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With the death of John McCracken in 2017, Malawi lost a
pre-eminent historian. This book celebrates McCracken’s Politics, Christianity and Society
contribution to the study of Malawi’s history and seeks to build
on his legacy. Part of his genius was that he identified themes that in Malawi

Politics, Christianity and Society in Malawi

hold the key to understanding the history of Malawi in its broader
perspective. The authors contributing to this volume address Essays in Honour of John McCracken
these themes, assessing the progress of historiography and setting
an agenda for the further advance of historical studies. The book
is a valuable resource for students, researchers and all who are
interested in gaining a deeper understanding of Malawi’s past and
present.

“This important volume reminds us of John McCracken’s major contribution

to, and influence on, Malawian historiography since the 1970s. The editors
must be commended for ensuring that the authors of the essays are both locally
and internationally based but equally significant is their inclusion of the latest
generation of Malawian scholars, which would have pleased John immensely.
In addition, their impressive work gives direction to guide and inspire future
scholarship in Malawi.”
Dr Owen J. Kalinga, Professor of History, North Carolina State University, USA

"This collection is a fitting tribute to John McCracken. Its contributions reflect

and expand on his scholarly legacy in the economic, social and political
histories of Malawi while reflecting his deep commitment to and affection for
the land and its people. McCracken would have been much moved in heart
and mind by this project."
Dr Joey Power, Professor of History, Ryerson University, Toronto, Canada

Kenneth R. Ross is Professor of Theology at Zomba Theological College and

Ross & Mulwafu

Associate Minister of Bemvu Parish, CCAP, Synod of Blantyre.
Wapulumuka O. Mulwafu is Professor of Environmental History and Dean of
Postgraduate Studies at Chancellor College, University of Malawi.
Edited by
This book is part of Mzuni Press Kenneth R. Ross and
which offers a range of books
on religion, culture and society Wapulumuka O. Mulwafu
from Malawi
Politics, Christianity and Society
in Malawi
© editorial matter Kenneth R. Ross and Wapulumuka O. Mulwafu
© the chapters their several authors

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored

in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permis-
sion from the publishers.

Published by
Mzuni Press
P/Bag 201
Luwinga, Mzuzu 2
Malawi

ISBN 978-99960-60-78-6
eISBN 978-99960-60-79-3

Mzuni Press is represented outside Malawi by:

African Books Collective Oxford (also for e-books)
(orders@africanbookscollective.com)

www.africanbookscollective.com
www.mzunipress.blogspot.com
Politics, Christianity and Society
in Malawi

Essays in Honour of John McCracken

Editors
Kenneth R. Ross and Wapulumuka O. Mulwafu

Senior Consulting Editors

Kings M. Phiri and Klaus Fiedler

Mzuni Books no. 40

Mzuzu
2020
Contents
Notes on Contributors 9

Introduction: John McCracken and Malawi's History

Kenneth R. Ross and Wapulumuka O. Mulwafu 17

John McCracken: an Africanist to Remember

John Lonsdale 31

John McCracken: an Historian to Remember 34

Megan Vaughan

John McCracken: a Malawianist to Remember 41

Kings M. Phiri

John McCracken and the Development of Malawi

Historiography 56
Wapulumuka O. Mulwafu

Medicine, Politics and Christian Networks: John McCracken

and the Historiography of Medicine in Malawi 75
Markku Hokkanen

The Development of Malawian Church Historiography 92

Klaus Fiedler

State Power, African Agency and Peasants’ Food Security

in Early Colonial Malawi, 1891-1918 116
Bryson Nkhoma

4
"Africa Is an Education": Vernacular Language and the
Missionary Encounter in Nineteenth-Century Malawi
Harri Englund 138

Mothercraft in the DRCM: Mthenga Newspaper, Missionary

Wives and African Women
Hendrina Kachapila 163

"They were kept outside but their interest was inside":

Examining the Role of African Women in the Construction
of Social Identities in Colonial Malawi. 191
Dorothy Tembo

The Contested Legacy of Malawi’s Decolonization Process,

1944-1994 215
Paul Chiudza Banda and Gift Wasambo Kayira

Christianity and Nationalism in Karonga Hills: The Tale of

Two Brothers During the Late Colonial Period 1954-1960 243
Augustine Chingwala Musopole

Limits to State Power in Post-independence Development

in Malawi, 1964-1983 266
Gift Wasambo Kayira

Pastors, Priests, Prophets: Poverty and Christian Religion

in Malawi 1861 to 2018 293
John Chipembere Lwanda

The Influence of Christian Religious Authority in Education:

A Trajectory of Religious Education in Malawi Schools
from 1875 to 2018 320
Macloud Frank Salanjira
5
African Agency in Malawian Neocharismatic Churches 345
Felix Nyika

Dividing the Nation or Promoting Unity? Ethnic Based

Associations and Production of Heritage in Malawi 372
Mwayi Lusaka

John McCracken’s Contribution to Malawi’s Urban History 396

Ruth Mandala

Ecological Change and Food Security: State Interventions

into Peasant Agriculture in Colonial Malawi, 1891-1960 419
Bryson Nkhoma

Andrew Ross, John McCracken and Jack Thompson:

Three Malawi Historians and their Influence on
Scotland-Malawi Relations Today 445
Kenneth R. Ross

John McCracken Bibliography 471

General Bibliography 476

Index 509

6
Acknowledgements
A volume like this one depends on an extensive network of collabo-
ration and we recognize our indebtedness to many who have played
a part in its development. First of all, we wish to acknowledge the
constant encouragement of Juliet McCracken during the conception
and preparation of the book. We also appreciate the work of Dr Ger-
hard Anders and his colleagues who organized the conference held
at the University of Edinburgh on 26 April 2018 on "Politics, Society
and Christianity in Malawi and Beyond: A Memorial Conference for
John McCracken and Jack Thompson." Several of the chapters in the
present volume had their first airing at that conference.
We are thankful also to all who responded to the call for papers that
we issued with this volume in view. The extent of the response to this
call bears witness to the debt that many scholars feel that they owe to
the work of John McCracken. Even those that could not be included
helped to sharpen our thinking. The authors who journeyed with us
have been unfailingly understanding and supportive as we imposed
often short deadlines during the various stages of revision entailed in
the editorial process. As we have exercised editorial responsibility, we
have been grateful to be able to turn to our senior consulting editors,
Prof Kings M. Phiri and Prof Klaus Fiedler, who always offered
sound advice.
The latter has also been an exceptionally sympathetic publisher
through his role at Mzuni Press. Given John McCracken’s consistent
concern that his work be available to Malawian readers, we believe
that Mzuni Press is an ideal publisher for this book since it publishes
in Malawi while also having an international outlet through the
London-based African Books Collective. Though a relatively young
publisher, Mzuni Press has built up an impressive list of titles to
which we are delighted that this volume can be added. It has been a
pleasure to work with the Mzuni Press team, particularly Hope
Kaombe, who did much of the work on layout and formatting, and

7
Daniel Neumann who undertook the cover design. We are also truly
grateful for the award of a grant to support the publication from The
Drummond Trust, 3 Pitt Terrace, Stirling, Scotland, UK.

