# The Blind Bow-boy/Chapter 3

If Harold had entered his father's house cringing, it cannot be said that he left it with his head high. To most boys the promise of a year's freedom under such exceptional circumstances would have opened up a prospect of unbounded bliss, the security of an irresponsible existence. But Harold was not like most boys. He had entertained, it seems probable, some vague expectation that he would be invited to remain.
It was, therefore, a very dazed young man who fairly tottered down the stairs and almost jumped when the servant emerged from the darkness to present him with his hat and usher him through the open doorway. Out in the bright June glare of Eighty-second Street he thought for a moment that he was going to be sick, but he managed to summon enough force to hail a passing taxi-cab, and to give the address of his new home.
Sinking well back into the seat of the cab, he removed his hat and wiped the perspiration from his temples. Freed from the cloak and suit business by this extraordinary father, so much more extraordinary even than he had suspected, Harold seemed committed to a new life which was still more out ​of his line. He was decidedly alarmed at the prospect before him. This Paul Moody assumed in his eyes a somewhat libidinous character. Even with his limited imagination he could not entirely efface visions of a troubled future from his mind. It was not fair, he began to argue with himself, that he should be dependent on such a singular parent. I am more like my mother, he assured himself. I must be like my mother, and he thought of the pretty miniature of that lady which he possessed. But the possibility of disobedience did not occur to him. All his life he had lived according to the desires of others, and it seemed natural enough to go on living that way.
Suddenly, and for the first time, Harold became aware of his surroundings, for the taxi had come to a full stop. At Broadway, near Twenty-eighth Street, a heavy truck had become entangled with a taxi-cab in so intimate a manner as to completely obstruct the street. A great crowd had already collected. Out of the window of the taxi—for the occupants of neither vehicle appeared to have suffered injury—peeped the frightened and beautiful head of a maiden, a maiden with golden hair and velvet, violet eyes. She wore a blue turban and a simple, blue frock. Out of the violet eyes tears were streaming. A policeman was taking the names of the drivers. The young lady emerged and Harold caught himself staring at her. She approached the policeman.
​Is it necessary for me to remain? she asked.
You must give me your name, he replied. We'll need you as a witness.
They were standing directly outside the window of Harold's taxi. He could plainly hear the questions and answers.
But my man was not to blame. The truck-driver turned to the left.
That's what you can tell the judge.
The judge!
The young lady began to cry in earnest.
Your name, miss, and then you can go.
She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. She was so pitiful and so appealing: Harold felt very sorry for her.
Alice Blake.
Address?
56 East Thirty-seventh Street.
Thank you, miss. You will get a summons. You must be in court tomorrow at nine o'clock.
Isn't there some way. . . . ?
No, miss, no other way.
She turned to depart, hoping, doubtless, to find another cab. In the meantime, observing that it would take some moments to clear the street, Harold's driver was attempting to turn about and escape by way of Twenty-ninth Street. At last he succeeded. On the corner stood Miss Blake, timidly bidding for a taxi, but every one that passed seemed to be occupied.
​The situation inspired Harold with a hitherto unrealized degree of initiative.
You are going my way . . . Can I take you home? he leaned out of the cab, not without embarrassment, to call to her.
I don't know you, sir.
This rejoinder was made quite simply, without rudeness, but it caused Harold to turn red to the full height of his forehead.
I beg your pardon. I thought . . .
His confusion seemed to reassure her.
You are very good, she said, as she stepped into his cab. I look such a fright crying, I hate to be seen on the street . . . I've been arrested. She sobbed aloud now . . . Father will never forgive me.
But you weren't driving the car.
The chauffeur, as he turned into Fifth Avenue, asked for orders, and Harold gave Alice's address.
You know where I live! she exclaimed with amazement.
I heard you tell the policeman.
You know my name, too?
Yes. . . . Mine is Harold Prewett.
You see, my father says, she resumed, without seeming to have heard him, that a lady will avoid accidents.
It wasn't your fault. He would be a brute to scold you.
