Cast Adrift

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"A great deal better," was replied by Miss Peter. "I've tried them
both, and wouldn't go back to a store again on any account. If I can
serve your friend, I shall be most happy."

"Thank you!" returned Flora; "you are very kind."

"Not at all; I'm always glad when I can be of service to any one.
You think you'd like to go into a bindery?"

"Yes. I've come to the city to get employment, and haven't much
choice."

"There's no place like the city," remarked the other. "I'd die in
the country--nothing going on. But you won't stagnate here. When did
you arrive?"

"To-day."

"Have you friends here?"

"No. I brought a letter of introduction to a lady who resides in the
city."

"What's her name?"

"Mrs. Bray."

Miss Peter turned her head so that Flora could not see her face. It
was plain from its expression that she knew Mrs. Bray.

"Have you seen her yet?" she asked.

"No. She was out when I called. I'm going back in a little while."

The girl sat down, and went on talking while the others were eating.
Pinky had emptied her glass of sangaree before she was half through
with her oysters, and kept urging Flora to drink.

"Don't be afraid of it, dear," she said, in a kind, persuasive way;
"there's hardly a thimbleful of wine in the whole glass. It will
soothe your nerves, and make you feel ever so much better."

There was something in the taste of the sangaree that Flora did not
like--a flavor that was not of wine. But urged repeatedly by her
companion, whose empty glass gave her encouragement and confidence,
she sipped and drank until she had taken the whole of it. By this
time she was beginning to have a sense of fullness and confusion in
the head, and to feel oppressed and uncomfortable. Her appetite
suddenly left her, and she laid down her knife and fork and leaned
her head upon her hand.

"What's the matter?" asked Pinky.

"Nothing," answered the girl; "only my head feels a little
strangely. It will pass off in a moment."

"Riding in the cars, maybe," said Pinky. "I always feel bad after
being in the cars; it kind of stirs me up."

Flora sat very quietly at the table, still resting her head upon her
hands. Pinky and the girl who had joined them exchanged looks of
intelligence. The former had drawn her veil partly aside, yet
concealing as much as possible the bruises on her face.

"My! but you're battered!" exclaimed Miss Peter, in a whisper that
was unheard by Flora.

Pinky only answered by a grimace. Then she said to Flora, with
well-affected concern,

"I'm afraid you are ill, dear? How do you feel?"

"I don't know," answered the poor girl, in a voice that betrayed
great anxiety, if not alarm. "It came over me all at once. I'm
afraid that wine was too strong; I am not used to taking anything."

"Oh dear, no! it wasn't that. I drank a glass, and don't feel it any
more than if it had been water."

"Let's go," said Flora, starting up. "Mrs. Bray must be home by this
time."

"All right, if you feel well enough," returned Pinky, rising at the
same time.

"Oh dear! how my head swims!" exclaimed Flora, putting both hands to
her temples. She stood for a few moments in an uncertain attitude,
then reached out in a blind, eager way.

Pinky drew quickly to her side, and put one arm about her waist.

"Come," she said, "the air is too close for you here;" and with the
assistance of the girl who had joined them, she steadied Flora down
stairs.

"Doctored a little too high," whispered Miss Peter, with her mouth
close to Pinky's ear.

"All right," Pinky whispered back; "they know how to do it."

At the foot of the stairs Pinky said,

"You take her out through the yard, while I pay for the oysters.
I'll be with you in a moment."

Poor Flora, was already too much confused by the drugged liquor she
had taken to know what they were doing with her.

Hastily paying for the oysters and liquor, Pinky was on hand in a
few moments. From the back door of the house they entered a small
yard, and passed from this through a gate into a narrow private
alley shut in on each side by a high fence. This alley ran for a
considerable distance, and had many gates opening into it from
yards, hovels and rear buildings, all of the most forlorn and
wretched character. It terminated in a small street.

Along this alley Pinky and the girl she had met at the restaurant
supported Flora, who was fast losing strength and consciousness.
When halfway down, they held a brief consultation.

"It won't do," said Pinky, "to take her through to----street. She's
too far gone, and the police will be down on us and carry her off."

"Norah's got some place in there," said the other, pointing to an
old wooden building close by.

"I'm out with Norah," replied Pinky, "and don't mean to have
anything more to do with her."

"Where's your room?"

"That isn't the go. Don't want her there. Pat Maley's cellar is just
over yonder. We can get in from the alley."

