from the second floor rear died 
 down to a somewhat sane level. Then cautiously he had 
 crept up the stairs and, sneaking on tiptoes, had peered 
 into the Bruggers's home. He had come away in a great 
 hurry, for some things he could not look upon, and his 
 mother awake and far gone in liquor was one of them, 
 and it being too late for the street he had dragged him- 
 self up to the fourth floor's black hole, beyond the reach 
 
 94
 
 Joey the Dreamer 95 
 
 of the gas jet's trembling light; and there he remains, 
 hugging his knees, till the silence tells him that the 
 second floor rear is asleep, that alcohol has made it safe 
 for him to go home. He knows what the home will be 
 and what he will find there in all probability father 
 and mother together upon the kitchen floor, feebly clasped 
 in a last maudlin embrace or gripping each other in 
 the postures of a busy little family row. For one 
 quality Joey's parents have in common; they both 
 succumb at once. 
 
 In spite of these things, however, home is home, a bed 
 is a bed, and tired, aching bones cry out for a place of rest, 
 let the pain to the soul be what it may. It is an old story 
 to Joey, though he never grows used to it, for all his life 
 he has never known anything else. His first and best 
 memories are of a room where the floor was damp and an 
 alley directly outside the window. But it had a window. 
 Ah ! that was the dream to remember : it had an outside 
 window. It was low, down near the ground the room 
 was on the first floor and two wooden bars nailed 
 across its lower half served as nurse maid and guardian for 
 Joey. His mother sat him up in the open window and 
 Joey leaned out between the bars and soaked his head in 
 the warmth and smells of the sunny alley, and fought the 
 flies that strove to enter his 'eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. 
 
 So did Joey first remember that he had seen this world. 
 The alley was his universe. In it and its life he saw 
 existence. He was shocked when he had his first con- 
 scious glimpse of the street in front. He had fancied the 
 world as a world of alleys.
 
 96 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 The life of the alley was a busy one, especially for the 
 eye of a child which notes all the tiny things that escape 
 the dull adult faculty. Rats ran around, in, over, and 
 under the garbage boxes; dusty, worn-looking cats 
 pursued them, the cats in their turn being pursued by 
 dusty, worn-looking, scarred dogs. Regularly each 
 afternoon a group of men gathered near the window and 
 drank beer. They kept the pail hidden under the eaves 
 of a low shed. When the pail was emptied they threw 
 the scanty dregs directly under the window, and the flies 
 gathered there in hordes. The odour of stale beer 
 always was in Joey's nostrils. 
 
 Other things happened in the alley. There were 
 fights between men, women, children, and dogs. There 
 was much crap shooting, especially on Sunday afternoons, 
 and sometimes the police came, and then Joey sucked his 
 thin fist wonderingly and gazed with great eyes at the 
 desperate confusion that came over the scene. There 
 were even lovers' meetings back there in the alley; 
 clandestine wooings of the modest, and of the dishonest, 
 who sought to remove their love-making from the eyes 
 of the street. 
 
 Then there were the peddlers, the rag pickers, and all 
 the various scavengers to whom the alleys are their fields 
 of livelihood. Their cries were the only music that came 
 to Joey's ears. He waited eagerly for their coming, and 
 sometimes they pointed at him with their whips or 
 hooks. And on one bright day had come a great event, 
 the incident that stood out in Joey's memory with yester- 
 day's vividness. A red-bearded Russian Jew had stopped
 
 Joey the Dreamer 97 
 
 before the window, smiled queerly up at the face between 
 the bars, and, reaching into the bag on his back, had 
 brought out and handed to Joey a broken piece of mirror. 
 Joey was stunned with happiness over the gift. He cut 
 his mouth on the sharp edges first, testing the thing's 
 edibility, but soon having discovered the glass's function 
 he was contented the day long. 
 
 One day it slipped from his fingers and fell out in the 
 alley, and a passing wagon crushed it under wheel. Joey 
 cried for a week. Nobody ever replaced the mirror. 
 
 Such were the memories that Joey looked back to with 
 pleasure, the short, bright days of life before the Factory 
 
 claimed him for its own! And he looked forward to 
 
 But let us follow him to-night and perhaps we may see. 
 
 Out from his hole comes Joey, much like a trembling 
 little rat. The light from the hall jet strikes him and he 
 blinks as he starts downstairs. Joey, being used to the 
 place, does not notice -what would at once strike the 
 strange visitor's attention; the odour of those dark halls 
 at night is like the stink of a prison. They stink with 
 the stink of many people cooped in a small space. They 
 reek with the odour of air that is caught and trapped and 
 seldom changed. In prisons the visitor notices first of 
 all the prison-smell, an odour that is to be found no place 
 else on earth, and so it must be with the unaccustomed 
 visitor to the Tenement on this evening. There is a 
 suggestion of kinship in these smells; though carefully 
 analyzed they are quite different. Nature resents the 
 trapping of any of its breeds; and perhaps our Tenement 
 is more akin to the prison than we suspect.
 
 98 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 At all events, there is the stink. There is not enough 
 ventilation to disturb it. It hangs in the motionless air 
 like a fog, and the newcomer may pause to wonder how 
 long he might breathe this without acquiring the taint 
 with which it all seems poisoned. 
 
 Joey doesn't stop to wonder. One would say at first 
 hand that he was unconscious of the smells that envelop 
 him. This would be in error, and a slander of Joey's 
 present famishing condition. Though that medley of 
 odours, so tightly amalgamated that inexperienced noses 
 discover but one, Joey's experienced olfactories dive 
 with certainty, and pounce upon one that arouses interest 
 Jn Joey's brain. Downstairs the scent drags him. He 
 is on the first floor now, and by the tiny flicker of gas at 
 the front of the hall, he bends to search for the odour's 
 source. And now by the same half inch of burning gas, 
 and following Joey's movements, we may see with the 
 naked eye one of the several reasons for the odour that 
 strikes the senses at a first entrance. On both sides of the 
 hall, at irregular intervals, stand pails containing the 
 waste of the food of those who dwell within. There is 
 no need or excuse for detail. Most of that food was 
 spoiled ere it ever reached the Tenement; all of the waste 
 is in the advanced stages of putrescence. Joey goes 
 along from pail to pail until he finds the one containing 
 the spoiled orange whose odour led him to the chase. 
 He carries it forth to the light. It is only green in spots. 
 Joey eats it there under the gas with the disregard of the 
 utterely famished. For this is one of the triumphs of 
 civilization, that a child can grow up half-starved within
 
 Joey the Dreamer 99 
 
 six squares of opulence. Then the clamour of his empty 
 stomach half stilled he remounts the steps to the second 
 floor and noiselessly goes to his room. 
 
 "Oh, mother!" a little girl a well-fed, decently 
 clothed little girl once cried upon first seeing a 
 room in the Tenement, "Do little boys and girls live 
 here?" 
 
 "Yes," said the mother. 
 
 "Oh, mother!" Tears stood in the little girl's eyes. 
 "Whatever have they done!" 
 
 Perhaps this is describing the rooms of the Tenement 
 better than could be done in many words. 
 
 Since the building is as broad as it is long, and quite 
 without light or airshafts, it follows that certain rooms, 
 mainly those in the building's rear, will be entirely with- 
 out those most desirable quantities in dwellings day- 
 light and fresh air. Given fair play and it would seem 
 that such rooms, if occupied they must be, would fall to 
 the lot of those who, through sturdiness of body, would 
 suffer least from the lack of these desirable quantities. 
 But, of course, nothing of the sort happens. There is 
 one room just a little darker, just a little farther removed 
 from the air, just a little worse than any other above 
 ground in the Tenement. It is a small room, for it is 
 supposed to be a closet, and is at the end of the hall on the 
 second floor. It is an inner room, removed even from 
 the open space of the hall. It is one of the most unfit 
 human habitations to be found in the world, be it among 
 the civilized or the savage. It is Joey's room, because 
 he is helpless and small. The Tenement is a mine, the
 
 100 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 halls are pit holes, and little Joey's room is at the end, 
 the blackest chamber of them all. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bruggers, collectively or individually, 
 are not on the kitchen floor to-night, and Joey's heart 
 sinks. They lie crosswise just inside the door of their 
 bedroom and Joey, to reach his room, must pass through 
 that bedroom. If he wakes them there will be curses, 
 though the flesh may be too weak to rise and deal 
 out blows. 
 
 Joey reconnoitres. Mr. Bruggers lies spread out flat, 
 face downward, his nose so flattened against the floor 
 that he takes in breath with a noise of mighty suction. 
 On top of him, her face serenely upturned toward the 
 ceiling, lies Mrs. Bruggers, her mouth open, her great 
 bosom rising and falling with the regularity of a machine. 
 The faint light gleams on her shiny round cheeks, on her 
 nose and chin. Obviously there is only one thing to do, 
 and Joey does it as he has done before. Noiselessly remov- 
 ing his shoes he leaps the human barrier, missing Mrs. 
 Bruggers's shiny nose by a scant inch, and landing on 
 the other side with a thud that jars Mr. Bruggers's hard 
 pressed physiognomy. But it no more awakens him 
 than the creak of the undertaker's screw-driver awakens 
 the corpse. A man in a condition to bear Mrs. Bruggers 
 on his back without remonstrance is in no shape to notice 
 trifles. Joey takes one last look at his snoring parents, 
 and crosses the bedroom to his door. 
 
 "A clothes closet," said the man who builded the 
 Tenement. 
 
 "Closet, indeed," said Mrs. Bruggers when she saw
 
 Joey the Dreamer 101 
 
 it. "Clo's, who's got clo's to waste hangin* 'em on the 
 wall. A room for Joey; that's what 'tis. Jest his peekid 
 little fit." 
 
 Joey opened the door. The door opened outward, 
 else it could not have opened at all, for the broken piece 
 of a sofa that served for a bed occupied the room to the 
 exclusion of all else. There was no light. As Mrs. 
 Bruggers said, what was the use of a light in a place like 
 that, anyway? There wasn't anything there to see, and 
 a body could feel his way to bed as well as not. Light, 
 indeed ! Where would you put a light in there if you had 
 it? They had a light in their room; if he wanted to see a 
 light, why, let him open the door. Which, of a 
 necessity, worked out quite well, for Joey had to keep his 
 door ajar to escape the inconvenience of complete 
 suffocation. 
 
 Joey carefully felt his way to the bed. Carefully, 
 in order that the creaking of unsteady frame and legs 
 might not alarm, he seated himself upon its edge. His 
 shoes he tucked under the thin pallet of corn husks that 
 served for his pillow, and then wearily his chin sank into 
 his hands, and with his elbows on his knees, Joey sat 
 crumpled up there in the dark and stared in hopeless 
 abstraction at nothing. 
 
 But his mind was busy with a wonderful picture. He 
 was trying to see God, as Ruth in her prayer had spoken 
 of Him. 
 
 God was a new thing in Joey's life. It was a strange 
 thing, so strange, so far away and mysterious, and yet so 
 directly compelling in its awful grasp on him that he
 
 102 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 would have shrunk down in abject terror had it been 
 other hands than Miss Ruth's that had held forth the 
 light. But because of her he felt safe, though he feared 
 strangely. 
 
 "O God, you who see all things, give us all of us 
 a little of your divine Light to-night." What was the 
 Light? What was God? What was He like? 
 
 Certainly He was very big, for even Miss Ruth was 
 afraid of Him; she bowed her head when she spoke His 
 name. And then He must be very old, because He 
 knew so much. And He couldn't be working, because 
 He had time to sit and see all things. All things! That 
 was quite a stretcher. Still Miss Ruth said it, and 
 Miss Ruth ought to know. 
 
 Joey visualized Ruth's face with little effort. God, 
 somehow, he could not see. 
 
 "If he wuz a woman He'd be like Miss Ruth," was his 
 nearest approach to a decision. ' 'N' He knows 
 ever'thing." 
 
 Everything, Miss Ruth said. Then He must know 
 about Miss Ruth, and John, and Delia, and the pair on 
 the floor, and and Joey's hands dropped at his 
 side with a start. If He knows about everything, and 
 all the others, He must know He must know, about 
 him, Joey ! 
 
 Joey thought it over a long time. He was skeptical 
 on that point. How could any one see him there in that 
 dark closet? And yet, how comforting it would be if he 
 could believe that some one did see him, that some one 
 was looking at him there in the dark, that he wasn't
 
 Joey the Dreamer 103 
 
 entirely alone, forgotten and unseen ! And this some one 
 existed, said Miss Ruth, and He was God. 
 
 Who can probe the startled marvellings of the virgin 
 soul reared in the Land of Darkness suddenly glimpsing 
 the Realm of Hope, dazzled and stricken dumb by the 
 wonder of it, skeptical through cruel experience, yet in its 
 deepest, most vital depths exulting, even unconsciously, 
 in the moment's revelation of its kinship with God? 
 Such things are not to be put on paper, or even spoken by 
 word of mouth. They find their expression in finer and 
 more significant effects than these coarse interpretations ; 
 they live in actions. Joey, up there in the muggy 
 darkness, child that he was, threw his face down on the 
 mouldy bed and begged for a sight of Something he 
 knew not what. 
 
 The eternal God need of mankind had stirred in 
 him. He knew nothing; he was blind and in the dark. 
 He could not see or understand; he could only weep and 
 suffer; and so, weeping and suffering, he went to his 
 knees beside the bed, why he knew not, and presently 
 little Joey began to try to pray. 
 
 He was afraid to talk out loud, as Miss Ruth had done. 
 The pair on the floor might hear. He wondered if talking 
 aloud was necessary, and deciding to make the best of 
 the situation, he began to whisper and plumped down 
 on his knees beside the bed, 
 
 "Mister God, I ain't wise to you like Miss Ruth, but 
 she sez that you're wise to all of us, even to a little kid 
 like me. Is that straight, Mister God? Are yuh? I 
 don't believe yuh are, meself ; but Miss Ruth sez yuh are,
 
 104 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 and she never sprung a con on me yet. 'N' she sez 
 yuh're watching over ever'thing all the time, 'n' want 
 ev'rybody to do the right thing 'n' be good. 'N' if that's 
 straight, Mister God, I wanta know why yuh don't let 
 me know when I'm so awf'ly lonesome and yuh know 
 how swell it would 'be for me to have yuh talk to me? 
 Why don't yuh let me know some way that you're list'ning 
 when I'm talking here like this? Can't yuh wise me up 
 a little, mister, so I know that I ain't talking to nothen' 
 but meself? Yuh know a guy don't want to talk when 
 they ain't nobody hearin' him; and how can I know, 
 Mister God, that you're hearin' me if you don't put me 
 next some way?" 
 
 His lips ceased moving as he stopped to debate with 
 himself the question of how can any one know? How 
 could Miss Ruth know? There had been no answer 
 from the One she was speaking to. But she had gone 
 away almost at once after the prayer. That was so. 
 Perhaps she hadn't waited long enough. It must take quite 
 a time, especially with so many praying and keeping Him 
 busy. Perhaps a fellow had to wait some time for his 
 answer. If so, he had better go on and finish. 
 
 " I know yuh got a lot to do, Mister God, and perhaps 
 you're too busy to hear me, but if you'd only let me know, 
 an' if I only wuz sure that I wuz 'spielun' to somebody, 
 'n' it wuz yuh 'n' yuh wuz like what Miss Ruth sez, 
 Mister God, can't yuh see how swell it would be fer me 
 when I get in here alone in the dark, and I can't sleep, 
 and there ain't nobody to talk to, and I'm so so lone- 
 some, kind-a! I get so awf'l lonesome, Mister God.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 105 
 
 There ain't nobody with me, an' nobody to talk to, an* 
 sometimes I feel as if I wuz left out of ever'thing, 
 and ev'rybody; 'cause ev'rybody's got some one with 
 them but me." 
 
 Words failed him for a moment and the whisper ceased 
 till the choking feeling in his throat was gone. 
 
 "O Mister God! Can't yuh see how it is? Yuh know 
 ever'thing, don't yuh? An' so yuh must know how it 
 feels to be all alone. Jes' think how you'd feel yerself, 
 if yuh was me O please, Mister God, don't let me be 
 so lonesome; an' let me know if you're hearing me when 
 I'm talking to yuh, as Miss Ruth says, an' then I I 
 won't be lonesome Mister God, if I know you're 
 hearing. Now, don't forget, will you?" A pause, then: 
 "My name's Joey Bruggers and I live at 49 Clay Court, 
 second floor, rear. S'long." 
 
 The whisper stopped for good. For a long time Joey 
 remained on his knees, waiting for an answer. He was 
 both patient and skeptical, yet his own prayer had given 
 him some faith. Since the beginning of time men have 
 made many fine prayers to many gods; but none ever 
 prayed with more poignant yearning in his heart than did 
 this lonely little atom up there in his dark, dirty closet 
 at the end of the second floor hall. He grew very tired. 
 His knees ached, and he was growing cold and sick at the 
 stomach. His street-gamin cynicism told him that it 
 was no use, there wouldn't be any answer/but something, 
 a new feeling that he nourished because there was Hope 
 in it, drove him to wait on. 
 
 He grew sleepy. He nodded twice and caught himself
 
 106 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 sharply. He continued to wait. He listened eagerly. 
 The snoring of his parents answered him. But there 
 came no answer. 
 
 "Huh!" said Joey rising. "I knew it all the time." 
 The bed creaked noisily; creaked again after awhile, 
 then all was still. In the bedroom doorway Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bruggers snored, and snored, and snored. In the 
 closet, the mystic silence of complete darkness was 
 punctuated at intervals by a faint, gulping sound. On 
 his ragged bed little Joey Bruggers lay with his face to- 
 ward the wall and shook to his toes with the heart-tearing 
 sobs of childish disappointment. But he smothered the 
 sobs so his snoring elders might not be disturbed.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THERE are two ways of telling that Sunday has 
 come to Clay Court, beside the startling quiet. 
 On the second floor of No. 39 a slim girl in a 
 black wrapper stands near the window and combs her 
 hair. Her motion has in it that which signifies all the 
 leisure in the world. Week-days one only glimpses her. 
 She hurries to the window, glances at the mirror that 
 brings her to the front of the room, and with a twist of her 
 white hands coils the thick braids upon her head and is 
 gone. On Sunday she combs, and combs, and combs. 
 Her hair is shiny black. It is a marvel, the attention she 
 can bestow on a single hair. She is not beautiful save 
 for her hair. Her hair must be her single delight. And, 
 like the rest of Clay Court, Sunday is the one day in seven 
 on which she may give herself over single-mindedly 
 to the pursuit of an ideal. 
 
 Likewise, on Sunday morning, Dinny Noonan, whose 
 task in life is to polish one of our lamp posts with his 
 shoulder-blades, is late at his post. He appears, heavy 
 eyed and apathetic, about the time when the churches 
 up the Avenue begin to send down to us their ringing 
 blessings of peace and promise. He takes up his labours 
 with a self-commiserative air, as if this polishing lamp 
 posts seven days a week wasn't all that some people 
 
 107
 
 108 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 might imagine. By the time he has got himself into 
 his regular attitude, chin on his chest, legs crossed at the 
 knee, hands deep in the pockets, some neighbour steps 
 yawning out of a doorway, invites Dinny down to the 
 corner for a morning drink, and all his labour of posing 
 has gone for naught. 
 
 These things I caught as I looked out of my window 
 this fine morning. It was early, and Clay Court does 
 not rise early on Sabbath morn. The scene was barren 
 save for Dinny and the girl with the hair. 
 
 Later a few stragglers begin to show themselves at 
 windows, in doorways, and on the walk, their appearance 
 speaking eloquently of how the previous evening was 
 spent. Everybody is sleepy, and shows it, and here and 
 there one already hears a quarrel in the process of warm- 
 ing up after Saturday night. The proper costume is 
 trousers and undershirts, and wrappers and uncombed 
 hair, while the proper thing to do for the while being is 
 to lean dully out of the window and say: "Going to be 
 another hot one to-day." Children begin to come out 
 and cross the street to the grocery and markets. But 
 there is no noise. It is so still that the music of the 
 bells up Avenue has the world to itself. 
 
 Wonderful bells! Like great, golden- tongued voices 
 they speak out upon the quiet, Sabbath morn, softly 
 calling the faithful to worship, gently reminding the 
 unregenerate that such a thing as worship exists. Like 
 the voice of a spirit they spread their poetry upon the 
 scene; they seek the dark stairways and float in and up 
 into the grimy rooms; they breathe into the ears of all,
 
 Joey the Dreamer 109 
 
 willing and unwilling; they bring their message to all 
 hearts. We pause. We listen. We puzzle about the 
 message. Then we go on our way to Mr. Mehaffey's or 
 Mr. Sodders's and we ponder as we go on how much 
 the bells must cost and what might be bought with the 
 price of them. 
 
 Sabbath morning. There is peace. The bells are 
 noble. But the best they can do is to make us think of 
 what might have been. 
 
 This Sunday morning however, was different. Even 
 from the height of my wonderful window the sense of some- 
 thing new was obvious. A quiet word had gone around 
 after Rinehart's meeting Saturday night, and men began 
 to appear on the walks at a time when normally the lees 
 of the night before would have been the rule. These 
 men had an aim in their unwonted Sunday morn activity, 
 and their steps led them into strange ways. 
 
 In the Tenement there was just one room which had 
 been declared unfit for human habitation even in this 
 quarter, and it was in the rear of the basement. In build- 
 ing the Tenement some one had skimped his work on the 
 rear wall of the foundation so that now, with the orignal 
 crevices growing wider and longer with the years, the 
 wall was not much more than a sieve, holding back the 
 rank, wet dirt of the alley, but letting the water seep 
 through in dripping, stinking streams. Therefore it was 
 but rarely that the landlord was fortunate enough to find 
 anybody unfortunate enough to be willing to accept this 
 rear basement room as a place to live in. 
 
 It was empty now, and, the season being dry, the
 
 110 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 water had sunk beneath the rotting boards where it still 
 lay, a black, oily pool covered with green that squirted 
 up between cracks under pressure of a heavy foot. The 
 rats rejoiced in this room when it was dry. The light of 
 day had not shone on it from the day of its construction. 
 Yet on one of the walls, with a wire around his neck, 
 hung a rusty tin soldier. But the child who had played 
 with the soldier was gone. 
 
 To this room, from the freshness and peace of a fine 
 Sunday morning, men came one by one to the number of 
 twenty. Their mode of entry was like that of men who 
 do not court observation. A man would stand on the walk 
 near the basement entrance, looking up and down the 
 street, apparently with a whole forenoon before him in 
 which to do nothing. Then suddenly he would dis- 
 appear, and the next moment would find him knocking 
 at the door below. The door opened, and closed behind 
 him, and a voice in the darkness called gruffly: 
 
 "Hello, brother." 
 
 "H'lo. Many here yet?" 
 
 "Most of 'em. Rinehart hasn't come, though." 
 
 "He'll come at ten, won't he?" 
 
 "Ten, sharp." 
 
 "Be something doing to-day, eh?" 
 
 "Wait for Rinehart." 
 
 A dark passage way ran back to the room at the rear. 
 Here was another door, standing half open for the time 
 being, and, in the room, a group of men. Two oil lamps 
 served for light, but the gloom of the place was too dense, 
 too complete, for any light to make a great impression.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 111 
 
 The white faces level with the lights, shone out like heads 
 suspended in the air. Boxes and beer kegs served for 
 seats, and near one of the lamps a keg of that size tech- 
 nically known as a half-barrel was reserved as a stand for 
 the speaker. The odour of stale beer mingled with the 
 mouldiness. 
 
 The men spoke in whispers; the water dripped, plunk, 
 plunk, plunk, from the pipes along the roof. But the 
 sense of tension was fresh and alive. 
 
 At ten sharp came Rinehart, with his hat down over 
 his eyes. The door was closed behind him and a bolt shot 
 home. The crowd grew still. Only the water dripped, 
 plunk, plunk, plunk. Rinehart turned the lamps up 
 until they smoked, and without a word sprang upon his 
 keg, looked around, rubbed his hands, and began: 
 
 "I promised you a surprise and I'll make good. Some 
 of you know about it, some of you don't. Before I'm 
 through this morning you'll all know; and you'll all be 
 brothers, or be marked for the cowards and suckers that 
 you are. Listen: I'll tell you fellows a little bit of 
 news. You've been too independent this campaign. 
 Didn't know that, did you? Well, it's so. Been too 
 independent. Haven't got out and hip hip hoo- 
 rayed for the swell guys' candidates. You've stayed at 
 home and stuck your hands in your pockets and said, 
 'Aw hell, what's the. use? I don't get anything out of it 
 anyhow,' when anybody's told you to get excited. You 
 haven't done that enough to do you any good, but just 
 enough to do you a little harm. If you'd do it enough, 
 there'd been a change in the campaign tune. But you've
 
 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 only done it enough to be noticed* Get that? You've 
 been stool-pigeoned on and the rich guys know about 
 your lack of interest. Too independent. So you're 
 going to be taught a lesson. How? Why the way they 
 learn you every four years whenever you need pulling 
 up. Wage-cuts. Lock-outs. Lay-offs. That's it. Pretty 
 soon you'll see in some corporation paper that, 
 owin* to the uncertainty of the election, the railroads are 
 laying off ten thousand men. And all the big works are 
 shutting down till they see who's going to be President. 
 And you poor devils who 're thrown out of work will 
 yank your hands out of your pockets and begin to hustle 
 to help elect the man the rich guys want. 
 
 "That is, you used to do it. You'd be doing it this 
 year, too, if you wasn't next. But being as you are, 
 you're too wise, and we ain't going to do anything of 
 the sort, because we're going to have a nice little party 
 of OUT own." 
 
 His eyes flashed over them with a light in which there 
 were things that were not good to see. 
 
 "Yes; we're going to have a party of our own." He 
 showed his teeth in what he meant to be a smile. " Our 
 Little Surprise Party, we'll call it a regular little 
 surprise." 
 
 Another pause. He loved these pauses, did Rinehart. 
 
 "Brothers, did you ever see a bomb?" 
 
 They started guiltily, as if he had bared their secret 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Ah!" echoed Rinehart. He nodded with tight,
 
 Joey the Dreamer 113 
 
 smiling lip?, anticipating and answering the obvious 
 question with that gesture. "We won't say anything 
 about it, brothers, won't say anything out loud. But 
 we understand. We're all next. It's all arranged. 
 Don't worry. I won't say any more; I'm just " 
 
 "Windy!" 
 
 It was shocking. The crowd jumped. 
 
 Mr. Perkins, the sullen and forceful Mr. Perkins, 
 suddenly raised his rumbling voice and interrupted 
 Rinehart, even as Rinehart's disciple had interrupted 
 Ruth on the night before. 
 
 "'Windy,' I said," repeated Mr. Perkins. "You're a 
 bag of wind." 
 
 He was standing back near the wet wall, lazily hanging 
 on to an overhead gas-pipe with his hairy right hand, the 
 fingers playing upon the pipe as if anxious of gripping 
 something else. He was a formidable gentleman to look 
 at, and his interruption, coming like an unexpected 
 thunder-slap, was very much akin to a bomb, such as 
 Rinehart was talking about. He grinned with great 
 contempt at Rinehart's consternation, and Rinehart, 
 shocked out of glib speech, stared severely at the villain, 
 trying to put him to flight. Mr. Perkins, however, 
 refused to flee in the least. He laughed instead. Never, 
 never had Rinehart been treated thus! 
 
 "What's your idea, brother?" he snapped finally. 
 
 "Brother, your eye!" roared Perkins. "If you was a 
 brother of mine I'd be ashamed of my mother. Windy 
 was what I said. D'you get it now? You're a 
 of wind."
 
 114 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "I am, am I?" 
 
 "I said you was." 
 
 "Well, you're pretty "Rinehart prepared to 
 launch forth into scathing denunciation, but a sneaking 
 glance around at his audience prompted him to pause. 
 It was not to be all Rinehart this morning. He saw 
 it in the eyes of his followers. Perkins with his rude, 
 unsympathetic remark had broken the spell. 
 
 "Well, what do you mean? What'd you say it for, 
 brother?" 
 
 "Don't you call me 'brother.' ' Perkins let go of the 
 gas-pipe. "Don't you call me that." He scowled 
 around like a man who is looking for trouble, which prob- 
 ably was just the case. All night long Perkins had 
 sat in the little bedroom of his two-room flat with a 
 stinking kerosene lamp at his elbow. The baby lying in 
 be^l beside the prostrate mother wailed at intervals. 
 Perkins rose wearily and gave it medicine from a bottle, 
 medicine which the doctor had confessed would do it no 
 good, but would "stop its crying." In the morning 
 Ruth came down and took his place. And without 
 sleeping or eating he had come from the bedroom down 
 into the basement for his first "secret meeting." 
 
 "Don't call me 'brother,' " he growled, turning to 
 Rinehart. "I'm no kin of yours; I ain't even of the 
 same race. I'm an American of the old-fashioned kind, 
 and God knows what you may be; I don't." 
 
 He spat toward the keg on which Rinehart stood. 
 
 "You're full of wind, I said. You get up here and 
 shoot off your mouth; and if it came down to cases and
 
 Joey the Dreamer 115 
 
 there was any chance of getting a copper's bullet through 
 your head, you'd be hiding back in some alley, waiting 
 for the thing to blow over and give you another chance 
 to talk. Yes, you would Hold on, now!" His right 
 arm flew out in a vicious gesture as Rinehart would have 
 interrupted. "Listen to me. I've made up my mind 
 that I got something to say to you, and you listen to it, 
 and take it in and think it over, 'cause it'll do your dirty 
 black heart a lot of good." 
 
 His voice filled the room. And now a careful observer 
 might have noticed this that his voice was not made 
 for speech in such places as this. It was too big, too free. 
 Rinehart, he was made for this work, to hide and half- 
 whisper in basement meeting places; but Perkins came 
 of another breed, the light-haired breed which has talked 
 when, where, and how it pleased, though the head goes 
 off the shoulders for it. He was defying Rinehart, 
 bullying him. The crowd saw it. He was defying them, 
 too; but they let him go on. 
 
 "I'm an American," said Perkins, "a good American; 
 an' that's come to be a hell of a name to call a fellow in 
 these days. Don't think for a minute that you're 
 list'ning to one of your kind, Rinehart, when you're 
 list'ning to me. My daddy was helping Lincoln 
 lick " 
 
 "Yah! Lincoln! What would Lincoln say " 
 
 "Shut up; you ain't fit to call him byname. Shut 
 up, I tell ye. I got somethin' to say an' you got to 
 hear 'em. 
 
 "I'm a good American, too damn good an American.
 
 116 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 I was born an' raised in a house where we used to think 
 of church an' the flag in about the same way only 
 more so. I've seen dad fight an' I've fought, 'cause 
 some one slurred th' flag; an' he nor me never did that 
 for any church. He used to baste the waddin' out of 
 me if I didn't know my piece Decoration Day. You 
 don't understand that. That's a kind of American you 
 don't know, an' couldn't be. 
 
 "Well, I was going to say: I got next. I went up 
 against the game that my dearly b'lov-ed land of the 
 free hands out to its people. It ga'me a jar. I knew it 
 couldn't be so not here in these United States. 'By 
 God,' I sez to myself first time I had to work for pay 
 below decent living wages, 'there's something wrong 
 here,' sez I, 'n I hollered about it. Told 'um I couldn't 
 raise my kids decent on what they wuz giving me. 
 'Go to hell, then,' sez they. I went. I been there 
 ever since. 
 
 "But I'm a good American, don't you forget that; 
 an' that's just why I'm in this game with you fellows, 
 because I am such a good American. I think too much 
 of this country, my daddy's country, an' my granddad's, 
 an' wife's an' my kids,' to keep out of it. It's a good 
 country ,but it's got to be kicked in the face an' waked up. 
 It's all right naturally but it's gone all wrong. Like a 
 girl gone tuh the bad. It's letting money do what it 
 wants tuh with it. By the Almighty, when I think o' 
 what this country was what I was told it was, as a 
 kid Liberty, Star-spangled Banner, hats off to the 
 Flag; an' what it's done an' what it's made people do for
 
 Joey the Dreamer 117 
 
 it, an' then think of what it is now, I see red'n want tuh 
 run right into the middle of it an' hit some one an' say, 
 'Wake up here an' see what these United States are 
 getting to be!'" 
 
 They cheered his viciousness here; but by his words he 
 had placed himself alone. 
 
 "Yessir, that's what I feel like; an* that's what's got 
 to be done. Don't think I'm in with you guys who take 
 a shot at a President an' throw bombs. I ain't. You 
 don't care for this country. You'd as soon see it go smash 
 as not, I know. But I do care for it. Why, I'm as good 
 an American as the President himself, 'n' I'd get up'n 
 help hang bomb tossers just as quick as he would or 
 any one else. An' I'd help tie a can to you fellows, if 
 ever come to that. Because, in spite of the shame of it, 
 I'm a good American." 
 
 The fire in his eyes held them bound, and the wicked 
 hang of his big shoulders, the swing of his long arms, and 
 the great heavy hands at the end of them, arms and hands 
 that could become in the wink of an eyelid machinery to 
 launch a blow that would crush a man's face in, silenced 
 the few tongues that might have sought to break 
 the spell. 
 
 "An' I'm going to do my best to help my country like 
 my granddad and my daddy before me, an' the best I 
 can do is to help you raise hell. This country's decent 
 mostly. Oh, yes, it is! Don't tell me! I know some- 
 thing about it something about it outside of city hells 
 like this an' you don't. It's all right; but the decent 
 part's asleep. It's let the raw deal get the start of it.
 
 118 Joey the Dreamef 
 
 When it suddenly discovers that its free'n equal citizens, 
 and good Americans to boot, are getting such a raw deal 
 at the hands of Industry that they're wild enough to 
 fight because they're out of work and food, it'll wake up 
 like it did in '61 and a first-class house cleaning will be 
 the first act on a new programme. That's why I'm with 
 you, because I'm a good American; 'n' if you don't like 
 it you can go plumb to hell.'* 
 
 "You are a man, brother!" cried Rinehart. He was 
 quick to turn defeat into victory, was Rinehart. 
 
 The giant nodded grimly. 
 
 "Take it or leave it; suit yourself, "he muttered sullenly. 
 
 "Do you hear?" continued Rinehart, to the others, 
 ignoring the giant's defiance. "It is the time. The 
 hour is ripe. It must be done!" 
 
 "What?" snapped Perkins. 
 
 Rinehart went on as if he had not heard: "The 
 appointed hour has arrived. We'll give 'em a surprise. 
 Yes, brothers, they'll remember this election because 
 our Little Surprise Party took a hand." 
 
 Perkins turned away. Shouldering his neighbour 
 out of his path, he went straight to the door, jerked it 
 open with unnecessary violence, and strode out of the 
 room, through the dark passage to the front, up the 
 stairs, and into the open air. 
 
 On the walk he stopped and bared his head to the 
 slight breeze. The church bells were ringing again, 
 ringing softly, and Perkins, his long arms hanging list- 
 lessly at his sides, his head on one side, stood for a moment 
 bareheaded and listened to the sweet-toned message of
 
 Joey the Dreamer 119 
 
 Peace, Peace, Peace, Peace. There were many bells. 
 And it was very still. 
 
 Perkins listened, perhaps, for half a minute. Then he 
 laughed in a way that was a curse, put on his cap and made 
 straight for Mehaffey's saloon. 
 
 "What the! You drinking?" quoth the bar- 
 tender. "I thought you'd been to church." 
 
 "Sure," said Perkins, throwing his money on the bar. 
 "And the sermon beat whiskey all hollow."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 SO CLAY COURT opened its Sabbath, and as it 
 rained for awhile near noon the rest of the day 
 was spent in-doors. 
 
 Clay Court usually does spend its Sunday in-doors. 
 There are parks, it is true, in the city, and on its out- 
 skirts open spaces galore. But that takes car-fare. 
 Clay Court has other uses for its car-fare than to fly out 
 for a breath of air on Sunday, and, beside, Clay Court 
 knows nothing about flying. 
 
 It knows that on Sunday it may stay in its cage; that 
 the streets are purgatory; the homes hell; and that there 
 is one sure, swift, easy way to escape from all the torture. 
 Clay Court sits in the kitchen and drinks beer out of the 
 can. By three in the afternoon it is full in the crop, if 
 it is lucky. By seven this condition has mounted to the 
 head, though this also is dependent upon the whim of 
 Fortune, which controls small change. At nine the 
 quarrelling begins; by midnight the worst has been told; 
 and on Monday morning many of the bread-winners are 
 late to work, and the Sabbath has left wreckage rather 
 than rest behind it. All this is as natural as the conduct 
 of the cave dweller who huddled in his unsanitary cave 
 and stared at the fire for recreation. 
 
 There always is considerable excitement. Drinking 
 
 120
 
 Joey the Dreamer 121 
 
 flat beer on under-nourished stomachs is not good for 
 the heart or brains of man or woman. Wherefore it is 
 on Sunday that the Terrible Things happen in Clay Court: 
 the patrol wagons come clanging down the Avenue; head 
 lines rise in the Monday papers; and comfortable cit- 
 izens throw up their hands and cry, "Oh, the utterly 
 uncivilized brutes!" Really, there is nothing quite so 
 illuminative as a week spent in Clay Court during the 
 hot weather. 
 
 Mrs. and Mr. Bruggers, the worthy parents of our 
 little Joey, did much as their neighbours did, so long as 
 their money lasted. This Sabbath, Mrs. Bruggers 
 awakening in the middle of the forenoon, and sleepily 
 and with befuddled senses gazing around her to ascertain 
 the exact location of her whereabouts, gradually dis- 
 covered that she was not in bed, and being both 
 amazed and angered by the discovery, resorted to her 
 usual procedure when so moved. She called loudly 
 " Bruggers ! " 
 
 Mr. Bruggers, being, as if it were, still heavily weighted 
 down with the previous evening's dissipation, was at 
 first unable to reply. But at the second and fiercer call, 
 and after some squirming he managed to respond in a 
 muffled voice: "My love?" 
 
 "Where are you?" demanded Mrs. Bruggers, in- 
 dignantly. "Why don't you show yourself?" 
 
 The reason for this was of course the simple one that 
 Bruggers was lying face down under the wife of his 
 bosom. 
 
