The Best Short Stories of 1915

V >> Various >> The Best Short Stories of 1915

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She burrowed under her pillow to ease the trembling that seized her.
The moon had passed on, and darkness, which is allied to fear, closed
her in--the fear of unthinking youth who knows not that the grave is
full of peace; the fear of abundant life for senile death; the cold
agony that comes in the night watches, when the business of the day is
but a dream and Reality visits the couch.

Deeper burrowed Sara Juke, trembling with chill and night sweat.

Drowsily Hattie Krakow turned on her pillow, but her senses were too
weary to follow her mind's dictate.

"Sara! 'Smatter, Sara? 'Smat-ter?" Hattie's tired hand crept toward her
friend; but her volition would not carry it across and it fell inert
across the coverlet. "'Smatter, dearie?"

"N-nothin'."

"'Smat-ter, dear-ie?"

"N-nothin'."

* * * * *

In the watches of the night a towel flung across the bedpost becomes
a gorilla crouching to spring; a tree branch tapping at the window an
armless hand, beckoning. In the watches of the night fear is a panther
across the chest sucking the breath; but his eyes cannot bear the light
of day, and by dawn he has shrunk to cat size. The ghastly dreams of
Orestes perished with the light; phosphorus is yellowish and waxlike by
day.

So Sara Juke found new courage with the day, and in the subbasement of
the Titanic store the morning following her laughter was ready enough.
But when the midday hour arrived she slipped into her jacket, past the
importunities of Hattie Krakow, and out into the sun-lashed noonday
swarm of Sixth Avenue.

Down one block--two, three; then a sudden pause before a narrow store
front liberally placarded with invitatory signs to the public, and with
a red cross blazoning above the doorway. And Sara Juke, whose heart was
full of fear, faltered, entered.

The same thin file passed round the room, halting, sauntering, like grim
visitors in a grim gallery. At a front desk a sleek young interne,
tiptilted in a swivel chair, read a pink sheet through horn-rimmed
glasses.

Toward the rear the young man whose skin was the wind-lashed pink sorted
pamphlets and circulars in tall, even piles on his desk.

Round and round the gallery walked Sara Juke; twice she read over the
list of symptoms printed in inch-high type; her heart lay within her as
though icy dead, and her eyes would blur over with tears. Once, when she
passed the rear desk, the young man paused in his stacking and regarded
her with a warming glance of recognition.

"Hello!" he said. "You back?"

"Yes." Her voice was the thin cry of a quail.

"You must like our little picture gallery, eh?"

"Oh! Oh!" She caught at the edge of his desk and tears lay heavy in her
eyes.

"Eh?"

"Yes; I--I like it. I wanna buy it for my yacht."

Her ghastly simulacrum of a jest died in her throat; and he said
quickly, a big blush suffusing his face:

"I was only fooling, missy. You ain't got the scare, have you?"

"The scare?"

"Yes; the bug? You ain't afraid you've ate the germ, are you?"

"I--I dunno."

"Pshaw! There's a lot of 'em comes in here more scared than hurt, missy.
Never throw a scare till you've had a examination. For all you know you
got hay fever, eh! Hay fever!" And he laughed as though to salve his
words.

"I--got all them things on the red-printed list, I tell you. I--I got
'em all, night sweats and all. I--I got 'em."

"Sure you got 'em, missy; but that don't need to mean nothin' much."

"I got 'em, I tell you."

"Losin' weight?"

"Feel."

He inserted two fingers in her waistband.

"Huh!"

"You a doctor?"

He performed a great flourish.

"I ain't in the profesh, missy. I'm only chief clerk and bottle washer
round here; but--"

"Where is the doctor? That him reading down there? Can I ask him--I--Oh!
Ain't I scared!"

He placed his big, cool hand over her wrist and his face had none of its
smile.

"I know you are, little missy. I seen it in you last night when you
and--and--"

"My--my friend."

