The Americans (44 page)

long he could stay on his feet. The older officer pointed the billy at Carter's chest. "What's your name?" Should he lie? Invent something? Glowering, Phelan raised the club. "Lad, I'll ask you but once more. What's your name?" "Kent. Carter Kent." The blind man took charge then: "Well, Mr. Kent, my friend Mr. Gram told me you did a game job of coming to our assistance. That will not be forgotten. No, indeed-not forgotten for one moment." He reached for Carter's right hand and found it with only a little fumbling. He held it a moment, as if memorizing its contours. Then he shook it, as if he was working a pump handle. At last he let go. His sightless eyes had been fixed on Carter's face the whole time. Carter was too surprised to say a word. The blind man again addressed the older officer: "Mr. Kent's hand feels feverish. I want to offer him the hospitality of my saloon-was The suggestion sounded wonderful to Carter, though he knew he should be careful; far away, on the coast of Texas, another man had once offered him shelter, and a job-and he'd nearly lost his life. "coms let's conclude this business." "Yes, sir," Phelan said, so meekly he could barely be heard. Carter held his breath, fearing that at any second the reprieve would be withdrawn. But it wasn't. With a sweeping gesture of his stick, the blind man went on: "And get rid of the body. We've enough of them on the streets of this town as it is." "Be happy to take care of it, boss. But-was Phelan licked his lips; unconsciously began twisting a button on his jacket. "I do need to clear up one or two details." "Be quick about it. I told you Mr. Kent's feeling poorly. And night air tends to give me catarrh. Mrs. Buckley is always nagging me to stay indoors after dark." Nervous, the older officer asked, "Can you just give me a connse account of what happened?" Though clearly irritated, the blind man did so, starting with Carter's shout of warning: "I expect ordinary footpads would have run for it. But an outcry wasn't enough to drive Charlie off. As I told you, he bore a grudge. He also knew, as do all my associates and employees, that I always carry a sizable roll of cash. He didn't intend to leave until I was dead and the cash was in his pocket. Despite Mr. Gram's best efforts, he might have carried out his plan had it not been for this young man's intervention." "Jumped Schmidt and fought him off, did he?" The blind man chuckled. "No, Phelan. He talked him out of it." The officer's brows shot up. "What did you say, sir?" "I said Mr. Kent talked Charlie Schmidt out of his violent reprisal. He did so with the finest flow of blarney I've ever heard. Mr. Kent gave Charlie no time to think, and bombarded him with some very impressive threats about being a detective in plain clothes. A detective patrolling these streets under the authority of something called a municipal writ. Mr. Kent said this fictitious writ gave him power to summon a posse and hang Charlie on the spot. No smart fellow would have believed it for an instant. But of course when someone's smack in the middle of robbery and murder, he's heated up and not thinking clearly. To that you must add Charlie's inherent stupidity. Mr. Kent bamboozled him just long enough for us to get out of the scrape." Carter was stunned to hear the blind man speak with such obvious relish. Buckley had acted as if he were telling a humorous story, not describing a crime. -- Phelan was insistent on one point, though: "I'm afraid you still haven't told me who killed Schmidt." Carter tensed. Again Buckley waved his stick: "Oh, Mr. Gram did. By then he had recovered from blows which took him out of action temporarily." The acknowledgment of guilt obviously didn't worry the frail man. He didn't even turn around, just continued to rub and poke his head. The gray-haired policeman twisted the jacket button so hard the thread broke. He was afraid to speak, but finally did so: "Boss, you know that because of what you've just told me, I'm required to put Mr. Gram in the lock-up overnight. I don't want to do it, but the law explicitly-was "Come by the saloon in an hour or so," Buckley interrupted. "I have a supply of orders of discharge. I keep them for emergencies like this. I'll sign Judge Toohy's name and then Mr. Gram won't be inconvenienced." Phelan let out a huge sigh. "A fine solution. That way, I needn't even take him in." Forge the name of a judge to a legal document? Carter couldn't believe a man would publicly announce his plan to do such a thing. The laws of logic didn't