Price 25 Cents.

The SHOEMAKER

A STORY BASED ON HAL REID’S PLAY
OF THE SAME NAME.

By OLIVE HARPER.

MORRIS GOLDBERG, THE SHOEMAKER.

“[I’m Wild Bill, the Bull Man.]”

THE SHOEMAKER.

A Powerful Picture of Nature, Adapted
From Hal Reid’s Famous Drama
Of the Same Name.

BY
OLIVE HARPER,

Author of “The Sociable Ghost,” “Letters From an American
Countess,” “A Desperate Chance,” “The Show Girl,” “When
We Were Twenty-One,” “A Daughter of the South,”
“Bertha, the Sewing Machine Girl,” Etc.

New York:
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY,
57 Rose Street.

THE SHOEMAKER

PROLOGUE.

In one of the small side streets that end in the Bowery, on the East Side, is a row of small and dilapidated buildings, which once, in the early days of New York, were the dwellings of fashionable people, but which are now occupied by poor but industrious people. The majority of these houses have some small business carried on in the basement cellars.

The people who occupy the houses above the cellar stores or workshops are mostly of the poor but industrious Hebrews who toil early and late to build up a little business in this land of freedom, a business which is really and truly their own, to have and to hold without persecution or robbery.

The house where Morris Goldberg had found a shelter and a chance to show of what stuff he was made was, if possible, a little more disreputable in appearance than the others in that row, but to him, who had gone through the horrors of the Kishineff massacre, robbed of his all, save his wife and little daughter, it seemed a peaceful haven of delight.

The little destitute family had been assisted to start, in this humble location, by the noble and practical Benevolent Society of the Hebrews in New York, and, though a cellar whose only light came through grated windows or the opened cellar-doors, this seemed to him a palace. Was he not free from persecution? His good wife and little daughter and he were free, free. One must have been a Jew in Russia to know what freedom means.

Morris Goldberg was a shoemaker and plied his humble calling with such patient industry, and such thrift, that after a year of struggle he had proudly paid back the money loaned him, and then he moved his wife and daughter to the back room on the floor above, while he pegged and sewed and smoked and sang at his work.

The daughter grew into a beautiful womanhood, with all the rich coloring of her race, with snowy teeth, thick waving black hair, and beautiful large dark eyes.

She was the loveliest girl in all the neighborhood, with a dainty, graceful figure and a gay, merry soul. Words could not tell how she loved her father; for, after a few years of peace and joy in this land, the mother, who had never recovered from the horrors through which she had passed, died. Her last hours were so sweetly peaceful that the loss to those left behind was more of a chastened sorrow than a poignant grief.

Dora was now sixteen, and matured like the maidens of her race.

The father loved Dora with a brooding tenderness almost womanlike in its intensity, and her little hands held his very heart in their grasp. Nothing she did seemed wrong to him, and everything she wanted, that was in his power to give, she had.

Above all, he was proud of her education, for that had been his first desire. Dora was kept in school when other girls of her age had worked in factories. She kept house for him in the room above the shop, and she was a good, sweet, obedient daughter. What more could a man ask? A business that kept them from want, and something left over every month. No wonder the honest shoemaker sang as he worked in his little shop as he listened to the steps of his daughter above.

CHAPTER I.

This brief preamble brings the reader to the day and hour when the first movements in this moving human drama began.

Morris Goldberg had left his humble store in charge of Dora and a little semi-idiotic boy, whom he had rescued from the streets. The little fellow was thin and white, and dressed in a medley of garments purchased for him from a second-hand store nearby. The child was trying to sew a shoe while seated upon the vacant bench. Dora sat beside him, trying to guide the clumsy fingers, with infinite patience.

“Now, this way, Loney; both ends at the same time. One this way and one that way. Oh, you will succeed if you keep on. You’ll be as good a shoemaker as father some day.”

“I’m trying, Dora. I try so hard, but my hands won’t mind me. I’m just no good at all.”

This the child said with such an expression of utter discouragement that Dora put her plump arm around the little figure, saying:

“Oh, yes you are, Loney. You do lots of things, and you are splendid for errands.”

“Anybody can run errands; but I want to be something else than an errand-boy. I want to know how to do other things—how to be something in the world, but my head won’t let me. It gets all ‘hurty’ when I try to think what I want to do.”

“Poor little Loney! Tell me how you got hurt, Loney? You have never told me that. Can’t you tell me now? Maybe the doctor could cure it if we knew how it happened. Try to remember.”

The poor, thin little hand went to his head uncertainly, while Loney knitted his brows trying to remember. Then he said; dreamily:

“Sometimes I can think it out right, and sometimes I can’t. I remember I had a mother once—pretty, like you—but different. She had light hair and such nice blue eyes. She was awful pretty. And I had a father, too; and he was big and handsome. We used to ride in a carriage. Sometimes I can remember the big Park, and all the people walking around and in carriages, and then I forget. Then I remember that my father quarreled a lot with my mother and she cried lots, and one day he was going to hit her, and I ran between them and he struck me instead. Then something fell out of my head that they remember with. I guess it was when the blood ran so. Don’t you think so?”