I have disobeyed him. He has told me always ​to take a cherry taxi. He is very particular about that. I wasin sucha hurry . . . I was late for my piano lesson . . . I took a pistache taxi. There was no other about. It is my fault. Father says that the cherry taxis never have accidents.
That's nonsense. The truck ran into you; you didn't run into it. What happened might just as easily have happened to a Rolls-Royce.
Her manner did not indicate that she was ungrateful for his sympathy; nevertheless, she appeared to be inconsolable, and continued to sob intermittently. Nor did she speak again until they reached her door, when with a muttered. Thank you, and the slight flutter of a gloved hand, she descended and disappeared in a brown-stone house, before the difident Harold had time to give utterance to even one of the hundred different remarks that were surging inarticulately in his brain. He gazed at the closed door. Something seemed to have come into his life and to have gone out of it again. As the taxi drove away he leaned back against the cushions and wiped his temples for the second time that warm June afternoon. He was, indeed, so bewildered by the events of the day that his head began to ache violently.
Presently, his taxi stopped before an apartment house on East Eighteenth Street, and he remembered that he had one more ordeal to go through. The boy in the elevator, a Spaniard, was most obsequious. He had quite evidently been ​warned of an important arrival. Harold was carried up to the fourth floor, and Pedro ran on ahead to ring the bell of apartment B. The door was opened by a properly uniformed English servant, very tall, very thin, with searching grey eyes, clean-cut, sharp features, a pointed nose, a cleft chin, and very thin hair, embellished with brilliantine and plastered severely over a dome-like head. Harold almost trembled at the sight of him.
Mr. Prewett, I believe, sir. My name is Oliver Drains.
He bowed.
Your trunks and bags have arrived, sir. Mr. Sanderson saw to that.
Harold walked into his new home, not without interest. It was a suite of four rooms and bath. There was a living-room, which was also a library, a dining-room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a bath. An alcove, leading from the living-room, held a couch which could be used for a guest. Harold also noted presently that there were twin beds in the bedroom. The walls were painted, deep blue in the living-room and dining-room, rose in the bedroom. The curtains were of coarse brown linen, bordered with a narrow band of chocolate tape, and heavily lined so that when they were drawn they excluded the daylight. The furniture had slipcovers of the same linen, but such articles as tables, which remained uncovered, were of mahogany, modern-antique in style, but not disagreeable to ​the eye. Persian rugs made pleasant splashes on the polished oak floors. On the walls were photographs of subjects not unknown to the world: Veronese's Marriage at Cana, Watteau's Pierrot, Ingres's La Source. . . . The selector evidently had been prejudiced in favour of the Louvre.
There were also a few books in a case and on the centre-table in the living-room: Alice in Wonderland, The Way of All Flesh, Ethan Frome, Daughters of the Rich, The Spoon River Anthology, Crome Yellow, The Three Black Pennys, Three Soldiers, Figures of Earth, Gentle Julia, Memoirs of a Midget, and a book of poems by Witter Bynner. There were a few magazines: current numbers of the Atlantic Monthly, the Saturday Evening Post, the Dial, Harper's Bazar, the London Mercury, the Nation, the Cosmopolitan, and the Police Gazette. Harold fingered these periodicals, without much more than taking in their titles. Only the Police Gazette was strange to him, and caused him to wonder why his father had chosen that. For, apparently, every object in the apartment had been carefully chosen.
Drains interrupted his revery.
Will you have a bath, sir? I have laid out your dinner clothes.
What time is it, Oliver?
It is a quarter to six, sir.
And where do I dine?
​With Mr. Moody if you like, sir. I was to telephone.
Not tonight, Harold replied in haste, acting by instinct. Telephone Mr. Moody that I will call on him tomorrow afternoon.
Very good, sir. Will you dine at home, sir?
Rapidly Harold was made aware of how much his own master he had become. It gave him size.
Is there anything to eat in the house?
Certainly, sir. What there is not I can get. The markets are open. May I suggest a chop, sir?
A chop? Yes, and . . .
And green peas, sir; a salad, a sweet, and coffee, sir.
I think that will be all right, Harold replied, awkwardly fingering the Police Gazette.
