The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him by Paul Leicester Ford

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"I'm dreadfully sorry to lose him," his landlady informed her other
boarders, availing herself, perhaps, of the chance to deliver a side hit
at some of them. "He never has complained once, since he came here, and
he kept his room as neat as if he had to take care of it himself."

"Well," said the box-office oracle, "I guess he's O.K., if he is a bit
stiff; and a fellow who's best man to a big New York swell, and gets his
name in all the papers, doesn't belong in a seven-dollar,
hash-seven-days-a-week, Bleecker Street boarding-house."

Peter fitted his room up simply, the sole indulgence (if properly so
called) being a bath, which is not a usual fitting of a New York
business office, consciences not yet being tubbable. He had made his
mother show him how to make coffee, and he adopted the Continental
system of meals, having rolls and butter sent in, and making a French
breakfast in his own rooms. Then he lunched regularly not far from his
office, and dined wherever his afternoon walk, or evening plans carried
him. He found that he saved no money by the change, but he saved his
feelings, and was far freer to come and go as he chose.

He did not hear from the honeymoon party. Watts had promised to write to
him and send his address "as soon as we decide whether we pass the
winter in Italy or on the Nile." But no letter came. Peter called on the
Pierces, only to find them out, and as no notice was taken of his
pasteboard, he drew his own inference, and did not repeat the visit.

Such was the first year of Peter's New York life. He studied, he read,
he walked, and most of all, he waited. But no client came, and he seemed
no nearer one than the day he had first seen his own name on his office
door. "How much longer will I have to wait? How long will my patience
hold out?" These were the questions he asked himself, when for a moment
he allowed himself to lose courage. Then he would take to a bit of
wall-gazing, while dreaming of a pair of slate-colored eyes.

CHAPTER XI.

NEW FRIENDS.

Mr. Converse had evidently thought that the only way for Peter to get on
was to make friends. But in this first year Peter did not made a single
one that could be really called such. His second summer broadened his
acquaintance materially, though in a direction which promised him little
law practice.

When the warm weather again closed the courts and galleries, and brought
an end to the concerts and theatres, Peter found time harder to kill,
the more, because he had pretty well explored the city. Still he walked
much to help pass the time, and to get outside of his rooms into the
air. For the same reason he often carried his book, after the heat of
the day was over, to one of the parks, and did his reading there. Not
far from his office, eastwardly, where two streets met at an angle, was
a small open space too limited to be called a square, even if its shape
had not been a triangle. Here, under the shade of two very sickly trees,
surrounded by tall warehouses, were a couple of benches. Peter sat here
many evenings smoking his pipe. Though these few square feet made
perhaps the largest "open" within half a mile of his office, the angle
was confined and dreary. Hence it is obvious there must have been some
attraction to Peter, since he was such a walker, to make him prefer
spending his time there rather than in the parks not far distant The
attraction was the children.

Only a few hundred feet away was one of the most densely crowded
tenement districts of New York. It had no right to be there, for the
land was wanted for business purposes, but the hollow on which it was
built had been a swamp in the old days, and the soft land, and perhaps
the unhealthiness, had prevented the erection of great warehouses and
stores, which almost surrounded it. So it had been left to the storage
of human souls instead of merchandise, for valuable goods need careful
housing, while any place serves to pack humanity. It was not a nice
district to go through, for there was a sense of heat and dirt, and
smell, and crowd, and toil and sorrow throughout. It was probably no
nicer to live in, and nothing proved it better than the overflow of the
children therefrom into the little, hot, paved, airless angle. Here they
could be found from five in the morning till twelve at night. Here, with
guards set, to give notice of the approach of the children's
joy-destroying Siva--otherwise the policeman--they played ball. Here
"cat" and "one old cat" render bearable many a wilting hour for the
little urchins. Here "Sally in our Alley" and "Skip-rope" made the
little girls forget that the temperature was far above blood-heat. Here
of an evening, Peter smoked and watched them.

