Half a Rogue by Harold MacGrath (bts book recommendations TXT) 📕

feel the need of getting out and breathing. Dick's not the best company just now, but he'll understand what I need. Poor devil! he's got his hands full, too."

She understood his mood, and offered no objection. She raised his hand and brushed it with her lips.

"I love you, John."

He smiled gratefully.

"You go over to mother's for the evening, and I'll drop in on the way home and pick you up."


Patty was in the music-room, so Mrs. Jack did not disturb her, but started at her basket-work. Mrs. Bennington read till eight, and retired. Patty played all the melancholy music she could think of. When love first makes its entrance into the human heart, there is neither joy nor gladness nor gaiety. On the contrary, there is a vast shadow of melancholy, a painful sadness, doubt and cross-purpose, boldness at one moment and timidity at the next, a longing for solitude. Music and painting and poetry, these arts that only attracted, now engage.

So Patty played.

Sometimes Mrs. Jack looked up from her work, wondering. She had never heard Patty play so many haunting, dismal compositions. At nine the telephone rang, and she dropped her work instantly, thinking the call might be from John. Ah, if the men would only listen to reason!

"Hello!"

"Is Mrs. Bennington at home?" asked a voice, unfamiliar to her ears.

"There are two. Which one do you wish?"

"Mrs. John Bennington."

"This is Mrs. John Bennington speaking. What is it?"

There was a pause.

"I have something very important to communicate to you. In the first place, you must use your influence in making Mr. Warrington withdraw his name as a candidate for nomination."

"Who is this speaking?" she asked sharply.

"Mr. McQuade."

The receiver nearly fell from her hand. McQuade? What in the world-

"Did you get the name?"

"Yes. But I fail to understand what you are talking about. I warn you that I shall ring off immediately."

"One moment, please. If you hang up the receiver, you will regret it. I wish you no ill, Mrs. Bennington. If it were possible I should like to talk with you personally, for this matter deeply concerns your future happiness. I can not call; I have been ordered out of your husband's house. It lies in your power to influence Warrington to drop his political ambition. Information has come to my hand that would not look very well in the newspapers. It is in my power to stop it, but I promise not to lift a hand if you refuse."

"I not only refuse, but I promise to repeat your conversation to my husband this very night." With that Mrs. Jack hung up the receiver. She rose, pale and terribly incensed. The low fellow! How dared he, how dared he! "Patty!" The call brooked no dallying.

The music ceased. Patty came out, blinking.

"You called me, Kate?"

"Patty, McQuade has been calling me up on the telephone."

"Who?"

"McQuade, McQuade! He says that if I do not influence Mr. Warrington to withdraw his name-Did you ever hear of such a thing? I am furious! What can it mean? He says he has heard something about me which he can suppress but will not if I-Why, Patty, what shall I do? What shall I do?" She crushed her hands together wildly.

"Tell John," said Patty sensibly.

"John? He would thresh McQuade within an inch of his life."

"Tell Warrington, then."

"He would do the same as John. But what can the wretch have found? God knows, Patty, I have always been a good, true woman. ... Think of that man's telephoning me!"

Patty ran to her side and flung her arms about her brother's wife. Patty loved her.

"Don't you bother your head, darling. It can't be anything but a political dodge; it can't be anything serious. McQuade is low enough to frighten women, but don't let him frighten you. I know he lies," said the loyal Patty. "And now that I think it over, it would be best to say nothing to John or Richard. Fisticuffs would get into the papers, and it's my opinion that's just what this man McQuade wants. He could swear to a thousand lies, if the matter became public. But oh!" clenching her hands fiercely, "I'd give a year of my life to see John thresh him. But you say nothing; let us wait and see."

Wise Patty!

At that very moment McQuade sat swinging in his swivel-chair. There was a smile of satisfaction on his face.

"That'll bring 'em," he said aloud, though he was alone. "That'll bring 'em both up here, roaring like lions. They'll muss up the furniture, and then I can tell the reporters all about it. Even Walford can't object this time."

He rubbed his hands together like Shylock at the thought of his pound of flesh. He had waited a long time. They had ordered him, McQuade. who held the city in his hand-they had ordered him out of the house. Not a grain of mercy, not half a grain. Two birds with one stone. He was shrewd for all his illiteracy. He knew women passably well. This one would tell her husband, who would seek for immediate vengeance.

But sometimes chance overthrows the best-laid plans of cleverness and foresight. And this remarkable plan of McQuade's was deranged by a chance guess by Patty.

Meantime at Martin's it was growing lively. The bar was crowded, the restaurant was being liberally patronized, and persons went up the stairs that did not return. Jordan paid the check, and he and Osborne went out.

"When'll they go out, Ben?"

"Monday."

