



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JANUARY 7, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 845. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

CRESSY'S NEW-YEAR'S RENT.

BY L. A. TEREBEL.


Fred Hallowell was sitting at his desk in the _Gazette_ office, looking
listlessly out into the City Hall Park, where the biting wind was making
the snowflakes dance madly around the leafless trees and in the empty
fountain, and he was almost wishing that there would be so few
assignments to cover as to allow him an afternoon in-doors to write
"specials." The storm was the worst of the season, and as this was the
last day of December, it looked as if the old year were going out with a
tumultuous train of sleet and snow. But if he had seriously entertained
any hopes of enjoying a quiet day, these were dispelled by an office-boy
who summoned him to the city desk.

"Good-morning, Mr. Hallowell," said the city editor, cheerfully. "Here
is a clipping from an afternoon paper which says that a French family in
Houston Street has been dispossessed and is in want. Mr. Wilson called
my attention to it because he thinks, from the number given, the house
belongs to old Q. C. Baggold. We don't like Baggold, you know, and if
you find he is treating his tenants unfairly we can let you have all the
space you want to show him up. At any rate, go over there and see what
the trouble is; there is not much going on to-day."

Fred took the clipping and read it as he walked back to his desk. It was
very short--five or six lines only--and the facts stated were about as
the city editor had said. The young man got into his overcoat and
wrapped himself up warmly, and in a few moments was himself battling
against the little blizzard with the other pedestrians whom he had been
watching in the City Hall Park from the office windows.

When he reached Houston Street he travelled westward for several blocks,
until he came into a very poor district crowded with dingy
tenement-houses that leaned against one another in an uneven sort of
way, as if they were tired of the sad kind of life they had been
witnessing for so many years. The snow that had piled up on the
window-sills and over the copings seemed to brighten up the general
aspect of the quarter, because it filled in the cracks and chinks of
material misery, and made the buildings look at least temporarily
picturesque, just as paint and powder for a time may hide the traces of
old age and sorrow. Fred found the number 179 painted on a piece of tin
that had become bent and rusty from long service over a narrow doorway,
and as he stood there comparing it with the number given in his
clipping, a little girl with a shawl drawn tightly over her head and
around her thin little shoulders came out of the dark entrance and
stopped on the door-sill for a moment, surprised, no doubt, at the sight
of the tall rosy-cheeked young man so warmly clad in a big woollen
overcoat that you could have wrapped her up in several times, with goods
left over to spare.

"Hello! little girl," said Fred, quickly. "Does Mr. Cressy live here?"

The child stared for a few seconds at the stranger, and then she
answered, bashfully, "Yes, sir. But he has got to go away."

"But he hasn't gone yet?" continued Fred; and then noticing that the
child, in her short calico skirt, was shivering from the cold, and that
her feet were getting wet with the snow, he added, "Come inside a minute
and tell me where I can find Mr Cressy."

The two stepped into the dark narrow hallway that ran through the house
to the stairway in the rear, where a narrow window with a broken pane
let in just enough light to prove there was day outside. The little girl
leaned against the wall, and looked up at the reporter as if she
suspected him of having no good intentions toward the man for whom he
was inquiring. Very few strangers ever came into that house to do good,
she knew. Most of them came for money--rent money--and sometimes they
came, as a man had come for Mr. Cressy, to tell him he must go.

"What floor does he live on?" asked Fred.

"On the fifth floor, sir," answered the child. "In the back, sir. But I
think he is really going away, sir."

"Well, no matter about that," said Fred, smiling. "I will go up and see
him. I hope he won't have to go out in the storm. It is not good for
little girls to go out in the storm, either," he added. "Does your mamma
know you are going out?"

"Oh yes, sir! She has sent me to the Sisters to try to get some
medicine."

"Is she sick?" asked Fred, quickly.

"Yes, sir," continued the child.

"What floor does she live on? I will stop in and see her."

"Oh, you'll see her! She's in the room, too."

"Then you are Mr. Cressy's little girl?"

"Yes, sir."

So Fred patted her on the head and told her to hurry over to the Sisters
in Eleventh Street, and gave her ten cents to ride in the horse-cars;
and then he opened the door for her, and as soon as she had left he felt
his way back to the staircase and climbed to the fifth floor.

There he knocked upon a door, which was soon opened by a man apparently
forty years of age, a man of slightly foreign appearance, with a
careworn look, but with as honest a face as you could find anywhere.

"Is this Mr. Cressy?" asked Fred.

"Yes, my name's Cressy," replied the man. He spoke with so slight an
accent that it was hardly noticeable.

"I am a reporter from the _Gazette_," continued Fred.