“Poor boy! Poor little Loney!” said Dora, while great tears ran down her rosy cheeks and fell on the bright curls of the little waif. He continued, after a short silence:

“The next I remember, I was in a place where there were lots of children. I was there a long time. Then I wanted my mother so bad that I ran away. They searched for me and nearly found me, but I hid in a box, and one of the men said, ‘Let him go. He hasn’t any sense, anyway.’”

The little fellow broke down and sobbed pitifully, while Dora said:

“Don’t cry, Loney. Don’t cry. We will take good care of you.”

“And then I sold papers and half-starved. The other boys kicked me around a lot and made fun of me ’cause I couldn’t remember. And they named me Loney, and then I came here; and your father lets me run errands—and—that’s all.”

“Don’t you worry, Loney. You know what my father says, that when business picks up a little he will take you to the good doctor and see if you can’t be cured, so you will remember.”

“That’s hard for me to think out, Dora.”

“Why hard? What do you mean?”

“I am nothing to your father. He is poor, and it seems so funny, for he is—is——”

“A Jew. Say it, Loney. Don’t be afraid. A Jew can be a good man, an honest one, a good father, and a good citizen. He loves me, his daughter, and he has a heart—a big one—for all in need. He has pity for them. You are mistaken if you think differently. I have seen him divide his last crust with the hungry—yes, and give them the largest share. Oh, Loney, my father is good.”

“You are right. He has divided with me; and, Dora, some day God will bless him for it.”

At that moment there were steps heard on the rickety cellar-steps, and in another moment a young man—scarcely more than a boy—came to the door. He was a typical “Bowery tough,” made so by his life in this part of the city, with its most unsavory reputation. He wore a faded corduroy cap, set at an aggressive angle on his frowsy head, and for the rest of his costume he wore a blue flannel shirt, open at the throat, and corduroy pantaloons. His shoes looked as though in urgent need of the services of the shoemaker. His face was dirty, and one of his eyes was blackened and swollen. And, over it all, there showed something so depraved and sinister, such a drawn look of pallor and decay, in spite of his youth, a stranger would not have known how to classify this strange output of city life, but the initiated would have summed it all up in one word—dope. This means the unutterable depravity of opium-smoking. In fact, he was generally known in his haunts as Dopey.

As he stood on the floor of the shop, Dopey said, in a hoarse voice:

“Hello, Sis. Where’s de main squeeze?”

“Where is what?”

“Why, his gazootses; de motza crusher—de man wit’ de birt’mark o’ t’ree balls on his skull-front—de boss, if I must say it.”

“Do you mean my father?”

“I guess so. Where is ’e?”

“He went out to deliver a pair of shoes he has finished and to bring back some to be mended.”

“Why, soy, go find ’im. I got a job fer ’im. Dey’s a couple of swell guys up de street dat needs his ’sisterence. De he guy say dat he’ll stake me ter a dollar. De moll kicked de heel off her Louie Fourteent’ an’ wants it nailed on. Dat dollar means de hop-joint if I get it, an’ to de bat-house if I don’t. Why, soy, dere’s nuttin’ to it.”

“I’ll go and find him,” said Loney, in his childish voice. He somewhat understood this Bowery slang better than Dora.

“Dat’s de trick. Be sure ye does, for if I misses dis I kin see de brassy cop on dis beat pullin’ de hook fer de ambylants, an’ me t’rowin’ a fit in de suds-tub at de croak-joint—de horspittle. Hully gee! mosey, kid. Shake yer skates.”

These last words were accompanied by so suggestive a movement that Loney sprang lightly up the steps and disappeared in search of Mr. Goldberg. As the child disappeared, he shouted:

“Hop! Go! Git!” Then, turning to Dora, he said: “Dat’s de racket. Your old man’ll git more coin for dis job dan he ever seen afore.”

“I’ll be glad,” replied Dora, half-afraid of this strange-looking creature, “for business has been very poor lately.”

There was a darkening of the cellar-door, and Dora raised her eyes to see a tall, dark, handsome and well-dressed man assisting a lady down the steps. She was a handsome and very stylishly dressed woman—large and with a most unwomanly expression on her features. In short, it was but too evident that she had been drinking and could scarcely maintain her equilibrium.

“Be careful, Muriel, or you’ll fall,” said the man, whose name was John Pierson. “Why the deuce can’t you wear sensible shoes, anyway? You’ll break your neck with those high heels yet!”

As they reached the middle of the room, Muriel laughed idiotically and mumbled something about him and accused him of trying to appear so “su-su-perior, just because I kicked my heel off.”

“So this is the place, eh?” asked Pierson of Dopey, looking about him curiously at the same time. Dopey took on an air of great importance and replied, huskily:

“Dis is de j’int. It’s on de bum, all right, all right, but it’s de nearest shoemaker dere is, but——”

“Oh, that’s all right. Any old port in a storm, you know,” stammered Muriel, and, as she saw Dora, she said: “Who you, m’ dear?”

“Dora Goldberg, lady.”

“And who is the other girl? Your sister?”

“There is no one else here but me,” replied Dora, surprised at the question.

“That’s funny. I must be seeing double. Last bottle gone to my head. Time to quit. All your fault, John Pierson—all your fault, not mine,” muttered the woman, with a maudlin laugh, staggering at the same time so that Dora thought she was falling. She hastened to bring a chair, where the woman tried to seat herself with extreme gravity, while Dora said:

“Don’t thank me, lady. I’ll go and hurry father. Please have the kindness to wait. I won’t be long.”

