The Voice of the City
The
Complete Life of John Hopkins
2,110 words
There is a saying that no man has tasted the full flavor of
life until he has known poverty, love, and war. The justness of this
reflection commends it to the lover of condensed philosophy. The three
conditions embrace about all there is in life worth knowing. A surface
thinker might deem that wealth should be added to the list. Not so.
When a poor man finds a long-hidden
quarter-dollar that has slipped through a rip into his vest lining, he
sounds the pleasure of life with a deeper plummet than any millionaire can
hope to cast.
It seems that the wise executive power that rules life has thought
best to drill man in these three conditions; and none may escape all
three. In rural places the terms do not mean so much. Poverty is less
pinching; love is temperate; war shrinks to contests about boundary lines
and the neighbors' hens. It is in the cities that our epigram gains in
truth and vigor; and it has remained for one John Hopkins to crowd the
experience into a rather small space of time.
The Hopkins flat was like a thousand others. There was a rubber
plant in one window; a flea-bitten terrier sat in the other, wondering
when he was to have his day.
John Hopkins was like a thousand others. He worked at $20 per week
in a nine-story, red-brick building at either Insurance, Buckle's Hoisting
Engines, Chiropody, Loans, Pulleys, Boas Renovated, Waltz Guaranteed in
Five Lessons, or Artificial Limbs. It is not for us to wring Mr. Hopkins's
avocation from these outward signs that be.
Mrs. Hopkins was
like a thousand others. The auriferous tooth, the sedentary disposition,
the Sunday afternoon wanderlust, the draught
upon the delicatessen store for home-made comforts, the furor for
department store marked-down sales, the feeling of superiority to the lady
in the third-floor front who wore genuine ostrich tips and had two names
over her bell, the mucilaginous hours during which she remained glued to
the window sill, the vigilant avoidance of the installment man, the
tireless patronage of the acoustics of the dumb-waiter shaft—all the
attributes of the Gotham flat-dweller were hers.
One moment yet of sententiousness and the story moves. In the Big
City large and sudden things happen. You round a corner and thrust the rib
of your umbrella into the eye of your old friend from Kootenai Falls. You
stroll out to pluck a Sweet William in the park—and lo! bandits attack
you—you are ambulanced to the hospital—you marry your nurse; are
divorced—get squeezed while short on U.P.S. and D.O.W.N.S.—stand in
the bread line—marry an heiress, take out your laundry and pay your club
dues—seemingly all in the wink of an eye. You travel the streets, and a
finger beckons to you, a handkerchief is dropped for you, a brick is
dropped upon you, the elevator cable or your bank breaks, a table d'hote
or your wife disagrees with you, and Fate tosses you about like cork
crumbs in wine opened by an unified waiter. The City is a sprightly
youngster, and you are red paint upon its toy, and you get licked off.
John Hopkins sat, after a compressed dinner, in his glove-fitting
straight-front flat. He sat upon a hornblende couch and gazed, with
satiated eyes, at Art Brought Home to the People in the shape of "The
Storm" tacked against the wall. Mrs. Hopkins discoursed droningly of
the dinner smells from the flat across the hall. The flea-bitten terrier
gave Hopkins a look of disgust and showed a man-hating tooth.
Here was neither poverty, love, nor war; but upon such barren stems
may be grafted those essentials of a complete life.
John Hopkins sought to inject a few raisins of conversation into
the tasteless dough of existence. "Putting a new elevator in at the
office," he said, discarding the nominative noun, "and the boss
has turned out his whiskers."
"You don't mean it!" commented Mrs. Hopkins.
"Mr. Whipples," continued John, "wore his new spring
suit down today. I liked it fine. It's a gray with " He stopped,
suddenly stricken by a need that made itself known to him. "I believe
I'll walk down to the corner and get a five-cent cigar," he
concluded.
John Hopkins took his hat and picked his way down the musty halls
and stairs of the flat-house.
The evening air was mild, and the streets shrill with the careless
cries of children playing games controlled by mysterious rhythms and
phrases. Their elders held the doorways and steps with leisurely pipe and
gossip. Paradoxically, the fire-escapes supported lovers in couples who
made no attempt to fly the mounting conflagration they were there to fan.
The corner cigar store aimed at by John Hopkins was kept by a man
named Freshmayer, who looked upon the earth as a sterile promontory.
Hopkins, unknown in the store, entered and called genially for his
"bunch of spinach, carfare grade." This imputation deepened the
pessimism of Freshmayer; but he set out a brand that came perilously near
to filling the order. Hopkins bit off the roots of his purchase, and
lighted up at the swinging gas jet. Feeling in his pockets to make
payment, he found not a penny there.
"Say, my friend," he explained, frankly, "I've come
out without any change. Hand you that nickel first time I pass."
Joy surged in Freshmayer's heart. Here was corroboration of his
belief that the world was rotten and man a peripatetic evil. Without a
word he rounded the end of his counter and made earnest onslaught upon his
customer. Hopkins was no man to serve as a punching-bag for a pessimistic
tobacconist. He quickly bestowed- upon Freshmayer a colorado-maduro eye in
return for the ardent kick that he received from the dealer in goods for
cash only.
The impetus of the enemy's attack forced the Hopkins line back to
the sidewalk. There the conflict raged; the pacific wooden Indian, with
his carven smile, was overturned, and those of the street who delighted in
carnage pressed round to view the zealous joust.