Thank you, sir, and now will you have your bath?
Drains led the way into the white-tiled bathroom and helped Harold divest himself of his clothing. Water already poured from the faucets and the tub was nearly full. Plunged therein, Harold recalled the events of the day with some confusion, a vague alarm, and yet not altogether without pleasure. After all, his father had been kind: he had permitted him, even requested him, to live as he pleased for a year, and he had already met Alice. He wondered when he would see her again. . . . But this Paul Moody! Evidently a strange bird.
Ugh! Harold was blushing again. Drains was scrubbing his back.
​Am I scrubbing too hard, sir?
N-n-no.
Now, step out on the mat, sir, and I will dry you.
Drains enveloped Harold in a vast towel, patting him a few times; then, taking the two ends of the towel, he walked a few feet away and began fanning the bather with the folds. To conclude the adventure he brought Harold a handsome silk dressing-gown with a figured Persian design, and a copy of the Evening Globe.
Would you prefer another paper, sir? I am not yet acquainted with your tastes.
It doesn't matter. This will do.
Very good, sir. Now will you dress for dinner, or dine in your dressing-gown?
I think . . . Did my father say?
Your father's orders were that you were to do exactly as you pleased, sir.
Harold remembered.
I will stay as I am.
Very good, sir. Now, after I have telephoned Mr. Moody, I will prepare your dinner, sir.
Listening to Drains at the telephone in the bedroom, Harold had an inspiration.
Will you bring me the telephone-book, please, Oliver, he said, as the man hung up the receiver.
Certainly, sir.
Starting to thumb the edges nervously, he was aware that the man still stood before him.
Anything else, sir?
​No, that's all.
He watched Drains retreat into the kitchen, and then he boldly opened the book at B and began to look for Blake. There, beyond doubt, was the number: Beckford Blake, 56 East Thirty-seventh Street—Murray Hill 0007. Drains entered the dining-room. Pretending to lose all interest in the book, Harold waited until Drains returned to the kitchen. Finally, he mustered the courage to approach the telephone.
Murray Hill 0007, please, he whispered.
Asked to repeat the number, he looked around; Drains seemed very distant. He ventured to raise his voice slightly. This time the operator caught the number. There was a slight noise in the kitchen. Harold dropped the receiver and hastened back to his chair in the living-room, propping himself up behind the Globe. Presently Drains, on his way to market, slammed the front door. Harold returned to the telephone.
Which Miss Blake? queried a woman's voice at the other end of the wire.
Miss Alice Blake.
Just a moment. I will see.
A short silence.
Yes, this is Miss Blake. Who is this?
Miss Alice Blake?
Yes. Who is this?
Harold, Harold Prewett. You know, I took you home today.
​Oh!
I wanted to know, I wanted to ask . . . that is, I wanted to inquire if it was all right!
All right?
All right with your father.
Yes.
Well, I just wanted to know.
Yes.
Well—Harold vainly sought for words to continue—, well, good-bye.
Wait . . . a minute. The voice was faint but desperate.
He waited, much too embarrassed to speak.
A long silence.
I wish . . . Well . . .
Is somebody listening?
Yes.
You want me to ask questions?
Yes.
Overjoyed, his mind began to work faster.
Do you want me to go to court with you in the morning?
Yes.
Where shall I meet you?
Silence. Harold groaned. He was entirely unacquainted with New York.
Must I say?
The outside door slammed.
The same thing, Harold ejaculated, almost in a whisper.
​What?
You know what you just told me?
Oh!
I'll call you tomorrow.
No, you can't do that! This was positive.
He racked his brain; suddenly a sky-rocket shot up and burst, painting Paul Moody's address in fire against the sky.
Gramercy Park!
Yes.
Eight-thirty tomorrow morning.
Yes. Good-bye.
Good-bye.
Drains was in the kitchen. Had he heard? Harold wondered. He returned to his paper and apparently was buried in the stock reports, but a pair of violet eyes obtruded themselves between his vision and the print. His heart was beating violently. For the third time that day he wiped his temples with his handkerchief.
Drains entered, bearing a tray on which reposed a cocktail.
Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Try this, sir.
Must I? I do-do-don't drink.
You don't drink? Certainly, sir, you are not obliged to.
Drains appeared to be astonished and a little hurt.
Would my father . . . ? Harold began, and faltered.
​Certainly not, sir. Your father demands nothing of you. Only he asked me to see that you had a good cellar.
But it's against the law, protested Harold.
I think, sir, that your father hopes that you will break a few.
Drains was very solemn, but there was a maliciously ironic twinkle in his eyes.
Break the law!
Well, some of them. Everybody does.
I never have. . . . Then, impulsively, Let me taste it. He sipped the concoction in a gingerly manner. Ugh! It's very bitter.
Drains made something of a ceremony of the dinner. It was served precisely as if there had been eleven guests present, at least one of whom was entitled to a crest on his stationery. There were little attentions. Is your chop too well done, sir? What kind of dressing do you prefer on your salad, sir? Do you drink black coffee, sir? Nevertheless, Harold did not eat much. He was conscious of a growing perturbation in his mind and a continued acceleration in the beating of his heart. When, at length, he had finished—and it had seemed a very long dinner—, the returned to his comfortable chair. He was through with the Globe. He picked up the Nation and read an editorial which seemed very radical to him. What was the world coming to? Anarchists and Socialists. ​Reds. Bolsheviki. The ex-soldiers seemed dissatisfied. Why didn't they go to work in the cloak and suit business? No one else wanted to. There should be plenty of room for them there. He wasn't sleepy, but he could think of nothing else to do but go to bed. Drains was in the kitchen. Harold retreated to the bedroom where he found a pair of silk pyjamas, striped in two shades of grey, with the name of an English firm embroidered on a label in the collar, lying on the bed. Drawing off his clothes, he donned them, and was just ready to retire when Drains came in. Drains was beaming.
Can I do anything more for you, sir, before I leave?
Leave?
For the night, sir. There is no place for me to sleep here. I shall be in very early in the morning. What time will you have your breakfast, sir?
Seven-thirty . . . Harold hesitated. Would that be too early?
Not at all, sir. But Drains looked distinctly disapproving. Very good, sir, he added. Breakfast for two?
Two? Certainly not. Breakfast for one. Why two?
You will excuse me, sir, but I heard you telephoning to a young lady and I thought perhaps you had asked her to spend the night with you.
Harold almost fell out of bed.
​I was not telephoning that kind of young lady!
I beg your pardon, sir.
Can one . . . Is this that sort of house?
Your father owns this house, sir. You are at home.
Then . . . he . . . This was very difficult for Harold . . . he wouldn't object if I, if I . . . He achieved the end in a rush and a gulp . . . had women here?
Object, sir? Drains raised his eyebrows. Object? Certainly not.
The tone of Drains's reply was profoundly lacking in doubt.
Would he then . . . The horror of the idea almost stifled speech. . . . Would he then be willing?
I can vouch for that, sir. Drains's tone was now both deferential and parental.
Is it . . . Harold was sitting bolt upright in bed. . . . Is it what he wants?
I can only repeat my orders, sir. They are definite. You are to do anything you please. I have had considerable experience, sir, in observing young men do what they please. In London, sir—Drains drew himself up with considerable side—, I was in the employ of the Duke of Middlebottom. That is why your father engaged me.
Harold's face was a blank.
I perceive, sir, that the name of the Duke of Middlebottom has no associations for you. The ​name is not unknown in London, sir, especially in certain circles. I left the Duke's service, I may say, sir, for good reasons. I am not a snob; nor am I a puritan. I take great delight in the society of ladies, sir. I like to see a young man surround himself with attractive ladies. I enjoy arranging the pipes for the opium, sir, sterilizing the needles, and running for the doctor when a young lady has overdosed herself with vodka. It is very pleasant to serve breakfast for a numerous party that has forgotten to go home the night before, but I have my personal dignity, sir, and I left the Duke of Middlebottom.
Oliver, why did you leave the Duke?
One of his young ladies wished to whip me, sir. The incident aroused the Duke. He forgot himself, sir. May I say good-night, sir?
