The Law-Breakers and Other Stories | Page 9

seven children before public generosity was exhausted.
Local interest was on the wane; but, thanks to the telegraph and the
press, the facts were being disseminated through the country, and every
leading newspaper in the land was chronicling, with more or less
prominence according to the character of its readers, the item that John
Baker, the gate-keeper at a railroad crossing in a Pennsylvania city, had
snatched a toddling child from the pathway of a swiftly moving
locomotive and been crushed to death.
A few days later a dinner-company of eight was gathered at a country
house several hundred miles distant from the scene of the calamity. The
host and hostess were people of wealth and leisure, who enjoyed
inviting congenial parties from their social acquaintance in the
neighboring city to share with them for two or three days at a time the
charms of nature. The dinner was appetizing, the wine good, and
conversation turned lightly from one subject to another.
They had talked on a variety of topics: of tarpon fishing in Florida; of
amateur photography, in which the hostess was proficient, and of
gardens; of the latest novels and some current inelegancies of speech.
Some one spoke of the growing habit of feeing employés to do their
duty. Another referred to certain breaches of trust by bank officers and
treasurers, which occurring within a short time of one another had
startled the community. This last subject begot a somewhat doleful
train of commentary and gave the lugubrious their cue. Complaints
were made of our easygoing standards of morality, and our disposition
not to be severe on anybody; of the decay of ideal considerations and
the lack of enthusiasm for all but money-spinning.
"The gist is here," reiterated one of the speakers: "we insist on tangible
proof of everything, of being able to see and feel it--to get our dollar's
worth, in short. We weigh and measure and scrutinize, and discard as

fusty and outworn, conduct and guides to conduct that do not promise
six per cent per annum in full sight."
"What have you to say to John Baker?" said the host, breaking the
pause which followed these remarks. "I take for granted that you are all
familiar with his story: the newspapers have been full of it. There was a
man who did not stop to measure or scrutinize."
A murmur of approbation followed, which was interrupted by Mrs.
Caspar Green, a stout and rather languid lady, inquiring to whom he
referred. "You know I never read the newspapers," she added, with a
decidedly superior air, putting up her eye-glass.
"Except the deaths and marriages," exclaimed her husband, a lynx-eyed
little stockbroker, who was perpetually poking what he called fun at his
more ponderous half.
"Well, this was a death: so there was no excuse for her not seeing it,"
said Henry Lawford, the host. "No, seriously, Mrs. Green, it was a
splendid instance of personal heroism: a gate-keeper at a railway
crossing in Pennsylvania, perceiving a child of four on the track just in
front of the fast express, rushed forward and managed to snatch up the
little creature and threw it to one side before--poor fellow!--he was
struck and killed. There was no suggestion of counting upon six per
cent there, was there?"
"Unless in another sphere," interjected Caspar Green.
"Don't be sacrilegious, Caspar," pleaded his wife, though she added her
mite to the ripple of laughter that greeted the sally.
"It was superb!--superb!" exclaimed Miss Ann Newbury, a young
woman not far from thirty, with a long neck and a high-bred, pale,
intellectual face. "He is one of the men who make us proud of being
men and women." She spoke with sententious earnestness and looked
across the table appealingly at George Gorham.
"He left seven children, I believe?" said he, with precision.

"Yes, seven, Mr. Gorham--the eldest eleven," answered Mrs. Lawford,
who was herself the mother of five. "Poor little things!"
"I think he made a great mistake," remarked George, laconically.
For an instant there was complete silence. The company was evidently
making sure that it had understood his speech correctly. Then Miss
Newbury gave a gasp, and Henry Lawford, with a certain stern dignity
that he knew how to assume, said----
"A mistake? How so, pray?"
"In doing what he did--sacrificing his life to save the child."
"Why, Mr. Gorham!" exclaimed the hostess, while everybody turned
toward him. He was a young man between thirty and thirty-five, a
lawyer beginning to be well thought of in his profession, with a
thoughtful, pleasant expression and a vigorous physique.
"It seems to me," he continued, slowly, seeking his words, "if John
Baker had stopped to think, he would have acted differently. To be sure,
he saved the life of an innocent child; but, on the