Past One at Rooney's

by O. Henry

Only on the lower East Side of New York do the houses of Capulet andMontagu survive. There they do not fight by the book of arithmetic. Ifyou but bite your thumb at an upholder of your opposing house you havework cut out for your steel. On Broadway you may drag your man along adozen blocks by his nose, and he will only bawl for the watch; but inthe domain of the East Side Tybalts and Mercutios you must observe theniceties of deportment to the wink of any eyelash and to an inch ofelbow room at the bar when its patrons include foes of your house andkin.So, when Eddie McManus, known to the Capulets as Cork McManus, driftedinto Dutch Mike's for a stein of beer, and came upon a bunch ofMontagus making merry with the suds, he began to observe the strictestparliamentary rules. Courtesy forbade his leaving the saloon with histhirst unslaked; caution steered him to a place at the bar where themirror supplied the cognizance of the enemy's movements that hisindifferent gaze seemed to disdain; experience whispered to him that thefinger of trouble would be busy among the chattering steins at DutchMike's that night. Close by his side drew Brick Cleary, his Mercutio,companion of his perambulations. Thus they stood, four of the MulberryHill Gang and two of the Dry Dock Gang, minding their P's and Q's sosolicitously that Dutch Mike kept one eye on his customers and the otheron an open space beneath his bar in which it was his custom to seeksafety whenever the ominous politeness of the rival associationscongealed into the shapes of bullets and cold steel.But we have not to do with the wars of the Mulberry Hills and the DryDocks. We must to Rooney's, where, on the most blighted dead branch ofthe tree of life, a little pale orchid shall bloom.Overstrained etiquette at last gave way. It is not known who firstoverstepped the bounds of punctilio; but the consequences wereimmediate. Buck Malone, of the Mulberry Hills, with a Dewey-likeswiftness, got an eight-inch gun swung round from his hurricane deck.But McManus's simile must be the torpedo. He glided in under the gunsand slipped a scant three inches of knife blade between the ribs of theMulberry Hill cruiser. Meanwhile Brick Cleary, a devotee to strategy,had skimmed across the lunch counter and thrown the switch of theelectrics, leaving the combat to be waged by the light of gunfire alone.Dutch Mike crawled from his haven and ran into the street crying for thewatch instead of for a Shakespeare to immortalize the Cimmerian shindy.The cop came, and found a prostrate, bleeding Montagu supported by threedistrait and reticent followers of the House. Faithful to the ethics ofthe gangs, no one knew whence the hurt came. There was no Capulet to beseen."Raus mit der interrogatories," said Buck Malone to the officer. "Sure Iknow who done it. I always manages to get a bird's eye view of any guythat comes up an' makes a show case for a hardware store out of me. No.I'm not telling you his name. I'll settle with um meself. Wow--ouch!Easy, boys! Yes, I'll attend to his case meself. I'm not making anycomplaint."At midnight McManus strolled around a pile of lumber near an East Sidedock, and lingered in the vicinity of a certain water plug. Brick Clearydrifted casually to the trysting place ten minutes later. "He'll maybenot croak," said Brick; "and he won't tell, of course. But Dutch Mikedid. He told the police he was tired of having his place shot up. It'sunhandy just now, because Tim Corrigan's in Europe for a week's end withKings. He'll be back on the _Kaiser Williams_ next Friday. You'll haveto duck out of sight till then. Tim'll fix it up all right for us whenhe comes back."This goes to explain why Cork McManus went into Rooney's one night andthere looked upon the bright, stranger face of Romance for the firsttime in his precarious career.Until Tim Corrigan should return from his jaunt among Kings and Princesand hold up his big white finger in private offices, it was unsafe forCork in any of the old haunts of his gang. So he lay, perdu, in the highrear room of a Capulet, reading pink sporting sheets and cursing theslow paddle wheels of the _Kaiser Wilhelm_.It was on Thursday evening that Cork's seclusion became intolerable tohim. Never a hart panted for water fountain as he did for the cool touchof a drifting stein, for the firm security of a foot-rail in the hollowof his shoe and the quiet, hearty challenges of friendship and reparteealong and across the shining bars. But he must avoid the district wherehe was known. The cops were looking for him everywhere, for news wasscarce, and the newspapers were harping again on the failure of thepolice to suppress the gangs. If they got him before Corrigan came back,the big white finger could not be uplifted; it would be too late then.But Corrigan would be home the next day, so he felt sure there would besmall danger in a little excursion that night among the crass pleasuresthat represented life to him.At half-past twelve McManus stood in a darkish cross-town street lookingup at the name "Rooney's," picked out by incandescent lights againsta signboard over a second-story window. He had heard of the placeas a tough "hang-out"; with its frequenters and its locality he wasunfamiliar. Guided