Life — September 23, 1915 — page 14: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

VAIFES SHORT STORY (NTEST (Each story printed under the above heading is a candidate for the $1,000, $500 and $250 prizes offered by Lire in answer to the question: How short can a short story be and still be a short story? The stories accepted are paid for upon acceptance at the vate of ten cents a word for every word up to 1,500 which the author does not write, this issue.) See conditions on page 582 of Just a Pal By Elsie D. Knisely IM Doyle—sent to Sing Sing last year—is innocent. I done the job he was sent up for. I was broke and out of work and Mary, my wife, had con- sumption and needed food and warm clothes and medicine, I held up a guy with more than he needed, that didn't come by it any honester than I done when I cracked him over the head and took it out of his belt. Then Jim cooked up a scheme to own he done it and take my medicine as long as Mary lived, so she wouldn’t know and so’s I could be with her and look after her. She died to-day. There's one hundred and fifty dollars under the mattress along with the proof that I'm the guilty guy. Bury my wife decent and give the rest to Jim to get on his feet after you turn him loose. Get a kind-hearted parson to say a prayer over me-and then plant me in Potter’s Field. I’m going the gas route. Jim's no kin of mine—just a pal. He allowed no one would care a darn if he was in the pen or not. He loved a girl once, but she turned out bad and spoiled Jim’s life. Tell him “ God bless him.” P. S.—I'm sorry I killed that guy, but I just had to have money for Mary. Mebbe I can square it with him where I'm going. The Answer By Harry Stillwell Edwards 'HE dim lights of the old pawn- broker's shop flickered violently as the street door opened, letting in a gust of icy wind, The man who came with the wind closed the door with difficulty, approached to the low desk, took off his thin coat, shook the sleet from it and laid it on the counter, “As much as ye can,” he said crisply. “'Tis me last!" The broker measured the garment with a careless glance and tossed fifty cents on the counter. “Come wanst more, me friend! not enough for the illegant coat.” Pathos did not appeal often to the old dealer, but this time it did. A vibra- tion in the voice exactly fitted the mystery of something buricd deep in the sub- consciousness, He questioned the other with a swift glance, hesitated, and by the coin laid another like it. The man nodded. “Tis little enough, but 'twill do.” He took a pencil from the desk and with much effort wrote a few lines on a bit of wrapping paper. Straightening, he fixed a steady gaze on the old face turned, not unkindly, to his, ‘Tis “We have known aiche ither more'n a bit. Ye know I'm not th’ drunkard nor th’ loafer. I know ye aire a har-r-d man—ye have to be in this trade, har-r-d but square. I am off for good and all; ‘tis for the sake of the gyrul and the little man. She'll not go home till I lave her! Sind th’ money and the line to the place it spells; ‘twill pay her way home—thcy'll take her, without me; they have said it. Will ye do it?” The old man looked away from him and was silent. “Yes!” he said, at length. They waited and then shook hands, for no reason, after the fashion of men. . “What have you been doing of late?” a voice broke in that was clear-cut, sharp and almost cffensively authorita- tive. It came from a third man standing near, unnoticed. The coatless stranger regarded him steadily, his face harden- ing. He saw a short, rotund figure, almost swallowed up in a fur coat now thrown open, a heavy chain across the Prominent paunch, an enormous diamond above, a prominent curved nose and sweeping black mustache. An elbow on © SoS the counter supported a jeweled hand that poised a fat black cigar with an ash half an inch long. The eyes of the two men met, Celt and Hebrew. A moment of strained silence and something passed. What? Eternity’s messages travel many chan- nels. The Irishman’s resentment faded; his lips framed a slow, sardonic grin. “Me? Sure, I been searchin’ for the Christ! Do ye mind that ye saw Him along the way ye came?” “No,” said the other simply. “He does not live in New York! You spoke of going for good. Where—without a coat—by the bridge route?” “ An’ is't your business?” blood flared. “Perhaps,” replied the Hebrew, coolly flicking the ash. And then: “‘Wouldn’t you rather put it off and take a job?” The red faded from the face in front of him, the pale lips parted in silence and one hand caught the counter, “Tf you would, come to my place, The Star Pool and Billiard Palace, four blocks above the Bridge, and. I'll start you at twelve and a half a week. One of my men skipped with forty dollars’ worth of billiard’ balls yesterday—I am looking for them now. You can A man who will pawn t like this for his wife and baby and don’t get drunk won't steal billiard balls. It’s a business proposition.” He drew from his pocket a fat roll of bills and peeled off a fiv “ Take this on account,” he concluded, studiously avoiding the other's gaze. “It will loosen up things at home until to-morrow. Here, take your coat along!” From the door the Irishman rushed back, seized the garment, extended his hand, but suddenly withdrew it. “Not now, sor,” he stammered brokenly, ‘Sure, I can't say it! I'll say it ivery day I work for ye.” “Good! You're all right! hustle, my boy!” The Irish Now eo eee The woman in the room sat prone on the floor, her thin shawl sheltering her- self and wailing infant. Not an article of furniture remained, not even her little charcoal burner—it had been the last to go. The firm, quick footsteps in the hallway carried a message that brought her face up and drew her eager gaze comicbooks.com