"--your friend was in here. There's thousands come in here with the
scare on, and most of 'em with a reason; but I picked you out last
night from the gang. Funny thing, but right away I picked you. 'A
pretty little thing like her'--if you'll excuse me for saying it--'a
pretty little thing like her,' I says to myself. 'And I bet she ain't
got nobody to steer her!'"

"Honest, did you?"

"Gee, it ain't none of my put-in; but when I seen you last night--funny
thing--but when I seen you, why, you just kinda hit me in the eye; and,
with all that gang round me, I says to myself: 'Gee, a pretty little
thing like her, scared as a gazelle, and so pretty and all; and no one
to give her the right steer!'"

"Aw, you seen me?"

"Sure! Wasn't it me reached out the pamphlet to you? You had on that
there same cutey little hat and jacket and all."

"Does it cost anything to talk to the doctor down there?"

"Forget it! Go right down and he'll give you a card to the Victoria
Clinic. I know them all over there and they'll look you over right,
little missy, and steer you. Aw, don't be scared; there ain't nothing
much wrong with you--maybe a sore spot, that's all. That cough ain't
a double-lunger. You run over to the clinic."

"I gotta go back to the store now."

"After store, then."

"Free?"

"Sure! Old Doc Strauss is on after five too. If I ain't too nervy I'm
off after six myself. I could meet you after and we could talk over what
he tells you--if I ain't too nervy?"

"I--"

"Blaney's my name--Eddie Blaney. Ask anybody round here about me. I--I
could meet you, little missy, and--"

"I can't to-night, Mr. Blaney. I gotta go somewheres."

"Aw!"

"I gotta."

"To-morrow? To-morrow's Sunday, little missy. There's a swell lot of
country I bet you ain't never seen, and Old Doc Strauss is going to tell
you to get acquainted with it pretty soon."

"Country?"

"Yes. That's what you need, outdoors; that's what you need, little
missy. You got a color like all indoors--pretty, but putty."

"You--you don't think there's nothing much the matter with me, do you,
Mr. Blaney?"

"Sure I don't. Why, I got a bunch of Don'ts for you up my sleeve that'll
color you up like drug-store daub."

Tears and laughter trembled in her voice.

"You mean that the outdoor stuff will do it, Mr. Blaney?"

"That's the talk!"

"But you--you ain't the doctor."

"I ain't, but I ain't been deaf and dumb and blind round here for three
years. I can pick 'em every time. You're taking your stitch in time,
little missy. You ain't even got a wheeze in you. Why, I bet you ain't
never seen red!"

"No!" she cried, with quick comprehension.

"Sure you ain't!"

More tears and laughter in her voice.

"I'm going to-night, then--at six, Mr. Blaney."

"Good! And to-morrow? There's a lot of swell country and breathing
space round here I'd like to introduce you to. I bet you don't know
whether Ingleside Woods is kindling or a breakfast food--now do you?"

"No."

"Ever had a chigger on you?"

"Huh?"

"Ever sleep outdoors in a bag?"

"Say, whatta you think I am?"

"Ever seen the sun rise, or took the time to look up and see several
dozen or a couple of thousand or so stars glittering all at once?"

"Aw, come off! We ain't doing teamwork in vaudeville."

"Gee, wouldn't I like to take you out and be the first one to make you
acquainted with a few of the things that are happening beyond Sixth
Avenue--if I ain't too nervy, little missy?"

"I gotta go somewheres at two o'clock to-morrow afternoon, Mr.--Mr.
Blaney; but I can go in the morning--if it ain't going to look like I'm
a freshie."

"In the morning! Swell! But where--who--" She scribbled on a slip of
paper and fluttered it into his hand. "Sara Juke! Some little name. Gee!
I know right where you live. I know a lot of cases that come from round
there. I used to live near there myself, round on Henry Street. I'll
call round at nine, little missy. I'm going to introduce you to the
country, eh?"

"They won't hurt at the clinic, will they, Mr. Blaney? I'm losing my
nerve again."