by certain unerring indications common to all suchresorts, he ascended the stairs and entered the large room over thecafé.Here were some twenty or thirty tables, at this time about half-filledwith Rooney's guests. Waiters served drinks. At one end a humanpianola with drugged eyes hammered the keys with automatic and furiousunprecision. At merciful intervals a waiter would roar or squeak asong--songs full of "Mr. Johnsons" and "babes" and "coons"--historicalword guaranties of the genuineness of African melodies composed by redwaistcoated young gentlemen, natives of the cotton fields and riceswamps of West Twenty-eighth Street.For one brief moment you must admire Rooney with me as he receives,seats, manipulates, and chaffs his guests. He is twenty-nine. Hehas Wellington's nose, Dante's chin, the cheek-bones of an Iroquois,the smile of Talleyrand, Corbett's foot work, and the poise of aneleven-year-old East Side Central Park Queen of the May. He is assistedby a lieutenant known as Frank, a pudgy, easy chap, swell-dressed, whogoes among the tables seeing that dull care does not intrude. Now,what is there about Rooney's to inspire all this pother? It is morerespectable by daylight; stout ladies with children and mittens andbundles and unpedigreed dogs drop up of afternoons for a stein and achat. Even by gaslight the diversions are melancholy i' the mouth--drinkand rag-time, and an occasional surprise when the waiter swabs the sudsfrom under your sticky glass. There is an answer. Transmigration! Thesoul of Sir Walter Raleigh has traveled from beneath his slashed doubletto a kindred home under Rooney's visible plaid waistcoat. Rooney's istwenty years ahead of the times. Rooney has removed the embargo. Rooneyhas spread his cloak upon the soggy crossing of public opinion, and anyElizabeth who treads upon it is as much a queen as another. Attend tothe revelation of the secret. In Rooney's ladies may smoke!McManus sat down at a vacant table. He paid for the glass of beerthat he ordered, tilted his narrow-brimmed derby to the back of hisbrick-dust head, twined his feet among the rungs of his chair, andheaved a sigh of contentment from the breathing spaces of his innermostsoul; for this mud honey was clarified sweetness to his taste. The shamgaiety, the hectic glow of counterfeit hospitality, the self-conscious,joyless laughter, the wine-born warmth, the loud music retrieving thehour from frequent whiles of awful and corroding silence, the presenceof well-clothed and frank-eyed beneficiaries of Rooney's removal of therestrictions laid upon the weed, the familiar blended odors of soakedlemon peel, flat beer, and _peau d'Espagne_--all these were manna toCork McManus, hungry for his week in the desert of the Capulet's highrear room.A girl, alone, entered Rooney's, glanced around with leisurelyswiftness, and sat opposite McManus at his table. Her eyes rested uponhim for two seconds in the look with which woman reconnoitres all menwhom she for the first time confronts. In that space of time she willdecide upon one of two things--either to scream for the police, or thatshe may marry him later on.Her brief inspection concluded, the girl laid on the table a worn redmorocco shopping bag with the inevitable top-gallant sail of frayed lacehandkerchief flying from a corner of it. After she had ordered a smallbeer from the immediate waiter she took from her bag a box of cigarettesand lighted one with slightly exaggerated ease of manner. Then shelooked again in the eyes of Cork McManus and smiled.Instantly the doom of each was sealed.The unqualified desire of a man to buy clothes and build fires for awoman for a whole lifetime at first sight of her is not uncommon amongthat humble portion of humanity that does not care for Bradstreet orcoats-of-arms or Shaw's plays. Love at first sight has occurred a timeor two in high life; but, as a rule, the extempore mania is to be foundamong unsophisticated creatures such as the dove, the blue-taileddingbat, and the ten-dollar-a-week clerk. Poets, subscribers to allfiction magazines, and schatchens, take notice.With the exchange of the mysterious magnetic current came to each ofthem the instant desire to lie, pretend, dazzle and deceive, which isthe worst thing about the hypocritical disorder known as love."Have another beer?" suggested Cork. In his circle the phrase wasconsidered to be a card, accompanied by a letter of introduction andreferences."No, thanks," said the girl, raising her eyebrows and choosing herconventional words carefully. "I--merely dropped in for--a slightrefreshment." The cigarette between her fingers seemed to requireexplanation. "My aunt is a Russian lady," she concluded, "and we oftenhave a post perannual cigarette after dinner at home.""Cheese it!" said Cork, whom society airs oppressed. "Your fingers areas yellow as mine.""Say," said the girl, blazing upon him with low-voiced indignation,"what do you think I am? Say, who do you think you are talking to?What?"She was pretty to look at. Her eyes were big, brown, intrepid andbright. Under her flat sailor hat, planted jauntily on one side, hercrinkly, tawny hair parted and was drawn back, low and massy, in athick, pendant knot behind. The roundness of girlhood still lingered inher chin