Sister Carrie Theodore Dreiser (e reader books TXT) 📖

days. Life seemed worth fighting for. This eastward flight from all things customary and attached seemed as if it might have happiness in store. The storm showed a rainbow at the end of which might be a pot of gold.

He was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which was fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him familiarly. Instantly his heart sank.

“Why, hello, George, old man!” said the voice. “What are you doing down here?”

Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend Kenny, the stockbroker.

“Just attending to a little private matter,” he answered, his mind working like a keyboard of a telephone station. This man evidently did not know⁠—he had not read the papers.

“Well, it seems strange to see you way up here,” said Mr. Kenny genially. “Stopping here?”

“Yes,” said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on the register.

“Going to be in town long?”

“No, only a day or so.”

“Is that so? Had your breakfast?”

“Yes,” said Hurstwood, lying blandly. “I’m just going for a shave.”

“Won’t you come have a drink?”

“Not until afterwards,” said the ex-manager. “I’ll see you later. Are you stopping here?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again, added: “How are things out in Chicago?”

“About the same as usual,” said Hurstwood, smiling genially.

“Wife with you?”

“No.”

“Well, I must see more of you today. I’m just going in here for breakfast. Come in when you’re through.”

“I will,” said Hurstwood, moving away. The whole conversation was a trial to him. It seemed to add complications with every word. This man called up a thousand memories. He represented everything he had left. Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort⁠—all these were in his greeting and inquiries. And here he was in this same hotel expecting to confer with him, unquestionably waiting to have a good time with him. All at once the Chicago papers would arrive. The local papers would have accounts in them this very day. He forgot his triumph with Carrie in the possibility of soon being known for what he was, in this man’s eyes, a safe-breaker. He could have groaned as he went into the barber shop. He decided to escape and seek a more secluded hotel.

Accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear, and hastened toward the stairs. He would get Carrie and go out by the ladies’ entrance. They would have breakfast in some more inconspicuous place.

Across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him. He was of a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply dressed, and with a head that seemed a smaller edition of some huge ward politician’s. This individual had been evidently talking with the clerk, but now he surveyed the ex-manager keenly.

Hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the type. Instinctively he felt that the man was a detective⁠—that he was being watched. He hurried across, pretending not to notice, but in his mind was a world of thoughts. What would happen now? What could these people do? He began to trouble concerning the extradition laws. He did not understand them absolutely. Perhaps he could be arrested. Oh, if Carrie should find out! Montreal was too warm for him. He began to long to be out of it.

Carrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived. She looked refreshed⁠—more delightful than ever, but reserved. Since he had gone she had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him. Love was not blazing in her heart. He felt it, and his troubles seemed increased. He could not take her in his arms; he did not even try. Something about her forbade it. In part his opinion was the result of his own experiences and reflections below stairs.

“You’re ready, are you?” he said kindly.

“Yes,” she answered.

“We’ll go out for breakfast. This place down here doesn’t appeal to me very much.”

“All right,” said Carrie.

They went out, and at the corner the commonplace Irish individual was standing, eyeing him. Hurstwood could scarcely refrain from showing that he knew of this chap’s presence. The insolence in the fellow’s eye was galling. Still they passed, and he explained to Carrie concerning the city. Another restaurant was not long in showing itself, and here they entered.

“What a queer town this is,” said Carrie, who marvelled at it solely because it was not like Chicago.

“It isn’t as lively as Chicago,” said Hurstwood. “Don’t you like it?”

“No,” said Carrie, whose feelings were already localised in the great Western city.

“Well, it isn’t as interesting,” said Hurstwood.

“What’s here?” asked Carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit this town.

“Nothing much,” returned Hurstwood. “It’s quite a resort. There’s some pretty scenery about here.”

Carrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest. There was much about her situation which destroyed the possibility of appreciation.

“We won’t stay here long,” said Hurstwood, who was now really glad to note her dissatisfaction. “You pick out your clothes as soon as breakfast is over and we’ll run down to New York soon. You’ll like that. It’s a lot more like a city than any place outside Chicago.”

He was really planning to slip out and away. He would see what these detectives would do⁠—what move his employers at Chicago would make⁠—then he would slip away⁠—down to New York, where it was easy to hide. He knew enough about that city to know that its mysteries and possibilities of mystification were infinite.

The more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation became. He saw that getting here did not exactly clear up the ground. The firm would probably employ detectives to watch him⁠—Pinkerton men or agents of Mooney and Boland. They might arrest him the moment he tried to leave Canada. So he might be compelled to remain here months, and in what a state!

Back at the hotel Hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see the morning papers. He wanted to know how far the news of his criminal deed had spread. So he told Carrie he would be up in a few moments, and went to secure and scan the dailies. No