Dora tripped lightly up the steps and to the street, while Muriel settled herself into the chair and dozed almost at once. In the meantime Pierson silently watched Dora disappear, and then, turning to Dopey, said, in a low voice:

“You are right. She is both young and beautiful.”

“Yes, cull, and poor; jes’ as poor as a choich mouse. Show her some shines—dimints, I mean. Tell her about de glad rags, de nags and de chariot—and, soy, dere’s nuttin’ to it!”

“Hush! Not so loud,” replied Pierson, looking toward Muriel, which caused him to speak in a much lower tone as he gave his very unfavorable opinion of the intoxicated woman, comparing her to a bunch of wildcats. Suddenly Muriel roused and began to sing, in a drowsy voice, the words of a drinking-song. Pierson rudely ordered her to “shut up,” which had no other effect than to make the woman repeat her song in a louder voice.

“Oh, I say, for heaven’s sake, keep still! Of all the disgusting things on earth, a drunken woman is the worst,” said Pierson angrily, while he stamped his foot in rage.

“Ah!” said she, acridly, “and how about a drunken man? Is there such a wide difference?”

“I never took a drink in my life and you know it, Muriel Hamilton.”

“Well, I don’t count you a man. You are a beast, you are!”

“Thanks, awfully,” replied he, bowing scornfully.

Muriel tried to rise and bow, but fell back in the chair with a silly laugh. “Oh, you are welcome. Gee! I nearly fell off my perch. Steady, birdie, steady!”

Pierson strode back and forth in the little place, finally stopping before the woman, saying:

“You may as well understand this, now, Muriel. I am sick and tired of the way you are going on. I know I’ve done some things that would not stand the light of day exactly, but I never drank. I’ve committed some crimes, but drunkenness has never been one of them, and I hate liquor. I tell you this, right now: you’ve got to sober up and stop drinking—or—I’ll quit you cold.”

At this open threat, Muriel sat up straight and looked at the man half-defiant, half-scared. He maintained his coldly resolute look, while she scanned his face, and then half-laughed:

“By heaven! I believe you mean it. Just you try it on, Jack Pierson. Just you try it on, that’s all!”

“I’ll take a stroll. I needs de fresh air. It’s de sidewalk fer mine,” said Dopey, uneasily. He had seen too many drunken fights to wish to see another, especially with a powerful woman like Muriel. But Jack went to him and muttered:

“You stay here. I’ll have it out with her here and now. I want to make room for the other one.”

“Ah,” said Muriel, as she rose almost steadily and advanced, “any secrets that I cannot know?”

“No, there is not. I was just telling him that I am sick of your constant sprees and temper. That’s all, and I mean it.”

“Ah,” said Muriel, advancing and with a dangerous light in her eyes, “and, I suppose, you meant it when you deserted your honest wife for me, and when you struck your child, and killed him, for all you know. Yes, you must have meant both those things; as you never took a drink in your life, you had not even the excuse of drunkenness. Mine was a new face then, and now that the liquor that you gave me to gain your ends has got the best of me, you’ll quit me cold, will you? Then, let me tell you, when you do it will be cold for you, for you will be dead!”

“’Scuse me, cull, I hear me mudder callin’ me, an’ I has to go,” said Dopey.

“Go to the devil, if you want to,” replied Pierson angrily.

“Dat’s jes’ where I don’t want to go. Her jigs is up to de boilin’ point, an’ all dem sharp shoe-knives lyin’ dere. See me eye. She put dis on it last night. One’s enough fer me.”

“Now, Dopey, I’m sorry I hit you, honest I am. Say, Jack, you don’t know what sent me on this spree, do you?” said Muriel.

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” replied Jack coldly. “There is no excuse for it.”

“Yes, there is, I saw your forsaken, heart-broken wife slinking along in the street—a wreck, a ragged, gin-soaked wreck—and I couldn’t help remembering what she was when we robbed her, you and me. She was honest and true, and, as I looked at her, the sight sickened me, body and soul. I drank to forget it.”

“Why do you mention her to me. I have never seen her since, and never want to.”

“Nor the boy, either? Poor little half-witted fellow. Give me credit for one thing—I wanted to keep him and care for him, but, no, you robbed his mother of him and put him in the asylum. These things haunt me, Jack. Even drink will not blot them out.”

“Rot! That’s nothing but the drink. My ex-wife should have stayed in the West. She was so pretty and pure and honest that she actually led me to marry her. I hated her for that from the first.”

“Yours is coming to you, Jack, and you’ll get it good and plenty if ever her brother sets eyes on you. Those cowboys know how to shoot,” laughed Muriel meaningly.

“Don’t try to frighten me. William Hunter, or ‘Cactus Bill’ Hunter, as they called him, is dead. I had a letter telling me that he has disappeared, so I’m not afraid.”

“Maybe—and maybe not. But, if ever you two do meet, you’d better get your gun-play in first. So, then,” she continued, in a softer tone, “you want to quit your old pal? And just after my being up all night on the Bowery, helping you fleece this ‘come on.’ Not much gratitude!”

