Top-Notch Magazine

Front matter

<!--* Volume 72

Cheridah's Valentine

Cheridah's Valentine

By

Roland Ashford Phillips

WHEN Cheridah first found the valentine, picking it from the jumbled mass of others on the long counter, she gave a quick little sob, and pressed it close to her heart, for all the world as if she had come upon a diamond in the coal bin. She was alone behind the counter at the time, otherwise Mr. Rowland, the dignified floorwalker, might have objected seriously to such a demonstration on the part of a mere saleslady.

After the thrill of the discovery was past, Cheridah's shining eyes devoured every detail of the gaudy, multicolored token.

"It's just the same," she murmured, over and over again, her voice tremulous. "It's just the same. Oh, I wonder2"

The valentine was a built-up affair, generously trimmed with paper lace, and resplendent with tinsel. On each corner were white flying doves with outspreading wings, carrying letters in their bills; in the center was a reproduction of a heavy door across which a pink-and-white cupid, perched on a cloud, held up entwined hearts, arrow-pierced. Lifting the door, one was greeted with these words:

Uf you lofe me As I lofe you— No knife can't cut Our lofe in two pieces. Ain't it?"

To Cheridah these lines—their grotesque humor so out of key with the rest of the valentine—brought back remembrance of a day, five years earlier, when Hezekiah Saunders, bashful, freckled-faced sixteen, had slipped this valentine's counterpart into her desk at recess. Being fourteen, Cheridah Hawkins had been both flattered and flustered.

The five long years that intervened between the time she had first glanced upon this valentine at school, and the present, when she gazed upon it—or at least upon its replica—in the stuffy, artificially lighted basement of the Store Stupendous, were years fruitful with history; dark, unpleasant, and bitter history.

Somehow Cheridah had never recalled the past so vividly as she did at this moment, standing there behind the counter, her fingers pressing the tawdry trinket—beautiful in her eyes—against her black shirt waist. The hot tears came suddenly and continued unchecked, slipping down her cheek; her lips quivered.

"Miss Downs!" A voice lifted commandingly, shattering her visions as a rifle ball might shatter a pane of glass. "Pay attention! Can't you see there's customers waiting?"

It was Mr. Howland, the refined floorwalker, who had interrupted. With tremulous fingers Cheridah tucked the valentine beneath the long tray, and bent her attentions upon serving the customers which the big sign—"TO-DAY AT 49 c."—lured to the counter.

For the rest of the day some vague fear possessed her that the valentine might be sold, and to prevent such a catastrophe she determined to keep it hidden where she had first slipped it—beneath the tray and the showcase. Of course, forty-nine cents wasn't any great sum, but to Cheridah it represented half a day's work; and where one figured debits and credits as closely as she was compelled to—owing to a generous salary from the department store—a five-cent piece loomed as large as a full moon. But Saturday night was pay night, and then she would buy it, if for nothing more than to take home and hang on the nail in the wall that now held her curling irons.

Foolish? She tried to persuade herself that it was foolish for her to do this; but somehow, like a dose of bitter medicine, it wouldn't down. Of course, Hezekiah Saunders had long since forgotten her. She had treated him shamefully back home, when he vised to carry her books from the little country school, and sometimes take her to the barn dances and to the ice-cream socials at the church.

And Hezekiah—poor, faithful boy—had been the only one at the train that day she left the little country town of Ceetuckett, and set her face toward great, pitiless New York. He had urged her to remain; he was buying a farm—a very good one, too. Soon he would be able to move upon it and if she would only come with him and—and2 How he had pressed her warm fingers for the last time, and fought manfully against the tears that would not stay back.

"I'll wait for you. Cheridah," he had said, just before the train started. "There's nothing in the city but misery and pain and sorrow. You'll find out pretty soon, and you'll come back."

But Cheridah, being seventeen, and believing she possessed a wonderful voice, only pitied the boy. Hadn't her friends told her she was just cut out for grand opera?

"After all," she reasoned to herself, "Hez is only a farmer boy, and he doesn't know."

