I cannot remember all those rules now, since for these many years God has granted me a protector, but from the few I can recall I am convinced that their principal object was to gain plenty of leeway for the persecuted girl's escape. No. 3 sternly forbade her ever, ever to pass between two advancing men—at night, of course, be it understood—lest they might seize hold of and so frighten her to death. She was advised never to permit herself to take the inside of the walk when meeting a stranger, who might thus crowd her against the house and cut off her chance to run. Never to pass the opening to an alley-way without placing the entire width of the walk between her and it, and always to keep her eyes on it as she crossed. Never to let any man pass her from behind on the outside was insisted on, indeed she should take to the street itself first. She was not to answer a drunken man, no matter what might be the nature of his speech. She was not to scream—if she could help it—for fear of public humiliation, but if the worst came and some hideous prowler of the night passed from speech to actual attack, then she was to forget her ladyhood and remembering only the tenderness of the male shin and her right of self-defence, to kick like a colt till help came or she was released.
Other portions of the code I have forgotten, but I do distinctly remember that it wound up with the really Hoyle-like observation, "When in doubt, take to the centre of the street."
We all know the magic power of the moonlight—have seen it transmute the commonest ugliness into perfect beauty and change a world-worn woman into the veriest lily-maid, but how few know the dread power exerted over man by the street gaslight after midnight. The kindest old drake of the farm-pond, the most pompously harmless gobbler of the buckwheat-field becomes a vulture beneath the midnight street-light. A man who would shoot for being called a blackguard between seven o'clock in the morning and twelve at night, often becomes one after midnight. It is frequently said that "words break no bones," but let a young girl pass alone through the city streets a few nights and she will probably hear words that, drowning her in shamed blushes, will go far toward breaking her pride, if not her bones. Men seem to be creatures of very narrow margin—they so narrowly escape being gods, and they so much more narrowly escape being animals. Under the sunlight, man, made in the image of God, lifts his face heavenward and walks erect; under the street-lamps of midnight he is stealthy, he prowls, he is a visible destruction! You think I exaggerate the matter? Do not; I speak from experience. And, what is more, at that time I had not yet learned what the streets of New York could produce after midnight.
But on the night after the chair episode, Frank Murdoch heard one of the girls say she had used the Clara Code very successfully the night before, when two drunken men had reeled out of an alley, who would have collided with her had she not followed the rule and kept the whole sidewalk between them. He stood at the door as I came down-stairs, and as soon as I reached him he asked, sharply: "Do you go home alone of nights?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Good God!" he muttered.
After a pause I looked up at him, and met his eyes shining wet and blue through two tears. "Oh," I hastily added, "there's nothing to be afraid of."
"I wish I could agree with you," he answered. "Tell me," he went on, "have you ever been annoyed by anyone?"
My eyes fell, I knew I was growing red.
"Good God!" he said again, then, suddenly, he ordered: "Give me that bag—you'll not go through these streets alone again while I am here! Never mind the distance. I don't see why you can't take my arm."