seem to apply in San Francisco, though. Buckley's statements caused no comment among the crowd left at the scene. Several men had already departed, their curiosity satisfied. One burly fellow prodded the corpse with his boot, an then made a joke about it as he and a companion strolled back up the hill toward the Coast. Carter didn't consider himself overly scrupulous, yet he was appalled. As Buckley had suggested, death was evidently a common occurrence in the city, right along with circumvention of the law. Suddenly Phelan seized his arm. "I'll also need some information about you, Kent. Place of residence, in case we have further need to contact you-was The man's peremptory tone angered Carter: "I don't have a place of residence. I just arrived today." Phelan whipped his club up over his shoulder. "Damn you, don't speak smartly to me, or-was There was a swish and a loud clack. The blind man's cane had blocked the policeman's stick in mid-air. Buckley was furious: "Phelan, you're taking advantage of your authority and harassing a stranger. Evidently I didn't make my wishes sufficiently clear. This young man assisted Mr. Gram and me, and we're in his debt. If you need to reach him, follow the instructions I already gave you. Come to the saloon! I also suggest you permit us to go on our way at once. Unless, of course, you're bucking for a new job with some hick department down the peninsula-was The blind man's eyes seemed to fasten on Phelan's and hold there: "If that's your wish, Phelan, it can be arranged." The policeman wilted. "Boss, I'm sorry. I didn't think you-was "That's quite correct," the other broke in. "You didn't think. Which is why you're fifty and still a foot patrolman. Mr. Kent-Alex-come along. I don't want the damned catarrh." And, displaying all the wrath of a king insulted by a commoner, he moved majestically down the sidewalk, his stick extended six inches in front of him to tap and test the way.

Carter fell in step beside Alex Gram. Phelan caught up with them, clutching the bodyguard's arm: "Gram, I can't afford to lose my job. I've a big family to feed. Try to fix it, for God's sake. Put in a good word-was "I'll do what I can, but you angered him. He doesn't get angry very often. Bring some cash around. That might placate him." "How much should I bring?" "As much as you can get together. Even then I can't promise he'll relent. You'll just have to take your chances." Gram put his hand on the policeman's shoulder and rudely pushed him aside. The policeman didn't protest, just redirected his wrath at those people still loitering by the corpse. He ordered them to move along or face arrest. .one man laughed and Phelan struck him twice with his billy. A friend dragged the man away before Phelan could do more damage. Gram kept an eye on Buckley as they walked. Presently he said to Carter, "It isn't far to the saloon. You look like you could use a drink and a meal." "Both," Carter nodded. "But more than that, I need a place to sleep. Mr. Buckley was right. I'm not feeling very" good." "There's a stable near the saloon. The owner owes the boss a favor-was Gram stopped, waiting for Buckley to negotiate the drop-off at the next corner. "Will there be any more trouble because that man got killed?" Carter asked. Once Buckley was across the intersection, Gram moved on and finally answered: -- "Not a whit." Carter shook his head. "Seems incredible."'* A chuckle. "You are new in town. You don't know who he is, do you?" "Obviously someone with influence-was This time Gram laughed aloud. "Yes, you might say. You might say that a man who runs his party's central committee, decides which way the primaries will come out, and tells a majority of the city supervisors how to vote has influence. Let me give you a fast introduction to local politics, Kent. My employer's a pal of Senator Hearst and every other important office holder in California. No, I'll put that a better way. They're pals of his-because they never stop needing what the boss can deliver on demand. Extra ballots. Our price is five dollars a vote or ten dollars for a straight ticket. That includes a little cream on the top for us." "You mean your boss can always find as many votes as someone needs?" "Usually," Gram nodded. "But he isn't just my boss. He's the boss. Remember that." "I will. Where do you get the extra votes?" "Wherever we can find extra voters. Flop houses. The drunk tank. Sometimes we use our own stalwarts to vote names from the cemeteries or the obit columns. Hell-was An amused shrug. "comin an election