In her own narrow way she saw the heights to climb, and the worlds to win. How foolish it was of Hezekiah to think she could stay on the old farm and fight down the ambition which leaped like fire in her veins. She was made for a greater world than that; she was born to dwell in the city of big things. So she had put him out of her mind. It is easy at seventeen, when art beckons.

But a mere voice proved to be unreliable as a provider of food, shelter, and clothes. A hall bedroom soon became her palace, and the Supreme Lunch her banquet hall. Determination, once so firmly rooted, shriveled up like a thirsty flower. So the three years exacted their toll by painting little shadows beneath her eyes, and chiseling tiny lines around her mouth, and pressing a heavy hand on her slim shoulders. When her money was all gone—the pittance left by her mother's will—and the voice found no market, Cheridah gained an existence in return for labor at the Store Stupendous.

For the first year Hezekiah had written often; the second less frequently, probably because she found little time in which to answer him. The last year had brought silence. Besides, she had moved often, and had neglected to mention the new address.

II.

THAT night, in the seclusion of her hall bedroom—what a poor place in comparison to the one she slept in under the low eaves at home on the farm, with the apple tree brushing the window and the crickets singing out in the dim, sweet-smelling meadows, and the clean air that fairly made one glad they were alive—Cheridah went to the bottom of her trunk, and found Hezekiah's picture. Then she gave way to tears.

After a while, Bessie tapped at the door and came in. Bessie was another cog in the business wheel of the Store Stupendous. The two girls lived at the same dreary boarding house. Bessie saw the photograph on Cheridah's dresser, went over, and studied it critically.

"He's a nice, clean-looking chap," she observed.

Cheridah nodded. Why hadn't she thought so three years ago?

"Do you love him?" Bessie asked.

"Oh, Bess!" And before she was really aware of it, Cheridah was pouring out the whole story.

"That's all this old burg is made up of," was Bessie's comment. "The too-late folks! The kind that chuck real happiness for a lot of glitter. Listen here, Cherry. This town's like frosting on a cake of soap. It tastes fine until you bite deep. It's all froth and false alarm, and there isn't anything on the level. Believe your Aunt Bess. I know. I've been here for ten years."

"Did you come here to2" Cheridah began.

"No." Bessie shook her head. "I came here because I had to. There wasn't anything else for me to do. But you2 Why, if any man had offered me his love and the beautiful country for a home, and freedom from this grinding city, I'd have thanked Heaven every weekday and twice on Sunday. Get that?"

"I didn't know—then," Cheridah faltered. "I didn't know. I thought I was being held down on a farm, I thought all the real folks lived in the city, and—and2" She broke down and sobbed. "Oh, to see the waving fields once more, Bess, and to hear the old dinner bell, and to eat flapjacks again! That's life, isn't it?"

Bessie nodded. "All but the flapjacks," she said. "They are too much like the wheats they're always browning at the Supreme Lunch."

"And to pick the wild flowers," Cheridah went on, her voice low. "To help with the haying and hunt for nests in the stubble! And I remember the old apple tree that used to whisper at my bedroom window, and tell me the most wonderful stories. Of course they were all dreams, but—but I know the old tree told them to me. All the birds used to love it, too, and in the spring it would deck itself with the most wonderful pink-and-white flowers."

Bessie was still gazing at the picture. "Haven't you ever heard from him since he quit writing? I mean heard about him?" she asked.

"I used to get a paper once in a while," Cheridah answered. "I don't know who sent it. Sometimes I'd read about him. He's got the farm all paid for now, and—and2"

"And probably he's found another girl," Bessie said. "Men are that way. You can't blame them, after all. Maybe he's married and got a nice home, and living the real life."

A great lump came into Cheridah's throat. It must have been about the size of one of the wee oranges at the Supreme Lunch. And the only way she could conquer it was to cry. Bessie dropped the picture and put both arms consolingly about her.

"There, there," she said, like a mother. "Of course it hurts, dear. But don't let it get your goat. I've got so I don't think there's anything in life worth crying over. Honest I don't."

That night, long after Bessie had gone, and the little room was flooded with moonlight, Cheridah lay in bed, her face buried in the pillow. At times she would stop crying and listen for the whispering of the old apple tree. And then she would remember.

III.

