CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Fire!
Laughing and talking they all trouped into the restaurant. Elinor Coolidge and Comte de Rocheverte; Eva Tanner and Kate Wood, with the handsome Hungarian twins, who were rather sought after in New York just then; Baron Ludovic Zsencha and his brother Paul; last Mrs. Milton and Tony Kidd.
Tony had intended to drop in at Alexander's in any case, to have a look at the Marquis of Twelfth Street, who had been "discovered" by that morning's "Light"; but he would have come on directly after returning from a second out of town expedition if a telegram had not been forwarded to the country, asking him to be Mrs. Milton's escort.
This invitation Tony accepted with pleasure, not only because it tickled his sense of humour to go to Alexander's as a member of a "slumming party," but because he hoped to see Fanny Milton, whom he thought the sweetest girl in New York. Last year Mrs. Milton would hardly have considered him "good enough" socially to select as companion, but there were people who looked at her a little askance now, and she could not pick and choose as she had done. Tony knew very well to what he owed his promotion, but that did not affect him in the least if it gave him a chance of seeing Fanny.
He was disappointed to find that she was not going, and his spirits were dashed by the news that she disapproved of the "Loveland sensation," for which he knew himself to be largely responsible. Nevertheless, in manner he was as gay as the others, when the party of eight made its merry raid upon Alexander's.
The Italian marriage feast was already in full swing; but neither the bridal party nor any of the thirty or forty other occupants of the restaurant were too deeply absorbed in their own affairs to notice the arrival of the "swells."
Not a soul in the room but instantly recognised the fact that they were "swells," for though the ladies had put on their plainest gowns for the expedition, and the men had been forbidden to appear in evening dress, there was a marked difference between Alexander's eight latest guests and all the others already assembled.
"Hullo! I suppose we ought to feel honoured!" muttered Mr. Leo Cohen, who had just arrived from the West, and was paying a surprise visit to the establishment of his future father-in-law. He had demanded fried oysters and coffee, and had greatly enjoyed giving the order to the handsome new member of Alexander's staff.
"Get a move on, if you please," he finished, pointing his black moustache, and prodding his white teeth with a gold toothpick, as he stared at the man made notorious by today's newspapers. Pressing his lips tightly together Loveland turned away to pass the order to Black Dick, the cook.
It was at this moment that Mrs. Milton's party entered the restaurant, and Mr. Cohen murmured his comment to Isidora who, at her father's urgent suggestion, was hovering about that young gentleman's table, looking her prettiest.
Tony Kidd, at Mrs. Milton's request, had telephoned for a table for eight, to be withdrawn as far as possible from the big front window, that dinner and diners need not be criticised by the man in the street. Alexander had, therefore, caused Blinkey to drag the largest table in the room close to the curtained door at the back. At this table – by the time Loveland had given Cohen's order to Black Dick, and returned across the corridor which divided the restaurant from the kitchen – the four pretty women and their escorts had taken their seats.
The door behind the curtain was never shut in business hours; and as Loveland pushed back the red drapery, carrying a tray loaded with ice cream for the Italians, he looked straight into the eyes of Elinor Coolidge, Mrs. Milton, and the newspaper man, Tony Kidd.
They and their companions had already been searching the room for him, but their presence took him completely by surprise.
Not since early morning had he found a moment's rest. He had had no appetite, and would have had little time to eat even if he had been hungry. The day's work had irritated and unnerved him up to the last notch of his endurance. No battle of his brief but lively South African experience had cost him physically or mentally as much as these thirteen hours of waiting on Alexander's customers, and the sudden sight of those familiar faces, smiling coolly on his shame, came upon him like a volley of bullets from a quick-firing gun.
Involuntarily he took a step back, knocked the edge of the tray against the door-post, and dropped it with a crash of breaking crockery. Plates smashed, spoons flew, and ice-cream gushed among the ruins. Blinkey and the Polish waiter sprang to their colleague's assistance, not displeased, however, that he should be disgraced. Alexander scolded, the Italian bride screamed, and had to be reassured by the bridegroom. Leo Cohen laughed disagreeably; Isidora jumped; and Mrs. Milton's party looked at each other from under lifted eyebrows.