At first he was an object of suspicion, and the sport visibly ceased
when he put in an appearance. But he simply sat on one of the benches
and puffed his pipe, and after a few evenings they lost all fear of him,
and went on as if he were not there. In time, an intercourse sprang up
between them. One evening Peter appeared with a stick of wood, and as he
smoked, he whittled at it with a _real_ jack-knife! He was scrutinized
by the keen-eyed youngsters with interest at once, and before he had
whittled long, he had fifty children sitting in the shape of a
semicircle on the stone pavement, watching his doings with almost
breathless Interest. When the result of his work actually developed into
a "cat" of marvellous form and finish, a sigh of intense joy passed
through the boy part of his audience. When the "cat" was passed over to
their mercies, words could not be found to express their emotions.
Another evening, the old clothes-line that served for a jump-rope, after
having bravely rubbed against the pavement many thousand times in its
endeavor to lighten the joyless life of the little pack, finally
succumbed, worn through the centre and quite beyond hope of further
knotting. Then Peter rose, and going to one of the little shops that
supplied the district, soon returned with a _real_ jump-rope, with
_wooden handles!_ So from time to time, _real_ tops, _real_ dolls,
_real_ marbles and various other _real_, if cheap, things, hitherto only
enjoyed in dreams, or at most through home-made attempts, found their
way into the angle, and were distributed among the little imps. They
could not resist such subtle bribery, and soon Peter was on as familiar
and friendly a footing as he could wish. He came to know each by name,
and was made the umpire in all their disputes and the confidant in all
their troubles. They were a dirty, noisy, lawless, and godless little
community, but they were interesting to watch, and the lonely fellow
grew to like them much, for with all their premature sharpness, they
were really natural, and responded warmly to his friendly overtures.

After a time, Peter tried to help them a little more than by mere small
gifts. A cheap box of carpenter's tools was bought, and under his
superintendence, evenings were spent in the angle, in making various
articles. A small wheel barrow, a knife-and-fork basket, a clock-bracket
and other easy things were made, one at a time. All boys, and indeed
some girls, were allowed to help. One would saw off the end of a plank;
another would rule a pencil line; the next would plane the plank down to
that line; the next would bore the holes in it; the next would screw it
into position; the next would sandpaper it The work went very slowly,
but every one who would, had his share in it, while the rest sat and
watched. When the article was completed, lots were drawn for it, and
happy was the fortunate one who drew the magnificent prize in life's
lottery!

Occasionally too, Peter brought a book with him, and read it aloud to
them. He was rather surprised to find that they did not take to
Sunday-school stories or fairy tales. Wild adventures in foreign lands
were the most effective; and together they explored the heart of Africa,
climbed the Swiss mountains, fought the Western Indians, and attempted
to discover the North Pole. They had a curious liking for torture,
blood-letting, and death. Nor were they without discrimination.

"I guess that fellow is only working his jaw," was one little chap's
criticism at a certain point of the narrative of a well-known African
explorer, rather famous for his success in advertising himself. Again,
"that's bully," was the comment uttered by another, when Peter, rather
than refuse their request to read aloud, had been compelled to choose
something in Macaulay's Essays, and had read the description of the
Black Hole of Calcutta, "Say, mister," said another, "I don't believe
that fellow wasn't there, for he never could a told it like that, if he
wasn't."

As soon as his influence was secure, Peter began to affect them in other
ways. Every fight, every squabble, was investigated, and the blame put
where it belonged. Then a mandate went forth that profanity was to
cease: and, though contrary to every instinct and habit, cease it did
after a time, except for an occasional unconscious slip. "Sporadic
swearing," Peter called it, and explained what it meant to the children,
and why he forgave that, while punishing the intentional swearer with
exclusion from his favor. So, too, the girls were told that to "poke"
tongues at each other, and make faces, was but another way of swearing;
"for they all mean that there is hate in your hearts, and it is that
which is wrong, and not the mere words or faces." He ran the risk of
being laughed at, but they didn't laugh, for something in his way of
talking to them, even when verging on what they called "goody-goody,"
inspired them with respect.

Before many weeks of this intercourse, Peter could not stroll east from
his office without being greeted with yells of recognition. The elders,
too, gave him "good-evening" pleasantly and smiled genially. The
children had naturally told their parents about him of his wonderful
presents, and great skill with knife and string.

"He can whittle anything you ask!"

"He knows how to make things you want!"

"He can tie a knot sixteen different kinds!"

"He can fold a newspaper into soldiers' and firemen's caps!"

"He's friends with the policeman!"

Such laudations, and a hundred more, the children sang of him to their
elders.

