Chapter 10
XIX. There was the question of Sadie to be settled. There was a certain severe look that sometimes came about Sadie's lips, and that caused Peter to feel absolutely certain that comrade Sadie had no sympathy with free love, and very little sympathy with any love save her own for Jenny.
She had nursed her little sister and tended her like a mother for many years. She took the food out of her mouth to give to Jenny, and Jenny in turn gave it to any wandering agitator who came along and hung around until mealtime. Peter didn't want Sadie to know what had been going on in her absence, and yet he was afraid to suggest to Jenny that she should deceive her sister.
He managed it very tactfully. Jenny began pleading again. We ought not to do this, comrade Peter. And so Peter agreed. Perhaps they oughtn't, and they wouldn't any more.
So Jenny put her hair in order and straightened her blouse, and her lover could see that she wasn't going to tell Sadie. And the next day they were kissing again and agreeing again that they mustn't do it, and so once more Jenny didn't tell Sadie. Before long Peter had managed to whisper the suggestion that their love was their own affair,
and they ought not to tell anybody for the present. They would keep the delicious secret, and it would do no one any harm. Jenny had read somewhere about a woman poet by the name of Mrs. Browning, who had been an invalid all her life, and whose health had been completely restored by a great and wonderful love.
Such a love had now come to her. Only Sadie might not understand. Sadie might think they did not know each other well enough, and that they ought to wait. They knew, of course, that they really did know each other perfectly, so there was no reason for uncertainty or fear.
Peter managed deftly to put these suggestions into Jenny's mind as if they were her own. And all the time he was making ardent love to her. All day long while he was helping her address envelopes and mail out circulars for the Guber Defense Committee. He really did work hard.
He didn't mind working when he had Jenny at the table beside him, and could reach over and hold her hand every now and then, or catch her in his arms and murmur passionate words. Delicious thrills and raptures possessed him. His hopes would rise like a flood tide, but then, alas, only to ebb again.
He would get so far, and every time it would be as if he had to run into a stone wall. No farther. Peter realized that McGivney's free love talk had been a cruel mistake. Little Jenny was like all the other women. Her love wasn't going to be free.
Little Jenny wanted a husband, and every time you kissed her she began right away to talk about marriage, and you dared not hint at anything else, because you knew it would spoil everything. So Peter was thrown back upon devices older than the teachings of any Reds. He went after Little Jenny, not in the way of free lovers, but in the way of a man alone
in the house with a girl of seventeen, and wishing to seduce her. He vowed that he loved her with an overwhelming and eternal love. He vowed that he would get a job and take care of her, and then he let her discover that he was suffering torments. He could not live without her.
He played upon her sympathy. He played upon her childish innocence. He played upon that pitiful, weak sentimentality which caused her to believe in pacifism and altruism and socialism, and all the other isms that were jumbled up in her head. And so in a couple of weeks Peter had succeeded in his purpose of carrying Little Jenny by
storm, and then how enraptured he was. Peter, with his first girl, decided that being a detective was the job for him. Peter knew that he was a real detective now, using the real inside methods and on the trail of the real secrets of the Goober case. And sure enough, he began at once to get them.
Jenny was in love. Jenny was, as you might say, drunk with love. And so she fulfilled both the conditions which Guffy had laid down. So Jenny told the truth. Sitting on Peter's knee with her arms clasped about him and talking about her girlhood,
the happy days before her mother and father had been killed in the factory where they worked, Little Jenny mentioned the name of a young man, Ibbots. Ibbots? said Peter. It was a peculiar name and sounded familiar. A cousin of ours, said Jenny.
Have I met him? asked Peter, groping in his mind. No, he hasn't been here. Ibbots? he repeated, still groping. And suddenly he remembered.
Isn't his name Jack? Jenny did not answer for a moment. He looked at her and their eyes met, and he saw that she was frightened. Oh, Peter! she whispered. I wasn't to tell.
I wasn't to tell a soul. Inside Peter something was shouting with delight. To hide his emotion he had to bury his face in the soft white throat. Sweetheart! he whispered. Darling!
Oh, Peter! she cried. You know, don't you? Of course, he laughed. But I won't tell. You needn't mind trusting me.
Oh, but Mr. Andrews was so insistent, said Jenny. He made Sadie and me swear that we wouldn't breathe it to a soul. Well, you didn't, said Peter. I found it out by accident. You didn't mention it, and nobody will be any the wiser.
