Sandy written by Alice Hegan Rice

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"But," cried Sandy, bewildered but hopeful, "I have to go back!"

The doctor shook his head. "No, you don't. I've paid your passage."

Sandy waited a moment until the full import of the words was taken in,
then he grabbed the stout little doctor and almost lifted him off his
feet.

"Oh! But ain't you a brick!" he cried fervently, adding earnestly: "It
ain't a present you're makin' me, though! I'll pay it back, so help me
bob!"

At the pier the crowd of immigrants pushed and crowded impatiently as
they waited for the cabin passengers to go ashore. Among them was
Sandy, bareheaded and in motley garb, laughing and shoving with the
best of them, hanging over the railing, and keeping up a fire of
merriment at the expense of the crowd below. In his hand was a letter
of recommendation to the physician in charge at the City Hospital, and
in his inside pocket a ten-dollar bill was buttoned over a heart that
had not a care in the world. In the great stream of life Sandy was one
of the bubbles that are apt to come to the top.

"You better come down to Kentucky with me," urged Ricks Wilson,
resuming an old argument. "I'm goin' to peddle my way back home, then
git a payin' job at the racetrack."

"Wasn't I tellin' ye that it was a doctor I'm goin' to be?" asked
Sandy, impatiently. Already Ricks's friendship was proving irksome.

On the gang-plank above him the passengers were leaving the ship.
Some delay had arisen, and for a moment the procession halted.
Suddenly Sandy caught his breath. There, just above him, stood "the
damsel passing fair." Instead of the tam-o'-shanter she wore a big
drooping hat of brown, which just matched the curls that were loosely
tied at the back of her neck.

Sandy stood motionless and humbly adored her. He was a born lover,
lavishing his affection, without discrimination or calculation, upon
whatever touched his heart. It surely was no harm just to stand aside
and look. He liked the way she carried her head; he liked the way her
eyes went up a little at the outer corners, and the round, soft curve
of her chin. She was gazing steadfastly ahead of her down the
gang-plank, and he ventured a step nearer and continued his
observations. As he did so, he made a discovery. The soft white of her
cheek was gradually becoming pinker and pinker; the color which began
under her lace collar stole up and up until it reached her eyes,
which still gazed determinedly before her.

Sandy admired it as a traveler admires a sunrise, and with as little
idea of having caused it.

The line of passengers moved slowly forward, and his heart sank.
Suddenly his eyes fell upon the little hand-bag which she carried. On
one end, in small white letters, was: "Ruth Nelson, Kentucky, U.S.A."
He watched her until she was lost to view, then he turned eagerly back
into the crowd. Elbowing his way forward, he seized Ricks by the arm.

"Hi, there!" he cried; "I've changed me mind. I'm goin' with you to
Kentucky!"

So this impetuous knight errant enlisted under the will-o'-the-wisp
love, and started joyously forth upon his quest.

CHAPTER III

THE CURSE OF WEALTH

It is an oft-proved adage that for ten who can stand adversity there
is but one who can stand prosperity. Sandy, alas! was no exception to
any rule which went to prove the frailty of human nature. The sudden
acquisition of ten dollars cast him into a whirlpool of temptation
from which he made little effort to escape.

"I ain't goin' on to-day," announced Ricks. "I'm goin' to lay in my
goods for peddlin'. I reckon you kin come along of me."

Sandy accepted a long and strong cigar, tilted his hat, and
unconsciously caught Ricks's slouching gait as they went down the
street. After all, it was rather pleasant to associate with
sophistication.

"We'll git on the outside of a little dinner," said Ricks; "and I'll
mosey round in the stores awhile, then I'll take you to a show or two.
It's a mighty good thing for you that you got me along."

Sandy thought so too. He cheerfully stood treat for the rest of the
day, and felt that it was small return for Ricks's condescension.

"How much you got left?" asked Ricks, that night, as they stopped
under a street light to take stock.

Sandy held out a couple of dollars and a fifty-cent piece.

"Enough to put on the eyes of two and a half dead men," he said as he
curiously eyed the strange money.

"One, two,--two and a half," counted Ricks.

"Shillings?" asked Sandy, amazed.

Ricks nodded.

"And have I blowed all that to-day?"

"What of it?" asked Ricks. "I seen a bloke onct what lit his cigar
with a bill like the one you had!"

"But the doctor said it was two pounds," insisted Sandy,
incredulously. He did not realize the expense of a personally
conducted tour of the Bowery.

"Well, it's went," said Ricks, resignedly. "You can't count on settin'
up biz with what's left."

