Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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.-7:- f? ry ‘ ' V *»***#*********f#»ff****ff************************* E> *■ * *• m *■ *■ »• « * *: *' *■ * * * '***» REFORMER By CHARLES M. SHELDON, Aolbor of “h HJs Steps," “Robert Hardy’s Seven Days," Etc, Copyright, 1901, by Charles M. ShchUm 4>~ b *****««« CHAPTER A A., ssat .— *■ ■ ■ ,a„ “/’re seen a/i f care <o.” HE moment Gordon and Mr. Marsh had taken their seats in the hall a man with n white apron came up and, standing directly in front of them, said, “What ’ll you have?" “Cigars for three,” said the otficer. And as the man slowly moved away after giving the three visitors a sharp look the officer said in answer to the question from Mr. Marsh: "Oh, the show’s free. So’s the lunch. But ev erybody is expected to take something. The saloons ain’t doing this for their health nor for the love of the people, not if they know it.” “What if we refused to buy either cigars or beer?” Gordon asked, for he had never entered one of the vaude ville halls but once before and had then gone in to hunt for one of the young men who had been attending the night classes at Hope House. His knowledge of the character of the eu- tertainment was gained from Ford, the university resident. The officer shrugged his shoulders. “They'd make it mighty uncomforta ble for you before you got out or got in again. The saloon may be a social necessity to the poor devils in the double deckers, but it don’t furnish social amusements without getting mighty well paid for it. It’s free, but It’s expensive,” said Officer Roberts. As he finished speaking, the bar tender came back with the cigars and a tray loaded with beer and whisky. The liquor was distributed around on little tables at which the boys and men in the audience were mostly seated. As the curtain went up to the music of the orchestra there were about 150 in the room and a stream of newcomers noisily entering. Before the first song was finished, the hall was filled to suf focation. As the entertainment, if it could be called such, went on, John Gordon’s soul was stirred deep with a red blooded Indignation. After the first two or three vulgar songs, which were fol lowed by some suggestive dances, he sat there practically hearing and see ing nothing on the stage. The audi ence had become the absorbing study for him. The people! There they were! His choice! To serve and to love! But was it worth while? The majority of the company was composed of young men between eight een and twenty-five years of age. They were as a type pale, listless and as tonishingly dull of expression. John Gordon was irresistibly drawn to im agine the exact appearance of the rooms that these young men probably called home. He then began to raise a host of questions concerning their par entage, their occupations, their wages, the amount they probably spent on the saloon and the places they went to on Sunday. The absolute absence of any thing interesting or elevating in their lives impressed him with tremendous reality. All the churches in the city were on the One streets miles away. There was not a religious institution, with the possible exception of Hope House, that had any influence in the lives of these apathetic, coarsened, dis sipated young men. The vaudeville and the saloon touched their lives, but the church never did. Yet it was the sinner that Jesus came to save. Was the church realizing her responsibility to neglect this awful swarur of youth that bred like disease in the tenement, and cursed God and died in the im pure atmosphere of these polluted walls? God have mercy on them! Are they more sinned against than sinning? Can a boy or girl grow up pure in tene ments like these we have here in this greed smitten city? And the one social institution that comes forward to min ister to the social instincts is the sa loon! It says to the tired workingman who has no place worthy to be called a home, “Come, enjoy a social glass In • handsome, well lighted, cheerful room!” It says to the men whose appe tite is never satisfied with ill prepared food: “Come, enjoy a free lunch! Only of course you will want beer or whisky to washJt down.” And without Bgylm this to the man, only to itself, the stf- loon, with devilish foresight, reckons on getting back by means of the free lunch 100 per cent in the actual sale of drinks. Truly Officer Roberts is right when he says. “It's free, but it’s expen sive.” It says to the young man who has no healthy outlet for physical life be cause he is born without playgrounds and without home pleasures: “Come! In the vaudeville I will amuse you. The songs and the dances will be sug gestive, and the young women who furnish the amusement are fallen, but vice is a necessity to civilization, and we stand ready to furnish what the church and other religious organiza tions