The boy was distinctly shocked. He wasn’t sure but Thomas was jealous of the attention the white man had shown him and wished to belittle it. Anyway, he did not thank him for destroying his romance.
About eleven o’clock, when the people began to drop in from the plays, the master of ceremonies opened proceedings by saying that “The free concert would now begin, and he hoped that all present, ladies included, would act like gentlemen, and not forget the waiter. Mr. Meriweather will now favour us with the latest coon song, entitled ‘Come back to yo’ Baby, Honey.’ ”
There was a patter of applause, and a young negro came forward, and in a strident, music-hall voice, sung or rather recited with many gestures the ditty. He couldn’t have been much older than Joe, but already his face was hard with dissipation and foul knowledge. He gave the song with all the rank suggestiveness that could be put into it. Joe looked upon him as a hero. He was followed by a little, brown-skinned fellow with an immature Vandyke beard and a lisp. He sung his own composition and was funny; how much funnier than he himself knew or intended, may not even be hinted at. Then, while an instrumentalist, who seemed to have a grudge against the piano, was hammering out the opening bars of a march, Joe’s attention was attracted by a woman entering the room, and from that moment he heard no more of the concert. Even when the master of ceremonies announced with an air that, by special request, he himself would sing “Answer,”—the request was his own—he did not draw the attention of the boy away from the yellow-skinned divinity who sat at a near table, drinking whiskey straight.
She was a small girl, with fluffy dark hair and good features. A tiny foot peeped out from beneath her rattling silk skirts. She was a good-looking young woman and daintily made, though her face was no longer youthful, and one might have wished that with her complexion she had not run to silk waists in magenta.
Joe, however, saw no fault in her. She was altogether lovely to him, and his delight was the more poignant as he recognised in her one of the girls he had seen on the stage a couple of weeks ago. That being true, nothing could keep her from being glorious in his eyes—not even the greasepaint which adhered in unneat patches to her face, nor her taste for whiskey in its unreformed state. He gazed at her in ecstasy until Thomas, turning to see what had attracted him, said with a laugh, “Oh, it’s Hattie Sterling. Want to meet her?”
Again the young fellow was dumb. Just then Hattie also noticed his intent look, and nodded and beckoned to Thomas.
“Come on,” he said, rising.
“Oh, she didn’t ask for me,” cried Joe, tremulous and eager.
His companion went away laughing.
“Who’s your young friend?” asked Hattie.
“A fellah from the South.”
“Bring him over here.”
Joe could hardly believe in his own good luck, and his head, which was getting a bit weak, was near collapsing when his divinity asked him what he’d have? He began to protest, until she told the waiter with an air of authority to make it a little “ ’skey.” Then she asked him for a cigarette, and began talking to him in a pleasant, soothing way between puffs.
When the drinks came, she said to Thomas, “Now, old man, you’ve been awfully nice, but when you get your little drink, you run away like a good little boy. You’re superfluous.”
Thomas answered, “Well, I like that,” but obediently gulped his whiskey and withdrew, while Joe laughed until the master of ceremonies stood up and looked sternly at him.
The concert had long been over and the room was less crowded when Thomas sauntered back to the pair.
“Well, good night,” he said. “Guess you can find your way home, Mr. Hamilton;” and he gave Joe a long wink.
“Goo’ night,” said Joe, woozily, “I be a’ ri’. Goo’ night.”
“Make it another ’skey,” was Hattie’s farewell remark.
It was late the next morning when Joe got home. He had a headache and a sense of triumph that not even his illness and his mother’s reproof could subdue.
He had promised Hattie to come often to the club.
X
A Visitor from Home
Mrs. Hamilton began to question very seriously whether she had done the best thing in coming to New York as she saw her son staying away more and more and growing always farther away from her and his sister. Had she known how and where he spent his evenings, she would have had even greater cause to question the wisdom of their trip. She knew that although he worked he never had any money for the house, and she foresaw the time when the little they had would no longer suffice for Kitty and her. Realising this, she herself set out to find something to do.
It was a hard matter, for wherever she went seeking employment, it was always for her and her daughter, for the more she saw of Mrs. Jones, the less she thought it well to leave the girl under her influence. Mrs. Hamilton was not a keen woman, but she had a mother’s intuitions, and she saw a subtle change in her daughter. At first the girl grew wistful and then impatient and rebellious. She complained that Joe was away from them so much enjoying himself, while she had to be housed up like a prisoner. She had receded from her dignified position, and twice of an evening had gone out for a car ride with Thomas; but as that gentleman never included the mother in his invitation, she decided that her daughter should go no more, and she begged Joe to take his sister out sometimes instead. He demurred at first, for he now numbered among his city acquirements a fine contempt for his
