No Story

I was doing space-work on the Beacon, hoping to be put on a salary. I wrote whatever the city whispered or roared or chuckled to me on my diligent wanderings about its streets. My income was not regular.

One day Tripp came in and leaned on my table. Tripp was working in the mechanical department – I think he had something to do with the pictures. He was about twenty-five and looked forty. Half of his face was covered with short, curly red beard. He was pale and unhealthy and miserable and fawning. He always borrowed money from all of us – from twenty-five cents to a dollar. One dollar was his limit. Nobody would give him more than a dollar. When he sat on my table he held one hand with the other. Both hands were shaking. Whiskey.

This day I had received from the cashier five shining silver dollars as an advance on a story that the Sunday editor had reluctantly accepted. So I was feeling at peace with the world.

“Well, Tripp,” said I, looking up at him rather impatiently, “how are you?” He was looking today more miserable, more cringing and haggard than I had ever seen him. “Have you got a dollar?” asked Tripp, with his most fawning look and his dog-like eyes.

“I have,” said I; and again I said, “I have,” more loudly and inhospitably, “and besides, I can tell you. And I drew them with great difficulty.”

“I don’t want to borrow any,” said Tripp, and I breathed again. “I thought you’d like to have some good facts for a nice story,” he went on. “It’ll probably cost you a dollar or two to get the facts. I don’t want any money for myself.”

“What is the story?” I asked him.

“I’ll tell you,” said Tripp. “It’s a girl. A beauty. She’s lived on Long Island twenty years and never saw New York City before. I met her on Thirty-fourth Street. She stopped me on the street and asked me where she could find George Brown. Asked me where she could find George Brown in New York City! What do you think of that?

I talked to her, and found that she was going to marry a young farmer named Hiram Dodd next week. But it seems that George Brown is still in her heart. George left Long Island some years ago, and came to the city to make his fortune. But he forgot to come back again, and she decided to marry Hiram. Suddenly Ada – her name’s Ada Lowery – took the train for New York City. Looking for George, you know – you understand about women – George wasn’t there, so she wanted him.

Well, you know, I couldn’t leave her loose in this town. I suppose she thought the first person she inquired of would say: “George Brown? – why, yes – let me see – he’s a short man with light-blue eyes, isn’t he? Oh yes – you’ll find George on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, next to the grocery. He’s a clerk in a store.” That’s about how innocent and beautiful she is.

What could I do? I don’t know what money looks like in the morning. And she’d paid her last cent of pocket-money for her railroad ticket. I took her to a boarding-house on Thirty-second Street where I used to live. We’ll have to pay one dollar for her room. That’s old Mother McGinnis’ price per day. I’ll show you the house.”

“What words are these, Tripp?” said I. “I thought you said you had a story. Every ferryboat that crosses the East River brings or takes away girls from Long Island.”

Tripp’s face grew dark. He separated his hands and emphasized his answer with one shaking forefinger.

“Can’t you see,” he said, “what a fine story it would make? All about the romance, you know, and describe the girl, and say some words about true love, and, well – you know how to do it. You will get fifteen dollars out of it, anyhow. And it’ll cost you only about four dollars. You’ll make a clear profit of eleven.”

“How will it cost me four dollars?” I asked, suspiciously.

“One dollar to Mrs. McGinnis,” Tripp answered, promptly, “and two dollars to pay the girl’s fare back home.”

“And the fourth dollar?” I inquired, making a rapid mental calculation.

“One dollar to me,” said Tripp. “For whiskey. Do you agree?”

I smiled enigmatically and continued to write.

“Don’t you see,” he said, with calmness, “that this girl must be sent home today – not tonight nor tomorrow, but today? I can’t do anything for her. Don’t you see that she must come back home before night?”

And then I began to feel the sense of duty. I knew that my three dollars would be spent on Ada Lowery. But I swore to myself that Tripp would not get his whiskey dollar. In chilly anger I put on my coat and hat.

Tripp conducted me to the boarding-house. He pulled the bell at the door.

“Give me one of the dollars – quick!” he said.

The door opened. Mother McGinnis stood there with white eyes and a yellow face. Tripp gave her one dollar and she let us in.

“She’s in the parlor,” said the McGinnis.

In the dim parlor a girl sat at the cracked marble table. She was weeping. She was a flawless beauty. Crying had only made her brilliant eyes brighter.

