The Angel of the Tenement

by George Madden Martin

On the outskirts of the park-like square a small boy was urging a smaller girl to hurry. "Angel's legs won't go no more," the diminutive female was wailing as her companion dragged her along.

Meanwhile the impassioned words of the last oration were being echoed and emphasized by mutterings and imprecations. The mob, in fact, was beginning to respond, just as its promoters had intended that it should, and as their dangerous eloquence continued to pour forth, the emotions of the crowd accordingly grew fiercer, louder, until from sullen mutterings, the applauding echoes grew to clamor and uproar. And following the impassioned harangue of the last speaker upon the program—a red-haired gentleman, unpleasantly dirty—the cheers gave place to groans, the groans grew to threats, to curses, and the confusion spread like the roar of a coming storm.

Suddenly above the noise, came the measured tramp of feet. In the momentary lull succeeding, "The police, the police," a voice rang out on the silence, and the single cry swelled to a roar from hundreds of throats, and as suddenly died away to an expectant silence. At that a voice, loud with authority, rang out upon the stillness, "In the name of the Commonwealth," the measured words declared, "I command you to immediately and peaceably disperse!"

The answer came in a chorus of jeers, hoots, yells of derision, and the howling mob began to seize whatever promised to be a weapon of defense or attack. Growing in numbers as dusk fell, the crowd now was spreading back into the surrounding streets. Merchants who had not already done so, were hurriedly closing their stores. The cars were blocked, and foot travellers fleeing in all directions. From the thickest of the crowd, a mighty creature of bone and muscle, a giant in height and breadth, grasping an iron support twisted from a bench, had forced his way out to the street, and now was using it to pry up the bricks from the sidewalk, which in turn were seized by his companions.

Above the uproar and confusion the voice of authority, ringing out its words of command, was heard again.

Head and shoulders above the crowd, the giant stood erect, waving his iron bar above his head. "At 'em, men," he cried, "at 'em before they fire!"

But as he paused, another cry arose, a frightened, childish wail, that came from a very diminutive female clinging to his knees. "My Tomlin," it cried.

The giant's arm dropped, and as the crowd swept on and left him standing, Mr. Tomlin looked down to behold the Angel, and holding fast to her, the badly frightened but defiant personage of Joey.

The giant caught the Angel up in his arms. "Hold on to my coat," he cried to Joey, and speedily, such of the crowd as had not swept by in their charge against the police, fell back on either side before Mr. Tomlin's mighty fist. Fighting desperately, he reached the edge, and seizing Joey, dragged him across the car tracks as the crash of stones, the breaking of glass, the sharp crack of firearms, told of the meeting of the forces behind him.

Howls of rage, of pain, of defiance answered, followed by further crashing of stones and splintering of glass in street lights and car windows, and not until they were several squares removed from the scene of action did Mr. Tomlin pause. He then laid a heavy hand on Joey. "By all that's—" he began.