a couple of years ago, the boss came up short. But there was a French warship in port. We rounded up half the crew and voted them. Believe me, Kent, nothing important happens around here without the boss okaying it first. If your sister wants to teach in the San Francisco schools, the fee for the job is two hundred dollars. Every municipal job has its price. That isn't to say the boss doesn't have a conscience. He does. His father came here from Ireland, and he knows what it means to be poor. He hates the damn gougers who run the railroads. He wants the streets to be safe for everybody. And he's a prince to work for. If you're loyal to him, he'll always be loyal to you. Altogether, I'd say he's the most powerful man in the city-probably the state. They don't call him the Caesar of the Democracy for nothing." Carter was impressed. Sick and worn out though he was, he felt a stir of hope. His luck might have taken a favorable turn at last. CHAPTER X Steam Beer CHRISTOPHER BUCKLEY'S SALOON on Bush Street was a gas-lit place full of cigar smoke, beer fumes, and noisy, cheerful men. The moment Buckley walked in, he was besieged by a well-dressed man and four others in much shabbier clothing. All obviously sought favors. Buckley waved his stick to acknowledge greetings from several customers. Then he took the five supplicants into an office at the rear. The door closed. In about two minutes, one of the poorly dressed men emerged. He was grinning. The others came out at short intervals. All looked satisfied caret except the prosperous-looking gentleman, who was the last to appear. Buckley shouted at him from the office door: "comand tell your cronies at the Southern Pacific never to approach me again with that kind of filthy scheme. Otherwise the push may visit then: fancy Snob Hill palaces some night!" Pale, the man fled. Carter was leaning on the beautiful turned rim of the mahogany bar. Gram stood next to him. Buckley walked to the bar and stepped behind it. "What was that about?" Gram asked. "Ah, one of their high-toned officials messed with a conductor's twelve-year-old daughter. The girl's mother was pimping for the child in the hope of furthering her husband's career. The father found out, immediately quit the S.p. and pressed charges. Now the railroad wants me to spring its man from the clink. I said I'd be "damned if I would. Men like that should rot in jail and burn in hell. When I expressed that view, the rogue who was just here grew a trifle testy. I told him to shove his five thousand dollars up his rosy ass." Buckley had hung his coat on a rack and rolled up his sleeves. Now he tied a white apron around his waist. "The fellow threatened me then. It was at that point that I threw him out. He won't be back. They know better than to tread on Boss Buckley. Mr. Kent-?" "Right here, sir." "Feeling any better?" "Since we came inside, much." But he still didn't feel good. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?" An embarrassed laugh. "I confess to both." "Well, we usually have some dabs on the stove in back." "Dabs, sir?" Buckley spaced his index fingers a few niches apart "Small Pacific coast flat fish. Very succulent when properly broiled." Carter swallowed. "If it's all the same to you, Mr. Buckley, fish isn't a favorite of mine." "Boiled beef, then. And something to drink-and perhaps a chance to put a little money in your pocket?" Carter's excitement overcame his caution. "That would be very welcome, too." "Where are you from, my boy?" "Boston." "Ah! A good Irishman's town. Nearly as fine as New York, where I grew up. By the way, what may I pour you? The hard spirits sold in this establishment are safe to drink." "You mean they aren't elsewhere?" Gram laughed cynically. "This place is an exception in town. A rare exception." He snapped his fingers at another bartender. It was obvious to Carter that the man didn't like being ordered about that way. With a sullen stare, he passed Gram a quart of whiskey and a glass. Meantime, Buckley continued: "Depending on whether a saloon owner wants you dead in order to rob you, or alive in order to ship you out to some heathen port, you're liable to find your drink laced with opium or laudanum or chloral. That kind of thing gives San Francisco a foul name, but we can't seem to eliminate the practice, much as we try. There are a few places you can safely enjoy yourself. I run oneeaof them." He gestured to the gleaming bottles ranked behind the bar. "Name your poison-no, wait." caret A smile spread on his pink face. Without hesitation, he