PRING had come back tg
Leadam street. The moist
cobblestones had steam.
ed in the new sun all the
afternoon; sparrows were
sweeping up to the eaves,
trailing strings and long
straws after them; from the back
porches of the flats were loud, awak-
ing, tin y sounds, breaking the long
silence. The clank of the cable-cars
was borne over the roofs, clearly now
in the damp, heavy atmosphere; from
somewhere came the jingle of a street
plano. Floating down the mild after
noon came the deep, mellow note of
some big propeller, loosing her winter
moorings at last and rousing to greet
the tug that would tow her out of the
narrow river. Kelley, the policeman,
strolled along the sidewalk, with his
hands locked behind him, his nose in
the air, sniffing eagerly and pleasur
ably. He had left off his skirted over
coat, and changed his clumsy cap for
his helmet.
Annie had sat at her window all the
afternoon, but, as the spring day wore
toward its close, she began to realize
that only the melancholy, and none of
the promise of this first spring day
bad touched her. She had thrown
open the window, to test the quality
of the air. Now and then a warm
breath came wandering in off the
prairies, though when it met the cold,
persistent wind from the lake, it hesi.
tated, and timidly turned back. But
Annie would not let herself doubt that
the spring had come. She knew that
in time the prairie wind would woo
its way until it would be playing with
the waves of the lake itself, the little
waves that danced all day, blue and
white, in the sunshine. And then the
summer would come, and on Sunday
afternoons Jimmy would take her out
to Lincoln Park and they would have
their supper at Fisher's Garden.
Leadam street was dull enough on
week days; on Sundays it was wholly
mournful,
Once Annie saw a woman, with a
shawl over her head and a tin bucket
fn her hand, go into Englehardt’s
place, down the street. The woman
went in furtively, and brushed hastily
through the “Family Entrance”
though why could not be told. She
went there nearly every hour of every
day. Then Annie was left alone. She
did not turn inward to the flat; that
was too still and lonesome, and it was
growing dark now, as the shadows
gathered. She heard the strenuous
gongs of the cable-cars over in State
street, and she could imagine the
crowds, gay from their Sunday holi-
day, that filled them, clinging even to
the running-boards.
Bone out and been with them, as ev-
ery one else in the street seemed to
have done, but she would not for
worlds have been away from home
when Jimmy came. She heard the
jingle of the street piano, too; she
wished it would come down that way.
8he would gladly have emptied her
purse for the Dago.
It was not unusual for Annie to be
left alone, and she had grown used to
ft—almost; as used as a woman can
—even the wife of a politician.
Jimmy has told her that she must not
worry at any of his absences; an
alderman could never tell what might
detain him. She had but a vague no
tion of the things that might detain
an alderman, though she had no doubt
of their importance. At times she
thought she felt an intimate little
charm in the importance that thus re-
flected itself upon her, but, neverthe-
less, her heart was never quite easy
until she heard Jimmj's step on the
‘Btair and his key in the latch, and
then—joy came to the little flat, and
stayed there, trembling and fearful,
until! he went away again. She had
grown to be so dependent on Jimmy.
Ever since she had been graduated
from the convent his great, strong
personality had stood between her and
the world, so that, as her girlhood had
she had
merged into womanhood,
hardly recognized the change, and she
remained a girl still, alone but for
him; he was her whole life. She had
‘@oubted his entrance into politics at
first, just as she had doubted his go-
‘was over, could not
ing into the saloon business, though
she scarcely understood either in their
various significances.
than the old work in the packing.
house used to; she had trembled at it
at times, and at times had grown a‘
little frightened. His success in poli
tics had pleased her, of course, and
e her proud, but it could not have
Eg
been. He was all-sufficient for
; no change could make any differ.
Without Jimmy, what
1
evening; he had left at eleven
Saturday morning; there was
an extra session of the council
Saturday night, an unusual thing, and
she had not been surprised when she
awoke to find that it was Sunday
morning—and that Jimmy had not
The morning wore away, and she
had made all the arrangements for
oil
What Will Become of Annie?
By BRAND WHITLOCK
AUTHOR OF “THE THIRTEENTH DISTRICT,” "HER INFINITE VARIETY,"
“THE HAPPY AVERAGE," “THE TURN OF THE BALANCE." ETC., ETC.