FOR the next two days Cheridah guarded the valentine with all the jealous care of a mother watching her babe. One day at the noon hour, when the shoppers were few; and she was alone behind the counter, she wrote her name very faintly under the flying cupid. She didn't mean to keep it there—but suddenly the refined and dignified Mr. Howland pounced upon her, and she had to return it to the usual hiding place.

On Saturday she found that Bessie was ordered to help her at the valentine counter. At noon Cheridah went out to get a bag of peanuts for lunch, and when she returned the valentine counter had been removed.

"Your counter's in the rear of the basement," Mr. Howland explained hurriedly. "We needed this space for the silk remnants."

Almost frantically Cheridah gained the counter, and relieved Bessie. The first thing she did was to feel beneath the long tray. Then the truth crashed upon her. The trays, in being removed, had disclosed the valentine, and some one had tossed it back among the others. With eager fingers Cheridah searched the jumbled mass over. But it was useless. The flying doves and the cupid had been sold.

Her heart sank. It was foolish, of course, to allow such an insignificant thing as a gaudy paper valentine with some grotesque, bad rhymes in broken English to affect her; but somehow, despite her mental argument, she felt miserable, heartbroken. When she got back to the Store Stupendous, Bessie greeted her with wondering eyes.

"Say, pal," were her words, "you're looking too pale around the gills to be in right. What's eating you now?"

"Oh, nothing," Cheridah evaded. "Just blue, I guess."

At nine o'clock that Saturday night, when the store closed, Cheridah hurried out alone, avoided the regular route, and walked all the way home. It was misty and chilly, and the first sharp particles of hardened snow were slanting with the wind and stabbing at her cheeks. Broadway was ablaze with lights and animated with crowds, despite the weather. Cheridah darted off into a side street, and continued on her way. The next day, Sunday, she spent in her room. She refused to go out with Bessie.

"Why won't you tell me what's the matter?" Bessie asked. "Maybe there's something I could do to help you, dearie."

But Cheridah only shook her head. "There's nothing you can do, thanks."

On Monday Cheridah felt so ill—not knowing for certain whether it was mental or physical pain—that she sent word down by Bessie that she was unable to work.

At five o'clock, eager for a breath of fresh air, she got out the warmest wraps she had, and determined to take a walk around the block. Several times while she was dressing the doorbell rang. She paid no attention to it until it occurred to her that the maid and landlady were both out. She hurried downstairs into the dim hall, and opened the door to find an angry messenger boy in the vestibule.

"Are you Miss Cherry-day Hawkins?" he inquired impatiently, stamping his cold feet.

"Yes, I'm Miss Hawkins," she replied, wondering.

"Here's somethin' for yer." The boy thrust it into her extended hand. "Sign dis; right dere." He pushed a book at her.

She signed, and the messenger dashed away. When she had shut the door and lighted the gas she looked again at the packet in her hand. With pulses aflutter, she broke the cord and seal. The paper came away. Then she leaned back dizzily against the hatrack. It was the precious valentine!

What did it mean? Who could have sent it? Who knew her address except2 She started. Bessie must have done this as a surprise for her! Yes, surely it was Bessie! But2

Quite absently she lifted the flap. For a moment the ten-cent store pictures on the wall whirled in her vision. Only a frantic ringing of the bell again brought her back to realization. She groped her way toward the door as if in the dark. She opened it.

"Cheridah!" somebody cried. She could not utter a sound, try as she did. She stumbled forward as if some mighty hand had pushed her. Then a pair of strong arms gathered her close.

"Cherry, dear," the familiar voice was saying, "I've found you—found you at last, sweetheart!"

She opened her eyes and saw clearly now. The warm, eager blood surged in her veins; her heart pounded.

"Oh, Hezekiah! Oh, Hezekiah!" That was all she could say.

He kissed her on the cheeks and accidentally on the left ear.

"I've had the hardest time finding you," he said, laughing, although his eyes were moist. "Why didn't you write me? Why2"

"Oh, I've—I've been ashamed," she stammered.