extended his hand and plucked a schooner from among a dozen arranged on the back bar. Taking two steps to the left, he pulled the handle of a keg tap. Beer spouted into the schooner. "Since you're new to the area, you must sample this," he said. Carter drank. "That's delicious." He wiped his upper lip and set the schooner on the bar. "I've never tasted any beer half as good." Buckley nodded. "I venture to say you haven't. That's a special brew unique to the city. San Francisco steam beer." He went on to explain that ice, required for conventional brewing, hadn't been available when San Francisco boomed at the time of the Gold Rush. What little ice there was had to be brought all the way from the mountains. So a canny brewer had formulated a beer which could be manufactured without refrigeration. Carter barely caught half of Buckley's remarks. He was feeling increasingly feverish, and the walls seemed to ripple like windblown cloth. The beer didn't help matters. "Barley," the blind man went on. "And malt and hops only-no rice or corn." Then came something about, "Steam mash bubbled up by what they call krausening, a natural carbonation process." The rest of the explanation was lost on him. His next sip was a tiny one; he was again afraid that he might pass out. He rubbed his eyes and stared at a fat bronze cupid holding up the milky globe of a gaslight behind the bar. Slowly the cupid's navel came into focus. By the time it was sharp, he felt a little better. Gram noticed his drawn look. "I think the lad needs food more than he needs steam beer, boss." "Coming up!" Buckley sent another bartender hurrying to the kitchen. It was the same man who'd brought Gram his whiskey. He didn't act resentful when Buckley gave the orders. "Let's sit down at that corner table," Buckley said. "You needn't worry about a place to sleep. I believe I can persuade Hanratty's Livery to accommodate you for a night or so." The blind man emerged from behind the bar, obviously disfamiliar with the dimensions and placement of all the fixtures and furniture; he never bumped into a chair or a guest as he led the way to the secluded table. As he sat down, he chuckled: "A municipal writ. Glorious! If there isn't such a document, there should be. I'll have to speak to the supervisors about it. There are twelve of those gentlemen. Seven of them can usually be counted on to vote as I ask. Sometimes I can even swing nine if it's necessary to override the mayor's veto." He laid smooth pink hands on the table top. A waiter arrived with a plate of steaming beef surrounded by thick slices of brown bread. Carter tore a slab of bread in half and stuffed the pieces into his mouth. Buckley continued to smile, but a hard tone came into his voice: "As you may have gathered, Mr. Kent, a great many matters affecting the municipality are discussed in these somewhat unlikely quarters. So are some things pertaining, to the state and the nation, for that matter. My enemies call this place Buckley's City Hall. I consider that an honorific, not an insult. Because I'm a busy man, I can always use helpers who don't allow scruples to interfere with their duties or diminish their party loyalty." Carter cut and ate the tender beef as fast as he could. With his mouth full, he asked, "You're talking about the Democratic party, aren't you?" "Yes, but to anyone on the inside of San Francisco politics, that's incidental. I'll explain what I mean in a moment. From your voice I'd guess you to be in your twenties. Am I right?" "Yes, sir." "That was the decade in my life when I discovered my passion for politics. My first job in San Francisco was conductor on a North Beach horse car. From that I rose to the eminence of tending bar at Snugg's, a very cosmopolitan saloon on the lower level of Maguire's Opera House on T Washington Street. At Snugg's, murder was not infrequent. But a great many fascinating and influential men congregated there. I was soon on a first name basis with gamblers, actors, and politicians of both parties. Of the lot, the politicians seemed the most worthy of emulation-at least to my impressionable eyes." He realized what he'd just said and laughed-this time it had a melancholy sound. "In those days, you understand, I could still see." Gram poured another stiff shot of whiskey. He'd obviously heard the story before. He looked bored. Carter wasn't. The blind man fascinated him. Behind the deceptively congenial face, Carter sensed the presence of a man to whom weakness was loathsome and defeat a mortal sin. "Soon I was busy involving