Kenneth R. Ross
Wapulumuka O. Mulwafu
Zomba, December 2019

8
Notes on Contributors

Paul Chiudza Banda received his PhD in History from West

Virginia University, USA. He has previously published book chapters
and journal articles. Some of these can be found in The Journal of Public
Administration and Development Alternatives; The Journal of the Middle East
and Africa; African Studies Quarterly; and The Society of Malawi Journal. He
is also a columnist for The Diplomatist Magazine.

Harri Englund is Professor of Social Anthropology at the Univer-

sity of Cambridge, UK. His books include From War to Peace on the
Mozambique-Malawi Borderland; Prisoners of Freedom; Human Rights and
African Airwaves; Gogo Breeze. In 2000, he invited John McCracken and
Kings M. Phiri to join him as the organizers of a major conference at
Chancellor College, Zomba, sponsored by the Nordic Africa Insti-
tute. One result of the conference was Englund’s edited volume A
Democracy of Chameleons: Politics and Culture in the New Malawi.

Klaus Fiedler, born in 1942 in Germany, read Theology at the Bap-

tist Seminary in Hamburg. He received his formative education at
Makerere University in Uganda, and did his PhD with Dar-es-Salaam
University. He worked for 8 years in South Tanzania as a missionary,
and after 16 years in Germany he returned to Africa with a DTh from
Heidelberg University, taught 15 years at Chancellor College of the
University of Malawi and 12 years at Mzuzu University in Northern
Malawi. His main interests are postgraduate studies and publishing.

Markku Hokkanen is a Senior Lecturer at the Department of

History, University of Oulu, where he teaches colonial history,
African history, health history and methodology. Hokkanen’s
research has focused on Malawi, Southern Africa and the British

9
empire. His PhD thesis was examined by John McCracken in 2006.
Hokkanen’s publications include the monograph Medicine, Mobility and
the Empire: Nyasaland Networks, 1859-1960 (2017) and a co-edited
collection Healers and Empires in Global History (2019). He is currently
leading a collaborative research project on healers, politics and devel-
opment in sub-Saharan Africa.

Hendrina Adielle Kachapila is Senior Lecturer in History at the

University of Malawi. Her research focuses on women, central
Malawi, identity and indigenous institutions. She earned her MA and
PhD in African History from Dalhousie University. She has pub-
lished her work in reputable journals such as The International Journal
of African Historical Studies and Journal of Religion in Africa.

Gift Wasambo Kayira is a PhD candidate in the history department

of the West Virginia University, USA. His dissertation project exam-
ines British colonial development ideas and practices and their legacy
for post-colonial Malawi. He has recently published in the Journal of
Public Administration and Development Alternatives, and the African Studies
Quarterly.

John Lonsdale was a Cambridge graduate student with John

McCracken from 1961 to 1964 and a fellow lecturer with him at the
University College Dar-es-Salaam from 1964 to 1966. Subsequently
he was Lecturer, Reader, and Professor of Modern African History
at the University of Cambridge, and Fellow of Trinity College, 1968-
2004. He co-authored, with Bruce Berman, the 2-volume work
Unhappy Valley: Conflict in Kenya and Africa (Ohio University Press,
1992).

10
Mwayi Lusaka is a PhD candidate in the Department of History at
the University of the Western Cape in South Africa, where he also
tutors history. In Malawi he works as a Principal Researcher in the
Cultural History section of the Department of Museums and Monu-
ments. His research interests include public history and heritage,
cultural heritage tourism, critical theory, political philosophy, post-
colonial studies, cultural theory, migration studies and memory
studies.

John Chipembere Lwanda, MB, FRCP (Ed & Glas), PhD, is a

medical practitioner with NHS Lanarkshire, Scotland and an Honor-
ary Senior Research Fellow in the Institute of Health and Wellbeing,
College of Social Sciences, Glasgow University. Educated in Zimba-
bwe, Malawi and Scotland, his research interests include medical,
social, political and cultural history. His publications include Kamuzu
Banda of Malawi (Kachere, 2009), Politics, Culture and Medicine (Kachere)
and Malawi: The State we are in? (Montfort Media, 2019).

Ruth Mandala is a PhD. student in the history department at the

University of Illinois (Urbana-Champaign), and a member of staff in
the history department at Chancellor College, University of Malawi.
She holds a Master's Degree in African Social History and researches
on Malawi’s urban histories and the intersection of global and local
cultures. She has presented conference papers on "Urban Youth and
the Glocalization of Hip Hop Music in Malawi 1988-2018," and
"Contesting Space and Identity: Urban Youth Dress in Blantyre,
Malawi, 1964-1994."

Wapulumuka Mulwafu is Professor of Environmental History and

Dean of Postgraduate Studies at Chancellor College, University of
Malawi. He is author of Conservation Song: A History of Peasant-State
Relations and the Environment in Malawi, 1860-2000 (Cambridge: The

11
White Horse Press, 2011) and co-edited with John McCracken and
Kings Phiri, Malawi in Crisis: The 1959/60 Nyasaland State of Emergency
and its Legacy (Zomba: Kachere Series, 2012).

Augustine Chingwala Musopole is Associate Professor, Emeritus,

Department of Philosophy and Religion, Chang Jung Christian
University, Tainan, Taiwan. He majored in history in his Bachelor of
Social Science degree at the University of Malawi, before embarking
on his theological studies with the University of London. He holds
a PhD in Systematic Theology from Union Theological Seminary,
New York, USA.

Bryson G. Nkhoma is an Associate Professor in the Department of

History and Heritage Studies at Mzuzu University, Malawi. He holds
a PhD in African Studies (History) from the University of the Free
State, South Africa. His research interest is in environmental history,
food security, irrigation, public memory, migration and diplomatic
relations. He has published in Physics and Chemistry of the Earth, Malawi
Journal of Social Sciences, Development Southern Africa, and Southern African
Peace and Security Studies.

