morning, and at the same time relieved of his watch and
overcoat by two brakemen who had found him hiding in the
car, he had picked up a Kansas City paper— The Star— only
to realize that his worst fear in regard to all that had
occurred had come true. For there, under a two-column
head, and with fully a column and a half of reading matter
below, was the full story of all that had happened: a little
girl, the eleven-year-old daughter of a well-to-do Kansas
City family, knocked down and almost instantly killed—she
had died an hour later; Sparser and Miss Sipe in a hospital
and under arrest at the same time, guarded by a policeman
sitting in the hospital awaiting their recovery; a splendid car
very seriously damaged; Sparser’s father, in the absence of
the owner of the car for whom he worked, at once incensed
and made terribly unhappy by the folly and seeming
criminality and recklessness of his son.
But what was worse, the unfortunate Sparser had already
been charged with larceny and homicide, and wishing, no
doubt, to minimize his own share in this grave catastrophe,
had not only revealed the names of all who were with him in
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the car—the youths in particular and their hotel address—
but had charged that they along with him were equally
guilty, since they had urged him to make speed at the time
and against his will—a claim which was true enough, as
Clyde knew. And Mr. Squires, on being interviewed at the
hotel, had furnished the police and the newspapers with the
names of their parents and their home addresses.
This last was the sharpest blow of all. For there followed
disturbing pictures of how their respective parents or
relatives had taken it on being informed of their sins. Mrs.
Ratterer, Tom’s mother, had cried and declared her boy
was a good boy, and had not meant to do any harm, she
was sure. And Mrs. Hegglund—Oscar’s devoted but aged
mother—had said that there was not a more honest or
generous soul and that he must have been drinking. And at
his own home— The Star had described his mother as
standing, pale, very startled and very distressed, clasping
and unclasping her hands and looking as though she were
scareely able to grasp what was meant, unwilling to believe
that her son had been one of the party and assuring all that
he would most certainly return soon and explain all, and
that there must be some mistake.
However, he had not returned. Nor had he heard anything
more after that. For, owing to his fear of the police, as well
as of his mother—her sorrowful, hopeless eyes, he had not
written for months, and then a letter to his mother only to
say that he was well and that she must not worry. He gave
neither name nor address. Later, after that he had
wandered on, essaying one small job and another, in St.
Louis, Peoria, Chicago, Milwaukee—dishwashing in a
restaurant, soda-clerking in a small outlying drug-store,
attempting to learn to be a shoe clerk, a grocer’s clerk, and
what not; and being discharged and laid off and quitting
because he did not like it. He had sent her ten dollars once
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240
—another time five, having, as he felt, that much to spare.
After nearly a year and a half he had decided that the
search must have lessened, his own part in the crime being
forgotten, possibly, or by then not deemed sufficiently
important to pursue—and when he was once more making
a moderate living as the driver of a delivery wagon in
Chicago, a job that paid him fifteen dollars a week, he
resolved that he would write his mother, because now he
could say that he had a decent place and had conducted
himself respectably for a long time, although not under his
own name.
And so at that time, living in a hall bedroom on the West
Side of Chicago—Paulina Street—he had written his
mother the following letter:
DEAR MOTHER:
Are you still in Kansas City? I wish you would write and
tell me. I would so like to hear from you again and to
write you again, too, if you really want me to. Honestly I
do, Ma. I have been so lonely here. Only be careful and
don’t let any one know where I am yet. It won’t do any
good and might do a lot of harm just when I am trying
so hard to get a start again. I didn’t do anything wrong
that time, myself. Really I didn’t, although the papers
said so—just went along. But I was afraid they would
punish me for something that I didn’t do. I just couldn’t
come back then. I wasn’t to blame and then I was
afraid of what you and father might think. But they
invited me, Ma. I didn’t tell him to go any faster or to
take that car like he said. He took it himself and invited
me and the others to go along. Maybe we were all to
blame for running down that little girl, but we didn’t
mean to. None of us. And I have been so terribly sorry
ever since. Think of all the trouble I have caused you!
And just at the time when you most needed me. Gee!
Mother, I hope you can forgive me. Can you?
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241
I keep wondering how you are. And Esta and Julia and
Frank and Father. I wish I knew where you are and
what you are doing. You know how I feel about you,
don’t you, Ma? I’ve got a lot more sense now, anyhow,
I see things different than I used to. I want to do
something in this world. I want to be successful. I have
only a fair place now, not as good as I had in K. C., but
fair, and not in the same line. But I want something
better, though I don’t want to go back in the hotel
business either if I can help it. It’s not so very good for a
young man like me—too high-flying, I guess. You see I
know a lot more than I did back there. They like me all
right where I am, but I got to get on in this world.
Besides I am not really making more than my expenses
here now, just my room and board and clothes but I am
trying to save a little in order to get into some line
where I can work up and learn something. A person
has to have a line of some kind these days. I see that
now.
Won’t you write me and tell me how you all are and
what you are doing? I’d like to know. Give my love to
Frank and Julia and Father and Esta, if they are all still
there. I love you just the same and I guess you care for
me a little, anyhow, don’t you? I won’t sign my real
name, because it may be dangerous yet (I haven’t
been using it since I left K. C.) But I’ll give you my other
one, which I’m going to leave off pretty soon and take
up my old one. Wish I could do it now, but I’m afraid to
yet. You can address me, if you will, as
HARRY TENET
General Delivery, Chicago
I’ll call for it in a few days. I sign this way so as not to
cause you or me any more trouble, see? But as soon
as I feel more sure that this other thing has blown over,
I’ll use my own name again sure.
Lovingly,
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242
YOUR SON.
He drew a line where his real name should be and
underneath wrote “you know” and mailed the letter.
Following that, because his mother had been anxious about
him all this time and wondering where he was, he soon
received a letter, postmarked Denver, which surprised him
very much, for he had expected to hear from her as still in
Kansas City.
DEAR SON:
I was surprised and so glad to get my boy’s letter and
to know that you were alive and safe. I had hoped and
prayed that you would return to the straight and narrow
path—the only path that will ever lead you to success
and happiness of any kind, and that God would let me
hear from you as safe and well and working some-
where and doing well. And now he has rewarded my
prayers. I knew he would. Blessed be His holy name.
Not that I blame you altogether for all that terrible
trouble you got into and bringing so much suffering and
disgrace on yourself and us—for well I know how the
devil tempts and pursues all of us mortals and
particularly just such a child as you. Oh, my son, if you