Witch Winnie Part 14

"I've no doubt of it; but spare me, Puss, since my name is not Rickett."

He must have felt a sharp twinge of conscience as he spoke, while his daughter's words could not have failed to make an impression on the false Rickett. He had read in the cars a little book ent.i.tled "Uncle Tom's Tenement," by Alice Wellington Rollins, and Helen Campbell's "Prisoners of Poverty." He wondered if their pictures of tenement life were indeed true. A few days later he listened to some remarks of Mr.

Felix Adler's on tenement reform. He knew what Mr. Charles Pratt was doing in Brooklyn, and his better man told him that now was his opportunity. Why should he not put the plumbing in his tenement in decent repair; it might not cost much more, after all, than to bribe the inspector to report it as all right--a proceeding which Solomon Meyer advised. He could at least drain the sink in the court, and do away with the unchristian smells which now drove the chance visitor from the vicinity. And if he should have the rooms cleaned and whitewashed, he might even pose before the public as a humanitarian landlord, and so gain the cooperation of some of the philanthropists of the day for some other schemes which he had in mind.

He visited the court with a plumber, and found it in worse condition than he had imagined. There was a leak from the sewer in the back bas.e.m.e.nt. All of the rooms were foul with vermin, and rats scuttled back into the walls through great holes. Many of the tenants had left, for various reasons. The opening of the Home of the Elder Brother was in great part responsible for the emptying of Rickett's Court, for the better cla.s.s of its tenants had embraced this great opportunity to place their children in good surroundings. So many children had been transferred from Mrs. Grogan's care to the Home by their mothers that Mrs. Grogan, finding her occupation gone, betook herself to petty larceny and was arrested.

The Italian rag-pickers had taken to the road, with a monkey and an organ as tramps for the summer, leaving their filth behind them.

Mr. Armstrong looked into their vacated den, and found it impossible to imagine what it could have been when occupied.

The windows had been stoned by the street boys until hardly a pane remained, and the staircase had rotted so that he thrust his foot through it. The house would need plastering and glazing as well as replumbing. It began to look like a great undertaking. However, he bade the plumber make and send him his estimates, and hurried out of the court, not taking a full breath until he was fairly on Broadway. Then he sent a mason and a carpenter to look at the building. "I must make some repairs," he said to himself, "or I shall get no tenants whatever."

He had noticed another defect: there was but one staircase. He must add a fire-escape, for the place was a death-trap. He had a feeling of responsibility in regard to endangering the lives of human beings by fire, and he was trying to invent a scheme for heating and lighting railroad cars in such a manner as to do away with the danger of fire in case of accident. So far, the full completion of the invention escaped him, but he worked at it by night and day, not so much because it would be an immense boon to the age, but because he was sure that, if introduced only on his own railroad, it would boom the line above a rival route, and if patented, would make his fortune. Solomon Meyer, in enumerating the tenants of the court, had mentioned a Mr. Trimble, a poor inventor, who occupied the back attic, whom it would be well to turn out, as he had paid no rent for some time, though he had promised well, saying that he had just invented a scheme for the safe heating of cars, from which he hoped to realize a large sum. Mr. Armstrong thoughtlessly displayed before his agent the interest which he felt.

"Bring the man to me," he exclaimed; "if he has really worked out the problem, it is just what I want."

The agent at once paid a visit to the poor inventor and possessed himself of his plans and model, promising to do his best for him.

Mr. Armstrong saw at a glance that the inventor had compa.s.sed just what had baffled him so long.

"What will he take for this invention?" he asked, eagerly.

"Not one cent less as five t'ousand dollar," replied Mr. Meyer.

"That is a good round sum," remarked Mr. Armstrong, "but the right to it is worth more than that to me. Arrange the papers for me, get the gentleman to sign them, give him this check for a thousand dollars, and I will send him another, soon, for four thousand."

Mr. Meyer saw his opportunity here. He returned to Mr. Trimble, a.s.sured him that his contrivance had been antic.i.p.ated and already patented by another man: he was too late. The poor man's disappointment was intense; his head and hands trembled.

"I thank you for trying for me," he said; "there is nothing for me now but the river. I have occupied this room in the hope of paying my rent when I realized from that invention, but I have no longer any expectations, and I had better go and drown myself."

Then for the first time Mr. Meyer realized that there was another person in the room. Jim had come down to the court to see his old friends, and had dropped in to inquire after Mr. Trimble's son, a merry little fellow who had been a playmate of his in the old days. Jim had retreated into a corner when the agent called, but he now sprang forward and threw his arms around the poor inventor's neck.

"No, no!" he cried; "Mr. Meyer will beg Mr. Rickett to let you stay until the first of the month, and something may turn up by that time."

Some sense of shame prompted Solomon Meyer to yield to this request, though in his secret heart he knew that his own plans could be more safely carried out if his victim did drown himself; and the sooner the better. Then he hurried away to collect rents of the new tenants, with the money which Mr. Armstrong had sent Stephen Trimble burning like a coal in his pocket.

The contract for the new invention was returned to Mr. Armstrong at the same time with the estimates of the different mechanics for the improvements of Rickett's Court. It would cost three thousand dollars to put the tenement in decent repair, and this did not include the fire-escape. Mr. Armstrong whistled as he added up the items. It was really not convenient for him to place his hand on so much ready cash; certainly not without using the money which he had placed in the savings bank to Adelaide's credit. Mr. Meyer stood cringing before him, and Mr.

