# The Lure (Phillips)

Extracted from Railroad Men's Magazine, Oct 1912, pp. 489–494. Illustrations may be omitted.
THE LURE.
BY ROLAND ASHFORD PHILLIPS
Even the Qualms of Conscience Could Not Keep
Him Away from the Great City He Loved.
THE evening was hot, sullen, and depressive. The sea, running black as ink, seemed to swell up a stone's throw from the low - hanging stars. I sat in the steamer-chair beneath the striped awning, and the monotonous throb of the engines came to my ears like the hum of countless insects.
At intervals a vivid shower of sparks, leaping from the twin stacks, rained down upon the white deck and motionless awning. It was my second day out of Honolulu, eastward bound, and I judged we were making good time toward our port, for a hold of pineapples is a risky cargo under a tropical sun.
Shortly after supper, when I had made myself comfortable on deck, the stranger whom I had twice met in the general cabin came slowly down the deck, his white duck making him a conspicuous figure in the half gloom.
He spoke to me amiably, and lowered himself to a chair beside me under the awning. He was hatless. His head was nearly bald, and he was very thin and gaunt—emaciated, I might say, as if he had recently left a sickbed. I immediately conjured up fever, it being the most plausible excuse in the tropics. His face, lean and hollow-cheeked, although not ill cast, was covered with a light beard, and by the manner in which he toyed with it, I imagined it to be of recent growth. He must have been all of six feet tall.
"I'm lonesome to-night," he confessed. "Will I disturb you here?"
I had no objections. In truth, I was glad he came. So we sat and talked and smoked for quite an interval, until abruptly, and for no stated reason, we spoke of the city toward which we journeyed.
"My home," he said quickly; and there was a ring of pride in his declaration. "My home! I love it! I've watched it grow for thirty years. You Easterners can't realize how we love our city. It's a mother-love," he added softly.
"I've often heard of State loyalty," I observed lamely.
He pulled on his cigarette, the glow bringing his bearded face into momentary relief.
"That city is almost the only mother I have known," he went on. "I was born there. I've watched it broaden out, mile by mile. I gloried in every building that was erected, every stone that was put in place. Ah!" he breathed reverently, "I'm glad I'm going back."
"Then, you've been away long?"
"Long? I haven't seen the city for three years. Think of that! Three awful years in Honolulu! I've been the same as dead."
The captain spoke for the first time. He had come up from his cabin, and had taken the last chair near the railing.
"I can sympathize with you," he said. "I once had to stay there a whole year. It was like taking a baby away from its mother. Why, when I came back I walked up Main Street crying for happiness. I'd work in the streets like a dog before -I'd stay away that long again."
"On the contrary," I observed, after a moment's hesitation. "I never enjoyed myself so well as in the islands. If it wasn't for business, I'd never return. In the past few years I have been something of a traveler, but for some reason or other I overlooked that bit of Pacific paradise until this season. Maybe it was a good thing I did, for I wouldn't have cared to go anywhere else."
"You've never lived in our city," the stranger put in quietly, as if nothing more need be said.
I shrugged my shoulders and bowed beneath his argument.
We smoked in silence for a space, after the captain had accepted one of my cigarettes; and the throbbing of the engines, sounding like the beating of some great heart, seemed to lull one into forgetfulness.
"I've often got to thinking about the poor devils down there on the islands the fellows who love the city like we do who can't go back," the captain broke in. "It must be pretty much like Hades, if there is one on earth. I've often got to thinking about it."
The canvas chair on the other side of me, in which the stranger sat, creaked as if he had suddenly twisted about in it. I looked over at the captain, for his remark puzzled me.
"Why can't they go back?" I asked.
"They're afraid!" It was the stranger who spoke and answered me. He was leaning forward in his chair, but the shadow fell in such a way that I could not easily see his face.
Then the light broke in upon me. "I had forgotten. Of course, I understand what you mean now. I suppose there are any number of crooks, blackmailers, ex-bank presidents, and such, floating about the islands, eh? Wonder I hadn't thought of it before."
"I've talked with a good many of them," the captain put in, "and if their sufferings were only known, only understood, I'm sure the law would be satisfied. I'm speaking of their mental sufferings, of course. There's no more horrible punishment than that of the mind, to my way of thinking. Conscience kills where laws only wound. Many a poor man has got free of the law, only to suffer along for a few years, and finally give up. For my part, I'd stay at home and take the punishment."