Felix Chimera Nyika is a Lecturer in the Department of Theology

and Religious Studies at Mzuzu University, and Lead Pastor of Kairos
Christian Center and Principal of Kairos Leadership Institute & The-
ological Seminary in Lilongwe. He is a graduate of African Bible
College Malawi (B.A. Biblical Studies), Trinity Evangelical Divinity
School in Deerfield, Illinois (Master of Divinity), and Mzuzu Univer-
sity (PhD).

Kings M. Phiri is currently Adjunct Professor of History at Mzuzu

University. He was previously Professor of African and Black History

12
in the University of Malawi. He is co-author of Twenty-five Years of
Independence in Malawi (Blantyre: Dzuka Publishing Company, 1989);
Co-editor of Democratization in Malawi: A Stocktaking (Blantyre:
CLAIM, 1998); and Malawi in Crisis: The 1959/60 Nyasaland State of
Emergency and its Legacy ( Montfort Media, 2012); and author of various
articles on the history of Malawi, Africa and the Black Diaspora,
which have featured in local and international journals and publica-
tions

Kenneth R. Ross is Professor of Theology at Zomba Theological

College and Associate Minister of Bemvu Parish, Church of Central
Africa Presbyterian, Synod of Blantyre. He has earlier served as
Professor of Theology at Chancellor College, University of Malawi,
General Secretary of the Church of Scotland Board of World Mission
and Chair of the Scotland Malawi Partnership. His most recent book
is Mission as God’s Spiral of Renewal (Mzuni Press, 2019). He is Series
Editor of the Edinburgh Companions to Global Christianity (Edin-
burgh University Press).

Macloud Frank Salanjira is a Senior Lecturer and currently serves

as Dean of the School of Education at Chancellor College, University
of Malawi. He has a doctorate in education specializing in social
studies education. His special interest is politics of education in
general and of the curriculum in particular. He has lectured in curric-
ulum and teaching studies in religious education for many years. His
other areas of interest include history-education, education-research,
social justice, education management and leadership, effective
teaching, learning and assessment.

Dorothy Tembo is a Lecturer in the Theology and Religious Studies

Department at Chancellor College, University of Malawi. She holds a
PhD from SOAS, University of London, Religions and Philosophies

13
Department. Her Ph.D. thesis, titled "Humanizing Africans:
Assessing the impact of the Livingstonia Mission and the Dutch
Reformed Church Missions on the construction of Tumbuka and
Chewa ethnicities and ethnic identities in colonial Malawi, 1875–
1935." is located within the combined fields of History and Religions.

Megan Vaughan is Professor of African History and Health at

University College London and was formerly Smuts Professor of
Commonwealth History at the University of Cambridge. She began
her career as a Lecturer in the History Department of Chancellor
College. She researches and writes on the history of central/east
Africa and is currently heading a project on epidemiological change
in Africa, funded by the Wellcome Trust. She is author of The Story of
an African Famine: Gender and Famine in Twentieth Century Malawi (Cam-
bridge University Press, 1987).

14
15
16
Introduction: John McCracken and Malawi’s History
Kenneth R. Ross and
Wapulumuka O. Mulwafu

This book has been written to celebrate the contributions of John

McCracken, one of Africa’s foremost historians. Some of the papers
appearing in this volume were initially presented at a memorial
conference in Edinburgh in April 2018 but the majority were received
from interested scholars after circulating an announcement of the
book project. Each of the authors has taken up a particular strand of
McCracken’s scholarly work and sought to offer an original contri-
bution. Some engage closely with McCracken’s writing while others
venture to break fresh ground on territory suggested by his scholar-
ship. What gives coherence to the book is that it is all engaged with
the nexus of issues that John McCracken identified as holding the key
to understanding Malawi’s history.
Although McCracken began his research in Malawi around the time
of independence in 1964, it was not until the early 1980s that he
firmly established his authority as a distinguished Malawianist scholar.
The book argues that after the first group of founding Africanist
scholars had left in the late 1970s, McCracken continued to work on
Malawi and became the leading authority in setting the agenda for
research and writing of history in Malawi. He symbolizes the transi-
tion from the nationalist approach to one that explored the social
history of Africa. Many scholars would eventually benefit from inter-
action with him personally or through his various published works.
This volume complements McCracken’s seminal publication of A
History of Malawi. It can be read as an attempt to expand on some of
the themes covered in his magnum opus. It is a book that will offer
fresh insights to those interested in the history of Malawi in particular
and Africa in general. Researchers and students will benefit not only
from fresh perspectives on Malawi but also the opportunity to be

17
exposed to new directions in scholarship. It would not be an exag-
geration to state that, unlike other countries in the southern African
region, Malawi lacks an active tradition of publishing historical
studies which synthesize knowledge. The works that exist are few and
come out irregularly, hence the publication is timely.
Before going further, it is fitting that this book should begin with
a sketch of the life and career of Kenneth John McCracken. He was
born on 1 July 1938 in Edinburgh and brought up in the Scottish
Borders town of Kelso where his parents, Kenneth and Marjory, were
both medical doctors.1 His happy childhood was shared with his
brother Peter. He was educated at St Mary’s School, Melrose and at
Sedbergh, where he played rugby for the first XV. He did National
Service in the British army between 1957 and 1959, becoming a
second lieutenant with the King’s Own Scottish Borderers.
He considered himself a slow starter academically but his imagi-
nation was caught by history during his final year at school and he
never looked back. 1959 saw him going up to St John’s College
Cambridge where he took his degree in history and was recruited as
a research assistant by Harry Hinsley, the noted historian of interna-
tional relations. In his final year he fell under the spell of Ronald
Robinson and Jack Gallagher who were pioneering a new approach
to imperial history that took seriously the experience of the colonized
as well as of the colonizer.
So keen was McCracken to pursue this line of inquiry that at
graduation he abandoned his original plan to become a schoolteacher
and enrolled as a research student at Cambridge under Robinson’s
supervision. In September 1962 he learned from Professor George
Shepperson of Edinburgh University that the extensive papers of the