"Pat's too greedy a devil. There wouldn't be anything left of her
when he got through. No, no, Pinky; I'll have nothing to do with it
if she's to go into Pat Maley's cellar."

"Not much to choose between 'em," answered Pinky. "But it won't do
to parley here. We must get her in somewhere."

And she pushed open a gate as she spoke. It swung back on one hinge
and struck the fence with a bang, disclosing a yard that beggared
description in its disorder and filth. In the back part of this yard
was a one-and-a-half-story frame building, without windows, looking
more like an old chicken-house or pig-stye than a place for human
beings to live in. The loft over the first story was reached by
ladder on the outside. Above and below the hovel was laid off in
kind of stalls or bunks furnished with straw. There were about
twenty of these. It was a ten-cent lodging-house, filled nightly. If
this wretched hut or stye--call it what you will--had been torn
down, it would not have brought ten dollars as kindling-wood. Yet
its owner, a gentleman (?) living handsomely up town, received for
it the annual rent of two hundred and fifty dollars. Subletted at an
average of two dollars a night, it gave an income of nearly seven
hundred dollars a year. It was known as the "Hawk's Nest," and no
bird of prey ever had a fouler nest than this.

As the gate banged on the fence a coarse, evil-looking man, wearing
a dirty Scotch cap and a red shirt, pushed his head up from the
cellar of the house that fronted on the street.

"What's wanted?" he asked, in a kind of growl, his upper lip
twitching and drawing up at one side in a nervous way, letting his
teeth appear.

"We want to get this girl in for a little while," said Pinky. "We'll
take her away when she comes round. Is anybody in there?" and she
pointed to the hovel.

The man shook his head.

"How much?" asked Pinky.

"Ten cents apiece;" and he held out his hand.

Pinky gave him thirty cents. He took a key from his pocket, and
opened the door that led into the lower room. The stench that came
out as the door swung back was dreadful. But poor Flora Bond was by
this time so relaxed in every muscle, and so dead to outward things,
that it was impossible to get her any farther. So they bore her into
this horrible den, and laid her down in one of the stalls on a bed
of loose straw. Inside, there was nothing but these stalls and
straw--not a table or chair, or any article of furniture. They
filled up nearly the entire room, leaving only a narrow passage
between them. The only means of ventilation was by the door.

As soon as Pinky and her companion in this terrible wickedness were
alone with their victim, they searched her pocket for the key of her
traveling-bag. On finding it, Pinky was going to open it, when the
other said,

"Never mind about that; we can examine her baggage in safer place.
Let's go for the movables."

And saying this, she fell quickly to work on the person of Flora,
slipping out the ear-rings first, then removing her breast-pin and
finger-rings, while Pinky unbuttoned the new gaiter boots, and drew
off both boots and stockings, leaving upon the damp straw the small,
bare feet, pink and soft almost as a baby's.

It did not take these harpies five minutes to possess themselves of
everything but the poor girl's dress and undergarments. Cloth
oversack, pocket-book, collar, linen cuffs, hat, shoes and
stockings--all these were taken.

"Hallo!" cried the keeper of this foul den as the two girls hurried
out with the traveling-bag and a large bundle sooner than he had
expected; and he came quickly forth from the cellar in which he
lived like a cruel spider and tried to intercept them, but they
glided through the gate and were out of his reach before he could
get near. He could follow them only with obscene invectives and
horrible oaths. Well he knew what had been done--that there had been
a robbery in the "Hawk's Nest," and he not in to share the booty.

Growling like a savage dog, this wretch, in whom every instinct of
humanity had long since died--this human beast, who looked on
innocence and helplessness as a wolf looks upon a lamb--strode
across the yard and entered the den. Lying in one of the stalls upon
the foul, damp straw he found Flora Bond. Cruel beast that he was,
even he felt himself held back as by an invisible hand, as he looked
at the pure face of the insensible girl. Rarely had his eyes rested
on a countenance so full of innocence. But the wolf has no pity for
the lamb, nor the hawk for the dove. The instinct of his nature
quickly asserted itself.

