"You 'ave to find someone as owns real estate in the city, sir, to go on your bond. 'Ow much is it?"
"Five thousand dollars," replied McAllister.
"'Oly Moses!" ejaculated the valet. He regarded his former master with renewed interest.
But the dinner had wrought a change in that hitherto subdued individual. With a valet and running water he was beginning to feel his oats a little. He checked off mentally the names of his acquaintances. There was not one left in town.
He repressed a yawn, and looked at his watch. One o'clock. Just then the gong rang again.
"What in thunder is this, now?"
"Afternoon service, sir. City Mission from one to two-thirty."
"Ye gods!" ejaculated McAllister.
A band of young girls came and stood with their hymn-books along the opposite tier, while a Presbyterian clergyman took the place on the bridge recently vacated by his Episcopal brother. Prayers alternated with hymns until the sermon, which lasted sixty-five minutes.
McAllister, almost desperate, fretted and fumed until half past two, when the choir and missionary finally departed.
"Only a 'arf 'our, sir, an' we can get some more hexercise," said Wilkins encouragingly.
But McAllister did not want exercise. He swung to his feet, and peering disconsolately through the bars was suddenly confronted by an anæmic young woman holding an armful of flowers. Before he could efface himself she smiled sweetly at him.
"My poor man," she began confidently, "how sorry I am for you this beautiful Christmas Day! Please take some of these; they will brighten up your cell wonderfully; and they are so fragrant." She pushed a dozen carnations and asters through the bars.
McAllister, utterly dumfounded, took them.
"What is your name?" continued the maiden.
"Welch!" blurted out our bewildered friend.
There was a stifled snort from the bunk behind.
"Good-by, Welch. I know you are not really bad. Won't you shake hands with me?"
She thrust her hand through the bars, and McAllister gave it a perfunctory shake.
"Good-by," she murmured, and passed on.
"Lawd!" exploded Wilkins, rolling from side to side upon his cot. "O Lawd! O Lawd! O—" and he held his sides while McAllister stuck the carnations into the wash-basin.
The gong again, and once more that endless tramp along the hot tiers. The prison grew darker. Gas-jets were lighted here and there, and the air became more and more oppressive. With five o'clock came supper; then the long, weary night.
Next morning the valet seemed nervous and excited, eating little breakfast, and smiling from time to time vaguely to himself. Having fumbled in his pocket, he at last pulled out a dirty pawn-ticket, which he held toward his master.
"'Ere, sir," he said with averted head. "It's for the pin. I'm sorry I took it."
McAllister's eyes were a little blurred as he mechanically received the card-board.
"Shake hands, Wilkins," was all he said.
A keeper came walking along the tier rattling the doors and telling those who were wanted in court to get ready.
"Good-by," said McAllister. "I'm sorry you felt obliged to plead guilty. I might have helped you if I'd only known. Why didn't you stand your trial?"
"I 'ad my reasons," replied the valet. "I wanted to get my case disposed of as quick as possible. You see, I'd been livin' in Philadelphia, and 'ad just come to New York when I was harrested. I didn't want 'em to find out who I was or where I come from, so I just gives the name of Davidson, and takes my dose."
"Well," said McAllister, "you're taking your own dose; I'm taking somebody else's. That hardly seems a fair deal—now does it, Wilkins? But, of course, you don't know but that I am Welch."
"Oh, yes, I do, sir!" returned the valet. "You won't never be punished for what he done."
"How do you know?" exclaimed McAllister, visions of a speedy release crowding into his mind. "And if you knew, why didn't you say so before? Why, you might have got me out. How do you know?" he repeated.
Wilkins looked around cautiously. The keeper was at the other end of the tier. Then he came close to McAllister and whispered:
"Because I'm Fatty Welch myself!"
VI
Downstairs, across the sunlit prison yard, past the spot where the hangings had taken place in the old days, up an enclosed staircase, a half turn, and the clubman was marched across the Bridge of Sighs. Most of the prisoners with him seemed in good spirits, but McAllister, who was oppressed with the foreboding of imminent peril, felt that he could no longer take any chances. His fatal resemblance to Fatty Welch, alias Wilkins, his former valet, the circumstances of his arrest, the scar on his neck, would seem to make conviction certain unless he followed one of two alternatives—either that of disclosing Welch's identity or his own. He dismissed the former instantly. Now that he knew something of the real sufferings of men, his own life seemed contemptible. What mattered the laughter of his friends, or sarcastic paragraphs in the society columns of the papers? What did the fellows at the club know of the game of life and death going on around them? of the misery and vice to which they contributed? of the hopelessness of those wretched souls who had been crushed down by fate into the gutters of life? Determined to declare himself, he entered the court-room and tramped with the others to the rail.
There, to his amazement, sat old Mr. Potter beside the Judge. Tom and his partner stood at one side.
"Welch, step up here."
Mr. Potter nodded very slightly, and McAllister, taking the hint, stepped forward.
"Is this your prisoner, officer?"
"Shure, that's him, right enough," answered Tom.
"Discharged," said the magistrate.
Mr. Potter shook hands with his honor, who smiled good-humoredly and winked at McAllister.
"Now, Welch, try and behave yourself. I'll let you off this time, but if it happens again I won't answer for the consequences. Go home."
Mr. Potter whispered something to the baffled officers, who grinned sheepishly, and then, seizing McAllister's arm, led our astonished friend out of the court-room.
As they whirled uptown in the closed automobile which had been waiting for them around the corner, Mr. Potter explained that after sending the letter he had felt far from satisfied, and had bethought him of calling up Mrs. Winthrop on the telephone. Her polite surprise at the lawyer's inquiries had fully convinced him of his error, and after evading her questions with his usual caution, he had taken immediate steps for his client's release—steps which, by reason of the lateness of the hour, he could not communicate to the unhappy McAllister.
"What has become of the fugitive Welch," he ended, "remains a mystery. The police cannot imagine where he has hidden himself."
"I wonder," said McAllister dreamily.
It was just seven o'clock when McAllister, arrayed, as usual, in immaculate evening dress, sauntered into the club. Most of the men were back from their Christmas outing; half a dozen of them were engaged in ordering dinner.
"Hello, Chubby!" shouted someone. "Come and have a drink. Had a pleasant Christmas? You were at the Winthrops', weren't you?"
"No," answered McAllister; "had to stay right in New York. Couldn't get away. Yes, I'll take a dry Martini—er, waiter, make that two Martinis. I want you all to have dinner