 Mr. Bruggers squirmed some more. Then as his
 
 122 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 senses grew clearer his condition became more and more 
 apparent to him, and after awhile he realized his situation. 
 
 "My love " he began timidly. 
 
 "Well?" Mrs. Bruggers's voice was growing clearer, 
 and fiercer. 
 
 "If you'll pardon me, my love " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I believe " 
 
 "What do you believe? Where are you?" 
 
 "I believe I believe, my love, that I'm under you!" 
 
 Here Mrs. Bruggers suddenly rolled herself to one side, 
 and Bruggers, a very dilapidated Bruggers, slowly drew 
 a long noisy breath and said: "Ah!" 
 
 "Bruggers!" The female master of the house was 
 sitting up and viewing her weaker half with an unsteady 
 but significant stare. 
 
 "My love ?" 
 
 "What were you doing there?" 
 
 "I I sleeping, I think, my love." 
 
 Mrs. Bruggers, preparing to launch into a terrible 
 tirade, discovered that her tongue was hopelessly dry. 
 
 "Bruggers," she hissed, handing him a quarter. "Go 
 out and get a half -pint; and if you so much as smell of it 
 before you get back I'll skin you alive. You hear?" 
 
 By one o'clock the precious pair were nearing the stage 
 they so much desired, and Joey breakfasted on the scraps 
 left over from last night. At two came some company, 
 a frizzled Mrs. Rambo, widow, and a frowzy Mr. Dolan, 
 widower. Mrs. Bruggers greeted them mightily. 
 
 "Mrs. Rambo! How are you?"
 
 Joey the Dreamef 123 
 
 "Sick,'* said Mrs. Rambo. "I'm never well any 
 more not since I got that pantomine poison from them 
 sardines Mr. Dolan brung me." 
 
 "They was good sardines," said Mr. Dolan, sitting 
 down firmly. "They was good sardines." 
 
 "You can say that," said the widow significantly. 
 "They didn't poison you." 
 
 "You et 'em all," said Mr. Dolan. "I didn't 
 get none." 
 
 "Well you brung 'em for me, didn't you?" 
 
 "I did, and you et 'em, too." 
 
 "And paid for it ever since Well, ah, well, a delicate 
 person must be careful; eh, Mrs. Bruggers? They can't 
 stand what some can, can they?" 
 
 "Say not," said Mrs. Bruggers. "Now, me; to look 
 at me you'd never think how delicate I am " 
 
 "Bruggers!" said Mr. Dolan, suddenly. "Got a 
 can?" 
 
 "Why yes." 
 
 "A can for beer?" 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 "Bruggers!" It was Mrs. Bruggers who spoke now. 
 
 "My love?" 
 
 "Go go at once, yourself. Can't you see poor Mrs. 
 Rambo is starving for a little drink? Hurry now." 
 
 And poor Bruggers hurried enthusiastically away, his 
 "Yes, my love," coming back to them jerkily, as if 
 shaken from a bottle, as he clattered out of the door. 
 
 "It's a blessed hot rain; but I held my hat over the 
 can," said he when he returned.
 
 124 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Bully boy!" said Mr. Dolan, reaching for the can. 
 "Bully boy!" 
 
 Half an hour rolled away, and with it several cans. 
 Mr. Dolan slipped his arm around Mrs. Rambo, and the 
 lady giggled with becoming modesty. Even Mrs. 
 Bruggers melted toward Bruggers. 
 
 "Bruggers," she said amiably, "sing um a song." 
 
 "My love!" protested Bruggers with true artistic 
 reluctance. 
 
 "Sing um that old one, about the preacher's wife," 
 commanded Mrs. Bruggers. 
 
 "But, my love, my voice!" 
 
 "Go on!" roared Dolan, whereupon Bruggers, looking 
 at the ceiling with an expression of infinite shrewdness, 
 and beating time with his glass, began in his high, 
 cackling voice: 
 
 "Come, all ye lads and lassies, and listen to my song, 
 
 If you'll pay good attention it won't be very long. 
 
 It's about an adventure, something that did befall" 
 
 The young and handsome helpmeet of old Reverend McCall." 
 
 "Hooray! Bully boy!" cried Mr. Dolan, slapping his 
 neighbour's ample back, and Joey could bear no more. He 
 was sick at heart and ashamed, too bitterly ashamed to 
 remain and witness the further degradation of his parents. 
 He was choking. He wanted to cry out and beg them to 
 stop, to think what a spectacle they were making 
 of themselves; but he had done so once and the memory 
 of the beating he had received for being "better than 
 your own parents" was with him still. He went out into
 
 Joey the Dreamer 125 
 
 the hall, clinched his little fists, and kept the tears from 
 coming. How he longed for a chance to talk with Ruth 
 then ! She would have talked of the things he wished to 
 hear. He could have told her how what was going on in 
 the room had hurt him, and she could have told him why. 
 But the Perkins baby was worse, and Ruth was 
 busy, caring for the infant, and for the fear-mad- 
 dened mother. Then Joey thought of Old Mag on the 
 floor above. 
 
 "I'll go see Mag," he said to himself. "She knows 
 Miss Ruth, and she's sick so she can't be jagged.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 OLD Mag was the woman whom the superinten- 
 dent had thrown out of the finishing-room of the 
 Factory a few days before. She wasn't old in 
 years a little over thirty but she was a discard, 
 nevertheless. What would have become of her but for 
 Ruth is a problem altogether too unpleasant to consider 
 here; but at all events, Ruth had taken her under her 
 sheltering wing, and Mag, to substantiate the super- 
 intendent's eagle-eyed judgment "You ain't fit for 
 anything but to be in bed, and here you're trying to draw 
 wages on us!" promptly gave way to the malady that 
 was robbing her of her strength and went to bed. 
 
 "I'll be up in a couple of days," she said, confidently. 
 "It's just a spell. I'll be hunting another job in a 
 day or two." 
 
 But the days came and went, and still she lay there. 
 The doctor likewise had come and gone, and after his 
 departure Ruth had consecrated herself to a consistent 
 programme of deceit. When she was in the room Old 
 Mag grew strong; when she went away the poor old face 
 on the pillows seemed to shrivel even smaller, and the 
 eyes were dead and without hope. 
 
 Under Ruth's regime the room was remarkable for the 
 fact that it was clean. On the little table there always 
 
 126
 
 Joey the Dreamer 127 
 
 managed to be a flower or two, and upon them Old Mag 
 divided the long, lonely hours when Ruth must be away. 
 It was almost quiet, too, that room, for it seemed that 
 the noises from the Tenement and the street, instead of 
 rolling harshly through the screens, halted at the windows 
 and remained outside, or, at the worst, came in on tip- 
 toes, like bad boys abashed in a gentle atmosphere. The 
 regular tenement odour had vanished in the face of per- 
 fect cleanliness; and here Old Mag lay at peace, a tiny 
 patch of untroubled backwater slipped into a turbulent, 
 muddy torrent. 
 
 Joey didn't knock. He pushed the door open a little 
 and peeped in. 
 
 "H'lo, Mag." 
 
 "H'lo, Joey." 
 
 "Care'f I come in?" 
 
 "I should say not. Come on in. How's everything?" 
 
 Joey came in and closed the door. "How you feeling, 
 Mag?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm all right. How you?" 
 
 "All right." 
 
 "I heard you wuz sick." 
 
 "Naw." Joey shook his head stubbornly. "Naw." 
 
 "Too bad it rained, ain't it?" volunteered Mag. 
 " Spoiled yer Sunday. Ye'ver notice how it always rains 
 Sundays?" 
 
 "Naw. Does it?" asked Joey, greatly interested. 
 
 "Seems like to me't does." 
 
 "Huh!" Joey sat down. "That ain't fair." 
 
 "What ain't fair?"
 
 128 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Raining Sundays." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "What makes it rain Sundays, Mag?" 
 
 "Ha, ha! 'Cause that's yer day off." 
 
 Joey sat silent, his great eyes growing greater as he 
 pondered this last answer. It was too deep for him. 
 
 "But't hadn't oughto." 
 
 "No. Lot's o* things hadn't oughto. They do jes* 
 the same. You have to stay in the house when it rams, 
 too." 
 
 "Sure." Joey pondered some more. "Who makes 
 it ram Sundays." 
 
 "I don't know, Joey. God makes it rain he makes 
 it rain Sundays." 
 
 "Naw!" Joey's protest was as eager as it was sharp. 
 "God don't do it. He wouldn't do anything like that. 
 You ask Miss Ruth; she'll tell you." 
 
 Joey sat up on the edge of the chair, his eagerness 
 almost carrying him off on the floor. 
 
 "She says He's got a soft spot for us guys who work 
 all week, and He wouldn't spoil our only day off. He 
 shoots the rain on week-days, but nix on Sunday. 
 On " Joey paused, and broke out shrewdly, "Say, 
 Mag, God lays off Sundays like the rest of us. Sure, 
 He can't be working all the time, either. That's how it 
 come to rain to-day. God ain't there, and the other 
 fellow puts the day on the bum. Ain't I right, Mag? 
 
 "Why why, I don't know, Joey," said^Magy 
 bewildered. "Mebbe, Joey, mebbe." 
 
 " Why, sure. Sure." He wagged his head confidently.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 129 
 
 "Sure. He wouldn't put the day on the bum for us. 
 Should say not." 
 
 He sat silent for awhile, and Mag, too startled to 
 follow his line of reasoning, lay and stared at him with 
 never a word. Joey's elbows came up on his knees, and 
 the little chin dropped into the weary hands. 
 
 "Mag," he said suddenly, not looking up. 
 
 "Hah?" 
 
 "Y'ever get jagged?" 
 
 "Hah?" 
 
 "Like ma?" 
 
 "Should say not." 
 
 "Why does ma get jagged, Mag?" 
 
 "Why why, I dunno, Joey. Some folks does; 
 some doesn't." 
 
 "Well, why don't you?" 
 
 Mag raised herself on an elbow and almost sat up in 
 bed at this. She stared at Joey for a full minute, stared 
 at him with the blank eyes of one to whom has been 
 propounded a line of thought so new, so original, so 
 startling, as to overthrow the mental habits of a lifetime. 
 Then she dropped back. 
 
 "Joey, not saying a word against your ma, I must say 
 that I never was that kind of a girl." 
 
 Mag's thin lips closed with a snap, and there was 
 silence. Joey hitched around on his chair, the puckering 
 of his little old brow betraying his nervousness. 
 
 "Well why is ma, Mag?" he burst out in agony. 
 "Hah?" 
 
 Old Mag relaxed into a gay little titter. "Goodness
 
 130 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 knows, Joey. Some folks is; some isn't. But most is, 
 1 guess; most is." 
 
 "A wonder," groaned Joey, "she won't be good." 
 
 " Good? Why, sakes, kid, you don't want to go saying 
 your ma ain't good!" 
 
 "She ain't, she ain't, she ain't! " cried Joey, the agony 
 of his tormented young soul bursting forth in the wail. 
 "She ain't good. She ain t like God. She " 
 
 "Like God? Like God?" Again Mag rose on her 
 elbow. "What what d'you want?" 
 
 "She's like the rest of 'em. They ain't nobody good. 
 All they wanto do is to booze, an' holler, an' fight, an' 
 hate each other, 'n make me wisht I wuz dead. They 
 don't wanta be good. They don't care anything 'bout 
 God. Oh, I don't see what fun they have the way they 
 do An' then the can an' the bottle takes most the 
 money 'n we don't get 'nough to eat. And suppose they 
 was good. We'd all have a cinch, wouldn't we? Ain't 
 I right?" 
 
 "Mebbe, Joey; mebbe you are.'* 
 
 "Why, sure. Did y'ever hear Miss Ruth tell about 
 it? She was telling last night down't the Park. Says, 
 'You can't never be happy unless you're good.' Mebbe't 
 ain't so, too. Gee! Look at ma and pa, and everybody 
 'round here; they ain't good an' they're sore all the 
 time. An' Miss Ruth is good, an' you only got to look 
 at her to know how swell it is !o be like her. Don't you 
 think God looks something like Miss Ruth, Mag?" 
 
 "Goodness sakes, Joey! He ain't no woman." 
 
 "I know, but "he stopped abruptly. To explain
 
 Joey the Dreamer 131 
 
 what was in his heart was too much for him. He knew 
 what it was well enough, but the words were not his. 
 "I wish I knew something," he said. " Mag, why don't 
 other folks be like Miss Ruth?" 
 
 "Goodness, Joey; they can't many be like her. She 
 ain't no common person, and she wasn't brung up here, 
 neither. She was a swell young dame when she was 
 a-growing up, and went to school and all that." 
 
 "Sure." There was a brooding silence. "Mag, if 
 you'd been a swell young dame when you was growing 
 up, and had went to school and everything, you'd be 
 like her, too, eh?" 
 
 "Who? Me? Shucks!" 
 
 "An' if I was going to school I might know something, 
 an' I might be good. Can't be good, now; don't know 
 how." He retreated sullenly into himself. "I got to 
 be like the rest, hain't I?" 
 
 "You're a good boy, Joey." 
 
 "I wanto be. Ain't no fun being bad. It's wrong, 
 too. I get scared; I don't see how folks dast be bad. 
 Some of 'em's 'fraid o' the coppers, but I ain't. Some- 
 thing else I'm 'fraid of. Bigger'n any copper." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Dunno. I prayed last night, Mag," 
 
 "Did ye?" 
 
 "Eyah. But I didn't get no satisfaction." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Don't know enough. I couldn't see anything. Miss 
 Ruth can. She knows." 
 
 "Wait till you're older, Joey; then you'll see."
 
 132 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Aw gee! Think so?" For an instant the little 
 old face, lighted up with the holy fires of hope, was young 
 and beautiful to see. Then the fire went out like a light 
 that is snuffed, and the oldness came back to its own. 
 "Naw, I won't." His voice was weary and dead. "I 
 won't see anything. I'll be like pa, or Dolan, an' all 
 of em." 
 
 "Oh, no, no, Joey! You won't. You can't. It 
 ain't in you. You won't grow up like that any more'n 
 a any more'n a flower'll grow up to be a garbage box. 
 Them things is all fixed, Joey. You wuz meant to be 
 good. When you get big you'll be swell, and you'll 
 have a bunch o' coin, and you won't chase the can or hit 
 th' bottle 'r beat up yer wife no, you won't, Joey; 
 you ain't made that way. An' you'll know a lot; I 
 can see it'n your eyes. Honest, Joey, I b'lieve you're 
 wiser now'n most grown folks. Grown folks don't 
 know so much." 
 
 "Gowan," said Joey bitterly. "I don't know nothin'. 
 An' I won't get swell an' all that you said, neither. I 
 know But I won't rush the can no. Nix. Mag, 
 I wish I could make pitchers." 
 
 "Snap shots?" 
 
 "Nah. Like what they have outside the Dime 
 Museum. An' I wisht I knew what God looked like. 
 Then I'd make a pitcher of Him, an' show it to people 
 to ev'rybody an' then they'd all be good after they 
 see it. See?" 
 
 "I guess so." 
 
 "Sure you do." He dropped his high-held head in a
 
 Joey the Dreamer 133 
 
 way more eloquent than any words can be. " What's the 
 use?" The shrug of his bony shoulders was centuries 
 old. "What chanct?" 
 
 "Aw, Joey! You hadn't oughto say that. Why 
 why you're young you're young" 
 
 "I know," grunted Joey stubbornly. "I know. I 
 prayed, but I didn't get no satisfaction. That's the 
 give-away." 
 
 "Joey! You mustn't feel like that! Why, goodness 
 sakes, kid, you hain't had no practice what you 'xpect 
 without no practice ! Why why look, Joey, Miss 
 Ruth's had practice all her life. You didn't expect to 
 get satisfaction like her at the very start did you?" 
 
 Joey thought it over for a moment. "That's so," 
 he agreed. "Mebbe it does take practice." 
 
 " Why, sure. Keep trying. Keep keep on hoping. 
 You're gone if you don't hope, Joey; you got hope 
 when you're young, 'cause that's your chanct. Why 
 'You ain't got no chanct!' Shame on you, Joey. Shame 
 on you." * 
 
 "Aw all right," said Joey, brightening a little. 
 "I'll try it again. D'you ever pray, Mag?" 
 
 "I'm old, Joey. Say, now, don't forget; you gotto 
 keep on trying. Remember." 
 
 "D'y' ever think I'll know what He looks like?" 
 
 "Well " 
 
 "So I c'n make the pitcher, I mean?" 
 
 Mag thought for a long time. Rather, for a long time 
 she searched for words to express what was in her mind. 
 
 "Why, sure," she said, finally. "Sure you'll know.
 
 134 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 Some day you almost know now how to make it. 
 The pitcher, I mean." 
 
 Joey nodded his little old head. "Some day, p'raps 
 Mag, you don't know yourself, do you?" 
 
 "I'm 'fraid not, Joey." 
 
 "Why don't you? You're good." 
 
 Mag smiled a wonderful smile then, a smile of such 
 patience, humility, and sweetness as is seen only on the 
 faces of helpless poor women. Oh, the heart-tugging 
 smiles on those withered faces ! The silent acceptance of 
 every imposition, every cruelty that the world sees fit to 
 put upon them; the tale of a life of oppression, without 
 one ray of hope, one kindness from man, or one sign from 
 God. And still they smile, still they are patient. Surely 
 the angels are misnamed. They are not those comfortable 
 full-bodied figures that trumpet the celestial skies. If 
 angels there are, they are the spirits of those shrivelled 
 little sisters with the starved, patient eyes and the 
 humble smile the worked-out, decent women of the 
 poor. 
 
 "It's hard to say why, Joey," said Mag, slowly. "You 
 see some folks don't have much chance to see Him. 
 Shops and basements and such places, Joey; not such 
 awful good places. It's like there wasn't room for Him 
 there." 
 
 She was looking at Joey, but she seemed not to see him 
 at all. And Joey made no more noise than a silent mouse, 
 for he saw that Mag felt like talking, and her words went 
 straight to his heart. 
 
 "Where was there room for Him?" continued Mag in
 
 Joey the Dreamer 135 
 
 a voice that no longer was all gentle. "It's a cinch it 
 wasn't in that basement on Boston Avenue where I was 
 born, and where I learned to hate my father for beating 
 me. There wasn't much chance for anything fancy in 
 that way there. One room, and that way at the end of the 
 hall in the basement; and father making me chase the 
 can when he had money and so drunk nights that I was 
 afraid to go into the house. Where did I sleep? On the 
 stairs, going down, with other kids and the men who 
 were too drunk to get up. Funny to think how that was, 
 Joey; and here I am talking to you about it, as if I'd never 
 slept on stairs or run for beer for my father. How things 
 change, don't they? Father? They took him away 
 for beating mother too much. The landlord squealed 
 because ma was hollering too often; and then ma and 
 I began to sew About five I guess I was then; and I 
 been sewing ever since. We was on vests take 'em 
 home all the time then. Sweat shops after that, and 
 there ain't much God in a sweat shop, Joey; only the 
 foreman Why, I declare, I'm gabbing your head 
 off, ain't I?" 
 
 "Go on; tell me," begged Joey. 
 
 "We used to fool the church people when they come 
 around. Ma used to hide me: 'No kids here.' Oh, 
 she was smart, ma was, except with pa. He could get 
 ahead of her every time. 'No, I ain't got a cent for you,' 
 she'd say he was boning her for beer money all the 
 time. Then he'd put his arm around her, and after awhile 
 she'd own up and give him the money. 'Course when he 
 died it got better. He died away from home; we never
 
 136 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 saw him again after they took him away that time. And 
 we sewed, ma and me. 
 
 "I don't know how long it was before ma died, but she 
 was coughing the awfulest time, I remember. Sweat- 
 shop cough. Lots of them has it; but ma was small and 
 weak, anyhow, and she didn't last as long as some. 'Mag,' 
 she used to say, 'keep straight, but don't you marry no 
 man that drinks'; and I kept both promises. She was 
 in bed, then, and I was pretty near left alone, but I 
 kept my word. 
 
 "I wasn't home when she died. I was at the shop and 
 when I come home there was no light in the room and I 
 knew right away that something was wrong. She was 
 the 'fraidest thing of the dark you ever saw, ma was, and 
 she used to have me set the lamp right near her bed on 
 a chair so she could light it when it got dark, even if she 
 couldn't get up. But this night it wasn't lit. And I 
 went in and I says remember it plain's if it was 
 yesterday 'Hello, ma,' I says, and she didn't answer. 
 'Hello, ma,' again. Then I run over to the bed and 
 grabbed her hand, and it was so cold it froze me Then 
 I lit the lamp myself, and ma was dead, and she had a 
 match in her hand, all ready to light the lamp I can 
 remember it plain's if it was yesterday. Ah, Joey, run 
 along, 'cause I see you want to go. 'Tain't no fun 
 listening to old women's gabbing." 
 
 But Joey sat as if hypnotized in the chair. "And so 
 you never saw Him?" he broke out. 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 "Never?"
 
 Joey the Dreamer 137 
 
 "No." Mag's lips trembled a little. "You see, I 
 kept on sewing until I heard I could get more money over 
 to the Factory. Then I went there. Don't know how 
 long, but it was a long time. And then I got sick." 
 A pitiful attempt at a smile framed itself upon Mag's 
 lips. "So no, I can't say I know much about what 
 He looks like, Joey." 
 
 Joey nodded gravely. He understood, but again he 
 could not express himself. He sat staring at Mag in a 
 way that made her uneasy, then abruptly he leaped 
 to his feet. 
 
 "I gotto be going," he explained. 
 
 "Joey," called Mag, feebly beckoning with a hand on 
 which there were only three fingers. 
 
 "Eyah?" 
 
 "There's a banana there on the table. Go on, now; 
 take it. No, I don't want it. It's for you. I wisht I 
 had two for you, Joey." 
 
 She watched him as he peeled the fruit with avid 
 fingers. 
 
 "Are you feeling all right, Joey?" she asked. "You 
 look just a little ailing." 
 
 Joey started for the door. 
 
 "I'm all right," he said, with a bite of banana in his 
 mouth. "Sure, I'm all right. S'long." 
 
 And the door closed behind him and Old Mag was 
 left alone to reflection over Joey's wonderful ideas.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MRS. DICKY CLEWS was Ruth's dear friend. 
 She loved and revered Ruth for being all that 
 she was not. Ruth's removal to Clay Court 
 was a blow to her. 
 
 "The dear, dear girl!" she wailed. "Just think of 
 her, our incomparable Ruth, living over there. Think 
 of that girl among those people. Oh, it's too awful to 
 think about." 
 
 She resolved with all the strength of her soul that she 
 would make a journey to the Tenement and beg Ruth 
 to give it up. But the day set for the event turned out 
 to be rudely warm, and Mrs. Clews decided that it would 
 be just too awful over there in that district. For 
 which Mrs. Dicky Clews was not to be blamed one 
 little bit. 
 
 When she heard from Dicky of my proposed expedition 
 of discovery into the district, she alighted upon me with 
 all the impetuosity of her charming nature. I must 
 I simply must make Ruth understand that nothing 
 could save her, Mrs. Clews's, life from utter desolation 
 but for her, Ruth, to go motoring with her Sunday 
 evening. 
 
 "She'll come, she'll come even to help me if you do 
 your duty and deliver my message as I have given it to 
 
 138
 
 Joey the Dreamer 139 
 
 you," said Mrs. Dicky. "Tell her tell her that I 
 will be unhappy for days if she doesn't come with you and 
 make up the, four for a ride up north. That will bring 
 her; I know Ruth Arthur." 
 
 It seemed she did, for Ruth agreed to go. 
 
 She was not in her room at the time appointed, but I 
 knew where to find her. Down in Perkins's two-room 
 back cave she had gone for a last few minutes' watch of 
 the baby, and the baby being quiet and apparently much 
 better she came out of that hole with something like joy 
 upon her countenance. But it must have been very 
 dark in there after she had gone. 
 
 Sunday evening in Clay Court the tenement boils and 
 bubbles over into the street with sweltering life. The 
 hot streets, under the hot shades of night, remain as 
 purgatories, the stones heated during the day to torture 
 during the night. The tenements within are hell. Every 
 window is an opening where faces, young and old, crowd 
 together gasping for air. The cheeks of the women are .a 
 slimy gray, and their eyes are wild, half mad with the 
 torture of their daily life. The young children moan and 
 tear at their feverish bodies. One of them, a little mite 
 of a girl, tosses on the damp blocks in the street and 
 moans, "Oh, please, ma; please make it cool again." 
 And all the time, as darkness comes on, it seems to 
 grow warmer. 
 
 There had been much drinking during the day, and 
 more talk. The rain had stopped and the talk was all 
 out-of-doors. The threatened wage-cut, of course, was 
 the predominant subject. Men cursed the Company and
 
 140 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 treated one another to drink with the price of a day's 
 food. Then they grew moody and began to think; and 
 in every eye was the look of pain, of torture, while 
 even the crowded buildings seemed to cry out with the 
 misery they held. 
 
 Up the Avenue the church bells began to ring, calling 
 to evening service. You could hear them in the brawl- 
 ing medley if you listened hard, but there was no message 
 in them now; they uttered merely a series of brassy notes, 
 for no message could penetrate into our world. For the 
 world was damned, and its people likewise, and there 
 was no hope. This was what could be heard in Clay 
 Court Sunday night while the bells were calling. "Why 
 do you ring, bells? " one might have asked; and the bells, 
 had they been honest, must have answered: "We ring 
 for the happy part of the world." 
 
 For all the world is not like this; all the world is not 
 damned. No, even Clay Court knew, from hearsay, of 
 the places of the blest; and, miracle of miracles! Ruth 
 and I got on a street car and were transported thither in 
 a twenty -minute ride. It took only that long to go to the 
 home of Mrs. Clews, in the world of the fortunate. Or, 
 at least, it was the world of plenty, of more than plenty 
 of too much. 
 
 The world was pleasant here. It was more than 
 pleasant, it was inspiring. It was full of confidence, of 
 hope, and of hopes and dreams realized. All things were 
 pleasing, some beautiful, many wonderful. 
 
 Great, proud houses reared their walls, finely fitted 
 and pleasing to the eye, in the midst of spacious
 
 Joey the Dreamer 141 
 
 grounds. Correct walks led from correct gateways to 
 doorways which soothed the senses to enter. All was as 
 it should be. The path of life was pleasant. Order and 
 accuracy obtained in spite of superabundance. All things 
 pleased the eye, nothing occurred to offend the ear. 
 Even the night air itself seemed a work of art, purified, 
 laundered, and tempered to make it pleasant to 
 mankind and his wife. 
 
 "Mr. Lord! So good of you!" Mrs. Dicky greeted 
 in a way that was a study in itself. "And you did 
 succeed in making our wonderful Ruth come with us. My 
 dear Ruth ! Really, you should do this sort of thing more 
 often. Set you up after working so hard among your 
 pets. Must be trying on you over there, my dear, in 
 this hot weather? And as for me I've had nothing 
 but woe all summer. I I've actually lost my Baby. 
 Yes, he's gone forever. I've quite given up hope. We've 
 offered a thousand to the police if they bring him back, 
 but no results. Just a week ago to day the dear little 
 love slipped out of the garden and that was the end 
 of my Baby. Yes; disappeared. Oh, it's knocked me 
 all up. Every morning I look into his room, and there's 
 his little cot empty ! Everything always pounds you 
 so when you're least fit to buck up. 'Pon my soul I 
 don't know what I shall do if it doesn't let up. Here I've 
 simply got to stay in town for another week. Think 
 of that! And all on account of Dicky here and his 
 insane ambition." 
 
 "Haw, haw!" laughed Dicky. "Haw, haw! You can 
 hike if you like, y'know."
 
 142 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Daresay." Mrs. Dicky's black eyes spat well-bred 
 fire. "But you must stay, of course." 
 
 "Of course," said Dicky. "Haw, haw! Of course. 
 Business y'know, Miss Arthur, business. And who so 
 cruel as to desert the struggling hubby on the field 
 of business battle. Who, indeed? Not the present 
 incumbent, b'gad. Haw, haw!" 
 
 At this Mrs. Dicky's beautiful back suddenly stared 
 her Dicky in the face. 
 
 "You must excuse him, dear. He's a business man. 
 Perfect slave " 
 
 "I am, really, I am, now, Miss Arthur," interrupted 
 Dicky. "No, no; 'pon my word, Lord, don't laugh. 
 Actually have to stay over the week to vote at the meet- 
 ing next Saturday. Oh, an awful worry this summer, 
 an awful strain. Got to vote an increased dividend. 
 Have to do it, y'know. Everybody's paying big this 
 year. Have to do it, too. Can't lag behind, y'know; 
 not at the clip the game's running now. Vote a wage- 
 cut Saturday, I understand. Business dropped off a 
 little; got to do something. Oh, I tell you frankly, Lord, 
 it's hard-going for me; and I must say all respects to 
 the greatly lamented pater I wish by Jove, I do 
 I wish he hadn't chucked such a swath of his filthy luc' 
 into Consolidated Factory I say, nothing wrong, 
 old man?" 
 
 "Not a word," said I. 
 
 "Haw! Miss Arthur, won't you feel sorry for me? 
 Pity the poor business slave thing, y'know?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Ruth, fervently.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 143 
 
 "Haw! Appreciated at last! Haw, haw!" spluttered 
 Dicky. 
 
 " Thank goodness ! "said Mrs. Dicky distantly. "Here's 
 the car." 
 
 Another wonder of this wonderful world. An instru- 
 ment of motion that moved with the rhythm of music, 
 a symphony of transportation. Out of the correct 
 grounds on to the correct boulevard it rolled with the ease 
 of slow flowing water. A slight break in tone, as the 
 speed moved up a notch, then hmm ! and with the 
 drone of a buzzy bee the asphalt began to flow backward, 
 the panorama of lights, of vistas, of life, began to flash 
 past, and the night air became a breeze of magical effects. 
 
 ("Blamed teakettle," grumbled Dicky. "But I'll 
 have a car for next year. Four makes ordered to get 
 a good one.") 
 
 Hummm! A curve in the asphalt and the lake ran 
 toward us in a threatening sweep, then, laughing, curved 
 gracefully away. The fresh feel of water in the air, the 
 moonlight on the waves little blinking waves; the 
 sense of mastery over all the landscape. It was magic, 
 sheer magic. 
 
 "Rotten long ride," said Dicky. 
 
 The Park, cool, dark; punctuated with lights that 
 shone on green leaves and grass, and on the people on 
 benches. Then more of the easily flowing asphalt; the 
 wonderful panorama of links and shadows; and long 
 stretches of the wonderful, silver-specked lake that 
 heaved and moved only enough to make perfect the 
 picture; and overhead, the heavens, the garden of stars,
 
 144 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 in full bloom. And always there was the night rushing 
 up to meet us, and the fresh air! 
 
 "Bet you what you like we break down in a dry dis- 
 trict," offered Dicky generously. He was striving 
 desperately to illumine the evening. Mrs. Dicky 
 apathetically took the wager. 
 
 "Though you never pay," she added. 
 
 "Haw, haw!" said Dicky. Then, being smitten by 
 inspiration, "Double it that I do." Which witticism, 
 with variations, kept him in pleasant conversation for 
 miles. ' He had almost thought of something just as 
 good when we reached the park. 
 
 Another wonder. A playground in keeping with the 
 rest of this wonderful world. It was beautiful. It was 
 all too fine and ideal to belong to a world that held a 
 Clay Court. And when the symphony players began, in 
 perfect tone with the setting about them, the riches 
 below, the wonderful stars above, one might have been 
 pardoned for believing for a moment that the beautiful 
 dreams do come true. 
 
 "Really," confided Mrs. Dicky over her fan to me, 
 "Dicky is getting to be a trial. Heard about his latest 
 idea? No? Not really? Where have you been? He 
 wants to divorce me. Yes, really. Shocking of such a 
 nice little fellow as Dicky, isn't it? Wants me to go away 
 for the summer anywhere then he'll be a bad 
 Dicky, and I'll come back and find out all about it and 
 have cause for suing on indisputable grounds. Ha, ha, 
 ha! That terrible, scheming little Dicky! I admire 
 him sometimes almost, really I do."
 
 Joey the Dreamer 145 
 
 "Has our Richard been casting eyes elsewhere, then?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "Dicky? Pooh! No, indeed. But he's bored to 
 death. He says, 'A fellow's got to be doing something, 
 y'know some thing or he'll go stale.' What, oh! 
 what shall I do to him? Hush! Don't don't laugh, 
 please, here comes our pastor, the Rev. Mr. Danesty. 
 Now watch Dicky polish up his rep' on his reverence." 
 
 Dicky had the Rev. Mr. Danesty by the hand. 
 
 "Not working this evening, Danesty? Out for a little 
 recreation after strenuous labours that sort of thing? " 
 
 "My pulpit is occupied by Mr. McCoomber, a young 
 pastor awaiting a call, Mr. Clews," replied the Reverend 
 Danesty. "As you say, I am out for an evening 
 of- 
 
 "Yes; that sort of thing. So am I. Terrible strain 
 on me lately, Danesty, terrible strain." 
 
 "Ah, you mustn't overwork, Mr. Clews." 
 
 "Haw, haw! Trust me," said Dicky. "Awful decent 
 chap, that fellow Danesty," he confided to Ruth as the 
 divine moved on to greet Mrs. Dicky. "Knows his 
 business like a business man. Fine head, bully head. 
 Go into anything and do well. Does well now, I under- 
 stand. Came to St. James with nothing but his looks; 
 owns quite a handful of stocks now. You can afford to 
 put a bit in the way of a fellow like Danesty, y'know. 
 Haw, haw! I did myself a good turn with him, unloaded 
 a hundred Consolidated Factory on him as a token of 
 esteem. That's a little trouble rid of. Eh? Nothing 
 wrong? Shall I get some " .
 
 146 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Nothing," said Ruth. "Let us listen to the 
 music, for instance." 
 
 "Music?" said Dicky. "Oh yes good idea." 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Danesty was approaching Mrs. Dicky. 
 
 "Ah! Any news of the ah of Baby, Mrs Clews?" 
 he asked solicitously. "I sincerely hope ' 
 
 "I don't any more," said Mrs. Dicky, nobly resigned. 
 "He's gone. He's lost to me. I know it instinctively." 
 
 His Reverence sighed sympathetically. "We must 
 bear up bravely under our sorrows, Mrs. Clews. Idle 
 words, I am aware; but true after all. One doesn't 
 keep young if one gives way to grief. And not to 
 
 keep young " the Rev. Mr. Danesty bowed 
 
 gallantly " would be a terrible misfortune for us all who 
 are favoured with your acquaintance, Mrs. Clews. 
 And remember, there is always Hope." 
 
 "No; no more," said Mrs. Dicky. "But you're right 
 about the keeping young idea. And you said it so well, 
 your Reverence, you said it very well, indeed. Don't you 
 think it was well said, Mr .Lord that is, for a " Mrs. 
 Dicky shot a playful glance up atDanesty "for a divine? " 
 
 "No one could have said it better, Mrs. Clews," I 
 agreed. His Reverence beamed with extra pleasure. 
 
 "By the way, Mr. Lord," he said lightly, "I haven't seen 
 you much lately?" 
 
 "No; nor Ruth Arthur, either," supplemented Mrs. 
 Dicky. "She's gone crazy over her greasy kids, and I 
 suspect that Mr. Lord is going likewise." 
 
 "Ah, no." The Rev. Mr. Danesty honoured me with 
 a full four inches of smiling flattery. " Mr. Lord is a man
 
 Joey the Dreamer 147 
 
 of the world, and full of experience. He knows the 
 futility of silly theories, and is not foolish enough to 
 waste any of his valuable time." 
 
 "No danger of yourself doing that, either; is there, 
 Danesty?" 
 
 "Ah! You surely think more of my judgment than to 
 imagine such a thing." 
 
 "Yes. No wasting valuable time for you. By the 
 way, Danesty, I heard a sermon last night." 
 
 "A sermon?" 
 
 "Yes; Miss Arthur was speaking to a crowd of working 
 people. I really wonder how you would look delivering 
 her text." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 "'Do to others as you would like them ' You know 
 what I mean. What are the exact words, Danesty?" 
 
 "I have forgotten," said Mr. Danesty, stiffly. "I 
 am sorry to hear that so accomplished a young woman 
 as Miss Arthur has taken to speaking to the rabble 
 of the streets." 
 
 And I rose, laughing, and drove Dicky away from 
 Ruth so we might sit alone. 
 
 "Are you glad you came?" 
 
 "Yes," said Ruth. 
 
 "So am I. And I'm glad we met Danesty." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "He made me see many things. Now I know why 
 you feel you must go on as you are doing. I wonder who 
 is most in the dark, these poor devils over there in Clay 
 Court, or foolish, good-natured Dicky Clews?"
 
 148 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 At last the evening was over. The motor rolled us 
 back, along the wonderful lake, through the park, over 
 the flowing asphalt, to the Clews's residence. 
 
 "Actually I dread going home," wailed Mrs. Dicky. 
 "Now I'll have to go past his little room. I'll know that 
 no dear, darling Baby is sleeping on his little cot. I'll 
 awake in the morning, and there'll be no Baby no 
 cunning little bark to greet me in the morning nothing! 
 Oh, my dear, I shall go mad. I know I shall if they do 
 not find my Baby!" 
 
 She kissed Ruth appealingly. "You'll come and see 
 me again soon won't you, dear. You're a tonic and - 
 and a disinfectant to have around." 
 
 "Haw, haw!" said Dicky sleepily. "We 'gree on one 
 thing, present incumbent and myself, jus' one: It's a 
 real hard oP world to be in. G'night." 
 
 Twenty minutes on the jolting cars and we were back 
 in Clay Court. 
 
 It was different here. The doorways and sidewalks 
 were full of sleeping men, women, and children puddles 
 of humanity. Even the streets served as sleeping places, 
 damp and steaming as they were. The roofs were 
 crowded; for the shut-in rooms, the little, cave-like com- 
 partments of the great, sweltering brick box, were 
 unbearable dungeons in which no one could abide. Chil- 
 dren tossed and moaned a feeble protest. A woman moved 
 over the hot gravel of the roof hunting a breath of air 
 in which to lay her pillow. A man cursed her sleepily 
 as she stumbled over him. The woman moved on in 
 silence. So the Tenement tried to sleep.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 149 
 
 Yet the all-seeing stars gleamed hard and dry above, 
 nor did they laugh. The moon, impartial artist of 
 night, gently touched the black ugliness with shim- 
 mery white and silver. But Peace there was not. 
 Only there was a twitching rest, in preparation for the 
 remorseless morrow. 
 
