Alice Adams, Booth Tarkington [thriller novels to read .txt] 📗

would speak a good word if opportunity became available; then, after the cab had driven away, he went up to his small apartment on the third floor and muttered ruminatively until his wife inquired what he was talking to himself about.

“Ole Virg Adams,” he told her. “He’s out again after his long spell of sickness, and the way it looks to me he’d better stayed in bed.”

“You mean he still looks too bad to be out?”

“Oh, I expect he’s gettin’ his health back,” Lohr said, frowning.

“Then what’s the matter with him? You mean he’s lost his mind?”

“My goodness, but women do jump at conclusions!” he exclaimed.

“Well,” said Mrs. Lohr, “what other conclusion did you leave me to jump at?”

Her husband explained with a little heat: “People can have a sickness that affects their mind, can’t they? Their mind can get some affected without bein’ lost, can’t it?”

“Then you mean the poor man’s mind does seem affected?”

“Why, no; I’d scarcely go as far as that,” Lohr said, inconsistently, and declined to be more definite.

Adams devoted the latter part of that evening to the composition of his letter⁠—a disquieting task not completed when, at eleven o’clock, he heard his daughter coming up the stairs. She was singing to herself in a low, sweet voice, and Adams paused to listen incredulously, with his pen lifted and his mouth open, as if he heard the strangest sound in the world. Then he set down the pen upon a blotter, went to his door, and opened it, looking out at her as she came.

“Well, dearie, you seem to be feeling pretty good,” he said. “What you been doing?”

“Just sitting out on the front steps, papa.”

“All alone, I suppose.”

“No. Mr. Russell called.”

“Oh, he did?” Adams pretended to be surprised. “What all could you and he find to talk about till this hour o’ the night?”

She laughed gaily. “You don’t know me, papa!”

“How’s that?”

“You’ve never found out that I always do all the talking.”

“Didn’t you let him get a word in all evening?”

“Oh, yes; every now and then.”

Adams took her hand and petted it. “Well, what did he say?”

Alice gave him a radiant look and kissed him. “Not what you think!” she laughed; then slapped his cheek with saucy affection, pirouetted across the narrow hall and into her own room, and curtsied to him as she closed her door.

Adams went back to his writing with a lighter heart; for since Alice was born she had been to him the apple of his eye, his own phrase in thinking of her; and what he was doing now was for her.

He smiled as he picked up his pen to begin a new draft of the painful letter; but presently he looked puzzled. After all, she could be happy just as things were, it seemed. Then why had he taken what his wife called “this new step,” which he had so long resisted?

He could only sigh and wonder. “Life works out pretty peculiarly,” he thought; for he couldn’t go back now, though the reason he couldn’t was not clearly apparent. He had to go ahead.

XVII

He was out in his taxicab again the next morning, and by noon he had secured what he wanted.

It was curiously significant that he worked so quickly. All the years during which his wife had pressed him toward his present shift he had sworn to himself, as well as to her, that he would never yield; and yet when he did yield he had no plans to make, because he found them already prepared and worked out in detail in his mind; as if he had long contemplated the “step” he believed himself incapable of taking.

Sometimes he had thought of improving his income by exchanging his little collection of bonds for a “small rental property,” if he could find “a good buy”; and he had spent many of his spare hours rambling over the enormously spreading city and its purlieus, looking for the ideal “buy.” It remained unattainable, so far as he was concerned; but he found other things.

Not twice a crow’s mile from his own house there was a dismal and slummish quarter, a decayed “industrial district” of earlier days. Most of the industries were small; some of them died, perishing of bankruptcy or fire; and a few had moved, leaving their shells. Of the relics, the best was a brick building which had been the largest and most important factory in the quarter: it had been injured by a long vacancy almost as serious as a fire, in effect, and Adams had often guessed at the sum needed to put it in repair.

When he passed it, he would look at it with an interest which he supposed detached and idly speculative. “That’d be just the thing,” he thought. “If a fellow had money enough, and took a notion to set up some new business on a big scale, this would be a pretty good place⁠—to make glue, for instance, if that wasn’t out of the question, of course. It would take a lot of money, though; a great deal too much for me to expect to handle⁠—even if I’d ever dream of doing such a thing.”

Opposite the dismantled factory was a muddy, open lot of two acres or so, and near the middle of the lot, a long brick shed stood in a desolate abandonment, not happily decorated by old coatings of theatrical and medicinal advertisements. But the brick shed had two wooden ells, and, though both shed and ells were of a single story, here was empty space enough for a modest enterprise⁠—“space enough for almost anything, to start with,” Adams thought, as he walked through the low buildings, one day, when he was prospecting in that section. “Yes, I suppose I could swing this,” he thought. “If the process belonged to me, say, instead of being out of the question because it isn’t my property⁠—or if I was the kind of man to do such a thing anyhow,