“Ah, forget it,” said Pierson roughly, changing his tone and manner suddenly, as he saw Dora returning with Loney. The young girl hastened down the steps, flushed and rosy with her hurried search.

“My father is coming. I hope we did not keep you waiting too long.”

Muriel had sat down again in the chair, and her head had fallen forward drowsily, while John, with a side look at Muriel, said to Dora:

“No, my little dear, I am repaid for the long wait by seeing you again. Don’t you ever get tired of this musty old cellar? Wouldn’t you like to live in a fine house, with servants to wait upon you, and have beautiful diamonds and clothes to wear?”

“Oh no, sir! I would not leave papa and Bennie for all the fine houses and jewels in the world. And, besides, we don’t live in the cellar. We only work here. We live upstairs.”

While this little conversation was taking place, Muriel had roused again, but this time her eyes were fastened upon little Loney, who had begun to wax some threads for the shoemaker. This was a task that he delighted in doing. He had been told that it was a great help to the kind old man. Muriel, after staring at the child, asked what his name was. The little fellow looked at her in a vague manner as he said:

“Loney, lady. Just Loney. That’s all the name I know.”

As the pretty, though vague, eyes were raised to hers, Muriel gave a start, saying to herself:

“Those eyes! That look in them. It is he without a doubt.”

The hardened woman gave a deep sob which, with Dora’s calm refusal of all he offered her, made John angry, and he said, roughly shaking her at the same time:

“What’s the matter with you, you idiot?”

“Nothing,” replied she, “only my sins are finding me out. That is all.”

Further conversation was checked by the arrival of Morris Goldberg, who came quietly down the cellar-steps to his shop.

The old man wore his leather apron, and had his sleeves rolled to his elbows, thus showing a pair of brawny arms and toil-roughened hands. In one of them he carried a pair of old shoes to be mended. With unconscious dignity the old man advanced toward his customers, and when Dora asked, impetuously, what had kept him so long, he told her quietly that there was more bad news from Russia, from Odessa this time, where the unfortunate Jews were being butchered and driven like noxious beasts before the terrible Cossacks.

“And I must stop to say somedings to ’courage Jake Rosenblum. He’s old fader and moder are in Odessa.”

Then, turning to Jack Pierson, he said:

“Good-morning, sir. Can I do somedings for you?”

“Are you the shoemaker?” asked John.

“Am I a shoemaker? Am I a shoemaker? Vell, I shust say I vos a shoemaker. And I can make a pair of shoes vile you vait, if you vait long enough. Say, who are you?”

“It’s none of your business. This lady here has knocked the heel of her shoe off, and she wants you to put it on. That’s enough for you to know; so get busy.”

“All right, all right,” said the old man, taking his seat on the bench and preparing for his work.

Dopey took a stool and sat down facing the old man, putting his own foot, encased in a very dilapidated shoe, almost in the old man’s face, at the same time leering at the old man very unpleasantly, who said:

“Oie, oie! Vot a face. You looks like a pull-dog. Vat you vant. A patch for de plack eye—eh?”

“Never mind me mug,” said Dopey, insolently, “nor me lamp. What’ll it cost me to get me skates fixed?—dey’s in a bad way.”

“Vell, you pring me a pair of soles, unt I’ll put some uppers on dem.”

“Muriel,” said John, “stay here as long as you like. I am going out to get a bite to eat, and, when you are through, come up to Lyons’ restaurant or go home. I don’t care which.”

“All right, darling. I suppose I shall be able to survive your absence.”

“Come on, Dopey. I suppose you want your dollar,” said Pierson, who had his idea in wishing to get Dopey outside.

“I’m ready. I’se dead hungry for a bullet,” said Dopey, a gleam of anticipation in his glassy eyes.

Morris Goldberg said to himself, “He must be one of dem suiciders. Vat for kind of talk is dot apout a bullet?”

John and Dopey left the place, and as soon as they were outside, John said to Dopey, nodding his head toward Dora:

“She is all you said, and more. Help me to land her, and you’ll never know what it means to go hungry for opium again.”

They then walked along out of sight of the humble shoemaker’s shop.

CHAPTER II.

Morris Goldberg, by this time, was ready to wait upon Muriel, who seemed to be slowly overcoming the effects of the drink she had taken. And, in a few moments, the shoemaker had fixed the price at twenty cents for the work he was to do.

Morris took the dainty shoe and went to work at it, blind to the blandishments that come so natural to a woman of her class—so natural that they are tried upon every man whosoever he may be.

Dora took Loney upstairs, to give him something to eat, and incidentally to add a few touches to her toilet, for was not Bennie coming? Bennie, whom Dora loved next to her father, and somewhat more than Loney; Bennie, the bright, clever and industrious young man whose heart was fixed upon the pretty Dora.

Muriel suddenly turned in her chair so as to face the shoemaker, who was busily at work, and said, in a strident voice:

“Say, do you know, I like you?”

The man before her was so surprised by this remark that he let his work fall and looked at her, but she had turned her head, and asked:

“Say, do you know why I like you?”

The man hastily reflected that it could not be for his money, and a dim idea dawned upon him that he must be a rather nice-looking man, and—he simpered a little as he sheepishly replied:

“Sure, I know. I am not so bad-looking yet.”

