الفصل الفصل 51 · BOOK IV CHAPTER IV

I found the Youth awaiting me.

"Say, pardner," said he, "I was just getting a bit anxious about you. I

thought sure that fairy had you in tow for a sucker. I'm going to stay

right with you, and you're not going to shake me. See!"

"All right," I said; "come on and we'll watch the dance."

So we got in the front row of spectators, while behind us the crowd

packed as closely as matches in a box. The champagne I had taken had

again aroused in me that vivid sense of joy and strength and colour.

Again the lights were effulgent, the music witching, the women divine.

As I swayed a little I clutched unsteadily at the Youth. He looked at me

curiously.

"Brace up, old man," he said. "Guess you're not often in town. You're

not much used to the dance-hall racket."

"No," I assured him.

"Well," he continued, "it's the rottenest game ever. I've seen more poor

beggars put plumb out of business by the dance-halls than by all the

saloons and gambling-joints put together. It's the game of catching the

sucker brought to the point of perfection, and there's very few cases

where it fails."

He perceived I was listening earnestly, and he warmed up to his

subject.

"You see, the boys get in after they've been out on the claim for six

months at a stretch, and town looks mighty good to them. The music

sounds awful nice, and the women, well, they look just like angels. The

boys are all right, but they've got that mad craving for the sight of a

woman a man gets after he's been off out in the Wild, and these women

have got the captivation of men down to a fine art. Once one of them

gets to looking at you with eyes that eat right into you, and soft white

hands, and pretty coaxing ways, well, it's mighty hard to hold back. A

man's a fool to come near these places if he's got a poke--'cept, like

me, he knows the ropes and he's right onto himself."

The Youth said this with quite a complacent air. He went on:

"These girls work on a percentage basis. You'll notice every time you

buy them a drink the waiter gives them a check. That means that when the

night's over they cash in and get twenty-five per cent, of the money

you've spent on them. That's how they're so keen on ordering fresh

bottles. Sometimes they'll say a bottle's gone flat before it's empty,

and have you order another. Or else they'll pour half of it into the

cuspidor when you're not looking. Then, when you get too full to notice

the difference, they'll run in ginger ale on you. Or else they'll get

you ordering by the case, and have half a dozen dummy bottles in it. Oh,

there's all kinds of schemes these box rustlers are on to. When you pay

for a drink you toss over your poke, and they take the price out. Do you

think they're particular to a quarter ounce or so? No, sir! and you

always get the short end of it. It's a bad game to go up against."

The Youth looked at me as though proud of his superior sophistication.

The floor was cleared. Girls were now coming from behind the stage,

preening themselves and chaffing with the crowd. The orchestra struck up

some jubilant ragtime that set the heart dancing and the heels tapping

in tune. Brighter than ever seemed the lights; more dazzling the white

and gilt of the walls. Some of the girls were balancing lightly to a

waltz rhythm. There was a witching grace in their movements, and the

Youth watched them intently. He looked down at his feet clad in old

moccasins.

"Gee, I'd like just to have one spin," he said; "just one before I leave

the darned old country for good. I was always crazy about dancing. I'd

ride thirty miles to attend a dance back home."

His eyes grew very wistful. Suddenly the music stopped and the

floor-master came forward. He was a tall, dark man with a rich and

vibrant baritone voice.

"That's the best spieler in the Yukon," said the Youth.

"Come on, boys," boomed the spieler. "Look alive there. Don't keep the

ladies waiting. Take your hands out of your pockets and get in the game.

Just going to begin, a dreamy waltz or a nice juicy two-step, whichever

you prefer. Hey, professor, strike up that waltz!"

Once more the music swelled out.

"How's that, boys? Doesn't that make your feet like feathers? Come on,

boys! Here you are for the nice, glossy floor and the nice, flossy

girls. Here you are! Here you are! That's right, select your partners!

Swing your honeys! Hurry up there! Just a-goin' to begin. What's the

matter with you fellows? Wake up! a dance won't break you. Come on!

don't be a cheap skate. The girls are fine, fit and fairy-like, the

music's swell and the floor's elegant. Come on, boys!"

There was a compelling power in his voice, and already a number of

couples were waltzing round. The women were exquisite in their grace and

springy lightness. They talked as they danced, gazing with languishing

eyes and siren smiles at the man of the moment.

Some of them, who had not got partners, were picking out individuals

from the crowd and coaxing them to come forward. A drunken fellow

staggered onto the floor and grabbed a girl. She was young, dainty and

pretty, but she showed no repugnance for him. Round and round he

cavorted, singing and whooping, a wild, weird object; when, suddenly, he

tripped and fell, bringing her down with him. The crowd roared; but the

girl good-naturedly picked him up, and led him off to the bar.

A man in a greasy canvas suit with mucklucks on his feet had gone onto

the floor. His hair was long and matted, his beard wild and rank. He

was dancing vehemently, and there was the glitter of wild excitement in

his eyes. He looked as if he had not bathed for years, but again I could

see no repulsion in the face of the handsome brunette with whom he was

waltzing. Dance after dance they had together, locked in each other's

arms.

"That's a 'live one,'" said the Youth. "He's just come in from Dominion

with a hundred ounces, and it won't last him over the night. Amber,

there, will get it all. She won't let the other girls go near. He's her

game."