In the confusion of the breakage Loveland found himself again. Pride came to his rescue – not mere hurt vanity, but a truer pride than had ever made his heart beat high.
As he bent down to pick up the broken plates, he told himself that these people, who had come to plunge him still deeper in humiliating depths, were not worth a pang, and should not see that they had power to inflict it. They had caught him unawares, but he knew the worst now, and would bear it without letting those laughing, curious eyes see how their glances made him suffer.
For one short instant, he detested Mrs. Milton so intensely that he half regretted his vow to spare her name at all hazards; but by the time he had picked up the last piece of broken crockery he knew that, if everything were to come over again, he would do as he had done.
"I take dat out of your wages," said Alexander, loudly enough to be heard by those who sat round the table near to the curtained door.
"Of course," replied Loveland, his voice steady.
"I shouldn't have thought the British aristocracy would have such clumsy ways," Leo Cohen remarked audibly to Isidora. Then, calling jocularly across the room, "Say Alexander, got any mock turtle soup tonight?"
"No," growled Alexander.
"Thought you might be makin' a speciality of it this week," went on Cohen.
"Why?"
"Oh, cute idea for an advertisement: 'Mock Turtle served by Mock Marquis.'"
A titter went round the room among those who had enough English to understand the joke, and there was even a faint, suppressed sound of laughter at Mrs. Milton's table.
Loveland turned white. He had an impulse to hurl the broken dishes, now collected on the tray, straight at Cohen's oiled black head; and a week ago he would have done so without stopping to reflect. But he had lived longer in six days since landing in New York than in as many years before; and he was learning a lesson which no one had even tried to teach him in the past; mastery of himself.
He knew that if he took violent revenge upon the insolent young Jew, his late shipmates and their friends would delight in the exhibition. They would think that they were getting their money's worth out of the show, and Loveland determined not to play mountebank for their entertainment.
Pale, but perfectly composed in appearance, he did not even look towards Cohen, and seemed to take no more notice of the young man's impertinence than of the barking of some mongrel dog, too feeble to be kicked.
Ardently Loveland longed to get out of the room and to stay out, but though he could have escaped by carrying the broken dishes into the kitchen, he would not deign to turn his back on the enemy. He gave the tray to Blinkey and obeyed a gesture of Alexander's which sent him to take a new order from the Italians.
"I don't believe he'll come to wait on us," whispered Mrs. Milton to Tony Kidd. "If he doesn't, it will have been hardly worth the fag of coming all this way downtown. His handing us our things would have been the best fun of all."
"I think you'll get your fun," mumbled Tony. But he was not enjoying himself.
"Of course the man's a fraud, and deserves all he's got," the journalist thought. "But I'm hanged if I like seeing him take his medicine. He's a good plucked one, anyhow."
Never glancing at the eight faces, which watched his every movement with sixteen brilliant eyes, Loveland passed their table and went to tell the cook that the Italian party would have a rum omelet in place of the lost ice-cream. Cohen's fried oysters were ready, the Pole having just served them, and now the second course of the dinner – begun already with Blue Points – was waiting for the "swells." It was soup, and Loveland had either to carry it in, and serve it himself, or else to show that the torture of the lash was beyond his endurance.
"They shall see that I'm not ashamed for myself or afraid of them," he resolved, returning to the restaurant with a steaming tureen and eight hot plates on a tray. Without a change of expression he laid those eight plates, one by one, in their places on the table; and then, with a hand which he forced to be steady, he ladled out the soup. The ladies drew back, as if uneasy lest he might seek some small revenge; but he was careful not to spill a drop.
"Les biscuits, s'il vous plait," said Comte de Rocheverte, looking Loveland straight and superciliously in the eyes; but the English waiter did not flinch from the stare of the French nobleman. He walked quietly to the counter, took some biscuits (which Isidora called "crackers") from a glass jar, put them on a platter, and handed them to each member of Mrs. Milton's party.
"He understands French," murmured de Rocheverte to Miss Coolidge. "He must have had some education."
