The Ultimate Egoist (38 page)

“Muggsy goes into the fireman’s foc’s’le an hour later, and there is the Cajun sitting on his bunk, sharpening an eleven-inch knife on a whetstone. He looks up at the big guy and grins and keeps on working. Muggsy leaves. When he comes off watch that night he sticks his head into the fireman’s ventilator. He hears that whht! whht! He doesn’t turn in. He is walking the poop deck trying to keep awake when he turns around and sees Luchaire sitting on one of the bitts sharpening his knife. Muggsy goes back to the wheel, watch or no watch. Eleven hours he steers that night.

“The second night it is the same story. Muggsy is getting groggy, and scared. Once he runs up behind the Frenchman; Luchaire turns around real slow and he has his knife in his hand. Doesn’t look at Muggsy; just at the knife. Muggsy goes below.

“Third night, one in the morning, we make the Mississippi. A bunch of 8 to 12 men are on the poop, looking at the riverbank.
Muggsy is trying to be cheerful, but he is half dead from not sleeping, and from fear. He is one scared son-of-a-gun. All of a sudden he jumps sky high. Luchaire is right beside him, that hog sticker shining in the moonlight. Muggsy breaks down. Never saw anything like it. Cries. Asks Luchaire what he wants. Says he’ll do anything—anything … Luchaire grins and puts his knife away. ‘Jomp ovair de side,’ he whispers, ‘or go down below an’ shine my shoes.’

“That big mass o’ muscle shines shoes. Yeah. Leaves the ship when we dock, and hasn’t been heard from since. Can’t face us.”

I looked over at the little Frenchman again. “I’ll—think twice before I call anyone tough guy … Wacky, why did the messman call him ‘ma-hout’?”

“Ever see one of those guys from Ceylon with a little bull hook? They can make elephants sit up and beg.”

At the next meal, I stood up, too.

H
E WAS SHORT
and stocky and on his square face was a hunted look. He flattened himself against the brick wall in the dimness of the alley, and tried to stop his shrill panting. He had been running hard, and though he would not admit it to himself, he was frightened. Through his small brain curled ugly thoughts of vengeance and violence; as in the hunted the world over, his fear transmuted itself into anger.

It was all Alice’s fault, he thought bitterly. A man would do a lot because of a nagging woman—a lot. Some things that wouldn’t occur to him otherwise … What kick had she, anyway? He’d been good to her, after his fashion. And what did it get him? Just the same old song, over and over— “Where were you last night? Where are you going? Where have you been? How much money did you spend?” Arrgh. Well, he’d left—run out. Alice and everything she stood for—they were part of his past. They would be, that is, if that flat-foot didn’t catch up with him …

He listened intently. A truck somewhere—a towboat’s whistle from the river—a muffled honk from a taxi—footsteps—the bull’s footsteps? He tried to squeeze closer to the wall. The steps passed the mouth of the alley, and the release of pent-up emotion was a sob … but the footsteps stopped, silenced for the space of two heartbeats, and then began again—returning now. “It’s him!” he breathed, looking wildly about for some way of escape, some plan … “Goin’ to be a close thing, Deuce,” he addressed himself hysterically. “Just like Alice to put the bulls on a guy … she must know about the money, then.” For the first time he really regretted his act in taking the pittance that Alice had so painstakingly saved up, so carefully hidden.

Conscience had little to do with his fear; the penalty he faced had plenty. Locked up, he guessed, for the rest of his life in the big house.
For a lot of it, anyway. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? There was no harm in him. He was a right guy … the footsteps turned into the alley, and Deuce dived into the friendly shelter offered by a couple of ash cans.

Peeping out, he saw the detective. Yeah, it was the flat-foot all right. Detective Sergeant McGonigle and Deuce were acquaintances from ’way back. Deuce had seen far too much of him before the bull got his transfer into another department. And now Deuce had committed just the crime that would set his old nemesis on his trail again. Just like old times …

McGonigle moved carefully, carrying his huge bulk with astonishing lightness. In his hand was a flashlight, and in the gleam of it his face was stern and duty-bound. No hope of mercy from him, Deuce knew that. Once caught, no amount of pleading, bribing, defiance would do any good. Once let that huge hand close on his shoulder, and it was all up. Deuce knew.

