# The Ancient Grudge/Chapter 6
### VI
#### INVESTIGATING THE DEPTHS

One hot Saturday night in August Floyd had gone to his room and stretched himself out on the bed by the open window. It was too hot to light the lamp and read, and besides he was feeling out of sorts. Another Sunday was at hand, and nothing that he cared to do; the freshness had gone from his work; and the mood, rare with him, was on him which made him ask, "What is the use?" He had taken out his little telescope, and lying on the bed adjusted it lazily, tracing with it the outline of the constellations that were within its range. While he was thus amusing himself, he was aware that Mrs. Bell was in the yard below him, sprinkling her lawn, and occasionally exchanging a word with the neighboring housewife, who was engaged in similar employment. Floyd's arm grew weary of holding up the glass, and having laid it down he listened without shame to the fragments of conversation that reached him.
"Did Hugh come to see Letty to-night?" asked the neighbor.
"No; Saturday nights he goes off with his friends; he does enjoy skylarking round."
"Well, I presume it's all right; I presume it's innocent. Does Letty approve that he should?"
"She encourages him. 'There ain't much fun here,' she says to him. 'I want you should have a good time when you can. I guess two folks like us can trust each other.' That's the way she takes it."
"Maybe"—and the suggestion was delayed a moment by sly and smothered laughter—"Hugh will be getting jealous first—about her and the new boarder."
​"Now, don't you go to putting any such nonsense into her mind," said Mrs. Bell sharply. "Not that she'd be weak-headed enough to believe it."
"Stranger things have happened," insisted the neighbor, while Floyd, lying in the dark, scowled and muttered about the foolishness of women. "’Tain't every girl neither that has Letty's chance. And if she's the smart one I take her to be, she's making the best of her opportunities."
Floyd lost Mrs. Bell's answer, but that it was emphatic he judged from the way in which she spattered the plank walk. Then as she eased the stream off upon the grass, he heard the other woman say in a conciliatory voice, "Oh, well, I was just suggestin' it as a pleasant possibility. And as for Hugh Farrell, I was just thinking that Saturday night is a bad time for him to be staying away from her he's keeping company with. But of course if she don't mind—"
"The cat!" thought Floyd.
Mrs. Bell preserved silence.
"I wonder," said the neighbor's voice, with a wheedling accent, "if I'm ever to get to meet Mr. Halket? It does seem as though living next door— Do tell me, Mrs. Bell; what like is he?"
"Why, he's a real nice fellow," said Mrs. Bell. "And my, how fond he is of all kinds of preserves! I never seen anybody with such a taking for 'em."
"Ain't that interestin'!" exclaimed the neighbor. "But then your put-up things is always so good, Mrs. Bell; 'tain't really a wonder."
"Well, he certainly does enjoy them. And he ain't stuck up neither; my goodness, it does seem hard sometimes to realize that he ain't just one of us."
"He ain't actually different, then, from other boarders?"
"Why, no; don't seem as if he was now. He has some habits, of course—must always take a bath when he comes ​back from work. It makes supper a little late, and be does slop up the bathroom terrible, but Letty and me we agree we don't mind. And how he does whistle when he's warshin' himself! Always one tune. Letty does laugh and laugh to hear him! She says he can't whistle no more than a cow."
Floyd shook with laughter; he was surely meeting the fate of the eavesdropper. "I must try to be more quiet and gentlemanly in my bathing," he thought.
"As for breakfast I never knowed a boarder that was so little trouble," continued Mrs. Bell. "Always wants just his cup of coffee and three eggs boiled three minutes. Nothing else ever. Most boarders is everlastingly wanting variety, now a steak, now a piece of pie."
"Ain't there a difference in the way he eats?"
"He lays his napkin acrost his knees instead of tucking it in at his chin. But I guess that's because be's wearing his old clothes here and don't care if they get spotted or not. I don't know as other ways he's any different."