myself in local politics. My training ground was the Fifth Ward. I learned how to drag votes out of boarding houses as well as less savory places. I developed a knack and a liking for all the rough work that accompanies a primary which comes out the way someone wants it to come out. Within a couple of years I'd built a reputation as a handy fellow to have around. Of course I had a splendid group of tutors. Republicans, every one of them." "You mean you didn't start out a Democrat?" "Indeed not. My best mentor in the Fifth Ward was a young Republican who attended Harvard. Bill Higgins is his name. He still runs the party here in San Francisco. In any case, there came a time-oh, twenty years ago now- when I decided that if I wanted to continue to move ahead in politics, I'd need to work for myself. So I could apportion my time as I saw fit. I left town and went up to Vallejo to establish myself as an independent businessman. I opened a saloon. It wasn't an entirely wise decision. It was consumption of spirits which later caused me to lose my sight." Cigar smoke drifted slowly in the air. All around them, men talked and laughed. But it was suddenly quiet at the table where the three sat. Buckley's eyes appeared to be fixed on his hands. For a moment Carter had the strange feeling that he could see them. "I did well in Vallejo," the blind man resumed. "I worked my way in as secretary of the Solano County Republican Committee. But by "72,1 had a yen to come back to this side of the Bay-where there wasn't any way to climb higher on the Republican ladder. All the rungs were filled. It took me about ten minutes to decide what to do. I walked out of Vallejo a Republican and into San Francisco a member of the Democracy. I've remained a Democrat, although Bill Higgins and I still close the door occasionally and strike a bargain if it suits our mutual purpose. A few minutes ago I said belonging to the Democracy was incidental. Now I hope you understand what I meant. Politics is the grandest game a man can play, but it isn't the party organizations that make it so. It's the power." The quiet declaration sent a prickle along Carter's spine. The ruddy man with the sightless eyes could teach him what Willie Hearst had talked about such a long time ago. How to hold the reins. How to run others, rather than letting them run you. The thought of taking orders didn't appeal to him, but the advantages of the situation far outweighed that. Eagerly, he said, "I'd like to work for you, Mr. Buckley. I got to know Willie Hearst. Willie once suggested tkat I think about being a politician." For some reason the atmosphere at the table had chilled in just a few seconds. "Willie," Gram repeated. "You call him Willie?" Baffled, Carter nodded. "Everyone did." "They don't do it any more. Around the paper it's Mr. Hearst or nothing. He's a stuck-up young snob." So that was it. Carter came to his friend's defense: "A lot of people think he's snobbish, but it's really shyness -" He stopped. The explanation changed nothing. In fact, Buckley had a scowl on his face: "Mr. Hearst and I try to cooperate because of his father's position in the party. On some things, we fully agree. He hates the Southern Pacific as much as I do. But newspaper
publishers are a queer breed. Most of them are a menace to an established political organization. Young Hearst falls into that camp, I fear. He's a crusader. Dangerously unpredictable. If you were to work for me, I'd want to be sure of where your loyalties lie." Carter's hands tightened on the empty schooner. This was the test. He didn't dare fail it. "You'd be sure, sir. They'd lie with you." "What if I asked you not to renew your friendship with Hearst?" Carter let out his breath slowly. "I'd refuse." "Hell," Gram snorted. "Why the hell are we arguing this? Hearst's so snotty these days, he probably wouldn't let someone as ordinary as Kent clean his privy." "Let him finish, Alex." "I don't have much more to say, Mr. Buckley. If I work for you, I'll give you my loyalty, and my word that you have it. But if Willie Hearst can't trust me not to abandon him, how can you? Until he tells me otherwise, Willie's my friend." A silence. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Suddenly the tension left Buckley's face: "Good. That tells me all I need to know about you. We don't have to make an issue of Hearst. I've had no significant trouble with him so far." Carter relaxed a little. But if he landed a job, it was obvious that he'd be wise to play down his friendship. That much he was willing to do. What Gram said might also turn out to be true. Willie might not want to associate with him any longer. He didn't intend to explore that question for some time; not until he could afford a decent suit of clothes, at least. There was another moment of silence. Gram poured his * fifth drink. Buckley's hands began to move in slow circles on the table top. He seemed to think out loud: "I had in mind that you might join the push-was "I've heard that word several times, sir. What's it mean?" "The push is a gang of rockrollers, mostly. Roughnecks from south of Market Street." "What do they do?" "Exactly what the name says. They supply a push when a push is necessary. They push some to the polling place, and they push others away. The push is important to me. I pay every member handsomely." The blind man paused, and though Carter knew he might be bringing a quick end to a relationship not even fully begun, he had no choice but to say: "I don't want that kind of work, Mr. Buckley. I don't want roughneck work." That didn't set well with Gram. He pulled his hand down from the bruise he was fingering. "What's the matter? Not respectable enough for a Harvard boy? Or is it that Harvard boys don't have the belly for it?" Buckley spoke softly but firmly: "In view of the help Mr. Kent gave us, Alex, those remarks are not only rude, they're stupid." Gram turned red. Carter looked him in the eye. "Mr. Gram, I don't mean to insult your position as Mr. Buckley's bodyguard. But it's no use covering up how I feel. Violence only comes back to hurt the man who deals it out in the first place." "Oh?" Gram was sneering. "You don't think it's ever necessary? It was necessary tonight." "No, it wasn't." "That son of a bitch Schmidt would have killed us all!" Carter shook his head. It was hard to do, considering all he stood to lose. "No," he said. "I had him ready to run. If you hadn't knifed him, you'd never have seen him again." Gram uttered a curt laugh. "Sure of that, are you?" "Pretty sure, yes." This time Buckley defended his employee: "You may be right in this case, Mr. Kent. But you aren't completely right. Violence is sometimes the only means to reach a desired end. There are times when everything else fails and you're left with no other choice." At that point Carter felt he'd lost the battle. But he still tried a tactical maneuver: "Then if it's necessary, I don't want to be the one to do it. I'd hire it done, if need be, but I'd never involve myself. When I'm your age, Mr. Buckley, I want to be walking around enjoying the rewards I've earned 1 ." Buckley raked a fingernail lightly along his lower lip. "Hire it done, eh?" "Yes." "For that answer and the ones about Hearst, I'll hire you, Mr. Kent. Five dollars a month and all you can take from my free lunch counter." Gram swung sideways in his chair, disgusted. Buckley laid a hand on his sleeve. "Alex, I can hear you fairly seething. Don't. Each of us has his own calling in this life. You needn't approve of Mr. Kent's, or he of yours, so long as we all work together." Gram replied with a shrug which only pretended agreement, as did his muttered, "Sure, boss. You're right." Carter knew he'd alienated the bodyguard for good. He didn't care. Buckley was smiling. "Boss," Carter said, "do you mind if I order another schooner of this steam beer?" h In a few minutes, Gram went off to his rooming house. Buckley called a bartender over and dictated a note to the night man at Hanratty's Livery. He gave the note to Carter. "Come see me when you've had a good night's rest," he said as he ushered Carter to the door on Bush Street. "And don't worry about Alex. He's a fine fellow, but he has his limits. And you're right, he's in a bad trade. I expect both of us will outlive him. You needn't fear he'll cause you any trouble. He wants to keep on earning his high salary." The blind man gave Carter's arm an almost fatherly squeeze, but when he spoke it was without sentiment. "I'm getting older, Mr. Kent. I've been looking for a pupil in whom I could finally place some confidence. Perhaps I've found him. You'll get your hands dirty working for me. But if you're willing to do that within the limits we discussed- and if you're willing to take my guidance-you ought to go far. I'm impressed not only with your talent for blarney, but with your attitude in general. I think you have the makings of a remarkably successful politician." The cynicism grew heavier: "Beg pardon. Public servant." He waved Carter into the fog like a doting parent ill Blissfully soft, the straw in