Loveland heard, and swallowed a lump in his throat. He knew that the young man and the girl were looking at him, talking of him; and that if he were visibly distressed by the knowledge they would be the more amused. But he snatched a moment's respite in waiting upon a seedy, bearded stranger, who had just come in and taken an isolated table – a stranger who looked like a foreigner, a person who would not be interested in a marquis born of any nation. In a moment, however, came a summons from Alexander. "You attend to the ladies and gents," was the Boss's order; "Blinkey can see to that feller. What does he want?"
"A ham-sandwich and black coffee," said Loveland.
"Oh, Pa, don't send Mr. Gordon to wait on the swells again," softly pleaded Isidora, flitting up uneasily. "They're trying to take a rise out of him. It's crool. I – "
"Thank you, but I don't mind, Miss Alexander," said Loveland, with a grateful look, which went so straight to Isidora's heart that tears started to her eyes.
Val took away the eight soup plates, and would not see the amused glances of the good-looking Hungarians, or Elinor Coolidge's French Count. Rocheverte was not cruel at heart, but he did not like Englishmen at best, and Elinor Coolidge, having told him the story of Lord Loveland, as she knew it, had said: "We girls want to punish him not only for the way he would have deceived us all if he could, but for his perfectly horrid, supercilious airs when we used to know him on board ship; so please help us by sneering and staring as much as you can without making a scene."
She had looked so handsome when she made this request, that de Rocheverte had told her he would grant it with pleasure, and he was doing his best to keep his word.
They had got as far in the dinner as chicken fried with cream gravy, for which Black Dick was renowned, when the restaurant door opened, and Mr. Milton walked in, accompanied by another man.
Mrs. Milton flushed with vexation, for she was sure that he had come back to town thus unexpectedly with the idea of surprising her; that he must have gone home and questioned Fanny as to her mother's whereabouts, and then have followed to Alexander's solely for the satisfaction of spoiling her pleasure – unless a little for the sake of seeing his late antagonist figuring as a waiter.
Milton sauntered over to the table and spoke to everyone civilly, darting only one covert, ugly glance at his wife, when her fascinated gaze rested upon the fading bruise which discoloured his square jaw.
"Read 'Light' this morning, Tony, and the afternoon papers copying it," he said. "Thought I'd drop in at the cockfight and see the fun. Great stunt, isn't it?" He eyed Loveland up and down, as if the Englishman were a freak at a museum. "Of course the story was yours?"
For the first time Val's eyes and Tony's met, only for an instant, but there was something like reproach in Loveland's. A trapped hare might have thrown a look like that at the keeper who trapped him.
"I suppose he thinks it was revenge for the slammed door," the young newspaperman said to himself. "But it wasn't. I'm not that kind of chap. I'd like him to know I'm not. But I expect it'll have to go at that."
"Well, ta ta!" said Milton, "and I'll order something for the good of the house, now we're here. We're not obliged to eat it, thank Heaven."
He turned away, and was drawing out a chair for himself near one upon which the seedy, bearded stranger had placed a small leather handbag, when suddenly the whole restaurant seemed alive with dry, crackling explosions, and in the same instant the electric lamps went out. The room, a moment ago brilliantly lighted, was black as a vault, save for a glimmer from the street that shone through the window. Then, as everyone jumped up, overturning chairs or breaking glasses in their hurry and the shrieks of the Italian women mingled with the strange crackling sounds, there came from somewhere at the back a loud detonation, followed by a hoarse roaring like a blast furnace. Men cried out in amazed alarm, and the dark room lit up ominously with a crimson glare that turned the curtain through which it leaked the colour of blood.
In rushed Black Dick and his assistant, with Blinkey, who had been busy in the kitchen, and all three shouted wildly: "Fire! Fire!"
The restaurant was in a state of chaos. A long jet of flame, sweeping out from the kitchen and across the narrow passage, caught the curtain in the door-way, up which little serpents of fire began to crawl. Every woman was screaming now, in a panic of fear whipped to horror by the red darkness, and the crackling explosions which snapped and spluttered on every side. The excitable Italians chattered and struggled with one another in the dark, the new Polish waiter ran here and there like a frightened chicken that sees the axe; the two negroes were almost in convulsions, and Tony Kidd called vainly on the Hungarian brothers and de Rocheverte for help in bringing order out of confusion.
