The furnace, with the fire put out, still remained in the center of the room.
Such was the scene which the light disclosed; a scene incredible only to those who, unfamiliar with the actual of the large city, do not know that all the boasted triumphs of our modern civilization but miserably compensate for the poverty which it has created, and which stalks side by side with it, at every step of its progress, like a skeleton beside a painted harlot;—a poverty which gives to the phrase, "I am poor!" a despair unknown even in the darkest ages of the most barbarous past.
"They are asleep,—asleep, certainly," cried Israel, falling back, "they can't be dead."
The truth is, that Israel felt exceedingly uncomfortable.
"They ain't asleep,—they are dead," hoarsely replied Ninety-One, and he grasped Israel fiercely by the wrist. "They are dead, you dog. Look thar! That man owed you eight dollars for rent; he know'd if he didn't pay you this mornin' he'd be pitched into the street, dyin' as he was, with wife and children and sister at his heels. But he'd saved eight dollars, Israel, an' last night he crawled out to take a walk, an' found that his eight dollars was so much trash—found out that yer banks had broke, an' his eight dollars in yer bank notes, was wuss than nothin'. An' from yer bankin' house he went to a drug store, an' from a friend he got a quick an' quiet p'ison. He came home; he put it in the coffee, slyly; they all drank of it, an' slep'; an' then he filled the furnace with charcoal an' lighted it, an' then they slep' all the better,—an' there they air! out o' yer clutches, dog—out o' yer fangs, hell-hound,—gone safe to kingdom come!"
And he clutched Israel's wrist until the little man groaned with pain.
"But how do you know he poisoned himself and these?" faltered Israel.
"He left a scrap o' paper in which he told about it an' the reason for doin' it. The doctor who came in when it was too late, saw the charcoal burnin', an' found the p'ison at the bottom of the cups. An' this man," he pointed to one of the eleven, a sturdy fellow with a frank, honest face, "this man an' his wife live in the next room. He was out last evenin', but she was in, an' she heard poor Martin ravin' about you an' his eight dollars, an' his wife, an' sister, an' children, an' starvation, death, an' the cold dark street. She heered him, I say, but didn't suspec' there was p'ison in the case until the doctor called her in, an' then it was too late."
"But how did you know of all this? What have you to do with it?"
"You see the doctor went an' told the judge, who has just been tryin' you,—told him hours ago, you mind,—an' the judge sent me here with you, in order to show you some of yer work. How d'ye like it Isr'el?"