the loft of the livery stable sank beneath Carter Kent. There was no-heat in the building, and it stank of horse manure and all the garbage and human slops dumped in the alley running along one side. But those smells were transformed into perfume by his sudden good fortune. Even the stinking horse blanket given him by the grumpy night man smelled wonderful next to his nose. He began to shiver again, alternately roasting and freezing. But he knew he'd get well, and work hard for Boss Buckley, and prosper. What if he did dirty his hands, as bar Buckley put it? Wealth could buy you a carload of soap. And then one day his hands would be holding the reins. Carter was sure of that now. He was exhilarated; happy for the first time in months and months. San Francisco had been Amanda Kent's lucky town and it was going to be his. He was going to like its politics as much as he already liked its steam beer. And to think he'd jumped off that train in North Platte and wasted five whole years getting here! With that thought he turned over and fell asleep. CHAPTER XI Puncher Martin IN JOHNSTOWN AT EIGHT o'clock next morning, the rain still showed no sign of slackening. Leo was awake and feeling fairly comfortable. Eleanor tucked the covers around him and went to the lobby to look for some rolls and coffee. From the botton of the stairs, she saw young Homer Hack cranking the handle of the lobby telephone. Seven hotel guests-all men, and all commercial travelers, she suspected-were sitting or standing near the clerk, anxious looks on their faces. Hack spoke into the mouthpiece. Eleanor picked up her skirts to cross the lobby. The entire floor was submerged beneath a quarter inch of yellow-brown water. As she approached, one of the men was saying, "He's calling the central telephone office for a late report." On what? she wondered. The words late report had an ominous sound. Beyond the window, a wagon rumbled by, filled with a swaying pyramid of household goods. The street was covered with water; up to about ankle height, she judged by watching the wagon wheels. "Thanks very much, Imogene," young Hack said, ringing off. He turned back to the others. "Most of the early shifts at Cambria's divisions were sent home. Too much water on the floors. Morning, Mrs. Goldman." He struggled to smile. "Bet your friends wish they were back here." Politeness kept her from laughing at such a ridiculous statement. "Why is that?" she said, her attention drawn to the hardware store across the street. A man who looked like the proprietor was frantically motioning at the door. One after another, four adolescent boys appeared, arms laden with merchandise which they carried away down the street. Then the owner went in, presumably for another load. Hack's remark turned out to be far from ridiculous: "Your friends went out on the New York Limited, didn't they?" "That's right." "She's stalled up at the mountain summit. According to the telegraph report, there's some kind of obstruction on the tracks. Imogene at the telephone office just told me about it." "Better to be sitting up there than down here," one of the guests complained. "I walked over to the Little Cone- maugh a while ago. Saw two dead heifers float by. And more tree trunks than I could shake a stick at. If it doesn't stop raining, the mountains will slide right down on top of us." "I do think we should all move to the third floor," Hack said. "Can your husband do that, Mrs. Goldman?" "He isn't supposed to move for another five or six hours. In an emergency he'll do whatever's necessary." She started for the dining room, then saw that the gas fixtures hadn't been lit; the room was dark and empty. "Isn't there any food this morning, Homer?" Chagrined, he shook his head. "The cook didn't show up." "Or the owner of this damned rat trap, either!" another of the men exclaimed. "He's probably moving his family to high ground." "I expect that's pretty close to the truth," Hack admitted. "But we'll be fine on the top floor. I've unlocked all the rooms. Take any one you like." Panic began to gnaw at Eleanor then; panic fed by her weariness-she hadn't slept-and by the incessant rain. The young clerk started away, but she caught his arm: "Is the dam all right?" "Far as I know. At least there haven't been any reports of trouble." "Would you get a report like that?" "Most likely. I've been calling the telephone company every few minutes. The central office is located in the same building as Western Union. Mrs. Ogle who runs the Western Union office keeps the telephone girls advised