Sandy's brows clouded, and he shifted his position restlessly. "Now I
ax yerself, Ricks, what'u'd you do?" he said.

"Me? I don't give advice to nobody. But effen it was me I'd know
mighty quick what to do."

"What?" said Sandy, eagerly.

"Buy a dawg."

"A dog? I ain't goin' blind."

"Lor'! but you're a softhorn," said Ricks, contemptuously. "I s'pose
you'd count on leadin' him round by a pink ribbon."

"Oh, you mean a fighter?"

"Sure. My last dawg could do ever'thing in sight. She was so game she
went after herself in a lookin'-glass and got kilt. Oh, they's money
in dawgs, and I knows how to make 'em win ever' time."

Sandy, tired as he was from the day's excitement, insisted upon going
in search of one at once. He already had visions of becoming the proud
owner of a canine champion that would put him immediately into the
position of lighting his cigar with a two-pound note.

The first three weeks of their experience on the road went far to
realize their expectations. The bulldog, which had been bought in
partnership, proved a conquering hero. Through the long summer days
the boys tramped over the country, peddling their wares, and by night
they conducted sundry unlawful encounters wherever an opponent could
be found.

Sandy enjoyed the peddling. It was astonishing what friendly
sociability and confidential intimacy were established by the sale of
blue suspenders and pink soap. He left a line of smiling testimonials
in his wake.

But if the days were proving satisfactory, so much could not be said
of the nights. Even the phenomenal luck that followed his dog failed
to keep up his enthusiasm.

"You ain't a nachrul sport," complained Ricks. "That's your trouble.
When the last fight was on, you set on the fence and listened at a'
ole idiot scrapin' a fiddle down in the valley."

Sandy made a feeble defense, but he knew in his soul it was so.

Affairs reached a climax one night in an old barn on the outskirts of
a town. A fight was about to begin when Sandy discovered Ricks
judiciously administering a sedative to the enemy's dog.

Then understanding dawned upon him, and his rage was elemental. With a
valor that lacked the better part of discretion, he hurled himself
through the crowd and fell upon Ricks.

An hour later, bruised, bloody, and vanquished, he stumbled along
through the dreary night. Hot with rage and defeat, utterly ignorant
of his whereabouts, his one friend turned foe, he was indeed in sorry
plight.

He climbed over the fence and lay face downward in the long, cool
grass, stretching his bruised and aching body along the ground. A
gentle night wind rustled above him, and by and by a star peeped out,
then another and another. Before he knew it, he was listening to the
frogs and katydids, and wondering what they were talking about. He
ceased to think about Ricks and his woes, and gave himself up to the
delicious, drowsy peace that was all about him. For, child of nature
that he was, he had turned to the only mother he knew.

CHAPTER IV

SIDE-TRACKED

The next morning, at the nearest railroad station, an irate cattleman
was trying to hire some one to take charge of a car of live stock
which was on its way to a great exposition in a neighboring city. The
man he had counted on had not appeared, and the train was about due.

As he was turning away in desperation he felt a tug at his elbow.
Looking around, he saw a queer figure with a countenance that
resembled a first attempt at a charcoal sketch from life: one cheek
was larger than the other, the mouth was sadly out of drawing, the
eyes shone out from among the bruises like the sun from behind the
clouds. But if the features were disfigured, the smile was none the
less courageous.

Sandy had found a friendly sympathizer at a neighboring farm-house,
had been given a good breakfast, had made his toilet, and was ready
for the next round in the fight of life.

"I'll be doin' yer job, sir, whatever it is," he said pleasantly.

The man eyed him with misgiving, but his need was urgent.

"All you have to do is to stay in the car and look after the cattle.
My man will meet you when you reach the city. Do you think you can do
it?"

"Just keep company with the cows?" cried Sandy. "Sure and I can!"

So the bargain was struck, and that night found him in the great city
with a dollar in his pocket and a promise of work in the morning.

Tired and sore from the experiences of the night before, he sought a
cheap lodging-house near by. A hook-nosed woman, carrying a smoking
lamp, conducted him to a room under the eaves. It was small and
suffocating. He involuntarily lifted his hands and touched the
ceiling.

"It's like a boilin' potato I feel," he said; "and the pot's so little
and the lid so tight!"

He went to the window, and taking out the nail that held down the
sash, pushed it up. Below him lay the great, bustling city, cabs and
cars in constant motion, long lines of blazing lights marking the
thoroughfares, the thunder of trains in the big station, and above and
below and through it all a dull monotonous roar, like the faraway
unceasing cry of a hungry beast.

He sank on his knees by the window, and a restless, nervous look came
into his eyes.