McGonigle came abreast of him, and things happened too fast, almost, to think about. The relentlessly probing beam swept around the cans, vividly pointed up Deuce’s ruddy face and frantic, button eyes. For a frozen split second they stared at each other, hunter and hunted, and then McGonigle grunted and dove. Deuce shot his compact body sidewise; the ham-sized paw missed by very little more than nothing. Deuce found the wall against his feet; he shoved violently, launched himself like a torpedo at the detective’s legs. Caught off balance, McGonigle fell in a mighty chaos of massive limbs. Deuce rolled once, bounced to his feet, and was off down the alley like a scared squirrel. He had a wicked but short-lived hope that the flat-foot had fallen against something, but the pounding of heavy feet behind him was proof enough that, though damaged, the mighty frame was still under control.

After that it wasn’t much of a chase—half a block, maybe. McGonigle flung his arms around the fugitive and they slid to a halt. Deuce kicked and squalled, but not for long. He was through. He knew it.

A few minutes later, in a neighboring ice cream parlor, they sat together on stools confronted by huge elaborations in the way of
sodas. And McGonigle held forth:

“Five hours I’ve been after ye, lad. Ye’ve tore me trousers an’ ye’ve busted me flashlight, but I don’t hold it agin’ ye. Now be sinsible. Ye’ve a foine big house to live in, an’ yer sister Alice told me herself that she won’t say a word about the eighty-five cents ye took offen her. An’ she’ll stop tellin’ yer mother on ye all the time, too. I thought I’d seen the last of ye whin they took me out of the truant force, always dodgin’ school the way ye were. Now I’m in Missing Persons.” He looked at Deuce and shook his great head. “Ye’ve a lot o’ th’ divil in ye for a ten-year-old. Goin’ to go home an’ stay out o’ trouble now?”

Deuce grinned and nodded and began sucking greedily at a straw.

J
OSEPH
B
ERX IS
a man we all admire. He is a leader of men and a master of machines, a power in our country and one of those who make our country a power in the world. But it was not always so. Something strange happened to Joseph Berx, master industrialist, years ago when he was just Joe Berx, master mechanic.

He was young then, and uncertain, and more than a little unhappy, for he had reached a crisis in his life. It was one of those crossroads we all come to sooner or later, when to go one way may mean starvation, the other, stasis … Joe was walking along a downtown street one blustery February evening mulling over his problem, when a sharp blast of wind sent him scurrying into the friendly shelter offered by the pillars of an old federal building. He stood there in the shadows, acutely uncomfortable all through, when he heard a voice: “In trouble, son?”

Joe started and saw a man standing on the steps. The voice was deep and kindly and sounded as if it came a long way to get to him. A strange thing indeed, but not to Joe, who answered the man. “Yes, sir, I am. I don’t know what to do.”

Joe could not see very clearly, but he thought the man smiled. “I’ve a long life behind me, young man, and perhaps I’ve hurdled your problem, or one like it. Tell me about it.”

Joe did. He said, “I’ve worked a long while for one man, sir, and now a group of us want to break away and form our own company because the boss mistreats us. And though we are enthusiastic, we are poorly organized and with little capital, and I am afraid that many of us have differing ideas about the best way to run the new organization. They have unanimously voted me the head and frankly, sir, I don’t think I am big enough for the job. I feel I should take it, but I am afraid …”

Joe knew the man was smiling now. He had a weary, proud, noble face, sternly cut, but warm. He said, “I had the same problem. I too felt it was my right to break an allegiance because of oppression. I too found my fellows enthusiastic but disorganized; and unanimously they asked me to lead them. Like you—” the deep voice mellowed “—I felt myself unfit. It was a big job—too big for one man, I thought, especially if I were that man.”

“What did you do?” asked Joe.

“I took the job.”

“Why?”

“It was my duty.”

“Duty? Who made it your duty?”

The man looked piercingly at Joe. “Those who had faith in me, and those who needed me. When I realized that, I acceded, for I knew, as you will, that their trust and necessity would make me great enough to succeed, if I lacked greatness at the beginning.”

“I—see. And what happened?”