But then came the inevitable cop and imminent inconvenience for
both the attacker and attacked. John Hopkins was a peaceful citizen, | who
worked at rebuses of nights in a flat, but he was not without the
fundamental spirit of resistance that comes with the battle-rage.
He knocked the policeman into a grocer's sidewalk display of goods
and gave Freshmayer a punch that caused him temporarily to regret that he
had not made it a rule to extend a five-cent line of credit to certain
customers. Then Hopkins took spiritedly to his heels down the sidewalk,
closely followed by the cigar-dealer and the policeman, whose uniform
testified to the reason in the grocer's sign that read: "Eggs cheaper
than anywhere else in the city."
As Hopkins ran he became aware of a big, low, red, racing automobile
that kept abreast of him in the street. This auto steered in to the side
of the sidewalk, and the man guiding it motioned to Hopkins I to jump into
it. He did so without slackening his speed, and fell into the turkey-red
upholstered seat beside the chauffeur. The big machine, with a diminuendo
cough, flew away like an albatross down the avenue into which the street
emptied.
The driver of the auto sped his machine without a word. He was
masked beyond guess in the goggles and diabolic garb of the chauffeur.
"Much obliged, old man," called Hopkins, gratefully.
"I guess you've got sporting blood in you, all right, and don't
admire the sight of two men trying to soak one. Little more and I'd have
been pinched. "
The chauffeur made no sign that he had heard. Hopkins shrugged a
shoulder and chewed at his cigar, to which his teeth had clung grimly
throughout the melee.
Ten minutes and the auto turned into the open carriage entrance of
a noble mansion of brown stone, and stood still. The chauffeur leaped out,
and said:
"Come quick. The lady, she will explain. It is the great honor
you will have, monsieur. Ah, that milady could call upon Armand to do this
thing! But, no, I am only one chauffeur."
With vehement gestures the chauffeur conducted Hopkins into the
house. He was ushered into a small but luxurious reception chamber. A
lady, young, and possessing the beauty of visions, rose from a chair. In
her eyes smouldered a becoming anger. Her high-arched, thread-like brows
were ruffled into a delicious frown.
"Milady," said the chauffeur, bowing low, "I have
the honor to relate to you that I went to the house of Monsieur Long and
found him to be not at home. As I came back I see this gentleman in combat
against—how you say—greatest odds. He is fighting with five—
ten—thirty men—genadarmes, aussi. Yes, milady, he what you call 'swat'
one—three—eight policemans. If the Monsieur Long is out I say to
myself this gentleman he will serve milady so well, and I bring him
here."
"Very
well, Armand," said the lady, "you may go." She turned to
Hopkins.
"I sent my chauffeur," she said, "to bring my cousin,
Walter Long. There is a man in this house who has treated me with insult
and abuse. I have complained to my aunt, and she laughs at me. Armand says
you are brave. In these prosaic days men who are both brave and chivalrous
are few. May I count upon your assistance?"
John Hopkins thrust the remains of his cigar into his coat pocket.
He looked upon this winning creature and felt his first thrill of romance.
It was a knightly love, and contained no disloyalty to the flat with the
flea-bitten terrier and the lady of his choice. He had married her after a
picnic of the Lucy Label Stickers' Union, Lodge No. 2, on a dare and a bet
of new hats and chowder all around with his friend, Billy McManus. This
angel who was begging him to come to her rescue was something too heavenly
for chowder, arid as for hats—golden, jeweled crowns for her!
"Say, " said John Hopkins, "just show me the guy
that you've got the grouch at. I've neglected my talents as a scrapper
heretofore, but this is my busy night."
"He is in there," said the lady, pointing to a closed
door. "Come. Are you sure that you do not falter or fear?"
"Me?" said John Hopkins. "Just give me one of those
roses in the bunch you are wearing, will you?"
The lady gave him a red, red rose. John Hopkins kissed it, stuffed
it into his vest pocket, opened the door and walked into the room. It was
a handsome library, softly but brightly lighted. A young man was there,
reading.
"Books on etiquette is what you want to study," said John
Hopkins, abruptly. "Get up here, and I'll give you some lessons. Be
rude to a lady, will you?"
The young man looked mildly surprised. Then he arose languidly,
dextrously caught the arms of John Hopkins and conducted him irresistibly
to the front door of the house.
"Beware, Ralph Branscombe," cried the lady, who had
followed, "what you do to the gallant man who has tried to protect
me."
The young man shoved John Hopkins gently out the door and then
closed it.
"Bess," he said calmly, "I wish you would quit
reading historical novels. How in the world did that fellow get in
here?"
"Armand brought him," said the young lady. "I think
you are awfully mean not to let me have that St. Bernard. I sent Armand
for Walter. I was so angry with you."
"Be sensible, Bess," said the young man, taking her arm.
"That dog isn't safe. He has bitten two or three people around the
kennels. Come now, let's go tell auntie we are in good humor again.
Arm in arm, they moved away.
John Hopkins walked to his flat. The janitor's five-year-ld daughter
was playing on the steps. Hopkins gave her a nice, red rose and walked
upstairs.
Mrs. Hopkins was philandering with curl-papers.
Get your cigar?" she asked, disinterestedly.
"Sure," said Hopkins, "and I knocked around a while
outside. It's a nice night."
He sat upon the hornblende sofa, took out the stump of his cigar,
lighted it, and gazed at the graceful figures in "The Storm" on
the opposite wall.
"I
was telling you," said he, "about Mr. Whipple's suit. It's a
gray, with an invisible check, and it looks fine."
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