Between dances the men promenaded to the bar and treated their

companions to a drink. In the same free, trusting way they threw over

their pokes to the bartender and had the price weighed out. The dances

were very short, and the drinks very frequent.

Madder and madder grew the merriment. The air was hot; the odour of

patchouli mingled with the stench of stale garments and the reek of

alcohol. Men dripping with sweat whirled round in wild gyrations. Some

of them danced beautifully; some merely shuffled over the floor. It did

not make any difference to the girls. They were superbly muscular and

used to the dragging efforts of novices. After a visit to the bar back

they came once more, licking their lips, and fell to with fresh energy.

There was no need to beg the crowd now. A wave of excitement seemed to

have swept over them. They clamoured to get a dance. The "live one"

whooped and pranced on his wild career, while Amber steered him calmly

through the mazes of the waltz. Touch-the-button-Nell was talking to a

tall fair-moustached man whom I recognised as a black-jack booster.

Suddenly she left him and came over to us. She went up to the Youth.

She had discarded her blond wig, and her pretty brown hair parted in the

middle and rippled behind her ears. Her large violet-blue eyes had a

devouring look that would stir the pulse of a saint. She accosted the

Youth with a smile of particular witchery.

"Say, kid, won't you come and have a two-step with me? I've been looking

at you for the last half-hour and wishing you'd ask me."

The Youth had advised me: "If any of them asks you, tell them to go to

the devil;" but now he looked at her and his boyish face flushed.

"Nothing doing," he said stoutly.

"Oh, come now," she pleaded; "honest to goodness, kid, I've turned down

the other fellow for you. You won't refuse me, will you? Come on; just

one, sweetheart."

She was holding the lapels of his coat and dragging him gently forward.

I could see him biting his lip in embarrassment.

"No, thanks, I'm sorry," he stammered. "I don't know how to dance.

Besides, I've got no money."

She grew more coaxing.

"Never mind about the coin, honey. Come on, have one on me. Don't turn

me down, I've taken such a notion to you. Come on now; just one turn."

I watched his face. His eyes clouded with emotion, and I knew the

psychology of it. He was thinking:

"Just one--surely it wouldn't hurt. Surely I'm man enough to trust

myself, to know when to quit. Oh, lordy, wouldn't it be sweet just to

get my arm round a woman's waist once more! The sight of them's honey to

me; surely it wouldn't matter. One round and I'll shake her and go

home."

The hesitation was fatal. By an irresistible magnetism the Youth was

drawn to this woman whose business it ever was to lure and beguile. By

her siren strength she conquered him as she had conquered many another,

and as she led him off there was a look of triumph on her face. Poor

Youth! At the end of the dance he did not go home, nor did he "shake"

her. He had another and another and another. The excitement began to

paint his cheeks, the drink to stoke wild fires in his eyes. As I stood

deserted I tried to attract him, to get him back; but he no longer

heeded me.

"I don't see the Madonna to-night," said a little, dark individual in

spectacles. Somehow he looked to me like a newspaper man "chasing" copy.

"No," said one of the girls; "she ain't workin'. She's sick; she don't

take very kindly to the business, somehow. Don't seem to get broke in

easy. She's funny, poor kid."

Carelessly they went on to talk of other things, while I stood there

gasping, staring, sick at heart. All my vinous joy was gone, leaving me

a haggard, weary wretch of a man, disenchanted and miserable to the

verge of--what? I shuddered. The lights seemed to have gone blurred and

dim. The hall was tawdry, cheap and vulgar. The women, who but a moment

before had seemed creatures of grace and charm, were now nothing more

than painted, posturing harridans, their seductive smiles the leers of

shameless sin.

And this was a Dawson dance-hall, the trump card in the nightly game of

despoliation. Dance-halls, saloons, gambling-dens, brothels, the heart

of the town was a cancer, a hive of iniquity. Here had flocked the most

rapacious of gamblers, the most beautiful and unscrupulous women on the

Pacific slope. Here in the gold-born city they waited for their prey,

the Man with the Poke. Back there in the silent Wild, with pain and

bloody sweat, he toiled for them. Sooner or later must he come within

reach of their talons to be fleeced, flouted and despoiled. It was an

organised system of sharpers, thugs, harpies, and birds of prey of every

kind. It was a blot on the map. It was a great whirlpool, and the eddy

of it encircled the furthest outpost of the golden valley. It was a

vortex of destruction, of ruin and shame. And here was I, hovering on

its brink, likely to be soon sucked down into its depths.

I pressed my way to the door, and stood there staring and swaying, but

whether with wine or weakness I knew not. In the vociferous and

flamboyant street I could hear the raucous voices of the spielers, the

jigging tunes of the orchestras, the click of ivory balls, the popping

of corks, the hoarse, animal laughter of men, the shrill, inane giggles

of women. Day and night the game went on without abatement, the game of

despoliation.

And I was on the verge of the vortex. Memories of Glengyle, the laughing

of the silver-scaled sea, the tawny fisher-lads with their honest eyes,

the herring glittering like jewels in the brown nets, the women with

their round health-hued cheeks and motherly eyes. Oh, Home, with your

peace and rest and content, can you not save me from this?

And as I stood there wretchedly a timid little hand touched my arm.