 News came quickly. A lamp burning quietly in the 
 first floor rear told the story. The Perkins baby was 
 dead. 
 
 "And just before it went it held up its little hands 
 and it says: Tapa!'" 
 
 A mere incident. The Tenement said, "Lucky 
 little devil." 
 
 "Oh, John!" whispered Ruth in the hall. "This 
 would end if the others knew." She leaned her little 
 head against my arm as we prepared to part, for she 
 was very tired. 
 
 "It would," she whispered. "You know it would, 
 don't you?" 
 
 And I answered, "Yes." For that seemed the truth, 
 even after the Rev. Mr. Danesty.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 JOEY was wrong. He was not all right, as he had 
 stoutly informed Old Mag. When Freddy and 
 Delia came to their machines on Monday 
 morning Joey was not among those present. 
 
 There is a certain form of test in this Monday morning 
 re-meeting in the Factory. One gets the fag-end of 
 stories by the mere fact of a worker's presence, absence, 
 or appearance. A paster left her bench one Saturday 
 evening with this terse remark to her friends: "Getting 
 married to-morrow, girls. S'long." Monday morning 
 she was back at the bench. "Then he trun you down?" 
 gasped her friends. "I did it," said the girl. "I trun 
 him down. The slob! He didn't have the license. 
 'Skiddo,' I sez, when he sez it don't make no difference. 
 'I may love you something awful, but I ain't no silly 
 fairy out of a foolish book Sadie! What did you 
 do; swipe my sleeves?" 
 
 In the matter of absence, among the adults or semi- 
 adults, it may spell comedy of a terribly broad sort, or 
 tragedy, both usually having conception in alcohol. 
 And as for appearance, there is a whole epic in a black 
 eye or a cheap little ring on a little finger. It is on 
 Saturday night and Sunday that things happen for the 
 workers. They live then. And on Monday morning, 
 
 150
 
 Joey the Dreamer 151 
 
 stepping back into their places on the grisly mill, they 
 look at one another to see what living may have brought. 
 
 Freddy and Delia missed Joey first of all. Joey always 
 was there before them, a white little face hopelessly 
 waiting for the ten-hour grind to begin. They knew 
 now that the face had meant something to them, though 
 just what neither would have tried to say. 
 
 "He must have overslept," said Delia, as she drew 
 the dusty cover from her machine. As the shiny, worn 
 instrument appeared to her, she sat down on her stool 
 and sighed. Another week had begun, another instal- 
 ment of the weary, endless, round. And here is a strange 
 fact: each Monday the Factory people wish it was 
 Saturday again wish that they were a week older. 
 Delia looked about her with disgust. The Factory was 
 not beautiful. It looked like an unpopulated prison. 
 It always looked so on Monday mornings. The dirty 
 gray covers on the machines suggested shrouds. The 
 dust lay undisturbed on all things. The drear emptiness 
 of the semi-inhabited room was ghastly; and though 
 everybody bustled and lighted gas jets it was un- 
 healthily quiet until the power started. So Delia 
 sighed, and Freddy, as if to interpret the very thought 
 in her mind, said: 
 
 "Well, we had a touch of high life Saturday eve', yer 
 leddyship." 
 
 "Was that what it was?" said Delia idly. 
 
 "So they say. How'd you like it?" 
 
 "Fine!" 
 
 Freddy looked a trifle disappointed at the warmth of
 
 152 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 her reply but went on: "How would you like to be a 
 merry butterfly among the lights as a regular thing?" 
 
 "Fine!" repeated Delia. 
 
 "Hah?" 
 
 "Fine! Swell! I wish't was Sat'day eve' again." 
 
 Freddy grew more serious. "You'd like that? 
 chasing 'round nights to shows, and and " 
 
 "And swell restirunts. Would I? Oh, maybe I 
 wouldn't just swim in it. Um ! Waltz me around again, 
 Freddy! I can just see those swell, funny-coloured 
 lamps in that place we went to, and the swell clothes 
 Course," (with a shrug) " I wouldn't care to chase 'round 
 without I had swell clothes myself." 
 
 "But if you had them, you would?" 
 
 "Would I? Well! Think I'm crazy? Would I over- 
 look a good thing?" 
 
 "Does that kind of a game look so awful good to you, 
 Dell that night-game?" 
 
 "Why, sure. Poof! Just look at this dust." 
 
 "If you had the swell clothes and the chance 
 you'd " 
 
 "Up to my neck. Why not?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing." Freddy carefully tightened a nut on 
 the stitcher. "But when you come to think of it, there 
 ain't anything much to that kind of stuff, shows an* 
 all that. Nothing that lasts, you know, Dell." 
 
 "Lasts long enough for me. Lasts one night, and 
 then some." 
 
 "Eyah. Then the morning after." 
 
 "And then another evening coining after that."
 
 Joey the Dreamer , 153 
 
 Freddy stood up straight now. "You do care for the 
 frow-frow and the shining lights, don't you, kid?" he 
 said steadily. He was very serious, and Delia noticing 
 it, flared up seriously, too. 
 
 "Care for 'em! Why shouldn't I care for 'em. Why 
 shouldn't I be hungry for those shining things? Good 
 land! how can you ask that? Do you know how I've 
 lived all my life? Ever since I can remember, I was 
 workun'. A slave working to get just enough to live 
 on to keep me alive so I could work, and get enough to 
 live on an' no more not a thing more. Never had any- 
 thing not anything. If I had, if I'd had one teeny 
 taste of these things, it mightn' be so hard. I see other 
 people have things; and I want 'em myself. I want 'em. 
 I tell yuh, I want 'em, I want 'em, I want 'em ! And, by 
 Gawd! I'm going to get 'em, too." She dropped her eyes 
 the moment her tongue stopped going. Freddy did not 
 move. Only he stood and looked at her, the kindly, big 
 brotherly grin in one corner of his mouth. 
 
 "Don't starve yourself any more, kid," said he. 
 "You're going to be fed all the shiny things you can 
 stomach from now on. Go's far's you like, kid; I'm 
 the providing boy. But, say, Dell; there's something 
 better than all that stuff. Yes, there is. What do you 
 think of that game stacked up against a Home a real 
 Home of your own?" 
 
 " I don't think anything about it. I know what's fun." 
 
 "Sure." He saw how deeply he had touched her and 
 relented. "But you remember what happened last 
 night?"
 
 154 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well?" They eyed each other. Freddy smiled, 
 but Delia spoke first. 
 
 "Freddy," said she looking at the clock on the wall, 
 "You're sure a good scout to me!" And then without a 
 pause, "Gee whiz! One minute to seven, and Joey 
 ain't here yet. He's locked out now, poor kid, and 
 he'll lose half a day." 
 
 "Maybe he isn't coming at all to-day," said Freddy. 
 "He was looking pretty tough yesterday." 
 
 "Huh!" said Delia. "That ain't anything new." 
 Then the power came, the belts creaked, the pulleys 
 groaned, the shafting protested like rheumatic bones. 
 A moment later the machines were clattering insanely; 
 and the day's work had begun. 
 
 Freddy was right. Joey was not coming at all to-day. 
 As we have said, Joey was not all right. 
 
 After he left Old Mag he went down in the hall and ate 
 his banana and wondered what was the matter with his 
 head. It felt hot and big. He went out bareheaded and 
 turned his face up toward the cooling drops of rain, but 
 the rain stopped in a few minutes and he was hotter 
 than ever. He slipped up to the corner and drank, drank, 
 dra/ik, at the hydrant in a horse-trough before Sodders's 
 saloon, and though his stomach swelled with the water 
 he drank it seemed that he never could cool the burning 
 in his throat. He went back and sat on the curb. 
 
 He slunk to his bed early and without any supper, and 
 dreamed horribly. He dreamed that he had lost his 
 job, and that the Superintendent pursued him out into
 
 Joey the Dreamer 155 
 
 the street, and even home, to the Tenement; and the 
 Superintendent was as black as coal and as big as all the 
 world. Then there was a gleam of light, and he saw 
 Miss Ruth and she reached forward and almost saved 
 him from the big, black pursuer, but something seemed 
 to happen to her, and it was all dark again. In the 
 morning, in answer to his mother's call: "What the 
 devil's matter wit' you? Hah? Why don't you get 
 up? Trying to get late so you can get fired an' loaf 
 around all summer? Hah? " he replied feebly that he was 
 "weak in the knees; be awright in a minute." 
 
 He tried to arise and found that his legs would not 
 support him, whereat he fell back and lay unnoticed all 
 day, his mother that day returning Mrs. Rambo's visit. 
 Ruth, discovering the child's condition in the evening, 
 came in to act as nurse, and Mrs. Bruggers wailed: 
 
 "That's the way it goes when you has to raise them 
 little kids that ain't worth keepin' when they've been 
 got. Bring 'em up to where they ought 'a be a help to 
 you, and after you wear the best years o' your lif e taking 
 a care of 'em, first thing you know they're sick on you and 
 you have to give up yer bed to 'em, and feed 'em soup; 
 there's yer thanks. And then a man who can't work 
 only half of hah" the time!" 
 
 "My love!" protested Bruggers. "You know " 
 
 "Shut up! You don't know nahthun. I'm telling 
 you something. Going to get a job now? Hah?" 
 
 Mr. Bruggers looked inquiringly toward the bed 
 Ruth had insisted on Joey's removal to the larger sleeping 
 room and turned to Ruth.
 
 156 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Do you think he'll be sick long, Miss Ruth? 'Cause 
 it's hard on us to have him laid up like this now after 
 I've been out of work so long and times so hard as they 
 are. D'you think more than a week? Eh? He ought 
 to be back to work then? What you think?" 
 
 "You ought to be back tuh work right now," inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Bruggers. "You and your little half-day 
 jobs! If I was a man I'd be 'shamed. But what's the 
 use o' talking tuh you? Waste o' wind. S'help me 
 Gawd, I never see anybody in pants that disgraced 'em 
 more than you." 
 
 "My love," whispered Bruggers softly, "you wrong 
 me. I " he picked up the ever conspicuous can and 
 drummed significantly on the bottom with a coin. "I 
 can do it," he said with a wink. "I borrowed from Dolan." 
 
 "You sly devil!" said Mrs. Bruggers, greatly mollified. 
 "Hurry up now. Letting me set there suffocating with 
 thirst! That's thanks one gets. You hustle now, you 
 hear?" 
 
 When Bruggers came back with the beer he found a 
 state of affairs in the Bruggers's establishment that 
 shocked his sensitive nature to a degree. The woman's 
 noise had led me to the room, and to me as to Ruth, Mrs. 
 Bruggers had proceeded to wail her complaint against 
 JoeVs inconsiderate conduct. Unfortunately our points 
 of view differed, and I failed to sympathize. Wherefore 
 Bruggers stepped across his own threshold to find the 
 wife of his bosom loudly appealing for protection from 
 the alleged verbal onslaught of a person who dared to 
 criticize her treatment of her own child.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 157 
 
 I suggested to Bruggers that Joey must be better 
 cared for. 
 
 "Bruggers! You hear that? In your own house and 
 to your own face! Throw him out; throw him out, if 
 you're a man!" 
 
 "Bruggers," said I, "the boy must be moved. I'm 
 going to take him upstairs." 
 
 "Who says you are?" demanded the irate mother. 
 "Who the h 1 are you to come 'round telling what's 
 to be done with folks' kids? Hah? You get out o' this 
 house and mind your own business. Take care of 
 your own troubles, mister, and we'll take care of our'n. 
 Bruggers, you scut, speak up!" 
 
 "I was going to say, my love, stammered Bruggers," 
 " going to say that perhaps Mr. Lord might be willing to 
 do something to make up for for the boy's lost wages, 
 since he's so smart and ready to snatch kids from their 
 own home." 
 
 "Quite right, Bruggers." Inwardly I blessed the man 
 for this simple solution of the difficulty. " I am hiring 
 Joey at four dollars a week, let us say." I laid a bill 
 on the table. "Two dollars in advance." Mrs. Bruggers 
 snatched the money literally from under her husband's 
 itching fingers. " And you're not to interfere with the 
 boy until he is well." 
 
 I believe even Ruth was surprised at me. I know I 
 was surprised at myself. For a crumpled two-dollar 
 bill I had discovered what may be done with two-dollar 
 bills where they are scarce. 
 
 Ruth stooped over to lift Joey in her arms, the mystic,
 
 158 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 sheltering pose of woman when her soul is stirred to help 
 the weak. But the clothes on the bed and on Joey were 
 too dirty to complete the picture. It wasn't to be 
 endured. I had never done this sort of thing before. 
 I had never thought I might do it. Frankly, it was not 
 pleasant, and I made an awkward job of it, but somehow 
 I managed to get the little fellow up where I could carry 
 him, and we went upstairs and laid him on my bed. 
 
 "Take him," we heard Mrs. Bruggers mumble behind 
 us. "You're welcome. Only don't think for a minute 
 you can come into folkses houses and tell 'em to do what 
 you damn please, that's all. Bruggers!" 
 
 "My love?" 
 
 "Hand me that can." 
 
 The doctor came as soon as I could find him, a 
 capable young man who had achieved considerable 
 publicity for his work in the quarter and yet had 
 remained conscientious. 
 
 "He'll hardly do," he said at once. "Should have had 
 him weeks, months, years ago. There's nothing left for him 
 to fight with. Probably wasn't anything in the beginning." 
 
 "What is it?" I asked. 
 
 "Factoryitis aggravating Tenementitis," replied the 
 doctor. "But we will call it typhoid-malaria." 
 
 "I see," said I. "And what was it that the Perkins 
 baby died of?" 
 
 "Oh, I say now, old man," said the man of medicine, 
 "I wouldn't dig too far into these things, if I were you. 
 Bad for the sleep, you know."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 TRULY, things happen over here. Forty-eight 
 hours after moving into the Tenement, my room 
 was turned into a hospital ward, and my bed 
 occupied by a little mite, such as three days before I had 
 not known existed in the world. In a way, of course, I 
 had known, the same as most of us know. I had read the 
 reports of the board of education, those terrible reports 
 that explain the causes for delinquency and truancy 
 among the school children of the lower West Side. I 
 had heard people talk of Joeys; I had even seen his 
 counterparts. But I had never known one of him; and 
 now here he lay choking for breath before my eyes. 
 
 "And yet," Ruth had said, "there is plenty of food 
 in this world." 
 
 But Joey hadn't got his share. 
 
 "None of them do here," said Ruth, as we sat dis- 
 cussing this matter, while we watched Joey. "It is the 
 truth, impossible as it may seem. The doctor has told 
 me, and he knows. Most of them actually go hungry 
 through life, under-nourished, with a constant craving 
 that they don't understand. Then they drink. That 
 helps. It deadens that craving. The more often they 
 drink, the less frequently do they feel uncomfortable. I 
 wonder how it is that they don't drink more." 
 
 159
 
 160 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 And yet there was plenty of food in the world. Cer- 
 tainly there was. More than plenty, at least in this 
 grand land of ours. Impossible that anybody should 
 starve. They only did that in books Joey moaned 
 and feebly tossed his arm above his head. Aye; the 
 doctor was right; we should have had him years before. 
 
 But in the Tenement now Joey became famous. 
 
 Two things there are that are sure to stir the old women 
 of the Tenement a funeral, or an illness that promises 
 one. Weddings they regard with interested but critical 
 eyes; the groom may or may not be able to earn a living 
 for two; he may not drink up all his wages; there's no 
 judging by looks when a man's dressed up. Births they 
 discuss in expert but unexcited fashion, because babies 
 are the commonest things in the world in Clay Court. 
 But a funeral, or the probability of one, rouses them up 
 to real enthusiasm. 
 
 Then they chatter. The smallest detail, the tiniest 
 rumours, become subjects over which to gather on the 
 stairs and with shaking heads discuss in loud, doleful 
 whispers. You can tell by these groups when any one 
 is dying in the Tenement; it is one of our ways of 
 constantly keeping our griefs before our eyes. 
 
 Joey, as one of a dozen little working boys in the Tene- 
 ment, had failed to attract much attention so long as 
 he managed to keep out of bed, save in that he was 
 wonderfully clean-mouthed. Also he had been noted 
 down as extraordinarily puny and skinny, and a few 
 who had troubled to glance twice at him in his pensive
 
 Joey the Dreamer 161 
 
 moments had said, "There's something queer about that 
 Bruggers kid; he's got such way -off eyes." Otherwise 
 he was like the other children, something to kick from 
 underfoot when he got in the way. 
 
 But now that he was sick and dying, as rumour had it 
 through the Tenement, he at once became an item of 
 interest. It is not too much to say that, in the eyes of 
 the women, Joey's illness outshone for the while the 
 all-absorbing topic of the coming crisis. They said: 
 
 "Sick, is he? Oh, well, I've said all the time he wasn't 
 long for this world. But, dear, dear, I must go up and 
 see how he's doing, poor little kid!" 
 
 Then they came up the stairs to the fourth floor to 
 proffer offerings of delicacies and advice such as would 
 have killed Joey in a day had all been made use of. 
 
 Mrs. Hansen, as a midwife, was the oracle for all 
 gossips, and in her rooms in the basement they gathered 
 to settle the fate of Joey. 
 
 "Yess, liddle Yoey iss very seek," said Mrs. Hansen. 
 " Deh doctor, he tvist his sh'ulder ven I esk him if he vill 
 gat veil. I know dat doctor; ven he tvist his sh'ulder, 
 dere iss purty seek people in det house. Den det boy 
 e'n't gatting no care. No! Dat young woman, Miss 
 Rut', she mebbe olright; I dunno, but she en't had no 
 young vuns of her own, I know dat." 
 
 "Ah, he's a weak little mite," sighed one of the circle. 
 "He never was strong." 
 
 "Strong! I shu' say he vass strong. You tenk he 
 could live diss long if he en't?" 
 
 "They has to be strong if you're going to raise um,"
 
 162 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 said another. "It's me that knows. Four I buried and 
 four I kept, and 'twas only the strong ones lived, I'm 
 telling you." 
 
 "He'll make a pretty little corpse," ruminated the 
 other woman, "a sweet little corpse. You may think 
 them skinny ones don't, but they always plump up sort 
 of when they're in the coffin. I mind my Danny you 
 remember, Mrs. Hansen as little and peekid as he was, 
 but the undertaker says to me, 'He'll be nothing to shame 
 you when they take a last look at him', and he wasn't 
 neither, as you know, Mrs. Hansen. No, poor Mrs. 
 Bruggers needn't worry about his looking a fright, 'cause 
 he won't." 
 
 "Will he die, then?" said a young woman. 
 
 The others looked at her in surprise, then shook their 
 heads as if the notion of anybody doing anything but 
 dying in this vale of woe and sorrow was preposterous. 
 
 "Dey don't lest long efter dey're down," said Mrs. 
 Hansen. The others sighed agreeably. 
 
 "No, no a few days, perhaps look how the 
 Perkins baby went. No, no; after they're down it don't 
 take long for them." 
 
 " Ugh ! I hate to think of funerals." The young woman 
 shrugged her shoulders. "They make you feel so so 
 like what's-the-use-of-living." 
 
 "Huh!" The old women smiled upon her pityingly. 
 She was young; she knew no better; she was not to be 
 condemned. 
 
 "What I say," said the one who had recalled her lost 
 Danny, "is that there ain't nothing quite so fine as a
 
 Joey the Dreamer 163 
 
 nice funeral with a nice white dress and some flowers to 
 lay you out in. Oh! it's little enough a body gets in this 
 life to let herself be cheated out of that. Why, look, my 
 dear, it's the only time in your whole life when you really 
 counts for something. Yes, indeed. It's the only time 
 that you're the whole show and have 'tention paid you 
 altogether because of yourself. Now, look when you 
 get married; there's him and other folks that's paid 
 'tention to. Same when you have kids; there's the baby 
 more important than you. But at a funeral it's all on 
 account of you and your name is in everybody's mouth. 
 No, my dear, a funeral ain't no bad thing to look forward 
 to; not when you've learned to look on the bright side of 
 everything, as you will before you're as old as us." 
 
 "I hope Joey gets well," said the young woman, 
 irrationally. 
 
 "Ef dey can eat," continued Mrs. Hansen, "den dey 
 mebbe alright." And acting upon this idea that worthy 
 woman concocted a dish of her favourite blood pudding 
 "klub" she called it and waddled up to convince Ruth 
 that nothing was so good for a sick child as a meal of 
 blood pudding early and often. Other good women 
 followed her example. Despite the fact that the grocers, 
 as usual, had ceased to give credit because of the threaten- 
 ing trouble, there came a flood of oranges, bananas, cakes, 
 and candy; and Sodders, at the corner, sent up a bottle 
 of port wine with his compliments. 
 
 Mr. Bruggers intercepted the wine on the stairs. He 
 knew it wasn't good for Joey. 
 
 And Joey was very sick. The doctor came and went,
 
 164 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 and so did Ruth. I stayed pretty much in the room. 
 I had turned nurse suddenly and clumsily, upon seeing 
 that Ruth would wear herself out if permitted. And 
 Joey lay in the damp, warm fever-fog and knew nothing 
 of it. He lay like dead, breathing merely enough to keep 
 the life in him, while the fever marshalled its forces for 
 the grim onslaught of the crisis. At times he moaned. 
 At times the curtain at the window flopped listlessly. 
 There was something similar in the two sounds. The 
 suggestion of helplessness was in both. 
 
 It was this, Joey's too obvious helplessness against the 
 odds against him, that crumpled Delia that Monday 
 evening, and sent her sobbing out into the hall. 
 
 "It ain't fair, it ain't fair!" she whispered to Ruth. 
 "The poor little kid! He never done any dirt in his life. 
 He'll croak, and he don't deserve it at all. It's a shame." 
 
 Delia refused to accompany Freddy to Electric Park 
 that night, though the temptation hung red before her 
 eyes. He went to familiarize himself with his future 
 audience. She thought of Binger, and of his golden 
 teeth and his diamond ring, Doussang's, where he had 
 taken them, and of the temptation that then had 
 whispered in her innermost heart. But she had looked 
 upon Joey recently. 
 
 "It wouldn't be right with Joey so sick," she explained. 
 
 "We ain't going to hurt Joey, are we?" demanded 
 Freddy. 
 
 "I wouldn't feel right doing it," said Delia, but she 
 failed to explain why. Freddy marvelled at the new 
 look in her eyes as she spoke, marvelled and was happy
 
 Joey the Dreamer 165 
 
 without knowing why. It was the mother heart in Delia 
 swelling for the moment. 
 
 She wished she could do something for Joey. But Ruth 
 had told her that nothing could be done just then. She 
 wished she could do something for somebody. So many 
 people needed it. She thought of what a hard world 
 it was for some people, of how lucky she was, after all, 
 though she often had considered her lot well-nigh unbear- 
 able. She wandered aimlessly down to the corner. Rine- 
 hart was up on his box before Sodders's, more virulent 
 than ever, and Delia felt inclined to cry out: "Shame 
 on you! There's a sick kid next door." But instead 
 she moved on and gave a nickel to the blind man 
 at the corner.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 AO Rinehart was "organizing." 
 I am afraid that I missed much of his activi- 
 ties during the next few sweltering days. He 
 was, in a way, the centre of the amazing storm that was 
 brewing; but the old habits of what Dicky called "cold, 
 mathemathical observation" had deserted me, and Joey, 
 the small, was the absorbing factor. The progress of the 
 Little Surprise Party, the possibility of the wage-cut, and 
 the crisis that was coming out of them seemed only of 
 minor importance compared with the problem of Joey's 
 physical welfare. Joey was the hope of the Tenement. 
 So long as it could breed children like him there was hope 
 if they lived. If they didn't there were Mrs. and Mr. 
 Bruggers, and the can. 
 
 But in spite of my negligence it was impossible to live 
 in Clay Court these days and not hear and see much of 
 Rinehart. The man seemed to have no occupation save 
 that of "organizing." Where his means of livelihood came 
 from was a mystery. When he slept or ate likewise was 
 a mystery. He might be seen at six o'clock in the morning 
 talking to a tired night worker coming home, and I 
 know that he was talking in the crowd that was turned 
 out of Sodders's saloon every morning at one. 
 
 "Organize, organize everybody," was his one slogan. 
 
 166
 
 Joey the Dreamer 167 
 
 He went through the tenement by day and preached 
 it to the out-of-works, always a goodly number here; by 
 night he held forth to large, secret meetings that every- 
 body but the police knew about. 
 
 "They're teasing you, they're holding off," he said as 
 the days went by and no wage-cut came. "But" in a 
 voice of doom " it's coming, it's coming, and we gotto 
 be ready for it when it comes." 
 
 The basement-born Little Surprise Party was growing. 
 They had taken the Hall over Sodders's saloon. The 
 basement had become too small. 
 
 The Hall in reality was only a loft on the top floor of 
 the three-story building, where Sodders had knocked out 
 the partitions and made the floor all one room. A sign on 
 the door read: 
 
 HALL. WEDDINGS, $3; POLISH $5. 
 
 A single set of stairs ran up from the floor below and 
 there was a door at the rear. Outside of these there was 
 no entrance or exit, and the windows were smudged over 
 with a thick coat of lamp-black. Four gas jets struggled 
 listlessly against the darkness, and the air was the air of 
 a cave, flat and dead. 
 
 In this place the Little Surprise Party had its head- 
 quarters, and from the little platform built against the 
 rear wall near the door, Rinehart exhorted his followers 
 to organize, organize, organize. 
 
 "Organization means salvation," he explained. "Or- 
 ganization everybody ! " 
 
 Then followed a demonstration of the good old wreck-
 
 168 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 ing-crew system of organizing, a strenuous process 
 whereby many a man was organized in spite of his 
 strongest efforts to the contrary. The system is simple, 
 simple and effective; and its demonstration was a delight 
 to the party's ruder members. A man who valued his 
 whole bones and natural features had two courses open 
 to him leave Clay Court or become a Brother. And 
 moving cost money. So the Brotherhood grew. Yet it 
 was all done so quietly, systematically, so skilfully that 
 the police stool-pigeon a crippled tobacconist a block 
 away on the Avenue knew not a thing about it. A 
 man was "approached" in his home one evening. 
 The next found him slipping up the stairs to the Hall 
 and mingling with the crows as if he merely had been 
 notified to attend lodge. 
 
 There were sick faces among these newcomers, faces 
 that told of an action sorely against the individual will 
 and desire; eyes that looked reproachfully around as if 
 striving to locate the Force that had dragged them into 
 the movement; mouths that dropped at the corners, as 
 the mouths of men who are much afraid. Yet once 
 attention was directed to these men they become the 
 loudest and firmest of all, fearful lest the ban of sus- 
 picion should fall upon their earnestness. 
 
 However, these half-hearted ones were greatly in the 
 minority. The majority obviously were with Rinehart, 
 or, at least, were under his spell. He led them, and they 
 followed, yelping at his heels. No vociferation, no matter 
 how grisly, leaped from his lips but it had repetition or 
 duplication from some mouths in the crowd. No hint,
 
 Joey the Dreamer 169 
 
 no matter how insane, did he drop, but some one was 
 ready to act upon it at once. Rinehart was but a 
 prompter; the others knew their lines and spoke them 
 after the cue was given. 
 
 There were meetings in the Hall nightly. One was 
 much like another. Sometimes a wordy individual rose 
 and crossed arguments with Rinehart. Rinehart had 
 one set answer for such, an answer which evoked deep 
 belly growls of approval from the crowd and labelled the 
 upstart definitely: 
 
 "You're a white-livered coward. You're afraid." 
 
 All except Perkins. Perkins was drinking steadily 
 since they had buried the baby, and he drank silently and 
 alone a bad sign. They took the baby away in a 
 hack, after the manner of the Court, and the little white 
 casket rode out the long ride on the knees of the grim, 
 bereaved father. His long, hairy hands hung over 
 and gripped the edges in a fierce, primitive sort of 
 fashion. He yielded up his burden to the undertaker 
 with a scowl on his face. When the dirt fell he put his 
 arm around his wife and turned away without a word 
 or a tear. So did Tom Perkins give back to earth his 
 last born. 
 
 When he came to the meetings he shouldered his way 
 insolently to a corner, and leaning against the wall folded 
 his arms and glowered at the speaker, no matter who, 
 through his bushy brows. A silence always followed his 
 coming; then the buzz broke out again. Sometimes 
 Perkins broke the silence. He would laugh in Rinehart's 
 face, spit on the floor and go out with a sneer on his lips.
 
 170 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 They had a sentinel at the stairway, for the meetings 
 were very secret. He always stepped far to one side 
 when Perkins came. 
 
 But in action, Rinehart was the leader of the Little 
 Surprise Party. He was the voice that spoke the thoughts 
 of the crowd. At times they roared their approval so 
 loudly that the windows rattled and the noise flew over 
 the Court to the Tenement like the hum of an 
 angry storm. An old woman, leaning out of her window 
 said, " It's a fine kettle of grief they're cooking up over 
 the way." 
 
 "And it's us will eat it," said her neighbour, with a 
 babe at the breast. 
 
 "It always is us. But the Company started the fire 
 and put the kettle on. Our boys are only throwing in 
 the bone." 
 
 "It'll be bitter just the same," said the one with the 
 child. . 
 
 Night after night the Party crawled up the stairway 
 above Sodders's; night after night Rinehart twisted the 
 stick in the raw sore. The meetings and what they por- 
 tended became the life of the Court after the day's work 
 was done. Often they lasted far along toward morning. 
 
 The Presidential election was a side issue. The Sur- 
 prise had overshadowed everything. Even the sporting 
 extras went unread. One subject monopolized all 
 attention. 
 
 The children played a new game in the street; one was 
 forced to be "Company," and the rest pelted him with 
 anything they could lay hands on.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 171 
 
 Verily, those were hectic days in Clay Court! 
 
 At times, when Joey slept, we leaned from the window 
 and listened to Rinehart at the corner. 
 
 "They like it," said Ruth sadly. "They can believe 
 that. But not what I told them." 
 
 "You cannot help that." 
 
 "No, no, not by talking here. This isn't the place 
 to begin. There is too much noise here, and the little 
 dark rooms are too dark. They blind the people who 
 live in them. They cannot see, they cannot hear. They 
 are too heavily loaded. They can't look up no, 
 I see it now. This isn't the place to begin." 
 
 "Where then?" 
 
 "At the other end. At the top. With the people who 
 must lift the load; who aren't loaded themselves. They 
 can do it. These can't. Then these will hear and see." 
 
 "But what ?" 
 
 "We must tell them, the other people, our people, 
 about the load."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE Bruggers oh ! the Bruggers were living in 
 clover these days, all on account of Joey. It 
 is one thing to have a son fall sick on you when 
 you lose his wages, but quite another when Providence 
 places him in the hands of one who would rather hand 
 over good two-dollar bills than listen to a parent's 
 bibulous lamentations. I am afraid I proved a gold mine 
 to Mrs. Bruggers. She was a diligent miner. Her best 
 manoeuvre was to come tramping up into the hallway 
 outside of Joey's room and shatter the quiet with her 
 large, insistent voice. 
 
 "I will see him, I tell you; I will see him. Ain't he 
 my own flesh and blood? Ain't I got right to see my 
 own flesh and blood? Lemme see 'im, I tell you, lemme 
 see s im!" 
 
 This she would bellow loud enough to disturb the 
 entire top floor, knowing that absolute quiet had been 
 prescribed for Joey. The next step would be to halt 
 her and explain that the racket would hurt the boy. 
 Furthermore, she was being paid to leave him alone. 
 
 "The money's all gone," shrieks Mrs. Bruggers. 
 
 "Here! For heaven's sake, take this and shut up." 
 
 Another transfer of a bank-note to Mrs. Bruggers, and 
 she, carefully hiding the money, would blubber: 
 
 172
 
 Joey the Dreamer 173 
 
 "I'm a reas'nable woman, Mr. Lord. Show me any- 
 body says I ain't reas'nable. Anybody does the right 
 thing by me I don't bother 'em. But they has got to 
 be right." 
 
 Then downstairs to where Mr. Bruggers sat waiting, 
 and 
 
 "Bruggers! Wash out the can. Quick." 
 
 Mr. Bruggers, too, in some mysterious fashion seamed 
 to have secured funds, and the result was all that the pre- 
 cious pair ever had dreamed of. They were happy from 
 waking time to sleeping time, happy and unperturbed 
 by the storm that brewed around them. So ideal was 
 their condition, from their own peculiar point of view, 
 that Mrs. Bruggers would have been hard put to find 
 anything for which Mr. Bruggers might be given his daily 
 scoldings had it not been that Bruggers during the last 
 few days had become one of the most ardent of the little 
 Surprise Party's supporters. Never an opportunity 
 now went by but that he lifted up his voice and chanted 
 its principles, strictly a la Rinehart. Had Mrs. Bruggers 
 paused to indulge in a little exercise in the useful faculty 
 of thought she might have established the rather obvious 
 connection between Mr. Bruggers 's mysterious funds and 
 his sudden enthusiasm for Rinehart. 
 
 But Mrs. Bruggers was seeing the world through rosy, 
 though foamy, glasses in these days, and such a vision is 
 not conducive to the critical mood. She assailed Bruggers 
 mightily whenever he opened fris mouth, but that was 
 merely force of habit, for Mrs. Bruggers, during these 
 days was constantly in a condition in which she loved
 
 174 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 the whole world and generously invited her friends up 
 into the kitchen of the third floor rear to share her over- 
 flowing cup of bottled cheer. 
 
 Over in the Hall a terrible problem was being dealt 
 with in terrible fashion; but Mrs. Bruggers and her little 
 coterie sat in the kitchen and demonstrated the lightness 
 and ease of life when one regards it through glasses rosy 
 and foamy, and Friday evening, it happened, was one of 
 the rosiest of these foamy events. The company was 
 made up of Mrs. Rambo, widow, Mr. Dolan, widower; 
 Mrs. Hansen, midwife, and a couple of others from the 
 Tenement. Mr. Bruggers poured with great success, Mrs. 
 Bruggers talked, and a pleasant time was being had by all. 
 
 "The trouble with most folks," said Mrs. Brugggers 
 apropos of the great topic of the day, which Bruggers had 
 brought up, " is that they're too particular about what 
 luck brings them. Ain't satisfied with what they get. 
 Take it as it comes, make the best of everything; that's 
 what I say. You'll find you ain't so worst off after all. 
 Now, what would most folks have done and how would 
 they have took on if they'd been Joey's ma when he gets 
 sick? What do I do? 'Make the best of it,' sez I; and 
 Joey's been paying four times his reg'lar wages ever 
 since. Yes, my dears, there ain't no cloud so black but 
 what it's got a silver lining somewhere about it." 
 
 And Mrs. Bruggers jingled a pocketful of change to 
 reassure herself that it was coined silver at that. 
 
 "That's sense," said Mr. Dolan in his well-known bull- 
 frog tone and manner. "That's sense. Folks what is 
 too partic'lar soon finds where they gets off at."
 
 Joey the Dreamer 175 
 
 "I dunno who you mean," said Mrs. Rambo, looking 
 far away. 
 
 "I ain't saying I mean anybody," rumbled Mr. Dolan. 
 "But when you chases your legs off to get somebody a 
 job in a rest'runt, and then they won't take it because 
 the hours is too long, and the wages ain't high enough, 
 and the boss is a Greek, it's time to begin to guess at 
 what some folks expects." 
 
 "I never could stand for Greeks," said Mrs. Rambo, 
 tossing her frizzled head. "Mrs. Hansen, could you ever 
 stand for Greeks?" 
 
 "I donno en'ting 'bout dem," said the good-natured 
 midwife. "I don' have en'ting to do wid dem. Dere 
 en't no Greek vimmen in dis contry." 
 
 "I know a case," slowly continued Mr. Dolan, as if 
 there had been no interruption, "know a case where a 
 widow woman got a free Christmas basket, and she wasn't 
 satisfied. There was pork, 'n' beef, 'n' soup meat, 'n' 
 chicken, 'n' tea, 'n' coffee, 'n' flour, 'n' sugar, 'n' beans, 
 'n' p'tatoes, 'n' sausage, 'n' cel'ry, 'n' raisins, 'n* an' 
 a duck, an' a order for two bucks on the coal man; an' 
 she strips the paper off of it, and pulls out the pork, 'n' 
 beef, 'n' soup meat, 'n' chicken, 'n' tea, 'n' coffee, 'n' 
 flour, 'n' sugar, 'n' beans, 'n' p'tatoes, 'n' sausage, 'n' 
 cel'ry, 'n' raisins, 'n' the duck, and the order on the coal 
 man, and fires 'em on the table and sez, ' What! No 
 pickled pig's feet? ' 
 
 Mr. Dolan croaked suggestively, and upon being 
 supplied with what his being craved, continued : 
 
 "And then to show you how it goes with such folks,
 
 176 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 down she goes to the coal man an' trades in the order 
 eight bits for coal 'n' wood, an' eight bits for a half ticket 
 in the Honduras Lottery what the coal man was selling, 
 an' when the drawing was out her number wins next to 
 capital prize, an' what has she done? Gone an' traded 
 the ticket off for a mess of them damn pigs' feet!" 
 
 Most of the group nodded sagely at this horrible 
 example. 
 
 "I don't like pickled pigs' feet," sniffed Mrs. Rambo. 
 "I never did." 
 
 "Pickles pig feet is good ven dey are pickle right," said 
 Mrs. Hansen. 
 
 "The thing is," said Mrs. Bruggers, "they're better'n 
 nothing when you're real hungry." 
 
 "I ain't hungry," said Mr. Dolan. "I'm thirsty." 
 
 "The question," suggested Mr. Bruggers, delicately, 
 "ain't pigs' feet, but is our friends ready for another 
 little nip. Eh, my love?" 
 
 "Always ready," croaked Dolan, "always ready." 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't down another drop," protested Mrs. 
 Rambo, delicate lady that she was. 
 
 "She can drink me blind," said Mr. Dolan. 
 