will never give you!” “Surely,” John Gordon meditated, “the saloon in its day and generation is wiser than the children of light. The devil must dance in glee over the sight of the tenement and slum dis tricts in the city as ho sees his tinest agents occupying the field of social panderers to a human necessity, while the solemn, empty stone edifices called churches stand stately and still up on the grand boulevards and open their doors once or twice a week to receive proud men and women, clothed in pur ple and fine linen, who fare sumptu ously every day, who enjoy their reli gion. but do not enjoy practicing it among sinners —at least not among sinners like those who are born in ten ements and get their nourishment in saloon and vaudeville. Surely the sa loon is giving the churches pointers on how to reach the masses. Will the churches take the broad hint and act on it. or will they still allow the sa loon to pre-empt the corner lots and under the hypocritical guise of cater ing to a social craving damn with phys ical and moral damnation lives that have never known any other gospel but the gospel of beer and free lunches as long as they are able to pay for them?” His meditation was going deeper, and he was beginning to philosophize not bitterly, but with genuine sadness, when he saw Mr. Marsh suddenly arise and clutch his arm hard. “I can't bear any more of this,” he said as Gordon glanced up at him. “I’m going out. It’s too revolting. I’ve seen all I care to.” “And when you’ve seen one of ’em you’ve seen all of ’em,” said Officer Roberts with a shrug. Gordon looked toward the stage. A dance that was simply revolting in its indecency was being performed. A roar of brutal laughter rose from the audience. It was like a picture taken from some scene of the “Inferno.” Gordon’s spirit flamed up in holy wrath at the sight of it, but he got up and went out with Marsh and the officer. Once outside, even in the tainted, beer poisoned air that floated out of the saloon, all three of the men breathed easier. Officer Roberts looked toward Gordon with an air of resignation. “Does your friend wish to continue? I may be allowed to say the show ic the same one place as another—same songs, same dances”— “No more for me,” Mr. Marsh inter rupted quickly. “Gordon, I’m simply sick of it all. Let us go back to Hope House. I should like to meet Miss An drews before going home. You thought she would be back after supper?” “Yes, but I want you to see Bowen street by night: just two or three blocks, and I’ll not ask any more.” “Very well.” Mr. Marsh reluctantly consented. He was evidently laboring under great stress of feeling. His sen sitive nature had suffered in ways that were very unusual. “It won’t be necessary for you to go along, Roberts,” Gordon said as the officer stood waiting. “Much obliged, sir,” Roberts an swered with a look of relief. *Tm at your service of course. Miss Andrews gave special orders to me to be of any help to you that 1 can ” “it will not be necessary, Roberts. Much obliged. We’ll simply walk through the street and not attempt any inside work tonight.” “All right, sir.” The officer turned back to Hope House playground, which he had overseen ever since it had be come an important institution, and Gordon, taking Mr. Marsh’s arm, walked down Bowen street for three blocks, then turned and came back on the opposite sidewalk. If the street had been full during the day, it was running over at night The stoops were literally packed with people. The child of the tenements, with her little sister in her arms, was there, bending over the armful, sitting on the steps in various degrees of dis comfort and unconscious misery, but cheerful, resigned and apparently born to her task. The night was breathless, and yet out on the wide boulevard it was not stifling. Down here, however, not a single sigh of fresh air came. The garbage boxes rotted visibly. On the covers of those few boxes that still re tained covers were lying men and boys, trying In the midst of the unnatural, feverish noises peculiar to tenement districts to get a little rest. On the stones and mud and offal of the street itself scores of people were lying, some on a few rags thrown down to soak up the liquid filth, others with no covering between their horrible clothing and the foul street Twice they had to stop and pick their way between the figures that lay in the street, panting for a breath of air. wearily, but with the indifference of years of accustomed discomfort, counting the time when the dark sleeping rooms inside should be come a little less unbearable. During the entire walk neither Gor don nor Marsh said anything but once, when Mr. Marsh asked a question: "Some of these children seem far better drefsed and cleaner, more at tractive than others. Are these some of the Hope House converts?” “No.” replied John Gordon dryly. “Those are