"It presses in, too," he thought. "It's all crowdin' over me. I'm just
me by myself, all alone." A tear made a white course down his grimy
cheek, then another and another. He brushed them impatiently away with
the cap he still held in his hand.

Rising abruptly, he turned away from the window, and the hot air of
the room again smote him. The smoking lamp had blackened the chimney,
and as he bent to turn it down, he caught his reflection in a small
mirror over the table. What the bruises and swelling had left undone
the cheap mirror completed. He started back. Was that the boy he knew
as himself? Was that Sandy Kilday who had come to America to seek his
fortune? He stared in a sort of fascinated horror at that other boy in
the mirror. Before he had been afraid to be by himself, now he was
afraid of himself.

He seized his cap, and blowing out the lamp, plunged down four flights
of steep narrow steps and out into the street. A number of people were
crowding into a street-car marked "Exposition." Sandy, ever a straw in
the current, joined them. Once more down among his fellow-men, he
began to feel more comfortable. He cheerfully paid his entrance fee
with one of the two silver coins in his pocket.

The first building he entered was the art gallery, and the first
picture that caught his eye held him spellbound. He sat before it all
the evening with fascinated eyes, devouring every detail and oblivious
to the curious interest he was attracting; for the huge canvas
represented the Knights of the Round Table, and he had at last found
friends.

All the way back he thought about the picture; it was not until he
reached his room that the former loneliness returned.

But even then it was not for long. A pair of yellow eyes peered around
the window-sill, and a plaintive "meow" begged for admittance. It was
plainly Providence that guided that thin and ill-treated kitten to
Sandy's window. The welcome it received must have completely restored
its shaken faith in human nature. Tired as he was, Sandy went out and
bought some milk. He wanted to establish a firm friendship; for if he
was to stay in this lonely city, he must have something to love, if
only a prodigal kitten of doubtful pedigree.

During the long, hot days that followed Sandy worked faithfully at the
depot. The regular hours and confinement seemed doubly irksome after
the bohemian life on the road.

The Exposition was his salvation. No sacrifice seemed too great to
enable him to get beyond that magic gate. For the "Knights of the
Round Table" was but the beginning of miles and miles of wonderful
pictures. He even bought a catalogue, and, prompted by a natural
curiosity for anything that interested him, learned the names of the
artists he liked best, and the bits of biography attached to each. He
would recite these to the yellow kitten when he got back to his little
hot-box of a room.

One night the art gallery was closed, and he went into another big
building where a crowd of people were seated. At one end of it was a
great pipe-organ, and after a while some one began to play. With his
cap tightly grasped in both hands, he tiptoed down the center aisle
and stood breathlessly drinking in the wonderful tones that seemed to
be coming from his own heart.

"Get out of the way, boy," said an usher. "You are blocking the
aisle."

A queer-appearing lady who looked like a man touched his elbow.

"Here's a seat," she said in a deep voice.

"Thank you, sir," said Sandy, absently. He scarcely knew whether he
was sitting or standing. He only wanted to be let alone, so that he
could listen to those strange, beautiful sounds that made a shiver of
joy go down his back. Art had had her day; it was Music's turn.

When the last number had been played, he turned to the queer lady:

"Do they do it every night?"

She smiled at his enthusiasm: "Wednesdays and Saturdays."

"Say," said Sandy, confidentially, "if you come first do you save me
a seat, and I'll do the same by you."

From that time on he decided to be a musician, and he lived on two
scanty meals a day in order to attend the concerts.

But this exalted scheme of high thinking and plain living soon became
irksome. One day, when his loneliness weighed most heavily upon him,
he was sent with a message out to the switch-station. As he tramped
back along the track he spied a familiar figure ahead of him. There
was no mistaking that short, slouching body with the peddler's pack
strapped on its back. With a cry of joy, Sandy bounded after Ricks
Wilson. He actually hugged him in his joy to be once more with some
one he knew.

Ricks glanced uneasily at the scar above his eye.

Sandy clapped his hand over it and laughed. "It's all right, Ricks; a
miss is as good as a mile. I ain't mad any more. It's straight home
with me you are goin'; and if we can get the two feet of you into me
bit of a room, we'll have a dinner that's fit for a king."

On the way they laid in a supply of provisions, Sandy even going to
the expense of a bottle of beer for Ricks.

The yellow kitten arched her back and showed general signs of
hostility when the stranger was introduced. But her unfriendly
demonstrations were ignored. Ricks was the honored guest, and Sandy
extended to him the full hospitality of the establishment.