1
Towards the end of his life John McCracken asked Kenneth Ross to speak at
his funeral service. Historian to the last, he supported the request with a set of
autobiographical notes that provided an account of his life. These notes have
informed the preparation of this part of the introduction. However, any errors
or shortcomings are the sole responsibility of the authors.
18
Church of Scotland’s Foreign Missions Committee had recently been
deposited in the National Library of Scotland. This led him to take
what, academically, he considered to be the most important decision
of his life: to make a study of the Blantyre and Livingstonia missions
in Malawi.
Following a year of intensive archival research he was delighted to
take up the offer of a teaching post at the fledgling University College
of Rhodesia and Nyasaland, today the University of Zimbabwe. This
appointment not only allowed John to cut his teeth in University
teaching but plunged him into African political realities. The forces
of African nationalism were rising in Rhodesia and being met by the
implacable resistance of the white settler Government of Ian Smith -
soon to declare UDI. It was not a situation that easily allowed for
neutrality and McCracken soon knew which side he was on.
A little-known fact about John McCracken is that he was arrested
in Rhodesia in 1964, after taking part in a peaceful protest against the
closure of the only newspaper sympathetic to African nationalism.
He was detained for only a few hours but his colours were nailed to
the mast and, though in his historical work he would always strive for
objectivity and impartiality, his close understanding of the African
nationalist cause opened up perspectives that had hitherto been
closed to European imperial historians.
The same year McCracken made a research visit to Malawi, picking
his moment nicely so that he could join the crowd in the stadium on
the day Malawi became an independent nation. Who would have
guessed that the young newly-arrived Scotsman looking on so
intently would later become the most authoritative interpreter of the
seventy years of British rule in Malawi? Meanwhile he based himself
at the CCAP cottage high on Zomba Mountain, travelling down each
day to work in the brick-built building on the main Zomba-Blantyre
road that served at that time as the Malawi National Archives. On
returning to Cambridge he began to write up his thesis and struck up
a friendship with Jane Purkis, whom he had known since they were