"Oh," cried one little four-year-old girl, voicing the unanimous feeling
of the children, "Mister Peter is just shplendid."

So the elders nodded and smiled when they met him, and he was pretty
well known to several hundred people whom he knew not.

But another year passed, and still no client came.

CHAPTER XII.

HIS FIRST CLIENT.

Peter sat in his office, one hot July day, two years after his arrival,
writing to his mother. He had but just returned to New York, after a
visit to her, which had left him rather discouraged, because, for the
first time, she had pleaded with him to abandon his attempt and return
to his native town. He had only replied that he was not yet prepared to
acknowledge himself beaten; but the request and his mother's
disappointment had worried him. While he wrote came a knock at the door,
and, in response to his "come in," a plain-looking laborer entered and
stood awkwardly before him.

"What can I do for you?" asked Peter, seeing that he must assist the man
to state his business.

"If you please, sir," said the man, humbly, "it's Missy. And I hope
you'll pardon me for troubling you."

"Certainly," said Peter. "What about Missy?"

"She's--the doctor says she's dying," said the man, adding, with a
slight suggestion of importance, blended with the evident grief he felt:
"Sally, and Bridget Milligan are dead already."

"And what can I do?" said Peter, sympathetically, if very much at sea.

"Missy wants to see you before she goes. It's only a child's wish, sir,
and you needn't trouble about it. But I had to promise her I'd come and
ask you. I hope it's no offence?"

"No." Peter rose, and, passing to the next room, took his hat, and the
two went into the street together.

"What is the trouble?" asked Peter, as they walked.

"We don't know, sir. They were all took yesterday, and two are dead
already." The man wiped the tears from his eyes with his shirtsleeve,
smearing the red brick dust with which it was powdered, over his face.

"You've had a doctor?"

"Not till this morning. We didn't think it was bad at first."

"What is your name?"

"Blackett, sir--Jim Blackett."

Peter began to see daylight. He remembered both a Sally and Matilda
Blackett.--That was probably "Missy."

A walk of six blocks transferred them to the centre of the tenement
district. Two flights of stairs brought them to the Blackett's rooms. On
the table of the first, which was evidently used both as a kitchen and
sitting-room, already lay a coffin containing a seven-year-old girl.
Candles burned at the four corners, adding to the bad air and heat. In
the room beyond, in bed, with a tired-looking woman tending her, lay a
child of five. Wan and pale as well could be, with perspiration standing
in great drops on the poor little hot forehead, the hand of death, as it
so often does, had put something into the face never there before.

"Oh, Mister Peter," the child said, on catching sight of him, "I said
you'd come."

Peter took his handkerchief and wiped the little head. Then he took a
newspaper, lying on a chair, twisted it into a rude fan, and began
fanning the child as he sat on the bed.

"What did you want me for?" he asked.

"Won't you tell me the story you read from the book? The one about the
little girl who went to the country, and was given a live dove and real
flowers."

Peter began telling the story as well as he could remember it, but it
was never finished. For while he talked another little girl went to the
country, a far country, from which there is no return--and a very
ordinary little story ended abruptly.

The father and mother took the death very calmly. Peter asked them a few
questions, and found that there were three other children, the eldest of
whom was an errand boy, and therefore away. The others, twin babies, had
been cared for by a woman on the next floor. He asked about money, and
found that they had not enough to pay the whole expenses of the double
funeral.

"But the undertaker says he'll do it handsome, and will let the part I
haven't money for, run, me paying it off in weekly payments," the man
explained, when Peter expressed some surprise at the evident needless
expense they were entailing on themselves.

While he talked, the doctor came in.

"I knew there was no chance," he said, when told of the death. "And you
remember I said so," he added, appealing to the parents.

"Yes, that's what he said," responded the father.

"Well," said the doctor, speaking in a brisk, lively way peculiar to
him, "I've found what the matter was."

"No?" said the mother, becoming interested at once.

"It was the milk," the doctor continued. "I thought there was something
wrong with it, the moment I smelt it, but I took some home to make
sure." He pulled a paper out of his pocket. "That's the test, and Dr.
Plumb, who has two cases next door, found it was just the same there."

