Calvary Alley

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CALVARY ALLEY

BY ALICE HEGAN RICE

1917

Author of "MRS. WIGGS OF THE CABBAGE PATCH," "LOVEY MARY," "SANDY," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER BIGGS

THIS STORY IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO THE SMALL BAND OF KENTUCKY
WRITERS WITH WHOM IT HAS BEEN MY HAPPY FORTUNE TO MAKE THE LITERARY
PILGRIMAGE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I THE FIGHT
II THE SNAWDORS AT HOME
III THE CLARKES AT HOME
IV JUVENILE COURT
V ON PROBATION
VI BUTTERNUT LANE
VII AN EVICTION
VIII AMBITION STIRS
IX BUTTONS
X THE PRINCESS COMES TO GRIEF
XI THE STATE TAKES A HAND
XII CLARKE'S
XIII EIGHT TO SIX
XIV IDLENESS
XV MARKING TIME
XVI MISS BOBINET'S
XVII BEHIND THE TWINKLING LIGHTS
XVIII THE FIRST NIGHT
XIX PREPARATIONS FOR FLIGHT
XX WILD OATS
XXI DAN
XXII IN THE SIGNAL TOWER
XXIII CALVARY CATHEDRAL
XXIV BACK AT CLARKE'S
XXV MAC
XXVI BETWEEN TWO FIRES
XXVII FATE TAKES A HAND
XXVIII THE PRICE OF ENLIGHTENMENT
XXIX IN TRAINING
XXX HER FIRST CASE
XXXI MR. DEMRY
XXXII THE NEW FOREMAN
XXXIII NANCE COMES INTO HER OWN

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"The boy is infatuated with that girl"

"Her tense muscles relaxed; she forgot to cry"

"Don't call a policeman!" she implored wildly

CALVARY ALLEY

CHAPTER I

THE FIGHT

You never would guess in visiting Cathedral Court, with its people's hall
and its public baths, its clean, paved street and general air of smug
propriety, that it harbors a notorious past. But those who knew it by its
maiden name, before it was married to respectability, recall Calvary
Alley as a region of swarming tenements, stale beer dives, and frequent
police raids. The sole remaining trace of those unregenerate days is the
print of a child's foot in the concrete walk just where it leaves the
court and turns into the cathedral yard.

All the tired feet that once plodded home from factory and foundry, all
the unsteady feet that staggered in from saloon and dance-hall, all the
fleeing feet that sought a hiding place, have long since passed away and
left no record of their passing. Only that one small footprint, with its
perfect outline, still pauses on its way out of the alley into the great
world beyond.

At the time Nance Molloy stepped into that soft concrete and thus set in
motion the series of events that was to influence her future career, she
had never been told that her inalienable rights were life, liberty, and
the pursuit of happiness. Nevertheless she had claimed them intuitively.
When at the age of one she had crawled out of the soap-box that served as
a cradle, and had eaten half a box of stove polish, she was acting in
strict accord with the Constitution.

By the time she reached the sophisticated age of eleven her ideals had
changed, but her principles remained firm. She did not stoop to beg for
her rights, but struck out for them boldly with her small bare fists. She
was a glorious survival of that primitive Kentucky type that stood side
by side with man in the early battles and fought valiantly for herself.

On the hot August day upon which she began to make history, she stood in
the gutter amid a crowd of yelling boys, her feet far apart, her hands
full of mud, waiting tensely to chastise the next sleek head that dared
show itself above the cathedral fence. She wore a boy's shirt and a
ragged brown skirt that flapped about her sturdy bare legs. Her matted
hair was bound in two disheveled braids around her head and secured with
a piece of shoe-string. Her dirty round face was lighted up by a pair of
dancing blue eyes, in which just now blazed the unholy light of conflict.

The feud between the Calvary Micks and the choir boys was an ancient
one, carried on from one generation to another and gaining prestige with
age. It was apt to break out on Saturday afternoons, after rehearsal,
when the choirmaster had taken his departure. Frequently the disturbance
amounted to no more than taunts and jeers on one side and threats and
recriminations on the other, but the atmosphere that it created was of
that electrical nature that might at any moment develop a storm.

Nance Molloy, at the beginning of the present controversy, had been
actively engaged in civil warfare in which the feminine element of the
alley was pursuing a defensive policy against the marauding masculine.
But at the first indication of an outside enemy, the herd instinct
manifested itself, and she allied herself with prompt and passionate
loyalty to the cause of the Calvary Micks.

The present argument was raging over the possession of a spade that had
been left in the alley by the workmen who were laying a concrete pavement
into the cathedral yard.