saloon keeper’s children.” Mr. Marsh did not rtsk any more questions until they were going into Hope House entrance. Then he turned to his companion and said: “I have seen things today I never could believe if I had been told. It is all too horrible, too horrible. I shall dream of it tonight. Why have you made me look at it?” They paused a moment under the archway. “Would God, Mr. Marsh, that every business man in this city could see what you have seen, and what you have seen is nothing compared with the hor rors you will never even dream about.” “It has sickened me,” Mr. Marsh re peated irritably, and John Gordon could see by his manner that he was nervously affected by the day’s expe rience. Before he could say anything Miss Andrews came in through the archway. “I understand you have been looking about today. Come into the library and tell me about it.” She had greeted Gordon in her usual quiet, calm but delightful manner as he introduced Mr. Marsh. When they were seated at the great center table, Gordon briefly recited the main incidents of the day’s experience. Gradually Mr. Marsh lost his irrita tion. There was something profoundly impressive in the face and manner of this woman. She was the first woman he had ever met who made him feel that she was deeply and exactly in formed on city life. He had met other women who were brilliant, witty, well educated, cultured, but never one who evidently knew humanity like this one. In five minutes she seemed to be in full possession of all the facts of Mr. Marsh’s ownership of the property and his exact attitude in every particular toward the scenes he had witnessed. The talk had not proceeded ten min utes before she said with the utmost frankness: “Mr. Marsh, I am sure you will tear down No. 1)1 and put up the right kind of a -building in its place. Of course you are convinced now that the struc ture is a mistake in every particular.” “I—I—don't know. I certainly did not know what sort of a building it was—it would prove to be,” Mr. Marsh stammered. “Then of course your judgment and humanity together will prompt you to put up a safe, sanitary, comfortable building,” Miss Andrews continued calmly. “I—I—will have to give the matter— ah — considerable consideration,” Mr. Marsh replied, with caution. “It will be very expensive to tear it down.” “It costs lives. Are they not of more value, Mr. Marsh, than money?” She said it calmly, but the repressed passion of a lifetime of patient endur ance for the love of the people pulsed through every syllable. A voice of tenderest eloquence could not have been more definitely emphatic. “I shall have to consider it,” the man murmured uneasily. The events of the strange day had produced a curious result in him. He was not certain that he could trust his impulses. At the same time he felt moved to action of some kind. Miss Andrews quietly began to talk of something else. John Gordon, who had leaned over the table, intensely in terested in what he supposed was go ing to be an appeal on Miss Andrews’ part, gradually relaxed his attitude into one of disappointed surprise. Miss Andrews was still talking easily, and Mr. Marsh was listening intently, when one of the residents came in and called John Gordon out to answer a summons at the telephone. Gordon came back soon and said hlw friend Barton had sent for him, and that he might not return that night. Mr. Marsh rose and said, “I’ll go along with you, Gordon, as far as you go my way.” He said good night to Miss Andrew* and the two passed out from under the archway, and when he and Gordon parted uptown Mr. Marsh said with a short laugh: “Miss Andrews came near making me a convert But it would kill me to live there and see those things every day. I don’t see how she stands such a life.” Gordon did not reply. He had spoken hardly a word all the way. The weight of all the misery that lay on the people bore him down. In the pres ence of this oversensitive, cultured, wealthy man who had it in his power to right the wrongs that were connect ed with his own possessions, Gordon felt a repulsion that he feared would break out in word or manner. Would Mr. Marsh do anything? Would he re build the tenement? Would he correct any of the abuses? Why did Miss An drews cease so suddenly to talk about it? Why did she net plead with him? She seemed on the point of doing so. In a moment of Impulse he spoke, as Mr. Marsh was moving away. “Mr. Marsh, you have it in your power to save the lives of those chil dren. If Louie dies in that hole, be fore God. 1 believe you will be held part guilty In the sight of God. Are you going to do anything?” “I'll do something.” Mr. Marsh re plied feebly. “Then in God’s name do It quick, won't yon?" “I’ll consider ft: ves. I’ll consider It ” .a. ■ Gordon let him go with that, and with the weariness of the day bearing down on his spirit he hastened to Barton’s rooms, fearing