19
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Almerting claimed her for his “steady,” and bought her ice-cream. In
the range of the short block and its confining corners it was all done,
lingering by the curbstone and strolling a half block either way in the
side streets, until she had offended seriously at home, and the threat
was repeated anew. He often tried to persuade her to go on picnics
or outings of various kinds, but this, somehow, was not to be thought
of at her age—at least with him. She knew her father would never
endure the thought, and never even had the courage to mention it,
let alone run away. Mere lingering with him at the adjacent street
corners brought stronger and stronger admonishments—even more
blows and the threat that she should not get in at all.
Well enough she meant to obey, but on one radiant night late in
June the time fled too fast. The moon was so bright, the air so soft.
The feel of far summer things was in the wind and even in this dusty
street. Theresa, in a newly starched white summer dress, had been
loitering up and down with Myrtle when as usual they encountered
Almerting and Goujon. Now it was ten, and the regular calls were
beginning.
“Aw, wait a minute,” said “Connie.” “Stand still. He won’t lock yuh
out.”
“But he will, though,” said Theresa. “You don’t know him.”
“Well, if he does, come on back to me. I’ll take care of yuh. I’ll be
here. But he won’t though. If you stayed out a little while he’d letcha
in all right. That’s the way my old man used to try to do me but it
didn’t work with me. I stayed out an’ he let me in, just the same.
Don’tcha let him kidja.” He jingled some loose change in his pocket.
Never in his life had he had a girl on his hands at any
unseasonable hour, but it was nice to talk big, and there was a club
to which he belonged, The Varick Street Roosters, and to which he
had a key. It would be closed and empty at this hour, and she could
stay there until morning, if need be or with Myrtle Kenrihan. He
would take her there if she insisted. There was a sinister grin on the
youth’s face.
 By now Theresa’s affections had carried her far. This youth with
his slim body, his delicate strong hands, his fine chin, straight mouth
and hard dark eyes—how wonderful he seemed! He was but
nineteen to her eighteen but cold, shrewd, daring. Yet how tender he
seemed to her, how well worth having! Always, when he kissed her
now, she trembled in the balance. There was something in the iron
grasp of his fingers that went through her like fire. His glance held
hers at times when she could scarcely endure it.
“I’ll wait, anyhow,” he insisted.
Longer and longer she lingered, but now for once no voice came.
She began to feel that something was wrong—a greater strain
than if old Rogaum’s voice had been filling the whole neighborhood.
“I’ve got to go,” she said.
“Gee, but you’re a coward, yuh are!” said he derisively. “What ’r
yuh always so scared about? He always says he’ll lock yuh out, but
he never does.”
“Yes, but he will,” she insisted nervously. “I think he has this time.
You don’t know him. He’s something awful when he gets real mad.
Oh, Connie, I must go!” For the sixth or seventh time she moved,
and once more he caught her arm and waist and tried to kiss her, but
she slipped away from him.
“Ah, yuh!” he exclaimed. “I wish he would lock yuh out!”
At her own doorstep she paused momentarily, more to soften her
progress than anything. The outer door was open as usual, but not
the inner. She tried it, but it would not give. It was locked! For a
moment she paused, cold fear racing over her body, and then
knocked.
No answer.
Again she rattled the door, this time nervously, and was about to
cry out.
Still no answer.
 At last she heard her father’s voice, hoarse and indifferent, not
addressed to her at all, but to her mother.
“Let her go, now,” it said savagely, from the front room where he
supposed she could not hear. “I vill her a lesson teach.”
“Hadn’t you better let her in now, yet?” pleaded Mrs. Rogaum
faintly.
“No,” insisted Mr. Rogaum. “Nefer! Let her go now. If she vill
alvays stay oudt, let her stay now. Ve vill see how she likes dot.”
His voice was rich in wrath, and he was saving up a good beating
for her into the bargain, that she knew. She would have to wait and
wait and plead, and when she was thoroughly wretched and
subdued he would let her in and beat her—such a beating as she
had never received in all her born days.
Again the door rattled, and still she got no answer. Not even her
call brought a sound.
Now, strangely, a new element, not heretofore apparent in her
nature but nevertheless wholly there, was called into life, springing in
action as Diana, full formed. Why should he always be so harsh?
She hadn’t done anything but stay out a little later than usual. He
was always so anxious to keep her in and subdue her. For once the
cold chill of her girlish fears left her, and she wavered angrily.
“All right,” she said, some old German stubbornness springing up,
“I won’t knock. You don’t need to let me in, then.”
A suggestion of tears was in her eyes, but she backed firmly out
onto the stoop and sat down, hesitating. Old Rogaum saw her,
lowering down from the lattice, but said nothing. He would teach her
for once what were proper hours!
At the corner, standing, Almerting also saw her. He recognized the
simple white dress, and paused steadily, a strange thrill racing over
him. Really they had locked her out! Gee, this was new. It was great,
in a way. There she was, white, quiet, shut out, waiting at her father’s
doorstep.
 Sitting thus, Theresa pondered a moment, her girlish rashness
and anger dominating her. Her pride was hurt and she felt
revengeful. They would shut her out, would they? All right, she would
go out and they should look to it how they would get her back—the
old curmudgeons. For the moment the home of Myrtle Kenrihan
came to her as a possible refuge, but she decided that she need not
go there yet. She had better wait about awhile and see—or walk and
frighten them. He would beat her, would he? Well, maybe he would
and maybe he wouldn’t. She might come back, but still that was a
thing afar off. Just now it didn’t matter so much. “Connie” was still
there on the corner. He loved her dearly. She felt it.
Getting up, she stepped to the now quieting sidewalk and strolled
up the street. It was a rather nervous procedure, however. There
were street cars still, and stores lighted and people passing, but
soon these would not be, and she was locked out. The side streets
were already little more than long silent walks and gleaming rows of
lamps.
At the corner her youthful lover almost pounced upon her.
“Locked out, are yuh?” he asked, his eyes shining.
For the moment she was delighted to see him, for a nameless
dread had already laid hold of her. Home meant so much. Up to now
it had been her whole life.
“Yes,” she answered feebly.
“Well, let’s stroll on a little,” said the boy. He had not as yet quite
made up his mind what to do, but the night was young. It was so fine
to have her with him—his.
At the farther corner they passed Officers Maguire and Delahanty,
idly swinging their clubs and discussing politics.
“’Tis a shame,” Officer Delahanty was saying, “the way things are
run now,” but he paused to add, “Ain’t that old Rogaum’s girl over
there with young Almerting?”
“It is,” replied Maguire, looking after.
 “Well, I’m thinkin’ he’d better be keepin’ an eye on her,” said the
former. “She’s too young to be runnin’ around with the likes o’ him.”
Maguire agreed. “He’s a young tough,” he observed. “I never liked
him. He’s too fresh. He works over here in Myer’s tobacco factory,
and belongs to The Roosters. He’s up to no good, I’ll warrant that.”
“Teach ’em a lesson, I would,” Almerting was saying to Theresa as
they strolled on. “We’ll walk around a while an’ make ’em think yuh
mean business. They won’t lock yuh out any more. If they don’t let
yuh in when we come back I’ll find yuh a place, all right.”
His sharp eyes were gleaming as he looked around into her own.
Already he had made up his mind that she should not go back if he
could help it. He knew a better place than home for this night,
anyhow—the club room of the Roosters, if nowhere else. They could
stay there for a time, anyhow.
By now old Rogaum, who had seen her walking up the street
alone, was marveling at her audacity, but thought she would soon
come back. It was amazing that she should exhibit such temerity, but
he would teach her! Such a whipping! At half-past ten, however, he
stuck his head out of the open window and saw nothing of her. At
