The Nine-Tenths. James Oppenheim

young woman came up to him.

      "You want to see Miss Heffer? Come this way."

      He was led up a flight of stairs to a little narrow hall-room. Sally Heffer was there at a roll-top desk, still in her little brown coat—quiet, pale, her clear eyes remarkably penetrating. She turned.

      "Yes?"

      He shook pitifully, … then he sat down, holding his hat in his hands.

      "I'm Joe Blaine. … "

      "Joe Blaine … of what?"

      "Of the printery … that burned. … "

      She looked at him sharply.

      "So, you're the employer."

      "Yes, I am."

      "Well," she said, brusquely, "what do you want?"

      "I heard you speak this afternoon." His face flickered with a smile.

      "And so you … ?"

      He could say nothing; and she looked closer. She saw his gray face, his unsteady eyes, the tragedy of the broken man. Then she spoke with a lovely gentleness.

      "You want to do something?"

      "Yes," he murmured, "I want to give—all."

      She lowered her voice, and it thrilled him.

      "It won't help to give your money—you must give yourself. We don't want charity."

      He said nothing for a moment; and then strength rose in him.

      "I'll tell you why I came. … I felt I had to. … I felt that you were accusing me. I know I am guilty. I have come here to be"—he smiled strangely—"sentenced."

      She drew closer.

      "You came here for that?"

      "Yes."

      She rose and took a step either way. She gazed on him, and suddenly she broke down and cried, her hands to her face.

      "O God," she sobbed, "when will all this be over? When will we get rid of this tragedy? I can't stand it longer."

      He rose, too, confused.

      "Listen," he whispered. "I swear to you, I swear, that from this day on my life belongs to those"—his voice broke—"dead girls … to the toilers. … "

      She impulsively reached out a hand, and he seized it. Then, when she became more quiet, she murmured:

      "I can see you mean it. Oh, this is wonderful! It is a miracle springing out of the fire!"

      There was a strange throbbing silence that brought them close together.

       And Sally, glancing at him again, whispered:

      "I can see how you have suffered! Let me help you … all that I can!"

      He spoke in great pain.

      "What can I do? I know so little."

      "Do? You must learn that for yourself. You must fit in where you belong.

       Do you know anything of the working-class movement?"

      "No," he said.

      "Then I will make a list of books and magazines for you."

      She sat down and wrote a list on a slip, and arose and handed it to him.

      She was gazing at him again, gazing at the tragic face. Then she whispered:

      "I believe in you. … Is there anything else?"

      And again she reached out her hand and he clasped it. Her fine faith smote something hard in him, shriveled it like fire, and all at once, miraculously, divinely, a little liquid gush of lovely joy, of wonderful beatitude began to rise from his heart, to rise and overflow and fill him. He was being cleansed, he had expiated his guilt by confessing it to his accuser and receiving her strange and gentle forgiveness; tears came to his eyes, came and paused on the lashes and trickled down. He gulped a sob.

      "I can go on now," he said.

      She looked at him, wondering.

      "You can!" she whispered.

      And he went out, a free man again, at the beginning of a new life.

IV

       Table of Contents

      GOLDEN OCTOBER

      Life has an upspringing quality that defies pain. Something buoyant throbs in the heart of the world—something untamed and wild—exultant in the flying beauty of romping children, glinting in the dawn-whitened sea, risen, indeed, through man into triumphant cities and works, and running like a pulse through his spirit. San Francisco is shattered, and there is death and sorrow and destruction: a whole population is homeless—whereupon the little human creatures come down from the hills like laughing gods and create but a more splendid city. Earth itself forges through its winters with an April power that flushes a continent with delicate blossoms and tints.

      Joe had come home from Sally Heffer a man renewed. From some clear well in his nature sprang a limpid stream of soft, new joy; a new exhilarating sense of life; a new creative power that made him eager for action. His heart was cleansed, and with the exquisite happiness of a forgiven child he "took up the task eternal." Hereafter he was a man dedicated, a man consecrated to a great work.

      His mother noticed the change in him, a new wisdom, a sweet jocularity, and, withal, the return of much of his old nature—its rough camaraderie, its boyish liveliness and homely simplicity. For her this was a marvelous relief, and she could only watch him and wonder at the change. He seemed very busy again, and she did not disturb him in these sensitive days of growth; she waited the inevitable time when he would come to her and tell her what he was going to do, whether he would re-establish his business or whether he had some new plan. And then one day, tidying up his room, she stumbled on a heap of books. Her heart thrilled and she began to surreptitiously borrow these books herself.

      Already the great city had forgotten its fire horror—save the tiny, growing stir of an agitating committee—and even to those most nearly concerned it began to fade, a nightmare scattered by the radiance of new morning. One could only trust that from those fair and unpolluted bodies had sprung a new wave of human brotherliness never to be quite lost. And Joe's mother had had too much training in the terrible to be long overborne. She believed in her son and stood by him.

      Luckily for Joe, he had much work to do. He and Marty Briggs had to settle up the business, close with customers, dig from the burned rubbish proofs and contracts, attend the jury, and help provide for his men. One sunny morning he and Marty were working industriously in the loft, when Marty, with a cry of exultation, lifted up a little slot box.

      "Holy Moses, Joe!" he exclaimed, "if here ain't the old kick-box!"

      They looked in it together, very tenderly, for it was the very symbol of Joe's ten years of business. On its side there was still pasted a slip of paper, covered with typewriting:

      KICK-BOX

      This business is human—not perfect. It needs good thinking, new ideas (no matter how unusual), and honest criticism.

      There are many things you think wrong about the printery and the printery's head—things you would not talk of face to face, as business time is precious and spoken words are sometimes hard to bear.

      Now this is what I want: Sit down and write what you think in plain English. It will do me good.

      JOE BLAINE.

      Suddenly Marty looked at his boss.

      "Say,