 "Mr. Dolan!" protested the lady. 
 
 "What I say," said Mrs. Bruggers, taking a bottle 
 of beer from under the running tap, "what I say 
 is, you never know what you can do until you've 
 tried oh-h!" 
 
 The bottle dropped from her fingers, her hands went 
 up to her face, and she started back as if she had 
 seen a ghost.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 177 
 
 "My Gawd!" she whispered with a great labouring 
 of breath. "What was that?" 
 
 "What?" they asked, following her gaze toward 
 the hall. 
 
 "Didn't you hear it?" 
 
 Her uncanny alarm and the tone of her voice had 
 sobered them. 
 
 "Hear what?" said Dolan, faintly, after awhile. 
 "There wasn't nothing." 
 
 "Oh!" screamed Mrs. Bruggers, trembling. "There 
 it goes again. It's Joey," she whispered. "It's Joey 
 Yes; I'm your ma, Joey. I'm coming, I'm coming, 
 Joey!" 
 
 And going as if she had been drawn by strong hands, 
 Mrs. Bruggers ran clamouring out into the hall and up 
 the stairs to the room where Joey lay sick unto death. 
 
 " Now what d'you suppose got into the old lady?" 
 queried Mr. Bruggers, as he recovered the dropped 
 bottle. "I, for one, know there wasn't anything to 
 hear, and she never had the snakes before."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE crisis had come for Joey. 
 As the doctor had said, the fever had been in 
 him for a week before his collapse, so there was 
 little left for Joey to fight with, but after the fight had 
 begun in earnest he surprised us all by the tenacity with 
 which he battled. 
 
 "Not stamina enough to fit out an able-bodied cat," 
 said the doctor, "and still he's holding his own. It's a 
 queer world, my masters, and the queerest thing in it is 
 the way some people refuse to die." 
 
 This was the situation with Joey. Cheated out of all 
 things that make life worth living, he refused to be 
 cheated out of life itself. The clean little soul, although 
 born into a plant rotten with the seed of two generations 
 of poverty, struggled its way up from the back pit of 
 fever and gasped for existence in a way that would not 
 be denied. 
 
 "My child," one might have called Joey, but the term 
 would have been wrong. He was no child. He never 
 had been a child; he never could be. Childhood is one of 
 the things that such as he do not know, one of the things 
 that fate takes out of their world when it places them 
 where they are. Their lives are under the law of fang 
 and claw from their toddling days. They know no 
 years of tenderness, they have no protected period to 
 
 178
 
 Joey the Dreamer 179 
 
 guarantee their growth to maturity. The wonder is that 
 they live; the bitter question they often ask themselves 
 is "Why were we born?" But here Joey lay on my bed, a 
 little streak of skin and bone with a big head, and fought 
 against the devils of fever as if every one of his living 
 hours had been a time of joy and happiness. 
 
 "It is a queer world, my masters." The doctor was 
 a cynic, but sometimes he spoke the truth. 
 
 As the fever rose and ebbed and rose again, the boy 
 rambled aloud in the strange worlds of darkness and 
 unconsciousness; and there was a world of revelation in 
 his queer ly mumbled words. Sometimes he was at his 
 work in these wanderings. Again, he was in the Tene- 
 ment. Two horrors rode him and drove him to the brink 
 of desperation the fear of the Superintendent, and the 
 idea that he had lost his job and was bringing the sad 
 news home. 
 
 "Oh, how could I help it?" He was in the kitchen of 
 the third floor rear then, facing his father and mother. 
 
 " The Supe had it in for me. He did, I tell you. I 
 didn't loaf. There there, he's after me now. Stop 
 him stop him " 
 
 The wet, quivering little body would start up in a 
 paroxysm of indescribable terror, and subside as Ruth's 
 arm went around him and her voice calmed him with 
 words of reassurance. 
 
 He debated with himself, at times, what his parents' 
 course would be when they found that he was not 
 working. 
 
 "They'll send you on the kip, of course," he muttered.
 
 180 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "What d'you expect? You'll have to go on the kip 
 until you get another job." 
 
 The horrors of homelessness in the streets ran before 
 his eyes and he burst out into awful sobs. Then the 
 Superintendent was after him again. 
 
 "I didn't quit before Six, honest, I didn't. I'll work 
 faster, yessir." 
 
 So it went, day after day, and night after night, while 
 Ruth and I alternated in playing nurse, though Ruth was 
 in the room most of the time. He listened only to her 
 voice. Others spoke to him and he shuddered as if they 
 hurt him. 
 
 "He has a chance," said the doctor. "Who would 
 have thought it?" 
 
 When the crisis came this hot, sulphurous Friday night, 
 not a breath of wind was stirring and the air in the sick 
 room was enough to make one pant. Ruth, the doctor, 
 and I sat and waited for the outcome of the crucial 
 minutes, and Joey babbled and tossed aimlessly. 
 
 "It's coming now," said the doctor, as the boy grew 
 quiet. "Here's the test." 
 
 A tiny fuzz of perspiration broke out on the white, 
 tight forehead. Suddenly, and with no prelude, Joey 
 broke out: 
 
 "Mother, mother!" 
 
 The cry, although it was a cry,was so faint that it could 
 scarcely have been heard farther than a whisper. The 
 idea that it could have reached down to the third floor 
 rear seems preposterous, yet at that very instant 
 occurred the disconcerting rupture of Mrs. Bruggers's
 
 Joey the Dreamer 181 
 
 rosy little party which we already have noted. Perhaps 
 Mrs. Bruggers did hear something; perhaps not. At 
 all event there came heavy, unsteady steps on the stairs, 
 a steam-like puffing, a knock, and Mrs. Bruggers, 
 redder, more puffed, more "happy," than ever, stood 
 in the doorway with the tears glistening upon her 
 fat, red cheeks. 
 
 "She's jagged, you fool," said Joey to himself. "Don't 
 think she cares to see you. Stop your yelling." 
 
 Mrs. Bruggers looked at the doctor, at Ruth, at me, 
 seeking to read in our faces the news she feared to hear. 
 
 "Is he is he worse?" She begged. Something in 
 the fat, red face drove Ruth to her feet. 
 
 " My Joey ! " sobbed the woman in the doorway. " My 
 poor little Joey!" 
 
 Ruth sprang to her side and placed an arm around the 
 shaking shoulders. Then Mrs. Bruggers broke down. 
 
 "Tell me tell me honest if he's going to " her 
 lips faltered at the dread word and she frankly sobbed 
 out her fear on Ruth's shoulder. 
 
 "We still hope he isn't," whispered Ruth. "There is 
 hope." 
 
 "My little Joey! The only one I ever had that lived. 
 If he goes what'll I do, what'll I do?" 
 
 Ruth spoke consolingly. 
 
 "Perhaps I ain't been a good mother, Miss Ruth, 
 perhaps I ain't. But Lord knows I had my troubles, 
 miss an* I been careless. But I can't stand to lose 
 him. You'll save him for me if you can, won't you? 
 I I'm gone if you don't. He he's kep' me out o*
 
 182 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 the gutter, Joey has. Nothing else His blessid little 
 eyes! Joey!" 
 
 The child had risen to his knees and was staring at her 
 in sheer surprise. 
 
 "Joey!" She stumbled toward the bed and held forth 
 her arms to him in supplication, as if begging his for- 
 giveness. "Joey! Don't yuh know me? Don't you 
 know me, Joey? Ah, Joey, Joey, don't look at me that 
 way? Don't you know yer ma?" 
 
 The little fingers fumbled at the covers and the weary 
 brows puckered as if the mind likewise was fumbling with 
 a problem. The lips opened and parted, and the quicken- 
 ing breath was all that passed through them. 
 
 "Joey! For Gawd's sake, don't, Joey! Don't look at 
 me so." 
 
 "God!" said Joey in awe-stricken whisper. "Do you 
 know 'bout Him, too?" 
 
 "Oh, Joey, Joey! Look's if you knew me; yer ma, 
 Joey. Don't you remember me?" 
 
 "Tell pa," whispered Joey. "Tell 'em all if you 
 know 'bout Him." 
 
 "He's going he's dying!" screamed the woman and 
 hid her face in the bed. 
 
 "Tell 'em all!" cried Joey, trying to rise to his feet. 
 "Tell 'em *' He paused and turned sanely upon Ruth, 
 a new light in his eyes, a new peace settling upon his 
 face. " Miss Ruth," he cried joyously, "Tell Old Mag 
 tell her I could make the pitcher now!" 
 
 He sank slowly back upon her arm. 
 
 "Lie down, Joey."
 
 Joey the Dreamer 183 
 
 "Heh?" 
 
 "Lie down." 
 
 He snuggled weakly against the pillow upon which 
 she laid him, his face to the wall. 
 
 "Yes; I'm tired," he murmured contentedly. "I'll 
 lay down." 
 
 The woman, with her face on the bed, sobbed loudly; 
 doors opened and slammed about; speech sounded in the 
 halls; footsteps on the stairs, on the walk outside. But 
 in the midst of the medley we were able to hear one sound 
 that made our hearts leap with thanksgiving. Joey was 
 breathing softly and evenly, the little chest rising and 
 falling regularly, as a child breathes when he is tired and 
 regaining life in blessed restful slumber. 
 
 "He came through in great shape," said the doctor, 
 later. "The crisis is over. Now, if he's got any stamina 
 and doesn't have a relapse, the poor little devil will live." 
 
 It grew quiet in the Tenement and in the sick room. 
 The lights went out; rooms and halls grew dark and 
 quiet. The talking and laughter and quarrelling ceased. 
 A slamming door became an event; likewise a foot on the 
 stairs. In the sick room only the steady breathing of 
 the child was heard, while at his side Ruth kept silent 
 vigil. A fly buzzed droningly around the light, dashing 
 in and out of the darkness, its noise and motion 
 monumental in the absolute quietude. 
 
 The time passed, and Joey, struggling back toward 
 life, returned temporarily to the world of the 
 conscious. 
 
 "Miss Ruth." His whisper was as distraught as that
 
 184 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 of a child hiding from punishment. "Do you think I'm 
 going to die?" 
 
 "No, Joey." 
 
 "I don' know. I feel funny. Little while ago I was 
 way out way out somewhere way out. It was 
 awful dark there. An' I was all alone, an' I was going 
 some place way out in the dark, where I couldn't see 
 all alone like jumping off some place by myself." 
 He reached up and found her hand. 
 
 "Oh, I don' wanto die and go out there all alone in the 
 dark. It's too tough. I'm scared ! Don' don' let 
 me go, Miss Ruth. Please, please. I wanto stay. Oh, 
 I wanto stay, so bad, Miss Ruth!" 
 
 "You will, Joey; you will stay now." 
 
 Her voice seemed to calm him, and he lay blinking 
 up at her. 
 
 "What was the dark, Miss Ruth? That where people 
 go when they die? No; no, it couldn't be that, 'cause I 
 was all alone, and they's lots died before me. Where did 
 they all go, Miss Ruth? They didn't send me away off 
 there myself, did they?" 
 
 "Go to sleep, Joey; please go to sleep, and I'll tell you 
 all about it when you awaken." 
 
 "Yes'm," said Joey, curling up obediently. "Yes'm." 
 
 It was bright, sunny Saturday afternoon when Joey 
 awoke. A breeze was coming in at the window, and Ruth 
 was sitting at his side. 
 
 "Am I going to get well?" he asked at once. 
 
 "Yes; surely."
 
 Joey the Dreamer 185 
 
 "Wonder if they'll gimme my job back?" 
 
 He lay staring up at her and while Ruth was fram- 
 ing a satisfactory reply some one cried out excitedly in 
 the Court. 
 
 "What's that racket about?" demanded Joey. 
 
 Ruth stepped to the window. A single voice made 
 itself heard above the new tumult. 
 
 "The cut's a cinch, now!" it cried. "There's a piece 
 that says so in the paper." 
 
 "Gee!" said Joey. "Now I'll have to hunt another 
 job anyhow."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 IT MUST be a mistake. Of course it is a mistake. 
 They won't do it. They cannot.*' 
 Ruth leaned out of the window, listening to the 
 boy below shouting his papers. 
 
 "It is a mistake," she repeated. "A mere, mistaken 
 guess. It never will be so." 
 
 Of course not! The idea was preposterous. I knew 
 that, now that I knew a little of Clay Court. Anybody 
 would have known it who had lived there for a little 
 while. Men cultured, intelligent men, of the sort 
 who directed the business affairs of the Consolidated 
 Factory didn't do such things in this enlightened days. 
 They couldn't. 
 
 "Of course it is a mistake," said I. "The boys are 
 only trying to sell papers." 
 
 To reassure myself I hurried down to the corner news- 
 stand and bought a paper. The boy had shouted the 
 news as the paper gave it, but the sheet was one of those 
 that substitute big wood type and red ink for intelli- 
 gence and veracity. The heads for our item covered 
 nearly a square foot; the story itself took up a square 
 inch or two. Short as it was, however, it told the dreaded 
 news in a manner that carried conviction. It ran as 
 follows : 
 
 186
 
 Joey the Dreamer 187 
 
 FACTORY BARONS TO VOTE WAGE-CUT 
 
 CONSOLIDATED FACTORY ANNOUNCES BIG 
 SLICE OFF WORKERS' PAY 
 
 It is rumoured in certain quarters of financial circles 
 that well-known authorities are said to have predicted that 
 the much discussed wage-cut, said to have been long con- 
 templated by the directors of the Consolidated Factory Com- 
 pany, is to be made. It is expected that at the special 
 meeting of directors to be held at three this afternoon 
 a vote on this matter will be taken. Those who know 
 predict that the vote will be in favour of a decrease in the 
 wages of the thousands of workers employed in the great 
 Consolidated plants. 
 
 I smiled reminiscently. Good, old "rumoured" and 
 "said to be!" When news merely was rumoured or 
 said to be in this sheet it never happened at all in the 
 real newspapers. 
 
 But this was an exception. Another sheet, a depend- 
 able one, came to hand. The item was not displayed 
 prominently here, but its message, authoritatively 
 stated, was the same; the news had leaked out that the 
 directors would vote the cut in wages. 
 
 "But, oh! they can't, they can't, if they know," 
 cried Ruth. "You know they cannot." 
 
 No, of course, they couldn't. It was too raw. They 
 couldn't, if they knew. The trouble was that they 
 didn't know. 
 
 "You'll have to tell them," I said to Ruth. "It's 
 the only thing to do." 
 
 Followed a rush over into the city. At two-thirty I 
 found Dicky Clews breakfasting at the club. He was 
 a hearty soul, Dicky.
 
 188 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Hello, old man. What's hurry about? Say, come 
 fishing with us, will you? The bunch leaves for the 
 Temagami country this eve. Bill Jenney's private 
 car. You know what Bill is. Grand trip. We're 
 Hello! Something wrong?" 
 
 "Many things, Dicky. Are you going to attend the 
 meeting of Consolidated Factory directors at three this 
 afternoon?" 
 
 "So I am, so I am," muttered Dicky. "Nearly 
 forgot. Good thing you spoke. But why the falling- 
 market face, old man?" 
 
 "Then," said I, "if you have influence, which you 
 have, and if I have your friendship, which I want, in 
 the name of all you hope for, arrange to let Miss Ruth 
 Arthur speak to the assembled board for a few minutes 
 before the meeting is called. She has something to 
 tell you that you all need to hear. Go on, now, Dicky. 
 Do this if you never do anything again." 
 
 It was next to impossible to surprise Dicky. 
 
 /'Miss Arthur speak board? Certainly, old man. 
 Anything, anything to take that look off your face." 
 
 The Directors' Room of the Consolidated Factory 
 Company was done in dark mahogany after a fashion 
 that made even tiresome meetings a pleasure. It was 
 in a down-town building many miles away from the 
 Factory. From the windows one had a view of a park 
 across the street, and in the distance the lake, fine, blue, 
 open and free, sprinkled with white-sailed yachts and 
 black funneled steamers, rested the eyes with a pleasant
 
 Joey the Dreamer 189 
 
 suggestion of the limitless beauties of the grand old 
 world that it is, to be sure. 
 
 There was an almost cathedral atmosphere to the room. 
 It was opened only on the occasion of a Directors' meeting, 
 and so secluded and sequestered was it, so carefully 
 guarded against the intrusion of noise or disturbance, 
 that the powerful, brilliant crew that gathered here on 
 these occasions might well have been a canonical assem- 
 blage, Bishops of the New Religion, come together 
 for the purpose of devising new intricacies for the worship 
 of the munificent god Success. Sound the hymn softly, 
 swing the censers slowly. The doors swing open. The 
 procession files in. The doors are closed. The Grand 
 Mogul chairman takes his seat, and the service is on. 
 
 And what a service! What worshippers! Worship- 
 pers such as the world never saw before. Great men, 
 grand men, but for the time being helpless slaves in 
 their unquestioning allegiance to the power and righteous- 
 ness of their god. Stand back with bared head! The 
 gavel falls, the meeting comes to order. Twenty of 
 the most powerful men in the country are going to search 
 their brains, their hearts, and their very souls for ways 
 and means to further the profitable spread of the only 
 religion their world will let them know. Twenty men, 
 representing twenty fortunes, all swearing to one symbol: 
 the Dollar. Twenty brains, the finest products of evo- 
 lution, and not one of them near enough to the meaning 
 of life to have one thought of more importance than 
 the creation of more wealth by the already impossibly 
 large fortunes that they control !
 
 190 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 What! A thought of more importance? Cast out 
 the heretic! Close and lock the sacred doors! Cast 
 all such blasphemers out of the sacred precincts of this 
 chamber, out in the darkness where he may ponder over 
 the solemn spectacle going on within, and curse, or 
 laugh, according to how the gods have gifted him with 
 a sense of humour! 
 
 Odd, very odd, that in such a place should be settled 
 how much Clay Court might eat for breakfast! 
 
 On the afternoon of this same Saturday when Joey 
 came back to the land of the living, Dicky Clews rose 
 from his seat of honour before the chairman with a 
 paper in his hand, and begged for a moment of informal 
 speech to the Board of Directors of the Consolidated 
 Factory Company. 
 
 "I have a personal request to make," said he. "It's 
 a rotten nuisance. Mr. Lord, you know, John Lord, 
 has mesmerized me into doing it. There is a young 
 woman Miss Ruth Arthur. Some of you know her. 
 You all know her gov'nor. She's one of us, you know, 
 one of our kind. She's all right. She she wants to 
 talk to us for a few minutes this afternoon about I 
 don't know what about. Awful nuisance, as I say. 
 She does something at a settlement house, or something 
 in that line, you know. I didn't want to get let in for 
 this, but hang it! I couldn't help it. Lord insisted on 
 it; said it would be the best investment we'd ever made 
 of our valuable time. All that sort of thing. 
 
 " If she wasn't one of our kind impossible, of course. 
 As she is daughter of old Doctor Arthur, you know
 
 Joey the Dreamer 191 
 
 very safe and sane and only a few minutes I'm 
 afraid I'll have to insist, you know, that we give her 
 those few minutes right now before we get down to 
 business. Thanks, all of you." 
 
 It was one of the few decent things Dicky Clews had 
 done since he was a thin, straight school-boy, unpowerful 
 and unspoiled. Perhaps he thought of that same clean 
 boyhood then; perhaps it was only his good nature 
 that had driven him to the mark. But the effect was 
 the same, for the name of the Clews' dollars was great 
 in the directorate, and after a perfunctory motion 
 and vote Ruth slipped through the quietly opened door, 
 the door closed behind her, and she stood facing the 
 conclave, a little strip of a woman, mostly white face 
 and living eyes. 
 
 "Miss Arthur, this is a pleasure, indeed." The 
 courtly white-haired chairman arose and bowed earnestly. 
 "May I offer you the chair?" 
 
 "You are kind, very kind. I will not trouble you." 
 She remained standing near the door. Her eyes ran 
 over each face before her. She was looking for something 
 in each face, but it wasn't there. And Dicky Clews 
 saw that she was disappointed, and he was wonder- 
 ing why when she began to speak; and the fervour in 
 her low tones drove the idle conjecture out of his head 
 and riveted his attention along with that of every 
 man in the room. 
 
 "Dear brothers," said Ruth, "you are very kind to 
 listen to me, and I won't take up much of your time. 
 I want to tell you about Clay Court. It's a place that
 
 192 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 you ought to know about; you control it body and 
 soul." 
 
 Then she told them something about Clay Court, 
 about how its people worked in the Factory, and some- 
 thing about how they lived. 
 
 "You have heard of these things before. Stories 
 have been printed in the papers, and speakers have 
 quoted figures to you. But you never have known 
 never have known what it all meant. You never have 
 known that it is so, that such things exist over there 
 across the river. I say you never have known, brothers, 
 or there would have been an end to it all long ago. You 
 would have put an end to it, for the sake of your own 
 blessed peace of mind. And now, not knowing what 
 it means, you are responsible for it all. You are the 
 thieving, murdering creators of that hopeless little 
 inferno over on the West Side." 
 
 Her low, tender voice lost none of its tenderness in 
 making her startling accusation; her wistful, pleading 
 face was no less sweet to look upon. More than one 
 self-controlled director sat up with a start. It was, 
 at least, a novelty to be called a thieving murderer 
 by such a gracious little lady. 
 
 "Dear brothers," continued Ruth warmly, after her 
 words had sunk home, "I do not come here to be vindic- 
 tive, to cause one hurt, or to make one enemy. We 
 are all of one great family, all sisters and brothers; 
 I love you all; I want to try to teach you to love, if 
 you can, my people; and if you cannot love them learn 
 to be fair to them. I do not say what I say idly. I
 
 Joey the Dreamer 193 
 
 have thought long over itl I have searched with my 
 own hands, seen with my own eyes, and weighed it all 
 long and carefully before I came here to speak to you. 
 And I repeat it: You are the ones who are responsible 
 for such places as Clay Court, because Clay Court is 
 what it is because of miserable wages, and you are the 
 men who pay the wages; you are the men who say to 
 Clay Court: 'You may not feed your children enough 
 to make them grow up strong men and women, you 
 may not have fresh air enough to keep your infants 
 alive. You may have only enough to live like swine,' 
 say you, 'because we, your masters, desire to become 
 very, very rich.' 
 
 "That is what you say to Clay Court through wages, 
 my brothers, and that is why I come here straight from 
 the place, with the sobs of weary mothers, and the wails 
 of hungry babes in my ears, and the sight of ill and wasted 
 boys and girls before my eyes, to tell you about it, to 
 drive home to you the fact that such places exist, and 
 to beg of you in the name of God and all goodness: Do 
 not add any more to the crimes you bear by making this 
 new contemplated wage-cut. For now you know, and 
 the excuse of Cain no longer will suffice. 
 
 "I know you do not mean to be cruel to my people. 
 You haven't meant to treat them unjustly. You merely 
 have been careless and ignorant. You have said: 'I 
 can do this, therefore, I will. It is more important 
 that I grow rich than that a thousand people are paid 
 living wages. Dividends count more than souls. I 
 and my kind are the world; the rest merely are the mud
 
 194 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 bricks upon which the world stands. Beside, they're 
 used to this sort of thing, and their misery has nothing 
 to do with me.' 
 
 "And saying this you build, in your ignorance, a mire 
 from which arises the bill which you pay each year 
 for your police, your asylums, your hospitals, your 
 jails, and your orphanages. 
 
 "Their misery is nothing to us,' you say, and you 
 take, because you can. You take so much, brothers. 
 You take so much that there is not enough left for the 
 others. You take more than your share, more than 
 you need, more than you have any good of. 
 
 "For what does it avail you after all, that you can take 
 so much to have and hold for your own? What does it 
 do for you? Does it make you happy? We all need to 
 work and do something and struggle because we feel 
 that the end of it all will be happiness. But does your 
 striving and taking, which yields you such an enormous 
 number of dollar figures and power, make you happy?" 
 
 Her eyes moved quietly over the faces before her; each 
 one she subjected to searching scrutiny. And each man 
 as she looked at him knew in his soul that she had read 
 the tale of strife, turmoil, worry, trouble that rode in 
 his heart and made his days a succession of distressed 
 hours. 
 
 "No," she said, "you are not happy. You are rich, 
 you are powerful, you have the sensation of being mighty; 
 but, no, you are not happy. That is the wonderful 
 thing of it to me," she said musingly, "that you will 
 struggle to take so much and to make so much misery
 
 Joey the Dreamer 195 
 
 for others, when it really does nothing to create happiness 
 for yourselves." 
 
 ("I swear the girl's actually pitying us!" thought Dicky 
 Clews as he met her eyes.) 
 
 " It every thousand you take adds only to your 
 struggles, an additional burden to carry during your 
 brief stay on mother earth. 
 
 "How long," she said abruptly, "do you expect to stay 
 on earth? And during eternity, whether you believe 
 in a hereafter or not, you know that your wealth cannot 
 go with you. You " she singled out the old chairman 
 "how much longer do you think you will pursue your 
 senseless course of adding to your already superfluous 
 riches? Ten years? Then what? Death. And after 
 death what will you leave behind you? Money enough 
 to keep your family in the fore-front of the rich? Money 
 enough to let your boy go through life without one mo- 
 ment's need to be useful? To let him grow up without a 
 thought in his head beyond his own pleasure, to keep 
 him in the dark concerning the realness of life, as much 
 as you keep your factory children there through unfair 
 conditions? Or to let your daughter grow up the female 
 counterpart of such a son? Is this what you mean to 
 leave behind; is this all? 
 
 "Dear brother, it is not all. Heed now; behind you, 
 you will leave that which will have had a far greater 
 significance, something that will testify more loudly to 
 your power. You will leave behind you the stamp of 
 your master hand in the form of scores, hundreds, aye, 
 thousands of your brothers, sisters, stunted, mutilated,
 
 196 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 crippled, destroyed body and soul through your great 
 system; you will leave your mark in scores of consump- 
 tives, made in your workshops, contributing their taint 
 to hundreds of offspring; you will leave your mark in an 
 army of men and women grown to maturity, living and 
 dying in ignorance of one single thing that makes life 
 good and beautiful and worth while, because of your 
 system; in rickety, anaemic children growing up and 
 bearing rickety, anaemic offspring of their own; in dozens 
 of criminals, and scores of girls forced to the street ; in a 
 creation of another brick in the miserable structure that 
 is called a slum, another addition to the tribe of 
 miserables who in the end may reach their tainted 
 hands up, and up, even unto your class and tear it 
 down to its own miry level. 
 
 "This, brother, is what you will leave behind to show 
 that you, in the natural order of things, sojourned on this 
 earth for your natural term of years, blindly took for your- 
 self all the wealth that you could reach and passed away 
 into eternity. Beside this, your money and fame will 
 be as a tiny cottage beside a great prison. Long after that 
 money is gone, long after your house has fallen, the 
 effects of these things will be on the world. Idiots will 
 go to asylums, paralytics sit helpless in the chairs; and 
 the malformed of soul will demand the treatment society 
 has laid out for them, the whole vast weeping total of 
 human misery will have been added to by your little 
 contribution. That is what you will leave behind you, 
 and all the schools and hospitals you may build will not 
 atone to the race for these things. Oh, man, made
 
 Joey ike Dreamer 197 
 
 in the image of God, how long will it be before you 
 begin to see! 
 
 "'How can you accuse us of these things?' you 
 demand. 'How do we do them?' 
 
 "How? By actions like this wage-cut that is being 
 talked of. That is how it happens. I do not think you 
 mean to be cruel. No, you are too good for that. 
 
 "You do good; oh, you do so much good! You build 
 schools, and hospitals, and play-grounds, and for every 
 one of these that you give, a song of praise and thanks 
 goes up to high heaven. You are good men. You are 
 not bad. But, oh, you are so ignorant, so savagely 
 cruel ! That is what it is, the cruelty of the savage 
 of thoughtlessness and ignorance. 
 
 "This cut in wages that you are thinking of is such 
 cruelty. It is savagery. It is murder, it is the damnation 
 of souls and bodies. My people, my friends over there, 
 your brothers and sisters in humanity, only manage to 
 exist on what they earn at present just manage to 
 live. Take any part of their earnings away and children 
 will die of hunger, boys will turn thieves, and girls 
 your daughters, sisters will have to sell themselves in 
 order to exist. 
 
 "This is the truth. It is not theorizing; it is fact. 
 A girl must have food, clothes, a place to sleep. She 
 just gets this now on the wages you pay. Cut wages in 
 the Factory, and her body must pay for the clothes and 
 the place to lay her head. Do you understand? As 
 sure as you vote this wage-cut you doom a score of 
 helpless girls to worse than damnation.
 
 198 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "You have done these things often in the past. That 
 was because you did not know. You did not know of 
 those helpless women and children, the wan widows, and 
 the pleading, sad-eyed babes, and of how you took from 
 them all that makes life worth living. God can forgive 
 you for the past, because He is God. But neither God 
 nor mancanforgive you in the future,now that you know." 
 
 She seemed to break a little and waited until her voice 
 was itself again. 
 
 "Dear brothers, our family your family and mine 
 the family of humanity has a claim on you. I press 
 that claim now : In the name of Christ, in the name of 
 your own wives and daughters, in the name of your very 
 civilization, do not add this wage-cut to your many 
 thoughtless crimes." 
 
 She ceased to speak. She looked around at them. 
 There was not a motion in the group before her, not the 
 roving of a single eye. They were as so many faces of 
 stone, masks behind which no one could read a line. 
 
 "I thank you, brothers," said Ruth. 
 
 "That is all, Miss Arthur?" said the courteous chair- 
 man kindly. 
 
 "That is all. You have been very kind." 
 
 "A pleasure." The chairman smiled and bowed as 
 she turned to go. "We have all been much interested, I 
 am sure." 
 
 He bowed her out. The door closed softly behind her. 
 
 "And now," said the courteous chairman, stiffening 
 his lips, "let's get down to business." 
 
 And now the world knew.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 FREDDY and Delia were not at all overwhelmed 
 by the impending crisis. This is a peculiarity 
 of people in love. Nations may fall and crum- 
 ble back into the dust whence they sprang; civilizations 
 may lose themselves off the face of the earth; but even 
 unto the end the young folks will seek out secluded spots 
 and make eager love beside the ivy on the crumbling 
 walls. So has it been from the beginning, and so will it 
 always be; and Clay Court, dear reader, in this regard 
 differs not at all from the fortunate part of the world 
 which you call your own. In fact, if the truth were 
 carefully sought out, it is probable that it would be found 
 that successful love making is conducted on the boulevard 
 much along the same simple lines that win in the Tene- 
 ment. For we are men and women first of all, and this is 
 a thing that Circumstance is powerless to alter. 
 
 While the Court growled and cursed on this pleasant 
 Saturday evening, while the stores and markets refused 
 folks credit and the saloons did an extra business; while 
 Rinehart screamed in the Hall, and half of the Tenement 
 people were ready to follow him in any madness, Freddy 
 and Delia, arm in arm, the precious violin case between 
 them, set out in a west-bound avenue car for their great 
 test of fate. This was the night, we remember, when 
 
 199
 
 200 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 Freddy was to have his chance, his real, real chance, on 
 the programme at Electric Park. 
 
 Strange, almost incredible to relate, they made that 
 ride in utter silence. The weight of the evening's 
 possibilities rode heavy upon them both, and they were 
 too honest with each other to attempt to laugh off the 
 seriousness that ruled them. But Delia's fingers on his 
 arm told Freddy what it meant to her, and he thought of 
 the Saturday night before, and he felt his responsibility, 
 and the boy in that moment gave place to the man. 
 
 Binger, meeting them at the light-sprayed gate of 
 the park, slapped Freddy on the back and bade him 
 cheer up. 
 
 "You don't play no funeral march, you know," he 
 said. "Ah, deh young lady. Pleased to haf you widt 
 us again. I hope you haf not forgoten dat Toussang's is 
 a respectable place." 
 
 Delia thought he shook hands with just a little too 
 much expression, but he was a swell gentleman just the 
 same. 
 
 "You haf come oudt to see Freddy driumph, eh?" 
 
 "Sure. She came with me," said Freddy, leading the 
 way toward the Casino, the long, low, walless building 
 where Electric Park dispensed free music and dear drinks. 
 
 "You are deh lucky ladt. Now, iff you play as well as 
 you select your company ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 He was in great fettle, was Binger. He had been drink- 
 ing, not much, but a little, and he kept close to Delia in 
 a way that made her, the girl who was at home in any 
 crowd, no matter how tight the press, a little uncomfort-
 
 Joey the Dreamer 201 
 
 able. There seemed a threat in his leer, a promise of 
 future unpleasantness in the touch of his elbow, in spite 
 of all his magnificence, and she drew closer to Freddy as 
 they moved along. 
 
 Save for this trifle, Delia was in her element. For the 
 night and the place and crowd were made for Joy. It 
 is at night and in such spots that the city blooms, and 
 becomes a garden. The garden is all artificial. Its flowers 
 are lights and laces; its odour peanuts and patchouli. 
 To do a picture of it use lamp black, and red and yellow. 
 For a poem, sing of a laughing girl with rouged cheeks. 
 It is the city triumphant. Night and care, darkness and 
 thought are routed. The little human sheep children, 
 unafraid in the glare and contact with their kind, flock 
 up like moths to a street lamp. Their feet beat together, 
 a quick-step; their voices rattle in harmony, a symphony 
 of nocturnal metropolitan worship of the jolly god, Who 
 Cares? We are free! We have forgotten! Strike up 
 the music, somebody, and let us all dance ! 
 
 Delia didn't say this, but probably she would if the 
 evening had been one of less importance. She was barely 
 touching the ground as she walked. Her head was high 
 up, like a flower riding proudly on its stalk; and her eyes 
 were brighter, the little red mouth redder than ever. 
 She was intoxicated again by the flood of warm life around 
 her, and Freddy, looking down at the jaunty little 
 shoulders, grew warmer around the heart and stiffer about 
 the lips. He couldn't lose now, with such a prize already 
 won. He pinched her arm; she looked up quickly; their 
 eyes met; and Delia with her arm pressed his hand warmly
 
 202 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 against her side. She understood. And, strangely 
 enough, there were warm tears in her eyes, and she was 
 glad to have them there. So it was natural that she 
 should say, "Don't get fresh." 
 
 She hummed a tune, one of the tunes whereby Freddy 
 would rise or f all this night, and then, looking around at 
 the gaiety about her, she choked with the fear that smote 
 her at the heart. If Freddy won, all this was theirs, 
 all the lights, good clothes, freedom, pleasure ! But he 
 might not win. It was possible that he would not. 
 Then what? Then the dead, dark round of life in 
 the Factory and the room in the Tenement, of course. 
 She had a vision of the Factory, of her room, there in the 
 midst of all the brightness. 
 
 "What's the matter, kid? Your arm's cold." They 
 were in the Casino, and Freddy was staring down into 
 her face. She made no answer. 
 
 " I got to leave you now. They spring the trap on me 
 In a few minutes," he continued. 
 
 "Oh, Gawd!" whispered Delia. 
 
 "Hah?" 
 
 "Nothin'. Go on." She tried to laugh, and pushed 
 him away. "Go on; get it over with." 
 
 He saw now what it was, and smiled upon her assur- 
 ingly. So she was that much interested, was she? He 
 noted that the jaunty little shoulders quivered. He 
 grew strong, then, did Freddy. Ah! what a fine thing it 
 is for a young man to discover that he is all in all to a 
 young woman! 
 
 "Don't worry, yer leddyship," he whispered; "I'm
 
 Joey the Dreamer 203 
 
 there with the goods to-night. I can feel it in my 
 hair." 
 
 Then he was gone, and she was alone with Binger, 
 sitting beside him at a secluded table and staring up at the 
 stage with eyes that trembled at the thought of Freddy's 
 threatening appearance. He was an Extra and was to 
 come on between Number 3 and Number 4. Number 2 
 now gleamed in the electric lights that announced 
 the programme, and Delia noting it, breathed a tiny 
 sigh of relief that the crucial moment was one number 
 away, at least. 
 
 "You are a little nervous, my dear?" suggested Binger, 
 ogling her pleasantly. 
 
 "Say not," snapped Delia. The tips of her fingers 
 were through her cotton gloves. "Why should I be?" 
 
 Why, indeed! She stood on the brink of a chasm. 
 Freedom of the sort she craved lay on the other side. 
 The next hour would prove if Freddy could offer a safe 
 bridge for the crossing. She prayed to her own peculiar 
 gods that he could. Why should she be nervous, indeed! 
 
 That was just what Binger said. 
 
 "Dough if you was or am not I might perhaps 
 suggest a lidtle trink? A small bodtle off vine ?" 
 
 "Nit," said Delia, shaking her head. 
 
 "No. Dere iss no need. You are a swell looker 
 vidoudt idt. Ha, ha! My dear, how do you like our 
 lidtle park?" 
 
 "Gee! It's swell, after the old Factory," said Delia, 
 honestly. 
 
 "Good Godt! Iss idt possible? You work in a
 
 204 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 fektory? You shouldt nodt do dat. No, no, my girl, 
 you shouldt nodt work]at all. You shouldt haf friends." 
 Binger beamed and nodded significantly. "You shouldt 
 have friends." He leaned nearer, and his breath reached 
 her cheek. "Idt iss living for pretty girls who have 
 swell friendts; dat is living. I couldt findt swell friendts 
 for you, my dear, deh swellest in diss town. And den 
 you shouldt live as you shouldt." 
 
 "Eyah," said Delia with her eyes averted. "Ought 
 to be the millionaire kid, too." 
 
 "Millionaire? Ha, ha!" Binger's fat throat rippled. 
 "Yes, I couldt find millionaire friendts, too. Did you 
 effer hear of Mr. Clews? A millionaire." Binger 
 winked, shaking his head. "My dear, you neffer was 
 meant to work." 
 
 "Nobody knows that any better 'n me," snapped Delia. 
 
 "No. Andt what fektory shouldt it be you work in?" 
 
 Delia told him. Binger's eyes opened wide as he sat 
 back in surprise. 
 
 "So? Dat place? Idt iss queer business, dat," 
 said he thoughtfully. 
 
 "What is?" asked Delia. 
 
 "Dott you shouldt work in a fektory," he lied. "Never 
 the less you must not do idt much longer. Tink of 
 dat swell liddle face of yours in a fektory! Vot a 
 shame! Ha ha!" 
 