Avarice first. From the face his eyes turned to see what had been
left by the two girls. An angry imprecation fell from his lips when
he saw how little remained for him. But when he lifted Flora's head
and unbound her hair, a gleam of pleasure came info his foul face.
It was a full suit of rich chestnut brown, nearly three feet long,
and fell in thick masses over her breast and shoulders. He caught it
up eagerly, drew it through his great ugly hands, and gloated over
it with something of a miser's pleasure as he counts his gold. Then
taking a pair of scissors from his pocket, he ran them over the
girl's head with the quickness and skill of a barber, cutting close
down, that he might not lose even the sixteenth part of an inch of
her rich tresses. An Indian scalping his victim could not have shown
more eagerness. An Indian's wild pleasure was in his face as he
lifted the heavy mass of brown hair and held it above his head. It
was not a trophy--not a sign of conquest and triumph over an
enemy--but simply plunder, and had a market value of fifteen or
twenty dollars.

The dress was next examined; it was new, but not of a costly
material. Removing this, the man went out with his portion of the
spoils, and locked the door, leaving the half-clothed, unconscious
girl lying on the damp, filthy straw, that swarmed with vermin. It
was cold as well as damp, and the chill of a bleak November day
began creeping into her warm blood. But the stupefying draught had
been well compounded, and held her senses locked.

Of what followed we cannot write, and we shiver as we draw a veil
over scenes that should make the heart of all Christendom
ache--scenes that are repeated in thousands of instances year by
year in our large cities, and no hand is stretched forth to succor
and no arm to save. Under the very eyes of the courts and the
churches things worse than we have described--worse than the reader
can imagine--are done every day. The foul dens into which crime goes
freely, and into which innocence is betrayed, are known to the
police, and the evil work that is done is ever before them. From one
victim to another their keepers pass unquestioned, and plunder,
debauch, ruin and murder with an impunity frightful to contemplate.
As was said by a distinguished author, speaking of a kindred social
enormity, "There is not a country throughout the earth on which a
state of things like this would not bring a curse. There is no
religion upon earth that it would not deny; there is no people on
earth that it would not put to shame."

And we are Christians!

No. Of what followed we cannot write. Those who were near the
"Hawk's Nest" heard that evening, soon after nightfall, the single
wild, prolonged cry of a woman. It was so full of terror and despair
that even the hardened ears that heard it felt a sudden pain. But
they were used to such things in that region, and no one took the
trouble to learn what it meant. Even the policeman moving on his
beat stood listening for only a moment, and then passed on.

Next day, in the local columns of a city paper, appeared the
following:

"FOUL PLAY.--About eleven o'clock last night the body of a beautiful
young girl, who could not have been over seventeen years of age, was
discovered lying on the pavement in----street. No one knew how she
came there. She was quite dead when found. There was nothing by
which she could be identified. All her clothes but a single
undergarment had been removed, and her hair cut off close to her
head. There were marks of brutal violence on her person. The body
was placed in charge of the coroner, who will investigate the
matter."

On the day after, this paragraph appeared:

"SUSPICION OF FOUL PLAY.--The coroner's inquest elicited nothing in
regard to the young girl mentioned yesterday as having been found
dead and stripped of her clothing in----street. No one was able to
identify her. A foul deed at which the heart shudders has been done;
but the wretches by whom it was committed have been able to cover
their tracks."

And that was the last of it. The whole nation gives a shudder of
fear at the announcement of an Indian massacre and outrage. But in
all our large cities are savages more cruel and brutal in their
instincts than the Comanches, and they torture and outrage and
murder a hundred poor victims for every one that is exposed to
Indian brutality, and there comes no succor. Is it from ignorance of
the fact? No, no, no! There is not a Judge on the bench, not a
lawyer at the bar, not a legislator at the State capital, not a
mayor or police-officer, not a minister who preaches the gospel of
Christ, who came to seek and to save, not an intelligent citizen,
but knows of all this.

What then? Who is responsible? The whole nation arouses itself at
news of an Indian assault upon some defenseless frontier settlement,
and the general government sends troops to succor and to punish. But
who takes note of the worse than Indian massacres going on daily and
nightly in the heart of our great cities? Who hunts down and
punishes the human wolves in our midst whose mouths are red with the
blood of innocence? Their deeds of cruelty outnumber every year a
hundred--nay, a thousand--fold the deeds of our red savages. Their
haunts are known, and their work is known. They lie in wait for the
unwary, they gather in the price of human souls, none hindering, at
our very church doors. Is no one responsible for all this? Is there
no help? Is evil stronger than good, hell stronger than heaven? Have
the churches nothing to do in this matter? Christ came to seek and
to save that which was lost--came to the lowliest, the poorest and
the vilest, to those over whom devils had gained power, and cast out
the devils. Are those who call themselves by his name diligent in
the work to which he put his blessed hands? Millions of dollars go
yearly into magnificent churches, but how little to the work of
saving and succoring the weak, the helpless, the betrayed, the
outcast and the dying, who lie uncared for at the mercy of human
fiends, and often so near to the temples of God that their agonized
appeals for help are drowned by the organ and choir!

