Chapter XII: With the Dynamiters

"While we range with Science, glorying in the time,
City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime;
Where among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet,
Crime and hunger cast out maidens by the thousand on the street;
Where the master scrimps his haggard seamstress of her daily bread,
And a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead."

--_Anon._

The anarchist of Rickett's Court, under whose influence the inventor had fallen, was a thoroughly bad man, and the writer has no sympathy to waste upon him or his methods, but with his deluded and desperate victim we should all sympathize.

Stephen Trimble had brooded over his troubles and wrongs until he was half crazed, and the men for whom he worked added fuel to the flame.

"Why should you be so precious careful of the rich?" his employer said. "What have the rich ever done for you? They've murdered your wife, as I make out, insisting on her standing all day long, when she was not able to do so, and might have done her work just as well sitting. They've sent your innocent little boy to jail along with common pickpockets. They've robbed you of your money--"

"Stop!" cried Stephen Trimble; "you've said that over and over, until I believe it, though I don't know why I should take your word any quicker than that of anyone else. You've made much of your kindness in telling me, though I don't see what good it does me, unless you are willing to go into court and testify for me as to what you've seen."

The men shook their heads. "No going into court for us! We want to keep as far away from the law as possible."

"Then I don't see but you are as much against me as the rest. I've worked with you long enough to know what your aims are; your machine is now in working order, ready to blow up the finest house, the largest audience, in New York, church or armory, bank-vault or prison; and if all you say is true, you may blow away, for all I care, and blow yourselves up with the rest, and me too. If the world is the Sodom and Gomorrah it seems to me, we have Bible warrant for its destruction. My work for you is done; give me my money, and we are through with each other."

"See here, Trimble," said the anarchist, "we have already paid you fifteen dollars, and you ought not to be too close with us."

"You promised me a hundred; do you mean to say--"

"Don't be so touchy; what I mean to say is this: We cannot help you by testifying in court, as you suggested; it wouldn't do you any good if we did; but find out the man who has wronged you, and we will help you to your revenge. In a few days our society will begin its operations. We are out of funds now, but there will be a new deal soon. We begin with the banking-house of Roseveldt, Gold & Co., and as soon as the fireworks are over we will be rich enough, and you shall have a fair share."

Stephen Trimble sprang to his feet. "I thought you were anarchists! do you acknowledge that you are common burglars?"

"No, my friend, we acknowledge nothing of the kind. Be good enough to attend to your own business."

"It is time that I did," replied the inventor; "I have neglected it long enough."

Stephen Trimble walked out of the building. He had three things to do--to discover the landlord of Rickett's Court; to see his wife for the last time; and to free his little son, whom he believed to be still in prison.

There was quite a commotion in the court; some men were putting up a fire-escape. "What ever put it into Solomon Meyer's head to do that?" he asked.

"'Tain't Solomon Meyer," a workman replied; "it's the landlord himself. He ordered it done some time ago, and was mad as a hornet because Meyer hadn't attended to it."

"See here, my friend," said Stephen Trimble, "if you know who the landlord of this tenement is, you will do me a favor by directing me to him."

"Armstrong's the man--Alexander Armstrong, President of the ---- R. R. Co.; his office is over the banking-house of Roseveldt & Gold, No. ---- Broadway. He rooms there too, when he's in town--back of his office."

Stephen Trimble stood very still for a moment. The information which he thought would be so difficult to obtain had come to his door. The vengeance which he had fancied might take long days and nights of plotting, hung now over the man who had wronged him. He need do absolutely nothing, and Alexander Armstrong was doomed. He must inevitably be killed in the explosion and conflagration which was planned to cover the robbery of the bank beneath him.

They had changed places, and the landlord of Rickett's Court was his victim. One-third of his task was accomplished. He walked now in the direction of the hospital, and asked to see his wife. He hardly expected to be admitted, but he would at least make the attempt. To his surprise he was shown into a cheerful parlor, and Mrs. Trimble was sent for. She came down, looking pale, but happy.

"O Stephen," she cried, "it has been so long since I have seen you! but never mind, I am almost well now, and we shall soon be together again. The doctor tells me I may leave next week. They have been so very kind to me here, it has been like Heaven. The rich are thoughtful and generous to provide such places for the poor. I am so grateful; and I have rested so that I shall be able to take hold with new courage."

He listened in a stupefied way, and seeing that he was not inclined to speak, she ran on, "And isn't it beautiful about Lovey?"

This stung him to speech. "Beautiful? To be arrested and sent to prison?"

"Why, no, dear. Haven't you heard? A sweet, kind woman--Miss Prillwitz--called, and told me that he is being cared for at a little Home, for nothing, Stephen; and they will keep him there until we are on our feet again. If that isn't brotherly love, I don't know what is. It makes me believe that there is such a thing as Christianity, after all."

Still Stephen Trimble was silent. She was happy, and he would not dispel her illusion, at least not now. Evidently there were _some_ good people in New York, and she had experienced their kindness. He had expected to find her suffering from neglect and cruelty. He would not have been surprised if she had died. He could hardly believe that a _charity patient_ had received such attention. That their little son had been also tenderly cared for passed his belief, but he would see for himself, and he took the address of the Home. He bade his wife good-bye gently. "I shall come back to you very soon, Stephen," she said, "and things will go better then." He could not tell her of his deep despair. He tried to smile, but only succeeded in giving her a pitiful, longing look. He walked on toward the Home of the Elder Brother, sure that its name was a lie, and that he would find Lovey abused. But he was met at the door by Mrs. Halsey, whom he had known at Rickett's Court, who called his little son to come down and see his papa, and who told him of the plan of which she had just been speaking to Miss Prillwitz. And a moment later Lovey, well dressed, clean, fat, and jolly, tumbled into his arms with a cry of rapture.

