The Street stretched away north and south in two lines
of ancient houses that seemed to meet in the distance.
The man found it infinitely inviting. It had
the well-worn look of an old coat, shabby but comfortable.
The thought of coming there to live pleased him.
Surely here would be peace—long evenings
in which to read, quiet nights in which to sleep and
forget. It was an impression of home, really,
that it gave. The man did not know that, or
care particularly. He had been wandering about
a long time—not in years, for he was less
than thirty. But it seemed a very long time.
At the little house no one had seemed to think about
references. He could have given one or two, of
a sort. He had gone to considerable trouble to
get them; and now, not to have them asked for—
There was a house across and a little way down the
Street, with a card in the window that said:
“Meals, twenty-five cents.” Evidently
the midday meal was over; men who looked like clerks
and small shopkeepers were hurrying away. The
Nottingham curtains were pinned back, and just inside
the window a throaty barytone was singing:
“Home is the hunter,
home from the hill:
And the sailor,
home from sea.”
Across the Street, the man smiled grimly—Home!
For perhaps an hour Joe Drummond had been wandering
up and down the Street. His straw hat was set
on the back of his head, for the evening was warm;
his slender shoulders, squared and resolute at eight,
by nine had taken on a disconsolate droop. Under
a street lamp he consulted his watch, but even without
that he knew what the hour was. Prayer meeting
at the corner church was over; boys of his own age
were ranging themselves along the curb, waiting for
the girl of the moment. When she came, a youth
would appear miraculously beside her, and the world-old
pairing off would have taken place.
The Street emptied. The boy wiped the warm band
of his hat and slapped it on his head again.
She was always treating him like this—keeping
him hanging about, and then coming out, perfectly
calm and certain that he would still be waiting.
By George, he’d fool her, for once: he’d
go away, and let her worry. She would worry.
She hated to hurt anyone. Ah!
Across the Street, under an old ailanthus tree, was
the house he watched, a small brick, with shallow
wooden steps and—curious architecture of
Middle West sixties—a wooden cellar door
beside the steps.
In some curious way it preserved an air of distinction
among its more pretentious neighbors, much as a very
old lady may now and then lend tone to a smart gathering.
On either side of it, the taller houses had an appearance
of protection rather than of patronage. It was
a matter of self-respect, perhaps. No windows
on the Street were so spotlessly curtained, no doormat
so accurately placed, no “yard” in the
rear so tidy with morning-glory vines over the whitewashed
fence.