The captain's simple logic appealed to me vividly. I had never looked upon the subject in that light before. The thought of a man fleeing the law, only to battle with himself, set my jaded interest at fever-heat.
"And these men," I spoke up eagerly, "are they never found out? Do they go under another name?" I wanted to bring out all I could, now that my curiosity was aroused.
"There was old man Hiltz," the captain began, ignoring my direct questions, but not the theme. "He skipped out between meals with a half million on him. Only last month I met an American outside of Honolulu—an overseer on one of the big sugar plantations—who was a dead ringer for him. He had grown a beard, and his hair was gray. He got me aside and made me talk about home to him all day long. It was Hiltz, all right, and he's suffering more right now than he would behind the bars. He'll either kill himself or get reckless and come back."
A sudden recollection swept over me after he had finished. I straightened in my chair.
"The day before I sailed," I put in, "I saw a man watching me in a little café near the park. When I looked at him, I knew I had seen him somewhere before. All the time I was eating I was thinking like mad. Then it came to me. I got up and walked over to his table. 'You're Singleton, aren't you?' I asked, holding out my hand. He stared at me emptily, although his cheeks went very white. 'You're mistaken in the party,' he came back quickly. 'My name's Livingstone!'"
"And you think it was Singleton?" It was the stranger who asked.
"I was somewhat doubtful then, of course, after his denial, but I'm positive of it now. He was tanned and smooth-faced, but he couldn't hide his eyes. He was once the mayor of our city. Got into some graft deal or other, and skipped."
The captain laughed shortly. "You run across them all over. The woods are full of them. That makes me think of another fellow—John Warwick. Wonder I never came across him. Maybe I did, though, and didn't recognize him. He's on the islands."
"And what was his offense?" The stranger seemed interested. "Insurance deals?"
"No." The captain shook his head slowly, and appeared to be groping in the past for the memory. "No; he was a pilot. Used to bring in the ships from the outer harbor. One Sunday he brought in an excursion-boat and ran it on some rocks. It was a little bit foggy, but that shouldn't have made much difference to an old hand like Warwick. Anyhow, the boat went down, and half a hundred were drowned. Warwick dropped out of sight, and everybody thought he was drowned, too. Then one day a mate of mine said he had talked with him in Honolulu. Every time I'm in the town I keep my eye peeled for him."
"And what's the feeling against him at home?" the stranger questioned.
"Well, as a general thing, we don't jump at conclusions. But it was a pretty hard blow for some of the people. It was about as big a crime as a man can commit, I'm thinking. And I suppose if he was to step ashore to-day there'd be something like a lynching. The law's good enough in its way, but if you or me had a little kid on that boat—or a wife—I'm thinking we'd forget and—"
I interrupted. "But you said it was foggy. It might not have been neglect. We ought to give him consideration, don't you think?"
The captain's big hand slapped to his knee.
"Warwick was drunk—dead drunk!" he exclaimed.
I drew my feet down from the coil of rope. A puff of wind came from somewhere, bulging the awning above us. I stared meditatively across the white space, where a lamp glowed amidship. Far up, toward the cabin, a door opened and shut, and a bar of light shot obliquely over the deck. In another moment the wireless operator came down and addressed the captain.
"Just picked up a message from the Gladola, two days out from home. She'll be in our radius for the next hour or so. You said you wanted to speak to her."
"Quite right." The captain lifted himself erect. "You'll excuse me, gentlemen?"
They walked away, the coatless, white-shirted operator in the lead. I watched them subconsciously, until the door opened and slammed. Then the stranger moved in his chair, and spoke.
"What do you think of this Warwick?" he asked.
"I believe if he loved the city as you fellows seem to, he'd risk coming back."
I received no answer. Then curiously I resumed:
"And what do you suppose would be his greatest concern, once he left the island? Capture?"
"I don't think so." The stranger spoke so queerly that I turned about in my chair. "He would be fearful that he would not see the city, after all."
"Not see it?" I echoed.
"Yes." The man got to his feet, and tossed away the remaining part of his cigarette. I waited expectantly for him to go on, but he did not. He stood for the interval, gazing far out over the black water, and then, without another word, turned and walked up the deck.