Oe
Copyright by The Bobbs- Merrill Company
‘shock.
She might have!
her prouder of him than she |.
she have done? He had never
gone so long before; here it was |
pily, all the day, singing to herself,
the gladness of the new spring in her.
But, one by one, all the tasks she
could think of were performed, even
to drawing the water for his bath and
laying out his clean linen. And then,
when there was nothing else to do
but wait, and nothing with which to
beguile her waiting, she had taken her
post at the window to watch for his
cab.
The day waned, the Sunday drew
wearily toward its close, as if it sigh-
ed for Monday, and the resumption of
active life. The street grew stiller
and stiller. She heard the voice of a
newsboy, far out of his usual haunts,
crying an extra. She could not distin-
guish the words in which he bawled
his tidings, and she thought nothing of
it. One of Jimmy's few rules was that
she was not to read the papers. But,
when the heavy voice was gone, she
found that it had had a strange, de- |
pressing effect upon her; she longed
for Jimmy to come;
thing of its somberness had stolen
her chin on her arm; her back was
growing tired, and beginning to ache. |
Then suddenly she heard horses’ hoofs
and the roll of a carriage in the street.
She rose and leaned far out of the
window to welcome him. The cab
drew up; it stopped; the door opened.
But the man who got out was not
Jimmy. It was Father Daugherty.
She knew him the instant she saw the
fuzzy old high hat thrust out of the
cab, and caught the greenish sheen of
the shabby cassock that stood away
from the fringe of white hair on his
neck in such an ill-fitting, ill-becoming
fashion. The old man did not look
up, but tottered across the sidewalk.
Annie gasped, and scarce could
move. In a moment more she heard
the old steps on the stairs, the steps
that for forty years had gone on so
many errands for others, kind and
merciful errands all of them, though
for the most part sad. He was soon
beside her, and she looked up into the
gentle face that was so full of the
woes of humanity. He had driven at
once from the hospital in the cab they
had sent to fetch him. Jimmy's last
words had been:
“What will become of Annie?”
The death of Alderman Jimmy Tier
nan at any time would have been a
When death came to him by
a pistol! ball it created what the news-
papers, in the columns they were so
glad to fill that Monday morning, de-
fined as a profound sensation. This
Sensation was most profound in two
circles in the city, outwardly uncon-
nected, though bound by ties which it
was the constant and earnest emort
of both to keep secret and unknown.
The city council had had a special
session on Saturday night, and had
passed the new gas franchise. Alder-
man Tiernan had had charge of the
fight. Malachi Nolan was away, and
Baldwin had picked out Tiernan as
the most trustworthy and able of
those of the gang who were left be-
hind. Jimmy had felt the compliment,
and gloried in it. It was the biggest
thing that had fallen to him in his
political life, and he was determined
that he would make all there was to
be made out of the opportunity. Not
in any base or sordid sense—that is,
not wholly so; that would come, of
course, but he felt beyond this a joy
in his work; the satisfaction of mere
success would be his chief reward, the
glory and the professional pride he
would feel. He relished the fight
against the newspapers, against “pub.
lic opinion,” whatever that was;
against the element that called ftself
the “better” element.
i
smile, must have loved him--but
shook his head.
“The drink’s in you, boys,” he said,
“and you can't trust your tongues.
You'll have to wait. Monday night
you'll be over. Then we'll talk busi
ness.”
Subconsciously, they still were so
the day had |
dragged itself by so slowly, and some- |
new sunlight of spring glaring in his
swollen, acking eyes, he found him-
self, with a companion, in a Clark
street chop house. Just as they were
going to order breakfast, a young man
came in, with a black look in his eyes.
No one saw it then, though they all
remembered it afterward. Jimmy
greeted him as gayly as he greeted
everybody, but the young man did not
warm to Jimmy's greeting. There were
words, the quick rush of anger to
Jimmy's face, a blow, and the pistol
shot. At first the newspapers were
glad to trace some sinister connec-
tion between the franchise fight and
the tragedy. Afterward, they said it
was only some private grudge. No
one dreamed that Jimmy Tiernan had
an enemy on earth.
At the hospital, Jimmy opened his
eyes, and on his face, grown very
white, there was a smile again, the
last of his winning smiles. His friends
were with him, and they wept, un-
ashamed. Then he rolled his head on
his pillow, and spoke of Annie. The
calm Sister of Charity pressed her
rosary into his hand, and stooped to
listen. They had just time to send
for Father Daugherty.