"I suppose he ain't used to doin' his own reachin'."
"He don't seem to mind."
"Well, it does seem like a fairy tale. Mrs. Bell, ain't I ever again to hear Letty perform on the piano? She does perform so well."
"She and I was talking of having in a few friends for a little music some evening," Mrs. Bell answered. "Her, and Hugh to play on the bass viol. When we get an evening, I'll let you know."
"Oh, that will be grand. I do just love to hear Letty perform. I suppose, not being musical, Mr. Halket won't attend?"
"We meant to ask him," Mrs. Bell said.
"Did you ever find out how he came to stay with you?"
"Through Mr. Gregg's recommend, I believe. And he said, too, he liked the looks of the place."
​"You certainly are a wonder at getting things to grow. Though I must say I do think my hydrangey has come out better this year than yours, Mrs. Bell. Ain't you afraid of warshin' those flowers up by the roots? Well, we do have different methods."
Mrs. Bell made no reply. At last Floyd heard her say, "There, I guess that's sprinkling enough for my plants."
"Going in, are you? I think I'll stay and water a while longer. Now don't forget, Mrs. Bell; you're going to tell me when Letty's going to give that musical; I do love to see her when she performs, as well as hear."
"Yes," said Mrs. Bell, "I expect she'll let you know."
"And"—there was another insinuating ripple of laughter—"if anything should come of having Mr. Halket in the house—well, you never can tell, but I guess you could trust her to let Hugh Farrell down as easy as possible."
Floyd bounced up from his bed; he had at first been amused, now he was disgusted by the vulgarity of the conversation. Putting on his coat, he went out of doors to stroll about the town. The streets were lighted by streamers of natural gas from the tops of lamp-posts, flaring loose and unconfined against the dark. There was an additional weird illumination from the mills, which sent up gusts of fire and showed red, searing, squirming lines that were never visible by day. Down in the main street at the bottom of the hill these were shut from view, though glancing up the slope Floyd noticed how great waves of light suddenly overflowed and obliterated the wavering shadows flung by the gas-lamps.
The shops and stores were all open, gay, doing a brisk business; hucksters of fruit had their handcarts crowded up against the curbstone, and were trying by shouting and by placarding cheap prices to dispose of berries, peaches, and pears while there was yet time; they waved paper bags and held up grimy fingers, soliciting custom. Bare-headed women with baskets on their arms scuttled ​about doing their marketing; fathers of families, a week's pay in their pockets, stood by in the stores while wives or children tried on new hats or new shoes. But mainly the street was given over to those of both sexes who were in pursuit of pleasure,—young men and girls idling along together, laughing loudly; no need for any one to lack for a companion.
Hot and thirsty, Floyd stepped into one of the numerous saloons. At the rear was a partition with an opening partly screened by a stained drab curtain, and the sign "Wine Room" over it. From within this sanctuary issued much hilarious laughter; Floyd crossed over to the doorway. The place was not for men alone; at the tables there was a sprinkling of gaudy women, and others were coming in through the "Ladies' Entrance" on the farther side. Noisy with unrestrained voices and the thump and rattle of glasses, stale with the smell of spilled liquor and old pipes and low-hanging tobacco smoke, filthy with moist sawdust and cast-away stogies, the room was a scene of squalid gayety.
"Hello!" cried a voice from one of the nearer tables, and Floyd saw Hugh Farrell rise and beckon to him. He smiled and waved a hand in reply, and was turning away when Farrell sprang forward and seized his arm.
"Come and have a drink," said Farrell. With tipsy insistence he clutched Floyd's arm and drew him to the table, at which four men were seated. "Billings, Ryan, Pulaski, Schmidt—here's Mr. Halket—six beers!" He hailed a waiter, and kicked a chair from a neighboring table to Floyd.
