His eyes fell again upon the calendar. "Pay all bills by check," it said. "You will spend less money—"
He turned away, a crooked smile twisting at his mouth. Martin Hoganson watched him with puzzled eyes. Vaguely alarmed, the money lender saw his visitor open the door; heard the door close behind him. With a swift shrug the warty man resumed his earlier occupation.
OUTSIDE the tall building, the man Smith stopped, bewildered. He was still dazed.
About him were hurrying men who looked at their watches, and walked with nervous haste. Messenger boys drifted in and out of the maze of traffic, with incredible accuracy. A stream of autos and trucks rolled up the street on one side and down the street on the other. Street cars clanged past; Smith knew that they were carrying busy men on their way to keep business appointments. He glanced up at the lines of telegraph wires strung above his head, and seemed to hear them hum with unseen messages . . . business messages . . .
Everything spoke of business, the hideous monster that had ruined him, and that now threatened to engulf his family. It was as if the whole mystery of life, its madness, its futility, suddenly had been made clear to him. . . The corner on which he stood marked the intersection of two business thoroughfares in one of the largest business cities of the world.
It was all for money! How he hated it—money!—the golden calf before which bowed down in idolatry an insane universe. Something like this was in his thought; but the utterance, struggling for articulation, came forth as tears. God!
The kids would expect him at home shortly. A horrible humor lurked in the situation. The money he so despised was what he needed most. Well, he had made up his mind to get it!
From his side pocket he drew forth the expensive cigar—Hoganson's cigar. He looked at its rich coloring, its garish label. A smile curled his lips. He tore away the paper band, and ground it beneath his heel, finding a savage pleasure in the childish performance. He had said he would keep the cigar, but would he? It had been a senseless remark. . . theatrical! He would do better to crush it in his hands, as if it were Hoganson's oily throat; or—happy thought!—mail it back to its abominable donor!
But anger was past. Coolness was what he needed now. As for the cigar—By Heaven, he would smoke it!
With the cynical humor of a defeated man, he touched a match to the weed and watched the smoke curl past its fiery tip.
As he smoked, he mused, knocking the ash from his cigar onto a window-ledge of the tall building that braced his back. High up in the building were the offices of Martin Hoganson. . . who by nightfall would have ceased to exist.
In his pocket there was left just enough to buy something he had thought he would never have occasion to use; something his wife was afraid to have around the house, because of the kids . . . They would expect him home shortly!
He smiled at the little heap of ash on the window ledge, and without framing the thought knew that it was significant of life. Then he hurled the cigar butt into the street and rapidly walked away.
WHEN Martin Hoganson left the building, an hour later, a husky breeze was blowing. He turned up his collar, muttering suave imprecations. His mind still vaguely dwelt on the deadly whiteness of the man Smith's face.
"Damn him!" said Hoganson, as he moved toward the curb, "he almost threatened me. A fella like that is dangerous; he oughta be in jail. By God, if he knew I didn't dare close him up, he'd make trouble. I'll bet he's scared stiff! He'll get the coin somewhere. I know these fellas; they can always get coin somewhere, when they have to!"
With this logical and pleasing thought, Martin Hoganson stepped off the curbstone into the street. At the same instant a little puff of wind caught the heap of cigar ash on the window ledge and scattered it. A flake of inconsiderable size blew swiftly toward the street. It lodged in the money lender's eye.
With an oath, Hoganson drew a handkerchief from his pocket and applied it to the smarting member. He had taken several steps into the road, but now he turned to retrace them. The handkerchief was still tightly pressed to his eye.
"Look out!" shrieked a man's voice, in sudden fear. . . and there came a grinding of brakes and the shriek of a motor siren.
Then something exploded in Martin Hoganson's brain; and as the automobile came to a stop the watchers knew—if they gave it thought—that all the money in the world would not restore the breath of life to that lump of sudden clay.
_-_Page_26.png)