“No, not that; but it is because you are living here in this God-forsaken cellar that isn’t fit for rats, living from hand to mouth, and yet you take in and feed that half-witted boy that you told your daughter to give some gonsalabus, whatever that is. It must be good, though, for I saw the little chap’s look of pleasure. That’s why.”

“Vot de poy get? Yust a place to sleep, someding to eat unt run errants. He don’t cost much, led him stay. I am from a family who will always help dose who neet it. Our mutter raised us dat vay.”

Muriel looked at the shoemaker with sincere and open admiration while she said:

“I guess it’s you all right. Those things must be in the heart, or they wouldn’t come out.”

The shoemaker, with a smothered sigh, picked up the dainty shoe and started again to fit the high heel into its place, when he thought of a brilliant remark; and he made it:

“Yes, lady; der same as der measles.”

“I guess that’s right,” replied Muriel.

“Dot is only right dot we shall help oder peoples vot is worser off dan ve are. Der same Gott is ofer us all, and I can nefer forget dot I haf ein daughter of mine, und dot if anyt’ing effer happen to her I shall vant somepody’s fader to do py mein child as I do py deirs. Here is your shoe, lady; it is fixet.”

“Put it on, please,” said Muriel, holding out her shapely foot.

The shoemaker drew back. He had fitted on many a shoe for the dwellers of that neighborhood, and it never occurred to him to be afraid nor ashamed, but this was different. He put powder in the shoe, and all over the extended foot in his confusion, but at last the shoe was on. Muriel stamped the foot a couple of times and asked how much it was. The man stammered:

“Nodings, nodings. I put it down to profit und loss.”

“But I insist. You cannot make a living that way.” And she, quietly and unobserved, laid some money on the bench as she started toward the cellar-steps, her head almost clear. But before she could reach the steps Helen Pierson came to the cellar-door, and as she started down the first step she staggered and stumbled down the rest, reaching the room almost falling. At the same moment Loney came in from the door leading to the upper room. Muriel started as she saw the wretched creature whose fair heritage of womanhood was thus wrecked and besodden in gin, and drew aside, turning her back so that the unfortunate creature could not recognize her. For it was Helen Pierson, John Pierson’s abandoned and forsaken wife, who stood there staggering and reeling. The sordid and soiled rags that covered her so scantily told plainly to what a depth the poor creature, once so neat, had descended. No wonder Muriel, who had been the cause of this downfall, hurried to the darkest corner, shuddering and muttering:

“It is she! My God! It is she!”

As Helen tottered forward, almost falling, Loney caught her and helped her to sit on the bench, aided by Morris.

Then Muriel, seizing the chance while all three were by the bench, hurriedly stepped to the door and up the steps, muttering:

“Mother and child together, and neither one knows it. This is my work, mine, mine! And then he wonders that I drink to drown it out.”

“Holt her up, Loney,” said Morris. “I will delephone Dora to pring a trink of vater. Der poor voman is sick.”

With a childlike innocence Morris picked up a tin-box with a string attached to it, and by dint of shouting very loudly his request to Dora to bring a glass of water, he made himself heard and she came with it, while the father was anxiously muttering:

“Mine Loney, dot voman is in a bad fix. She cannot speak nor see anydings, not now, but if she goes on like dis she will see more dings in a minute dan effer she see in her life pefore.”

Dora brought the water, and the dazed creature drank it as Morris held it to her lips without knowing what it was. The shoemaker had been half-afraid to give it, for fear of some convulsion, but as Helen drank it she revived somewhat and looked at Morris, then at Loney. She stared at the child with an intensity that surprised Dora and Morris, while she asked Loney, in a husky whisper:

“Who are you?”

“I am Loney.”

“Loney! And where’s your father and mother?”

“Dead, I guess. I can just remember them, and that’s all,” said the child.

“I had a child once, a boy—he is dead, I guess, and I can just remember him. A little boy who loved me. A baby whom I had taught to pray—but now he is gone with all the rest.”

“Mein poor vomans. Vot has brought you to dis?”

“Gin, or the want of it. Send the children away, and I will tell you.”

“Dot’s a good girl, Dora; take de Loney und go py der oder room, der laty vants to make a secrets.”

“Yes, papa,” said Dora, looking sympathetically at the unfortunate woman, “call me if you want me.”

The shoemaker looked at Dora, then in her girlish grace and purity, and then at the poor creature on the bench, and held out his arm to Dora.

“Come here, mein child. Kiss de fader. If anyt’ing shall efer happen to you, mein daughter—dot vould kill your fader!”

“But nothing—like this—will ever happen to me, father,” said Dora, kissing him fondly and smiling at him bravely.

“Dot’s de mudder’s eyes looking at me, Dora—de eyes of your mudder, vot is now dead—there,” he added, with a sob, “run along mit Loney and play pinochle.”

Dora and Loney ran out of the shop, smiling back at the shoemaker, who turned to the now weeping woman, saying:

“They have gone now.”

“What I have to say will not take long. I was a wife—an honest wife. My husband deserted me for another woman, robbed me of my child and left me to die alone. He had taught me to take an occasional drink, saying that my health required it. In my trouble I turned to it, and before I realized it—well—it has brought me to this.”