"Oh!" said the man. "Come in," and as he spoke he looked somewhat
embarrassed and anxious, for this was doubtless the first time he had
had any dealings with a newspaper. Lying on a bed in an alcove was a
woman who looked very ill, and piled in a corner near the door were a
couple of boxes and a few pieces of furniture. The stove had not yet
been taken down, and some pale embers in it only just kept the chill off
the atmosphere. Fred took off his hat, and led the man across the room
toward the window.

"Have you been dispossessed?" he asked.

"Yes," said the man, "we must leave to-night."

"Why?" asked the reporter.

Cressy smiled in a ghastly sort of way.

"Because," he replied--"because I have not a cent to my name, sir, and
the landlord has got it in for me--and I must go."

"Who is your landlord?" asked the reporter.

"Baggold--Q. C. Baggold, the shoe-man."

"How much do you owe?"

"Twenty dollars--two months' rent."

"Were you ever in arrears before?"

"Never."

"What's the trouble? Out of work?"

"Yes, sir, I have been. But I've got a job now, and I'll have money on
the tenth of the month. But that is not it."

"What is 'it,' then?" continued Fred.

"Well, I'll tell you. I don't want this in the paper, but I'll tell you
Baggold hates me. He knows the woman's sick, and he takes advantage of
my owing him to drive me out. Do you want to know why? Well, I'll tell
you. I worked for him for five years, sir, in his shoe-factory. He
brought me over from France to do the fine work. He had a lawsuit about
six months ago, and he offered me $500 to lie for him on the stand. I
would not do it, sir, and when they called me as a witness I told the
truth, and that settled the case, and Baggold had to pay £10,000, sir,
for a sly game on a contract. Then he sent me off, and I've been looking
for a job, and I've got behind, and I'm just getting up again, and here
he is sending me out into the snow! To-morrow is what we call at home,
in France, the _jour de l'an_--the day of the New Year, sir, and it is a
fête. And the little one, here, always looked forward to that day, sir,
for a doll or a few sweetmeats; but this time--I don't think she'll have
a roof for her little head! I have not a place in the world to go to,
sir, but to the police station, and there's the woman on her back!"

Two big tears rolled down the man's cheeks. Fred felt a lump rising in
his throat, and he knew that if he had had twenty dollars in his pocket
he would have given it to Cressy. But he did not have twenty dollars, so
he coughed vigorously, and put on his hat quickly, and said:

"Well, this is hard, Mr. Cressy. I'll see what we can do. I must go up
town for a while, and then I'll come back and see you. Don't move out in
this storm till the last minute."

As he rushed down the stairs he met the little girl coming back with a
big blue bottle of something with a yellow label on it. He stopped and
pulled a quarter out of his pocket, thrust it into the child's hand, and
leaped on down the stairs, leaving the little girl more frightened than
surprised, as he dashed out into the snow.

He entered the first drug-store he came to and looked up Q. C. Baggold's
address in the directory. It was nearly four o'clock, and he argued the
rich shoe-manufacturer would be at his home. The address given in the
directory was in a broad street in the fashionable quarter of the city.
Half an hour later Fred was pulling at Mr. Baggold's door-bell. The
butler who answered the summons thought Mr. Baggold was in, and took
Fred's card after showing the young man into the parlor. This was a
large elegantly furnished room filled with costly ornaments, almost
anyone of which, if offered for sale, would have brought the amount of
Cressy's debt, or much more.

Presently Mr. Baggold came into the room. He was a short man with a bald
head and a sharp nose, and his small eyes were fixed very close to one
another under a not very high forehead.

"I am a reporter from the _Gazette_," began Fred at once. "I have called
to see you, Mr. Baggold, about this man Cressy whom you have ordered to
be dispossessed."

"Ah, yes," said Mr. Baggold, smiling. "My agent has told me something
about this matter, but I hardly think it is of sufficient importance to
be of interest to the readers of the _Gazette_."

"The readers of the _Gazette_," continued Fred, "are always interested
in good deeds, Mr. Baggold, and especially when these are performed by
rich men. I came here hoping you would disavow the action of your agent,
and say that the Cressys might remain in the room."

"Nonsense!" replied Mr. Baggold, "I cannot interfere with my agent. I
pay him to take care of my rents, and I can't be looking after fellows
who won't pay. This man Cressy is in arrears, and he must get out."

"But his wife is sick," argued Fred.

"Bah!" retorted the other. "That is an old excuse. These scoundrels try
all sorts of dodges to cheat a man whom they think has money."

"This woman is actually sick, Mr. Baggold," said Fred, severely, "and to
drive her out in a storm like this is positive cruelty."