bad news, for Barton had telephoned himself, asking his Triend to come at once. He found Barton lying on the couch in the second room. “Come in, old man!” he said feebly, but cheerfully. “Excuse me for send ing for you. but my cough got so wild this evening about 7 o’clock that I thought you would like to see the show. It’s a rattling good perform- rA-r. V She stood a moment silently gazing. a nee. Three rings and a drove of ele phants and a trained automobile don’t describe it.” John Gordon looked mournfully at the recumbent figure. The truth was very apparent to him. The great eyes that glowed in the face stamped by death’s trademark burned like wast ing fires. It was evident that the time was short now. But after all it came as a shock to John Gordon. He had not really been expecting it. “What have you been doing? Amuse me with it. I went down to the office this morning, but Harris sent me back. I tell you, he’s not half bad. And—oh— there’s a matter I want to explain. Have you seen the evening edition? No? There’s a copy on the table. Don’t blame me. I kept the business out as long as I could. Might never have got in if I hadn’t been off duty. Miss Andrews used her influence and actually went to see Harris herself. She did miracles in keeping matters out of all the papers for more than a week. But Harris got word that the Review was going to run in a story, and I suppose he couldn't stand it— so—don’t blame me, John. I’m sorry— but I’m not”— He sat up so that his knees touched his chin and began coughing so terri bly that John Gordon, on his knees by the side of the couch, feared that the end would come then and there. But the spell did not last as iong as he feared, and Barton said as soon as he was able to speak: “She’s getting out of gasoline or something. That spurt she made at 7:30 winded her. • There! Let me down again. And give me that stuff in the bottle. It’s no particular good, only it keeps the cough from thinking of me all the time, the stuff’s so strong and bad tasting!” Gordon gave him the medicine, and Barton lay back exhausted. After a moment he whispered: “Read the story if you want to. But if you are going to swear or anything at the close and want help, ask Wil liams to go out into the hall. Give him a dollar, and he’ll pitch into Harris and the News as long as you want.” John Gordon picked up the paper and went over by the table. He seldom saw the News, and be never read it His whole refined nature rebelled in disgust at the monstrosity of yellow Journalism, but his curiosity was strong enough to make him read what Barton seemed so genuinely sorrow for. The headlines were bold and obtru sive: “Quarrels With His Father! John Gordon, Son of Rufus Gordon, the Banker and Stock Manipulator, Goes to Live at Hope House. A Rich Slum- mer. Breaks With His Fiancee, Miss Luella Marsh. A Stormy Interview. Miss Marsh Refuses to Go With Him. All the Parties Prominent In Business and Social Circles. Mr. Gordon Re pudiates His Son. Miss Marsh Refuses to Talk. Does Not Deny Interview With Her Former Lover. John Gordon to Make a Special Study of Tenement House Conditions In Bowen Street” The whole “story” occupied two col umns. and directly under the headlines, which covered two columns in width, were two cuts, one of John Gordon and the other of Luella Marsh. The title under these cuts read, “Cupid Balks at Social Sacrifice.” John Gordon read the headlines and glared at the pictures. Then he crushed the paper between his hands and flung It on the floor. "Ring the bell for Williams, John. I think he’s in the pantry. You need his help to do It justice. Sorry I don’t feel able to chip In with you.” For a moment John Gordon stood still by the table; then he came over and sat down by his friend. “1 don’t care for myself, but Luella! David, it’s a horrible invasion of all one’s sacred private affairs. 1 have never understood how you could believe in that sort of Journalism.” David Barton looked lovingly at John Gordon. His cynical, whimsical, reck less manner disappeared for a moment. “I don’t believe in it. Never did, John. It’s purely business with me. I'm awfully sorry foi* you. What do I ■believe anyway? My whole life has contradicted my creed. But maybe there’s hope for me yet. What do you think? Am I too bad to repent and be saved?” John Gordon stared at his friend, and in a moment his own deep, abiding, re ligious experience reminded him that here was a soul groping after light. “David,” he exclaimed softly, “no one Is too bad to repent and be saved. Oh, David, Christ makes all life worth while.” “I believe that,” the reply came in a whisper. “I’ve never said much, John, but I’ve tried to”— The usually cynical voice actually broke with a sob that cut John Gordon deep, although in that tense moment which had come on so swiftly there was a fierce joy at the confession his friend had