"Aw, leave 'em have it!" urged a philosophical alleyite from the top of a
barrel. "Them ole avenoo kids ain't nothin'!--We could lick daylight
outen 'em if we wanted to."

"Ye-e-e-s you could!" came in a chorus of jeers from the fence top, and a
brown-eyed youth in a white-frilled shirt, with a blue Windsor tie
knotted under his sailor collar, added imperiously, "You get too fresh
down there, and I'll call the janitor!"

This gross breach of military etiquette evoked a retort from Nance that
was too inelegant to chronicle.

"Tomboy! tomboy!" jeered the brown-eyed youth from above. "Why don't you
borrow some girls' clothes?"

"All right, Sissy," said Nance, "lend me yours."

The Micks shrieked their approval, while Nance rolled a mud ball and,
with the deadly aim of a sharpshooter, let it fly straight at the
white-frilled bosom of her tormentor.

"Soak it to her, Mac," yelled the boy next to him, "the kid's got no
business butting in! Make her get out of the way!"

"Go on and make me!" implored Nance.

"I will if you don't stand back," threatened the boy called Mac.

Nance promptly stepped up to the alley gate and wiggled her fingers in a
way peculiarly provocative to a juvenile enemy.

"Poor white trash!" he jeered. "You stay where you belong! Don't you step
on our concrete!"

"Will if I want to. It's my foot. I'll put it where I like."

"Bet you don't. You're afraid to."

"I ain't either."

"Well, _do_ it then. I dare you! Anybody that would take a--"

In a second Nance had thrust her leg as far as possible between the
boards that warned the public to keep out, and had planted a small alien
foot firmly in the center of the soft cement.

This audacious act was the signal for instant battle. With yells of
indignation the choir boys hurled themselves from the fence, and
descended upon their foes. Mud gave place to rocks, sticks clashed, the
air resounded with war cries. Ash barrels were overturned, straying cats
made flying leaps for safety, heads appeared at doorways and windows, and
frantic mothers made futile efforts to quell the riot.

Thus began the greatest fight ever enjoyed in Calvary Alley. It went down
in neighborhood annals as the decisive clash between the classes, in
which the despised swells "was learnt to know their places onct an' fer
all!" For ten minutes it raged with unabated fury, then when the tide of
battle began to set unmistakably in favor of the alley, parental
authority waned and threats changed to cheers. Old and young united in
the conviction that the Monroe Doctrine must be maintained at any cost!

In and out of the subsiding pandemonium darted Nance Molloy, covered with
mud from the shoestring on her hair to the rag about her toe, giving and
taking blows with the best, and emitting yells of frenzied victory over
every vanquished foe. Suddenly her transports were checked by a
disturbing sight. At the end of the alley, locked in mortal combat, she
beheld her arch-enemy, he of the brown eyes and the frilled shirt, whom
the boys called Mac, sitting astride the hitherto invincible Dan Lewis,
the former philosopher of the ash barrel and one of the acknowledged
leaders of the Calvary Micks.

It was a moment of intense chagrin for Nance, untempered by the fact that
Dan's adversary was much the bigger boy. Up to this time, the whole
affair had been a glorious game, but at the sight of the valiant Dan
lying helpless on his back, his mouth bloody from the blows of the boy
above him, the comedy changed suddenly to tragedy. With a swift charge
from the rear, she flung herself upon the victor, clapping her mud-daubed
hands about his eyes and dragging him backward with a force that sent
them both rolling in the gutter.

Blind with fury, the boy scrambled to his feet, and, seizing a rock,
hurled it with all his strength after the retreating Dan. The missile
flew wide of its mark and, whizzing high over the fence, crashed through
the great rose window that was the special pride of Calvary Cathedral.

The din of breaking glass, the simultaneous appearance of a cross-eyed
policeman, and of Mason, the outraged janitor, together with the
horrified realization of what had happened, brought the frenzied
combatants to their senses. Amid a clamor of accusations and denials, the
policeman seized upon two culprits and indicated a third.

"You let me go!" shrieked Mac. "My father'll make it all right! Tell him
who I am, Mason! Make him let me go!"

But Mason was bent upon bringing all the criminals to justice.

"I'm going to have you all up before the juvenile court, rich and poor!"
he declared excitedly. "You been deviling the life out of me long enough!
If the vestry had 'a' listened at me and had you up before now, that
window wouldn't be smashed. I told the bishop something was going to
happen, and he says, 'The next time there's trouble, you find the leaders
and swear out a warrant. Don't wait to ask anybody!'"