eleven, the same. Then he walked the floor.
At first wrathful, then nervous, then nervous and wrathful, he finally
ended all nervous, without a scintilla of wrath. His stout wife sat up in
bed and began to wring her hands.
“Lie down!” he commanded. “You make me sick. I know vot I am
doing!”
“Is she still at der door?” pleaded the mother.
“No,” he said. “I don’t tink so. She should come ven I call.”
His nerves were weakening, however, and now they finally
collapsed.
“She vent de stread up,” he said anxiously after a time. “I vill go
after.”
 Slipping on his coat, he went down the stairs and out into the
night. It was growing late, and the stillness and gloom of midnight
were nearing. Nowhere in sight was his Theresa. First one way and
then another he went, looking here, there, everywhere, finally
groaning.
“Ach, Gott!” he said, the sweat bursting out on his brow, “vot in
Teufel’s name iss dis?”
He thought he would seek a policeman, but there was none.
Officer Maguire had long since gone for a quiet game in one of the
neighboring saloons. His partner had temporarily returned to his own
beat. Still old Rogaum hunted on, worrying more and more.
Finally he bethought him to hasten home again, for she must have
got back. Mrs. Rogaum, too, would be frantic if she had not. If she
were not there he must go to the police. Such a night! And his
Theresa—— This thing could not go on.
As he turned into his own corner he almost ran, coming up to the
little portico wet and panting. At a puffing step he turned, and almost
fell over a white body at his feet, a prone and writhing woman.
“Ach, Gott!” he cried aloud, almost shouting in his distress and
excitement. “Theresa, vot iss dis? Wilhelmina, a light now. Bring a
light now, I say, for himmel’s sake! Theresa hat sich umgebracht.
Help!”
He had fallen to his knees and was turning over the writhing,
groaning figure. By the pale light of the street, however, he could
make out that it was not his Theresa, fortunately, as he had at first
feared, but another and yet there was something very like her in the
figure.
“Um!” said the stranger weakly. “Ah!”
The dress was gray, not white as was his Theresa’s, but the body
was round and plump. It cut the fiercest cords of his intensity, this
thought of death to a young woman, but there was something else
about the situation which made him forget his own troubles.
 Mrs. Rogaum, loudly admonished, almost tumbled down the stairs.
At the foot she held the light she had brought—a small glass oil-lamp
—and then nearly dropped it. A fairly attractive figure, more girl than
woman, rich in all the physical charms that characterize a certain
type, lay near to dying. Her soft hair had fallen back over a good
forehead, now quite white. Her pretty hands, well decked with rings,
were clutched tightly in an agonized grip. At her neck a blue silk
shirtwaist and light lace collar were torn away where she had
clutched herself, and on the white flesh was a yellow stain as of one
who had been burned. A strange odor reeked in the area, and in one
corner was a spilled bottle.
“Ach, Gott!” exclaimed Mrs. Rogaum. “It iss a vooman! She haf
herself gekilt. Run for der police! Oh, my! oh, my!”
Rogaum did not kneel for more than a moment. Somehow, this
creature’s fate seemed in some psychic way identified with that of
his own daughter. He bounded up, and jumping out his front door,
began to call lustily for the police. Officer Maguire, at his social game
nearby, heard the very first cry and came running.
“What’s the matter here, now?” he exclaimed, rushing up full and
ready for murder, robbery, fire, or, indeed, anything in the whole
roster of human calamities.
“A vooman!” said Rogaum excitedly. “She haf herself umgebracht.
She iss dying. Ach, Gott! in my own doorstep, yet!”
“Vere iss der hospital?” put in Mrs. Rogaum, thinking clearly of an
ambulance, but not being able to express it. “She iss gekilt, sure. Oh!
Oh!” and bending over her the poor old motherly soul stroked the
tightened hands, and trickled tears upon the blue shirtwaist. “Ach, vy
did you do dot?” she said. “Ach, for vy?”
Officer Maguire was essentially a man of action. He jumped to the
sidewalk, amid the gathering company, and beat loudly with his club
upon the stone flagging. Then he ran to the nearest police phone,
returning to aid in any other way he might. A milk wagon passing on
its way from the Jersey ferry with a few tons of fresh milk aboard, he
held it up and demanded a helping.
 “Give us a quart there, will you?” he said authoritatively. “A
woman’s swallowed acid in here.”
“Sure,” said the driver, anxious to learn the cause of the
excitement. “Got a glass, anybody?”
Maguire ran back and returned, bearing a measure. Mrs. Rogaum
stood looking nervously on, while the stocky officer raised the golden
head and poured the milk.
“Here, now, drink this,” he said. “Come on. Try an’ swallow it.”
The girl, a blonde of the type the world too well knows, opened her
eyes, and looked, groaning a little.
“Drink it,” shouted the officer fiercely. “Do you want to die? Open
your mouth!”
Used to a fear of the law in all her days, she obeyed now, even in
death. The lips parted, the fresh milk was drained to the end, some
spilling on neck and cheek.
While they were working old Rogaum came back and stood
looking on, by the side of his wife. Also Officer Delahanty, having
heard the peculiar wooden ring of the stick upon the stone in the
night, had come up.
“Ach, ach,” exclaimed Rogaum rather distractedly, “und she iss
oudt yet. I could not find her. Oh, oh!”
There was a clang of a gong up the street as the racing
ambulance turned rapidly in. A young hospital surgeon dismounted,
and seeing the woman’s condition, ordered immediate removal. Both
officers and Rogaum, as well as the surgeon, helped place her in the
ambulance. After a moment the lone bell, ringing wildly in the night,
was all the evidence remaining that a tragedy had been here.
“Do you know how she came here?” asked Officer Delahanty,
coming back to get Rogaum’s testimony for the police.
“No, no,” answered Rogaum wretchedly. “She vass here alretty. I
vass for my daughter loog. Ach, himmel, I haf my daughter lost. She
iss avay.”
 Mrs. Rogaum also chattered, the significance of Theresa’s
absence all the more painfully emphasized by this.
The officer did not at first get the import of this. He was only
interested in the facts of the present case.
“You say she was here when you come? Where was you?”
“I say I vass for my daughter loog. I come here, und der vooman
vass here now alretty.”
“Yes. What time was this?”
“Only now yet. Yussed a half-hour.”
Officer Maguire had strolled up, after chasing away a small crowd
that had gathered with fierce and unholy threats. For the first time
now he noticed the peculiar perturbation of the usually placid
German couple.
“What about your daughter?” he asked, catching a word as to that.
Both old people raised their voices at once.
“She haf gone. She haf run avay. Ach, himmel, ve must for her
loog. Quick—she could not get in. Ve had der door shut.”
“Locked her out, eh?” inquired Maguire after a time, hearing much
of the rest of the story.
“Yes,” explained Rogaum. “It was to schkare her a liddle. She
vould not come ven I called.”
“Sure, that’s the girl we saw walkin’ with young Almerting, do ye
mind? The one in the white dress,” said Delahanty to Maguire.
“White dress, yah!” echoed Rogaum, and then the fact of her
walking with some one came home like a blow.
“Did you hear dot?” he exclaimed even as Mrs. Rogaum did
likewise. “Mein Gott, hast du das gehoert?”
He fairly jumped as he said it. His hands flew up to his stout and
ruddy head.
 “Whaddy ya want to let her out for nights?” asked Maguire roughly,
catching the drift of the situation. “That’s no time for young girls to be
out, anyhow, and with these toughs around here. Sure, I saw her,
nearly two hours ago.”
“Ach,” groaned Rogaum. “Two hours yet. Ho, ho, ho!” His voice
was quite hysteric.
“Well, go on in,” said Officer Delahanty. “There’s no use yellin’ out
here. Give us a description of her an’ we’ll send out an alarm. You
won’t be able to find her walkin’ around.”
Her parents described her exactly. The two men turned to the
nearest police box and then disappeared, leaving the old German
couple in the throes of distress. A time-worn old church-clock nearby
now chimed out one and then two. The notes cut like knives. Mrs.
Rogaum began fearfully to cry. Rogaum walked and blustered to
himself.
“It’s a queer case, that,” said Officer Delahanty to Maguire after
having reported the matter of Theresa, but referring solely to the