"Too bad. I wish I'd been sober."

"I'll break Morrissy's head one of these fine days. Let's go over to Johnny's; there's music over there."

"All right, Ben."

"And no more booze, mind."

"Just as you say."

Up stairs the gambling-den was doing a good business. The annual trotting meet had brought many sporting men to town. They were standing around the faro table; the two roulette wheels were going, and the Klondike machine spun ceaselessly. There were a dozen stacks of chips in front of Bolles. He was smiling, flushed with triumph and whisky.

"Three hundred to the good, old boy!" he said to the man who spun the ivory ball. "I'll break you fellows to-night."

"Bring Mr. Bolles another whisky," said the proprietor.

"I'll take all you can bring."

"You're a tank, sure."

"You bet!" Bolles grinned.

So did the banker, covertly. He had seen the comedy played a thousand times. Few men ever took away their winnings, once they started in to drink, and Bolles was already drunk. He lost his next bet. He doubled and lost again. Then he stacked his favorite number. The ball rolled into it, but jumped the compartment, wizard-wise, and dropped into single-o. Bolles cursed the luck. Another whisky was placed at his elbow. He drank it at a gulp.

"Make the limit five," he cried.

The banker nodded to the man at the wheel.

Bolles made six bets. He lost them. A quarter of an hour later his entire winnings had passed over the table. He swore, and drew out a roll of bills. He threw a fifty on the black. Red won. He doubled on black. Red won. He plunged. He could not win a single bet. He tried numbers, odd and even, the dozens, splits, squares, column. Fortune had withdrawn her favor.

"Hell!"

He played his last ten on black, and lost.

"Let me have a hundred."

The banker shook his head and pointed to the signs on the wall: "Checks for money, money for checks, no mouth-bets."

Bolles felt in his pockets and repeated the futile search.

"Not a damned cent!" he shouted. "Cleaned out!"

"Give Mr. Bolles a ten-spot," said the banker. "But you can't play it here, Bolles," was the warning.

Bolles stuffed the note in his pocket and rose. He was very drunk; he himself did not realize how drunk he was till he started for the door. He staggered and lurched against the sideboard. His hat rolled from his head. An attendant quickly recovered it, and Bolles slapped it on his head.

"Get out o' the way! It's a snide game, anyhow. You've got wires on the machine. You've got seven hundred o' my money, and you give me ten! Hell!"

They opened the door for him and he stumbled out into the dark, unlighted hallway. He leaned against the wall, trying to think it out, searching his pockets again and again. Why in hell hadn't he left some of the money with the bartender? Broke, clean, flat broke! And he had pushed his winnings up to three hundred! He became ugly, now that he fully realized what had happened. He ground his teeth and cursed loudly; he even kicked the door savagely. Then he swung rather than walked down the stairs. He turned into the bar and bought three more whiskies, and was then primed for any deviltry. He was very drunk, but it was a wide-awake drunkenness, cruel and revengeful. He turned into the alley and tried to think of some plan by which he could borrow enough to make a new attempt at fickle fortune. To-morrow he could strike McQuade again, but to-night McQuade wouldn't listen to him. Every once in a while he would renew the searching of his pockets, but there was only the remainder of the ten the banker had given him.

John and Warrington had played an uninteresting game of billiards at the club, then finally sought the night and tramped idly about the streets. With Warrington it was sometimes his aunt, sometimes the new life that beat in his heart when he saw Patty, sometimes this game he was playing which had begun in jest and had turned to earnest. With John it was the shops, the shops, always and ever the shops. When they spoke it was in monosyllables. Nevertheless it was restful to each of them to be so well understood that verbal expression was not necessary. They had started toward Martin's on the way home, when Warrington discovered that he was out of cigars. He ran back three or four doors while John proceeded slowly. Just as he was about to cross the alley-way a man suddenly lurched out into the light. He was drunk, but not the maudlin, helpless intoxication that seeks and invites sociability. He was murderously drunk, strong, nervous, excited. He barred Bennington's way.

"I thought it was you!" he said venomously.

Bennington drew back and started to pass around the man. He did not recognize him. He saw in the action only a man disorderly drunk. But he hadn't taken two steps before the other's words stopped him abruptly.

"You're a millionaire, eh? Well, I'll soon fix you and your actress and her lover. Take that as a starter!"

He struck Bennington savagely on the cheek-bone. Bennington stumbled back, but managed to save himself from falling. Instantly all the war that was in his soul saw an outlet. He came back, swift as a panther and as powerful. In an instant his assailant was on his back on the pavement, the strong fingers tightening about the wretch's throat; Bolles was a powerful man, but he had not the slightest chance. Not a sound from either man. There were one or two pedestrians on the opposite side of the street, but either these did not see or would not.

Warrington