By this time every window in the tenement at the blind end of the alley
had been converted into a proscenium box, and suggestions, advice, and
incriminating evidence were being freely volunteered.

"Who started this here racket, anyhow?" asked the policeman, in the bored
tone of one who is rehearsing an oft-repeated scene.

"I did," declared Nance Molloy, with something of the feminine
gratification Helen of Troy must have felt when she "launched a thousand
ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium."

"You Nance!" screamed a woman from a third-story window. "You know you
never done no such a thing! I was settin' here an' seen ever'thing that
happened; it was them there boys."

"So it was you, Dan Lewis, was it?" said the policeman, recognizing one
of his panting victims, the one whose ragged shirt had been torn
completely off, leaving his heaving chest and brown shoulders bare. "An'
it ain't surprised, I am. Who is this other little dude?"

"None of your business!" cried Mac furiously, trying to wrench himself
free. "I tell you my father will pay for the darned old window."

"Aisy there," said the policeman. "Does anybody know him?"

"It's Mr. Clarke's son, up at the bottle works," said Mason.

"You let me go," shrieked the now half-frantic boy. "My father 'll make
you pay for this. You see if he don't!"

"None o' your guff," said the policeman. "I ain't wantin' to keep you now
I got your name. Onny more out o' the boonch, Mr. Mason?"

Mason swept a gleaning eye over the group, and as he did so he spied the
footprint, in the concrete.

"Who did that?" he demanded in a fresh burst of wrath.

Those choir boys who had not fled the scene gave prompt and incriminating
testimony.

"No! she never!" shouted the woman from the third floor, now suspended
half-way out of the window. "Nance Molloy was up here a-washin' dishes
with me. Don't you listen at them pasty-faced cowards a-puttin' it off on
a innercent little girl!"

But the innocent little girl had no idea of seeking refuge in her sex.
Hers had been a glorious and determining part in the day's battle, and
the distinction of having her name taken down with those of the great
leaders was one not to be foregone.

"I did do it," she declared excitedly. "That there boy dared me to. Ketch
me takin' a dare offen a avenoo kid!"

"What's your name, Sis?" asked the policeman.

"Nance Molloy."

"Where do you live?"

"Up there at Snawdor's. That there was Mis' Snawdor a-yellin' at me."

"Is she yer mother?"

"Nope. She's me step."

"And yer father?"

"He's me step too. I'm a two-step," she added with an impudent toss of
the head to show her contempt for the servant of the law, a blue-coated,
brass-buttoned interloper who swooped down on you from around corners,
and reported you at all times and seasons.

By this time Mrs. Snawdor had gotten herself down the two flights of
stairs, and was emerging from the door of the tenement, taking down her
curl papers as she came. She was a plump, perspiring person who might
have boasted good looks had it not been for two eye-teeth that completely
dominated her facial landscape.

"You surely ain't fixin' to report her?" she asked ingratiatingly
of Mason. "A little 'leven-year-ole orphin that never done no harm
to nobody?"

"It's no use arguing," interrupted Mason firmly. "I'm going to file out a
warrant against them three children if it's the last act of my mortal
life. There ain't a boy in the alley that gives me any more trouble than
that there little girl, a-throwin' mud over the fence and climbing round
the coping and sneaking into the cathedral to look under the pews for
nickels, if I so much as turn my back!"

"He wants the nickels hisself!" cried Nance shrilly, pushing her nose
flat and pursing her lips in such a clever imitation of the irate janitor
that the alley shrieked with joy.

"You limb o' Satan!" cried Mrs. Snawdor, making a futile pass at her.
"It's a God's mericle you ain't been took up before this! And it's me as
'll have the brunt to bear, a-stoppin' my work to go to court, a-lying to
yer good character, an' a-payin' the fine. It's a pity able-bodied men
like policemens an' janitors can't be tendin' their own business 'stid
of comin' interferin' with the family of a hard-workin' woman like me. If
there's any justice in this world it ain't never flowed in my
direction!"

And Mrs. Snawdor, half dragging, half pushing Nance, disappeared into the
dark entrance of the tenement, breathing maledictions first against her
charge, then against the tyranny of the law.

CHAPTER II

THE SNAWDORS AT HOME

If ever a place had a down-at-heel, out-of-elbow sort of look, it was
Calvary Alley. At its open end and two feet above it the city went
rushing and roaring past like a great river, quite oblivious of this
unhealthy bit of backwater into which some of its flotsam and jetsam had
been caught and held, generating crime and disease and sending them out
again into the main current.