"Put your pack on the floor and yerself in the chair, and I'll get ye
filled up in the blink of an eyelash. Don't be mindin' the cat, Ricks.
She's just lettin' on she don't take to you. She give me the wink on
the sly."

Ricks, expanding under the influence of food and drink, became
eloquent. He recounted courageous adventures of the past, and outlined
marvelous schemes for the future, by which he was going to make a
short cut to fame and glory.

When it was time for him to go, Sandy heaved a sigh of regret. For
two hours he had been beguiled by Ricks's romances, and now he had to
go back to the humdrum duties at the depot, and receive a sound rating
for his belated appearance.

"Which way might you be goin', Ricks?" he asked wistfully.

"Same place I started fer," said Ricks. "Kentucky."

The will-o'-the-wisp, which had been hiding his light, suddenly swung
it full in the eyes of Sandy. Once more he saw the little maid of his
dreams, and once more he threw discretion to the winds and followed
the vision.

Hastily collecting his few possessions, he rolled them into a bundle,
and slipping the surprised kitten into his pocket, he gladly followed
Ricks once more out into the broad green meadows, along the white and
shining roads that lead over the hills to Kentucky.

CHAPTER V

SANDY RETIRES FROM BUSINESS

"This here is too blame slow fer me," said Ricks, one chilly night in
late September, as he and Sandy huddled against a haystack and settled
up their weekly accounts.

"Fifty-five cents! Now ain't that a' o'nery dab? Here's a quarter fer
you and thirty cents fer me; that's as even as you kin split it."

"It's the microscopes that'll be sellin'," said Sandy, hopefully, as
he pulled his coat collar about his ears and shivered. "The man as
sold 'em to me said they was a great bargain entirely. He thought
there was money in 'em."

"For him," said Ricks, contemptuously. "It's like the man what gulled
us on the penknives. I lay to git even with him, all right."

"But he give us the night's lodgin' and some breakfast," said Sandy.

Ricks took a long drink from a short bottle, then holding it before
him, he said impressively: "A feller could do me ninety-nine good
turns, and if he done me one bad one it would wipe 'em all out. I got
to git even with anybody what does me dirty, if it takes me all my
life."

"But don't you forget to remember?"

"Not me. I ain't that kind."

Sandy leaned wearily against the haystack and tried to shelter himself
from the wind. A continued diet of bread and water had made him
sensitive to the changes in the weather.

"This here grub is kinder hard on yer head-rails," said Ricks, trying
to bite through a piece of stale bread. A baker had let them have
three loaves for a dime because they were old and hard.

Sandy cast a longing look at Ricks's short bottle. It seemed to
remedy so many ills, heat or cold, thirst or hunger. But the strict
principles applied during his tender years made him hesitate.

"I wish we hadn't lost the kitten," he said, feeling the need of a
more cheerful companion.

"I'm a-goin' to git another dawg," announced Ricks. "I'm sick of this
here doin's."

"Ain't we goin' to be turfmen?" asked Sandy, who had listened by the
hour to thrilling accounts of life on the track, and had accepted
Ricks's ambition as his own.

"Not on twenty cents per week," growled Ricks.

Sandy's heart sank; he knew what a new dog meant. He burrowed in the
hay and tried to sleep, but there was a queer pain that seemed to
catch hold of his breath whenever he breathed down deep.

It rained the next day, and they tramped disconsolately through
village after village.

They had oil-cloth covers for their baskets, but their own backs were
soaked to the skin.

Toward evening they came to the top of a hill, from which they could
look directly down upon a large town lying comfortably in the crook of
a river's elbow. The rain had stopped, and the belated sun, struggling
through the clouds, made up for lost time by reflecting itself in
every curve of the winding stream, in every puddle along the road, and
in every pane of glass that faced the west.

"That's a nobby hoss," said Ricks, pointing down the hill. "What's the
matter with the feller?"

A slight, delicate-looking young man was lying in the road, between
the horse and the fence. As the boys came up he stirred and tried to
rise.

"He's off his nut," said Ricks, starting to pass on; but Sandy
stopped.

"Get a fall?" he asked.

The strange boy shook his head. "I guess I fainted. I must have
ridden too hard. I'll be all right in a minute." He leaned his head
against a tree and closed his eyes.

Sandy eyed him curiously, taking in all the details of his
riding-costume down to the short whip with the silver mounting.

"I say, Ricks," he called to his companion, who was inspecting the
horse, "can't we do somethin' for him?"

Ricks reluctantly produced the short bottle.

"I'm all right," insisted the boy, "if you'll just give me a lift to
the saddle." But his eager eyes followed the bottle, and before Ricks
had returned it to his pocket he held out his hand. "I believe I will
take a drink if you don't mind." He drained the contents and then
handed a coin to Ricks.

