have buggy-rides and walks with my daughter when I am not here—that's
what I mean. I mean that you are no man of honourable intentions, or you
would not come taking up with a little girl who is only old enough to be
your daughter. People tell me well enough what you are. Just you go and
leave my daughter alone."
"People!" said the Senator. "Well, I care nothing for your people. I love your daughter, and I am here to see her because I do love her. It is my
intention to marry her, and if your neighbours have anything to say to
that, let them say it. There is no reason why you should conduct yourself in this manner before you know what my intentions are."
Unnerved by this unexpected and terrible altercation, Jennie had backed
away to the door leading out into the dining-room, and her mother, seeing her, came forward.
"Oh," said the latter, breathing excitedly, "he came home when you were away. What shall we do?" They clung together, as women do, and wept
silently. The dispute continued.
"Marry, eh," exclaimed the father. "Is that it?"
"Yes," said the Senator, "marry, that is exactly it. Your daughter is eighteen years of age and can decide for herself. You have insulted me
and outraged your daughter's feelings. Now, I wish you to know that it
cannot stop here. If you have any cause to say anything against me
outside of mere hearsay I wish you to say it."
The Senator stood before him, a very citadel of righteousness. He was
neither loud-voiced nor angry-mannered, but there was a tightness about
his lips which bespoke the man of force and determination.
"I don't want to talk to you any more," returned Gerhardt, who was checked but not overawed. "My daughter is my daughter. I am the one
who will say whether she shall go out at night, or whether she shall marry you, either. I know what you politicians are. When I first met you I
thought you were a fine man, but now, since I see the way you conduct
yourself with my daughter, I don't want anything more to do with you.
Just you go and stay away from here. That's all I ask of you."
"I am sorry, Mrs. Gerhardt," said Brander, turning deliberately away from the angry father, "to have had such an argument in your home. I had no idea that your husband was opposed to my visits. However, I will leave
the matter as it stands for the present. You must not take all this as badly as it seems."
Gerhardt looked on in astonishment at his coolness.
"I will go now," he said, again addressing Gerhardt, "but you mustn't think that I am leaving this matter for good. You have made a serious
mistake this evening. I hope you will realise that. I bid you good-night."
He bowed slightly and went out.
Gerhardt closed the door firmly. "Now," he said, turning to his daughter and wife, "we will see whether we are rid of him or not. I will show you how to go after night upon the streets when everybody is talking already."
In so far as words were concerned, the argument ceased, but looks and
feelings ran strong and deep, and for days thereafter scarcely a word was spoken in the little cottage. Gerhardt began to brood over the fact that he had accepted his place from the Senator and decided to give it up. He
made it known that no more of the Senator's washing was to be done in
their house, and if he had not been sure that Mrs. Gerhardt's hotel work
was due to her own efforts in finding it he would have stopped that. No
good would come out of it, anyway. If she had never gone to the hotel all this talk would never have come upon them.
As for the Senator, he went away decidedly ruffled by this crude
occurrence. Neighbourhood slanders are bad enough on their own plane,
but for a man of his standing to descend and become involved in one
struck him now as being a little bit unworthy. He did not know what to do about the situation, and while he was trying to come to some decision
several days went by. Then he was called to Washington, and he went
away without having seen Jennie again.
In the meantime the Gerhardt family struggled along as before. They
were poor, indeed, but Gerhardt was willing to face poverty if only it
could be endured with honour. The grocery bills were of the same size,
however. The children's clothing was steadily wearing out. Economy had
to be practised, and payments stopped on old bills that Gerhardt was
trying to adjust.
Then came a day when the annual interest on the mortgage was due, and
yet another when two different grocery-men met Gerhardt on the street
and asked about their little bills. He did not hesitate to explain just what the situation was, and to tell them with convincing honesty that he would try hard and do the best he could. But his spirit was unstrung by his
misfortunes. He prayed for the favour of Heaven while at his labour, and
did not hesitate to use the daylight hours that he should have had for
sleeping to go about—either looking for a more remunerative position or
to obtain such little jobs as he could now and then pick up. One of them
was that of cutting grass.
Mrs. Gerhardt protested that he was killing himself, but he explained his procedure by pointing to their necessity.
"When people stop me on the street and ask me for money I have no time to sleep."
It was a distressing situation for all of them.
To cap it all, Sebastian got in jail. It was that old coal- stealing ruse of his practised once too often. He got up on a car one evening while Jennie and the children waited for him, and a railroad detective arrested him. There had been a good deal of coal stealing during the past two years, but so
long as it was confined to moderate quantities the railroad took no notice.
When, however, customers of shippers complained that cars from the
Pennsylvania fields lost thousands of pounds in transit to Cleveland,
Cincinnati, Chicago, and other points, detectives were set to work.
Gerhardt's children were not the only ones who preyed upon the railroad
in this way. Other families in Columbus—many of them—were
constantly doing the same thing, but Sebastian happened to be seized
upon as the Columbus example.
"You come off that car now," said the detective, suddenly appearing out of the shadows. Jennie and the other children dropped their baskets and
buckets and fled for their lives. Sebastian's first impulse was to jump and run, but when he tried it the detective grabbed him by the coat.
"Hold on here," he exclaimed. "I want you."
"Aw, let go," said Sebastian savagely, for he was no weakling. There was nerve and determination in him, as well as a keen sense of his awkward
predicament.
"Let go, I tell you," he reiterated, and giving a jerk, he almost upset his captor.
"Come here now," said the detective, pulling him viciously in an effort to establish his authority.
Sebastian came, but it was with a blow which staggered his adversary.
There was more struggling, and then a passing railroad hand came to the
detective's assistance. Together they hurried him toward the depot, and
there discovering the local officer, turned him over. It was with a torn
coat, scarred hands and face, and a black eye that Sebastian was locked
up for the night.
When the children came home they could not say what had happened to