Billings, hardly more than a boy, had a weak, silly face; Ryan was a good-natured, freckled young Irishman with a sandy beard; Pulaski had black, scowling brows and a surly mouth, and was plainly the most brutal of the company. Schmidt was stolid, serene, and smiling. The beer was brought. "How!" said Farrell, raising his glass toward Floyd, who bowed and waved to the other four, ​but they were already drinking. It was etiquette to drain the glass, ambition to finish first. Floyd lost prestige because he was the last; he regained it by rapping on the table and crying to the waiter, "Six beers."
At the table close beside Floyd sat three men, two of whom were quietly listening while the third talked glibly, passionately. He was an angular, narrow-chested man, with long black hair, a drooping mustache, wild flashing eyes; he wore dirty white cuffs much too long for his coat-sleeves; they slid down upon his knuckles when he gesticulated, as he did often.
"Organize," Floyd heard him imploring, "organize! The hope of labor, the dread of capital; the day of the workingman is marching on."
"He's an anarchist," Farrell said to Floyd. "He'll give you an earache quicker than any man in New Rome."
Floyd listened; Pulaski was already listening. The speaker, feeling with the acuteness of his kind that his audience was enlarged, raised his voice.
"You say you've got no grievance; I say there never yet was a laboring man without a grievance. And what if you ain't a grievance? In time of peace prepare for war. I make no doubt Mr.—or Colonel—Halket is a very fine gentleman indeed; you've got a library and a baseball park and a few other things to show for it; but let me ask you a question: Does either of you own the house you live in? No!"—and the speaker pounded his fist on the table—"no! and never will."
Billings spoke from across the table with an accent of defiance,—but spoke so that his words reached no farther than Floyd. "Ah, hell! I ain't got no use for no labor union."
The manner of the speech was that of a weak boy seizing an opportunity to curry favor. Floyd looked at him pityingly, and then with more consideration at Pulaski, who sat with his arms on the table, leaning forward and listening with close attention to the "anarchist's" words.
​"Understand me,"—the speaker shook his forefinger impressively,—"I'm saying nothing against Mr.—or Colonel—Halket. Maybe he's better than most capitalists; maybe he ain't But, one thing's sure; he's got you men sewed up here in New Rome, that's what he has; and it ain't as if you was in a city where you could keep your home and change your employment; here there's just one thing you can do, and you've got to do it as he says for what he says, or you're uprooted, you and your families, and you've got no place to go. It's the duty of you men to band together for the protection of the individual. Within three months there won't be a mill in all Avalon that ain't organized, and there ain't half the reason for it there that there is here. Labor there is naturally more independent, capital has to make concessions."
"Oh, you make me tired," Farrell interrupted hotly. "You talk like an anarchist,—you work with your mouth. I've got no kick coming; I get good wages—better than any of your union men in Avalon. You run your union in here,—and you limit my output, and you make me pay so much a week to the union, and you call me out when I don't want to go—and then you or some bum like you fixes up the deal for a hundred or two, and I go back to work, and I'm out maybe a month's and maybe two months' pay. To hell with the unions!"
The walking delegate heard him with a bland and scornful sneer. "My young friend," he said, "I ain't going to condescend to resent your remarks. That ain't the part of a missionary—and I am tryin' to do as Christian missionary work as was ever carried to the heathen in Africa, I don't descend to personalities, I don't seek to obscure the issue. I say nothing against you or them that holds views similar to yours, I say nothing against Mr.—or Colonel—Halket. He may be wanting to do more for labor than labor wants to do for itself. But some day he may be no longer with us. There may be a change of ​policy, and there may be somebody come in who won't want to do for labor more than it wants to do for itself, but who will want to get out of labor all that it can give for as little as he can give. And it's against that time that I'm calling on the men of New Rome to arise and organize and protect themselves and their families."
"Oh, say," cried Farrell. "I know something more interesting than this; come along." He rose, turning his back on the walking delegate. Floyd and Billings and Ryan followed him; Pulaski and Schmidt remained behind to listen. Floyd looked back as he was passing out between the stained drab curtains; Pulaski was pointing towards him, and the walking delegate was screwed round over the back of his chair, staring in amazement.