"Shame on a pretty little thing like you losing her nerve! Gee! I've
seen 'em come in here all pale round the gills and with nothing but
the whooping cough. There was a little girl in here last week who
thought she was ready for Arizona on a canvas bed; and it wasn't nothing
but her rubber skirt-band had stretched. Shame on you, little missy!
Don't you get scared! Wait till you see what I'm going to show you out
in the country to-morrow--leaves turning red and all. We're going to
have a heart-to-heart talk out there--eh? A regular lung-to-lung talk!"

"Aw, Mr. Blaney! Ain't you killing!"

She hurried down the room, laughing.

* * * * *

At Sharkey's on Saturday night the entire basement cafe and dance hall
assumed a hebdomadal air of expectancy; extra marble-topped tables were
crowded about the polished square of dancing space; the odor of hops and
sawdust and cookery hung in visible mists over the bar.

Girls, with white faces and red lips and bare throats, sat alone at
tables or tete-a-tete with men too old or too young, and ate; but drank
with keener appetite.

A self-playing piano performed beneath a large painting of an undraped
Psyche; a youth with yellow fingers sang of Love. A woman whose shame
was gone acquired a sudden hysteria at her lone table over her
milky-green drink, and a waiter hustled her out none too gently.

In the foyer at seven o'clock Sara Juke met Charley Chubb, and he slid
up quite frankly behind her and kissed her on the lips. At Sharkey's a
miss is as good as her kiss!

"You--you quit! You mustn't!"

She sprang back, quivering, her face cold-looking and blue; and he
regarded her with his mouth quirking.

"Huh! Hoity-toity, ain't you? Hoity-toity and white-faced and late, all
at once, ain't you? Say, them airs don't get across with me. Come on!
I'm hungry."

"I didn't mean to yell, Charley--only you scared me. I thought maybe it
was one of them fresh guys that hang round here; all of 'em look so
dopey and all. I--you know I never was strong for this place, Charley."

"Beginning to nag, are you?"

"No, no, Charley. No, no!"

They drew up at a small table.

"No fancy keeling act to-night, kiddo. I ain't taking out a hospital
ward, you know. Gad, I like you, though, when you're white-looking like
this! Why'd you dodge me at noon to-day and to-night after closing? New
guy? I won't stand for it, you know, you little white-faced Sweetness,
you!"

"I hadda go somewheres, Charley. I came near not coming to-night,
neither, Charley."

"What'll you eat?"

"I ain't hungry."

"Thirsty, eh?"

"No."

He regarded her over the rim of the smirchy bill of fare.

"What are you, then, you little white-faced, big-eyed devil?"

"Charley, I--I got something to--to tell you. I--"

"Bring me a lamb stew and a beer, light. What'll you have, little
white-face?"

"Some milk and--"

"She means with suds on, waiter."

"No--no; milk, I said--milk over toast. Milk toast--I gotta eat it. Why
don't you lemme talk, Charley? I gotta tell you."

He was suddenly sober.

"What's hurting you? One milk toast, waiter; tell them in the kitchen
the lady's teeth hurt her. What's up, Sweetness?" And he must lean
across the table and imprint a fresh kiss on her lips.

"Don't--don't--don't! For Gawd's sake, don't!" She covered her face with
her hands; and such a trembling seized her that they fell pitifully away
again and showed her features, each distorted, "You mustn't, Charley!
Mustn't do that again, not--not for three months--you--you mustn't."

He leaned across the table; his voice was like sleet--cold, thin,
cutting:

"What's the matter--going to quit?"

"No--no--no!"

"Got another guy you like better?"

"Oh! Oh!"

"A queenie can't quit me first and get away with it, kiddo. I may be a
soft-fingered sort of fellow, but a queenie can't quit me first and get
away with it. Ask 'em about me round here; they know me. If anybody in
this little duet is going to do the quitting act first it ain't going
to be you. What's the matter? Out with it!"

"Charley, it ain't that--I swear it ain't that!"

"What's hurting you, then?"

"I gotta tell you. We gotta go easy for a little while. We gotta quit
doing the rounds for a while till--only for a little while. Three months
he said would fix me. A grand old doc he was!