Armstrong explained the situation.

The agent promptly disapproved of the improvements. They would be a great waste of money. No one would rent the tenements after they were repaired, for it would be necessary to charge a higher rent, and tenants able to pay it, or desiring bathrooms and sanitary plumbing, would not occupy such a quarter of the city.

"But suppose I do not charge any more rent, but simply try to educate my old tenants to better habits of life?"

Mr. Meyer explained that Mr. Armstrong could throw away his money in that way if he wished, but that the cla.s.s of tenants who patronized Rickett's Court could not be educated. They preferred filth to cleanliness, and, however respectable their quarters were made, would soon convert them into sinks again.

Mr. Armstrong reminded his agent that his best tenants had left him, that the house was practically deserted, and that something must be done to attract new occupants.

Mr. Meyer a.s.sured him that applications had already been received for the rooms in their present state. A ship-load of emigrants had just arrived: Polish Jews and exiled Russians, who had been imprisoned as Nihilists, and who had suffered such barbarities that Rickett's Court, horrible as it was, seemed positively comfortable to them.

Mr. Armstrong hesitated. He did not like to give up his scheme of renovation; still, there were the papers waiting for his signature for the transfer of the invention, and this he had decided he must have; it was sure to bring in a great deal of money, and another year he could much better afford to make these improvements. He decided, reluctantly, that he would put them off for the present.

"I will have a fire-escape put up," he said to his agent, "and we will do the rest as soon as possible."

Solomon Meyer shrugged his shoulders. "There is no danger of fire," he said, "and I was about to propose that you take out a fire insurance policy on that building; that cost about the same, and much more sensible."

Mr. Armstrong thought a moment. "If the danger of fire is sufficient to warrant me in insuring, it is also great enough to make furnishing the fire-escape an imperative duty. I insist on your seeing that one is adjusted immediately. You may also take out an insurance policy for twenty thousand. See if Mr. Trimble can wait for the rest of his money until the first of the month. (The agent's face fell.) You have given him my check for one thousand; he ought to be willing to wait a few days for the rest. If he is not satisfied, tell him to come down and see me, and we'll come to some agreement."

This was exactly what Solomon Meyer did not wish. "I will try my best to make him sign the papers on those terms," he said, and carried them away to his own den, where he forged the name of Stephen Trimble to both contract and check. He found no difficulty in cashing the check, for Mr.

Armstrong's name was well known, though Stephen Trimble's was not.

And in the mean time the poor inventor sat in his garret trying to think. His wife was in the hospital, and his little son busied himself with washing the supper dishes. It was not a heavy task, for their supper had consisted only of some cold griddle-cakes which, the flap-jack man had given them. When the boy had finished his work he crept close to his father and laid his head on his knee.

"Why don't you light the lamp?" Mr. Trimble asked, rousing himself.

"There isn't any oil, daddy."

"No matter. I can think better in the dark, and you had better go to bed."

"I am going out pretty soon to help the flap-jack man wheel his cart."

"Very well, Lovey, if he is a good man; I don't want you to do anything wrong."

"He's good to me, daddy."

"I'm glad of that; you need a friend, and you may need one more." He kissed his little boy as he went out--an unwonted action on the father's part--and waited until he was sure that the child had left the building, then rose, with a desperate look upon his face, and stepped out on the landing. The house was very full now; people had been coming for two days past with great bales of foul clothing, offensive with odors of the steerage, and had packed into the already dirty rooms. It was an unusually warm night for spring, and the house was unbearably close. The tenants had resorted to the roof, and were sitting under the stars, trying in vain to find fresh air, and screaming and scolding at one another in a strange, harsh language.

Stephen Trimble was about to descend the staircase, when two men of unpleasant aspect stopped him.

"You are the machinist who lives on the top floor?"

"Yes."

"Have you time for a little job?"

"Plenty of time. Thank G.o.d!" he added, mentally, "who has sent me help in time."

"Then come down-stairs with us: we are your neighbors, and are just under you.

"What do you want me to do?"

"We'll show you."

The men admitted him to their room, and carefully locked the door behind them. One of them struck a light, and in so doing dropped a match upon the floor. The other sprang upon it quickly, ground it out with his heel, and cursed him for his carelessness. Stephen Trimble looked about him, and saw that one end of the room was piled with boxes and tin cans, one of which was open, showing a compound slightly resembling maple sugar. A table stood before the low window, and on it was apparatus or machinery of some sort. The first man placed his candle on the table, and drew up a packing-box for Mr. Trimble to sit upon. There was no other furniture in the room.

"You do not live here?" said the inventor.

"No," replied the first man, who const.i.tuted himself the spokesman for both; "it isn't a sweet place to live in. We hire it as a workshop. You see, we are perfecting a sort of torpedo. You've heard of the submarine torpedoes that did such good service in blowing up the Turkish ships in the Russo-Turkish war?"

"Oh yes," replied Stephen Trimble, much interested. "I thought that stuff looked like dynamite! So you are inventing a new torpedo, which you mean to sell the Government? That's a good idea. They are thinking of increasing the navy, and it's always better to deal with the Government than with private individuals."