and neck, but her cheeks and fingers were thinning slightly.She looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion, and sullen wonder.Her smart, short tan coat was soiled and expensive. Two inches below herblack dress dropped the lowest flounce of a heliotrope silk underskirt."Beg your pardon," said Cork, looking at her admiringly. "I didn't meananything. Sure, it's no harm to smoke, Maudy.""Rooney's," said the girl, softened at once by his amends, "is the onlyplace I know where a lady can smoke. Maybe it ain't a nice habit, butaunty lets us at home. And my name ain't Maudy, if you please; it's RubyDelamere.""That's a swell handle," said Cork approvingly. "Mine'sMcManus--Cor--er--Eddie McManus.""Oh, you can't help that," laughed Ruby. "Don't apologize."Cork looked seriously at the big clock on Rooney's wall. The girl'subiquitous eyes took in the movement."I know it's late," she said, reaching for her bag; "but you know howyou want a smoke when you want one. Ain't Rooney's all right? I neversaw anything wrong here. This is twice I've been in. I work in abookbindery on Third Avenue. A lot of us girls have been workingovertime three nights a week. They won't let you smoke there, of course.I just dropped in here on my way home for a puff. Ain't it all right inhere? If it ain't, I won't come any more.""It's a little bit late for you to be out alone anywhere," said Cork."I'm not wise to this particular joint; but anyhow you don't want tohave your picture taken in it for a present to your Sunday Schoolteacher. Have one more beer, and then say I take you home.""But I don't know you," said the girl, with fine scrupulosity. "I don'taccept the company of gentlemen I ain't acquainted with. My aunt neverwould allow that.""Why," said Cork McManus, pulling his ear, "I'm the latest thing insuitings with side vents and bell skirt when it comes to escortin' alady. You bet you'll find me all right, Ruby. And I'll give you a tip asto who I am. My governor is one of the hottest cross-buns of the WallStreet push. Morgan's cab horse casts a shoe every time the old mansticks his head out the window. Me! Well, I'm in trainin' down theStreet. The old man's goin' to put a seat on the Stock Exchange in mystockin' my next birthday. But it all sounds like a lemon to me. What Ilike is golf and yachtin' and--er--well, say a corkin' fast ten-roundbout between welter-weights with walkin' gloves.""I guess you can walk to the door with me," said the girl hesitatingly,but with a certain pleased flutter. "Still I never heard anything extragood about Wall Street brokers, or sports who go to prize fights,either. Ain't you got any other recommendations?""I think you're the swellest looker I've had my lamps on in little oldNew York," said Cork impressively."That'll be about enough of that, now. Ain't you the kidder!" Shemodified her chiding words by a deep, long, beaming, smile-embellishedlook at her cavalier. "We'll drink our beer before we go, ha?"A waiter sang. The tobacco smoke grew denser, drifting and rising inspirals, waves, tilted layers, cumulus clouds, cataracts and suspendedfogs like some fifth element created from the ribs of the ancient four.Laughter and chat grew louder, stimulated by Rooney's liquids andRooney's gallant hospitality to Lady Nicotine.One o'clock struck. Down-stairs there was a sound of closing andlocking doors. Frank pulled down the green shades of the front windowscarefully. Rooney went below in the dark hall and stood at the frontdoor, his cigarette cached in the hollow of his hand. Thenceforthwhoever might seek admittance must present a countenance familiar toRooney's hawk's eye--the countenance of a true sport.Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with theirelbows on the table. Their glasses of beer were pushed to one side,scarcely touched, with the foam on them sunken to a thin white scum.Since the stroke of one the stale pleasures of Rooney's had becomerenovated and spiced; not by any addition to the list of distractions,but because from that moment the sweets became stolen ones. The flattestglass of beer acquired the tang of illegality; the mildest claret punchstruck a knockout blow at law and order; the harmless and genial companybecame outlaws, defying authority and rule. For after the stroke of onein such places as Rooney's, where neither bed nor board is to be had,drink may not be set before the thirsty of the city of the four million.It is the law."Say," said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his eloquentchest and elbows, "was that dead straight about you workin' in thebookbindery and livin' at home--and just happenin' in here--and--andall that spiel you gave me?""Sure it was," answered the girl with spirit. "Why, what do you think?Do you suppose I'd lie to you? Go down to the shop and ask 'em. I handedit to you on the level.""On the dead level?" said Cork. "That's the way I want it; because--""Because what?""I throw up my hands," said Cork. "You've got me goin'. You're the girlI've been lookin' for. Will you keep company with me, Ruby?""Would you like me to--Eddie?""Surest thing. But I wanted a straight story about--about yourself, youknow. When a fellow had a girl--a steady girl--she's got to be allright, you know. She's got to be