"I came into New York last week," he said. "And I've been looking the town over. Day after day I stood and watched the rushing crowds on Broad- way, thinking to see your face. And then the other day I went into a store and saw some valentines. And right on top of the whole pile was the dove-and-cupid one—the same kind I sent you a long time ago at school, the one with the funny Dutch words. Remember?" He laughed boyishly, and patted her cheek. Cheridah clung to him. She would hold him close as long as possible before she woke up—if it should turn out to be a dream.

"Yes, the very same kind of valentine, Cherry," she heard him saying. "And, Lord! My eyes got so wet I felt ashamed. But I bought it. I don't even know what made me. I guess some good angel does, though," he added, in a lower voice. "And only yesterday, when I was looking at it I saw your name under the flap!"

"I—I wrote it there," she said, laughing for joy.

"I just couldn't believe my eyes at first," he went on. "I sort of turned sick. Then how I suffered all day Sunday! I was at the store the minute it opened Monday morning—that's to-day. The girl at the counter gave me your address—and maybe she didn't look at me in a funny way! I sent the valentine and came on the heels of the boy."

"I—I read about you—in the Geetuckett papers," she said.

"Did you? Well, that isn't half as good as seeing me, is it?" he replied modestly. "Now, you pack up, right away. We're going to leave this town. We're never going to see it again, Cherry. Why, you and me will have the finest pickle farm in the county. You wouldn't recognize the place now, dear. I've built the finest little house—and it's all ready, waiting for you. And, Cherry," he added, "there's a big apple tree; its branches reach into the bedroom window. I had it set out there—three years ago. Next month it will be in blossom."

"I know, I know!" she exclaimed rapturously. "I've heard that tree whispering."

Signals Against Him

Signals Against Him

By

John Milton Edwards

(A COMPLETE NOVELETTE)

I. A Missing Semicolon

CHAPTER I.

A MISSING SEMICOLON.

LANSING, the day man at Sweetbriar, was tilted back comfortably in a chair, his elevated heels on his order book, smoking a fat cigar with a gold band, and dumping the ashes on his clip in lieu of an ash tray. Presently he heard a slight cough close at hand, looked up, and nearly dropped out of his chair.

In the open half door, over the shelf where trainmen signed their orders, were framed the head and shoulders of William Horace Harding. It was a brown, pleasant face, not to say handsome, and it wore an expression of mingled yearning and determination. The cap above the face was ragged, and the coat and flannel shirt that covered the square shoulders were seedy, all testifying eloquently to the fact that Harding had fallen upon evil days.

“Hello, you old lightning jerker!” called William.

“Why, Billy!” Lansing, genuinely pleased, took his feet off the table, and crossed the room with outstretched hand. “How's the world using you?”

“Well, it's my oyster, but if you look sharp maybe you'll discover that I haven't opened it yet. I lasted six months at the mines. Dropped a skip to the bottom of the five-hundred-foot level—cable parted—but I survived that. Then the old donkey hoister let go—it had been condemned—and I might even have weathered that if my old reputation as a jonah hadn't drifted up from the Jerkwater Division. The super ditched me, and I went down to Burt's Gap, looking for a job. Nothing doing. All the people there seemed to know me, and to feel positive that I left a trail of calamity wherever I went.”

“Tough luck!” murmured Lansing. “But it's the case, ain't it, Billy?”

“Looks like it,” sighed Harding; “and that's a fact.” He reached into his pocket for a pipe. “Old man,” he went on, "I haven't had a smoke since day before yesterday, and the smell of that fat perfecto of yours has put me all in a quiver. How about a pipeful?”

“Is it as bad as that?” queried Lansing sympathetically. “Come in, Billy, and I'll blow you to all the smoking you want.”

He dumped an armful of supplies out of a chair, and pushed it hospitably forward. Then he opened a drawer, took out a half-filled bag of tobacco, and tossed it to his caller.

“Put that in your pocket, son,” he went on. “Had anything to eat to-day?”

“Never mind about the eats—this will save my life.” He slumped wearily into the chair, filled the bowl of the brier with eager fingers, and touched a match to it. “Ah, this is something like!” he finished, and settled back, contented.

“Where did you go from the Gap?” went on the day man.