made. He bent over and put a hand on Bar ton's, and they sat thus silent for a gracious moment. It was significant that neither of them bad said a word about Barton’s physical condition and his hopeless future, so far as physical life was concerned. The stillness in the room was suddenly interrupted by a clang out on the street. Gordon went over, to the window and looked out. “The department is making a fine run,” he said briefly to Barton. It was late and the avenue was al most empty of traffic. A team of pure white horses on the engine which pre ceded the hose and ladder wagons plunged forward with a desperate but glad abandon that struck fire from the pavement and whirled the engine along with a mad but glorious energy that made human blood run faster and kept the pulses beating with sympathy. The driver and his assistant leaned for ward. their bare heads tossing their free hah * 1 behind; the whole scene flashed by in the night like a bit torn out of a Roman chariot race of the dead past, transformed by chance to the modern municipality, whose streets are lighted with electricity, and whose buildings loom up in the smoky air like crags beside the prairie sea. The whirling group swept around the corner at the end of the next block, slacking speed just enough to avoid turning over. John Gordon came .back to David’s side. “Where is the fire?” “I didn’t notice the alarm. Must have been a still one.” “Have you ever thought what would happen, John, if a fire ever got a good chance around Hope House?” “Have I? I think of it every time I go into the double decker. They are simply traps. If a fire ever started in the basement of No. 91, it would be a miracle if anybody got out alive.” "How about Hope House itself?” The question showed uneasiness. “Hope House is a dry old shell in side. it would go like tinder.” “The fire tonight is not down that way?” “No; the teams turned up Favell street." “Is No. 91 any worse than other num bers?” “No; it’s better in some ways. But here’s a bakery in the basement. They fry greasy doughnuts over a cracked stove. One drop of grease catching tire in the place might sweep a score of children into eternity.” "They’d be better off in eternity than in the tenement, wouldn't they? Maybe the best thing you could do would be to pray for No. 91 to catch on fire when the wind’s just right.” John Gordon made no answer, and Barton asked drowsily: “How about Mr. Marsh? You dropped me a line about the probability of his having an interest in helping Miss An drews financially.” « “Mr. Marsh is the landlord of No. 91.” “Sho! You don't say!” The voice was awake again. “Then the amount of his contribution to social settlements is not yet made public?” “Mr. Marsh has been with me through the district today. He saw his own tenement for the first time.” “That’s a good story: tell me about it.” The voice was again drowsy. “It’s too late, David,” Gordon remon strated. “No; it isn’t. I’m going to sleep here. I often do. It starts the cough if I get up again. I’m comfortable. You’ll stay all night? You know your ?oom. Do, that’s a good fellow. I may want you to help me harness up the cough In the morning.” “Yes; I’ll stay if you want me to. Are you comfortable there?” “Very much so, old man. Go ahead with Mr. Marsh.” Gordon had not talked five minutes before Barton was asleep, an unnat ural slumber, more like death than healthy refreshing of wearied powers. His whole attitude was that of com plete exhaustion. The seal of death was upon him. John Gordon stopped talking, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. David Barton was the dearest friend he had. The two were ten years apart in age, but from the time when they first met they had been instantly drawn to gether and had begun to love each other. It was after 11 o’clock, and yet Gor don hesitated to go to bed. He almost feared that Barton would never wake up, the pallor of his face, the attitude of the body, were so suggestive of the great change. He was still sitting there, his cheeks still wet with the tears that he did not try to repress, when Williams came in softly on tiptoe. “There’s a queer old lady outside, Mr. Gordon, says she wants to see Mr. Barton, If it ain’t too late. She’s a mighty queer looking specimen. She won’t go away, and I thought maybe you’d go and see her.” “Barton is asleep now. He can’t be wakened. Ask the lady to come into the hall.” Gordon went out, drawing the cur tains between the first room and the wide ballway, and met In the hall the visitor, who was promptly ushered iu by Williams. She was dressed in a remarkably old fashioned style that struck John Gor don as exceedingly interesting rather than grotesque. She was very old, at least ninety, but straight and vigor ous. Her keen blue eyes looked search- ingly at John Gordon, and she spoke in a sharp but remarkably clear voice. “Are you Mr. Barton?” “No, madam. I