He was silent for a while, and then sighed. “It was hard, boy, hard. There were times when I was ready to give up, and times when in my heart I did give up only to be recalled by those who depended on me. It took years … I had a wife and a home, and I loved my land and wanted to return to it, and could not. I—I told them that when they appointed me. I told them I had other interests; that I would cooperate but truly did not think I could lead. But—I consented.”

“Did you—” Joe’s voice trailed off.

“Fail, lad? No. No, I won my fight. The cost was great, but I won independence. To have freedom is to have youth and strength—to fight a hard fight for it is to grow old early. I did—but it was worth it, for those about me had independence, and their children had it, and theirs, and theirs … I have faith in those children and the children to come. They will and must keep that liberty. As long as they have it and keep it alive, I too live. It was worth anything I gave, more than I ever could give; and it will be so as long as they also live for it. That is the kind of struggle you face. The price of success is high, young man, for a good fight must be a clean fight, if
the victory is to be a permanent one. What are you going to do with your problem? Have I helped you?”

“You have helped, sir,” said Joe Berx steadily. “I will do as they ask. But—who are you, sir?”

The man smiled. “You have known me all your life, lad. Remember me, and help me by carrying on my work, and perhaps—perhaps you’ll know me better.”

And Joe Berx went his way, thinking, “That man—who was that man?” He went his way, and he acted upon his decision. Now he is Joseph Berx, power in the land, and a great American.

Once, on a blustery February afternoon, he passed the Sub-Treasury Building in lower New York. He looked up at the great statue on the steps, and the thought came to him, “That man, years ago—that was George Washington—or his spirit!”

He was quite right. It
was
George Washington—or his spirit.

S
O WE GOT
chatting, as neighbors will. She was living in the cozy little three room flat—third floor front. I had a comfortable little cubbyhole down the hall. It was a nice rooming house.

“Have you met Mrs. Katz?” she asked.

“The landlady? Of course,” I said.

“She’s a very wonderful woman,” she said, and smiled all over her charming face.

“I think she’s nice,” I said, “but I’m against landladies on principle.”

She laughed. “I say she’s wonderful. She’s responsible for the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me.”

“Do tell,” I said, intrigued.

“You asked for it,” she said. She was such a happy little thing!

“About two months ago,” she began, “I went down to pay my rent. You know Mrs. Katz—well, you will, if you stay here a couple of weeks. I defy you to go near her looking down in the mouth without her asking you your trouble, and if she can help. She’s that sort of a person. Anyway, she asked me; and I was feeling terrible. The one thing in the world that would have made me burst into tears was to have someone put a hand on my shoulder and look sympathetic. And she put a hand on my shoulder and looked sympathetic. And I burst into tears. Silly, isn’t it?”

“No,” I said.

“It is,” she laughed. “But it was horrible at the time. Well, Mrs. Katz soothed me and gave me a clean hanky and generally restored me to normal, and as soon as I had control of myself I felt I really ought to tell her what it was all about. So I did; she had to calm me down again twice while I told her, but I got it out. I was in a state!”

“Seems as though. What was the trouble?”

“It was the young man who used to have the room you’re in now. I was furious at him. He’d take me out. He’d give me little things. He’d do things for me. He’d do anything in the world but propose! I tried everything. Hints were no good; the right atmosphere was no good; even the suggestions of his friends would not turn the trick.”

“How’d you know about that last item?” I asked pointedly.

“Never mind,” she said in mock sternness. “Where was I? Oh, yes! Well, Mrs. Katz was very understanding. She didn’t even smile. I asked her despairingly what on earth I could do. She considered it carefully, patting that lovely white hair of hers, and finally she said, ‘Tell you what—I’ll send your rent receipt up to you and maybe a note with it, telling you what to do. I’ll have to think this out.’ I thanked her and went back to my room.”

“Did she?” I asked when the girl had been silent, smiling, so long that I thought she’d forgotten her story.

She nodded. “She did. She’s a very clever woman. She did it in a way that gave me the satisfaction of having thought it out for myself. A—a sort of hint.”

“What was it?”

“Just a piece of paper tucked around the rent receipt. On it she’d drawn a big question mark. That was all. I sat on my bed after the boy brought it up to me, and I wondered and puzzled and thought—silly, but it was better than mooning over my misery. I was almost frantic with curiosity over what she might have meant by it.”