 But in his mind he was revolving the question of how 
 strange it was that it should be Consolidated Factory 
 money that was behind the very park in which they now 
 were sitting.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 205 
 
 Delia didn't know. Probably she wouldn't have 
 cared. Who cares what tips the scales? Not folk like 
 our Delia, to be sure. The new playwright, gnawing his 
 fingers behing the scenes, while the audience renders the 
 verdict which will bring to him affluence or failure knows 
 something of what was in the heart of Delia during those 
 awful minutes. But only a little. For her fate had 
 been written that fateful Saturday night of a week 
 before, and for her there was no hope but that Freddy 
 would win. 
 
 "Oh, gee! Why don't they hurry it up?" Numbers 
 2 and 3 were taking up an unconscionable time. "Do 
 they think we came to see them?" 
 
 And she laughed in Binger's face boldly; and her bab- 
 bling, unceasing, hectic, laughing, deceived him, and he 
 fancied that she was smitten with J. Q. A. Binger, whereas 
 she was only talking and giggling to hide her quaking 
 self. And then 
 
 "Oh, you Freddy!" "Ah! There he is." "There 
 he is. Old cock Freddy!" "Come on, you Fritz!" 
 The gang from the Factory was announcing Freddy's 
 arrival. 
 
 He was standing awkwardly near the right entrance 
 of the stage, grinning mightily on one side of his face, the 
 other grave with the solemnity of the artist about his 
 work. It was natural to him that he should be merrier 
 to look at than ever, for the heart within him was beat- 
 ing more wildly. The glare of the footlights got into 
 his eyes, and he grinned still more, and that rough- 
 hearted crew in the front seats called him their rough,
 
 206 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 endearing names and bade him "Go to it, boyj^go to it, 
 'cause we're here to see you through." 
 
 Delia sat as if sitting for her picture and drew breath 
 in little gasps, and Freddy looked over at her and began 
 to play. 
 
 But he had won them from the beginning with his 
 wholesome grin. He was one of them, no matter who 
 or what they were, the grin had put them all on an equal 
 footing, and they, one and all, were praying that he 
 might make good. This is the combination that makes 
 for good work, though possibly Freddy might have gone 
 far with even a hostile audience. For Freddy was new, 
 different. He had known that he "had something." So 
 had Binger. The crowd rose up and told them that they 
 both were quite right. 
 
 "Oh, you Freddy! Come back! Come back, there. 
 We'll have that once more if you please." 
 
 They were proud of him, relieved, happy that he had 
 made good. 
 
 "He'ss a cardt," chuckled Binger. "He'sS a cardt. 
 He'll draw. Hah, hah!" 
 
 But Delia was stunned. She had expected to cry out 
 his name and applauded with the rest, for no matter what 
 the crowd's verdict, she would applaud; but now that 
 the crisis was over, and all that she had prayed for had 
 come to pass, she was as helpless as a babe. It was too 
 much, too sudden. She saw what it meant to her, for 
 the woman in her had whispered what would come to pass 
 this evening. She sat dumb and motionless while the 
 crowd applauded, while Freddy played his last encore and
 
 Joey the Dreamer 207 
 
 bowed his grinning way out of sight: and while the next 
 number was flashed in the lights. It was all over; he 
 had made good; they were free. 
 
 Suddenly she came to life and started up as if to run to 
 him in spite of the chairs, the tables, the crowd, everything. 
 She was overwhelmed. She was angry, maddened. It 
 was their triumph; his and hers. The crowd what 
 right had it to share in it? She was jealous. The crowd 
 was taking him for its own. And he was hers, only 
 hers; for he was all she had. She rose, gripped the table, 
 swayed forward with parted lips and then she sat 
 down suddenly, carefully fussed with her back hair, and 
 even while so engaged said carelessly to Binger: 
 
 "Hot stuff to-night with the gang wasn't he?" 
 
 "A cardt!" gurgled Binger eying the typhoon of 
 drinks ordered after the applause. "A cardt." 
 
 Was it true! Could it be true? Or was it only 
 another of those dreams with the bitter awakening? 
 Had this thing really happened for them? From seven- 
 fifty to twenty -five a week! Only Clay Court is qualified 
 to appreciate this experience. Yet Delia managed to 
 laugh with Binger as if it was nothing to her. 
 
 When Freddy came, red, sweating, and solemn, to sit 
 beside them she said: "S'pose you'll get the swell head 
 and buy a cane now, won't you?" 
 
 "No," said Freddy. "But I'll buy you some 
 lemonade." 
 
 "I will puy," said Binger. "But lemonade? 
 No!" 
 
 "Lemonade, yes!" snapped Delia. "Nothing but."
 
 208 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "So?" Binger's broad mouth grew broader, more 
 pleasant. He was considerable of an epicure, Binger. 
 "Lemonade, den. Andt, Mr. Freddy; you may consider 
 yourself engached. Twenty-five per, begin Vensdtday 
 night; andt if you needt something in adtvance I gif idt 
 to you now." 
 
 Freddy's heart leaped with a thump that Delia heard; 
 but on his face there was no exultation, no surprise. 
 
 "No, thanks," he said carelessly. "Don't need any 
 now." 
 
 And Delia, knowing the condition of his finances, 
 nearly fell off her chair from pride. 
 
 "I got to get some new strings," continued Freddy. 
 "That's all my extra expenses. Help me remember it 
 Tuesday, will you, Dell?" 
 
 "I couldt haf the leadter order them," suggested 
 Binger generously. 
 
 "I'll get 'em myself," said Freddy. "I want to pick 
 'em out." 
 
 "You are a goodt picker," agreed Binger, and again 
 his eyes were on Delia. 
 
 Far back in the Casino had sat a pale, bored little man 
 with thick strings to his eye-glasses. At Freddy's first 
 bar he had looked up. A minute later he was almost 
 interested. Now he came down and drew Binger to 
 one side. 
 
 "Who was it?" he demanded. "Tell me of him with 
 the red hair. Do you know that the West Side has got 
 its own music at last? No, not music, either. Slang. 
 That's it; the real George Ade article. The red head
 
 Joey the Dreamer 209 
 
 plays it. Tell me who he is so I can immortalize him for 
 half a column Monday morning." 
 
 A great, glorious night, greater, more glorious than 
 they had dreamed of! The first moment they were 
 alone, Freddy, pinching Delia's arm, said, "Well, we put 
 it over, eh, pal?"
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 FREE! 
 Outside the thousand-lighted gate, out in the 
 street where the gleam and roar of the park were 
 behind them, Delia and Freddy clasped hands and 
 looked at each other with daring eyes. The test was 
 over. They had won. It was intoxicating, almost 
 sickening. It was something like the sensation of the 
 starved man who suddenly finds his belly full of food. 
 They were free. They dared to live now. They dared! 
 And so they went steadily down the dark street, their 
 hands interlinked so the palms pressed close together, 
 seeking only to quit the crowds that they might be alone. 
 
 The glamour and pull of the park had lost its hold even 
 on Delia. Something greater, stronger, more wonderful 
 had taken its place. The park, the lights, the giggling 
 crowds had drawn her because they promised happy 
 forgetfulness for an hour, two hours. But this was 
 something else something better than forgetfulness: 
 and by the magic that flew through her and encircled 
 her as they walked on, it seemed to Delia that this new 
 something gave promise of happiness eternal. At all 
 events, one moment of Freddy then was worth an hour of 
 the park. So they went on. 
 
 The street led on to the boulevard. The boulevard 
 
 210
 
 Joey the Dreamer 211 
 
 led to the park. They followed a path to a seat by the 
 lagoon, and the moon looked at them from the water and 
 from the sky. They sat holding hands like a couple of 
 children; and Nature promptly proceeded to weave 
 its spell. 
 
 "We'll have a house of our own," blurted Freddy at 
 last. "Yes, b'jees, we will. We'll save our money and 
 buy it on easy payments. We'll buy a lot out here 
 somewhere, first, that's what we'll do. Then we'll have 
 it built just the way we want it." 
 
 "Cottage?" said Delia, to show that she had followed 
 the awesome leap of Freddy's mind. 
 
 "Sure. Mustn't have it too big." Freddy was your 
 true dreamer who realizes the complete picture at one 
 jump. "Nice, low cottage. Back from the street. 
 Grass in front; coloured glass in the front door; lace 
 curtains in the front windows. A yard, sure, just like 
 these places around here." 
 
 "How many rooms?" 
 
 "Five, six, mebbe." 
 
 "Gee! What'll we do with six all? Six rooms; 
 you'n me " 
 
 She stopped. Freddy opened his mouth to speak, and 
 he stopped likewise. Then they looked at each other 
 slowly, slyly at first, each seeking to read the other's 
 face without detection, then more boldly until in the end 
 they were facing each other, their eyes eager to tell all 
 the mysteries, the new-found tenderness and wonder 
 that the suddenly coming thought had conjured up. 
 And only their eyes could tell; for the feeling was too
 
 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 vague, too fine, too thrilling, too strange to find utterance 
 at their inexperienced lips. 
 
 The clasp of their hands grew firmer, more trustful. 
 Slowly, unconsciously they drew closer together, as if 
 the mutual touch of the bodies was necessary for their 
 swelling hearts. A blush mounted faintly to Delia's 
 cheek. Gradually her eyes lowered, and with them low- 
 ered her head, until, as naturally as the twining of the 
 vine to the oak, it found a resting place upon Freddy's 
 breast. The wise old moon, if it noticed, must have 
 smiled with proper tenderness. Delia snuggled her 
 nose more closely against the vest upon which she 
 rested. She felt the pump of the honest heart beneath 
 it, and she pressed closer to it, hungry to show the last 
 degree of her new-found dependence. 
 
 "Gee!" she whispered. "Who'd 'a' 'thunk it? Eh?" 
 
 And the wise old moon, having heard a new expression 
 of an eternally old feeling, must have smiled again. 
 
 "Sure," said Freddy, clearing his throat. "We 
 we'll need six rooms all right." 
 
 "Shut up," whispered Delia. "You make me blush 
 like a child." 
 
 "We'll give 'em an education. Yes, b'jees," Freddy's 
 mind ran bitterly back to his own starved childhood - 
 "our kids are going to school, and have a chance to 
 play!" 
 
 "Shut up!" repeated Delia, raising her head and 
 looking up at the sky. "Gee! What a bee-yootiful 
 pipe-dream." 
 
 "Nix. Nix on that. No dream here. It's a sure
 
 Joey the Dreamer 213 
 
 thing for us. Didn't you hear what I was going to 
 catch?" 
 
 "But it's too good to be true, Freddy." 
 
 "Wait, watch, and listen," retorted Freddy. "We 
 hain't had many good things in our life; that's why it 
 seems like it can't be true. But it is it's going to be. 
 I know it. I knew it all the time. Why, when I was a 
 sawed-off little kid washing bottles in a shoe polish 
 fact'ry in the basement and sleeping under the sink, I 
 knew something was going to happen some day that'd 
 gimme' a chance for something like this. I knew it. 
 An' that was before I knew I could fiddle. I been waitin' 
 for it a million years. It don't faze me, honest. Don't 
 worry, Delia; it's only a case o' waitin' now till the 
 dream comes true." 
 
 "Gee, if it only would!" 
 
 "Why, it will, honey." 
 
 "I never knew of it happ'ning. Never knew anybody 
 ever had such luck." 
 
 "What's that gotto do with us?" 
 
 " I never figured myself such a winner never counted 
 on anything big like this." Passionately she flung 
 herself upon him. "Oh, you, Freddy, boy," she cried. 
 " You make me feel so good that I'm afraid afraid, 
 that's what's the matter with me. I never expected 
 nothing like this. I never hoped for it, 'cause I knew 
 it wouldn't do no good. And " 
 
 "We hadn't met then, Dell!" 
 
 "No. No, that's so." Delia was silent, and Freddy 
 looked at the hand he was holding. It was a small hand,
 
 214 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 the hand of a woman child, but the tips of the fingers 
 were worn to callouses and discoloured beneath the skin. 
 
 "Oh, Freddy." The girl beamed with a sudden 
 idea as she followed his glance. " I'll get that off now 
 I'll have a chance to get my fingers clean." 
 
 "You know it." 
 
 "Haven't had 'em clean since since " Her voice 
 
 dropped and stopped as memory ran back over the long 
 barren years of what should have been her childhood. 
 
 "When did yuh start tuh work, Delia?" 
 
 "Twelve." 
 
 "Twelve!" 
 
 "Uh, huh! In the Fact'ry. An' I never had 'em 
 clean, real clean since." 
 
 "But now yuh will. An' yuh won't never get 'em 
 glued up again, ayether, yer leddyship." 
 
 "No?" Again she threw herself upon him with the 
 passionate bodily appeal for protection. "Oh, is it 
 true, Freddy? Am am I free?" 
 
 "You are, yer leddyship,' 'said Freddy, "you sure are." 
 
 She was crying frankly, now, half -laughter, half-tears, 
 clinging to the lean, strong shoulders above her as if the 
 world and all depended upon them. 
 
 "Why why weep, yer leddyship?" 
 
 "Feeling good, that's all," said Delia, shaking her 
 head. "Can't I cry if I wanto laugh?" 
 
 "You sure can," said Freddy, "you sure can. I know 
 how you feel. You hain't had such an awful scream of it, 
 either, have you, hon'?" 
 
 Her mouth pouted like a child as she ruminated
 
 Joey the Dreamer 215 
 
 perhaps, on what might have been. Her fingers played 
 tenderly with a coat button. 
 
 "Nope," she said with a quaver in the voice, shaking 
 her head thoughtfully. "Nope." 
 
 "I'll make it up for you, kid," he whispered; and she 
 whispered back brokenly, "I know you will, Fred; 
 I know you will. You got to. Because 'cause 
 you've done so much for me, Freddy, so much you'll 
 never know." 
 
 "Who? Me? I " 
 
 "Done it all, Freddy, boy; you've saved me. Gee!" 
 She sat up smiling through her tears with the look of a 
 child. "Gee! Just think of what's before us all 
 because we just happened to get to know each other. 
 Ain't it wonderful? Why, say, I feel's if I hadn't been 
 living before. Just as if I've only been sleeping along 
 waitin' for this to come and wake me up. Gee, it's a 
 good world "she snuggled close to him again 
 "when you've got a Freddy for your own." 
 
 But a moment later she seemed to shudder, and he 
 whispered, "Now, what is it, hon'?" 
 
 Her little face was white and cold as it turned up to 
 him. Into her eyes flew the old, old fear that life had 
 driven into her from the days of her infancy. There is 
 the Death of Hope in this Fear. Its name is Poverty. 
 
 "Ah!" whispered Delia chokingly. "You gotto, 
 you gotto make good, Freddy. If you don't I'm 
 gone I'm gone; that's all." 
 
 He drew her closer to him. He lifted her to his lap. 
 He understood. His thin arms drew her hungrily toward
 
 216 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 his body; and he felt the little breasts crush themselves 
 against his ribs. She was panting in a mingling of 
 passion and fear. 
 
 "Be good to me," she pleaded with her lips on his 
 coat. "You see what you've done now." 
 
 "Sure," he whispered. "It's all right." 
 
 They were very serious. Life suddenly had become 
 a wonderful unsuspected dream. Hitherto they had lived 
 with the thoughtlessness of two lively young animals. 
 Habit and instinct sufficed for the direction of their 
 existence. To-day was yesterday in repetition, to- 
 morrow would be another to-day. Nature had not 
 laid on them her claim of the sexes. Life had not begun 
 to be significant. Suddenly all this was changed. Their 
 time had come. That remorseless spinner, Nature, 
 finding them ripe for her purpose had proceeded to weave 
 with them, working them into one more infinitesimal 
 mesh in the great net of lif e of which we are all a part. So 
 does Nature weave always. Her indifference to the 
 individual is more than sublime. Her work is the apothe- 
 osis of concentration. For Nature has only one care, 
 one idea with which she concerns herself to the exclusion 
 of all else to see that the net is supplied with meshes 
 and that the weaving goes ever on. 
 
 In this moment these two ordinary young people of 
 the tenement saw the heights. For the time they might 
 have been primitive beings in an unsullied garden of 
 Eden. The young eternal impulses were their masters. 
 The brick and mortar shells that housed them were gone 
 from the earth. The earth was bare, made anew. The
 
 Joey the Dreamer 217 
 
 trite bonds of circumstances were broken. They were 
 free. They were awakened, man and woman in love in 
 a primitive world of misty blackness, softened and 
 mellowed by dim, far-away lights. 
 
 "Remember," whispered Freddy, "those dark brown 
 days are over. We begin to live now." 
 
 Then the crunch of an officer's heel on the gravel 
 brought them back to earth. 
 
 Slowly they quitted their trysting place, careless of the 
 place or hour, forgetful of all but the joy within them. 
 The streets had grown comfortably empty. Here a 
 group of young men gathered raggedly at a corner; there 
 a middle-aged reveller staggered home sedately using 
 the whole sidewalk in his devious progress. Other pairs 
 like themselves strolled slowly along, the man's arm boldly 
 clasping his companion's waist even the pause for an 
 occasional embrace was not lacking. Still other pairs 
 stood in the darkened hallways, their low-toned murmur- 
 ing conversation ceasing as footsteps approached their 
 trysting place and promptly resuming when the pedes- 
 trian had passed by. All undisturbed, Freddy and 
 Delia went, left quite alone as was their wish, and they had 
 but little to say. They had spoken back there in the 
 park, and had said it all. They were not possessed of 
 many words. Now it was only left to dream happily 
 over and over again the tale that had been told, to ponder 
 upon the eternal mystery in which they had become 
 enveloped. And could a careful observer have beheld 
 them as they passed under the corner lights he would 
 have marvelled that such faces belonged in Clay Court.
 
 218 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 They turned into the Court. Suddenly they sprang 
 apart. Half a dozen men, their heads close together, were 
 listening to a speaker. He was Rinehart, and he was 
 promising them "War, by ! War!" 
 
 Then Delia grew cold and shuddered, as one who is 
 waked from a pleasant dream. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked Freddy 
 
 "Nothing; nothing 'tall," gulped Delia. But to 
 herself she repeated: "It's too good it's too good 
 to come true."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 DINNY NOONAN didn't polish his lamp post that 
 next Sunday morning. Neither did she of the 
 wonderful tresses stand in the windows of No. 39 
 and luxuriate in her shiny, black hair. Dinny's post of 
 duty was surrounded by a group of sullen, undershirted 
 men long before the leisurely Dinny had rubbed the sleep 
 from his bleary eyes and wandered forth to seek his morn- 
 ing drink; and the girl with the hair leaned on her sharp 
 elbows and looked sullenly out of the window, entirely 
 indifferent to the glory that tumbled in tangles down her 
 back. What was the use of combing even the finest 
 hair in the world when men stood in the street below 
 and neglected breakfast? What is the use of breakfast 
 when the end of the world may come to-morrow? Who 
 cares for the future when the future my be nil? 
 
 "If we only knew, one way or the other," muttered 
 the undershirts. 
 
 But no one knew. They had gathered around the 
 Sunday papers when they came up the Avenue, and they 
 had been bitterly disappointed. Even the least careful 
 of those careless journals refused to do more than ven- 
 ture a guess at what had taken place at the Directors' 
 meeting the afternoon before. The undershirts kicked 
 the papers into the street and shoved their hands in 
 
 219
 
 220 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 their pockets; and the Court quickly proceeded to take 
 upon itself an atmosphere of painful suspense, suspense 
 liberally mingled with hate. 
 
 It was the Sabbath again, but Sabbath in name only. 
 There was none of the wonderful quiet that ushered in 
 other weeks, none of the luxurious loafing. A strange, 
 nervous activity which manifested itself in aimless 
 cursing, curt answers, and a desire to quarrel, ruled from 
 the beginning. Sunday was only a space that had to be 
 endured, that was the trouble. It had revealed nothing; 
 it would reveal nothing. It was a space of blank hours. 
 Until sometime Monday, or until the Company pleased, 
 Clay Court must wait in angry suspense to find out what 
 the fates would do to it; and the manner in which it waited 
 was not nice to behold. 
 
 The Tenement, and the whole Court itself, of course, 
 was hotter, stinkier, more hopeless than ever. The heat 
 rose from the rotten cedar paving blocks in heavy, odour- 
 laden waves. The Tenement seemed to gurgle with its 
 heated, bubbling life. Out of doors, in-doors, every- 
 where, the flies buzzed in inconceivable numbers, their 
 maddening drone adding insolent torture to the slow 
 hours. And all these material manifestations of barren- 
 ness had their counterpart in the hollow actions of the 
 human beings whom they helped to drive to desperation. 
 
 "Paw," bawled some children, "ain't we going to the 
 picnic to-day?" 
 
 "Naw." 
 
 "Aw! Why ain't we going to the picnic, to-day, 
 paw?"
 
 Joey the Dreamer 221 
 
 "Shut up! I'll bust you in the ear if you bother me any 
 more." 
 
 Said a wife to her ordinarily useful husband, "You 
 going to fix that table leg to-day like you promised?" 
 
 "Be still, woman," was the answer, " 'tis no time for 
 wasting time like that." 
 
 A gentleman who came to visit a friend in the Tenement 
 said, "What? I didn't know there was any one dead 
 here?" A moment later, after studying his friend's 
 face, he whispered, "Say, Bill, who you going to kill?" 
 
 Truly, a rare Sunday. The bells from up Avenue sent 
 down their sweet-tongued message; but the atmosphere 
 of Clay Court caught it and turned it into a meaningless 
 clamour of brass. 
 
 One scene, one only, there was out of doors that stands 
 forth in memory as not hard to look at. A child a 
 three-year-old sat with his back against a garbage 
 box and played with a pup. It was a sorry looking pup, 
 half -starved, dirty, sore-eared almost as sorry looking 
 as the child. They were twins, they were supremely 
 happy. The child talked and the pup barked. Then 
 they both laughed, laughed with eyes and mouths, and 
 ears and toes, as only pups and babes can laugh. The 
 pup dove in sideways, snatching playfully at the child's 
 dress, received the feeble clout on the ear that it ex- 
 pected, leaped joyfully back, fell over itself, and stood 
 off at a distance, head to one side, alertly watching the 
 next move of its little playfellow. 
 
 "Hee-yah!" commanded the child, and the pup sidled 
 up and licked his face.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Ain't he sweet?" The child honoured me by asking 
 when he saw that I watched with as much apprecia- 
 tion as a dull adult might show. "Ain't he sweet!" 
 
 The pup turned around and barked at me; the child 
 jerked him by the tail. Then a swaggering, clamouring 
 crew swept past on its way to the Hall, and I was forced 
 to move on. 
 
 The child and the pup in the lee of the garbage box, 
 their bright eyes and their care-free laughs, stand out in 
 the memory. They prove one thing: there are flowers 
 even in such barren spots as Clay Court on this Sunday. 
 
 Up in the Hall, Rinehart laboured away like the natural 
 storm centre of all the restlessness around him. His tight 
 little mouth was distorted by a smile of unmistakable 
 self-satisfaction, the smile of a man who has prepared 
 and concealed a Surprise. The smile puzzled most of his 
 followers. A few understood. Among these was our 
 bland and amiable friend, Mr. Bruggers. 
 
 Asked Mr. Perkins of Mr. Bruggers during the heat of 
 the afternoon meeting: "Did you ever read American 
 history?" 
 
 "Not to remember it, Mr. Perkins, not to remember 
 it." 
 
 "Then you don't know why this is different from the 
 Boston Tea Party." 
 
 And yet this was the Sunday, black as it was, that the 
 Day dawned for Little Joey. 
 
 It was very quiet up in the room where he lay. It was 
 very comfortable in the wonderful, clean bed. And
 
 Joey the Dreamer 223 
 
 for the first time since his removal there Joey's faculties 
 were entirely clear, and he appreciated the marvellous 
 qualities of his surroundings. 
 
 Joey lay flat on his back, as still as a watching mouse, 
 his quick, bright eyes receiving vivid impressions of 
 everything about him. There was method in his scru- 
 tiny. He knew that soon he would have to leave all this 
 wonderful cleanliness, and he wanted to have it to 
 remember when he was down there in the dark closet of 
 the third floor rear. 
 
 "When do I go back?" he asked suddenly of me, seeing 
 that I was sitting near him. 
 
 "Back where, Joey?" 
 
 "Back to work and downstairs." 
 
 "Well, to tell the truth, Joey, I don't think you're 
 going back at all." 
 
 "Hah?" 
 
 "Joey," I continued, "how would you like to go to 
 work for me when you get on your feet?" 
 
 Joey feebly wrinkled his little forehead and stared up 
 in bitter disappointment. 
 
 "You got a factory?" 
 
 He had looked for better things in any one who was 
 Miss Ruth's friend. 
 
 "Sure thing." 
 
 "Aw! Bet Miss Ruth don't know it." 
 
 "Oh, yes, she does." 
 
 Joey shook his head. " No, no; she wouldn't stand for it." 
 
 I took a good hold of myself and began seriously: 
 
 "Well, you see this is a different kind of factory from
 
 224 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 any you ever heard of, Joey. It's what you might call a 
 health factory. It makes little boys, and everybody else 
 who , works in it big and strong, and the longer you 
 work the better " 
 
 "Aw!" sneered Joey. "You can't con me." 
 
 "Con you?" 
 
 "The longer you work free overtime, eh?" 
 
 It was a little time before I fully understood, and a 
 little longer before I could trust myself to go on. 
 
 "Give me a chance to explain, Joey," I pleaded. 
 "Let me tell you about my factory. It's one of the fun- 
 niest factories you ever hear of. Never heard of a health 
 factory before, did you? Of course not. That's what 
 my factory is. It's all out of doors. Ever hear of a 
 factory all out of doors, Joey? No? Well, that's one 
 of the reasons why this is a health factory. All out of 
 doors, so you get fresh air and sun all the time, and that 
 helps to make you big and strong." 
 
 "Whata you make there?" 
 
 "Make? Oh! hay, for one thing." 
 
 "Hay?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "To feed horses and cows with." 
 
 "Make them, too?" 
 
 More silence. Joey wondered why I had to turn my 
 face away once in awhile. 
 
 "No-o, we don't make horses and cows exactly, but 
 we help 'em grow. We make corn, and potatoes, and 
 apples, and berries "
 
 Joey the Dreamer 225 
 
 "Aw, I know!" cried Joey. "A farm like they have 
 in the rube plays down at the Bi-jo." 
 
 "Right you are. Want to come out and work for me, 
 when you're stronger?" 
 
 "What doing?" 
 
 "Well catching grasshoppers. How would you like 
 to do that, Joey?" 
 
 "Donno. Hard?" 
 
 "No. You see I'm pretty particular about the way I 
 have the grasshoppers caught on my farm. I want you 
 to do it like this : You go out and sit in the grass in 
 the shade some place. If you're sleepy you roll over and 
 take a snooze. If you're hungry you shout for something 
 to eat. If you're thirsty you do just the same. If you 
 want to move you move, and if you want to stay you stay. 
 And if any big, sassy grasshopper comes up and tries to 
 run over you, you call for somebody to come up and put 
 a rope around his neck and lead him away to the stable. 
 Then you " 
 
 "Oh," said Joey. "Kidding me, eh?" I had to retire 
 to save my face. 
 
 It took Ruth to make it clear to him and to make him 
 believe it. He was not going back to the factory, nor 
 to the closet on the third floor rear and the life that had 
 choked him. He was going away. 
 
 "The old lady?" interrupted Joey. "She won't 
 stand for it." 
 
 It would be very pretty to say here that Joey balked 
 because of an overwhelming love for his mother. But 
 it would be very silly, too, because it would be so patently
 
 226 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 untrue. Joey naturally was a much-loving child, 
 but love for a drunken mother does not thrive at all in 
 a dark third floor closet, nor for that matter any place 
 in the Tenement. Love does not thrive there at all; that 
 is the curse. 
 
 The "old lady," it was explained, had been had been 
 won over to the new programme. First, as soon as he 
 could be moved, he was going out to the farm. 
 
 "They got a Supe to watch you out there?" 
 
 It was explained that it wouldn't make any difference 
 if they had. . . . Then he was to stay there until he 
 was strong, big and strong, and, after that, go to school. 
 
 It took a long time to convince Joey that such things 
 could happen. He was a harsh and shrewd little skeptic. 
 He asked if the farm wasn't a new name for Pontiac. 
 The reform school he could understand; he had seen plenty 
 of kids taken away to go there. 
 
 It must be written that he wasn't greatly elated even 
 after Ruth had driven the truth home. Already the 
 hopelessness of the poor had fastened itself upon Joey, 
 the hopelessness which says: nothing good can come to 
 us. But this he did say after he had lain awhile and 
 thought over the possibilities that had been opened up 
 to him: 
 
 "Say! How's Old Mag?" 
 
 Mag was getting better, she said, and it is certain that 
 she was much more cheerful. She, too, was to be taken 
 care of, though with her it would be more difficult to 
 break the news. She was so certain that she was down 
 for only a few days that even Ruth dreaded and delayed
 
 Joey the Dreamer 227 
 
 the moment when Mag must be informed that a sanitarium 
 was her destination. 
 
 Mag was even planning her first day's work. 
 
 "It won't be much longer that I'll be laying here flat 
 on my back, a nuisance to everybody and no good to 
 myself. I know lots of shops where they'll be putting 
 on power operators this time of the year. It won't take 
 long to land once I'm on my feet." 
 
 And Joey, having been assured about Mag, rolled over 
 on his side and went to sleep, feeling that a door had been 
 opened to reveal something to him, he knew not what. 
 
 Black night fell upon the streets like a twofold curse. 
 As ever the heat seemed to rise with the darkness. Brick, 
 iron, stone, and wood were hot to the touch, and sleep 
 was all but out of the question. Up on the roofs once 
 more the weary programme of tossing women andmoaning 
 children. Down in the saloons the ghastly effort at 
 forgetfulness. Fightingwas common; and once a woman's 
 voice rang out terribly in a lull: "My Gawd! He's 
 sticking him! Get the knife get the knife, quick!" 
 
 "Oh, Freddy, Freddy!" whispered Delia as they sat 
 together and listened to the turmoil. Just that and 
 nothing more. And Freddy understood; for he, too, 
 yearned for the nearby day when the curse of it all could 
 be shaken off. Poor Freddy! 
 
 A slight breeze came up and blew tantalizingly over 
 the scene, as hot as the breath of a flesh-eating monster. 
 Nature herself seemed to be taking a hand in the crisis,
 
 228 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 testing man's endurance to the limits of sanity with the 
 cruelties of her uncooled night. A cold rain might have 
 prevented what happened two days later, as at Waterloo 
 a lack of it might have saved Napoleon. But, as at 
 Waterloo, it was not to be. 
 
 Gray, gaunt morning reared its head in the east. Oh, 
 the tale that is writ in the desolateness of poor city streets 
 at dawn ! Then the virgin day mocks the efforts of man 
 with the deadliness of the scene it reveals. The soul of 
 the city is gone. Only the flesh, scantily covering the 
 bones, remains. Life is hidden. The city is dead, 
 dead and laid out for all prowling eyes to see. It 
 is not made for such exhibition; and it makes a 
 horrifying corpse. 
 
 And Clay Court, weary from lack of sleep, and stupid 
 from heat, rose up and greeted the day and prepared to 
 find what the next twelve hours held for it.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 FREDDY long had nourished a secret ambition. 
 It was to tell the Superintendent exactly what 
 he was. 
 
 Monday morning was the preferable time, some dark- 
 blue Monday morning when the Superintendent was at his 
 ugly worst. It was on Monday that the Superintendent 
 gloated most gleefully in his sense of dominion over 
 those unfortunate enough to be in his charge. At eight- 
 thirty he received from the hands of the time-keeper the 
 time report and, casting his glassy eye over the long tale 
 of names, saw who was on time, who late, and who not 
 present at all. In this moment he resumed the wand of 
 authority which had slipped from his hands with the 
 closing of the Factory doors Saturday night. Six days 
 of the week he was a Superintendent; on the seventh he 
 became a mere "family man." The stitching room 
 thought it was Sunday liquor that caused him to 
 curse the room on a Monday morning. It was not: it 
 was Wife. 
 
 "Brr-oop !" said the Superintendent, his eyes following 
 down the list of names handed to him by the shrinking 
 time-keeper. "Hoomph!" And this particular Mon- 
 day morning happened to follow a Sabbath upon which 
 the wifely temper had been harsh, indeed 
 
 229
 
 230 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Yessir," whined the time-keeper. "It is fierce the 
 way they don't get down Monday morning." 
 
 "Brr-ow-wow!" 
 
 "A shame!" The time-keeper interpreted his master's 
 growls with satisfactory accuracy. "Wonder is you get 
 the work out with such a gang of useless hounds to work 
 with. Aren't many could do it, sir." 
 
 "Hu-nah!" 
 
 "Fired they ought to be in a bunch; yessir." 
 
 "Huh!" 
 
 This last expressive monosyllable brought the time- 
 keeper up with a jerk. It was the Superintendent's 
 way of saying that he had had enough sympathetic 
 sycophancy for the time being, the day's work had 
 begun. 
 
 "These two," the Superintendent's fingers pointed out 
 two names. "Ever lay off before?" 
 
 The time-keeper craned his neck over the other's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "These two," repeated the Superintendent, pointing 
 out the names of Delia and Freddy. "Have they ever 
 laid off before on a Monday morning?" 
 
 "I think they have; yessir," replied the time-keeper 
 promptly. He didn't think anything of the sort, but 
 he knew that this morning his superior craved blood, 
 and being small and weak of soul he perjured himself 
 accordingly. 
 
 "Think? Don't you know?" 
 
 "Yessir. They have laid off before. They're 
 regular "
 
 
 Joey the Dreamer 231 
 
 "Send 'em to me if they show up at noon. I'll put an 
 end to these Monday morning hang-overs. I'll " He 
 proceeded to vent his spleen in thundering abuse, and he 
 still was telling what he would do to this unlucky pair, 
 when Freddy calmly sauntered into his presence. 
 
 The Superintendent started and gasped. Sauntering 
 in his presence was a thing undreamed of. People 
 hurried, scurried, ran, jumped, stumbled, trembled before 
 him. They never sauntered. As well look for a convict 
 waltzing before the bear-eyed warden as an employe 
 sauntering before the Superintendent. And yet here 
 Freddy was sauntering, and to render his conduct per- 
 fectly diabolical, "Hey!" he called. "I want to speak 
 to you." 
 
 "Wha-what?" The Superintendent leaned against 
 a table to support himself. "You you talking to 
 me?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, Skroobonio; yes, indeed," replied Freddy 
 pleasantly. "Pause and give ear to me. For I have 
 something to s'y to you." 
 
 "Huh?" 
 
 "Something to s'y to you." Freddy beamed and 
 nodded at the dumfounded official in a manner most 
 pleasantly patronizing. The Superintendent's discom- 
 fiture was like honey in the young man's mouth. "Don't 
 be rushed, please, 'cause if you do you'll cook yourself 
 with me, and I'll get peevish. As I was s'ymg, I have 
 something to s'y to you, and there's quite a lot of it, 
 and I'm going to take my time." 
 
 " What the " began the Superintendent, but
 
 232 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 beyond this primitive explosion words failed him utterly. 
 The impossible had happened an employe stood at 
 ease before his frowns ! The tyrant blustered, exploded 
 feebly, and sat down. And then Freddy opened his 
 soul and began. 
 
 "You see it's this way," he said blithely. "You've had 
 a lot to say to me; now I'm returning past favours, and 
 no questions asked. Did you ever think when you were 
 shooting it into me that there might come a day, some 
 sweet morning 'bout like this when that game might work 
 with the reverse English, with me as the shooter and 
 you as the shootee? Answer: 'No, I never did?' Why 
 didn't you? Answer: 'Why should I? I'm the boss.' 
 Yes, my dearly beloved Skroobonio, you are. But didn't 
 you ever stop to think that the people you boss are 
 people just like yourself, and you happen to be running 
 'em just because they're working in this stitching-room 
 in this factory? 'No, no,' said he with a frown, 'I never 
 did.' Then, my dear, old, sour-faced Skroobonio, let this 
 be a lesson to you. For here's one chee-ild who's quit 
 being one of your slaves and has come down to-day just 
 for the sake of telling you what a dirty, white-livered, 
 kid-bullying, girl-scaring you are." 
 
 "Hold on! " The Superintendent had moved. "Don't 
 tear your shirt, old cacky, with those quick moves, 
 'cause if you do I'll have to drive you one between the 
 eyes. That's right, sit down and listen, Skroobonio; 
 you'll never get such a chance to hear what a rat you 
 are as long as you live. 
 
 " Why, say, Skroobonio, you've been so mean to the
 
 Joey the Dreamer 233 
 
 poor folks that had to work under you, that when you die 
 and go to hell the devil'll say, 'Who's this?' and when you 
 tell him, he'll ask what you done on earth, and when you 
 tell him that he'll say, 'Phew! Get to hell out of here. 
 You must think we can stand for everything,' and slam the 
 bars in your face. Why, honest, Skroobonio, if you could 
 see how you look to decent people, you'd say, 'Is that me?' 
 and pick out a nice hole in the lake and go out past the 
 crib and do the German. 
 
 "Yessir, you're too mean for hell. There's only one 
 place for you. You've got it. They had to have a rat 
 in pants to make this room pay, so they got you." 
 Freddy stopped and looked his victim over with terrible 
 eyes. " You I don't wish you any hard luck, but 
 I do hope you get caught by the heels in the shafting and 
 wind around a pulley an inch at a time. That's all. 
 You might think of the kids you've abused while you was 
 winding around." 
 
 "Get out!" shrieked the Superintendent, gaining 
 control of his tongue after a struggle. "Get out, or I'll 
 have you thrown out." 
 
 "All right, Skroobonio, I'm going. But next time you 
 fire a kid for being so weak he can't hustle, remember how 
 I quit, and aw, you pup, you ain't worth troubling 
 about." 
 
 After which abrupt ending to a somewhat unchristian 
 but decidedly natural discourse, Freddy turned on his 
 heels, snapped his fingers at the dusty factory room from 
 which he was escaping, and went out for good, slamming 
 the door behind him.
 