outcast of the doorway so recently sent away and in whose fate they
were much more interested. She being a part of the commercialized
vice of the city, they were curious as to the cause of her suicide. “I
think I know that woman. I think I know where she came from. You
do, too—Adele’s, around the corner, eh? She didn’t come into that
doorway by herself, either. She was put there. You know how they
do.”
“You’re right,” said Maguire. “She was put there, all right, and
that’s just where she come from, too.”
The two of them now tipped up their noses and cocked their eyes
significantly.
“Let’s go around,” added Maguire.
They went, the significant red light over the transom at 68 telling
its own story. Strolling leisurely up, they knocked. At the very first
sound a painted denizen of the half-world opened the door.
 “Where’s Adele?” asked Maguire as the two, hats on as usual,
stepped in.
“She’s gone to bed.”
“Tell her to come down.”
They seated themselves deliberately in the gaudy mirrored parlor
and waited, conversing between themselves in whispers. Presently a
sleepy-looking woman of forty in a gaudy robe of heavy texture, and
slippered in red, appeared.
“We’re here about that suicide case you had to-night. What about
it? Who was she? How’d she come to be in that doorway around the
corner? Come, now,” Maguire added, as the madam assumed an air
of mingled injured and ignorant innocence, “you know. Can that stuff!
How did she come to take poison?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the woman with the
utmost air of innocence. “I never heard of any suicide.”
“Aw, come now,” insisted Delahanty, “the girl around the corner.
You know. We know you’ve got a pull, but we’ve got to know about
this case, just the same. Come across now. It won’t be published.
What made her take the poison?”
Under the steady eyes of the officers the woman hesitated, but
finally weakened.
“Why—why—her lover went back on her—that’s all. She got so
blue we just couldn’t do anything with her. I tried to, but she wouldn’t
listen.”
“Lover, eh?” put in Maguire as though that were the most unheard-
of thing in the world. “What was his name?”
“I don’t know. You never can tell that.”
“What was her name—Annie?” asked Delahanty wisely, as though
he knew but was merely inquiring for form’s sake.
“No—Emily.”
 “Well, how did she come to get over there, anyhow?” inquired
Maguire most pleasantly.
“George took her,” she replied, referring to a man-of-all-work about
the place.
Then little by little as they sat there the whole miserable story
came out, miserable as all the wilfulness and error and suffering of
the world.
“How old was she?”
“Oh, twenty-one.”
“Well, where’d she come from?”
“Oh, here in New York. Her family locked her out one night, I
think.”
Something in the way the woman said this last brought old
Rogaum and his daughter back to the policemen’s minds. They had
forgotten all about her by now, although they had turned in an alarm.
Fearing to interfere too much with this well-known and politically
controlled institution, the two men left, but outside they fell to talking
of the other case.
“We ought to tell old Rogaum about her some time,” said Maguire
to Delahanty cynically. “He locked his kid out to-night.”
“Yes, it might be a good thing for him to hear that,” replied the
other. “We’d better go round there an’ see if his girl’s back yet. She
may be back by now,” and so they returned but little disturbed by the
joint miseries.
At Rogaum’s door they once more knocked loudly.
“Is your daughter back again?” asked Maguire when a reply was
had.
“Ach, no,” replied the hysterical Mrs. Rogaum, who was quite
alone now. “My husband he haf gone oudt again to loog vunce more.
Oh, my! Oh, my!”
 “Well, that’s what you get for lockin’ her out,” returned Maguire
loftily, the other story fresh in his mind. “That other girl downstairs
here to-night was locked out too, once.” He chanced to have a girl-
child of his own and somehow he was in the mood for pointing a
moral. “You oughtn’t to do anything like that. Where d’yuh expect
she’s goin’ to if you lock her out?”
Mrs. Rogaum groaned. She explained that it was not her fault, but
anyhow it was carrying coals to Newcastle to talk to her so. The
advice was better for her husband.
The pair finally returned to the station to see if the call had been
attended to.
“Sure,” said the sergeant, “certainly. Whaddy ya think?” and he
read from the blotter before him:
“‘Look out for girl, Theresa Rogaum. Aged 18; height, about 5, 3;
light hair, blue eyes, white cotton dress, trimmed with blue ribbon.
Last seen with lad named Almerting, about 19 years of age, about 5,
9; weight 135 pounds.’”
There were other details even more pointed and conclusive. For
over an hour now, supposedly, policemen from the Battery to
Harlem, and far beyond, had been scanning long streets and dim
shadows for a girl in a white dress with a youth of nineteen,—
supposedly.
Officer Halsey, another of this region, which took in a portion of
Washington Square, had seen a good many couples this pleasant
summer evening since the description of Theresa and Almerting had
been read to him over the telephone, but none that answered to
these. Like Maguire and Delahanty, he was more or less indifferent
to all such cases, but idling on a corner near the park at about three
a.m., a brother officer, one Paisly by name, came up and casually
mentioned the missing pair also.
“I bet I saw that couple, not over an hour ago. She was dressed in
white, and looked to me as if she didn’t want to be out. I didn’t
happen to think at the time, but now I remember. They acted sort o’
funny. She did, anyhow. They went in this park down at the Fourth
Street end there.”
“Supposing we beat it, then,” suggested Halsey, weary for
something to do.
“Sure,” said the other quickly, and together they began a careful
search, kicking around in the moonlight under the trees. The moon
was leaning moderately toward the west, and all the branches were
silvered with light and dew. Among the flowers, past clumps of
bushes, near the fountain, they searched, each one going his way
alone. At last, the wandering Halsey paused beside a thick clump of
flaming bushes, ruddy, slightly, even in the light. A murmur of voices
greeted him, and something very much like the sound of a sob.
“What’s that?” he said mentally, drawing near and listening.
“Why don’t you come on now?” said the first of the voices heard.
“They won’t let you in any more. You’re with me, ain’t you? What’s
the use cryin’?”
No answer to this, but no sobs. She must have been crying
silently.
“Come on. I can take care of yuh. We can live in Hoboken. I know
a place where we can go to-night. That’s all right.”
There was a movement as if the speaker were patting her on the
shoulder.
“What’s the use cryin’? Don’t you believe I love yuh?”
The officer who had stolen quietly around to get a better view now
came closer. He wanted to see for himself. In the moonlight, from a
comfortable distance, he could see them seated. The tall bushes
were almost all about the bench. In the arms of the youth was the girl
in white, held very close. Leaning over to get a better view, he saw
him kiss her and hold her—hold her in such a way that she could but
yield to him, whatever her slight disinclination.
It was a common affair at earlier hours, but rather interesting now.
The officer was interested. He crept nearer.
 “What are you two doin’ here?” he suddenly inquired, rising before
them, as though he had not seen.
The girl tumbled out of her compromising position, speechless and
blushing violently. The young man stood up, nervous, but still defiant.
“Aw, we were just sittin’ here,” he replied.
“Yes? Well, say, what’s your name? I think we’re lookin’ for you
two, anyhow. Almerting?”
“That’s me,” said the youth.
“And yours?” he added, addressing Theresa.
“Theresa Rogaum,” replied the latter brokenly, beginning to cry.
“Well, you two’ll have to come along with me,” he added
laconically. “The Captain wants to see both of you,” and he marched
them solemnly away.
“What for?” young Almerting ventured to inquire after a time,
blanched with fright.
“Never mind,” replied the policeman irritably. “Come along, you’ll
find out at the station-house. We want you both. That’s enough.”
At the other end of the park Paisly joined them, and, at the station-
house, the girl was given a chair. She was all tears and melancholy
with a modicum possibly of relief at being thus rescued from the
world. Her companion, for all his youth, was defiant if circumspect, a
natural animal defeated of its aim.
“Better go for her father,” commented the sergeant, and by four in