"Cressy has had two weeks to find other quarters, and to-morrow is the
first of the month. I can't keep him any longer."

"Yes, to-morrow is the great French fête-day, and you put Cressy in the
street."

"My dear sir," returned the rich man, "I cannot allow sentiment to
interfere with my business. If I did I should never collect rents in
Houston Street. And, as I told you before, I do not see that this
question is one to interest the public. It is purely a matter of my
private business."

"Very true," replied Fred; "but I don't think it would look well in
print."

This statement seemed to startle Mr. Baggold a little, and Fred thought
it made him feel uncomfortable. There was a brief silence, after which
the rich man said:

"It would depend entirely upon how you put it in print. To tell you the
truth, I am not at all in favor of these sensational articles that so
many newspapers publish nowadays. Reporters often jump at conclusions
before they are familiar with the facts of a case, and it makes things
disagreeable for all concerned. Now, if you will only listen to me, sir,
I think we can come to an understanding about this Cressy matter. I
don't want anything about it to get into the papers--especially now. I
have many reasons, but I cannot give them to you. Yet I think we can
come to an understanding," he repeated, as he looked at Fred and smiled.

"How?" asked the reporter.

"Well," drawled Mr. Baggold, "there are some points that I may be able
to explain to you. Of course I don't want to put you to any trouble for
nothing. If it is worth something to me not to have notoriety thrust
upon me, of course, on the other hand, it might be worth something to
you to cause the notoriety. But just excuse me a moment."

Mr. Baggold arose hastily and stepped into a rear room, apparently his
library or study.

"H'm," thought Fred to himself. "This old chap talks as though he were
going to offer me money. I'd just like to see him try! I'd give him such
a roasting as he has never had before! Some of these crooked old
millionaires think that sort of thing works with reporters, but I'll
show him that it does not. I have never known a newspaper man yet that
would accept a bribe."

And as Fred mused in this fashion, Mr. Baggold returned. He bore a long
yellow envelope in his hand.

"Here," he said, "are some papers and other things that I should like to
have you look over before you write the article. I think they will
influence you in your opinion of the matter. I am sorry I cannot tell
you any more just now, but I have an appointment which I must keep. Take
these papers and look them over at your leisure, and if you find later
this evening that they are not satisfactory, I will talk with you
further. Good-afternoon, sir. I hope you will excuse me for the
present."

And so saying he handed the envelope to Fred, bowed pleasantly, and left
the room. Fred had been standing near the door, and so he put the
envelope in his pocket and went out. He walked a few blocks down the
street, and went into the large hotel on the corner in order to get out
of the storm and to find some quiet place where he might look over Mr.
Baggold's documents. He was very curious to see what they could be. He
found a seat in a secluded corner of the office, and there tore open the
envelope. To his disgust, it contained three ten-dollar bills, and a
brief note, unsigned, which read,

     "The accompanying papers will show you that the matter we spoke of
     is not of sufficient importance to be published."

Fred Hallowell was furious. This was the first time in his brief career
as a newspaper man that anything like this had happened to him. He grew
red in the face, his fingers twitched, and he felt as if he had never
before been so grossly insulted. As he sat in his chair, fuming and
wondering what he should do, Griggs, the fat and jolly political
reporter of the _Gazette_, came up to him and said, laughing,

"Well, you look as if you were plotting murder!"

"I am--almost!" exclaimed Fred, and then he told Griggs all about what
had happened.

Griggs listened patiently, and at the end he chuckled to himself, and
said: "Well, Hallowell, don't waste any righteous wrath on any such
stuff as that Baggold. I'll tell you how to get even with him." And then
he talked for twenty minutes to the younger man.

At the end of the conference Fred smiled and buttoned his coat, and
hastened back to Cressy's room in Houston Street. He found a Sister of
Charity there nursing the sick woman. Cressy came to the door, pale and
eager.

"Well?" he said, nervously.

"Oh, it's all right," returned Fred, laughing. "I have just seen Mr.
Baggold. He said his agent was perfectly right in having you
dispossessed, because that was business; but when he heard what I had to
say, he gave me this money." And here Fred handed out the thirty
dollars. "It is for you to pay the agent with, and then you can keep
your room, and you will have ten dollars besides."

Cressy was speechless. The sick woman wept softly. The Sister said
something in Latin, and the little girl just looked; she did not
understand what it was all about.

"You see," said Fred to Cressy, "I suppose Mr. Baggold does not want his
business to be interfered with by his sentiment." And before Cressy
could reply the reporter had slipped out of the door, and in a moment
was hurrying down town to his office.

The next morning--New-Year's morning--the