“Vell, don’t you t’ink it has brought you far enough? If you go much farder you vill fall ofer. Vy don’t you quit?”

“Look at me,” said Helen, showing her shaking hand. “See my hand shaking like an aspen. I am all but dead, and the craving for that awful stuff is eating out my vitals. Quit! Quit! Don’t you see it is too late, too late!”

“Vy are you talking—it is only half-past eight. Look, mein poor vomans. Read you dot sign of mein.”

Saying these last words, the poor shoemaker pointed to an illuminated card hung against the wall, and Helen slowly rose and looked at it, reading aloud:

“[It is never too late to mend.]”

“Dot’s right. It is nefer too late to mend an olt shoe, nor der human heart—neider von.”

“[It’s never too late to mend]”

“Do you think that is true, Mister? Is there any hope for a battered wreck like me?”

“As true dot ve stant here lifing, dere is always hope, always. Dit not Gott pring vater for Israel from der dry rock of Horeb? Dit Gott not sent quail in der vilderness? Is Gott’s great arm come veak? No, it is yust so strong as effer it vos. Vot you vant is to go far from here and pegin all ofer again vere no one knows you. Here is death, dere is safeness, hope, a new life—a petter von.”

“How am I to get there? All I have are these few rags, this shattered body, and the fragments of a woman’s broken heart.”

As the poor creature sobbed out these words, Loney came quietly into the room, and as he heard them the child knelt silently behind the bench and folded his thin hands in prayer unobserved.

Morris stood a moment silent, and then he said, solemnly:

“In the name of my dead vife, and of mein lifing child, I vill help you to go, if you vill promise me dot you will nefer drink again.”

Helen turned and fixed her humid eyes upon the sign, and again read aloud, “It is never too late to mend.” Then her eyes fell on the kneeling child, and she crossed to the side where he was, and, placing her trembling hand on his head, asked tremulously:

“What are you doing, my boy?”

“I don’t know why, but I am praying for you.”

“And Almighty God has heard you, for I shall never want to drink again,” said Helen, with a strange sense of freedom from the enslaving habit, while the child said simply that he knew it would be so.

Helen then turned to the shoemaker, with a new light in her eyes, saying:

“I am going to the dispensary for something for my nerves, and I will come back and accept your help. And you, little boy—I know I am low-down—but—and so unworthy—but will you let me kiss you for the prayer you said?”

For answer, the child lifted his face to hers and kissed her, all the while seeming to be trying to see something through a maze.

A great sob tore the bosom beneath the sordid rags, as the sweet breath of the little boy swept over her face, and Helen sobbed:

“That’s the first pure thing that has touched my lips for so long that I can’t remember. And I’m going to try to take it with me to the throne of God. May He bless and protect you, whosesoever child you are, in the name of a broken-hearted mother who has lost her own little boy.”

The shoemaker dug his big fists into his eyes, muttering something about the wax getting into his eyes, so that he could not see just then, while Helen, straighter now, and with a new purpose showing through her sodden features and ennobling them to womanhood again, said:

“Good-bye, for a while, Mr.—Mr.——”

“Goldberg—Morris Goldberg, madam. I’ll pe reaty for you to-morrow ven you come. And don’t forget de number, nor dot”—pointing to the card.

“The God of us all will bless you for this day’s work. Good-bye. It is never too late to mend. Thank God! it is never too late to mend!”

Helen, pale, but now strong in her new resolution and hope, left the humble shop and went out into the street, while the shoemaker went to a niche in a corner, and drew aside a curtain which had covered the sacred Shema, muttering, as he did so:

“Hear ye, O Israel. There is but one God”—and ending with a fervent prayer for the saving of the soul in peril who had just left there. And he wist not that his face shone.

CHAPTER III.

As Helen Pierson disappeared from their sight, Loney turned to Morris Goldberg, saying:

“Mr. Goldberg, how can you help that poor lady when you are so poor yourself? It takes a lot of money, don’t it, to go West? I heard some of the boys at the asylum say it takes more ’n fifteen dollars, and that’s an awful lot. That is more than you have, isn’t it?”

“Vell, Loney, somedimes you make me t’ink you vos got more sense as meinselluf. You say such schmart t’ings, but dot’s a goot investment, Loney, alvays. Der good Gott, He pays it back. For efery dollar I gif avay in charity I gets me two und a halluf back again. I haf vorked hart und safed, und so I will help her.”

“But I am a burden on you, ain’t I?”

“Burten noding! Vot do you got? A place to sleep, mit somedimes somedings good to eat, und somedimes nodings but preat und milluk. If you vos not here I should haf to pay a poy t’ree dollars a veek. Make you no mistake on dot. I am a peezness man, mit mine eye open for der matsuma.”

While Loney was trying to ponder over this statement, Dora came dancing into the room, holding out a tiny blue baby’s shoe, saying, joyfully:

“Oh see, papa. See! I found it. I found it in mama’s old cedar chest. The first shoe I ever wore. We thought it was lost, but I found it. Oh, I’m so glad!”

The shoemaker took the tiny thing in his hand and looked at it through misty eyes, and with a laugh that was half a sob, he said:

“Vell, vot do you t’ink of dot for a shoe? It is a number nodings. You cannot vear dot now, mein child.”

“Hardly,” laughed Dora, holding out a plump and pretty foot.