the morning old Rogaum, who had still been up and walking the
floor, was rushing stationward. From an earlier rage he had passed
to an almost killing grief, but now at the thought that he might
possibly see his daughter alive and well once more he was
overflowing with a mingled emotion which contained rage, fear,
sorrow, and a number of other things. What should he do to her if
she were alive? Beat her? Kiss her? Or what? Arrived at the station,
however, and seeing his fair Theresa in the hands of the police, and
this young stranger lingering near, also detained, he was beside
himself with fear, rage, affection.
“You! You!” he exclaimed at once, glaring at the imperturbable
Almerting, when told that this was the young man who was found
with his girl. Then, seized with a sudden horror, he added, turning to
Theresa, “Vot haf you done? Oh, oh! You! You!” he repeated again to
Almerting angrily, now that he felt that his daughter was safe. “Come
not near my tochter any more! I vill preak your effery pone, du teufel,
du!”
He made a move toward the incarcerated lover, but here the
sergeant interfered.
“Stop that, now,” he said calmly. “Take your daughter out of here
and go home, or I’ll lock you both up. We don’t want any fighting in
here. D’ye hear? Keep your daughter off the streets hereafter, then
she won’t get into trouble. Don’t let her run around with such young
toughs as this.” Almerting winced. “Then there won’t anything
happen to her. We’ll do whatever punishing’s to be done.”
“Aw, what’s eatin’ him!” commented Almerting dourly, now that he
felt himself reasonably safe from a personal encounter. “What have I
done? He locked her out, didn’t he? I was just keepin’ her company
till morning.”
“Yes, we know all about that,” said the sergeant, “and about you,
too. You shut up, or you’ll go down-town to Special Sessions. I want
no guff out o’ you.” Still he ordered the butcher angrily to be gone.
Old Rogaum heard nothing. He had his daughter. He was taking
her home. She was not dead—not even morally injured in so far as
he could learn. He was a compound of wondrous feelings. What to
do was beyond him.
At the corner near the butcher shop they encountered the wakeful
Maguire, still idling, as they passed. He was pleased to see that
Rogaum had his Theresa once more. It raised him to a high,
moralizing height.
“Don’t lock her out any more,” he called significantly. “That’s what
brought the other girl to your door, you know!”
 “Vot iss dot?” said Rogaum.
“I say the other girl was locked out. That’s why she committed
suicide.”
“Ach, I know,” said the husky German under his breath, but he had
no intention of locking her out. He did not know what he would do
until they were in the presence of his crying wife, who fell upon
Theresa, weeping. Then he decided to be reasonably lenient.
“She vass like you,” said the old mother to the wandering Theresa,
ignorant of the seeming lesson brought to their very door. “She vass
loog like you.”
“I vill not vip you now,” said the old butcher solemnly, too delighted
to think of punishment after having feared every horror under the
sun, “aber, go not oudt any more. Keep off de streads so late. I von’t
haf it. Dot loafer, aber—let him yussed come here some more! I fix
him!”
“No, no,” said the fat mother tearfully, smoothing her daughter’s
hair. “She vouldn’t run avay no more yet, no, no.” Old Mrs. Rogaum
was all mother.
“Well, you wouldn’t let me in,” insisted Theresa, “and I didn’t have
any place to go. What do you want me to do? I’m not going to stay in
the house all the time.”
“I fix him!” roared Rogaum, unloading all his rage now on the
recreant lover freely. “Yussed let him come some more! Der
penitentiary he should haf!”
“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Theresa told her mother, almost a heroine
now that she was home and safe. “He’s Mr. Almerting, the stationer’s
boy. They live here in the next block.”
“Don’t you ever bother that girl again,” the sergeant was saying to
young Almerting as he turned him loose an hour later. “If you do,
we’ll get you, and you won’t get off under six months. Y’ hear me, do
you?”
“Aw, I don’t want ’er,” replied the boy truculently and cynically. “Let
him have his old daughter. What’d he want to lock ’er out for? They’d
better not lock ’er out again though, that’s all I say. I don’t want ’er.”
“Beat it!” replied the sergeant, and away he went.
 WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?
It was a sweltering noon in July. Gregory, after several months of
meditation on the warning given him by his political friend, during
which time nothing to substantiate it had occurred, was making
ready to return to the seaside hotel to which his present prosperity
entitled him. It was a great affair, the Triton, about sixty minutes from
his office, facing the sea and amid the pines and sands of the Island.
His wife, ‘the girl,’ as he conventionally referred to her, had been
compelled, in spite of the plot which had been revealed or
suggested, owing to the ailing state of their child, to go up to the
mountains to her mother for advice and comfort. Owing to the
imminence of the fall campaign, however, he could not possibly
leave. Weekdays and Sundays, and occasionally nights, he was
busy ferreting out and substantiating one fact and another in regard
to the mismanagement of the city, which was to be used as
ammunition a little later on. The mayor and his “ring,” as it was
called, was to be ousted at all costs. He, Gregory, was certain to be
rewarded if that came to pass. In spite of that he was eminently
sincere as to the value and even the necessity of what he was doing.
The city was being grossly mismanaged. What greater labor than to
worm out the details and expose them to the gaze of an abused and
irritated citizenship?
But the enemy itself was not helpless. A gentleman in the
publishing business of whom he had never even heard called to offer
him a position in the Middle West which would take him out of the
city for four or five years at the least, and pay him six or seven
thousand dollars a year. On his failure to be interested some of his
mail began to disappear, and it seemed to him as though divers
strange characters were taking a peculiar and undue interest in his
movements. Lastly, one of the politicians connected with his own
party called to see him at his office.
 “You see, Gregory, it’s this way,” he said after a short preamble,
“you have got a line as to what’s going on in connection with that
South Penyank land transfer. The mayor is in on that, but he is
absolutely determined that the public is not going to find it out, and
so is his partner, Tilney—not until after the election, anyhow. They
are prepared to use some pretty rough methods, so look out for
yourself. You’re fond of your wife, are you? Well, keep her close
beside you, and the kid. Don’t let them get you away from her, even
for a moment, where you shouldn’t be. You saw what happened to
Crothers two or three years ago, didn’t you? He was about to expose
that Yellow Point Ferry deal, but of course no one knew anything
about that—and then, zip!—all at once he was arrested on an old
charge of desertion, an old debt that he had failed to pay was
produced and his furniture seized, and his wife was induced to leave
him. Don’t let them catch you in the same way. If you have any debts
bring them to us and let us see what we can do about them. And if
you are interested in any other woman, break it off, send her away,
get rid of her.”
Gregory viewed him with an irritated, half-pitying smile.
“There isn’t any other woman,” he said simply. Think of his being
faithless to “the girl” and the kid—the blue-eyed, pink-toed kid!
“Don’t think I’m trying to pry into your affairs,” went on the
politician. “I’m just telling you. If you need any further advice or help,
come to me. But whatever you do, look out for yourself,” and with
that he put on his high silk hat and departed.
Gregory stood in the center of his office after his visitor had gone,
and gazed intently at the floor. Certainly, from what he had
discovered so far, he could readily believe that the mayor would do
just what his friend had said. And as for the mayor’s friend, the real
estate plunger, it was plain from his whispered history that no tricks
or brutalities were beneath him. Another politician had once said in
describing him that he would not stop short of murder, but that one
would never catch him red-handed or in any other way, and certainly
that appeared to be true. He was wealthier, more powerful, than he
had ever been, much more so than the mayor.