Good-night, Oliver.
Harold fell back against the pillow, his aching head throbbing with horror. Not that he fully understood all that Drains had intended to imply. Needles baffled him, and pipes. Didn't people eat opium and wasn't it a Chinese vice? Obviously, however, Drains had lived with a man of the lowest type, no matter how many points there were in his coronet. And this was the fellow his father had chosen to be his servant! A man who began by offering him cocktails and ended by asking if a young lady would share his breakfast in bed! What were his father's intentions? What would ​Aunt Sadi think of all this? What would Alice think? It was a long time before he felt calm enough to press the button at his side which extinguished the lights; it was very much longer before he was able to go to sleep.
At a quarter after eight the next morning, Harold stood before the Players' Club in Gramercy Park. He was amazed to discover that the park itself was enclosed by a high iron fence, the gates of which were locked, although several people, principally nursemaids and their charges, were enjoying the warm June air under the trees within the enclosure. Presently, he observed an elderly lady open one of the gates with a great brass key. So, it appeared, he must encircle the iron fence until he found Alice. He walked on past the Players', turning up the west side of the park; then east, and down the north side. He circled the fence, indeed, three times. As he was striding up the west side for the fourth time, he observed a furtive figure hurrying towards him from Lexington Avenue, a trim little figure in blue serge. He advanced rapidly to meet her.
I've had such a time! She was almost in tears again, but it must be admitted that tears were becoming to her.
Poor child.
I had to stand in the library near the door until the man arrived with the summons. Then, this ​morning I have no lessons and I am not supposed to go out. I asked papa if I might do some shopping, but there seemed to be no occasion for it, at least I was too nervous to think of any. Finally, I told him that I had a dreadful headache and must go for a walk.
Poor child! Harold unquestionably was sympathetic but he could think of nothing else to say.
We must hasten! The policeman told me to be in court at nine o'clock. We must find a taxi.
They walked towards Fourth Avenue and Harold hailed a passing cab.
But it isn't a cherry cab.
It's too late to be particular, Harold muttered as he helped her in.
I suppose so . . . but papa says . . .
Ascending to the court-room at the Jefferson Market Police Court, they passed, on the stairs, a motley crowd of bondsmen, witnesses, shyster lawyers, friends of prostitutes, and hangers-on. Court, they noted, on entering, had already opened. A frowzy female was telling the judge how a neighbour's child had stuck pins into her little girl. The little girl, according to the testimony of the defence, had begun the sticking. The judge, a slender, elderly man with a great beak like that of a parrot, on which was fastened a pince-nez, did not appear to be listening. He examined papers with one hand while, with the other, he ceaselessly tapped ​the desk with a silver paper-cutter. A row of dingy witnesses fidgeted on the front benches, waiting for the cases in which they were interested to be called. The clock ticked. Some one whispered. A clerk pounded for order. Case followed case. The heat was stifling and the odour unspeakable. It was nearly twelve o'clock before the driver of the truck, a burly Irishman, was called to the stand. The chauffeur of the taxi in which Alice had been driving began his story in so low a tone that Harold and Alice could not catch a single word. The judge never looked up. He continued to fuss with his papers and to tap the desk with his silver paper-cutter. The policeman was called before the bench and corroborated the testimony of the taxi-driver. He, too, spoke in a low monotone, but it was possible to hear a part of what he said: the truck-driver had turned to the left.
Miss Blake! called the clerk.
Alice, blushing furiously, rose, stumbled, tottered to the witness-stand. She could have felt no worse had she been on trial for murder. Her eyes were shut tight, and she held a handkerchief to her dry lips.
Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?
I do.
Name?
Alice Blake, she scarcely whispered.
​The judge looked up for the first time; nor, it should be noted, did he look down again.
Address?
56 East Thirty-seventh Street: this in a considerably lower tone.
What do you know about this case?
I was driving in the taxi-cab.
Go on, Miss Blake, put in the judge in a manner which was kindly but certainly not paternal. Tell us your story in your own way.
That man—she pointed to the Irishman—ran into my car. . . . He turned to the left.