If they should find out that I know, they wouldn't blame you. They'd understand that I know Jack Ibbots, me being in jail so long. So Jenny forgot all about the matter, and Peter went on with the kisses, making her happy, as a means of concealing his own exultation. He had done the job for which Guffey had sent him.
He had solved the first great mystery of the Goober case. The spy in the jail of American City, who was carrying out news to the defense committee, was Jack Ibbots, one of the keepers in the jail, and a cousin of the Todd sisters. It was fortunate that this was the day of Peter's meeting with McGivney.
He could really not have kept this wonderful secret to himself overnight. He made excuses to the girls and dodged through the chicken yard as before, and made his way to the American house. As he walked, Peter's mind was working busily. If he had really got his grip on the ladder of prosperity now, he must
not fail to tighten it. McGivney saw right away from Peter's face that something had happened. Well, he inquired, I've got it, exclaimed Peter. Got what? The name of the spy in the jail.
Christ, you don't mean it, cried the other. No doubt about it, answered Peter. Who is he? Peter clenched his hands and summoned his resolution. First, he said, you and me got to have an understanding.
Mr. Guffey said I was to be paid, but he didn't say how much or when. Oh, hell, said McGivney, if you've got the name of that spy, you don't need to worry about your reward. Well, that's all right, said Peter, but I'd like to know what I'm to get and how I'm to get it.
How much do you want, demanded the man with the face of a rat. Rat-like, he was retreating into a corner, his sharp black eyes watching his enemy. How much, he repeated. Peter had tried his best to rise to this occasion.
Was he not working for the greatest and richest concern in American City, the Traction Trust? Tens and hundreds of millions of dollars they are worth. He had no idea how much, but he knew they could afford to pay for his secret. I think it ought to be worth $200, he said.
Sure, said McGivney, that's all right. We'll pay you that. And straightway, Peter's heart sank. How fool he had been. Why hadn't he had more courage and asked for $500?
He might even have asked $1,000 and made himself independent for life. Well, said McGivney, who's the spy? Peter made an agonizing effort and summoned yet more nerve. First I got to know, when do I get that money? Oh, good God, said McGivney.
You give us the information and you'll get your money all right. What kind of cheapskates do you take us for? Well, that's all right, said Peter. But you know, Mr. Guffey didn't give me any reason to think he loved me. I still can hardly use this wrist like I used to.
Well, he was trying to get some information out of you, said McGivney. He thought you were one of them dynamiters. How could you blame him? You give me the name of that spy and I'll see that you get your money. But still Peter wouldn't yield.
He was afraid of the rat-faced McGivney and his heart was thumping fast, but he stood his ground. I think I ought to see that money, he said doggedly. Say, what the hell do you take me for? demanded the detective.
Do you suppose I'm going to give you two hundred dollars and then have you give me some fake name and skip? Oh, I wouldn't do that, cried Peter. How do I know you wouldn't? Well, I want to go on working for you.
Sure, and we want you to go on working with us. This ain't the last secret we'll get from you, and you'll find we play straight with our people. How do we ever get anywhere as otherwise? There's a million dollars been put up to hang that goober crowd, and if you deliver
the goods you'll get your share and get it right on time. He spoke with conviction, and Peter was partly persuaded. But most of Peter's lifetime had been spent in watching people bargaining with one another, watching scoundrels trying to outwit one another, and when it was a question of some money to be got, Peter was like a bulldog that has got his teeth fixed tight in another dog's
nose. He doesn't consider the other dog's feelings, nor does he consider whether the other dog admires him or not. On time? said Peter. What do you mean by on time?
Oh, my God! said McGivney in disgust. Well, but I want to know, said Peter. Do you mean when I give the name, or do you mean after you've gone and find out whether he really is the spy or not? So they worried back and forth, these snarling bulldogs growing more and more angry.
But Peter was the one who had got his teeth in, and Peter hung on. Once McGivney hinted quite plainly that the great traction trust had had power enough to shut Peter in the hole on two occasions and keep him there, and it might have power enough to do it a third time. Peter's heart failed with terror, but all the same he hung on to McGivney's nose.
All right, said the rat-faced man at last. He said it in a tone of wearied scorn, but that didn't worry Peter a particle. All right, I'll take a chance with you. And he reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. Twenty dollar bills they were, and he counted out ten of them.
Peter saw that there was still a lot left to the roll, and he knew that he hadn't asked as much money as McGivney had been prepared to have him ask, so his heart was sick within him. At the same time his heart was leaping with exultation. Such a strange thing is the human heart.
End of sections 19 and 20.