The Blacketts gazed at the written analysis, with wonder, not
understanding a word of it. Peter looked too, when they had satisfied
their curiosity. As he read it, a curious expression came into his face.
A look not unlike that which his face had worn on the deck of the
"Sunrise." It could hardly be called a change of expression, but rather
a strengthening and deepening of his ordinary look.

"That was in the milk drunk by the children?" he asked, placing his
finger on a particular line.

"Yes," replied the doctor. "The milk was bad to start with, and was
drugged to conceal the fact. These carbonates sometimes work very
unevenly, and I presume this particular can of milk got more than its
share of the doctoring.

"There are almost no glycerides," remarked Peter, wishing to hold the
doctor till he should have had time to think.

"No," said the doctor. "It was skim milk."

"You will report it to the Health Board?" asked Peter.

"When I'm up there," said the doctor. "Not that it will do any good. But
the law requires it"

"Won't they investigate?"

"They'll investigate too much. The trouble with them is, they
investigate, but don't prosecute."

"Thank you," said Peter. He shook hands with the parents, and went
upstairs to the fourth floor. The crape on a door guided him to where
Bridget Milligan lay. Here preparations had gone farther. Not merely
were the candles burning, but four bottles, with the corks partly drawn,
were on the cold cooking stove, while a wooden pail filled with beer,
reposed in the embrace of a wash-tub, filled otherwise with ice. Peter
asked a few questions. There was only an elder brother and sister.
Patrick worked as a porter. Ellen rolled cigars. They had a little money
laid up. Enough to pay for the funeral. "Mr. Moriarty gave us the whisky
and beer at half price," the girl explained incidentally. "Thank you,
sir. We don't need anything." Peter rose to go. "Bridget was often
speaking of you to us. And I thank you for what you did for her."

Peter went down, and called next door, to see Dr. Plumb's patients.
These were in a fair way for recovery.

"They didn't get any of the milk till last night," the gray-haired,
rather sad-looking doctor told him, "and I got at them early this
morning. Then I suspected the milk at once, and treated them
accordingly. I've been forty years doing this sort of thing, and it's
generally the milk. Dr. Sawyer, next door, is a new man, and doesn't get
hold quite as quick. But he knows more of the science of the thing, and
can make a good analysis."

"You think they have a chance?"

"If this heat will let up a bit" said the doctor, mopping his forehead.
"It's ninety-eight in here; that's enough to kill a sound child."

"Could they be moved?"

"To-morrow, perhaps."

"Mrs. Dooley, could you take your children away to the country
to-morrow, if I find a place for you?"

"It's very little money I have, sir."

"It won't cost you anything. Can you leave your family?"

"There's only Moike. And he'll do very well by himself," he was told.

"Then if the children can go, be ready at 10:15 to-morrow, and you shall
all go up for a couple of weeks to my mother's in Massachusetts. They'll
have plenty of good food there," he explained to the doctor, "grass and
flowers close to the house and woods not far away."

"That will fix them," said the doctor.

"About this milk. Won't the Health Board punish the sellers?" Peter
asked.

"Probably not," he was told "It's difficult to get them to do anything,
and at this season so many of them are on vacations, it is doubly hard
to make them stir."

Peter went to the nearest telegraph, and sent a dispatch to his mother.
Then he went back to his office, and sitting down, began to study his
wall. But he was not thinking of a pair of slate-colored eyes. He was
thinking of his first case. He had found a client.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE CASE.

Peter went to work the next morning at an hour which most of us, if we
are indiscreet enough to wake, prefer to use as the preface to a further
two to four hours' nap. He had spent his evening in a freshening of his
knowledge in certain municipal laws, and other details which he thought
he might need, and as early as five o clock he was at work in the
tenement district, asking questions and taking notes. The inquiry took
little skill The milk had come from the cart of a certain company, which
passed daily through the locality, not to supply orders, but to peddle
milk to whoever cared to buy. Peter had the cart pointed out that
morning, but, beyond making a note of the exact name of the company, he
paid no attention to it. He was aiming at bigger game than a milk cart
or its driver.

His work was interrupted only by his taking Mrs. Dooley and the two
children to the train. That done, Peter walked northwardly and
westwardly, till he had nearly reached the river front. It took some
little inquiry, but after a while he stumbled on a small shanty which
had a sign:

NATIONAL MILK COMPANY.

OFFICE.