CHAPTER IX.

_THE_ two girls, on leaving the "Hawk's Nest" with their plunder,
did not pass from the narrow private alley into the small street at
its termination, but hurried along the way they had come, and
re-entered the restaurant by means of the gate opening into the
yard. Through the back door they gained a small, dark room, from
which a narrow stairway led to the second and third stories of the
rear building. They seemed to be entirely familiar with the place.

On reaching the third story, Pinky gave two quick raps and then a
single rap on a closed door. No movement being heard within, she
rapped again, reversing the order--that is, giving one distinct rap,
and then two in quick succession. At this the door came slowly open,
and the two girls passed in with their bundle of clothing and the
traveling-bag.

The occupant of this room was a small, thin, well-dressed man, with
cold, restless gray eyes and the air of one who was alert and
suspicious. His hair was streaked with gray, as were also his full
beard and moustache. A diamond pin of considerable value was in his
shirt bosom. The room contained but few articles. There was a worn
and faded carpet on the floor, a writing-table and two or three
chairs, and a small bookcase with a few books, but no evidence
whatever of business--not a box or bundle or article of merchandise
was to be seen.

As the two girls entered he, shut the door noiselessly, and turned
the key inside. Then his manner changed; his eyes lighted, and there
was an expression of interest in his face. He looked toward the bag
and bundle.

Pinky sat down upon the floor and hurriedly unlocked the
traveling-bag. Thrusting in her hand, she drew out first a muslin
nightgown and threw it down, then a light shawl, a new barege dress,
a pair of slippers, collars, cuffs, ribbons and a variety of
underclothing, and last of all a small Bible and a prayer-book.
These latter she tossed from her with a low derisive laugh, which
was echoed by her companion, Miss Peter.

The bundle was next opened, and the cloth sacque, the hat, the boots
and stockings and the collar and cuffs thrown upon the floor with
the contents of the bag.

"How much?" asked Pinky, glancing up at the man.

They were the first words that had been spoken. At this the man knit
his brows in an earnest way, and looked business. He lifted each
article from the floor, examined it carefully and seemed to be
making a close estimate of its value. The traveling-bag was new, and
had cost probably five dollars. The cloth sacque could not have been
made for less than twelve dollars. A fair valuation of the whole
would have been near forty dollars.

"How much?" repeated Pinky, an impatient quiver in her voice.

"Six dollars," replied the man.

"Six devils!" exclaimed Pinky, in a loud, angry voice.

"Six devils! you old swindler!" chimed in Miss Peter.

"You can take them away. Just as you like," returned the man, with
cool indifference. "Perhaps the police will give you more. It's the
best I can do."

"But see here, Jerkin," said Pinky: "that sacque is worth twice the
money."

"Not to me. I haven't a store up town. I can't offer it for sale in
the open market. Don't you understand?"

"Say ten dollars."

"Six."

"Here's a breast-pin and a pair of ear-rings," said Miss Peter;
"we'll throw them in;" and she handed Jerkin, as he was called, the
bits of jewelry she had taken from the person of Flora Bond. He
looked at them almost contemptuously as he replied,

"Wouldn't give you a dollar for the set."

"Say eight dollars for the whole," urged Pinky.

"Six fifty, and not a cent more," answered Jerkin.

"Hand over, then, you old cormorant!" returned the girl, fretfully.
"It's a shame to swindle us in this way."

The man took out his pocket-book and paid the money, giving half to
each of the girls.

"It's just a swindle!" repeated Pinky. "You're an old hard-fisted
money-grubber, and no better than a robber. Three dollars and a
quarter for all that work! It doesn't pay for the trouble. We ought
to have had ten apiece."

"You can make it ten or twenty, or maybe a hundred, if you will,"
said Jerkin, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. He gave his thumb a
little movement over his shoulder as he spoke.