straight goods.""You'll find I'll be straight goods, Eddie.""Of course you will. I believe what you told me. But you can't blame mefor wantin' to find out. You don't see many girls smokin' cigarettes inplaces like Rooney's after midnight that are like you."The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes. "I see that now," shesaid meekly. "I didn't know how bad it looked. But I won't do it anymore. And I'll go straight home every night and stay there. And I'llgive up cigarettes if you say so, Eddie--I'll cut 'em out from thisminute on."Cork's air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathetic."A lady can smoke," he decided, slowly, "at times and places. Why?Because it's bein' a lady that helps her pull it off.""I'm going to quit. There's nothing to it," said the girl. She flickedthe stub of her cigarette to the floor."At times and places," repeated Cork. "When I call round for you ofevenin's we'll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square and have apuff or two. But no more Rooney's at one o'clock--see?""Eddie, do you really like me?" The girl searched his hard but frankfeatures eagerly with anxious eyes."On the dead level.""When are you coming to see me--where I live?""Thursday--day after to-morrow evenin'. That suit you?""Fine. I'll be ready for you. Come about seven. Walk to the door with meto-night and I'll show you where I live. Don't forget, now. And don'tyou go to see any other girls before then, mister! I bet you will,though.""On the dead level," said Cork, "you make 'em all look like rag-dolls tome. Honest, you do. I know when I'm suited. On the dead level, I do."Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were delivered.The loud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a trip-hammer or apoliceman's foot could have been the author of those sounds. Rooneyjumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the room, turned off the electriclights and hurried swiftly below. The room was left utterly dark exceptfor the winking red glow of cigars and cigarettes. A second volley ofcrashes came up from the assaulted door. A little, rustling, murmuringpanic moved among the besieged guests. Frank, cool, smooth, reassuring,could be seen in the rosy glow of the burning tobacco, going from tableto table."All keep still!" was his caution. "Don't talk or make any noise!Everything will be all right. Now, don't feel the slightest alarm. We'lltake care of you all."Ruby felt across the table until Cork's firm hand closed upon hers. "Areyou afraid, Eddie?" she whispered. "Are you afraid you'll get a freeride?""Nothin' doin' in the teeth-chatterin' line," said Cork. "I guessRooney's been slow with his envelope. Don't you worry, girly; I'll lookout for you all right."Yet Mr. McManus's ease was only skin- and muscle-deep. With the policelooking everywhere for Buck Malone's assailant, and with Corrigan stillon the ocean wave, he felt that to be caught in a police raid would meanan ended career for him. He wished he had remained in the high rear roomof the true Capulet reading the pink extras.Rooney seemed to have opened the front door below and engaged the policein conference in the dark hall. The wordless low growl of their voicescame up the stairway. Frank made a wireless news station of himself atthe upper door. Suddenly he closed the door, hurried to the extreme rearof the room and lighted a dim gas jet."This way, everybody!" he called sharply. "In a hurry; but no noise,please!"The guests crowded in confusion to the rear. Rooney's lieutenant swungopen a panel in the wall, overlooking the back yard, revealing a ladderalready placed for the escape."Down and out, everybody!" he commanded. "Ladies first! Less talking,please! Don't crowd! There's no danger."Among the last, Cork and Ruby waited their turn at the open panel.Suddenly she swept him aside and clung to his arm fiercely."Before we go out," she whispered in his ear--"before anything happens,tell me again, Eddie, do you l--do you really like me?""On the dead level," said Cork, holding her close with one arm, "when itcomes to you, I'm all in."When they turned they found they were lost and in darkness. The lastof the fleeing customers had descended. Half way across the yard theybore the ladder, stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place it against anadjoining low building over the roof of which their only route tosafety."We may as well sit down," said Cork grimly. "Maybe Rooney will standthe cops off, anyhow."They sat at a table; and their hands came together again.A number of men then entered the dark room, feeling their way about. Oneof them, Rooney himself, found the switch and turned on the electriclight. The other man was a cop of the old régime--a big cop, a thickcop, a fuming, abrupt cop--not a pretty cop. He went up to the pair atthe table and sneered familiarly at the girl."What are youse doin' in here?" he asked."Dropped in for a smoke," said Cork mildly."Had any drinks?""Not later than one o'clock.""Get out--quick!" ordered the cop. Then, "Sit down!" he countermanded.He took off Cork's hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly. "Yourname's McManus.""Bad guess," said Cork. "It's Peterson.""Cork McManus, or something like that," said