For despite the fact that the alley rested under the very wing of the
great cathedral from which it took its name, despite the fact that it
echoed daily to the chimes in the belfry and at times could even hear the
murmured prayers of the congregation, it concerned itself not in the
least with matters of the spirit. Heaven was too remote and mysterious,
Hell too present and prosaic, to be of the least interest. And the
cathedral itself, holding out welcoming arms to all the noble avenues
that stretched in leafy luxury to the south, forgot entirely to glance
over its shoulder at the sordid little neighbor that lay under the very
shadow of its cross.

At the blind end of the alley, wedged in between two towering
warehouses, was Number One, a ramshackle tenement which in some forgotten
day had been a fine old colonial residence. The city had long since
hemmed it in completely, and all that remained of its former grandeur
were a flight of broad steps that once boasted a portico and the
imposing, fan-shaped arch above the doorway.

In the third floor of Number One, on the side next the cathedral, dwelt
the Snawdor family, a social unit of somewhat complex character. The
complication came about by the paterfamilias having missed his calling.
Mr. Snawdor was by instinct and inclination a bachelor. He had early in
life found a modest rut in which he planned to run undisturbed into
eternity, but he had been discovered by a widow, who was possessed of an
initiative which, to a man of Snawdor's retiring nature, was destiny.

At the time she met him she had already led two reluctant captives to the
hymeneal altar, and was wont to boast, when twitted about the fact, that
"the Lord only knew what she might 'a' done if it hadn't been fer them
eye-teeth!" Her first husband had been Bud Molloy, a genial young
Irishman who good-naturedly allowed himself to be married out of
gratitude for her care of his motherless little Nance. Bud had not lived
to repent the act; in less than a month he heroically went over an
embankment with his engine, in one of those fortunate accidents in which
"only the engineer is killed."

The bereft widow lost no time in seeking consolation. Naturally the first
person to present himself on terms of sympathetic intimacy was the
undertaker who officiated at poor Bud's funeral. At the end of six months
she married him, and was just beginning to enjoy the prestige which his
profession gave her, when Mr. Yager also passed away, becoming, as it
were, his own customer. Her legacy from him consisted of a complete
embalming outfit and a feeble little Yager who inherited her father's
tendency to spells.

Thus encumbered with two small girls, a less sanguine person would have
retired from the matrimonial market. But Mrs. Yager was not easily
discouraged; she was of a marrying nature, and evidently resolved that
neither man nor Providence should stand in her way. Again casting a
speculative eye over the field, she discerned a new shop in the alley,
the sign of which announced that the owner dealt in "Bungs and Fawcetts."
On the evening of the same day the chronic ailment from which the kitchen
sink had suffered for two years was declared to be acute, and Mr. Snawdor
was called in for consultation.

He was a timid, dejected person with a small pointed chin that trembled
when he spoke. Despite the easy conventions of the alley, he kept his
clothes neatly brushed and his shoes polished, and wore a collar on week
days. These signs of prosperity were his undoing. Before he had time to
realize what was happening to him, he had been skilfully jolted out of
his rut by the widow's experienced hand, and bumped over a hurried
courtship into a sudden marriage. He returned to consciousness to find
himself possessed of a wife and two stepchildren and moved from his small
neat room over his shop to the indescribable disorder of Number One.

The subsequent years had brought many little Snawdors in their wake, and
Mr. Snawdor, being thus held up by the highwayman Life, ignominiously
surrendered. He did not like being married; he did not enjoy being a
father; his one melancholy satisfaction lay in being a martyr.

Mrs. Snawdor, who despite her preference for the married state derived
little joy from domestic duties, was quite content to sally forth as a
wage-earner. By night she scrubbed office buildings and by day she slept
and between times she sought diversion in the affairs of her neighbors.

Thus it was that the household burdens fell largely upon Nance Molloy's
small shoulders, and if she wiped the dishes without washing them, and
"shook up the beds" without airing them, and fed the babies dill pickles,
it was no more than older housekeepers were doing all around her.

Late in the afternoon of the day of the fight, when the sun, despairing
of making things any hotter than they were, dropped behind the warehouse,
Nance, carrying a box of crackers, a chunk of cheese, and a bucket of
beer, dodged in and out among the push-carts and the barrels of the alley
on her way home from Slap Jack's saloon. There was a strong temptation on
her part to linger, for a hurdy-gurdy up at the corner was playing a
favorite tune, and echoes of the fight were still heard from animated
groups in various doorways. But Nance's ears still tingled from a recent
boxing, and she resolutely kept on her way until she reached the worn
steps of Number One and scurried through its open doorway.