"Now I'll take you where there's some fun," said Farrell, when they were once again out upon the pavement. "We've got a slick dance-hall this year, and there's always a smooth line of girls on hand on a Saturday night. You can pick up anything."
Ryan made a tolerably broad observation.
"Hold on," Floyd said to Farrell. "This is not in my line, and I don't believe it's in yours."
"Oh, come along," Farrell urged him. "All the fellows 'll be there. Just watch 'em dancing and take a turn; no harm in that."
Thus Floyd suffered himself to be persuaded. The dance-hall was up two flights, hot, stuffy, and crowded. At one end a man in his shirt-sleeves played on a tinny piano, and beside him on a box stood another man in his shirt-sleeves, scraping a violin. To this thin music two hundred people revolved. Others sauntered or stood round the walls; the notes of violin and piano were faint, and sometimes almost drowned in the chatter. Ryan and Billings had partners and were spinning away before Floyd was aware that they had separated themselves from him.
​"See anybody you'd like to meet?" asked Farrell. "I'll introduce you. Or just step up and speak. That's the way it's done."
"Thank you," said Floyd. "I'm not much of a dancer. I'll look on."
"You don't mind if I go off and take a turn?"
"No; go ahead."
Farrell picked out a girl with black hair and cherry-colored ribbons, and somewhat more cherry color on lips and cheeks than Floyd thought attractive. But as they danced they matched each other in their utter nonchalance of movement; the girl let her left arm hang limply, and indeed from her hips up seemed paralyzed, except for the continuous action of her jaw, for she was chewing gum. Farrell waltzed with that superb, blasé air of one who is too languid to take the steps, but glides and walks through them nevertheless with marvelous accuracy in time. For all the talk that passed between the two, or animation on their faces, or interest in their surroundings, they might have been dancing in their sleep; and Floyd thought they avoided collisions and disasters with the traditional dexterity of the somnambulist.
Most of the girls were chewing gum without cessation, and danced with the same absolute silence. As for the men, those who had been long active had discarded coats and vests; the red or cerulean dye from their brilliant suspenders was spreading out upon their shirts, and the habit of perspiration seemed not to be one that they left behind them in the mills.
When the music ceased, Floyd waited, curious to see what sort of girl his friend would lead out for the next dance. Somewhat to his surprise, Farrell continued with the same partner. They had gone round the room three or four times when they stopped near Floyd, and Farrell, leaving the girl to chew her gum unconcernedly, came over to him.
"I'm going to leave before long," he said. "Don't ​you want to meet some lady? I won't give away your name."
"No, thank you," said Floyd, looking him in the eyes; "I'm ready to leave whenever you are."
Farrell returned the look stolidly, then turned again to his partner. They waltzed round the room twice more; then they stopped again, and the girl tucked her hand in Farrell's arm. They approached the doorway near which Floyd was standing.
"Better get a lady and come along," Farrell said to him as they passed.
Floyd looked straight ahead as if he had not heard; and Farrell, passing out with his partner, flushed angrily, but said nothing.
A few moments later Floyd descended the stairs alone.
"Why the devil should I care!" he muttered to himself fiercely, as he walked along the street. But he did care,—that a man whom he liked, who was engaged to a nice girl, who had kissed her the night before and would kiss her again to-morrow, could be so base. Billings or Ryan might have done this thing, but Farrell—Floyd swore to himself in pessimism, "By God, it makes me ashamed myself to look at Letty."
Up on the hill the Halket Free Public Library glowed with all its lighted windows, the music-hall wing and the club-room and gymnasium wing alike showed beacons of welcome. Floyd looked up at these beneficent works of his grandfather, scornful and cynical.
"And how many of our mill-hands are amusing themselves there to-night?" he thought.