"I been to the clinic, Charley. I hadda go. The cough--the cough was
cuttin' me in two. It ain't like me to go keeling like I did. I never
said much about it; but, nights and all, the sweats and the cough and
the shooting pains was cutting me in two. We gotta go easy for a while,
Charley; just--"

"You sick, Sara?" His fatty-white face lost a shade of its animation.
"Sick?"

"But it ain't, Charley. On his word he promised it ain't! A grand old
doc, with whiskers--he promised me that. I--I am just beginning; but
the stitch was in time. It ain't a real case yet, Charley. I swear, on
my mother's curl of hair, it ain't."

"Ain't what? Ain't what?"

"It ain't! Air, he said, right living--early hours and all. I gotta get
out of the basement. He'll get me a job. A grand old man! Windows open;
right living. No--no dancing and all, for a while, Charley. Three months
only, Charley; and then--"

"What, I say--"

"It ain't, Charley! I swear it ain't. Just one--the left one--a little
sore down at the base--the bottom. Charley, quit looking at me like
that! It ain't a real case--it ain't; it ain't!"

"It ain't what?"

"The--the T.B. Just the left one; down at--"

"You--you--" An oath as hot as a live coal dropped from his lips and he
drew back, strangling. "You--you got it, and you're letting me down
easy. You got it, and it's catching as hell! You got it, you white
devil, and--and you're tryin' to lie out of it--you--you--"

"Charley! Charley!"

"You got it, and you been letting me eat it off your lips! You devil,
you! You devil, you! You devil, you!"

"Charley, I--"

"I could kill you! Lemme wash my mouth! You got it; and if you got it I
got it! I got it! I got it! I--I--"

He rushed from the table, strangling, stuttering, staggering; and his
face was twisted with fear.

For an hour she sat there, waiting, her hands folded in her lap and her
eyes growing larger in her face. The dish of stew took on a thin coating
of grease and the beer died in the glass. The waiter snickered. After a
while she paid for the meal out of her newly opened wage envelope and
walked out into the air.

Once on the street, she moaned audibly into her handkerchief. There is
relief in articulation. Her way lay through dark streets, where figures
love to slink in the shadows. One threw a taunt at her and she ran. At
the stoop of her rooming house she faltered, half fainting and breathing
deep from exhaustion, her head thrown back and her eyes gazing upward.

Over the narrow street stars glittered, dozens and myriads of them.

* * * * *

Literature has little enough to say of the heartaches and the heartburns
of the Sara Jukes and the Hattie Krakows and the Eddie Blaneys. Medical
science concedes them a hollow organ for keeping up the circulation. Yet
Mrs. Van Ness' heartbreak over the death of her Chinese terrier, Wang,
claims a first-page column in the morning edition; her heartburn--a
complication of midnight terrapin and the strain of her most recent role
of corespondent--obtains her a suite de luxe in a private sanitarium.

Vivisectionists believe the dog is less sensitive to pain than man;
so the social vivisectionists, in problem plays and best sellers, are
more concerned with the heartaches and heartburns of the classes. But
analysis would show that the sediment of salt in Sara Juke's and Mrs.
Van Ness' tears is equal.

Indeed, when Sara Juke stepped out of the street car on a golden Sunday
morning in October, her heart beat higher and more full of emotion than
Mrs. Van Ness could find at that breakfast hour, reclining on her fine
linen pillows, an electric massage and a four-dollar-an-hour masseuse
forcing her sluggish blood to flow.

Eddie Blaney gently helped Sara to alight, cupping the point of her
elbow in his hand; and they stood huddled for a moment by the roadway
while the car whizzed past, leaving them in the yellow and ocher,
saffron and crimson countryside.

"Gee! Gee-whiz!"

"See! I told you. And you not wanting to come when I called for you this
morning--you trying to dodge me and the swellest Indian summer Sunday on
the calendar!"

"Looka!"

"Wait! We ain't started yet, if you think this is swell."