The thought that flashed through the minds of all was an anarchist plot – a dynamite bomb. For one terrible second everybody remembered the bearded stranger with the little bag, and debited him with the deadly mischief – everyone, perhaps, except Loveland and Tony Kidd.
Into their heads the same thought sprang at the same moment, for each, it happened, had in his memory some such scene as this.
At the time of the first explosion Loveland had been quietly setting a plate of fried chicken before Tony, and as the journalist leaped from his seat, the two young men were close together.
"Short circuiting – escape from a fused gas pipe," Loveland yelled through the noise.
"Yes, that's it," the reporter shouted back mechanically, as if to a friend.
Then, for a few seconds, Tony was overwhelmed by a wild rush of frightened women. In the red light that streamed through the burning curtain he saw a crowd fighting to reach the window and the closed front door of the restaurant.
Upon his incredulous eyes flashed a horrid tableau of de Rocheverte throwing off Elinor Coolidge, who clung to him, crying, "Save me – save me!" As the Frenchman blindly flung her away and dashed towards the door, the girl would have fallen on her knees, to be trampled under foot by the two Hungarians, had not Loveland pushed the men violently aside, and caught Elinor in his arms.
"Keep her – keep all the ladies in this corner out of the crush," he cried to Tony. "I'm going to turn off the gas at the main." Then he gave Elinor, half fainting, to Tony Kidd, who firmly called Mrs. Milton, Miss Turner, and Miss Wood by name. The sound of the two calm voices in the midst of shouts, smashing glass, falling chairs, and foreign exclamations, rallied the women's courage. As Tony held Elinor the three others passed near him, deserted by the foreigners of their party; and in the bloodshot haze all saw Loveland's tall figure apparently plunge into the flame. He made a dash through the door-way, his arms thrown across his eyes, to shield them from the fire; and ten seconds later the loud roaring ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The cracklings had ceased, too, for the short circuiting was over, and the stream of gas burnt itself out an instant after Loveland seized the handle of the main. But the curtain still blazed; the stairway in the passage, the door frames in the kitchen and restaurant were on fire, and the panic raged as wildly as ever among the fallen chairs and tables.
The doorhandle had been broken by Leo Cohen as he fiercely disputed with Milton the right to get out first, and none could now escape that way, although men battered the panels, and strove to break them in. Someone had smashed a hole in the thick plate glass window, big enough to create a dangerous draught, but not large enough to give a means of retreat for any of the men and women who, with cut and bleeding hands, struggled to squeeze through the jagged opening.
One hand badly burnt, face and hair singed, Loveland was back in a minute from his errand at the gas main. He had snatched up a huge kettle of water from the stove, and dashed it onto the stairs, quenching the small flames which had begun to curl and writhe. Then, tearing down the curtain, he trampled out the fire, and as the flames died into shooting sparks and feebly puffing smoke, he urged Tony to bring the ladies that way. "Upstairs – we'll get them upstairs, out of the crowd," he shouted; but instantly the whole throng would have turned to stream in that direction, had not Tony Kidd kept the way clear by making an obstacle of his own broad shoulders.
He got a fierce blow or two, but held the pass until the four ladies of his party, and Isidora, had reached shelter with Loveland.
The women safe, Tony tore off his coat and began beating down the fiery snakes which crawled up the door frame towards the ceiling. Loveland, meanwhile, having refuged the four ladies with Isidora, hurried back to stand by Tony Kidd. Together they collected all the Italian women, whom they lifted bodily over a barricade of tables, and grouped in a corner beyond the reach of fire or crowd.
It was left for Blinkey to give the alarm. Being the thinnest and smallest, he contrived to squeeze his lean body through the broken window, and shout for the police. Three minutes later two big men in blue sent the door crashing off its hinges into the restaurant, and by the time the fire engines swept clanging and snorting into the street the flames were stifled, and Alexander had found a few candles to light up the smoky darkness.