“My friend” (I shuddered), “Mr. Chalmers,” said Tripp, “will tell you, Miss Lowery, the same that I did. He’s a reporter, and he can talk better than I can. That’s why I brought him with me. He’s very clever, and he’ll tell you now what’s best to do.”

“Why – er – Miss Lowery,” I began, “I am at your service, of course, but – er —”

“Oh,” said Miss Lowery, “It’s the first time I’ve ever been in New York except once when I was five years old, and I had no idea it was such a big town. And I met Mr. Snip on the street and asked him about a friend of mine, and he brought me here and asked me to wait.”

“I advise you, Miss Lowery,” said Tripp, “to tell Mr. Chalmers all. He’s a friend of mine, and he’ll give you the right tip.”

“Certainly,” said Miss Ada. “There isn’t anything to tell except that – well, everything’s fixed for me to marry Hiram Dodd next Thursday evening. He has got two hundred acres of land, and one of the best truck-farms on the Island. But this morning I rode over to the station. I told them at home I was going to spend the day with Susie Adams. It was a story, I guess, but I don’t care. And I came to New York on the train, and I met Mr. Flip on the street and asked him if he knew where I could find G – G —”

“Now, Miss Lowery,” said Tripp loudly, “you like this young man, Hiram Dodd, don’t you? He’s all right, and good to you, isn’t he?”

“Of course I like him,” said Miss Lowery emphatically. “He’s all right. And of course he’s good to me. So is everybody.”

Of course, everybody was good to her. She is so beautiful.

“But,” went on Miss Lowery, “last night I thought about George, and I —”

She began to cry again. Such a beautiful April storm! I wished I could have comforted her. But I was not George. And I was glad I was not Hiram – and yet I was sorry, too.

She stopped crying and went on with her story.

“George Brown and I were sweethearts since he was eight and I was five. When he was nineteen – that was four years ago – he left Greenburg and went to the city. He said he was going to be a policeman or a railroad president or something. And then he was coming back for me. But I never heard from him any more. And I – I – liked him.”

She was going to cry again, but Tripp said:

“Mr. Chalmers, tell the lady what to do.”

I coughed. I saw my duty. Tripp was right: the young lady must be sent back to Greenburg that day. She must be convinced, assured, instructed, ticketed, and returned without delay. I hated Hiram and despised George; but duty must be done.

“Miss Lowery,” said I, as impressively as I could, “life is hard, after all. Those whom we first love we seldom wed. But life is full of realities as well as visions and dreams. One cannot live on memories. I am sure you will be happy with Mr. Dodd.”

“Oh, he’s all right,” answered Miss Lowery. “Yes, I could get along with him fine. He’s promised me an automobile and a motor-boat. But I am just thinking about George. He doesn’t write, because something happened to him. On the day he left, he and me got a hammer and a chisel and cut a dime into two pieces. I took one piece and he took the other, and we promised to be true to each other and always keep the pieces till we meet again. I’ve got mine at home now in a ring-box. I know I was silly to come here looking for him. I never realized what a big place it is.”

And then Tripp laughed, still trying to earn his whisky dollar.

“Oh, the boys from the country forget a lot when they come to the city. I guess George, maybe, is in love with some other girl, or maybe he has gone to the dogs on account of whiskey. You listen to Mr. Chalmers and go back home, and you’ll be all right.”

I spoke gently and philosophically with Miss Lowery, delicately convincing her of the importance of returning home at once. She said she had left her horse tied to a tree near the railroad station. The three of us hurried to the ferry, and there I bought a ticket to Greenburg for a dollar and eighty cents. I bought one, and a red, red rose for Miss Lowery. We said good-bye to her.

I looked at Tripp and almost sneered. He looked more careworn, contemptible, and disreputable than ever.

“Can’t you get a story out of it?” he asked, huskily. “Some sort of a story?”

“Not a line,” said I. “But we’ve helped the little lady, and that’ll be our only reward.”

“I’m sorry,” said Tripp, almost inaudibly. “I’m sorry you just spent your money.”

“Let’s try to forget it,” said I.

Tripp unbuttoned his coat to take a handkerchief from his pocket. As he did so I noticed a cheap silver-plated watch-chain across his vest. Something was hanging from the chain. It was the half of a silver dime that had been cut in halves with a chisel.

“What!” I said, looking at him keenly.

“Oh yes,” he responded, dully. “George Brown, now Tripp, what’s the use?”

I took Tripp’s whiskey dollar from my pocket and put it in his hand.