Down in the ward, the sadness that
had come to Leadam street spread
blackly. Many a man, and many a
woman, and many a child, cried. The
poor had lost a friend, and they would
not soon forget him. In the long days
of the distant winter they would think
of him over and over. Every one in
that ward was poor, though the re-
formers, condescending that way
whenever Jimmy was up for re-elec-
| tion, somehow never grasped the real
into her soul. She sighed, and leaned |
significance of the fact. And it was
a somber Monday around the city
hall. Jimmy had been a man with a
genius for friendship. The gang
mourned him in a sadness that had
added to it the remorse of a recent
sobriety, but their grief, genuine as it
was, had in it an evil bitterness their
hearts would not have owned. They
were restive and troubled. Whenever
they got together in little groups, they
read consternation in one another's
faces; and now and then they cursed
the caution they had exidlled on Sat-
urday night. Besides these varied ef-
fects, Jimmy's death, while it could
not create a crisis in the market,
nevertheless gave rise to nervous
feelings in certain segments of finan-
cial circles. It was inevitable that
financial and political circles should
overlap and intersect each other in
this matter, and there were confer-
ences which seemed to reflect a sense '
of personal resentment at Jimmy for
having been murdered so inopportune-
ly. In the end, the financiers were
peremptory with Baldwin. He must
fix the thing some way. And he as- |
sured them that he would give the
appointment of the administrator his
immediate attention. Already, he said,
he had a man in view who would be
days following the tragedy kept An
nie’s mind occupied; but, when the
funeral was over, and she returned to
her little flat, when the neighborly
Somea Sal ation Sone hast to thels
and
knew the
hopes and pathetic ambitions of every
in it. The sorrows of his chil-
he bore in his own heart; they
T
| bad wrought their complex and tragic
| tale in his face, The joys he left
them to taste alone; but he found too
much sorrow to have time for joy.
During all those years he had given
himself unsparingly; if it was all he
had to give, it was the most precious
thing he could have given—a daily
sacrifice that exhausted a tempera-
ment keenly sensitive and sympa-
thetic. So he had grown old and
white before his time. Many a man
had he kept straight when times were
hard and the right to work denied
him; many a widow had he saved
from the wiles of the claim-agent. The
corporations and the lawyers hated
him.
And so, on Monday morning, the
clerks of the probate court had
scarcely had time to yawn reluctant-
ly before beginning a new week's
work, when Father Daugherty appear-
ed to file Annie's waiver of her own
right to be appointed administratrix of
the estate of James Tiernan, deceased,
with an application for the appoint
ment, instead, of Francis Daugherty
as administrator,
“He must keep a set of blanks,”
whispered one clerk to another.
As Father Daugherty went about his
inventory, he saw that the result
would be what he had expected. Jim-
my had left no estate, no insurance,
nothing but the saloon. And that,
with Jimmy dead, was nothing, for its
value lay all in Jimmy's personality
and the importance of his position in
politics. The fixtures would hardly
pay for the burying of him. When
the debts the law prefers had been
paid, Annie would have scarce a pen-
ny. The world might preserve a re-
spectful and sympathetic attitude dur-
ing the few exciting days when it was.
paying its last conventional tributes to
the dead man, but it kept itemized ac-
counts meanwhile, and it could not
long pretend to have forgotten mate-
rial things. It would present its bills,
and they must be paid. Annie would
have hardly a cent to meet them with.
And Father Daugherty knew, even if
Annie did not know, what the world
would do then.
Yet he smiled, though he shook his
head, as he thought of the free-hand-
ed, indiscriminating generosity that
lil
bad been akin to the improvidence of
Jimmy's nature. And now he had but
one more duty to perform; the safe
the common worldly attitude,
with perhaps a little more than the
| usual aggressiveness in it. They were |
| in a quandary as to the bundle in the
new gas franchise, and many confer
ences with Baldwin had nerved them
to desperate expedients. So it was on
Baldwin's advice that they determined
to be represented at the opening of |
the safe. Two of the number were de-
tailed to this duty, McQuirk of the
( Timmy's nearest friends, he assented
| Saturday nights, when
| Mtle raids of his own, and turned his
.
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