The following day passed monotonously, and it was at supper that I first caught sight of the stranger. He appeared very nervous, and did not seem at all anxious to talk.
"You'll see home in the morning," I said hopefully, as we were passing out. Then he looked at me, and for the first time I noticed how vague and dead his eyes were.
"I—hope so," he struggled.
We found our chairs again, but somehow I felt no inclination to smoke. The air was strangely oppressive, and seemed to fairly choke one. The evening sky, too, took on an unusual pallor, I thought, and the long, uneven waves that rocked away toward the horizon were very high, very oily, and black.
"What time—are we due to-morrow?" the stranger's voice broke into the hush.
"Early. Some time about nine o'clock, I should judge." And then, after a pause: "I suppose the city will be changed since you last saw it."
I was surprised to find his fingers on my arm.
"I hope not," he faltered. "I—hope not. I want to see it—just like when I went away. I don't want to see a single thing changed." His fingers tightened. "Heavens!" he breathed heavily. "To see the old city again; to walk the streets, in the crowds; to hear all the old familiar voices, and to see the old familiar buildings—the buildings I have watched rise up from the vacant wastes; to feel the breeze from off the bay; to watch the ferries—"
His voice trailed into a whisper, and I could hear him breathe like a man who has run a long distance.
Dumbly I realized how he must have felt and how inadequate his words were to express it. And later, when I sought my stateroom, I pondered deeply over the man's infatuation for his mother city, wondering what peculiar mysterious power it possessed to so enslave its children.
I was a long time in getting to sleep, for my room was like an oven. Above me, on the shelf, droned an electric fan, but the air it stirred was stale and lifeless. However, after time, I must have dozed off, for abruptly my eyes snapped open, and I found the daylight streaming in through the window.
I dressed, and went out on deck. With the possible exception of the watch, no one was about. I paced up and down for a time, and then, rooting my very feet to the deck, I saw the ship's operator leap grotesquely out from the cabin and lurch toward me.
His face was pasty, and his eyes, staring from their sockets, were as hard and fixed as glass. He was clad only in his pajamas.
"For love of Heaven!" he choked, as he neared me. "I just picked up the first coast wireless. The city—" He fumbled desperately at his throat. And while he stood there gasping I saw the figure of the stranger climbing the short stairs toward us.
"Go on! Go on!" I urged.
"The city—was destroyed by earthquake—this morning!" the operator stammered, "She's in flames—burning—burning—absolutely no hope left! Everything's gone!"
With horror-stricken eyes, I saw the stranger grope blindly for the hand-rail, choke out something like a scream, and then crumple limply to the deck.
Stunned, yet retaining possession of my senses, I managed to call one of the watch, and together we bore the unconscious man back to his stateroom. With a queer lump in my throat, I saw that his berth had not been slept in.
After I had hurriedly bathed his head in some cold water and unloosened his clothes, he finally came back to the world again. He mumbled incoherently to himself, and his glassy eyes stared emptily at the ceiling.
"All—gone!" he whispered. "All gone! I knew—knew I was—never to see her again. My poor—poor—home!"
"Brace up," I encouraged, after his voice died away. "Don't take on like this. Be a man!"
He sat up rigidly, as if my words had been a needle in his flesh, and instinctively I recoiled.
"I will be a man," he returned huskily—"I will be a man. You'll help me, won't you? I've been a miserable coward all these years. I've sinned—sinned! I've sinned against my own city—my home!" His eyes suddenly became radiant. "But I'm going to repay! I'm going to repay!"
"You're ill—out of your head," I faltered. "Lie still and rest."
"My Heaven!" he cried, throwing wide his arms. "Are you so blind? Don't you understand? I'm Warwick—Warwick!"
Where we entered the harbor I did not know. The pilot's confession, abrupt as it had come, together with the catastrophe into which we were heading, robbed me of all immediate reason. I leaned against the rail of the ship, and watched the vast cloud, of smoke growing larger and more terrifying, spreading from horizon to horizon like a black pall. The captain rushed back and forth, shouting incoherent orders, which the white-faced, silent crew obeyed mechanically.
While we were creeping in toward the dim shore—for the captain had announced his intention of landing at the first convenient dock inside the harbor—and I had huddled against the side of the pilot-house in order to keep free from the suffocating smoke, I felt a hand on my arm, and, peering around, found Warwick beside me.