The whole drama in one act had played itself out from beginning to end in less than ten minutes; but it had come close to tragedy, as none realised more fully than the two whom it had very strangely brought together: Lord Loveland and Tony Kidd.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
"You're a Man"
No one was killed or seriously injured, fortunately for Alexander the Great's popularity. Many hands and faces were cut with window-glass; two or three women had bruises or sprained wrists, and the Italian bride and groom were objects for compassion.
Loveland and Tony Kidd had saved the situation. Nobody else seemed to have accomplished anything deserving praise; but, when calm followed storm, de Rocheverte, Milton, his friend Mason, and the two Hungarians vied with one another in volubly explaining each act and failure to act. They had wanted to make a way out for the ladies; that was why they had tried to get to the door, but they had been caught and overwhelmed in the crowd. They all talked fast and eagerly, almost convincingly; but the ladies, pale and shattered, listened without answering. And when they thanked Tony Kidd for "saving them from being burnt alive," they were careful neither to contradict nor assent when he assured them that it was "our brave pretender who did everything."
As for Loveland, he was no longer to be seen. While the police asked questions, the firemen examined dark corners, and the battered crowd trailed gloomily away, Tony looked in vain for his comrade in battle.
Milton, for appearance sake, was compelled to offer escort to his wife, who cried and laughed hysterically, when she did not show symptoms of fainting. The husband's presence relieved Tony from guard duty, and he alleged as an excuse for staying behind the necessity to make a "story" out of the business. His party left the restaurant in carriages and motors, sadder and perhaps wiser; but no one asked for Loveland. Even if they thought of him, the women who had come to see him play the rôle of waiter could hardly acclaim him in the part of hero; while as for the men, if they realised what he and Tony Kidd had done, it was not to their interest or credit to acknowledge it.
Loveland had not, however, mysteriously disappeared. He was only keeping himself in the background; and the one background available at Alexander's was the kitchen.
It was now a smoky and dismal kitchen, with a wild litter of pots and pans, a table overturned, broken dishes, eggs, oysters, and raw batter strewing the floor; nevertheless, it seemed a haven of refuge to Loveland, after what he had suffered.
His dash through the flames to find the gas main had been a deed more gallant perhaps than the impulsive rescue on the battlefield which won him his D. S. O. Tonight, he had deliberately counted the cost, whereas in South Africa he had acted first, and thought afterwards. He was not excited now; that was all over, and there was time to think; yet he was conscious that he had conducted himself not unworthily.
"Funny thing," he thought, as he looked at his burnt left hand, and his singed coat; "funny thing! I suppose I behaved fairly decently, because I had to do it, and there was no other way. But I've fancied myself a lot more, before this, for a grand slam at bridge, or a right and left shot at a couple of birds."
There was no need to prove his courage further by reappearing in the restaurant. If he went back, it would look as if he were bidding for compliments from his late tormentors, and Heaven knew that he wanted nothing of the sort. He wanted only to be let alone. So he lurked in the kitchen, and looked on while Black Dick and Dick's still blacker aide-de-camp calculated and repaired the damage to their supplies. He even condescended to set the fallen table on its legs again, and in return for this service Dick was binding up his injured hand when the sound of a voice behind his back made him turn quickly.
"See here," said Tony Kidd, "I've been looking for you, because I want to tell you something. Whatever else you may or may not be, you're a man, anyhow."
As he delivered himself of this speech, Tony's pleasant, clever face lost the quizzical expression it was wont to wear, and looked very attractive in its earnestness.
"Thank you," answered Loveland, rather stiffly. Then, melting as his blue eyes and Tony's brown ones held each other, he added, smiling: "So are you."
"If I've made things any worse for you, I'm sorry," went on Tony. "It's all been in the way of business, you know."
Milton's words to the young journalist had cleared the mystery of the crowd who had glanced up from their newspapers to stare at the English waiter, and gone back to their newspapers again; Tony's veiled allusion brought no surprise to Loveland, therefore, and he answered without heat. "It doesn't matter," he said, quietly, in a tired voice which made good-natured Tony wince.
"You're in pain, aren't you?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing to speak of," said Val. "Burnt my hand and wrist a little, that's all."