The prisoner was sworn.
Your honour . . .
Don't lie now! Tell the truth! The judge was stern. His eyes were on Alice.
Your honour, I . . . Yer see, it wern't my fault. There wern't no signal at that corner . . . I was turnin' . . .
To the left, interjected the lawyer for the taxi-driver.
Were you drunk?
No, your honour: with great indignation.
Was he drunk? This to the policeman.
I don't think so, your honour.
I'm tired of these cases. You truck-drivers think you can run the streets. This little girl—he beamed through his pince-nez at the shrinking Miss Blake—has been thoroughly shaken up as a result of your wanton behaviour. I cannot have the ​little girls on the streets in danger of their lives on account of such men as you. I'm going to make an example of you. One hundred dollars or ten days in the work-house.
The judge smiled at Alice, and Alice began to cry.
The truck-driver stood before the bar. No, he couldn't pay the fine.
Alice turned quickly to Harold.
Have you a hundred dollars?
I don't . . . I'll see.
He looked in his pocket-book and to his great astonishment found nearly five hundred. Drains must have put it there while he was asleep.
Yes, I have.
Will you lend it to me?
I'll pay the man's fine.
No, this is my affair. If you will lend it to me, I will pay the fine. I can get the money.
Let me . . .
Please . . . Alice began to cry again. Harold was certain he had never seen any one so adorable, never imagined that any one so adorable could come into his life. He pressed the money into her little hand, and she rushed to the bar, almost breathless.
I'll pay his fine.
The judge glanced down the extensive length of his nose at her. He said nothing, but his face was more expressive than usual.
The clerk took the money.
​The Irishman turned to Alice.
I couldn't bear to think, she stammered, that you had been sentenced because I appeared against you. I couldn't help it. I didn't want to come. They made me. I had to tell the truth. You will be more careful, won't you?
Shure, mum. The Irishman scratched his red-thatched head.
The judge leaned over the bar.
Miss Blake, he began.
Alice looked up.
Won't you come and sit beside me and listen to the other cases?
She declined with thanks.
Let's get out of this horrid place, she adjured Harold.
You are adorable, he muttered, as they descended the stairs.
I couldn't bear to think of that man going to jail. He may have children. I'd always feel it was my fault he was there. Oh! if papa hears about this!
I don't think he will.
It might get into the newspapers.
The horror of this idea expanded. Harold was innocent enough to believe that it might, but he kept his opinion to himself.
It's over now anyway, but if papa finds out!
Please, don't cry again. I can't bear it!
I won't if I can help it. . . . She tried to ​straighten her lip. We must find another taxi.
Two taxis stood by the kerb but both were silver grey.
We must find a cherry cab. . . .
They walked towards Fifth Avenue. Several cabs passed them but all the cherry cabs were occupied. They always were, Alice explained drearily.
We may as well walk home, Alice conceded.
When may I see you again?
Of course, I must pay you the hundred dollars.
I'd forgotten all about that. I don't want the money. I want to see you.
It is a debt. I'll send it to you . . . I don't know your address.
Harold wrote it out on a card.
I want to see you, he pleaded. Won't you write me that I may call?
Oh! no, no! She was positive. Papa would question me. He would want to know where I had met you.
What shall we do?
I don't know. I can't meet you again. I can't invite you to the house. . . . Don't think me ungrateful . . . I simply can't. And you mustn't telephone me again. I was so afraid last night. Nobody heard . . . but if they had!
Harold's expression was rueful. I must see you, he urged. Don't you want to see me?
You have been very kind to me.
​I have done nothing I didn't want to do. I . . .
Alice seemed to have an idea: Haven't you any friends?
Friends?
Somebody I know, for instance. . . . Can't we be introduced properly?
Harold shook his head. I don't know anybody except—I don't know anybody at all in New York.
Nobody! Alice's tone was slightly one of alarm.
Nobody.
Oh! You mustn't walk with me any farther. Somebody might see us. I can go home alone. I'll send you the money. Good-bye.
Harold held out his hand, but Alice was gone, almost running, indeed, ahead of him up the Avenue.