"Oh! Let's go over in them woods. Let's." Her lips were apart and pink
crept into her cheeks, effacing the dark rims of pain beneath her eyes.
"Let's hurry."

"Sure; that's where we're going--right over in there, where the woods
look like they're on fire; but, gee, this ain't nothing to the country
places I know round here. This ain't nothing. Wait!"

The ardor of the inspired guide was his, and with each exclamation from
her the joy of his task doubled itself.

"If you think this is great, wait--just you wait. Gee, if you like this,
what would you have said to the farm? Wait till we get to the top of the
hill."

Fallen leaves, crisp as paper, crackled pleasantly under their feet; and
through the haze that is October's veil glowed a reddish sun, vague as
an opal. A footpath crawled like a serpent through the woods and they
followed it, kicking up the leaves before them, pausing, darting,
exclaiming.

"I--Honest, Mr. Blaney, I--"

"Eddie!"

"Eddie, I--I never did feel so--I never was so--so--Aw, I can't say it."
Tears sprang to her eyes.

"Sure, you never was. I never was, neither, before--before--"

"Before what?"

"Before I had to."

"Had to?"

"Yeh; both of them. Bleedin' all the time. Didn't see nothing but red
for 'leven months."

"You!"

"Yeh; three years ago. Looked like Arizona on a stretcher for me."

"You--so big and strong and all!"

He smiled at her and his teeth flashed.

"Gad, little girl, if you got a right to be scared, whatta you think I
had? I seen your card over at the clinic last night, and you ain't got
no right to have that down-and-out look on you had this morning. If you
think you got something to be scared at you looka my old card at the
clinic some day; they keep it for show. You oughtta seen me the day I
quit the shipping room, right over at the Titanic, too, and then see
whether you got something to be scared at."

"You--you used to work there?"

"Six years."

"I--I ain't scared no more, Eddie; honest, I ain't!"

"Gee, I should say not! They ain't even sending you up to the farm."

"No, no! They're going to get me a job. A regular outdoor, on-the-level
kind of a job. A grand old doc, with whiskers! I ain't a regular one,
Eddie; just the bottom of one lung don't make a regular one."

"Well, I guess not, poor little missy. Well, I guess not."

"Three months he said, Eddie. Three months of right livin' like this,
and air and all, and I'll be as round as a peach, he said. Said it
hisself, without me asking--that's how scared I was. Round as a peach!"

"You can't beat that gang over there at the clinic, little missy. They
took me out of the department when all the spring water I knew about ran
out of a keg. Even when they got me out on the farm--a grown-up guy like
me--for a week I thought the crow in the rooster was a sidewalk faker.
You can't beat that, little missy."

"He's a grand old man, with whiskers, that's going to get me the job.
Then in three months I--"

"Three months nothing! That gang won't let you slip back after the three
months. They took a extra shine to me because I did the prize-pupil
stunt; but they won't let anybody slip back if they give 'em half
a chance. When they got me sound again, did they ship me back to the
shipping department in the sub-basement? Not muchy! Looka me now, little
missy! Clerk in their biggest display; in three months a raise to ninety
dollars. Can you beat it? Ninety dollars would send all the shipping
clerks of the world off in a faint."

"Gee, it--it's swell!"

"And--"

"Look! Look!"

"Persimmons!" A golden mound of them lay at the base of a tree, piled up
against the hole, bursting, brown. "Persimmons! Here; taste one, little
missy. They're fine."

"Eat 'em?"

"Sure!"

She bit into one gently; then with appetite.

"M-m-m! Good!"

"Want another?"

"M-m-m--my mouth! Ouch! My m--mouth!"

"Gee, you cute little thing, you! See, my mouth's the same way too.
Feels like a knot. Gee, you cute little thing, you--all puckered up and
all."

And he must link her arm in his and crunch-crunch over the brittle
leaves and up a hillside to a plateau of rock overlooking the flaming
country; and from the valley below, smoke from burning mounds of leaves
wound in spirals, its pungency drifting to them.

