The Major must have seen his agitation, for he took
his arm and led him back from the throng, saying:
“Come! We can’t help it.”
“But—but—,” he protested,
“the police ought to arrest him.”
“They do sometimes,” said the Major, “but
it doesn’t do any good.”
They walked on, and the sounds of the shrill voice
died away. “Tell me,” said Montague,
in a low voice, “does that go on very often?”
“Around the comer from where I live,”
said the other, “it goes on every Saturday night.”
“And do the people listen?” he asked.
“Sometimes they can’t keep the street
clear,” was the reply.
And again they walked in silence. At last Montague
asked, “What does it mean?”
The Major shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps
another civil war,” said he.
Allan Momtague’s father had died about five
years before. A couple of years later his younger
brother, Oliver, had announced his intention of seeking
a career in New York. He had no profession, and
no definite plans; but his father’s friends were
men of influence and wealth, and the doors were open
to him. So he had turned his share of the estate
into cash and departed.
Oliver was a gay and pleasure-loving boy, with all
the material of a prodigal son in him; his brother
had more than half expected to see him come back in
a year or two with empty pockets. But New York
had seemed to agree with Oliver. He never told
what he was doing—what he wrote was simply
that he was managing to keep the wolf from the door.
But his letters hinted at expensive ways of life; and
at Christmas time, and at Cousin Alice’s birthday,
he would send home presents which made the family
stare.
Montague had always thought of himself as a country
lawyer and planter. But two months ago a fire
had swept away the family mansion, and then on top
of that had come an offer for the land; and with Oliver
telegraphing several times a day in his eagerness,
they had taken the sudden resolution to settle up
their affairs and move to New York.
There were Montague and his mother, and Cousin Alice,
who was nineteen, and old “Mammy Lucy,”
Mrs. Montague’s servant. Oliver had met
them at Jersey City, radiant with happiness. He
looked just as much of a boy as ever, and just as
beautiful; excepting that he was a little paler, New
York had not changed him at all. There was a man
in uniform from the hotel to take charge of their baggage,
and a big red touring-car for them; and now they were
snugly settled in their apartments, with the younger
brother on duty as counsellor and guide.
Montague had come to begin life all over again.
He had brought his money, and he expected to invest
it, and to live upon the income until he had begun
to earn something. He had worked hard at his
profession, and he meant to work in New York, and to
win his way in the end. He knew almost nothing
about the city—he faced it with the wide-open
eyes of a child.