"Do you want to come home, Lovey?" he asked.

"No, daddy, I want you to come here. Please, Mrs. Halsey, mayn't he come?"

"We would like to have him very much to teach our boys the use of tools for a few hours every day. It is just what I have been telling your father."

"A week ago," said Stephen Trimble, "your offer would have been heaven to me; now I am afraid it is too late."

"Don't say so," urged Mrs. Halsey; and she called Miss Prillwitz to talk the matter over with him. Miss Prillwitz's first argument was to ask him to luncheon. He ate the nourishing food--the first good meal that had passed his lips for many days--and he said, as he bade them farewell, "I will come to you if I can, and teach your boys mechanics; if I don't come it will be because something has happened to me, and if anything happens to me I want to ask you to lend a helping hand to my wife--and may God bless you." A new impulse stirred within his heart, gratitude, which he had not felt toward any human being for years. He was softened, and tears stood in his eyes. He could almost forgive the landlord of Rickett's Court now.

An impulse to see the man, though not with any hope of gaining anything from the interview, came over him. It was still early, and he walked down Broadway to the building designated, and looked into the bank. How wealthy and strong it looked, with the clerks busily at work calling off fabulous sums to one another, and handling the piles of bills and coin! The safe-doors stood open, and he could see the great bolts and bars, and complicated combinations; and he smiled scornfully as he thought how easily the little machine upon which he had been working would open them all.

A policeman saw him staring in at the window, and asked him his business.

"I want to find Mr. Armstrong, the R. R. president."

"Then you must go up-stairs. There is the door."

He walked up and saw another room, with gentlemen sitting in easy attitudes in comfortable chairs. He asked a clerk for Mr. Armstrong, and was told that he was in Washington, on business.

"Business connected with a patent?"

"Yes; I believe so. What did you want of him?"

"Nothing. Say only that Stephen Trimble called."

"What! is this Stephen Trimble?" exclaimed a hearty voice behind him; and, turning, the inventor saw an earnest but kindly looking man, who had just entered carrying a hand-bag.

"That is Mr. Armstrong," said the clerk, and Stephen Trimble stared fascinated.

"Step into my private office," said the financier, "I am glad you have come. It is always better to transact business at first hand, and I was sorry you could not come when Mr. Meyer asked you to do so."

"I do not know what you mean, sir."

"Did not Solomon Meyer tell you that I wanted you to call, with reference to the four thousand dollars still unpaid on our patent transaction?"

"Solomon Meyer told me that I was too late, and that you did not care for my invention."

Mr. Armstrong sprang from his chair. "And he never gave you my check for a thousand dollars?"

"Never; though I heard that he had it;" and Stephen Trimble related what the anarchist had told him.

Mr. Armstrong unlocked a safe, and took from it the contract in regard to the patent. "Is not this your signature?" he asked.

"No, sir: I never saw the paper."

"Then Solomon Meyer is a swindler."

"Very likely, sir."

"Go home; say nothing, and I will have him arrested. Stop--a little money may not come amiss to you just now. Here is fifty dollars on our account. I will see you again to-morrow, but I have an important appointment now."

"I don't know how to thank you, sir, or what to say," said Stephen Trimble, utterly confounded.

"There are no thanks due; on the contrary, I owe you a small matter of five thousand dollars--perhaps more--for it seems you have not signed this paper, and perhaps may not be willing to sell your invention for so small a sum."

As he spoke, the confidential clerk tapped at the door and remarked, "Dr. Carver, sir, of ---- Hospital, says you telegraphed to him from Washington to meet you here."

Instantly Stephen Trimble saw that Mr. Armstrong had forgotten his existence; his entire expression changed from kindly benevolence to intense eagerness and anxiety.

"What has he got to worry about, I wonder!" thought the inventor, as he gave place to the physician, and descended the stairs. Force of habit led his steps toward Rickett's Court, but he walked like a different man, and the workman who had seen his cringing, crouching manner as he slouched out of the court that morning, did not recognize the man who entered with buoyant, determined step. The change had begun when he left the door of the Home of the Elder Brother. There his faith in his kind had been restored. Had the good fortune of the afternoon befallen him before that experience he could not have believed it, or the stupendous change would have driven him insane. But it had come upon him, mercifully, by degrees, and he was rapturously happy, and clearer in mind than he had been for months. It was as if a great and crushing weight had been lifted from heart and brain. Suddenly, as he crossed the threshold, he remembered the infernal-machine. The anarchists would probably use it that night, and Alexander Armstrong, his benefactor, was doomed. He wondered how he could ever have been so mad as to aid them. There was only one thing to be done: he must undo his work, render the contrivance harmless, and save his friend. He knocked at the door; there was no answer; the men were probably out. He tried to open it, but it was locked. He could easily have picked the lock, but people were coming and going. The new fire-escape suggested itself to his mind, and he decided to go to his room and, as it was already dark, descend by it to the workroom. This resolution was quickly accomplished. He lighted a candle and was just reaching toward the machine, when the door opened and the anarchists entered.

"What are you doing? I thought you had finished your work," said his former employer.

"No, I have not finished," replied Stephen Trimble, nervously taking up a tool and beginning to remove a screw.

"You are tampering with the machine; put it down!" and the man seized it angrily.

"Let go!" shouted Stephen Trimble, "you touch it at your peril; the button is under your hand!"

The warning came too late--there was a blinding flash, then a crash as though the heavens had fallen; then blackness and silence.