"It was a narrow shave," said Tony. "By Jove, a 'shave' literally, for you've pretty well made a clearance of hair on one side of your head."
"I must look like a convict," returned Loveland. And considering everything, it struck Tony Kidd as odd that the Englishman should make that particular remark about himself.
"You've been having a mighty hard time of it since – er – since I saw you last," the journalist observed.
"It has been an experience," said Loveland.
"I'd like to show my appreciation of the way you've acted tonight," said Tony. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
The thought flashed through Loveland's mind that he might tell this newspaper man the whole story of his extraordinary adventures since coming to New York – the trouble with the bank; the mysterious silence which alone had answered his two cablegrams; the unaccountable attitude of the Waldorf management; and the rudeness of his shipboard acquaintances in the restaurant. Tony Kidd had certainly "written up," or caused to be written up, his quarrel with Milton, from Milton's point of view; and now he had evidently drawn public attention to Loveland's affairs again by some further article. But if the journalist had cherished a desire for revenge, apparently he felt it no longer. Now he was hinting that he wished to make atonement, and Val believed that he meant what he said. If he would advance money on the letter of credit – but no; after a moment's reflection, Loveland made up his mind not to ask. He had had so many snubs already, he would prefer not to risk another, he told himself. Besides, after all that had happened, he could not ask a favour of this man, no matter how pleasantly it had been offered.
"Thank you very much, but I think there's nothing you can do," Loveland answered.
Tony knew of one thing that he could do, and had already decided to do it: to turn the tide of public opinion as far as possible by a graphic description of the fire at Alexander's in tomorrow morning's "Light." But, after all, that would not accomplish much, if any, material good. A wave of sympathy would only send more curiosity-seekers to Alexander's, and Tony's keen eyes had seen, through Loveland's mask of indifference, how he writhed under his punishment.
"Say, you can't stay on here," the American explained impulsively. "It's a dog's life – and whatever you are, whatever you've been, you're too much of a gentleman by breeding and education to stand it. You'll have to quit; and perhaps I could think of some way out, if you – "
"I'll thank you not to try and take my waiter away from me, Mr. Kidd," broke in Alexander the Great, speaking so suddenly behind the two young men that both started "like guilty things upon a fearful summons."
"This isn't the right place for him, Alexander, and you know it," retorted Tony.
"It's the place he's engaged to stay in, until he leaves the country," Alexander persisted. "And I mean to hold him to his word, or know the reason why."
"So said another gentleman of your race once," remarked Tony Kidd. "He did business in Venice, but in the end a lady got the better of him."
"Ladies don't interfere in my concerns," grumbled Alexander, who had not a prophetic soul, and did not guess what the next few hours might have in store for him. "If Gordon leaves me without a week's notice I'll make him sorry for himself."
"He saved your place tonight, and Lord knows how many lives," said Tony.
"Dat ain't got nothing to do with the case," insisted Alexander.
"Don't bother, thanks," Loveland said hastily to Tony. "Things can't be worse than they've been tonight. Perhaps they'll be better. I shall try and fight it out here – till I can see my way."
"Pay my way," he might have said; but he did not wish to bring up the question of money between himself and Tony Kidd.
"It's bad enough for me to have my place upset," went on Alexander, "without having my people enticed to leave me in de lurch. 'Tain't a friendly act, Mr. Kidd. I shall be days makin' up my loss, what wid tings busted and burnt, and I shall need all the help I can get to put the restaurant in shape again."
Tony turned impatiently from the man's grumbling. "Well, if you won't let me do anything for you, you won't," he said to Loveland. "All the same, I shan't forget, and the time may come. Now I must be off, and write my story."
He put out a hand, and Val responded with his unbandaged one.
If any one had told Tony Kidd a few hours before that he would yield to an irresistible impulse impelling him to shake hands heartily with the notorious "Marquis of Twelfth Street," he would not have believed it possible.
If any one had told Loveland that he would feel pleased, even complimented, by the offer of a handshake from the journalist who had made a target of him in black and white, he would have said, "it could not happen." Yet neither thought it strange when it did happen.