of any dispatches from up near the dam. That's how Imogene knew about the Limited." "That makes me feel better. Thank you, Homer." "Surely, ma'am." The clerk gave her a smile meant to bolster her confidence, then splashed toward the lobby counter in rubber fishing boots Eleanor noticed for the first time. He stepped behind the counter and found an old coat and cap. Then he splashed back to the main door, stopping there to say: "I'll trot over to Konig's Bakery and try to find a couple of loaves of bread. Meantime I'd appreciate it if all of you would go on upstairs." Eleanor returned to the room. Leo asked about the situation. She tried to sound more cheerful than she felt: "There seems to be no danger from the dam. That nice young man who handles the desk is just suggesting we move to the top floor. I hate to make you do it, but I suppose we'd better be safe." "Absolutely." He swung sideways in bed and carefully lowered his left foot to the floor. "This may sound stupid, but all at once I wish I knew how to swim." "Well, sir-was Again she forced a smile. "If a rescue becomes necessary, you can count on me." She bent and kissed the tip of his nose. "Provided you're nice to me, never start your line before I finish mine, and never upstage me for as long as we both shall live." He laughed. "Bargain." "Let me help you stand up-** She took his arm. The sound of the rain on the window grew louder. She frowned as she went on: "Lean on me and don't put weight on that leg-good, very good. A little effort and we'll be upstairs and perfectly safe until this blasted rain's over." But statements like that, from her own lips or from others, were beginning to have a decidedly false sound. ii From the room they chose on the top floor, they were able to see more of the downtown area. Quite substantial- looking, Eleanor decided. Its many brick and stone buildings looked sturdy enough to withstand a severe storm as well as high floodwater. Here and there she noticed abandoned trolley cars. Two young men on horseback went cantering through the streets, the hooves of their mounts shooting up geysers of water. Not a bad way to see the flooded downtown, she thought. Now and again the rain let up a little. When it did, she could glimpse the towering stacks of the Cambria Iron Company's blast furnaces, and the cupolas of its Bessemer plant in the borough of Millville across the foaming water of the Little Conemaugh. She kept the door of their room open. Some of the other guests drifted in from time to time, the storm having cemented everyone in the three-story building into enforced camaraderie. One of the salesmen staying at the Penn had been raised in Ferndale, just a short way down the Stony- creek. The man knew a lot about the area. The population of Johnstown was around twelve thousand, he told Eleanor in response to her question. She soon wished she hadn't asked it, because it brought a torrent of information she didn't really want, including the population of the nine surrounding boroughs and a capsule history of the development of Cambria Iron into an industrial complex producing everything from steel ingots and heavy track bolts to railroad car axles, plowshares, and of course the world-famous Cambria Link barbed-wire. She and Leo nodded politely at each new fact or statistic. That encouraged the man to describe the large Pennsylvania Railroad marshaling yards up at East Conemaugh, between Johnstown and the dam. All at once Homer Hack appeared carrying three loaves of bread and a hig blue enamel pot of lukewarm coffee; happily, the food ended the description of Johnstown. As the morning dragged on, she found the room increasingly confining. She began to pace. Leo suggested she go off by herself for a bit-downstairs, if the lobby wasn't under water, or outside if the rain wasn't too fierce and Homer Hack would lend her the boots he was wearing. "I don't need boots," she said, eager to get away. "The devil you don't. Your feet'll get soaked." She tied her cape around her shoulders and picked up her parasol. "I don't care. These are old shoes, and I'd love some air. It doesn't seem to be raining so hard. I'll walk around the block." She kissed his cheek and hurried downstairs, holding her skirts high as she crossed the lobby. Young Hack came out of the lightless dining room, shaking his head when he saw her leave. The rain had indeed let up a little. Her parasol offered some protection and rain or not, she was glad to be outside. She put her head back, shut her eyes, and inhaled the damp air. How much