"Now, if you'll help me," continued the stranger. "There! Thank you
very much."

"Say, what town is this, anyway?" asked Ricks.

"Clayton," said the boy, trying to keep his horse from backing.

"Looks like somethin' was doin'," said Ricks.

"Circus, I believe."

"Then I don't blame your nag for wantin' to go back!" cried Sandy.
"Come on, Ricks; let's take in the show!"

Half-way down the hill he turned. "Haven't we seen that fellow before,
Ricks?"

"Not as I knows of. He looked kinder pale and shaky, but you bet yer
life he knowed how to hit the bottle."

"He was sick," urged Sandy.

"An' thirsty," added Ricks, with a smile of superior wisdom.

The circus seemed such a timely opportunity to do business that they
decided to rent a stand that night and sell their wares on the street
corner. Ricks went on into town to arrange matters, while Sandy
stopped in a grocery to buy their supper. His interest in the show had
been of short duration. He felt listless and tired, something seemed
to be buzzing continually in his head, and he shivered in his damp
clothes. In the grocery he sat on a barrel and leaned his head against
the wall.

"What you shivering about?" asked the fat woman behind the counter, as
she tied up his small package.

"I feel like me skeleton was doin' a jig inside of me," said Sandy
through chattering teeth.

"Looks to me like you got a chill," said the fat woman. "You wait
here, and I'll go git you some hot coffee."

She disappeared in the rear of the store, and soon returned with a
small coffee-pot and a cup and saucer. Sandy drank two cups and a
half, then he asked the price.

"Price?" repeated the woman, indignantly. "I reckon you don't know
which side of the Ohio River you're on!"

Sandy made up in gratitude what she declined in cash, and started on
his way. At the corner of Main street and the bridge he found Ricks,
who had rented a stand and was already arranging his wares. Sandy
knelt on the sidewalk and unpacked his basket.

"Only three bars of soap and seventy-five microscopes!" he exclaimed
ruefully. "Let's be layin' fine stress on the microscopes, Ricks."

"You do the jawin', Sandy. I ain't much on givin' 'em the talk," said
Ricks. "Chuck a jolly at 'em and keep 'em hangin' round."

As dark came on, trade began. The three bars of soap were sold, and a
purple necktie. Sandy saw that public taste must be guided in the
proper direction. He stepped up on a box and began eloquently to
enumerate the diverse uses of microscopes.

At each end of the stand a flaring torch lighted up the scene. The
light fell on the careless, laughing faces in front, on Ricks Wilson,
black-browed and suspicious, in the rear, and it fell full on Sandy,
who stood on high and harangued the crowd. It fell on his broad,
straight shoulders and on his shining tumbled hair; but it was not
the light of the torch that gave the brightness to his eyes and the
flush to his cheek. His head was throbbing, but he felt a curious
sense of elation. He felt that he could stand there and talk the rest
of his life. He made the crowd listen, he made it laugh, he made it
buy. He told stories and sang songs, he coaxed and persuaded, until
only a few microscopes were left and the old cigar-box was heavy with
silver.

"Step right up and take a look at a fly's leg! Every one ought to have
a microscope in his home. When you get hard up it will make a dime
look like a dollar, and a dollar like a five-dollar gold piece. Step
right up! I ain't kiddin' you. Five cents for two looks, and fifteen
for the microscope."

Suddenly he faltered. At the edge of the crowd he had recognized two
faces. They were sensitive slender faces, strangely alike in feature
and unlike in expression. The young horseman of the afternoon was
impatiently pushing his way through the crowd, while close behind him
was a dainty girl with brown eyes slightly lifted at the outer
corners, who held back in laughing wonder to watch the scene.

"Ricks," said Sandy, lowering his voice unsteadily, "is this
Kentucky?"

"Yep; we crossed the line to-day."

"I can't talk no more," said Sandy. "You'll have to be doin' it. I'm
sick."

It was not only the fever that was burning in his veins, and making
him bury his hot head in his hands and wish he had never been born. It
was shame and humiliation, and all because of the look on the face of
the girl at the edge of the crowd. He sat in the shadow of the big box
and fought his fight. The coffee and the excitement no longer kept him
up; he was faint, and his breath came short. Above him he heard
Ricks's rasping voice still talking to the few customers who were
left. He knew, without glancing up, just how Ricks looked when he said
the words; he knew how his teeth pushed his lips back, and how his
restless little eyes watched everything at once. A sudden fierce
repulsion swept over him for peddling, for Ricks, for himself.

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