"See that tree there? It's a oak. Look; from a little acorn like this it
grew. See, this is a acorn, and in the start that tree wasn't no bigger
than this little thing."

"Quit your kiddin'!" But she smiled and her lips were parted sweetly;
and always unformed tears would gloze her eyes.

"Here, sit here, little lady. Wait till I spread this newspaper out.
Gee! Don't I wish you didn't have to go back to the city by two o'clock,
little lady! We could make a great day of it here, out in the country;
lunch at a farm and see the sun set and all. Some day of it we could
make if--"

"I--I don't have to go back, Eddie."

His face expanded into his widest smile.

"Gee, that's great! That's just great!"

Silence.

"What you thinking of, little lady, sitting there so pretty and all?"

"N-nothing."

"Nothing? Aw, surely something!"

A tear formed and zigzagged down her cheek.

"Nothing, honest; only I--I feel right happy."

"That's just how you oughtta feel, little lady."

"In three months, if--aw, ain't I the nut?"

"It'll be a big Christmas, won't it, little missy, for both of us? A big
Christmas for both of us; you as sound and round as a peach again, and
me shooting up like a skyrocket on the pay roll."

A laugh bubbled to her lips before the tear was dry.

"In three months I won't be a T.B., not even a little bit."

"Sh-h-h! On the farm we wasn't allowed to say even that. We wasn't
supposed to even know what them letters mean."

"Don't you know what they mean, Eddie?"

"Sure I do!" He leaned toward her and placed his hand lightly over hers.
"T.B.--True Blue--that's what they mean, little lady."

She could feel the veins in his palm throbbing.

MR. EBERDEEN'S HOUSE[9]

By ARTHUR JOHNSON

From _The Century_

[9] Copyright, 1915, by The Century Company. Copyright, 1916, by Arthur
Johnson.

It loomed there, high and large, uncompromised by the gloom of mist
about it, unruffled by the easterly gusts that bent the two rows of
larches which stretched in deliberate diagonal lines from the street
to the corners of its grim facade. Hastings could hear the beating of
the sea; it was probably in that chaos of space behind the house. As
he stood leaning against one of the tall gate-posts and surveying the
scene, he began to feel, almost in spite of himself, in sympathy with
it.

A motor drew up near where he stood. Instinctively his attention was
directed from it to the green Georgian portal, which at the moment was
drawn in to permit somebody to pass out. She was in glaring contrast to
her setting; she was fresh and lovely, young and fashionable-looking.
She paused on the wide stone step, glanced up at the sky, opened her
umbrella, and briskly proceeded down the avenue to the gate. Within a
few yards of it she raised her eyes from the puddled gravel and started
back at sight of him.

"Jack!" she cried out. "How did you get here? Why didn't you tell me? I
am this minute on my way to meet you."

"I'm admiring your summer home, Julia--Julia dear," he said to her,
a little constrained. "It's sad and desolate, and everything that I
suppose you want it to be. I expected to hate it. I thought that having
spent most of my life away from all this, I should have lost every scrap
of--tolerance for New England. But ever since I set foot in Rockface--"

"When _did_ you, Jack?" she demanded.

"An hour ago. I've been in the strangest mood ever since."

"Come, now, and tell me about it," she suddenly saw the need to say,
walking away from him to dismiss the grinning chauffeur.

Hastings lingered alone in the hall.

"It's much nicer by the fire," Julia called to him impatiently from
the next room. And he followed the sound of her voice; he moved slowly
over to a chair, opposite her own, and sat down, forgetting to talk.
"I vow I'm amused," she exclaimed, "at the way you take it. You've made
letters full of fun of me for settling my parents 'on that ugly little
Massachusetts point'; you've laid it all down to my 'Middle-Western love
of Puritan relics' and 'Eastern culturine,' and scorned my 'romantic
inexperience'; and here you come, redolent of Europe, to be as much
impressed by our choice as if you were a Montana school-girl!" He smiled
back, but it was obvious that he hadn't heard a word. "What's the matter
with you, Jacky?" she asked interestedly; "had a bad journey?"

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