K

CHAPTER I


The Street stretched away north and south in two lines of ancient
houses that seemed to meet in the distance. The man found it infinitely
inviting. It had the well-worn look of an old coat, shabby but
comfortable. The thought of coming there to live pleased him. Surely
here would be peace--long evenings in which to read, quiet nights in
which to sleep and forget. It was an impression of home, really, that
it gave. The man did not know that, or care particularly. He had been
wandering about a long time--not in years, for he was less than thirty.
But it seemed a very long time.

At the little house no one had seemed to think about references. He
could have given one or two, of a sort. He had gone to considerable
trouble to get them; and now, not to have them asked for--

There was a house across and a little way down the Street, with a card
in the window that said: "Meals, twenty-five cents." Evidently the
midday meal was over; men who looked like clerks and small shopkeepers
were hurrying away. The Nottingham curtains were pinned back, and just
inside the window a throaty barytone was singing:

"Home is the hunter, home from the hill:
And the sailor, home from sea."

Across the Street, the man smiled grimly--Home!

For perhaps an hour Joe Drummond had been wandering up and down the
Street. His straw hat was set on the back of his head, for the evening
was warm; his slender shoulders, squared and resolute at eight, by nine
had taken on a disconsolate droop. Under a street lamp he consulted his
watch, but even without that he knew what the hour was. Prayer meeting
at the corner church was over; boys of his own age were ranging
themselves along the curb, waiting for the girl of the moment. When she
came, a youth would appear miraculously beside her, and the world-old
pairing off would have taken place.

The Street emptied. The boy wiped the warm band of his hat and slapped
it on his head again. She was always treating him like this--keeping him
hanging about, and then coming out, perfectly calm and certain that
he would still be waiting. By George, he'd fool her, for once: he'd go
away, and let her worry. She WOULD worry. She hated to hurt anyone. Ah!

Across the Street, under an old ailanthus tree, was the house he
watched, a small brick, with shallow wooden steps and--curious
architecture of Middle West sixties--a wooden cellar door beside the
steps.