“Junction,” was the reply. “Got a job freighting. Held it a little longer than usual before Johnny Hardluck threw the switch—three months. Then the mules ran away and scattered the wagon for three miles along the trail. Might have lived that down, I guess, if an ex-railroader from Crook City hadn't hit the camp, opened up his chimney, and spread the same old story about me. They gave me my time, and I went back to the Junction. A short order place took me on, and I peddled ham and, spuds, and coffee among the tables.”

“Great Scott!” murmured Lansing, horrified.

“Awful, of course,” agreed Harding; “but a man's got to live. I lasted a month, at that—broke so many dishes the bill amounted to more than my salary. Then I tried the mines again, tramping from one stamp mill to, another. But I was too well known, and no one wanted me. I made up my mind that I was foolish, moseying around all outdoors with the jinx chasing me from pillar to post. So I'm going back to Crook, to break the hoodoo on the same line of track where it first got me. That's sensible, isn't it?”

“I don't know, Billy,” murmured Lansing, dubious and noncommittal.

“Well, I know? Any man with good, red blood in his 'veins is a fool to lie down and let the hard luck trample all over him. I'm going up to see Trawl, and the old man has got to give me another chance. I'm entitled to it in my own right; and then there's the mother, up at Divide. Has Trawl forgotten the Rolling Stone, and the smash that took away the head of the family? Another chance is coming to me, and I'm going to plug for it, and plug hard.”

“I wish you luck, Billy,” said Lansing, “on my soul I do. There's some body else at Divide, isn't there?” and he winked as he said it.

A painful flush crept into the bronzed face opposite. Harding shifted uncomfortably.

“I'm not answering that flag, Lansing,” said he. “Time enough for that when I show I'm a man and able to handle my own affairs without letting the hard luck take so many falls out of me. I'm in earnest about this,” and his steel-gray eyes snapped through the wreaths of fragrant smoke. “I'll not ride the 'blind' nor the brake beams into Crook. I'm going, by James, like an honest fighter coming into his own. There's something you can do for me.”

“What?” The operator flinched as though it might be a request for money; he could be free with a little tobacco, but cold cash was a different thing.

“I haven't a cent in my clothes,” went on Harding, a bit dryly, for he was shrewd, and not slow to raise the other's smoke. “Send Trawl a message, and word it like this: 'William Horace Harding is here, and says that if I don't give him transportation to Crook he'll have to walk. Shall I issue?' If you rush things I can go up on Nineteen,” and Harding tossed a glance at the clock.

“I'll do that, sure,” said Lansing; “but, I'm sorry to say, Billy, I haven't much hope.”

“Right here is where the luck begins to turn,” declared Harding confidentially. “The old man can't look that 'William Horace' in the face without thinking right off of what two of the family have done for the Jerkwater Division. He'll come back with an O. K., you see. And then, again, this is the first time I've ever tackled this hoodoo proposition with both hands, same as now.”

Harding smoked contentedly as he listened to the message as Lansing clicked it off. Then ensued a wait, while the hands of the clock drew near the time the fast express was due in Sweetbriar.

Orders came for an extra east to go onto the siding at Sweetbriar and wait for Nineteen. The extra arrived, and the conductor got his orders. As he lingered a moment, his eyes appraised Harding rather ominously.

“What're you up to now, Hardluck?” he asked.

“Breaking the blockade,” said Harding.

The conductor whistled. “Too big a job for one man,” was his comment.

“We'll see about that,” muttered the other grimly. Then came the message for which Harding was waiting:

Don't let William Horace walk.

Harding bounded out of his chair, and tossed his cap. “Didn't I tell you?” he cried triumphantly. “The old man couldn't turn me down. It's a good omen, Lansing, a mighty fine omen.”

“I'm glad it happened this way, Billy,” returned the operator, “even if it don't amount to anything in the long run.”

He copied the message and handed it to Harding, then he went to his ticket case, pulled out the slip of pasteboard, stamped it, and pushed it into the other's hand.

Ten minutes later, when Nineteen rolled up to the station platform, Harding climbed aboard. In those fifty miles to Crook City he renewed old acquaintance with the train crew, and discussed his hopes. Fears he had none.

