Susan looked at him with a startled expression.It seemed to her that the old man had seen into her secret heart where was daily raging the struggle against taking the only way out open to a girl in her circumstances.It seemed to her he was hinting that she ought to take that way.
If any such idea was in his mind, he did not dare put it into words.He simply repeated:
"You won't stay.You'll pull out."
"How?" she asked.
"Somehow.When the way opens you'll see it, and take it."There had long since sprung up between these two a sympathy, a mutual understanding beyond any necessity of expression in words or looks.She had never had this feeling for anyone, not even for Burlingham.This feeling for each other had been like that of a father and daughter who love each other without either understanding the other very well or feeling the need of a sympathetic understanding.There was a strong resemblance between Burlingham and old Tom.Both belonged to the familiar philosopher type.But, unlike the actor-manager, the old cabinetmaker had lived his philosophy, and a very gentle and tolerant philosophy it was.
After she had looked her request for light upon what way she was to take, they sat silent, neither looking at the other, yet each seeing the other with the eye of the mind.She said:
"I may not dare take it."
"You won't have no choice," replied he."You'll have to take it.
And you'll get away from here.And you mustn't ever come back--or look back.Forget all this misery.Rememberin' won't do us no good.It'd only weaken you.""I shan't ever forget," cried the girl.
"You must," said the old man firmly.He added, "And you will.
You'll have too much else to think about--too much that has to be attended to."As the first of the year approached and the small shopkeepers of the tenements, like the big ones elsewhere, were casting up the year's balances and learning how far toward or beyond the verge of ruin the hard times had brought them, the sound of the fire engines--and of the ambulances--became a familiar part of the daily and nightly noises of the district.Desperate shopkeepers, careless of their neighbors' lives and property in fiercely striving for themselves and their families--workingmen out of a job and deep in debt--landlords with too heavy interest falling due--all these were trying to save themselves or to lengthen the time the fact of ruin could be kept secret by setting fire to their shops or their flats.The Brashears had been burned out twice in their wandering tenement house life; so old Tom was sleeping little; was constantly prowling about the halls of all the tenements in that row and into the cellars.
He told Susan the open secret of the meaning of most of these fires.And after he had cursed the fire fiends, he apologized for them."It's the curse of the system," explained he."It's all the curse of the system.These here storekeepers and the farmers the same way--they think they're independent, but really they're nothin' but fooled slaves of the big blood suckers for the upper class.But these here little storekeepers, they're tryin' to escape.How does a man escape? Why, by gettin' some hands together to work for him so that he can take it out of their wages.When you get together enough to hire help--that's when you pass out of slavery into the master class--master of slaves."Susan nodded understandingly.
"Now, how can these little storekeepers like me get together enough to begin to hire slaves? By a hundred tricks, every one of them wicked and mean.By skimpin' and slavin' themselves and their families, by sellin' short weight, by sellin' rotten food, by sellin' poison, by burnin' to get the insurance.And, at last, if they don't die or get caught and jailed, they get together the money to branch out and hire help, and begin to get prosperous out of the blood of their help.These here arson fellows--they're on the first rung of the ladder of success.You heard about that beautiful ladder in Sunday school, didn't you?""Yes," said Susan, "that and a great many other lies about God and man."Susan had all along had great difficulty in getting sleep because of the incessant and discordant noises of the district.
The unhappy people added to their own misery by disturbing each other's rest--and no small part of the bad health everywhere prevailing was due to this inability of anybody to get proper sleep because somebody was always singing or quarreling, shouting or stamping about.But Susan, being young and as yet untroubled by the indigestion that openly or secretly preyed upon everyone else, did at last grow somewhat used to noise, did contrive to get five or six hours of broken sleep.With the epidemic of fires she was once more restless and wakeful.Every day came news of fire somewhere in the tenement districts of the city, with one or more, perhaps a dozen, roasted to death, or horribly burned.A few weeks, however, and even that peril became so familiar that she slept like the rest.There were too many actualities of discomfort, of misery, to harass her all day long every time her mind wandered from her work.
One night she was awakened by a scream.She leaped from bed to find the room filling with smoke and the street bright as day, but with a flickering evil light.Etta was screaming, Ashbel was bawling and roaring like a tortured bull.Susan, completely dazed by the uproar, seized Etta and dragged her into the hall.
There were Mr.and Mrs.Brashear, he in his nightdress of drawers and undershirt, she in the short flannel petticoat and sacque in which she always slept.Ashbel burst out of his room, kicking the door down instead of turning the knob.