am his friend. Mr. Gordon. Mr. Barton is asleep dad not well. What can I do for you? Will you be seated?” “In a moment, sir.” She placed up on the floor a faded old carpetbag, took a handkerchief out of her pocket, carefully dusted one of the hall seats and then sat down. As she took out the handkerchief a delicate aroma was wafted to John Gordon. It reminded him of the fragrance lie remembered once while visiting the East India Marine museum at Salem, Mass., when the attendant opened an old sea chest, lined with cedar and packed with silk shawls. John Gordon was now thoroughly awake. The sharp eyes looked at him kindly. “I am exceedingly sorry to hear that Mr. Barton is ill. 1 very much wished ,to see him. First I must be pardoned for calling at this unseasonable hour. But I had the address and saw the light and knew that newspaper men kept queer hours. I have called at the office of the paper and was told Mr. Barton was at his apartments. I must go on my journey tonight”— John Gordon had not the remotest inkling as to the old lady’s errand. She was evidently a person of great refine ment and culture. “How much of a friend are you to Mr. Barton?” The question was so direct and fraui: that Gordon smiled. “I am his dearest friend.” “Man or woman ?” the old lady asked, with a twinkle of the eyes that made John Gordon smile again. “My friend has never had any love affair. He is a confirmed bachelor.” “Ah, don’t deceive yourself, young man. 1 am old enough to be youv grandmother, your great-grandmother almost, and 1 have seen a great deal of the world. But, pardon me; I must tell you what I came for.” She put her hand into a little bag that hung from a silk cord tied about her wrist. As she opened the bag the same delicate aroma penetrated the hall again. She handed a card to Gordon. He took it and read: $ “Mrs. Captain George Effingham, Sa lem.” “Well?” Gordon said. “I am Captain Effingham’s widow. My great-grandson was born on the day Captain Effingham died. His name was Clark Effingham. He ran away to sea when he was sixteen. Since then I have heard nothing of him until a week ago I had a letter from him dated Colorado Springs. He was con sumptive. but is getting better. I am on my way to see him.” She paused, and John Gordon, still In the dark as to the object ot her call on Barton, said: “Well?” “You said you were Mr. Barton’s nearest friend? How much of his refci life do you know?” Gordon was thoroughly surprised. For the first time he looked suspicious-/ ly and even doubtfully at the old lady.' “I know him well. There is not a kinder, purer, truer soul in this city than David Barton.” “I believe you,” the old lady nodded vigorously. “But I know more about him than you do. Listen! One night six months ago a young man, penniless, homeless, alone in this great city, wan walking its streets in a cold, penetrat ing rain. An east wind blew off tho water. The young man was proud. Ho would not write his relatives for help. He was afraid to let his aristocratic grandmother know that he had drifted off the sea, into one kind of vagabond life after another, until he was on tho verge of starvation and crime in a great, merciless city. “Out in the night, that night, this lad stumbled against your friend Mr. Barton. He gave him shelter and food, iheu he sent him out to Colorado be fore it was too lute. Then”— Gordon was crying. The old lady had some thing in her sharp eyes that glittered brighter than the eyes. “Then this lad discovered a secret. The Effinghams always were quick. He found out that he was not the only one. Mr. Gordon, do you know that this friend of yours has during the last five years sent a little colony of con sumptive people to Colorado and paid all their expenses there, saving at least a dozen lives? This much my grand son has discovered. He was the first one of them to find out his benefactor’s name and address. It first came to him through an accident, friend is—and you did not know want to thank him. 1 want to tell him how much my boy owes him. You said he was ill. I trust it is nothing serious?” John Gordon let the tears flow down his face. His friend’s jealously guard ed secret wns out at last. Now he knew why he had so stubbornly re fused to go to Colorado himself. He knew it was too late and had always been. But, knowing it, be had put his own life aside and had thus saved others. And it was too late for him now. The cynical, careless, great hearted friend suddenly grew into an image that would always sit on the throne of his memory in the high place of honor. “He is very ill? Tell me. Is it se; rious?” The old lady for the first tiffie'' betrayed uneasiness. John Gordon answered gently. “He Is very ill. He has consumption. He cannot live!” “God bless him!” the old lady ex- elaimcd. and her tears fell fast After awhile she said gently: t came to j But your j|| now It? I