It was four-thirty when he climbed the stairs at division headquarters, and was ushered in to see Trawl. The division superintendent stared at him as at a ghost.

“I didn't know the walking was so good between Sweetbriar and Crook,” he remarked. “How'd you make it, Hardluck?”

“Can't see the joke, Mr. Trawl,” replied the puzzled Harding. “Lansing gave me transportation on your order.”

“The deuce he did!” exclaimed Trawl. “Have you a copy of that message?”

Harding handed it over. Trawl stared and snickered.

“Well, I guess you win,” he remarked. “The fool operators left out a semicolon after the word 'Don't.' I tried to be humorous, and you missed that little stroll of fifty miles. Now, tell me, what are you here for, anyhow?”

II. Beating Down the Barrier

CHAPTER II.

BEATING DOWN THE BARRIER.

TRAWL was fond of a joke, even if it happened to be at his own expense. That little matter of the missing semicolon had put him in a good humor, so that the stars seemed to be grouping themselves auspiciously for Harding.

“Personally,” said Harding, with a grin, “I never have any use for punctuation marks, and now I'm mighty glad somebody forgot that semicolon.”

In spite of his apparent cheerfulness, and the realization that the moment had come for him to strike, and to strike hard, deep down in his soul there was a quivering sense of injustice and wrong. After all the Hardings had done and given for that line of road, Trawl would have turned down his request for a fifty-mile ride, and had intended to turn it down, with a heartless parody on the message from Sweetbriar.

But Trawl was a protégé and pet of the G. M.'s. He had been advanced to his post over the heads of others—men who may not have been more able, but who certainly were more deserving. By nature the superintendent was cold and calculating. He loved his authority, and it was much in evidence up and down the division; although, to give him his due, he tried to be just.

Still chuckling over the message, which he had laid on the desk in front of him where his eyes could easily fall on it from time to time, he took a cigar from his vest pocket and slowly snipped off the end with a contrivance that swung from his watch chain.

“It's on me, Harding,” said Trawl. “And now you're here, and we're together, and there's something on your mind. You'll never have a better chance to get it out of your system.

“I want an engine, Mr. Trawl,” said Harding respectfully.

“I suppose,” and the superintendent slowly struck a match, “that you're not particular whether it's a switch bumper in the yards or one of the new ten-wheelers on the fast-passenger run?”

“No,” was the answer, while the wistful gray eyes searched the official's face, “I'm not particular. I've knocked around, tin-canned and double-crossed by my record on this division, until I'm tired of it. Either I'll get that private hoodoo of mine, or it will get me. I'm out to make good, or to run head on into something that will lay me out for keeps.”

“And the Jerkwater Division is the instrument you have made up your mind to use?”

“Why not, Mr. Trawl? Here's where trouble first got crossways of my track, and here's where the line ought to be cleared.”

“And very likely at the company's expense. I don't see it, Hardluck. If I remember, I was master mechanic when you were a sweeper in the roundhouse. Even then, my lad, you couldn't stub your toe without putting the company's foot in it to the tune of dollars and cents. We could never put a finger on you when it came to laying the blame, but, for all that, misfortune dogged your heels, and you were mighty expensive. When you got your job of wiping, Carter was the roundhouse boss. It was you, wasn't it, who ran the old Eighty-seven into the turntable pit?"

“That wasn't my fault, sir. I was told to come on with the Eighty-seven before the turntable was locked. Morris2”

“I'm not saying it was your fault, Hardluck,” cut in Trawl, with a wave of his cigar, “but your misfortune. The road shouldered your misfortunes, then, but I'll be hanged if I can see why that should be the case now. After that affair with the Eighty-seven you learned to pound the key. You got so you could take and send with the best of them, and you were tried out on the night trick at Ransom. What happened there? You were off duty when you should have taken an order2”

“I was down the track punching a cowboy's head for shooting out my switch lights,” broke in Harding, with spirit. “I was young then, and key pounding had made me limp and unsteady. And there happened to be two cowboys instead of one. When I came to myself the extra west was feeling its way through the Ransom yard, and the headlight of the up passenger was just showing around the bend. There was a close call, but I wasn't responsible.”