“Then a curse upon the city for its neglect,” he said, with a fierce burst of wrath.
Stargarde looked at him curiously, and with visible satisfaction. “Brian,” she said gently, “do not waste time in cursing an evil, but set to work to remedy it. And may I ask what extraordinary thing has occurred to make you reason from such a change of base?”
“There—there!” he ejaculated, pointing to the sofa. “Never saw it as I did just now.” Then going on with rapid utterance, “Was driving home along Brunswick Street—dusky, but still could see a bit. Happened to look up at old rookery you took me to. One of the top windows open. Just as I looked, child there,” with a wave of his hand toward the sofa, “rose up, stared at me like a rat out of a cage—face set, wild expression, and called, ‘Doctor!’ Then she fell back. I rushed into the house and upstairs, nearly breaking my neck on loose boards; no one about the halls, though I could hear them lively enough in rooms. In the front-attic den—a child there, in hand to hand tussle with a lout of a shoemaker of this street, Smith by name. You know him?”
“Yes,” replied Stargarde, who was listening in pained attention.
“Brute drunk, beating and tearing at the child; and she, poor brat—the children of the poor know everything—defending herself as nobly as a beauteous damsel assailed in her castle.”
“And you, Brian,” said Stargarde, hot tears of shame and sorrow in her eyes, “what did you do?”
“Knocked him down, of course. Child threw herself at me in a frenzy of relief. He’d choked her so she couldn’t scream. Don’t take much strength to stifle a child,” with an angry dilation of nostrils, and an accent of superb disdain. “I put her aside and addressed shoemaker. May the Lord forgive me, but I was in a rage. Told him I’d give him his choice; he could go to the police court and I’d ruin him, or he could take a beating, and I’d hush the matter up. He took the beating—there’s nothing like the lash for attempted crimes against women and children—and he lay there and waited till I went down for the whip. His back’s pretty sore; you’d better go see him; but don’t let the thing get out, for the child’s sake,” and his voice softened as he glanced toward the sofa.
“The Lord sent you there, Brian,” said Stargarde, through her tears.
“I got my lesson too,” said the man, twitching uneasily as if his back too were sore. "Stargarde, the worst is to come. The poor devil turned on me as he left—the whip had thrashed the liquor out of him—and snarled at me that I might take my share of the blame. “’Tis you gentlemen that send us to hell,’ he said. ‘You drink your fine brandies and whiskies in your hotels and clubs, and license the devils that sell us poor men made liquors that are half poison and make us run mad at anything we see.’”
“Brian!” exclaimed the woman. “You never touch intoxicants yourself. You know the evil of them. You do not work actively in any temperance cause, but surely you would never sign a license for any man to keep a saloon!”