“How shall I forget der time I maket dot shoe? Dere you vos in der bed, mit your mudder, und ven I dit showed it to her she dit laugh und cry at der same time. Den she vent avay to sleep, mit der little shoe py her lips, vere she kiss it. Now she sleep dot long sleep dot vill know no vaking. I vill put dis vere it vill not get lost again, until I can get Somolus Levinsky to put it in his safe for me.”

More moved than Dora had ever seen her father, she watched him as he put the precious little shoe in his breast pocket and walked back and forth, struggling with his emotion. He had loved his wife with a deep and strong affection, and her death had never found him comforted. Dora resembled her mother, and all the lonely man’s love centered upon her now. And the child loved him, and was in one, daughter and companion, loving, obedient and worthy in every way.

Just as Dora was beginning to feel half-alarmed at her father’s strange actions, there was a light step on the cellar-steps and a gay and pleasant voice heard, saying:

“Hello, Mr. Goldberg! Hello, Dora! Hello, Loney! How are you all?”

The shoemaker brightened up at once and turned to greet the newcomer—a handsome and alert young Jew. Neatly dressed and self-respecting he was, and full of joy at his reception and the news he had to impart. Morris held out his hand heartily.

“Ah, de Bennie. I’m glad to see you, Bennie. Vot’s der matter vit’ your face, Dora? It is red, like de roses.”

“Nothing, papa,” answered Dora, who had modestly and shyly drawn backward to the darkest corner.

“Good news, Mr. Goldberg! Good news!” cried Bennie, dancing about lightly, but with his eyes fixed upon the pretty Dora.

“Vell, tell it, Bennie. Dere has been noding in de shop to-day but troubles, und heartaches, und sorrows.”

“I have been promoted to assistant foreman of the cigar factory, with my wages doubled.”

This was said with an anxious glance in the direction of Dora, which was met by a radiant smile.

“Goot! Goot! Vat are you smiling at, like dot, Dora? Vot you got to do mit Bennie’s goot fortune?”

“Oh, papa,” said Dora, hiding her face, while Bennie manfully took his stand beside her. The father was suddenly enlightened, and, after a brief second, he drew himself together and said:

“Vell, I am not plint. I can see dot two is company and four is a procession. Come, Loney, I vant you to go mit me to de oder rooms und help me to sweep de Oriental rugs.”

“Mr. Goldberg, can I take Dora—and Loney—up de street for a treat? It is up to me now.”

“To treat de Dora and de Loney? Sure, treat dem—but treat dem right.”

“And you, too, Mr. Goldberg. Won’t you come?” said Bennie, anxious to gain Mr. Goldberg’s good graces.

“Not so. I cannot leafe. I must fix a pair of prize-fighting shoes for de Kid Broad, und if I get dem not done my name will be—vat you call it, Bennie? Oh, yes, a dead von, Bennie!”

“Yes, Mr. Goldberg.”

“Bring it me von fife-cents stogies und I vill smoke you de goot luck. Come, Loney, let us go und bolish de piano.”

Saying this, the shoemaker took the child’s hand and started to the upper room, leaving Bennie and Dora alone. Ben was too clever to allow such an opportunity for a heart-to-heart talk to pass, so he said:

“Are you glad, Dora, that it has come at last?”

“Yes, Bennie; very glad for your sake.”

“And aren’t you glad just a little for our sakes?”

“Yes, Bennie,” whispered Dora, shyly.

“You know that you promised, when my wages were raised—that—if the father consents, you would be my wife.”

“Did you ask him, Bennie? But it is not because your pay is raised——”

“I know that, Dora. But, you know, I would not want you until I could take good care of you. So, if it wasn’t for the wages, why did you promise, Dora?”

“I promised because I love you, Bennie,” said Dora, simply and sweetly, at the same time holding out both her hands, which Bennie took and held; and then, growing bolder, he put one arm around her and drew her to him and reverently kissed the upturned brow so confidingly raised.

At that moment the father entered the shop, thinking they had gone, and stood a second looking at them, with many emotions struggling on his honest face, but he rallied and said, lightly:

“I might make you marry her for dot, Bennie.”

“Oh do, Mr. Goldberg. Please do. You know I have loved Dora ever since I came here a little boy and she was a baby. It would be no punishment—or else it would be a sweet one. Eh, Dora?”

“Den you shall be punished, Bennie. You are a good, hard-working poy, und some day, in a year or two, ven you are both a little older, you shall have mein chilt.”

“I thank you, Mr. Goldberg—father—more than I can say.”

“Dank Dora, not me. She chooset you. I could see by de red on her cheeks. But, my poy, guard her like de eyepalls, for she is all I haf. She is like de mudder ofer again, und if anyt’ings happen mein Dora it vill prake mein heart. Yes, I gif my little Dora to you. I vill announce de betrothal at vonce.”

Loney peeped in the door, uncertain as to his welcome, asking if he could come in. The shoemaker said, huskily, for this betrothal, while it assured his daughter a happy home, a good husband, and protection, still seemed to him to sever the dear tie that had so bound them together—the chain was broken, to let in another link:

“Yes; come along, Loney; ve vassen’t long gone, but it vos long enough.”

