THE DISTANT DRUM.
“Some for the Glories of this World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet’s Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!”
—Rubáiyát.
I.
Almost everyone knows Governor Tilden’s residence in Gramercy Park, but those who don’t know it as such, may remember a big house with bas-reliefs over the door, on the south side of that quiet square. However, the house has nothing to do with this story, except that it was upon its door-steps I encountered Sandy McWhiffle, on my way to the club. I use the word “encountered” advisedly, for Sandy, finding the bottom step somewhat narrow for a couch, had allowed one of his legs the freedom of the sidewalk, and it was over this protruding member that I stumbled into the arms of the gentleman slumbering on the Governor’s steps.
It was late at night—and Sandy protested. His opening remarks served to advise me that the cop couldn’t get around the Square again for at least fifteen minutes—that he (Sandy) hadn’t slept five, and that I’d destroyed his night’s rest. It did seem unfair.—I certainly could have discovered his leg if I’d looked sharp, and twenty minutes’ rest is—well, it’s twenty minutes’ heaven when you need it—and Sandy needed it—there was no question about that. But the advent of the cop making slumber inexpedient, if not impracticable for the time being, we adjourned, at my suggestion, to the all-night restaurant on Fourth Avenue, near Twenty-fifth Street. You know food is a fair substitute for sleep at times, especially after one has experimented considerably with sleep as a substitute for food. Sandy had made quite thorough investigations along that line. But experiments were difficult, what with the grey Bastinado Brigade in the Squares and Park, and their blue accomplices in the side streets.
I agreed with my vis-à-vis over the poached eggs and ale at Gibson’s that it did seem queer the air wasn’t free, and that sleeping in public was a misdemeanour. Of course one does it when pressed, but while the Island gives the needed respite, it lessens the chances of earning money to buy a sleeping privilege—and many trips over the river are apt to permanently impair claims to good citizenship. Sandy hadn’t been obliged to cross the upper East River yet, but he was getting very weary and careless about concealing it. Hadn’t he been able to get any work? Not for a long time. Didn’t he do anything at all? Yes—he looked for a job about four hours a day. Why only four hours? Because he tired easily and had to save his strength for the line at night. The line? Yes—the bread line at Fleischmann’s.
On the main artery of the chief city of this land of plenty—on Broadway under the shadow of Grace Church—there forms nightly a line of men that stretches for more than a block. Men with pale faces that show haggard under the white electric light, and haggard faces that show hideous,—shiveringly cold men who blink at you like dazed animals or glare at you like wild beasts;—hot, panting, almost pulseless men who gasp in the scorched atmosphere of the city’s streets—solemn, mournful creatures, with their filthy rags loosened for any breath of air, no matter how fetid—miserables of every type, exhausted, wretched, but human beings all—stand every night at the edge of the curb on Broadway and Tenth Streets waiting for a baker’s over-baking.
It all flashed before my eyes in a moment.
You can see it any night, winter or summer—January or July—from ten o’clock till two, gentlemen. Look at it and pity it—you who have pity in your hearts. Look at it and fear it—you who have none!