"They're dying—dying," he mumbled over and over like an automaton, and pointing with his outstretched arm. "They're dying—burning—all my people—all my city!"
When the smoke lifted a trifle, and the ship pushed her nose into a deserted dock, Warwick gave a cry and leaped from my side. I called to him frantically, but he kept on, unheeding. What sudden impulse guided me I could not tell, but without a second thought I followed him. He did not wait for the plank to be lowered, but, climbing the rail like a cat, leaped upon the roof of the dock-shed, and dropped nimbly to the ground. Like a man possessed, I followed him.
Now that we were upon solid ground, I caught up with him.
"Where are you going?" I shouted, for the noise about us was deafening. "What are you going to do?"
"Let me go," he screamed. "They're dying—burning! Don't you hear them calling—calling for me to help them? Do you want me to be a coward—again?"
So we raced on, side by side. An exulting madness burned in my veins. I remembered nothing, thought of nothing, cared for nothing, save that countless humans were in danger about us, and that we were going to help them. Explosions followed one upon another, rocking the very ground beneath us.
We left the docks behind, and hurried up the steep hill toward the burning, smoke-obscured area above. Many people passed us now, all running in the opposite direction, their arms filled, yet all strangely silent and like so many frightened spirits.
A woman carrying a baby tripped and fell heavily, and Warwick, his face working queerly, bent over and lifted her to her feet again. After she had gone he came close to me and spoke.
"The baby—was dead," he panted, and I saw that the tears were running down his cheeks. "I saw its poor little face. It was dead, and she didn't know it."
Walls were falling about us, and the smoke became so dense that we could scarcely distinguish the road. Weird flames licked here and there, their breath stabbing our lungs. I blindly followed Warwick from one house into another. My hat was lost. I threw aside my coat. My arms grew numb with pain, and my fingers were bleeding; and yet, mad men that we were, we realized nothing.
In the midst of this chaos a little girl, wildly clutching a doll, her clothes all but torn from her poor, thin body, ran out into the road. I lifted her into my arms.
"Mama—my mama!" she began to sob hysterically. "My mama won't wake up!"
I ran across the yard, and climbed through a broken window of the house.
"My mama—was in bed," the child went on, her thin voice barely audible, "She won't wake up!"
I groped my way through the rooms until I found the chamber. Half-way toward the bed a violent nausea gripped me. The whole side of the wall had fallen in, and only the end of the bed showed beneath the débris.
I staggered out, holding tight to the child, unmindful of her screams. Within a short distance I came upon Warwick; he seemed to be here, there, everywhere, shouting and talking wildly with himself.
Fascinated, I watched him. He dashed into this gaping doorway and that, appearing after a certain length of time with a limp burden in his arms. He appeared to be destitute of all thought other than to save, save, save.
Standing there, amid the flame and smoke and crumbling walls, I could but dimly wonder whether this one hour did not more than balance his sinning. Surely the scales of mercy are just!
Then the child on my shoulder began to whimper, interrupting my thoughts, and, clapping a brutal hand across her mouth, I hurried on.
A stone building broke out of the pall ahead of us, and I saw Warwick standing irresolutely before it. Parts of the wall were crumbling, and the flames were leaping out from the windows.
"Don't go in there!" I shouted to him. "It'll fall—fall—in a minute! Stand away!"
But he only laughed—gaunt, burned, and horrible as he was—and stumbled unheedingly toward the sagging door. His beard had gone—his clothes were in threads, and smoking. His eyes were bloodshot, hard as glass, and bereft of all understanding.
"There's—some one—in there," his voice rang back to me. "I heard them calling!" And, before I could move or speak, he had gone.
I saw the flames leap higher and higher, roaring like a wind among the trees, and then the walls swayed in like a curtain in the breeze.
The sudden collapse stunned me. I reeled over as though some mighty hand had crushed upon my chest.
The child's sobbing cleared my brain for the moment. The poor little blistered face, wet with tears, buried itself against my shoulder.
I struggled to my feet, lifted her once more into my aching arms, held her tight against my heart, and, turning, followed the army of white-faced, silent stragglers that moved out toward the open, green hills above us. Up there the sun was shining.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1969, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 54 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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