"That's so!" exclaimed Pinky, her manner undergoing a change, and
her face growing bright--at least as much of it as could brighten.
"Look here, Nell," speaking to Miss Peter, and drawing a piece of
paper from her pocket, "I've got ten rows here. Fanny Bray gave me
five dollars to go a half on each row. Meant to have gone to Sam
McFaddon's last night, but got into a muss with old Sal and Norah,
and was locked up."

"They make ten hits up there to one at Sam McFaddon's," said Jerkin,
again twitching his thumb over his shoulder. "It's the luckiest
office I ever heard of. Two or three hits every day for a week
past--got a lucky streak, somehow. If you go in anywhere, take my
advice and go in there," lifting his hand and twitching his thumb
upward and over his shoulder again.

The two girls passed from the room, and the door was shut and locked
inside. No sooner had they done so than Jerkin made a new
examination of the articles, and after satisfying himself as to
their value proceeded to put them out of sight. Lifting aside a
screen that covered the fireplace, he removed from the chimney back,
just above the line of sight, a few loose bricks, and through the
hole thus made thrust the articles he had bought, letting them drop
into a fireplace on the other side.

On leaving the room of this professional receiver of stolen goods,
Pinky and her friend descended to the second story, and by a door
which had been cut through into the adjoining property passed to the
rear building of the house next door. They found themselves on a
landing, or little square hall, with a stairway passing down to the
lower story and another leading to the room above. A number of
persons were going up and coming down--a forlorn set, for the most
part, of all sexes, ages and colors. Those who were going up
appeared eager and hopeful, while those who were coming down looked
disappointed, sorrowful, angry or desperate. There was a "policy
shop" in one of the rooms above, and these were some of its
miserable customers. It was the hour when the morning drawings of
the lotteries were received at the office, or "shop," and the poor
infatuated dupes who had bet on their favorite "rows" were crowding
in to learn the result.

Poor old men and women in scant or wretched clothing, young girls
with faces marred by evil, blotched and bloated creatures of both
sexes, with little that was human in their countenances, except the
bare features, boys and girls not yet in their teens, but old in
vice and crime, and drunkards with shaking nerves,--all these were
going up in hope and coming down in disappointment. Here and there
was one of a different quality, a scantily-dressed woman with a
thin, wasted face and hollow eyes, who had been fighting the wolf
and keeping fast hold of her integrity, or a tender,
innocent-looking girl, the messenger of a weak and shiftless mother,
or a pale, bright-eyed boy whose much-worn but clean and well-kept
garments gave sad evidence of a home out of which prop and stay had
been removed. The strong and the weak, the pure and the defiled,
were there. A poor washerwoman who in a moment of weakness has
pawned the garments entrusted to her care, that she might venture
upon a "row" of which she had dreamed, comes shrinking down with a
pale, frightened face, and the bitterness of despair in her heart.
She has lost. What then? She has no friend from whom she can borrow
enough money to redeem the clothing, and if it is not taken home she
may be arrested as a thief and sent to prison. She goes away, and
temptation lies close at her feet. It is her extremity and the evil
one's opportunity. So far she has kept herself pure, but the
disgrace of a public prosecution and a sentence to prison are
terrible things to contemplate. She is in peril of her soul. God
help her!

Who is this dressed in rusty black garments and closely veiled, who
comes up from the restaurant, one of the convenient and unsuspected
entrances to this robber's den?--for a "policy-shop" is simply a
robbery shop, and is so regarded by the law, which sets a penalty
upon the "writer" and the "backer" as upon other criminals. But who
is this veiled woman in faded mourning garments who comes gliding as
noiselessly as a ghost out from one of the rooms of the restaurant,
and along the narrow entry leading to the stairway, now so thronged
with visitors? Every day she comes and goes, no one seeing her face,
and every day, with rare exceptions, her step is slower and her form
visibly more shrunken when she goes out than when she comes in. She
is a broken-down gentlewoman, the widow of an officer, who left her
at his death a moderate fortune, and quite sufficient for the
comfortable maintenance of herself and two nearly grown-up
daughters. But she had lived at the South, and there acquired a
taste for lottery gambling. During her husband's lifetime she wasted
considerable money in lottery tickets, once or twice drawing small
prizes, but like all lottery dupes spending a hundred dollars for
one gained. The thing had become a sort of mania with her. She
thought so much of prizes and drawn numbers through the day that she
dreamed of them all night. She had a memorandum-book in which were
all the combinations she had ever heard of as taking prizes. It
contained page after page of lucky numbers and fancy "rows," and was
oftener in her hand than any other book.

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