 234 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 As he passed out had he troubled to look he might 
 have seen a man tacking a notice above the time-keeper's 
 window. It was the announcement of the long-expected 
 cut in wages, but Freddy didn't stop to see. 
 
 At the corner Delia was waiting. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "You didn't scrap." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "'Cause your knuckles ain't cracked. " ia 
 
 "No," laughed Freddy. "No, we didn't scrap, yer 
 leddyship. I just told him he was a bad boy, and 
 
 "Bad boy! I'll bet you did!" 
 
 "And a few other things, I was going to say. And 
 now" he took her by the arm and turned her about, 
 so she faced the Factory "take a good look at it and 
 kiss it good-bye forever." 
 
 "Good-bye!" laughed Delia, gaily throwing a kiss at 
 the ugly gray building. "I hope you choke." 
 
 Then arm in arm they wandered eastward in the face 
 of the sun, their eyes blinking, their feet stumbling, 
 clumsy in the unwonted light of day and the sense of 
 freedom. The world was a new-made place to them. 
 It had been dark, old, tiresome. Now it was filled with 
 the light of hope, the light which the gods placed before 
 the eyes of man when they bade him endure his lot in 
 patience. Life was a thing worth while, and they were 
 very happy. 
 
 "What shall we do?" asked Delia. 
 
 "I don't care." Their plans were indefinite. Who
 
 Joey the Dreamer 235 
 
 needs to plan when he is happy? It was first come, first 
 taken. A big, green-painted car rolled up to the corner 
 and stopped. 
 
 "The long green," said Freddy. 
 
 "All aboard." They hopped to the platform, Delia 
 flushed and giggling. 
 
 "Where does it go?" she asked. 
 
 "To the end of the line," said Freddy. 
 
 "Where's that?" 
 
 "I dunno. I s'y, conny, how far do you go?" 
 
 "Tuh th' cimitary," replied the conductor in sepulchral 
 tones. 
 
 They leaped off as precipitately as they had come on. 
 " 'Cimitary!' " repeated Freddy. "We were going the 
 wrong way. Come on! Here's one coming on the 
 other side." 
 
 Hurriedly they crossed the street and entered an 
 east-bound car. 
 
 "How far do you go?" asked Freddy. 
 
 "Art Institute," replied the conductor. 
 
 "What's that?" said Delia. 
 
 "A place," said the conductor, "where they keeps 
 paintings, and drawings, and statues Adam and Eve 
 in the Garden of Eden no clothes. Heh, heh, heh! 
 It's a great place, they tell me. I was never there. 
 Some day some day when I'm off and my wife's away 
 I'm going. Heh, heh, heh! By golly! It must be a 
 great place. All kinds of statues, they tell me and 
 no clothes. More pictures of that kind than a fancy 
 saloon. Wonder they ain't pinched, by golly, 'tis."
 
 236 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "It's what they call Art," said Freddy. "That goes 
 where the rough-neck thing gets pinched." 
 
 "Anyhow, it's no place for us." Delia tossed her head 
 emphatically. "None of this sporting life for us now. 
 Get off." 
 
 They were in the street again, laughing at the novelty 
 of their adventures. 
 
 "Where now?" asked Delia. 
 
 "Little care I," said Freddy. "Suppose we flop a coin 
 to see 'f we're going or coming." 
 
 "Let's oh, sa-ay!" 
 
 Before them a dark-skinned Sicilian was spraying the 
 bright-hued stock of his little flower stand. Delia grew 
 serious. 
 
 "Say, Freddy," she said, in a tone that reproached 
 them both as one, "d'you know we're awful selfish?" 
 
 "We are?" 
 
 "Sure we are. Here's us sporting round, and over 
 home there's Joey and Mag flat on their backs, and 
 and I bet a dollar they'd just be tickled to death if they 
 had a carnation or two to look at." 
 
 "I never thought of that," admitted Freddy. 
 
 "Neither did I," said Delia, "till I saw these flowers. 
 But 'tain't right of us, hugging all this joy business of 
 ours. Let's split it up with them. Eh?" 
 
 "As how?" 
 
 Delia stepped up to the flower stand. 
 
 "How much a dozen?" she asked, pointing to the 
 bright carnations. 
 
 "Oh!" said Freddy. "Now I get you." He paid
 
 Joey the Dreamer 237 
 
 for her selections, eying her the while with a new tender- 
 ness, even a new pride. 
 
 "You're a peach," he said softly. "Still I always 
 knew this was the right you" 
 
 "Whatever that means," said Delia. 
 
 "You look more natural carrying flowers to sick kids 
 than eating lobsters at night." 
 
 "Natural!" sniffed Delia. "Oh, I dunno." 
 
 They got on a car and went back to hot, stinky Clay 
 Court. Delia held the tissue paper covered blooms with 
 both hands, to guard them from injury. She was very 
 pretty. Freddy, looking on, occasionally interrupted 
 his look of admiration to shake his head and treat one side 
 of his face the side away from Delia, to a quizzical 
 grin. "And she loves the gay life!" he sneered inwardly. 
 "Nit. Not so it hurts her, anyhow." 
 
 They went down Clay Court arm in arm, and the 
 Court looked out of its windows and saw how it was with 
 them. 
 
 "Bless 'em, the' darlin's," muttered a sweaty woman. 
 
 'Twas so I was once; me an' me Dinny. The saints 
 bliss 'em, say I, though Dinny's now getting piped 
 down't the cahrner s'loon." 
 
 "Calves!" sneered Rinehart, superiorly. "Calves!" 
 
 But Old Mag raised her head from the pillow and 
 smiled when they entered her room. 
 
 "Laid off?" she questioned, surprised at their un- 
 wonted week-day appearance. 
 
 "No, not laid off, Mag," said Delia. "We quit; 
 honest, we did. Here," she continued hurriedly, blushing
 
 238 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 under Mag's questioning scrutiny, "here's a few pinkies, 
 for you. Like 'em?" 
 
 But Old Mag was more interested in the pretty con- 
 fusion in Delia's blue eyes than in the pink flowers. 
 
 "What did you quit for?" she asked. 
 
 "D'you like carnations?" persisted Delia. 
 
 "You can't fool me, child," cried Mag, lifting her 
 head to look from one to the other. "You two's 
 engaged. I bet you laid off to get married! Well, 
 now, what do you think about that? You two get- 
 ting married!" 
 
 "We didn't say we was," said Delia. 
 
 "You dear kid!" said Mag. "Come here." Two 
 white, wasted hands reached up and held the young 
 flushed face between them. She was drinking at the 
 fount of another's happiness, was Mag, and that patient, 
 unselfish heart grew warm with the reflected joy. There 
 was a mist in her eyes; and, perhaps, after all, there was 
 a little speck of wistfulness in her expression as she beheld 
 the complete bliss which never had been, never could be 
 hers. For no lover's arms had ever touched Old Mag, no 
 lover's kisses ever had lingered upon her lips. Perhaps 
 she had dreamed of such things. Perhaps even the power 
 to dream had been starved in her. But at all events 
 she was now alight with true womanly satisfaction at this 
 spectacle of a pleasing match. 
 
 "You'll be happy, kid," she whispered as Delia bent 
 down and kissed her. "He won't never turn drunkard 
 on you and make you go working again. He'll be good 
 to you."
 
 Joey the Dreamer 239 
 
 "He'll have to!" laughed Delia. Then she told the 
 secret of Freddy's great good fortune. 
 
 "Well, ain't that grand!" beamed Mag. "Why, 
 you'll be real swell. You'll be forgetting you ever 
 knew us." 
 
 "Eyah. Like ducks forgetting how to swim. Don't 
 you ever think it." 
 
 "We want you to get on your pins and be in at the 
 wedding," said Freddy. 
 
 "I'll be there," said Mag. "I'm feeling stronger 
 every day." 
 
 "You're looking better, too," lied Freddy, honestly. 
 "Ain't she, Dell?" 
 
 "Of course. And here, Mag, take these flowers now, 
 'cause I'm getting tired holding them out to you. Go 
 on, now," she warned as Mag drew back, "they're for 
 you. We got 'em for you. Ain't they pretty?" 
 
 "You didn't?" said Mag, still not taking the flowers. 
 
 "We did." 
 
 "For me?" There was something in the thin voice 
 that made even Delia choke. 
 
 "Sure, for you." 
 
 "But why, " 
 
 "Aw, don't be asking questions," interrupted Delia 
 vigorously. "Here, take 'em." 
 
 She hurriedly thrust part of the bouquet into Mag's 
 hand, hurriedly placed the rest in a glass on the table, 
 and, still hurrying, swung back to the bed and kissed the 
 white, tight forehead with a smack that rang through 
 the room.
 
 240 ] Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Don't you go trying any thanking game on me," she 
 laughed huskily, taking Freddy by the arm and dragging 
 him toward the door. "S'long, Mag; remember we want 
 to see you up soon." 
 
 Mag lay and watched them silently as they went out. 
 The flowers were in her hands and her hands were folded 
 upon her breast. She was smiling. 
 
 "Gee!" said Delia out in the hall. "I like to have 
 trun a fit." 
 
 Whereat Freddy kissed her. 
 
 They found little Joey propped up in bed with a 
 picture book on his lap and alone for the time being . 
 Here was where Freddy shone. 
 
 "What're you doing here loafing in bed when you 
 ought to be up chasing around," he roared in heavy 
 tones. "Trying to four-flush about being sick? Come 
 out of it, kiddo; you don't look any sicker'n a 
 three-horse truck. Why, you look ready to scrap 
 anybody within ten pounds of your weight on the 
 street On the square, Joey," he ended in another 
 tone, "you're looking all to the good. Feeling all 
 right, ain't you?" 
 
 "Sure," piped Joey. "Wasn't much sick, anyhow. 
 What you doing off to-day? Did they strike?" 
 
 "Not a little bit, Joey. They didn't; we did, Delia 
 and me. Took a day off to come around and bother 
 people. Let him sniff the posies, Delia! We picked 
 'em off the trolley posts coming up. Whoa! Don't eat 
 'em; they're only made to smell." 
 
 "You shut up, Freddy," said Delia directly. "You
 
 Joey the Dreamer 241 
 
 gas away too much for well folks to stand. Joey, you'll 
 be up in a couple days now, won't you?" 
 
 "Sure," said Joey. "Then I'm going to work for Mr. 
 Lord, out in the country." 
 
 "Swell!" cried Delia. "I knew he'd be framing 
 something up for you. You'll get as big and strong as 
 a house." 
 
 They petted him and joked with him, and when they 
 left, Joey said, "I'll be out of bed Wednesday. The 
 doctor says so." His face lighted up at his thoughts 
 of the future. "There won't be any Supe," he said 
 finally, and Delia and Freddy understood. 
 
 They came out of the Tenement. They turned toward 
 the Avenue, and ran straight into a crowd of men from 
 the Factory. It was not yet twelve o'clock. 
 
 "What's the reason?" asked Freddy. "Did you 
 strike?" 
 
 "Sure, we struck," replied a young man. "What'd 
 you expect us to do; thank 'em for cutting us down?" 
 
 "Hey, son," boomed a never-to-be-mistaken voice; 
 "you're out, too, aren't you?" 
 
 "Out for good, Mr. Perkins," said Freddy. "I quit 
 last Saturday. Through with it all. It don't bother 
 me. I ain't mixed up." 
 
 Perkins nodded, grinned, and spat into the street. 
 
 So it had come. 
 
 Clay Court took the blow silently. Things were past 
 the talking stage. There was much drinking; and Mr. 
 Mehaffey and Mr. Sodders, reading the signs, got out 
 their wooden shutters for their precious windows. For
 
 242 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 the notice of the wage-cut had been followed by more 
 sinister news. The Factory was going to operate as if 
 nothing had happened and its freight was to be hauled 
 as usual along the regular routes to the various depots. 
 And the most important of these routes took the wagons 
 down the Avenue past Clay Court. 
 
 I sought out Dicky Clews at the club that night. 
 
 "Dicky, did you personally vote in favour of the 
 wage-cut?" 
 
 "Had to, absolutely had to, old chap. Yes," said 
 Dicky. 
 
 "Then, Dicky, at that moment your little soul was 
 indicted for murder." 
 
 "By whom, please?" said Dicky. 
 
 "God."
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 Tuesday, August th, 19 
 
 NOW that the time has come to set down in mate- 
 rial black and white the history of that day the 
 pen hesitates and halts. But for the clippings 
 before me I would not dare to write this chapter, for, look- 
 ing back, it all seems incredible, even impossible, as 
 impossible as a bad dream. Memory conjures up the 
 pictures; the critical mood rejects them as chimeras. 
 
 But here are the clippings. They litter the desk. 
 They come from all corners of the land. There are 
 scores of them. They are the newspaper stories of what 
 happened in Clay Court on this hot Tuesday morning in 
 August. And the newspapers, who can go beyond! 
 
 Yes, here is the whole, stirring history as the reporters 
 told it. There is the story of Little Joey. One special 
 writer made a suit of clothes out of Joey. There is the 
 story of Freddy, of Perkins; and the history of the 
 incidents in which they were involved. 
 
 It is all there, in the screaming heads and the cold, 
 indisputable type. There are pages of photographs, 
 sketches, and diagrams. It was no dream. It was all 
 real; and to those who. saw it the day will linger in the 
 mind as long as memory itself remains. 
 
 43
 
 244 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 The morning opened fresh and clean. Nobody went 
 to work; but the girl in 39 leaned on her elbows in the 
 window and forgot to comb her hair. There was no 
 morning clatter. So complete was the paralysis that 
 Peace seemed to have taken up her abode in Clay Court. 
 Children went out and called to one another in the street. 
 It was like the morning of a Fourth of July, calm but 
 pregnant with tumultuous possibilities. 
 
 Clay Court ate careless breakfasts and strolled out 
 and began to drink indifferently. The men felt strange 
 "lost" they called it because of the unwonted holiday, 
 and bad liquor was called upon to bring them back to a 
 properly self-satisfied condition. The saloon-keepers put 
 on extra help, and the grocers marvelled that business 
 should be so bad. In ugly crises people think of drink 
 before food. 
 
 "Gee! Why can't we go for a picnic!" laughed a girl. 
 
 "Stay right here, sis," said a man. "You'll see a 
 picnic that's worth the money." 
 
 The men who heard it grinned so their teeth showed, 
 and nodded grimly, though the lips of some were blue 
 from funk. The rest asked only: Show us somebody 
 to hit. The blood lust of the wronged was theirs, the 
 primitive desire to hurt, to smash the hard-knuckled 
 fist against a face, to grasp a throat and squeeze till the 
 tongue came out. The passion that drove the cave man 
 who slew a neighbour for robbing his cave, was driving 
 them; and most of them thought no further than the 
 savage gratification that would come from the chance to 
 do the hated ones harm. Some of the older men shook
 
 Joey the Dreamer 245 
 
 their heads; but it is to be feared that the young ones 
 chortled because the strike would give a chance to fight. 
 
 "Gimme a hit at the can," called a youth to a damsel 
 who hurried from Sodders's^side door with a can neatly 
 revealed under her apron. 
 
 "Kill a policeman first and I will," was the girl's 
 retort. News had come that the police were guarding 
 the Factory. 
 
 "Why don't we go down there?" queried a boy. 
 
 "Shut up, you scut," came the answer. "The teams 
 are coming up this way." 
 
 By nine Clay Court had shaken off the lethargy of a 
 sultry morning and was warming up to the work it had 
 in hand. As enthusiasm grew, so grew the noise. There 
 was more laughter than any other exclamations, but the 
 laughter was not nice to hear. 
 
 Soon men began to gather in the Hall. At nine-thirty 
 came the inevitable meeting to consider the exciting 
 question. "When the Wagons Pass Here What Shall 
 We Do to Them." 
 
 The Little Surprise Party was in full swing. The Hall 
 was crowded. Its air, naturally fertile with odours, was 
 swelled to bursting with the mingled lees of last night's 
 beer, tobacco, and whiskey, and still, considering the 
 odour, a surprising few were seriously under the influence 
 of liquor. But they were drunk, every mother's son of 
 them, drunk to the final degree of desperation on stronger 
 waters than he found in the whiskey bottle; and their 
 eyes, alight with the fires of revenge about to be sated, 
 glowed livid threats to any or all who might oppose or
 
 246 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 differ with their purpose. They talked in curses, and 
 jostled one another indiscriminately in their gestures. 
 The eternal savage was in the ascendant. Woe to any 
 one or anything that offered itself as possible prey! 
 
 Such was the Hall when Ruth came in and quietly 
 pushed her way to the front and mounted the platform. 
 I had tried in vain to dissuade her. Her faith in her 
 friends was boundless. I followed and mingled with 
 these friends. 
 
 She was alone on the platform. Rinehart was not in 
 the Hall. He had disappeared mysteriously early in the 
 morning along with Mr. Bruggers, and had not been 
 seen since. No one seemed to know where he had gone. 
 
 During the morning at various times speakers had 
 mounted the platform and retired; but by now the meet- 
 ing had resolved itself into a tangle on the floor in which 
 a dozen voices spoke unanimously in favour of violence. 
 The language was the language of hate; the uneasy, 
 shifty movements of the crowd were those of the mob 
 trying to find itself. Given work to do and that crowd 
 would solidify into compact mob form. As it was, no 
 one could say what it might do next. The indifferent 
 observer might have compared this aimlessness with that 
 of cattle milling around and around in a storm. On 
 closer inspection, one might have seen by their eyes that 
 each man was fighting with himself for the solution of an 
 apparently insoluble problem. The mob spirit had not 
 yet blotted out the individuals in its irresistible flood. 
 
 Ruth's appearance on the platform was like a bolt out 
 of the sky. The loose-limbed shuffling stopped; the Hall
 
 Joey the Dreamer 247 
 
 grew ghastly quiet, every eye and ear was riveted upon 
 her. Only there was one sound a terrible sound 
 in the room; that of a score of men panting in anger. 
 
 Ruth stood quietly near the edge of the platform, her 
 hands folded before her. The atmosphere of the room, 
 surcharged with hate and blackness, had made her sick 
 at heart. She was deadly pale. 
 
 "Oh, brothers!" she cried in anguish. "What is it 
 you mean to do?" 
 
 It was a fatal utterance. She had disagreed with 
 them, with these men who were past the stage of listening 
 to reason. She had, in intent, called their conduct 
 wrong. Their breath came faster; the fire in their eyes 
 glowed with more deadly purpose. All at once they had 
 become her antagonists. Still they made no move. 
 The mob spirit was mastering them slowly. 
 
 "Stop and think, friends," begged Ruth. "Can two 
 wrongs right one wrong? Can it do us any good to do 
 harm because some one has harmed us? Think of what 
 the result will be! Think of those who will suffer! Oh, 
 brothers, you must not do this. You " 
 
 She got no further. Every word that she uttered 
 had been received as exactly opposite from what she 
 hoped and intended. She was speaking against them. 
 And they were beyond reason. 
 
 "Aw!" roared a voice. "She's plugging for the 
 Comp'ny! Her and her guy are plugging for the 
 Comp'ny!" 
 
 That was all; it was enough. The crowd had a common 
 idea.
 
 248 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Plugging for the Comp'ny! Sure!" 
 
 And in that second the crowd ceased to be. 
 
 It was a mob now. Fists went into the air shaking 
 threateningly at the speaker. 
 
 "Don't give us any more of that. You're for them!" 
 
 The room shook with oaths and the stamping of feet. 
 They were threatening her. Even she had lost her 
 hold on them. They were ready to hurt her. But 
 suddenly a boy stuck his head in the doorway. 
 
 "Hi! hi!" he screamed. "The wagons is coming; the 
 wagons is coming!" 
 
 "Ah!" roared the mob, and started for the street. 
 
 "Wait! Please, please wait!" cried Ruth. 
 
 "Plugging for the Comp'ny!" 
 
 The mob stopped. The movement of its thoughts 
 was like quicksilver in sand. Attention flew from the 
 street back to Ruth. Then, unconsciously, came the 
 question: Why go out into the street? 
 
 Why, indeed! Here it had before it an object to hate. 
 This was what it longed for; this thirst for a quarry, for 
 its rage was one of the parents of its being. For the 
 moment the strike, the impending crisis, was forgotten. 
 The mob stood still, panting. Its prey was here before 
 it, almost within arm's reach, so close as to offer prospect 
 of immediate gratification of its terrible master passion. 
 The breath of the mob grew faster, hotter. And then, 
 like a pack of wolves suddenly swerving from the trail of 
 a scent to the helpless doe within sight, it checked its 
 movement toward the street. For an instant it was 
 jammed together as two waves in the meeting; then its
 
 Joey the Dreamer 249 
 
 course determined, it surged sidewise once, drunkenly, 
 and came rolling back toward the platform, its front a sea 
 of angry fists and eyes, its body a black mass of unsteady 
 forms quivering with the terrible motion of the whole. 
 
 One man, singly and alone, going into battle, still is 
 an individual, a human being. He retains, though un- 
 consciously and probably unwillingly, the marks whereby 
 his fellows have come to distinguish him from the rest 
 of his kind, the singularities of his person and personality 
 still are with him. The elemental passion of fight has 
 altered, but not destroyed him. 
 
 With the mob it is a different matter. The individual 
 is submerged, killed, in an instant. The mob spirit 
 becomes dominant. Each man, as he comes under its 
 sway, sheds those definitive qualities which have marked 
 him as a distinct being, as a man, and he becomes a mere 
 tool for the mysterious whims of the ruling spirit to mould 
 and work at will. The crowd thus becomes no group of 
 individuals. Each member is but an over-mastered 
 contribution to the whole in which none retains a distinc- 
 tion from the rest. The mob rushing to its work is not 
 a number of human beings on the move; it is a senseless 
 elemental force, as raw, as primitive as the maddened 
 stampede of cattle, as mysterious as the wail of the 
 moon-struck wolf. The day after, men look sheepishly 
 at one another and think: "What was it? What did 
 it mean?" But in the minutes of action no question is 
 asked, no reason admitted. 
 
 Ruth remained standing at the edge of the platform, 
 her hands folded before her, as when she had begun
 
 250 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 speaking. She did not move or speak. Her expression 
 had in it not the slightest indication of surprise or fear. 
 But she was very sorry. 
 
 As individuals, or under any other possible circum- 
 stance than that which now ruled and ordered it, the 
 crowd could not have been forced to offer a threat of 
 violence to the modest little figure that faced them 
 so calmly. As a mob, it yelped joyfully its terrible 
 intentions. The passion was stirred in it; before its 
 eyes was the means of gratification; it needed but to 
 lay hands 
 
 "Ah! A-a-ah!" 
 
 The storm broke without ceremony. The pudgy 
 young man directly before me had heaved the stone he 
 was saving for the wagons, and soon after he was lying 
 on the floor, face up, and I was leaping over him and 
 fighting through to the platform. Some small skill 
 in these things, developed at school and neglected after- 
 ward, returned with the speed of inspiration. The two 
 months spent in camp were godsends. It was work 
 that one must be in condition to do. 
 
 The suddenness and unexpectedness of it left the 
 crowd paralyzed for an instant, and I gained the plat- 
 form. It is the offensive that counts in such affairs. 
 An aimless crowd stands dumfounded against one man 
 with an apparently definite plan of action. The heavy 
 table came up overhead and dropped, a splendid missile, 
 on the heads nearest the platform, shattering the mob's 
 front and for a moment breaking the compactness which 
 was the soul of its being.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 251 
 
 I turned to the door behind us. It was locked. Two 
 or three kicks, and my foot went through the panel, and 
 with the hole thus made the flimsy door was easily torn 
 to pieces. Another stone had been thrown at me, and 
 Ruth had moved between me and the mob. When I 
 turned she was down on her knees, coughing and pressing 
 both hands to her breast. For a moment, at the sight of 
 this, the yells ceased. In the lull I picked Ruth up in 
 my arms and carried her through the floor and out of 
 their sight, into the darkness beyond. Behind us the 
 mob resumed its progress. 
 
 We found ourselves at the foot of a flight of stairs. 
 At the top of these another door, unlocked. Beyond the 
 door, the clean, welcome sunlight of broad day. The 
 stairs led from the Hall directly to the roof. 
 
 And Ruth lay in my arms and on my breast. Her 
 hair, golden brown in the sun, was against my throat, 
 and one of her arms was clasped instinctively around my 
 neck. And a summer breeze, playing vagrantly over the 
 gravelled house tops, lifted a wisp of hair and brushed 
 it against my lips. 
 
 "Are you hurt? Oh! are you hurt?" 
 
 She shook her head, but she did not move, nor did she 
 remove her arm. 
 
 "I don't think I am hurt at all. I am all right." 
 
 "Why did you move down there? Why didn't you 
 stand still? That stone was not meant for you." 
 
 But she made no answer. I held her more tightly. 
 And now I knew that after this I never could let her go, 
 and our paths must be one. For so it was written. And
 
 252 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 I knew what the troubled world needed: it was Love. 
 I placed her feet upon the gravel, still holding her lest 
 she fall. She turned away for a moment, and when she 
 turned back she was buttoning her waist. 
 
 "It was all right," she said smiling. "It is nothing." 
 
 "Are you sure, Ruth? Quick! They may be up soon." 
 
 Her slow, patient smile lit up her face, and she shook 
 her head slowly. 
 
 "No, I don't think so," she said. "I don't believe 
 they will follow us. They were not themselves down 
 there, they were not responsible. They did not know 
 what they were doing. They lost all control and reason 
 for that awful minute. It wasn't any more, you know; 
 just a flash. It will be all over by this time, and they 
 will be themselves again. Listen! They're not coming, 
 are they?" 
 
 I threw myself back to the door and peered down the 
 stairs. I could see nothing, but on the floor below was 
 the shuffle and thud of rapidly moving feet. Loud 
 voices, some hoarse, some strident under the sway of 
 anger, came indistinctly up the stairway. I heard the 
 rattle of the table violently overthrown. An instant 
 latter came a roar that shook the building, a new, terrible, 
 single-tongue shriek of the mob that made child's 
 play of all that had gone before. Then the sound of 
 the footsteps grew fainter and died away, and I turned 
 back to Ruth. 
 
 "Evidently they've changed their minds," I said. 
 
 "They have gone into the street," said Ruth. "They 
 have gone. I did nothing. I did not reach them. I
 
 Joey the Dreamer 253 
 
 could not make them see. Oh! how helpless and useless 
 I am. Some one else in my place could have saved them 
 from this terrible mistake." 
 
 "No one on earth could have done it. They were 
 mad. Ah! There they go." 
 
 Up from the street there came that cry which men 
 dread to dream of once they have heard it and seen what 
 follows the cry of a mob beginning its work. We ran 
 forward to the front of the building. Below us the crowd 
 was filling the Court to choking, and out on the Avenue 
 the first of the Company's wagons was making its 
 appearance.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 OF ALL the bad scenes that have fallen to the lot 
 of Clay Court what followed was the worst 
 the most harmful. The hurt of it is there and 
 elsewhere to this day. For war leaves its terrible after- 
 scars no less in the secret hearts of people than on the 
 face of earth, and this was war as it was in the beginning, 
 primitive, food-need strife. 
 
 To make it all clear to the reader, let him fancy the 
 Avenue, as a great, straight river, with Clay Court empty- 
 ing into it like a short, straight slip. To the little 
 building-locked Court the great wide thoroughfare spelled 
 the great wide world, and now it proceeded to turn the 
 world into a fiery little hell. 
 
 Since morning the street had been electric with the 
 atmosphere of impending crisis. Small boys had been 
 fighting intermittently, restlessly anticipating the grim 
 scenes which their elders soon were to portray. They 
 varied their squabbling with sudden and undirected duty 
 as scouts, dashing out into the big Avenue and spurting 
 south toward the silent, police- guarded, teaming yards. 
 Skinny Wernicky had won an hour's fervid fame by 
 penetrating to the police circle and bringing fleetly back 
 the news that the wagons were getting ready. Scuff 
 McHealy went him one better a little later by getting 
 
 254
 
 Joey the Dreamer 255 
 
 arrested at the factory door. Skinny grew fiercely 
 jealous when he heard the news. 
 
 The activities of the boys were indications of what 
 was passing in the minds of the men. Around the saloon 
 they had gathered at an early hour, deserting it only for 
 the richer meat of the final meeting. Yet it was not a 
 liquor-maddened crowd that now filled the street. Their 
 drunkenness was madder and deeper, founded on fiercer 
 material and spurred by fiercer devils than dwell in 
 whiskey. They were drunk, terribly drunk, with the 
 mob spirit, and rumbling steadily as the clouds about to 
 hurl a storm. 
 
 All morning they had rumbled, recited over and over 
 again to one another, between set teeth, the tale of their 
 wrongs, cursing all order, and swearing with fierce joy 
 over the prospect of revenge. A holiday spirit seemed 
 to actuate most of them. For once they had renounced 
 the rules and bonds that bound them. No longer were 
 they heavily servile and sullen as had been their wont. 
 They were free. They had cast off the sense of obedience 
 to the prevailing order of things. They were going to 
 upset them overthrow them. Those wagons of the 
 Factory Company were symbolic of all that they had 
 feared and hated. As they were overthrown, so would 
 the things they stood for be overthrown. It was revolt, 
 it was revolution! 
 
 Men laughed in harsh fashion and pushed their shirt 
 sleeves up on hairy forearms with excited hands. They 
 jostled one another on the narrow walk, overflowed into 
 the street; and the younger did jig steps among the
 
 256 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 rotting paving blocks, while the terrible mob poured 
 pell-mell out of the hall into the street. 
 
 For a moment the narrow place boiled with disorder. 
 So suddenly had the word come, that women were nursing 
 babes on the doorstep when the first blow was struck. 
 Two things happened of similar impressiveness : the men 
 lurched toward the Avenue with instinctive fierceness, 
 and out of every doorway came a woman who drove into 
 the crowd, captured one or two excited children, and 
 dragged them bawling to the shelter of in-doors. 
 
 One pursued her offspring into a saloon, whither he 
 fled to escape maternal wrath. Another picked her 
 latest infant from the curb, bore it in-doors and calmly 
 seated herself at a window to give it breast. 
 
 A girl folded her arms on a window ledge and called 
 to some one in the crowd: "Won't it be awful fer you 
 tuh get that purty face cracked!" 
 
 "Gowan, I'll come back an' hit yer a slap in the face 
 when I'm through," retorted the object of scorn. 
 
 "Dinny!" called an old woman peering into a hall- 
 way. "Dinny, where be ye, scut, whin all the fun's 
 a-goin' on?" 
 
 "Gettun* meh tools," retorted Dinny, appearing with 
 a flat-iron in each hand. 
 
 "Ee-you-now ! " screamed the crowd. "There they 
 are. Come on, boys!" 
 
 Upon a window cornice a mother sparrow chirped 
 shrilly, warning a half-grown young one. She did not 
 know what was going on, but she felt the brewing of an 
 ugly storm.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 257 
 
 The wagons came on. Slowly, ponderously, two great 
 bay horses drew into sight, noble beasts, ramping with 
 good feeding, shiny from care, and excited to the prancing 
 stage by the noise and motion about them. Their thick, 
 strong necks bent in graceful arches as they answered 
 the taut-held rein; the foam flew from their mouths, 
 flecking their shiny collars, and one could see the big 
 veins beneath the tight skin. They were beautiful 
 the only object the eye might find that merited this 
 description and the load that they drew was play for 
 them. The wagon swayed and jerked as they danced 
 in their impatience. 
 
 Upon the driver's seat sat a white thin-faced man with a 
 soft hat pulled down over his eyes. He looked neither to 
 right nor left; his eyes never left the backs of the animals 
 he was guiding. Beside him was a police officer, his 
 coat thrown open and a soft black tie flapping on a white 
 plaited shirt front. The officer sat with his left hand on 
 his hip, his right resting loosely on his knee. His little 
 deep-sunk eyes ran from one side to the other with a 
 regularity that was almost mechanical; and at times his 
 left hand tugged nervously at his loosened collar. The 
 driver had eyes only for his horses. 
 
 Such was the picture as the first wagon rolled out into 
 plain sight of all who were in Clay Court at the time. 
 
 Then things happened with a swiftness that taxed the 
 eye to follow. Out from a doorway on the Avenue flew 
 a lithe, athletic figure with something brassy shining on 
 his clinched knuckles. Like the flash of a mad acrobat 
 he seemed to fly from the curb to a front hub, then up on
 
 258 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 to the seat and into a grapple with the policeman. Once, 
 twice, the brass knuckles flashed in the sun. At the first 
 blow the officer's helmet flew from his head, at the second 
 he became a huddled lump on the seat. From somewhere 
 in Clay Court came at the same time the counterpart of 
 the officer's assailant, another thin, wiry young man, who 
 throttled the driver before his hand could reach the 
 revolver in his covered pocket. 
 
 Then the flood broke. Clay Court, like a pent-up stream, 
 broke loose and poured itself out on to the wagon. Every 
 doorway became a volcano spouting human beings, 
 every being shrieked at the top of his voice. Knives 
 flashed. The taut traces were cut, snapping at the 
 slash, like straining hawsers, and the two great horses, 
 suddenly freed, reared, leaped sideways once, and went 
 at a maddened gallop down the Avenue. 
 
 The crowd roared. Two score hands found hold on 
 one side of the wagon. Another roar. The heavy vehicle 
 rose swiftly, balanced for an instant on two wheels, then 
 toppled upside down with a crash. 
 
 "Oil! Oil! Get some oil!" 
 
 "Eyah! Burn the wagon! Kill 'em!" 
 
 The officer lay where he had fallen near the curb. The 
 driver, white and silent, was fighting near him with a 
 skill that explained his choice for the post of danger. 
 He was a wild-cat who knew the value of straight punch- 
 ing. His fists flashed out straight from the shoulders like 
 twin bullets of flesh and bone, and two men went down 
 like hammered cattle, ere one dove in and got a body 
 hold. Then some one struck from behind and the
 
 Joey the Dreamer 259 
 
 driver stretched face down on the pavement. There was 
 a red smudge where his white face met the mud, 
 and then the officers from the other wagon charged, and 
 the war was on. 
 
 The mouth of Clay Court suddenly became a battle 
 field. Here the mob took its stand, here the officers 
 pounded savagely, and here a fight took place that the 
 police tell of to this day. 
 
 The front of the mob fought back in almost solid order. 
 From the rear cobble stones fell on the officers' heads, 
 and a fusillade of the same from roofs and windows bore 
 testimony to much thoughtful preparation. 
 
 The officers were stopped. In the hand-to-hand fight- 
 ing, the mob was handing back as good as it received. 
 Enraged beyond all reason or order, the officers ceased 
 for the while to be machines of authority and became mere 
 maddened individuals, fighting to maim and disable 
 assailants who were hurting them. The clubs rose and 
 fell as they closed. Officer and mobsman clutched at 
 each other's throats and fell rolling in the mud, fighting 
 for a hickory stick with a fierceness as if for life itself. He 
 who went down underneath was the fortunate one, for 
 the uppermost at once became a target for heavy 
 kicks. 
 
 Soon the officers were on the defensive. They were 
 out-numbered and out-fought. A moment later they 
 were beaten licked. The mob triumphed for the nonce. 
 Helmetless, their uniforms torn and faces bloody, the 
 squad drew back into the Avenue. A fresh attack sent 
 them on the run back to the line of stalled wagons.
 
 260 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 There they drew up panting, awaiting reinforcements, 
 and the mob howled gleefully and improved its moment 
 of triumph by firing the overturned wagon. 
 
 Up Avenue rang the clang of patrol wagons. One, 
 two, three, four, of them. On the gallop they came and 
 poured their loads into the midst of the defeated squad, 
 while the mob scrambled busily for new weapons, and 
 part of it, with a generalship that seemed too calm for 
 that hot-blooded hour, drew the burning wagon squarely 
 across the mouth of Clay Court. It lay there blazing, 
 a barrier which the police must pass around. 
 
 Out in the Avenue order was emerging from chaos. An 
 inspector was in command. He placed himself in the 
 front. The officers formed behind in two firm lines. 
 
 "Drive them back first and let the wagons pass," said 
 the inspector. 
 
 "Stick!" roared the mob defiantly. 
 
 The inspector was a police machine. His uniform was 
 new, the velvet on the collar bright and high. His 
 moustache was curled, his hands empty. A yard in 
 front of his men he marched, his head as high, his step 
 as jaunty as when he led his squad in a holiday parade. 
 He was impressive, but the mob laughed. 
 
 Ten feet from the wagon his trained eye, moving high 
 and low, caught sight of something that sputtered like 
 a lighted fire-cracker on the ledge of an upper window of 
 the corner building, and he smiled up at the window 
 contemptuously . 
 
 "Halt," he said in a low voice. Even as he spoke a 
 yellow arm thrust itself out of the window, picked
 
 Joey the Dreamer 1 261 
 
 Up the sputtering thing and hurled it down at the 
 police lines. 
 
 It looked like a black bottle with a burning wick in the 
 neck as it fell. It struck squarely on the burning wagon. 
 A flash, a roar, a shaking of pavement, buildings and 
 windows, a jarring of ear drums as if the earth had been 
 struck a mighty blow. A great puff of smoke. Then 
 the clear street again. The debonair inspector was rais- 
 ing himself from the ground. The wagon was gone. 
 Scraps of it lay scattered everywhere. The bomb, 
 miserably aimed, had blown away the barricade and 
 harmed not a living soul. 
 
 The inspector brushed mud from his cap. 
 
 "Never mind him," he said, looking up at the window. 
 "We'll get him any time. Name's Rinehart. Now, 
 drive 'em back, with no more nonsense and let the 
 wagons pass." 
 
 Then boomed a voice from the other side. "Yes. 
 Drive them back. Come and see what you're a-drivin' 
 back."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE man who had shouted broke through and 
 leaped out before the advancing squad. It 
 was Perkins. 
 
 He had taken no part in the morning's disturbances. 
 He had not been in the Hall, had had no share in the 
 talking and drinking that preceded it. All morning he 
 had sat in a rocking-chair in his front room, sullenly 
 repelling all attempts at conversation and alternating 
 his study of the bare floor with a careful inspection of the 
 "enlarged photo" of a young man in a foot-soldier's 
 uniform that hung on the wall. The picture was sup- 
 posed to resemble Perkins's father as he was some time 
 in 1863. Above the picture usually there hung a straggly 
 piece of a flag. It was gone now, and Perkins sat stolidly 
 in the rocker and looked from floor to picture, from 
 picture to floor, with the air of a man who was waiting 
 for something of some importance. 
 