the cop. "You put a knifeinto a man in Dutch Mike's saloon a week ago.""Aw, forget it!" said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in theofficer's tones. "You've got my mug mixed with somebody else's.""Have I? Well, you'll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be lookedover. The description fits you all right." The cop twisted his fingersunder Cork's collar. "Come on!" he ordered roughly.Cork glanced at Ruby. She was pale, and her thin nostrils quivered.Her quick eye danced from one man's face to the other as they spoke ormoved. What hard luck! Cork was thinking--Corrigan on the briny; andRuby met and lost almost within an hour! Somebody at the police stationwould recognize him, without a doubt. Hard luck!But suddenly the girl sprang up and hurled herself with both armsextended against the cop. His hold on Cork's collar was loosened and hestumbled back two or three paces."Don't go so fast, Maguire!" she cried in shrill fury. "Keep your handsoff my man! You know me, and you know I'm givin' you good advice. Don'tyou touch him again! He's not the guy you are lookin' for--I'll standfor that.""See here, Fanny," said the Cop, red and angry, "I'll take you, too, ifyou don't look out! How do you know this ain't the man I want? What areyou doing in here with him?""How do I know?" said the girl, flaming red and white by turns. "BecauseI've known him a year. He's mine. Oughtn't I to know? And what am Idoin' here with him? That's easy."She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirteddraperies, heliotrope and black. An elastic snapped, she threw on thetable toward Cork a folded wad of bills. The money slowly straighteneditself with little leisurely jerks."Take that, Jimmy, and let's go," said the girl. "I'm declarin' theusual dividends, Maguire," she said to the officer. "You had your usualfive-dollar graft at the usual corner at ten.""A lie!" said the cop, turning purple. "You go on my beat again and I'llarrest you every time I see you.""No, you won't," said the girl. "And I'll tell you why. Witnesses saw megive you the money to-night, and last week, too. I've been getting fixedfor you."Cork put the wad of money carefully into his pocket, and said: "Come on,Fanny; let's have some chop suey before we go home.""Clear out, quick, both of you, or I'll--"The cop's bluster trailed away into inconsequentiality.At the corner of the street the two halted. Cork handed back themoney without a word. The girl took it and slipped it slowly into herhand-bag. Her expression was the same she had worn when she enteredRooney's that night--she looked upon the world with defiance, suspicionand sullen wonder."I guess I might as well say good-bye here," she said dully. "You won'twant to see me again, of course. Will you--shake hands--Mr. McManus.""I mightn't have got wise if you hadn't give the snap away," said Cork."Why did you do it?""You'd have been pinched if I hadn't. That's why. Ain't that reasonenough?" Then she began to cry. "Honest, Eddie, I was goin' to be thebest girl in the world. I hated to be what I am; I hated men; I wasready almost to die when I saw you. And you seemed different fromeverybody else. And when I found you liked me, too, why, I thought I'dmake you believe I was good, and I was goin' to be good. When you askedto come to my house and see me, why, I'd have died rather than doanything wrong after that. But what's the use of talking about it? I'llsay good-by, if you will, Mr. McManus."Cork was pulling at his ear. "I knifed Malone," said he. "I was the onethe cop wanted.""Oh, that's all right," said the girl listlessly. "It didn't make anydifference about that.""That was all hot air about Wall Street. I don't do nothin' but hang outwith a tough gang on the East Side.""That was all right, too," repeated the girl. "It didn't make anydifference."Cork straightened himself, and pulled his hat down low. "I could get ajob at O'Brien's," he said aloud, but to himself."Good-by," said the girl."Come on," said Cork, taking her arm. "I know a place."Two blocks away he turned with her up the steps of a red brick housefacing a little park."What house is this?" she asked, drawing back. "Why are you going inthere?"A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass nameplate atone side of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the steps."Read that," said he.She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan and ascream. "No, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won't let you do that--notnow! Let me go! You shan't do that! You can't--you mus'n't! Not afteryou know! No, no! Come away quick! Oh, my God! Please, Eddie, come!"Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm. Cork'sright hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long.Another cop--how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on thewing!--came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. "Here! What are youdoing with that girl?" he called gruffly."She'll be all right in a minute," said Cork. "It's a straight deal.""Reverend Jeremiah Jones," read the cop from the door-plate with truedetective cunning."Correct," said Cork. "On the dead level, we're goin' to get married."

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