The nice distinction between a flat and a tenement is that the front
door of one is always kept closed, and the other open. In this
particular instance the matter admitted of no discussion, for there was
no front door. The one that originally hung under the fan-shaped
Colonial arch had long since been kicked in during some nocturnal raid,
and had never been replaced.

When the gas neglected to get itself lighted before dark at Number One,
you had to feel your way along the hall in complete darkness, until your
foot struck something; then you knew you had reached the stairs and you
began to climb. It was just as well to feel along the damp wall as you
went, for somebody was always leaving things on the steps for people to
stumble over.

Nance groped her way cautiously, resting her bucket every few steps and
taking a lively interest in the sounds and smells that came from behind
the various closed doors she passed. She knew from the angry voices on
the first floor that Mr. Smelts had come home "as usual"; she knew who
was having sauerkraut for supper, and whose bread was burning.

The odor of cooking food reminded her of something. The hall was dark and
the beer can full, so she sat down at the top of the first flight and,
putting her lips to the foaming bucket was about to drink, when the door
behind her opened and a keen-faced young Jew peered out.

"Say, Nance," he whispered curiously, "have they swore out the warrant
on you yet?"

Nance put down the bucket and looked up at him with a fine air of
unconcern.

"Don't know and don't keer!" she said. "Where was you hidin' at, when the
fight was goin' on?"

"Getting my lessons. Did the cop pinch the Clarke guy?"

"You betcher," said Nance. "You orter seen the way he took on! Begged to
beat the band. Me and Danny never. Me and him--"

A volley of curses came from the hall below, the sound of a blow,
followed by a woman's faint scream of protest, then a door slammed.

"If I was Mis' Smelts," said Nance darkly, with a look that was too old
for ten years, "I wouldn't stand for that. I wouldn't let no man hit me.
I'd get him sent up. I--"

"You walk yourself up them steps, Nance Molloy!" commanded Mrs. Snawdor's
rasping voice from the floor above. "I ain't got no time to be waitin'
while you gas with Ike Lavinsky."

Nance, thus admonished, obeyed orders, arriving on the domestic hearth in
time to prevent the soup from boiling over. Mr. Snawdor, wearing a long
apron and an expression of tragic doom, was trying to set the table,
while over and above and beneath him surged his turbulent offspring. In a
broken rocking-chair, fanning herself with a box-top, sat Mrs. Snawdor,
indulging herself in a continuous stream of conversation and apparently
undisturbed by the uproar around her. Mrs. Snawdor was not sensitive to
discord. As a necessary adjustment to their environment, her nerves had
become soundproof.

"You certainly missed it by not being here!" she was saying to Mr.
Snawdor. "It was one of the liveliest mix-ups ever I seen! One of them
rich boys bust the cathedral window. Some say it'll cost over a thousan'
dollars to git it fixed. An' I pray to God his paw'll have to pay every
cent of it!"

"Can't you make William J. and Rosy stop that racket?" queried Mr.
Snawdor, plaintively. The twins had been named at a time when Mrs.
Snawdor's loyalty was wavering between the President and another
distinguished statesman with whom she associated the promising phrase,
"free silver." The arrival of two babies made a choice unnecessary, and,
notwithstanding the fact that one of them was a girl, she named them
William J. and Roosevelt, reluctantly abbreviating the latter to "Rosy."

"They ain't hurtin' nothin'," she said, impatient of the interruption to
her story. "I wisht you might 'a' seen that ole fool Mason a-lordin' it
aroun', an' that little devil Nance a-takin' him off to the life.
Everybody nearly died a-laughin' at her. But he says he's goin' to have
her up in court, an' I ain't got a blessed thing to wear 'cept that ole
hat of yours I trimmed up. Looks like a shame fer a woman never to be
fixed to go nowhere!"

Mr. Snawdor, who had been trying ineffectually to get in a word, took
this remark personally and in muttering tones called Heaven to witness
that it was none of his fault that she didn't have the right clothes, and
that it was a pretty kind of a world that would keep a man from gettin'
on just because he was honest, and--

"Oh, shut up!" said Mrs. Snawdor, unfeelingly; "it ain't yer lack of
work that gits on my nerves; it's yer bein' 'round. I'd pay anybody a
quarter a week to keep yer busy!"

Nance, during this exchange of conjugal infelicities, assisted by Lobelia
and Fidy, was rescuing sufficient dishes from the kitchen sink to serve
for the evening meal. She, too, was finding it difficult to bring her
attention to bear on domestic matters after the exciting events of the
afternoon.

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