 He had not drunk a drop; his pipe had remained un- 
 lighted. Between his knees his great hairy hands were 
 folded carefully; and he had taken particular care to see 
 that he was as well dressed and as clean as was possible 
 for him then and there. Outside buzzed the hot-blooded 
 talk; high, angry words floated in through the windows; 
 and the steps of hurried feet upon the stairs of the Hall 
 
 MM
 
 Joey the Dreamer 263 
 
 always were to be heard. The climax of the meeting had 
 sent forth a roar that shook the windows. But Perkins 
 had sat and rocked, and rocked, and looked at the floor 
 and the picture. None of it touched him or heated his 
 blood to the temperature that kills reason. He was of a 
 breed that has learned to think and think alone, and 
 still acts hotly. 
 
 When the first swelling roar told that the wagons were 
 in sight, he rose slowly stretching himself to his full, loose 
 height, and tested each joint and muscle with a great 
 raising of arms and legs. Another roar, and pushing 
 back his sleeves like a man going to work he started for 
 the door. As he passed it he smiled bitterly at the 
 picture on the wall. Then he went out in the street, 
 coolly shouldered men out of his way, and stepped forth 
 alone at the crucial moment. The missing flag was tied 
 in a sash around his waist. 
 
 A yard to the fore of the mob he stopped with the air of 
 one who is going to stay. 
 
 "Get back, get back there!" commanded an officer. 
 
 Perkins answered not a word. Like a man of stone 
 he awaited the shock, head thrust forward, sharp eyes 
 peering fiercely beneath ragged brows, arms rigid and 
 held far away from the body, legs far apart and stiff at 
 the knees. In his eyes shone the light that came from the 
 heart of him, the heart of the breed that cannot go back 
 once it has decided to stay. 
 
 "Get back!" 
 
 A waste of words. Like throwing water against a 
 stone!
 
 264 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "Come on, ye big bluffer!" 
 
 The officer was a scant six feet away. Here, too, was 
 a giant, one in brass buttons and with a club in his hand. 
 He was as tall as Perkins, and heavier, for he was built 
 and fed like a prize bull, and under his helmet flamed the 
 red badge of his kind. He was a good fighting machine, 
 bred for the work, picked, trained, and experienced in 
 a harsh, rough school. But never had he met such a 
 man as Perkins. 
 
 "Get back!" 
 
 The officer waved his club like a long, wagging finger. 
 Still Perkins did not move, did not speak. 
 
 The officer paused. And for a moment they stood 
 face to face, eying one another with that comprehensive 
 toe-to-skull glance with which fighting men compliment 
 one another. Then the officer drove forward, his left 
 hand reaching for a throat hold and the club swinging 
 wildly, and Perkins hit him between the eyes and dropped 
 him in his tracks. 
 
 A breeze sprang up and for an instant the flag at his 
 waist flapped briskly. 
 
 The attention of the mob and the officers now focussed 
 on the new champion. 
 
 "Go to 'em, old man!" shrieked the mob. "Knock 
 their blocks off!" 
 
 "Get that man," ordered the inspector. "Get that 
 crazy man first of all." 
 
 Then the fight swirled around Perkins like a whirlpool 
 around a rock. Like a rock he stood, firm-planted, 
 erect and defiant. He made a pile of blue before him
 
 Joey the Dreamer 2G5 
 
 four deep. He laughed when they broke his nose; he 
 bellowed when his fist found an eye. 
 
 It was too fine, too grand to last. A club fell from 
 behind and Perkins staggered under the blow. He 
 fastened two hands like clamps on an officer's throat. 
 Another blow, then another. Perkins let go his hold and 
 went down under a mountain of blue and brass, and an 
 officer tore the crazy sash from his waist as he fell. 
 
 "Nuts. Plain nuts," said the inspector. "The bug- 
 house for him. Now get the rest; get 'em right." 
 
 But the sight of Perkins being dragged away with his 
 head rolling limply had driven the iron into the mob's 
 soul. The die had been cast. The war was on to a 
 finish. Those police uniforms no longer stood for 
 authority, but as the insignia of an enemy with which to 
 fight. Order had been overthrown; the mob was not 
 afraid of the brass buttons. 
 
 The determined charge of the officers fizzled out. 
 Their lines were broken, their strength as a body scattered. 
 They became merely a number of individuals struggling 
 with twice their number. The gallant inspector had 
 lost his cap. 
 
 "By golly, this is something new." 
 
 The inspector drew his revolver. 
 
 "They need strong medicine," said he. 
 
 The officers followed his example. 
 
 " More than you can give us," cried the mob. 
 
 The inspector fired into the air. The mob laughed. 
 
 "That's serious," said the inspector. 
 
 A shot from the rear of the mob answered him. Three
 
 266 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 or more followed it. An officer grunted and sat down 
 with his hands to his middle. 
 
 "That's hell," said the inspector. He stepped forward. 
 
 "I order you to disperse," said he. 
 
 "The hell you say!" laughed the mob. 
 
 And then the police fired.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 GEE!" said Little Joey, sitting upright as the 
 bomb shook the Tenement. "What an awful 
 noise!" His bed leapt an inch from the floor, 
 rattled and grew still. 
 
 "I wonder what that could 'a' been?" said Joey. 
 
 He was feeling quite well by this time, was Joey, 
 although he was very weak. He wanted very much to 
 get out and see what the excitement was about. Sitting 
 up in bed, however, was as far as the doctor would let 
 him go in his present condition. He was all right, he 
 told himself, but he had to stay there in bed, just the 
 same. It made him petulant. He strained his eyes to 
 hear something that would tell the nature of the ex- 
 plosion, but nothing offering, he flung himself back on 
 the pillows, muttering because he was not in it. 
 
 "Gawd! Oh, my Gawd!" 
 
 Joey sat up again. The voice, like a groan, was 
 outside his door. 
 
 "What you want?" demanded Joey. 
 
 The door swung open and closed again, and Mr. 
 Bruggers, Joey's father, stood in the room. 
 
 "Hide me, Joey, hide me!" cried the man in a whisper. 
 "Hide me, Joey. Don't let 'em get me." 
 
 Mr. Bruggers's fingers were playing with the buttons 
 
 267
 
 268 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 on his coat. He was the colour of a spoiled oyster. His 
 eyes seemed ready to pop from their sockets. 
 
 "What's the matter with you?" growled Joey. 
 
 "Don't!" cried Mr. Bruggers. "Joey! Joey, my 
 only boy! Don't throw your poor old dad down like 
 that. Hide me, Joey. Help me make my get away. 
 Rinehart made his all right. He's the one who's all to 
 blame for it. He promised me two dollars. He only 
 gave me one. Then he he did it, Joey; I didn't. 
 I swear I didn't, swear before Gawd, I didn't. Rinehart, 
 he says: 'Now, both together,' but he'd only gimme one 
 dollar. 'Gimme the other dollar,' I sez, 'or I don't throw.' 
 And I didn't, Joey, I'll swear on the stand I didn't, 
 I " 
 
 "Aw, what yeh talking about?" cried Joey. "What'd 
 yeh do?" 
 
 "Nothing, Joey, I swear I didn't do nothing. 'Both 
 together,' sez Rinehart. But he'd only paid me half of 
 what he promised. So I didn't throw mine. He was 
 the one who did it, he he was the only one that threw." 
 
 "Threw what?" 
 
 "The bomb. I I- 
 
 "Gee!" said Joey. "Was that what it was?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. Rinehart, he threw it. Boom! it went. 
 I didn't throw. He'd only paid me hah*. Then he 
 ducked. I went after him without throwing. 'Gimme 
 the other dollar!' sez I. 'Go to hell,' sez he. I follered 
 him, Joey, without throwing. He went up a ladder to 
 the roof. I went after him. 'Gimme the other dollar,' 
 sez I, and he slams the trap-door down on my fingers.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 269 
 
 See my fingers, Joey. Smashed your poor old dad's 
 fingers. I 
 
 Somebody shouted in the stairway. 
 
 "Hide me, Joey. Don't tell 'em I'm here, Joey; your 
 old dad, you know!" and Mr. Bruggers with an unprint- 
 able shriek dove to the floor and crawled under 
 Joey's bed. 
 
 "Go wan," said Joey. "They ain't nobody coming 
 up here." 
 
 "Oh, yes, they are, Joey," wailed Mr. Bruggers through 
 the mattress! "Yes, they are, Joey. They're after me. 
 They're trying to get me. They'll jail your poor old 
 daddy, Joey, and it wasn't me it wasn't me, at all." 
 
 "Aw, what yeh talking 'bout?" said Joey. 
 
 "He killed people, Joey." 
 'Huh?" 
 
 "No, there wasn't It didn't hurt anybody, did it, 
 Joey? It was only a little one, Gawd! what a noise it 
 made. Boom! I can hear it now. Joey! Joey! Did 
 you hear was anybody anybody hurt? Hah? 
 Did you hear?" 
 
 "Aw," said Joey, "I dunno what you're talking 
 'bout. How can I know?" 
 
 All the time that this conversation was going on, Joey 
 had been trembling all over, as if he were horribly 
 frightened, although he was far from being afraid of his 
 father in that gentleman's present condition. The tears 
 were running down Joey's face, bitter tears such as he 
 never had shed before. Why he was afraid, or why he 
 cried, it is very probable that he did not know. (Bruggers
 
 270 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 afterward testified that the little fellow was trembling 
 and crying, although at the time he admitted he took no 
 notice of it.) Bruggers, too, was crying. Under the 
 bed he gave way to great, hulking sobs, sobs that shook 
 the floor and cut little Joey to the heart. 
 
 "Pa!" cried the little fellow in anguish. "Don't 
 cry, don't cry, pa. There ain't nothing wrong, is 
 there?" 
 
 Still Bruggers sobbed, and still the bed shook. 
 
 "What is it, pa? "sobbed Joey,leaning over and looking 
 for his parent. "Don't cry, pa. There ain't nobody 
 after you. No, there ain't. Sure." 
 
 "Oh, yes, there is, Joey; yes, there is. They're after 
 me, Joey; they're after me." 
 
 "Naw! Naw, they ain't, pa. Honest, pa, honest. 
 You're all right. Please don't cry, pa; please don't. 
 You're all right, pa; sure, you're all right." 
 
 "Aw, Joey!" Bruggers's wailing ceased abruptly. 
 "Joey, you're a good boy to your poor, old pa. You 
 Always was good." 
 
 "That's all right, pa," said Joey. "Don't cry." 
 
 "You was always good to me, Joey. You're a good 
 son, Joey. I don't know what we'd 'a'done without 
 you. And you're getting all right now, ain't you, Joey? " 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 "Getting well, ain't you, Joey?" 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 "Strong?" Mr. Bruggers's voice was calm, calm 
 and eager. 
 
 "Sure."
 
 Joey the Dreamer 271 
 
 "Joey." Mr. Bruggers mellowed his tone to his most 
 honeyed expression. 
 
 "What is it, dad?" 
 
 "Joey." 
 
 "Hah?" 
 
 "You think you think you could get up? Just 
 for a minute, Joey, just for a minute?" 
 
 "Why? Why?" 
 
 "'Cause they're after me, Joey, they're after me. I 
 didn't do it, though. Rinehart, he threw it. Joey, 
 please, Joey, run down and see if any one was killed. 
 Will you, Joey? Will you, please, for your poor old 
 dad. I'm gone, Joey, if " 
 
 "Sure!" said Joey throwing off the covers. "Sure, 
 I will, pa." 
 
 His father's condition had disturbed him. The blood 
 was pumping into his head at a rate that made him dizzy. 
 He slid off the side of the bed and was surprised to 
 find how easy walking was for him. He seemed to float 
 along the floor. 
 
 "Sure, I'll go and see, pa," he said. "Don't be 'fraid, 
 pa. You're all right." 
 
 "Good boy, Joey," sobbed Bruggers. "Hurry back." 
 
 And the police fired! 
 
 Joey had paddled down the stairs and was in the 
 Tenement doorway at that moment. He had stopped, 
 bewildered and shocked motionless by the scene before 
 him. Then came the volley. 
 
 The effect of such a volley on a tightly packed crowd 
 is to be likened only to that of an explosion. One instant
 
 272 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 the mob presents the appearance of a solid; the next it is 
 torn and shattered as if smitten by a single, devastating 
 force. There is a lull, a moment of stupefied silence. 
 The crowd, which a second before pressed jeeringly 
 toward the little revolvers, is aghast. An expression 
 of incredulity goes over its face; it stands numbed, 
 speechless, gasping at the fulfilment of the threat it has 
 laughed at. Then it breaks forth suddenly into murder- 
 ous, suicidal rage, or flees abjectly according to the nature 
 of the individuals composing it. 
 
 So had the crowd in Clay Cour jeered, and so it grew 
 still as the revolvers answered. It drew back, pressing 
 closely against the walls, into doorways and hallways, 
 seeking to remove itself from the unbelievable horror 
 that it had seen created. The street itself was empty 
 except for three men. Two of these lay where they had 
 fallen. The other was Dinny Noonan. Somehow 
 Dinny had managed to get a bullet in his worthless car- 
 cass, and it was troubling him sorely. He lay on all- 
 fours near the curb before the Tenement and strove 
 to get on his feet. He rose a little, fell heavily, rose 
 and again fell. He fell toward the curb; he was trying 
 to get away from the solid blue line behind him. The 
 line stood with revolvers ready; the crowd let Dinny 
 struggle while it drew away in terror from those 
 menacing muzzles. 
 
 Then occurred that which Clay Court for long after 
 was prone to believe an apparition; Little Joey, very thin 
 and small in his night-gown, pale, tousled-haired, and 
 strangely clean, came running out of the Tenement into
 
 Joey the Dreamer 273 
 
 the cleared street, calling in his clear child's voice, " I'll 
 help you, Dinny, I'll help you," and taking one of Dinny's 
 arms he tried to lift him to his feet. It was much too 
 much for him, and he began to sob bitterly, tugging at 
 the shot-numbed body and all the time repeating: "I'll 
 help you, Dinny; I'll help you." As Dinny's haunches 
 sagged helplessly to the ground, Joey threw both arms 
 around his neck and wailed: "Oh, Dinny, Dinny! 
 Please don't, Dinny, please!" 
 
 He was the centre of the scene. They watched him in 
 awe and without a word, officers and mobmen. It was 
 so still that every word he spoke was heard by all. 
 
 "Mother of Christ!" murmured an officer and threw 
 his weapon on the ground. "The saints forgive us." 
 
 He ran forward with empty hands, for he had children 
 of his own, this man. 
 
 "He's all right, little boy," he said huskily. "He's 
 all right." 
 
 He swept Joey up with one arm and ran on into the 
 Tenement hallway. 
 
 "In with you!" he cried, setting the boy down. "In- 
 side with you and stay in." 
 
 Then he turned to do battle with the crowd that 
 waylaid him at the door. 
 
 But Joey had given the inspector his opportunity. 
 The mob was broken. More officers had unloaded in 
 the Avenue. 
 
 "Clear the street. Every officer make an arrest." 
 
 It was easy now. The mob-spirit was gone. The 
 crowd was merely a number of ill-fed individuals. They
 
 274 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 ran like sheep and fought half-heartedly when captured. 
 An officer would single out his man, leap upon him from 
 behind, bear him down, overpower him and drag him 
 out to the line of patrol wagons on the Avenue. The 
 thing worked by system. As a wagon was filled the 
 door was slammed and the load sent away at the trot. 
 One afte another they went. There were dead men, 
 wounded men, captured men. The wagons carted them 
 all away, and presently, as a reporter wrote that evening, 
 "little remains save broken windows, shattered doors, 
 bullet marks on buildings, bespattered walks, and the 
 hole in the street where the bomb exploded, to indicate 
 the fierceness of the riot. A squad of officers under 
 Inspector Donahey is stationed upon the scene. Curious 
 crowds already are trying to obtain bits of the burnt 
 wagon as souvenirs. The officers at times are forced 
 to use strenuous methods in controlling the throng 
 of sightseers." 
 
 Little remains! Wonderful words! But what little 
 there was rankles in the hearts of Clay Court to this day; 
 yes, will rankle even unto the next generation. 
 
 Tuesday, August , 19 . The big day had come. 
 The struggle had passed. Little remains but for 
 Clay Court to hunt new work in the morning.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 TUESDAY, also, we must remember, was the day 
 that Freddy had planned to go downtown for 
 his fiddlestrings. He went in the morning, 
 for Delia and he had planned a wonderful car ride into 
 the country in the afternoon. 
 
 "We can just get on a car and ride, and keep on riding, 
 and get off and pick the tall grass, and stay as long as we 
 please without caring whether the whistle blows or not," 
 he explained as they drew their plans. 
 
 "Hurry back," she said as she kissed him farewell 
 before starting down town. "I'll be nervous till you're 
 here." 
 
 It was when the crowd was beginning to flock toward 
 the Hall. 
 
 "This thing's got me leery," said Delia. "Let's blow 
 it as quick as we can. It's it's no place for us." Her 
 eyes ran nervously over the angry men, and something 
 was in her heart which neither her tongue nor her 
 eyes could tell. And Freddy had nought to do with 
 the disturbance. 
 
 "No place at all, yer leddyship," agreed Freddy. 
 "I'll hike for the strings, and a box of gumdrops, then 
 you and me for the close- to- nature stunts. S'long." 
 
 The young part that way in Clay Court. Hearts swell 
 
 275
 
 276 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 or break; life opens up in a vista of hope or shuts down 
 with the clap of doom; the one concerned shrugs 
 his shoulder, makes a grimace, and searches his soul 
 for something flippant and smart to say to pass the 
 thing over. 
 
 "S'long," said Delia, though she was ice cold all over. 
 
 "Hah?" said Freddy turning. Her face was like a 
 mask. 
 
 "Nothing. Go on with you." He kissed her again. 
 Then he swung away. 
 
 Delia remembered that kiss. It was the last time 
 that Freddy kissed her. 
 
 It took Freddy much longer to get the fiddlestrings 
 than he had expected. The old German from whom he 
 purchased his supplies was inquisitive. Why new strings 
 now? Furthermore, he had a new violin in stock a 
 worthy instrument. He placed it in Freddy's hands. 
 Freddy picked at it, he placed it against his cheek, and 
 he played, and played, and the minutes slipped by. But 
 the old German stood and stared at him with stiff, 
 disappointed eyes. 
 
 "Nein!" he exploded. "Dere iss someding wrong. 
 Id iss nod deh violin? No? Den you are in trouble? 
 Yess?" 
 
 Freddy shook his head, smilingly, and played on, with 
 his thoughts on Delia. 
 
 "Nah!" The old man took back the beloved violin 
 and bow with a jerk. "Marry her den. Gedt id off 
 your mind, my boy. Den perhaps you play as once you 
 did. Bud now voman voman voman; id is all
 
 Joey the Dreamer 277 
 
 dat is in your soul; and del violin like a dog you treat 
 id. So!" 
 
 "Right you are, old Smearcase," laughed Freddy, 
 gaily. "And I got a date that'll be late now. S'long, 
 Dutch." 
 
 Then at last Freddy hurried, but no man born of woman 
 can hurry fast enough to overtake the machinations of 
 Fate, and Freddy reached Clay Court at the moment 
 when the charging police first drove back the crowd. 
 
 He was chagrined. Here his way was blocked and he 
 would have to wait until the place was cleared until he 
 could see Delia. For he had no desire or intention to 
 engage in the struggle. To wait while the battle raged 
 he stepped into a sheltering hallway. Fatal hallway. 
 On the lower steps sat half a dozen young men, their 
 tense, expectant attitudes proving that they were wait- 
 ing. One of the foremost chewed gum with passionate 
 energy. He was white of face, and his eyes burned with 
 the flame of Fear. But he was the leader. 
 
 "H'lo, Freddy!" he greeted. Freddy's entrance 
 served to relieve the tension. "You waiting for a good 
 chance to slough some one, too?" 
 
 "Hah?" Freddy's eyes opened in surprise. 
 
 "D'you come in here to lay for *em?" 
 
 "Is that what you're doing here?" said Freddy. 
 
 "Sure thing. Wait until you see what comes off." 
 
 "Here ! I don't want to get mixed up in any trouble." 
 
 "You don't what?" 
 
 "No police scrappin' for me. I'm out of it. Nix on 
 that for me."
 
 278 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "You are likeh 1 out of it! Well, I should say not! 
 What yer goin' to do stool pigeon for the cops? Hah?" 
 
 "Ain't going to do anything. Keep out of it. Mind 
 my own business. See!" 
 
 "You are like h 1 going to mind your own business. 
 You're in this, too. We're all in it, and you're no 
 better'n the rest." 
 
 "I ain't." Freddy retreated to the walk. "I'm 
 going to keep my mitts clean in this, I tell you." 
 
 "You're against us then, eh? If you ain't with us, 
 you're against us." 
 
 Freddy now was in the street. Suddenly he was caught 
 first in the surging crowd, which, shifting its base, was 
 wedged tightly against the walls. He was bewildered. 
 He wanted to get away. He struggled against the 
 throng. He was one in a hundred. The mob whipped 
 him off his feet, milled him around, and held him prisoner, 
 a part of itself. Fight as he would he was helpless. 
 And now to his horror he saw that the mob had 
 turned. The officers had drawn back. The mob with 
 exultant yelps moved forward. He was a carried along, 
 against the officers. 
 
 In a frenzy he threw both arms around a trolley post 
 and sought to remain. As well grasp a slippery rock in 
 the heart of a merciless rapid. The crowd pressed on, 
 tore him from his moorings with its pressure, and 
 bore him along. 
 
 He fought to get away. It was impossible. He saw 
 the officers; he wanted to scream and run to them for 
 protection. One of them dove forward and broke through
 
 Joey the Dreamer 279 
 
 the front ranks of the mob straight at him. Something 
 hit him on the head. It was minutes before he remem- 
 bered what came next and then he found himself standing 
 upright, swearing with a brick in his hand. He looked 
 at it curiously for he had no recollection of how it came to 
 be there. He had seen the others stop and arm them- 
 selves. He had no recollection of yielding to dominance 
 of the mob and of doing the same thing. He tasted 
 something salty and realized that he was bleeding. 
 
 An officer knocked down the two men before him, and 
 swung his club high for a third blow. Freddy smashed 
 the brick into his face exactly like the others. The 
 officer dodged but not enough. The blood squirted from 
 a long cut in his cheek. Then Freddy's fist was in his 
 eye; the officer's hand was at Freddy's throat; and locked 
 together, straining, cursing, slipping, striking; they went 
 down, arose, went down, and arose again. Then the 
 officer, clubless, helmetless, badly beaten, covered his 
 head with his arms and ran back and Freddy was left 
 alone, blood on his lips, his nostrils distended and the 
 club in his hands. 
 
 "Throw the boots into 'em!" he cried, and in a moment 
 he was swallowed up and became only a howling, fighting 
 cog in a howling, fighting mob, and the mob moved 
 forward. So it happened that Delia and the car ride 
 were quite forgotten. 
 
 When Freddy came to he was staggering and two 
 officers were holding him with firm hands. Two other 
 young men from Clay Court two of those who had 
 stood in the hallway similarly staggering and
 
 280 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 bleeding, and similarly held, stood beside him. Freddy 
 heard one of the officers speaking. 
 
 "They say he's dead; he died in the wagon." 
 
 "Ah, ha!" said another. "That'll mean that these 
 young will learn what it means to kill a policeman." 
 
 Freddy looked at him dully. Things were rather 
 indistinct. He fancied it was like being drunk. 
 
 "You ain't talking at me, are you?" he asked. 
 
 The officer thrust his face close to Freddy's eyes. 
 
 "You !" he hissed. "You know you're in it up 
 to your neck." 
 
 "Talking to me?" repeated Freddy. 
 
 "Don't stall me," retorted the officer, "you're in it 
 right." 
 
 " In it? " said Freddy, uncomprehending. " In what? " 
 
 "The killing, you young !" 
 
 Then the meaning of the scene seeped into Freddy's 
 club-fuddled brain. 
 
 "You you don't mean that to me do you?" 
 he whispered. "Man officer I I wasn't in it. 
 I didn't want to be in it. Before God, I was just going 
 home and I I my God I " 
 
 "Shut up," said the officer. "Here comes the wagon." 
 
 Delia had not seen the riot. Things of this sort she 
 heartily disliked, especially now that she was "free." 
 They were unpleasant, and disturbing. She remained 
 in-doors; she wasn't interested. Freddy, she knew, was 
 downtown and safe. He had, of course, seen the riot, 
 and turned back. That was all right. He would come 
 when things had quieted down; yes, he would come,
 
 Joey the Dreamer 281 
 
 sure. And it must be confessed that Delia at that 
 time didn't care greatly what happened to any one so 
 long as Freddy would come for her when things had 
 quited down. 
 
 She grew apprehensive when the riot died down and he 
 didn't come. She waited nervously awhile, listened 
 impatiently to the details of the fight, to the tales of dead 
 and wounded, and eventually she went out into the 
 Avenue, bareheaded and alone. 
 
 A boy came running to her with a paper. "They 
 pinched Freddy," he announced. Delia took the paper 
 and read. The full details of Freddy's arrest were there, 
 supplemented by the news that he had helped kill Officer 
 McGeoghan. 
 
 "No," said Delia, "that isn't Freddy; not Freddy." 
 
 But she read again and saw that it was. Still she 
 continued to look at the paper, without indicating that 
 the type carried any significance for her. 
 
 "'Tain't Freddy," she repeated shaking her head 
 easily. "No, it ain't Freddy." 
 
 And then like a rush of blood her mind came back to 
 her from the blackness whither the blow had driven it, 
 and she cried out aloud as only women cry when their 
 mate is taken from them. 
 
 " 'Tain't Freddy!" she screamed, throwing the paper 
 into the boy's face. "You lie! You lie! 'Tain't 
 my Freddy!" 
 
 She turned and went down the Avenue, bareheaded, 
 alone, her dress open at the throat, her arms rigid, her 
 fists clinched at her sides. She held her head up high
 
 282 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 and breathed through her mouth, and people stepped 
 out of her way and looked after her when she had passed. 
 
 She went to the police station, now a black inferno of 
 heated stone and iron filled to suffocation with one 
 hundred sweating, clamouring prisoners, and lorded over 
 by officers whose menacing eyes reeked hatred for all 
 who had shared in the day's bad work. Delia asked 
 for Freddy. A young officer insulted her casually and 
 grossly with a question, and several others laughed at 
 his sally. 
 
 "You go get you another guy, sis," advised one of 
 them. "This one's been copped away from you; going 
 to marry another dame." 
 
 "Marry another! Who?" said Delia. 
 
 "Miss Joliet for about thirty years, and no divorce 
 goes. He's done for, your guy, sis; we got the goods 
 on him" 
 
 "My God!" said the girl foolishly. "Poor Freddy!" 
 
 She asked to see him. 
 
 "Nah, you can't see 'im," said another officer. "And 
 what's more, you'd better chase yourself out o' here. 
 You're pretty lucky not to be down there yourself." 
 
 "He ain't nice to look at, either," said one. Whereat 
 they all laughed. 
 
 Delia went out, walking like one in her sleep, her wide- 
 open eyes staring straight before her, seeing nothing, 
 comprehending nothing, paralyzed with an unknown, 
 unspeakable fright. What did they mean? What had 
 happened to Freddy? What might happen to her? The 
 fear and dread with which the helpless regard society's
 
 Joey the Dreamer 283 
 
 machinery of regulation, the police, was rooted deep in 
 Delia's heart now. She had touched the dark shades of 
 a great horror bred in her from the days of the first 
 parental admonition: "Look out; here comes a police- 
 man." The dread of the Law ! To Delia the Law stood 
 for Punishment only Punishment. Its hand was the 
 hand of doom. And it had fallen on Freddy; and the 
 impression on Delia was that of having sniffed the air 
 of the dark, dread tomb in which a heart's brother is 
 sepulchred. But Freddy was alive. 
 
 That was the bitterest part of it the unhuman, 
 supernatural tang. Death held no terror like this. He 
 remained in the world of the living, yet he was not of it. 
 And their separation was as permanent, as effectual as 
 as if the clouds had rattled above his head. 
 
 "He's gone," ran Delia's thoughts. "He's gone." 
 That, and nothing more. And Hope, that blessed saviour 
 which had sprung into being with the coming of their 
 love, and their planning, and their opportunity, was dead. 
 One instant the murky clouds of Fate had lifted; the 
 heavens glimmered bright and beautiful beyond. One 
 instant; then the night. 
 
 Delia stood on the stone step of the station house 
 dazed, half-killed. A cell door clanged shut. A lock 
 turned groaningly. Then, silence. Yes, it was very 
 like a tomb. And Freddy was in there, alive, but gone. 
 
 "Come on." A rough voice behind her, a rough hand 
 slamming the door. Delia turned around. The door 
 was black and tightly shut. 
 
 "Oh!" said Delia. "Oh! Poor Freddy!"
 
 284 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 Down the dark steps, into the dark, hollow street 
 before the station, still in the unspeakable horror-driven 
 daze. Her steps on the stones rang echoingly in the 
 emptiness of the place. She was afraid of them. They 
 revealed her presence to those the terrible figures 
 who kept the tomb. She felt the grasp of the black iron, 
 the gray stone upon her. She hurried, frantically running 
 away from the place, though the noise of her steps was 
 terrifying. The smell of the station was in her nostrils; 
 the threat of it in her soul. Overhead a blood-red moon, 
 thin as a wafer, looked down through the grime at the 
 dark-doomed district like an evil eye. 
 
 "Oh!" moaned Delia. "Oh, poor Freddy!" 
 
 And she hurried on. 
 
 Through dark, hopeless streets, streets of factories, 
 dead after nightfall, gutted of lights and all things living, 
 charnel-houses of industry, lay her course. There were 
 lights at the corners, sickly pale wisps of burning gas 
 struggling behind dirty glass. Between them, there was 
 darkness, unrelieved save for the occasional gleam of a 
 watchman's lantern. She came to the railroad yards, 
 and the taste of soot on her tongue told her that she was 
 panting, open-mouthed. A freight train clanged, the 
 bells rang a warning; and she ran across the tracks, her 
 hands on her bosom. 
 
 Her hair slipped down from the back of her head. 
 More dark streets. Oh, how dark, how hopeless, how 
 damning they were! It seemed that the Horror had laid 
 its hand upon them, and they were doomed. And how 
 helpless how hopelessly helpless one little girl was
 
 Joey the Dreamer 285 
 
 against them. Though she had played in these same 
 streets at night in the short playing years of her childhood, 
 Delia, now, with years and a woman's experience behind 
 her, was afraid. Never had she feared them before; but 
 never before had she felt their crushing significance. 
 The lights and the crowds of the Avenue in the distance. 
 Delia hurried to them as a terrified child hurries to the 
 shelter of a mother's arms. Into the thoroughfare she 
 hurled herself, gulping with joy as the rough crowd 
 jostled her in its motion. Lights in her eyes, the sound 
 of voices, common chattering voices, in her ears, elbows 
 in her sides. Ah! it was good, good to be saved! For 
 this was the thought in the fleeing girl's mind as she lost 
 herself in the throng; saved, saved, saved! She was back 
 in the world again, the frivolous, gabbling world where 
 she belonged, where all living people belonged; and the 
 tomb ah ! the tomb couldn't reach her here in the 
 sea-like souse of swarms of people 'neath the bright, 
 shiny lights. She was safe. But Freddy, Freddy, was 
 back there. Freddy was gone. 
 
 Off the Avenue in Clay Court, Delia recoiled. Dark- 
 ness here, too ; the hand of doom. She rushed in-doors 
 and lighted the gas and turned it on to the limit. She 
 must have light. She would fear the dark for the rest of 
 her days. Then she sat down. 
 
 She had not cried. Her eyes were dry. But there was 
 no light in them, and no life, such as had gleamed in them 
 and softened them with the coming of love. There was 
 no buoyancy or hope. She had grown old suddenly, old, 
 crafty, cunning, and careless.
 
 286 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 She looked out of the windows, and the darkness and 
 misery of the neighbourhood smote her as a blow. But 
 far to the west, in the soot-filled sky, was a faint spot of 
 a light. It was the reflection of the myriads of lights in 
 Electric Park. 
 
 Delia pouted. And the awakened woman once more 
 was a frivolous girl; "I knew it was too good to be true." 
 She shrugged her shoulders. "Well, back to the Factory 
 for me now, I s'pose." 
 
 But the Factory lay back there in those awful dark 
 streets. She turned to the glass it was second nature 
 with her. And she saw that she was good to look upon 
 in spite of horror and terror, good to look upon, pleasing 
 to the eyes of men. 
 
 "The Factory, eh?" she breathed musingly as she 
 studied herself. She turned sideways to the mirror, she 
 looked over her shoulder with a hand on her hip. 
 
 The Factory? The picture welled up before her like 
 a nightmare the dark morning arisings, the hurry to 
 work, the dark shop, the dark street at night, and the 
 hopelessness, the absolute hopelessness, unto the end. 
 
 And then she thought of lights, and strong perfumes, 
 and pretty clothes, and plenty of food, and and 
 
 Binger Binger would be waiting. Amidst the 
 
 lights. And Freddy was gone. Poor, poor Freddy! 
 
 "The Factory, eh?" repeated Delia, softly. "Nit!" 
 
 Then she fluffed her front puffs and put onher hat. The 
 battle could not end otherwise. At the door she paused 
 and gazed wistfully once around the dingy little room. 
 Then she went out. And this is the end of our Delia.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 IT WAS on Friday, three days after the riot, and 
 Mag was thankful she was feeling stronger. She 
 had been able to rise from bed this morning and 
 take some food from the table. This augured but one 
 thing, she knew; she would soon be well. So she was 
 quite content this morning, was Old Mag, and the world 
 seemed good and easy to live in. She marvelled a little 
 at the new feeling of release from pain and weakness and 
 worry that seemed to have come over her; but then she 
 considered her feat of arising alone and reaching the 
 table, and returning to bed without a single mishap, 
 and she realized that this was nothing more or less 
 than a sign of her improved condition. She had been 
 depressed and worried over the future because she had 
 been ill; now she was growing well and strong and the 
 depression had fled as a natural consequence. Old Mag 
 nodded and smiled in great satisfaction with herself and 
 all things. She lay with her hands folded limply over 
 her breast, her eyes wide open, staring out before her at 
 the wall. Just the smallest little ray of morning sun- 
 light had managed to steal its way in through her window, 
 and it drew with a dashing stroke a band of gold across 
 the bare, unwhitewashed plaster. The sunbeam 
 was out of place there, but like those wonderful people 
 
 287
 
 288 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 who make themselves at home and radiate familiarity 
 under all conditions, it proceeded to grow wider and 
 warmer until it had quite mastered the dreariness of the 
 room with its golden rays. 
 
 The sunbeam stirred Mag. The sun and she were 
 comparative strangers. It had had but little part in 
 her whole existence. Her conception of Light would 
 have been gas jet; and yet this morning the sun had 
 reached her and touched her pain-racked being. It 
 soothed and at the same time agitated her. It was 
 pleasant to lie and watch the beam, and Mag indulged 
 herself in a broader smile. The sun also in its subtle, 
 mysterious fashion for the moment gave her a little new 
 strength, and with its insistent, never-ending domination 
 over all things living, it called upon that little strength 
 to use and exert itself. 
 
 "I am getting better," thought Old Mag. "I'll be 
 getting up pretty soon." 
 
 She was right; she would be getting up soon, though 
 not for the reason she fancied. 
 
 In the midst of Mag's pleasant reveries there came 
 heavy footsteps in the hall, a hoarse voice asking direc- 
 tions, and a knock on her door. Old Mag had no need to 
 answer, for the door swung open immediately after the 
 knock, and in trod a short, thick-necked man who looked 
 like a constable and introduced himself as the agent of 
 the building. He did not explain his visit at first. He 
 came in, carefully closed the door behind him, and with 
 trained eye he methodically appraised the value of each 
 item of furniture in the room at a glance. The furniture
 
 Joey the Dreamer 289 
 
 was not of great value. The agent saw it, pursed his 
 lips, and after a last glance around turned his attention 
 to the woman on the bed. Her, too, he appraised, with 
 practically the same eyes and the same result as he had 
 judged the furniture. 
 
 "It's rent day," said he, curtly. 
 
 One must have lived in Clay Court to appreciate the 
 significance of this. 
 
 The rent is due. The agent is here to collect it. 
 Please God, we may have the amount, for the streets are 
 cruel to sleep in, and there will be no other place to go. 
 The agent is not a Human Being on rent day; he is Fate, 
 blind, inexorable, an ever-hanging threat over the heads 
 of the folks to whom rent money is a problem never 
 completely solved. He knows who has and who has not 
 the money when he enters, does the agent; the lips of the 
 unfortunate tremble when they see him come. 
 
 Old Mag made no reply. She could not reply. 
 She could not utter a word. All her life the rent 
 agent had threatened to be a curse to her, and now 
 the curse had come true. For Old Mag did not have 
 the rent. 
 
 "It's Friday," said the agent. "Did you hear?" He 
 regarded her with suspicious, angry eyes. Mag knew 
 she was committing a grievous sin by lying there sick, 
 helpless, and without money. She was breaking all the 
 established laws of justice and civilization. She knew it; 
 it was all in the agent's expression. 
 
 "Yessir," said Mag feebly. 
 
 "Well?"
 
 290 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 No answer. The agent glowered. Old Mag turned 
 her eyes away in shame. 
 
 "It's rent day!" The agent bellowed ironically. 
 
 "Is it?" said Mag, trying to smile. 
 
 The agent sneered. He looked at her with a world of 
 shrewd accusation in his pig eyes. 
 
 "Aw, hell!" said he, and Mag blushed. 
 
 "You better be finding another place to room," said 
 the agent abruptly. 
 
 "Why !" 
 
 "Why?" thundered the agent. Why! "Good God! 
 You 'spose we run this house for the benefit of the likes 
 of you?" 
 
