Broken to the Plow | Page 6

upon the depths from which he had sprung. He had
his vulgarities, of course, but it was amazing how well selected they
were--the vulgarities of simplicity rather than of coarseness. And while
he talked he moved his hands unusually for a man of northern blood,
revealing the sinister thumb and forefinger, which to Fred Starratt grew
to be a symbol of his guest's rough-hewn power. Hilmer was full of
raw-boned stories of the sea and he had the seafarer's trick of vivid
speech. Even Helen Starratt was absorbed ... a thing unusual for her. At
least in her husband's hearing she always disclaimed any interest in the
brutalities. She never read about murders or the sweaty stories in the
human-interest columns of the paper or the unpleasant fictioning of
realists. Her excuse was the threadbare one that a trivial environment
always calls forth, "There are enough unpleasant things in life without

reading about them!"
The unpleasant things in Helen Starratt's life didn't go very far beyond
half-tipsy maids and impertinent butcher boys.
Hilmer's experiences were not quite in the line of drawing-room
anecdotes, and Starratt had seen the time when his wife would have
recoiled from them with the disdainful grace of a feline shaking
unwelcome moisture from its paws. But to-night she drew her dark
eyebrows together tensely and let her thin, vivid lips part with frank
eagerness. Her interest flamed her with a new quality. Fred Starratt had
always known that his wife was attractive; he would not have married
her otherwise; but, as she leaned forward upon the arm of her chair,
resting her elbows upon an orange satin pillow, he saw that she was
handsome. And, somehow, the realization vaguely disturbed him.
Hilmer's stories of prosperity were not so moving. From a penniless
emigrant in New York until he had achieved the distinction of being
one of the leading shipbuilders of the Pacific coast, his narrative
steadily dwindled in power, the stream of his life choked with stagnant
scum of good fortune. Indeed, he grew so dull that Helen Starratt,
stifling a yawn, said:
"If it's not too personal ... won't you please tell us ... about ... about the
man you killed for smashing your thumb?"
He laughed with charming naivete, and began at once. But it was all
disappointingly simple. It had happened aboard ship. A hulking Finn,
one of the crew's bullies, had accused Hilmer of stealing his tobacco. A
scuffle followed, blows, blood drawn. Upon the slippery deck Hilmer
had fallen prone in an attempt to place a swinging blow. The Finn had
seized this opportunity and flung a bit of pig iron upon Hilmer's
sprawling right hand. Hilmer had leaped to his feet at once and, seizing
the bar of iron in his dripping fingers, had crushed the bully's head with
one sure, swift blow.
"He fell face downward ... his head split open like a rotten melon."

Helen Starratt shuddered. "How ... how perfectly fascinating!" escaped
her.
Starratt stared. He had never seen his wife so kindled with morbid
excitement.
"I ... I thought you didn't like to hear unpleasant stories," he threw at
her, disagreeably.
She tossed the flaming cushion, upon which she had been leaning, into
a corner, a certain insolence in her quick gesture.
"I don't like to read about them," she retorted, and she turned a wanton
smile in the direction of Hilmer.
At this juncture the maid opened the folding doors between the dining
room and the living room. She had on her hat and coat, and, as she
retreated to the kitchen, Helen Starratt flashed a significant look at her
husband.
He followed the woman reluctantly. When he entered the kitchen she
was leaning against the sink, smoothing on a pair of faded silk gloves.
"I'm sorry," he began, awkwardly, "but I forgot to cash a check to-day.
How much do you charge?"
The woman's hands flew instinctively to her hips as she braced herself
into an attitude of defiance.
"Three dollars!" she snapped. "And my car fare."
He searched his pockets and held out a palm filled with silver for her
inspection. "I've just got two forty," he announced, apologetically.
"You see, we usually have Mrs. Finn. She knows us and I felt sure
she'd wait until next time. If you give me your address I can send you
the difference to-morrow."
She tossed back her head. "Nothing doing!" she retorted. "I don't give a
damn what you thought. I want my money now or, by Gawd, I'll start

something!"
Her voice had risen sharply. Starratt was sure that everybody could
hear.
"I haven't got three dollars," he insisted, in a low voice. "Can't you see
that I haven't?"
"Ask your wife, then."
"She hasn't a cent... I should have cashed a check to-day, but I