Then the long-deferred “treat” was brought up for discussion, and Bennie hurried his pretty little Dora—his now—and Loney, and they went happily up the steps, leaving the father alone in the dim shop, with a heavy load of—was it joy or sorrow—in his heart? He scarcely knew himself.

CHAPTER IV.

“Vell,” sighed the shoemaker, taking up the heavily-spiked shoes, and preparing to mend them, “now, vouldn’t dem shoes pe awful to stamp on anoder feller’s corns? It’s going to pe awful lonesome, but I pe glat dot Dora vill haf a goot husband, like de Bennie. I guess ve fix it mit a pigger place. I’ll vistle or sing till dey comes pack.”

Saying those philosophical words, Morris began to whistle, but the effort brought tears to his eyes. Then he tried to sing, but the words became a husky rattle, and, with a rueful face, he said:

“Vell, ve haf vork und dot is petter as medicine for a sick heart.”

Scarcely had he uttered these words when the doorway was darkened by a form, and a big man, who looked still larger in his full cowboy costume, came clattering down the steps to the little shop. The shoemaker looked at him in dumb wonder. The cowboy costume was one he had never seen before, and he looked at it, from the wide, flapping sombrero to the spurred boots, not missing the hairy “chaps,” or leggins, and belt which, to Morris’ excited eyes, seemed stuck full of pistols and knives, although, really, the only two pistols were carried in the man’s hands. Plainly, the man was intoxicated and at a dangerous stage. He fired a shot into one corner and then another in rapid succession, while he shouted:

“Ee—you—Ee—you! I’m a wild and woolly catamount. Ee—you! I’m a bald eagle and I’m flying high. Ee—you! Hip! Hip! I’m lookin’ for blood, and I’m thirsty. Whoop-ee, whoop-ee!”

The frightened shoemaker, if he thought anything, imagined that this was some new kind of Cossack sent to massacre, as in Russia, and he fell backward over his bench, nearly fainting, yet managed to say:

“De slaughter-house, dot’s ofer in Jersey, de odder site of de river.”

The man, who would have been handsome had it not been for the marks of dissipation on his face, came on, saying loudly:

“I’m the hungry wolf of the plains, and this is my night to howl—ee—you! I’m the rip-snortin’ sure-shot from Dead Man’s Gulch!”

“I gif you my vort, you got in de wrong place. Dere’s a shootin’-gallery on de corner. Two shoots for a cent.”

“Ee—zip! Ee—zip! You’re a shoemaker, ain’t you?”

“I am if I live. Vat you vant, Mister? Dake de place. I don’t vant it. De rent is too high, anyvay, und I look for anoder place—you can haf it.”

“I don’t want your place. I’m lookin’ for the coyote who deserted my sister.”

“Coyotes? I don’t keep ’em. Go down to Somolus Levinsky’s. He’s got his life insured.”

“My name is ‘Cactus Bill,’ and I’m all over ‘stickers,’ and I want a shoemaker to peg ’em in.”

“Dot’s a good fellow,” pleaded Morris; “go on to de next place. I got de locomotor-attacks me, und I can’t use de hammer.”

“Well, we’ll let it go at that. This Bowery booze is chain-lightning. I can drink a gallon of our Western booze, but this Bowery fire is burnin’ me up. I’m a stranger in a strange land. I’m a poor lost yearlin’ and I haven’t got a brand. I’m a ring-tailed broncho an’ I’m runnin’ away. Clear the range, pardner, for it’s my time to buck.”

As he said this, the wild-looking cowboy fired another shot, which was harmless, save for a small piece of plaster knocked from the wall. The shoemaker began to tremble again, and begged him not to be so free with his shooting or the police would be down on them. Indeed, it was strange that the officers had not already made their appearance. So he begged the stranger not to be so free.

“I’m not free. I’m tough, I am. You’ve got to be tough in the West. If ever you go there, trim yourself up with a beltful of guns and be as tough as the next one, or they’ll eat you alive. Whoop-ee! I’m goin’ out to find a graveyard. I’ve got to have a place to bury my dead.”

Then the man turned and staggered toward the steps, firing two shots as he went. The shoemaker at first thought he would run and hide, but he ducked down behind his bench.

“Nein, nein,” he muttered, “but I am tired.”

The shoemaker still cowered behind the protecting bench when Dora and Loney returned, laughing happily. Dora saw her father’s pale face and asked:

“Hello, papa. Was anyone here?”

“Vas anyone here? You ought to haf seen that crowd. You’d t’ink it vos an auction sale and dey vant to buy out my place. Vy you ask me such foolish questions, Dora?”

“Why, I did not know that was a foolish question. Was it foolish?”

“No, mein chilt. It vos idiotics.”

“Why, what is the matter, papa?”

“I got it, vot you call dot tired feelings.”

“Can I do anything for you?”

“Yes, mein chilt. Go by de top of de steps und see if dere is a Vild Vest parade comin’ down de street.”

“Why, papa, what is wrong? Are you out of your head?”

“Out of mine headt! Come und touch it, dat I shall pe sure I haf von yet.”

“Papa, papa!” said Dora, really alarmed. “What is the matter? Oh, are you sick?”

“I t’ink I am deat, put I don’t know.”

“What is the matter? What is wrong?”

“Nodings wrong. He vas all right.”