The place, however, was closed and no one around seemed connected with
it, though a number of milk carts were standing about. Close to these
was a long line of sheds, which in turn backed up against a great
brewery. A couple of men lounged at the door of the sheds. Peter walked
up to them, and asked if they could tell him where he could find any one
connected with the milk company.

"The boss is off for lunch," said one. "I can take an order, if that's
what you want."

Peter said it was not an order, and began chatting with the men. Before
he had started to question them, a third man, from inside the sheds,
joined the group at the door.

"That cow's dead," he remarked as he came up.

"Is it?" said the one called Bill. Both rose, and went into the shed.
Peter started to go with them.

"You can't come in," said the new-comer.

But Peter passed in, without paying the least attention to him.

"Come back," called the man, following Peter.

Peter turned to him: "You are one of the employees of the National Milk
Company?" he asked.

"Yes," said the man, "and we have orders--"

Peter usually let a little pause occur after a remark to him, but in
this case he spoke before the man completed his speech. He spoke, too,
with an air of decision and command that quieted the man.

"Go back to your work," he said, "and don't order me round. I know what
I'm about." Then he walked after the other two men as rapidly as the
dimness permitted. The employee scratched his head, and then followed.

Dim as the light was, Peter could discern that he was passing between
two rows of cows, with not more than space enough for men to pass each
other between the rows. It was filthy, and very warm, and there was a
peculiar smell in the air which Peter did not associate with a cow
stable. It was a kind of vapor which brought some suggestion to his
mind, yet one he could not identify. Presently he came upon the two men.
One had lighted a lantern and was examining a cow that lay on the
ground. That it was dead was plain. But what most interested Peter,
although he felt a shudder of horror at the sight, were the rotted tail
and two great sores on the flank that lay uppermost.

"That's a bad-looking cow," he said.

"Ain't it?" replied the one with the lantern. "But you can't help their
havin' them, if you feed them on mash."

"Hold your tongue, Bill," said the man who had followed Peter.

"Take some of your own advice," said Peter, turning quickly, and
speaking in a voice that made the man step back. A terrible feeling was
welling up in Peter's heart. He thought of the poor little
fever-stricken children. He saw the poor fever-stricken cow. He would
like to--to--.

He dropped the arm he had unconsciously raised. "Give me that lantern,"
he demanded.

The man hesitated and looked at the others.

"Give me that lantern," said Peter, speaking low, but his voice ringing
very clear.

The lantern was passed to him, and taking it, he walked along the line
of cows. He saw several with sores more or less developed. One or two he
saw in the advanced stages of the disease, where the tail had begun to
rot away. The other men followed him on his tour of inspection, and
whispered together nervously. It did not take Peter long to examine all
he wanted to see. Handing back the lantern at the door, he said: "Give
me your names."

The men looked nonplussed, and shifted their weights uneasily from leg
to leg.

"You," said Peter, looking at the man who had interfered with him.

"Wot do yer want with it?" he was asked.

"That's my business. What's your name?"

"John Tingley."

"Where do you live?"

"310 West 61st Street."

Peter obtained and wrote down the names and addresses of the trio. He
then went to the "office" of the company, which was now opened.

"Is this an incorporated company?" he asked of the man tilted back in a
chair.

"No," said the man, adding two chair legs to terra firma, and looking at
Peter suspiciously.

"Who owns it?" Peter queried.

"I'm the boss."

"That isn't what I asked."

"That's what I answered."

"And your name is?"

"James Coldman."

"Do you intend to answer my question?"

"Not till I know your business."

"I'm here to find out against whom to get warrants for a criminal
prosecution."

"For what?"

"The warrant will say."

The man squirmed in his chair. "Will you give me till to-morrow?"

"No. The warrant is to be issued to-day. Decide at once, whether you or
your principal, shall be the man to whom it shall be served."

"I guess you'd better make it against me," said the man.

"Very well," said Peter. "Of course you know your employer will be run
down, and as I'm not after the rest of you, you will only get him a few
days safety at the price of a term in prison."

"Well, I've got to risk it," said the man.

Peter turned and walked away. He went down town to the Blacketts.

"I want you to carry the matter to the courts," he told the father.
"These men deserve punishment, and if you'll let me go on with it, it
shan't cost you anything; and by bringing a civil suit as well, you'll
probably get some money out of it."

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