 "Course not," said Mag, "but but " 
 
 "But nothing. You can't pay, can you? That's 
 what I'm talking about. Hah? Can you pay? Come 
 on; cough up the rhino. Let me see the price of your 
 rent clinking in me hand, or else get busy and get ready to 
 be sponging some place else by the time I have somebody 
 else in here who can pay their way." 
 
 "I ain't been sponging," said Mag. 
 
 "Ain't you? Ain't you? What d'you call it then, 
 would I dare to ask? Been living here on somebody 
 else's coin, ain't you? Somebody else been paying your 
 room rent, ain't they? Somebody else been feeding you, 
 ain't they? Some woman, wasn't it? Well, that looks 
 mighty like sponging to me; room rent and meal ticket 
 from somebody else. Anyhow, that stuff's all off now. 
 She won't pay no more room rent for you around here. 
 She "
 
 Joey the Dreamer 291 
 
 Something sinister in his tone impelled Mag to gasp 
 out: "Something's happened ?" 
 
 "Yer friends put her in the hospital," sneered the 
 agent. "Broke two ribs in her chest. She'll prob'bly 
 croak. She's through here. And so're you, and you'd 
 better get ready to make a move and make it be quick." 
 
 Old Mag had fallen back on the pillows aghast at the 
 news as it was told to her. She stared at the agent as if 
 she did not understand. Miss Ruth hurt? That wasn't 
 possible. Who would hurt her? 
 
 "Did you hear what I said?" growled the man, 
 irritated by the unblinking eyes. 
 
 "Yes," said Mag. "Yes, I'll get out." 
 
 "Right away, too." 
 
 "All right," said Mag. "I'll go to-day." She lay 
 still for a long time after he had gone. But for the wide 
 open eyes one would have said she slept, so still was she. 
 Miss Ruth was gone In the hospital And might 
 die And she must get out. 
 
 "How handy it comes in," said Mag, thankfully, 
 "that I'm feeling stronger!" 
 
 She rose, and though she found that she was not so 
 strong on her feet as in the bed, and that the wall, the 
 chair, the table were convenient supports to catch at and 
 save herself from falling, she managed to dress with con- 
 siderable care. It was a slow process, but in the end 
 she was ready to go. In the hall she met the woman 
 next door. 
 
 "Do you know where they took Miss Ruth?" asked 
 Mag.
 
 292 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 "To Mercy Hospital," said the woman, "But you 
 ain't going there, are you'" 
 
 "Sure," said Margaret. "Can't you see I'm all right." 
 
 The sun blinded her in the street and the heat haze 
 made her reel. 
 
 "Mercy Hospital," she repeated. "That's south." 
 
 The blocks were interminably long, and the number of 
 them was without end. At times she sat down in the 
 shade of hallways to rest. Once she was ordered out 
 with an oath. At another time a child called: "Ma! 
 Ma! Her's a beggar woman!" Mag got up hurriedly 
 and went on. 
 
 She lost her bearings at this time and a boy whom she 
 asked for directions, unwittingly sent her six squares out 
 of her way. At last she reached the doors of the hospital 
 and entered. Trembling she spoke Ruth's name, and 
 fearfully she awaited the reply. 
 
 "Yes, yes; I know the name," said the old, spectacled 
 registry clerk, puckering his brows. "She was here, she 
 was here, but 
 
 Mag's heart was in her throat. "She ain't dead?" 
 
 "No, no; she ain't dead; she ain't dead," said the clerk. 
 "But she isn't here any more. They took her away to 
 her friends, I understand. Oh! Yes, yes; I remember, 
 I remember, now; there was a piece in the paper about it, 
 a big piece. They took her home, to her home. I 
 remember it all now. They took her home. Way up 
 in that swell suburb on the north shore, it is." 
 
 "Far from here?" 
 
 "Far? Why, yes; yes. You take a car, and go down-
 
 Joey the Dreamer 293 
 
 town. Then you take a train. Yes, it's pretty far, all 
 right. But that's where it is. Out in that north shore 
 suburb ! 
 
 Old Mag went out without ano her word. She didn't 
 take a car down town; she started to walk. It was a 
 hot day. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, toward evening, Mag sat down 
 on the clean steps of a great brown-stone house out on 
 the Drive. A lady, a wonderful, beautiful lady, beauti- 
 fully dressed, well-fed, came out and looked down at 
 her kindly. 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked the wonderful lady. 
 
 Mag smiled and fumbled aimlessly with her fingers. 
 
 " I donno," she said. " I forget, y'see No, I forget 
 It was too far, too far. See?" 
 
 Tears stood in the wonderful lady's beautiful brown 
 eyes, soft, tender tears of compassion and pity. 
 
 "Poor thing!" she whispered to the maid who stood at 
 her side. 
 
 "What shall I do, Mis' Clews?" asked the maid. 
 
 "Poor, poor thing!" repeated Mrs. Dicky Clews. 
 "Call an officer, Hulda. The poor woman has lost her 
 reason." 
 
 The wonderful lady went back into the great brown- 
 stone house. Old Mag sat on the clean steps, and smiled 
 and smiled and fumbled aimlessly with her fingers.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 WITNESS the working of Power. 
 Dicky Clews grew almost perturbed when 
 some of the foregoing events became known to 
 him. The papers got hold of the story of Old Mag and 
 the Clews' steps, and though they naturally never men- 
 tioned Dicky's name, Dicky heard the truth and came ask- 
 ing if such things were true. Then he got the whole story. 
 
 "My word!" said he. "We must do something. 
 You say this Freddy lad is an all right man?" 
 
 "One of the kind that brightens the world, Dicky; a 
 man and brother." 
 
 "And I believe you said, a good fellow. Surely got 
 to do something. Good gad ! Girl gone to hell, I suppose, 
 without him. And a dirty deal, too, you say, from 
 the police. Well, don't care if it isn't; it's got to be 
 straightened out. I'll see somebody." 
 
 He did. He went to his man of business, and they 
 sent a message to Inspector Donahey. The inspector 
 came, in plain clothes and with his hat in his hand. 
 
 "It can't be done, sir," said he, when Dicky named his 
 wishes. "We got to make examples of these fellows 
 after such things. Wouldn't be any respect for the de- 
 partment if we didn't. They fought the police." 
 
 "Sacrilege!" said Dicky. "See your point of view, 
 
 294
 
 Joey the Dreamer 295 
 
 however, inspector; got to keep fear instilled, and all 
 that. This is an exception, however, our exception. 
 We want him turned loose." 
 
 The inspector shrugged his shoulders with the air of 
 a faithful servant whose superiors interfere with the 
 proper performance of his duties. 
 
 "Well, if that's the case, all right," said he. "But I 
 tell you, gentlemen, you're making a mistake. There's 
 only one way to keep these people where they belong, 
 and that's to keep them damn good and scared." 
 
 "Quite right, inspector, quite right," said Dicky's 
 man of business. He was not at all in sympathy with 
 his client's determined conduct. 
 
 "The idea has come to me lately," said Dicky 
 languidly, " that perhaps we haven't quite got the 
 what d'you call it? the right to say where these people 
 belong. Just my idea, you know. Anyhow, I don't 
 believe they're going to stand for this what d'you call 
 it, inspector? keep-them-scared policy much longer. 
 Just another idea of mine, of course; but as this is my 
 own mistake, if it is one, and as I'm paying the chit I 
 guess we'll have to put it through, what?" 
 
 So the wires were pulled, and the machinery of the 
 Law was made to slip a cog, and Freddy went free of 
 jail, with a face like stone and a fringe of gray around 
 the edge of his red hair; but the curse that those days had 
 laid up on him will not leave him entirely as long as he 
 lives. And Inspector Donahey made another payment 
 on the glazed brick apartment building he was buying 
 on the South Side.
 
 296 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 Dicky was Freddy's sworn friend after their first 
 meeting. 
 
 "If there's anything I can do for that boy," said he; 
 but there was nothing he could do but try to find Delia, 
 and there even Dicky's resources failed. Money did much, 
 of course. It caused the nether worlds of several proud 
 American cities to be inventoried to the last lost soul, 
 caused the gilded downtown places where the painted 
 pack hunts, by night, to be watched for weeks, turned 
 every police officer in our city into a searcher for Delia; 
 and it was all in vain. It also ran the oily J. Q. A. 
 Binger into the deep hole reserved for promoters black- 
 listed among financiers, but Binger could throw no light 
 on Delia, for he had lost her himself. 
 
 "Chorus girl some road company," said Dicky 
 out of the depths of his knowledge. "Don't worry, old 
 man. Takes 'em about a year to get sick of that. Then 
 if she's worth what you think she is she'll remember 
 you. Know what you're worth, too. Cheer up." 
 
 "I was born that way," said Freddy, trying to grin, 
 "but something's put a crimp in me." 
 
 Later he said thoughtfully: "It's the girls that this 
 world is hard with." 
 
 The ease with which Power had moved things had 
 opened my eyes. Dicky had accomplished with ease 
 what our darkest struggles must have failed in. Here 
 was where the help must come from; the Controlling 
 Power must begin by regulating the Machine. 
 
 "Dicky!" I cried. "You are the one who must do 
 it. You can do it. You must change things."
 
 Joey the Dreamer 297 
 
 But Dicky, too, had seen considerable light. Given 
 ten years younger and, consequently, less deeply rooted 
 respect for family, traditions, and his own sort's opinion, 
 and there is no telling what Dicky might have done. 
 But even as it was the summer had not been without 
 effect. 
 
 "No," he said, with a seriousness that no one could 
 have suspected him of, "it isn't us who will do it; we're too 
 stale. It's going to be done, of course, because you can 
 feel it in the air, you know. A sort of what d'you call 
 it? force. That's what's going to do the trick. We're 
 going to help naturally, we what d'you call us? 
 idle exploiters, and so forth. We're going to help 
 because we're getting dissatisfied, too. It's working above 
 and below that force, you know. Some of the fellows, 
 the young 'uns, actually ask about kid labour and that 
 sort of thing before putting their money behind a thing. 
 They do, for a fact. Mysterious, but true. I know one 
 who did." 
 
 "One?" 
 
 "One. As for me, I'm going to draw out of that 
 damn Consolidated thing as soon as I can without 
 losing too much, you know." 
 
 Hope for Dicky! 
 
 "Say, but that was a terr'ble old speech, Miss Arthur 
 let go at us, terr'ble," he continued. "Hope they didn't 
 hurt her bad?" 
 
 "They didn't hurt her, Dicky." 
 
 "Come again?" 
 
 "'They' is the wrong word. We did it. All of us;
 
 298 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 you and I everybody when we sat still and per- 
 mitted Clay Court to grow up next door to us without 
 opening an eye to see what it was or what it was doing 
 to its people. A bad neighbour makes your own 
 nest uncomfortable; and we're all neighbours, if we'll 
 only see it. That's selfish and practical, so you can 
 understand." 
 
 Dicky thought it over for some time. 
 
 "Yes," he drawled, "I guess it's pretty late in the day 
 to get away with Cain's argument. Old Cain was 
 pretty much narrow-minded, anyhow. Short on what 
 d'you call it? experience with his fellow men. But, 
 I say, old man," he continued more briskly, "you haven't 
 answered my question about Miss Arthur, have you?" 
 
 "She will get well," I said. 
 
 Dicky looked up at the words. He regarded me with 
 new interest. There were few things the indolent Dicky 
 couldn't see when he opened his eyes. 
 
 "Hah! I see that somebody had some luck over there, 
 after all," he said. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Congratulations," said Dicky.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 THIS is not my story. It is not Ruth's story, nor 
 is it ours together. Therefore I shall not tell 
 of the black days that followed the riot for us, 
 of the fever that Ruth's injury plunged her into, of the 
 weary days and nights when she lay on the border-land 
 of eternity, when it seemed that I had won her only to 
 lose her, and all the world was a place of bitterness and 
 woe. I shall not tell of these things, I repeat, nor of 
 that joyous morn when Ruth opened her eyes quietly, 
 safe and sound in the land of living at last, smiled, and 
 raised up a feeble arm to clasp about my neck. 
 
 I shall tell, however, of the last visit we paid to Clay 
 Court one clear Sunday afternoon when autumn, like a 
 cooling hand was beginning to cool the city's brow, 
 fevered by the hot, mad summer. 
 
 It was Ruth's first day out. She was very weak, but 
 the day was kind to her. We drove slowly. In the park 
 the dead leaves were dotting the dying grass. They fell 
 at the slightest breeze; they lay unmoved on the still 
 waters of the lagoons. Along the boulevard the gardeners 
 had covered precious roots and shrubs with many coat- 
 ings of straw; and the reddened cheeks and quick steps 
 of the pedestrians told that autumn's hearty influence 
 had begun. 
 
 299
 
 300 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 But this exquisite blending of two seasons made little 
 difference in Clay Court. The changing seasons count 
 for little here, save that one may be worse than another. 
 The whisperings of spring are hailed merely as the fore- 
 runners of the tormenting hot weather; the nuances of 
 fall predict only the murderous sufferings of cold weather. 
 The trouble is that no season holds forth to Clay Court 
 the offering of new hopes and promises that elsewhere 
 cause their coming to be hailed with joy. One is about 
 the same as another, though winter, naturally, is worst. 
 Yet even Clay Court could not make entirely unlovely 
 such a perfect Sunday afternoon in autumn as the day 
 when Ruth and I came back to the Tenement, to the 
 little white room that had been hers on the third floor, 
 and where she had not been since that Tuesday in 
 August. But the room was white no longer. 
 
 Out of doors the world was at peace with itself and with 
 the universe, but the Tenement was as noisy, as brawling, 
 as much like an uneasy kettle as ever. We sat side by 
 side on two of Ruth's chairs grown grimy since her 
 departure and above and below, and all around, raged 
 the tumult which here always was present. Children 
 bawled and babbled, harsh- voiced mothers, weary mothers, 
 shouted fretful objurgations; and ever and anon came 
 bull-like male roars, alternated with shrill, adolescent 
 laughter. It was the same Tenement, the same noise, 
 all the same. 
 
 "Ah, jees ! Coming home with a jag and not a cent in 
 clothes, an' me an' the kids starving!"} 
 
 Ruth asked for the Bruggers. She wished to make
 
 Joey the Dreamer 301 
 
 our guardianship of Joey secure. Joey, at least, was 
 saved. 
 
 "Trun out. Wouldn't pay no rent. They don't 
 live together no more, but I don't know where she's at." 
 
 "Mrs. Perkins?" 
 
 "They say she went to his folks, and they couldn't 
 help her, and she came back and worked in the Factory 
 for awhile, till she got sick. No; nobody knows where 
 she's at now. Was these folks friends of yours, lady?" 
 
 New faces, new names, new families, yet all the same, 
 all as it had been since the Tenement was built, all as it 
 will be as long as the building endures. The people 
 were different, practically all of them, for moving is 
 common here, but on their faces, in their bodies, through- 
 out their whole beings was told the same story as had 
 gone before. To the empty white face of the newest 
 baby the strangers duplicated the Tenement's old 
 inhabitants. The great battle had been fought, the 
 debris had been cleared away; and it was all as it had been 
 before,'as if the strife had not been. One, two, five years 
 more and it might be done over again; the elements all 
 were there again for the brewing of a fresh storm. 
 
 Ruth sank together and grew small and wan as she 
 heard and saw. She was looking far away, far beyond 
 the walls of the room, and presently she began to speak: 
 
 "So this is the way of it. The war goes on. Man 
 fights, and the stronger slays the weaker brother. All 
 come into the fight, the large and the small, the weak and 
 powerful, the helpless and disinterested, for that is the 
 way of the Scheme of life here to-day. It
 
 302 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 couldn't be otherwise while the law of fang and claw pre- 
 vails. Oh, blind, blind man, will you never see? 
 
 "Who was in the wrong? Both. The Company 
 first; Rinehart afterward. And so foolishly, ignorantly 
 wrong." 
 
 She drew her hands before her and folded them 
 abstractedly in her lap. She seemed as in a dream 
 now, and, her words came brokenly and in little more 
 than a whisper. 
 
 "And God said: 'Let there be light, and there was 
 light;' but not for such places as these. No; we have 
 taken it all for ourselves up there in the bright parts of 
 the world; and none of us see how we stand between these 
 folks and the sun, not one of us stops to think of getting 
 along with a little less light, of letting a tiny ray filter 
 down here. Yet God surely meant His light for these, 
 too. And it would take so little to bring some of it here, 
 and the results would be wonderful beyond compare! 
 
 "But now there is darkness. Delia is lost in it. It 
 is an accident that Joey is saved, and Freddy. And 
 they are here by scores and hundreds. Freddy was 
 standing near the door as we came in; Delia came out of 
 the hall and Joey, looked down at us from an upper 
 window. They are all here, to grow up here and to 
 become the sport of the black Fate we make for them by 
 monopolizing the light. Whenever the time is ripe, when 
 the occasion comes, Fate will play with them just as 
 it played with our friends, in its strangely unfair way. 
 Helpless pawns in a game in which they have no share, 
 no chance to win. And yet in each of them is the divine
 
 Joey the Dreamer 303 
 
 soul of a brother or sister which must be killed before 
 the slum's victory is quite complete. But slain it is; 
 we have seen now how it must be slain with things as 
 they are; and it will continue How can it continue 
 after the world knows?" 
 
 Her voice died away, and her last words were something 
 like a sob as she reached for my hand and gripped it, 
 seeking the touch of a brother being who understood. So 
 we sat, hand in hand and silent, while the picture she 
 had painted hung before our eyes, and the life that they 
 picture epitomized voiced itself around us. The after- 
 noon drew on toward evening, and the sun, soon shut out 
 by the buildings in the west, quitted the room, and the 
 short, gloomy twilight began to come on. And even as 
 the day was subdued, so the Tenement grew more quiet, 
 and for a moment it was still. Then a child cried 
 piteously across the hall, and a tin rattled upon the stairs. 
 
 "Shall we go home?" She spoke to me, but still her 
 eyes were toward the wall and far away. 
 
 "Do you want to stay?" 
 
 She waited awhile before speaking, and again her 
 voice was the voice of a dreamer seeking his way out of 
 a troublesome maze. 
 
 " Can one do any good by remaining? Is it a work that 
 can be done, and is weak human flesh fitted for it? It 
 is so vast, so far removed from We as we live it to-day, 
 so far from man it seems because he is so far from 
 God. But it cannot be like this always. It cannot be. 
 Some day oh, if one only dared to hope! But it is 
 hard to hope after one has seen."
 
 304 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 She roused herself after this, as if the sound of her 
 words had struck home and told her what she was saying. 
 She cast off the momentary temptation to weakness. 
 
 "What am I saying? We may hope, of course. 
 We must. It is sin not to; and hope yes, hope is 
 before us now as it never was before. The sign is on the 
 face of the earth and within man's heart. The spirit 
 of goodness has sowed its seed, and the crop is growing, 
 growing to fruition. It is only in the hearts of a few 
 that we can see it, only a few. But they are the advance 
 guard, the forerunners that tell us the race is impregnated 
 with God. These few are the signs that are given us 
 that we may hope. They are far in advance, but the 
 rest will follow. Their eyes are clearer, their hearts 
 cleaner, their souls less ruled by finite ambitions, and 
 they are spreading the true light among their kind. 
 They are few in number. They are a handful in the 
 midst of unaccountable multitudes of multitudes, and the 
 multitudes rush on without heeding what they say. But 
 Jesus Christ at first was only one obscure individual and 
 his followers a handful of discredited cranks, forgotten 
 and overlooked by His slayers. The world has strayed 
 far from Him after it found Him; but a few, a precious 
 handful, have seen how we have strayed and are striv- 
 ing to point the way back. And His spirit will be with 
 them, will be with this few. And some will write, and 
 the world will laugh at them, if it notices them at all; 
 and others will plead with the spoken word, and the 
 police will lock them up. But others will come forward 
 and go on. The flame will continue to burn. You can
 
 Joey the Dreamer 305 
 
 no more stop it than they could kill Christ's spirit by 
 destroying the mortal flesh. Hope 
 
 She leaned forward suddenly, a new, eager light in her 
 eyes, as if the vision had spoken and the dream was 
 clear. 
 
 "Why," she continued in a voice so low that it seemed 
 awed, ** it is the day of hope and of promise. Christ's 
 spirit is coming back to earth again, and manifesting 
 itself in the deeds of a few men. Heaven grant that 
 man's eyes are not too blinded by the things of his day 
 to see Him when He comes." 
 
 She stopped speaking in that abrupt, final way that 
 told when her speech was at an end. Still we sat silent, 
 and the room grew darker, but now Ruth seemed 
 to smile. 
 
 In the rear rooms they were lighting the lamps, and 
 the windows began to close against the chill evening. 
 
 "Why," murmured Ruth, "will not man begin this 
 work now?" 
 
 I made no answer. 
 
 "John," she said after awhile, " what is wisdom?" 
 
 "Perhaps nothing more than the faith and patience 
 to wait?" 
 
 "Ah!" she sat up and smiled, and now she was radiant. 
 
 "Where did you learn that, John?" 
 
 "Here, I suppose" I said, and she nodded that she 
 understood. 
 
 Suddenly a little girl laughed merrily out in the hall, 
 and her laughter, as natural, as care-free, as hopeful as 
 the trilling of a bird, rang through the building.
 
 306 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 Ruth rose. She leaned on my arm. The patience 
 was back in her eyes. 
 
 "Let us go home now," she said, "we have heard the 
 coming generation laugh." 
 
 And with this, reader, we bid farewell to Clay Court.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 JOEY sat in the grass before the farm house, and 
 stared at the Grown Up Pup. 
 It was his tenth day on the farm, and he was the 
 first person on record to look twice at the Pup without 
 laughing. The Pup was a black and white hound, four 
 years old, two feet long, half a foot high, and with black- 
 brown ears that swept the ground. He had never got 
 over being a Pup. His presumed function in life, as 
 testified by his pedigree, was to hunt rabbits. In reality 
 he lived only to love and make love to everything that 
 crossed his path, from chicks just out of the incubator 
 to tired, surly hired men. 
 
 The Pup took charge of Joey, upon his arrival, just as 
 he did of every visitor to the farm. When the driver 
 lifted the little fellow out of the carriage the Pup came 
 waddling forward on his short, crooked legs with the 
 grave geniality becoming to me upon whom devolved the 
 duty of offering guests a sincere welcome. His manner 
 on these occasions always suited the character of the new 
 arrival. To hearty souls, no matter of what age, sex, or 
 standing, the Pup came forward with gleeful barks and 
 playfulness. To Joey he came slowly, and, touching his 
 nose to the boy's hand, looked wistfully up to catch 
 his eye. 
 
 307
 
 308 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 Joey started and drew back his hand. 
 
 " 'S he a biter?" he demanded. 
 
 The driver stopped midway in the process of loosening 
 a trace. 
 
 "Hah?" he said, dropping the trace in amazement. 
 "Bite? Him? Him?" He laughed hired-man fashion, 
 with a stamping of feet. "Why, boy, if that Pup heerd 
 you say that he'd go off some place and cry hisself plum t' 
 death. Bite? Why, he won't even bite flies." 
 
 Joey was a bewildered child, but he could not let 
 this pass. 
 
 "You're a kidder, ain't you?" he said dryly. 
 
 The Pup's mild eyes grew soft with pain and surprise 
 at the rejection of his advances. When the driver led 
 Joey up to the house the dog followed slowly in the boy's 
 footsteps. He was a puzzled Pup. His heart had gone 
 out to Joey on first sight; why didn't this boy do like 
 other boys? Pull his tail, for instance? Something was 
 Wrong. This boy was different from any boy the Pup 
 ever had seen, sniffed, felt, or heard. When the Pup 
 playfully gnawed at his heels the boy jumped and cried 
 out. The Pup dropped back. He was puzzled. 
 
 A little later when Joey came out to sit in a big chair 
 on the old veranda the Pup was waiting with new 
 advances. No use trying to win this boy as he did others. 
 The Pup trotted sedately up to Joey, looked him full 
 in the eyes for many seconds, then laid his head on 
 the little knees and stood there expectantly, hopefully, 
 still looking up. 
 
 "What's the matter?" said the Pup's eyes. "Why
 
 Joey the Dreamer 309 
 
 aren't we chasing each other around the yard?" 
 But Joey did not understand. The natural brother- 
 hood of boys and dogs was something beyond his ken. 
 He drew his knee away and shrank back in the chair. 
 For a few seconds the Pup remained standing there, an 
 expression in his eyes that would have won him a pat 
 from anybody but Joey. Then his head drooped. 
 Lower and lower it fell until the long ears flopped on the 
 floor. The Pup turned and walked slowly and sadly 
 to the end of the veranda and sat down. He was a 
 lost Pup; the world suddenly had gone askew. 
 
 In those first days Joey was in the dazed condition 
 that is to be expected of a child undergoing transition 
 from one world to another. Things were not real to 
 him. He was skeptical; he didn't believe that things 
 were as his eyes saw them. Somewhere there was' a 
 catch; some day it would be demonstrated; then all these 
 things around him would vanish. For they were not, 
 they could not be real. If they were real, then he had no 
 business to be among them. They were not part of his 
 world. This new home of his was part of a strange 
 universe, a strange earth under his feet, strange sky 
 above his head, strange creatures all around him, and a 
 strange, a very strange, system of living obtaining 
 with all. Well, it was all right, because his friends 
 were the kind that wouldn't play tricks on him, but 
 he would wait awhile before he decided whether he was 
 awake or dreaming. 
 
 "What have I got to do? " he asked the hired man. 
 
 "Do?"
 
 310 
 
 "Yes. You can't con me that I don't have to do 
 something." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " 'Cause you can't. What kind of a game is this 
 where yuh pretend I don't have to do anything? Don't 
 you s'pose I know there ain't no such game going?" 
 
 The hired man didn't quite understand, either, but 
 he said : 
 
 "Your job is to laugh and grow fat." 
 
 Joey gave him a bored look. 
 
 "You fancy kidders make my head ache," said he. 
 
 He could not understand, that was the sum of it all. 
 His faculties were incapable of comprehending the 
 scheme of life as pursued in the country. It was hard 
 to convince him that it was proper to stay out of doors 
 all day long. He had never heard of people living that 
 way. He was more at home in-doors, naturally. There 
 were at least walls there, and doors, and floors and ceil- 
 ings to shut one in as in a little box, with all God's world 
 of sky and wind, and hills and trees shut out; and this 
 was how he was comfortable. He had been shut in all 
 his life, and that seemed the only reasonable way 
 of living to him. 
 
 Time after time he was taken out and introduced to 
 the young chickens. 
 
 "Here's a job for you, Joey; take this pan of corn and 
 throw it around to those chicks." 
 
 "Yessir." 
 
 He would distribute the corn as he had seen others 
 do it, and he would do it as quickly as he could. Left
 
 Joey the Dreamer 311 
 
 alone for a moment, he would cast a questioning glance 
 around, then he would wander wanly toward the house, 
 enter noiselessly and sit down in some lonely corner, a 
 crumpled little figure more dwarf than child. The Pup 
 followed him wistfully, step by step, out of doors; he was 
 wearing the deepest of dog mourning, was the Pup, 
 though he couldn't understand why it should be so. 
 
 It was in the still, clean Indian summer nights, when 
 the bark of a dog on a neighbouring farm filled the whole 
 starlit world with sound, and the farm house and its 
 environs lay as quiet as the moonlight that bathed it, 
 that Joey suffered most. It was hard for him to sleep. 
 He was afraid. Senses accustomed to the muddled 
 night life of the Tenement could not rest at ease in a 
 room where there was nothing but peace, and comfort, 
 and fresh air. As the system of the drug victim craves 
 the poision that is wrecking it, so Joey at night craved 
 noises and smells, stuffiness and the sense of a swarm of 
 humans cluttered around him; and when those early 
 autumn nights were at their best he would start up 
 in bed, awakened by the sheer peace and silence. 
 
 "Gee, but it's noisy here nights," he said. 
 
 No, Joey was not overjoyed with the farm at first; he 
 was living naturally for the first time in his life, and it 
 was cruelly hard on him. 
 
 "Ain't there no coppers in this park?" For days 
 that was as near as he could come to understanding 
 what the free country was. He wondered why people 
 should live in a park all the time, and who told them they 
 could do it.
 
 312 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 Once he confided: "Gee, but things are far here." 
 
 "Far?" 
 
 He nodded. He was looking out toward a range of 
 hills crowned blue with the Indian summer smoke, and 
 he shrank as the distance impressed itself upon his 
 unaccustomed eyes. 
 
 "Gee!" he whispered, awe-stricken. "That's too 
 far for anything to be." 
 
 One of those mornings as he sat on the veranda, the 
 disconsolate Pup nearby, a neighbour's boy, a stocky, 
 red-cheeked imp about Joey's size, but years younger, 
 swung up on the gate on his way to school and called 
 cheerily: "Hello, there!" 
 
 Joey did not answer. 
 
 The boy on the gate rattled his copper-toed boots 
 along the pickets. 
 
 "What's your name?" he asked. 
 
 After awhile Joey spoke. He said: "What's it tuh 
 you?" 
 
 The other stopped his kicking and stared. 
 
 "Huh! I didn't mean nuthin'," he said; and after 
 an embarrassed moment he volunteered: "I live next 
 house up the road from here. I got a dog 'at kin lick 
 'at Pup all to pieces. He's a shepherd, mine is. My 
 paw gave him to me for my own last Christmas, and he 
 minds me quicker'n anybody." 
 
 Joey sat sullenly silent. 
 
 "Where'd yuh work?" he said finally. 
 
 " Huh ! I don't work, 'cept 'tato buggin' in the summer 
 when there ain't no school anyhow and the bugs is bad.
 
 Joey the Dreamer 313 
 
 Bet I kin bug more 'tatoes than you kin. I kin awmost 
 keep up with John Potts, and my paw says John's the 
 best hired man we ever hed." 
 
 Joey shifted uneasily. 
 
 "Aw," he said, "what yuh talking about?" 
 
 The farmer boy stared, nonplussed again. Then he 
 played his trump card. 
 
 "Say, I'll let you see our new Morgan colt if you come 
 up to our place. He's jist this high and we kin pet him 
 and he ain't skeery a bit, but, we can't get on him, 
 because his back ain't strong 'nought yit or I'd let you 
 ride him, too, but you can ride old Fan, she's strong 
 enough." 
 
 The boy paused, breathless and expectant. 
 
 "Go wan," said Joey, "run along an' peddle your 
 papers." 
 
 The Pup looked from the departing boy to Joey with 
 sad eyes. What had gone wrong with the world? 
 
 Poor, beclouded little Joey! What a struggle must 
 there have been within your soul when first you were 
 offered the things for which your childish heart hungered 
 but which too much experience prompted you to reject 
 in suspicion. 
 
 "It is good, take it," said the eternal boy-heart. But 
 the over-developed sense of fear warned: "Look out; 
 there's a string to it." 
 
 So the days went by, the golden harvest days of the 
 year, when the partridges drummed in the bright-hued 
 brush, and the hired man sang as he swung his corn knife, 
 and outwardly Joey remained the same, a stranger to
 
 314 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 his new world and its creatures, a little Ishmael of the 
 tenements. But within the miracle was working. For 
 not even Joey could resist the constant wooing of the 
 Grown Up Pup. 
 
 It was the tenth day, and Joey sat in the grass and 
 looked at the Pup. It was the Pup's day to shine. For 
 ten long, cheerless days he had suppressed his natural 
 self. It was enough. It was too much. To-day was 
 the day to break loose. 
 
 The Pup had seduced Joey down from the veranda 
 by barking ferociously at a clump of lilacs, charging into 
 the bushes, growling as if engaged in mortal combat with 
 strange beasts, then coming out with a rush and a roar, 
 as if pursued by forty demons. Joey finally came down 
 to see what was in the lilacs. 
 
 There was nothing there. 
 
 The Pup's first trick having met with success, he 
 essayed the second. He ran crazily around in a circle, 
 then suddenly, from behind, he butted Joey in the knee 
 joints, and galloped away. 
 
 Joey sat down suddenly. Victory Number Two for 
 the Pup. Things were working out well to-day. To 
 show that it was all in fun he leaped upon the boy, and 
 together they went rolling upon the ground. Without 
 waiting to see how this demonstration of good fellowship 
 was received the Pup put forward his best performance, 
 that of trying to catch himself in a race around a small 
 circle. Dear reader, hast ever seen a long, low, rakish 
 hound dog, with flapping ears, trying to catch himself,
 
 Joey the Dreamer 315 
 
 and swearing to the limit of his vocabulary because the 
 self-pursuit fails? 
 
 Joey held out for a long time, but finally he gave in. 
 He laughed, and it was strange to hear him. Said he: 
 "You're a pippin: you're a pippin!" And "Pippin" 
 has been the Pup's name to this day. 
 
 The dog stopped in his wild careening at the sound of 
 laughter. He stood still and cocked his ears and looked. 
 Yes; yes, the strange boy was laughing, like other boys. 
 His face was open, and his eyes were shining, like other 
 boys' when they were glad. He had the brother look. 
 Yes; yes, it had come at last. The dog walked straight 
 to Joey, thrust up his face, and looked in the boy's eyes; 
 and Joey's little hand went up on the Pup's head and 
 timidly patted it, and he said: "Pippin, Pippin," and 
 the barriers began to fade away. 
 
 Pippin now so christened promptly proceeded 
 to go mad with delight. He chased himself around a 
 circle, he leaped into the air, bounding up and down as 
 if clearing obstacles; he rolled frantically in the grass; 
 he stood on one ear; and all the time he chanted in dog- 
 talk the pean of the winning of a new friend. Joey 
 reached forth and grabbed timidly at one of the wildly 
 waving legs. Words fail in the attempt to picture 
 Pippin's delight at this. 
 
 "Brr ow- wow- wow!" he roared. 
 
 Joey threw a twig at him. 
 
 "Yowp, yowp!" Pippin, pretending to be mortally 
 frightened, dashed away in a wild race. Back he came, 
 still racing, tore past Joey, just out of reach, tore past him
 
 316 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 again, then trotted away, still just out of reach. 
 Joey scrambled to his feet and started after him. 
 Pippin concealed his glee this time and kept on trotting, 
 just out of reach until the boy lunged for him, then dash- 
 ing away and running circles that brought him so near 
 that Joey's hand brushed his tail as it swept past. It 
 was Pippin's old game, "Come and catch me," but it 
 was new to Joey, and he followed, sometimes laughing, 
 but even not yet daring to throw body and soul into the 
 fun as a real boy should. He had much to unlearn, 
 then much to learn. But he had a good teacher. 
 
 Now came Pippin's master stroke. With true pup 
 cunning he laid down his tail so that it led, little by little, 
 so gradually that Joey failed to observe, out of the yard 
 and onto the oat stubble that adjoined. Beyond the 
 stubble lay the big field of corn. The corn was high and 
 thick, like a young forest, and once in it no little boy 
 could hope to see whether he was being led. Beyond the 
 corn field ah ! there lay the consummation of this fair 
 morning's deep-laid plot. 
 
 The dog worked by circles over the short clover of the 
 stubble and subtlely led the way to the corn. Here there 
 was much joy for dog and boy. One could dodge from 
 row to row, pretend to hide behind great stalks, or other- 
 wise indulge in the "Catch me" game to the heart's 
 content. But Pippin kept working on. Through the 
 corn they went, still pursuing and pursued, until presently 
 they found themselves in the Magic Land for boys and 
 dogs, the Woods, where who knows what wonderful 
 adventures may befall!
 
 Joey the Dreamer 317 
 
 The poplars were turning a dainty yellow, the sumachs 
 were blood red, and the hardy oaks grudgingly had given 
 up the edge of their leaves to the ruddy tints that Nature 
 spreads over the land with the first hard frosts. A flock 
 of blue jays rose stridently to protest the invasion, and 
 a red squirrel with quivering tail sat in a little pine and 
 chattered his opinion of little boys and dogs. Overhead 
 flapped a string of crows: "Caw, caw, caw!" Pippin 
 stopped gambolling and looked up at Joey. 
 
 "This is the place for us," said his ears. 
 
 Ah, how generous the woods are in early autumn! 
 Pippin nosed suspiciously in a brush pile at Joey's feet, 
 and out leaped a startled rabbit, and instantly the 
 woods were filled with the trailing tongue of Pippin on a 
 warm scent. 
 
 It was a short chase, for the rabbit was thoroughly 
 frightened and scrambled for dear life to safety in a 
 nearby stone fence, but before it ended the blood was 
 leaping through Joey's veins as it never had leaped before. 
 For a moment he stood trembling with a new excitement, 
 as the dog, also trembling, took the scent and gave chase. 
 Then he followed, rushing stra'ght through the brush and 
 shouting aloud without knowing why. 
 
 The rabbit had found shelter deep in the depths of the 
 wall-like fence. Pippin, mad with the trailing instinct, 
 tore at the stones and ferociously voiced his chagrin. 
 He tried to squeeze his long body into small openings, 
 although he had tried to do it a hundred times before 
 and knew that it could not be done. He scratched at 
 the unyielding bowlders. He stood back and whined.
 
 318 Joey the Dreamer 
 
 Then he swore a little, dog-fashion, and tore at bunny's 
 lortress again. 
 
 Joey danced around, all excitement, but soon he under- 
 stood what was to be done. When the hired man came 
 over from the corn field to see what the noise was about 
 Joey had picked a hole in the small stones on top of the 
 fence and was tugging away at a bowlder which his 
 feeble strength could not budge. He was working 
 shoulder to shoulder with tippin, and he was flushed 
 and sweaty, and very much alive. 
 
 "Gee!" he cried. "A cat jumped in here and she 
 can't get out." 
 
 This afternoon the hired man came into the house on 
 tiptoes. He touched his lips with a finger and pointed 
 out to the yard. There was noise and confusion out 
 there. The bark of Pippin rang out hilariously. Then 
 Joey's voice was heard shouting at him. Then the voice 
 of the boy from up the road. Then a confusion of 
 sounds of running and tumbling boys and dog. Then 
 Joey's laughter, uncontrolled and uncontrollable. 
 
 The hired man waved his hat. 
 
 "Glory be!" he whispered loudly. "That young un's 
 learain' how to play." 
 
 THE COUNTRY LITE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, H. T.
 
 000 111 507 o