All Story Magazine, December 1913 — page 72: what you’re looking at

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

782 THE Rollins tried to give me the impres- sion that he was familiar with the place, and failed. He played his part wretchedly. First, he hoped we were not too early; then he was afraid that perhaps Crabbe might be late; further, it was so long since he had been in that re- gion he did not suppose any one would remember him. Looking down Fifty-Fourth Street toward the river, he muttered nerv- ously : * Horribly dark, isn’t it?” “Rather forbidding. But if we stand here much longer, those loungers at the corner will begin to pitch things at us. Where is the saloon in which you used to study types?” ‘One block farther west. ‘That's its I think—the light at the other end of the street.” “T see the light, but are you sure it’s the one you are looking for?’ “Oh, yes—quite sure. I remember it quite well.” He was not looking toward the Clachan's lights, which I thought were unusually bright, but furtively about him; and as a tram-motorman crossed from out of the shadow of the car-barn wall and walked heavily past us down Fifty-Fourth Street, Rollins seemed to pluck up courage all at once and fol- lowed him. The street was very quiet, but the motorman trudging on ahead gave me a feeling of security. Rollins became quieter and quieter every yard. He appeared to have forgotten me. Some one clinging close to the fac- tory wall skulked past us and a stout woman caine after him. Then I heard the tinkle of a piano, and all at once many voices joined in the slaughter of a popular piece of rag-time. At first IT was doubtful about the source of the sound, and then I real- ized that it came from the Clachan! And as we drew near enough I saw that it was gaily decorated with flags and bunting, though there wasn’t a soul to be seen outside its doors. ALL-STORY MAGAZINE. The motorman led the way to the place, but did not go inside. He plodded on round the corner. Rollins gripped my arm ds the swing doors closed behind us. “ We'll go into the back room,’ he whispered. ‘It's more interesting there.” There were only three customers at the bar—an Italian and two large, fair- haired men who looked like Swedes. They took no notice of us, and one would never have believed that Andy, the bartender, had tried to save me from Batch’s razor. But the back room was quite another matter. The tables were arranged so as to leave a large space in the center of the floor. Every light in the place was lit and almost every table occupied. At each there were at least one or two young women! My first impression was that a local glee club, or something of the sort, had hired Campbell's back room to cele- brate an “ occasion” of their own. Every one was in gala attire. “There was no sign of the element I had en- countered upon my first visit. The men were clean-shaven and _ neatly dressed; the women were dressed in the latest imitation of Fifth Avenue. In the top corner, quite near 17 exit, stood the piano, at which a girl was seated with her back to me. A young man was gallantly turning the music. I had heard a tlarlem policeman call him “ Jimmy.” And the pianist was Della! CHAPTER XXII. WALTZING AROUND WITH ROSIE. SHE did not turn her head, not even when, as we gingerly made our way through the tobacco-smoke to a vacant table not far from the piane, a woman’s voice called shrilly above the ragtime chorus: ‘Oh, you blondy!” The chorus wavered and_ several COMMCDOOKS. Conn