| |
| SCARCE had they brought the bodies down | |
| Across the withered floor, | |
| Than Max Rogosky thundered at | |
| The District Leader’s door. | |
| |
| Scarce had the white-lipped mothers come | 5 |
| To search the fearful noon, | |
| Than little Max stood shivering | |
| In Tom McTodd’s saloon! | |
| |
| In Tom McTodd’s saloon he stood, | |
| Beside the silver bar, | 10 |
| Where any honest lad may stand, | |
| And sell his vote at par. | |
| |
| “Ten years I’ve paid the System’s tax,” | |
| The words fell, quivering, raw; | |
| “And now I want the thing I bought— | 15 |
| Protection from the law!” | |
| |
| The Leader smiled a twisted smile: | |
| “Your doors were locked,” he said. | |
| “You’ve overstepped the limit, Max— | |
| A hundred women.… dead!” | 20 |
| |
| Then Max Rogosky gripped the bar | |
| And shivered where he stood. | |
| “You listen now to me,” he cried, | |
| “Like business fellers should! | |
| |
| “I’ve paid for all my hundred dead, | 25 |
| I’ve paid, I’ve paid, I’ve paid.” | |
| His ragged laughter rang, and died— | |
| For he was sore afraid. | |
| |
| “I’ve paid for wooden hall and stair, | |
| I’ve paid to strain my floors, | 30 |
| I’ve paid for rotten fire-escapes, | |
| For all my bolted doors. | |
| |
| “Your fat inspectors came and came— | |
| I crossed their hands with gold. | |
| And now I want the thing I bought, | 35 |
| The thing the System sold.” | |
| |
| The District Leader filled a glass | |
| With whiskey from the bar, | |
| (The little silver counter where | |
| He bought men’s souls at par.) | 40 |
| |
| And well he knew that he must give | |
| The thing that he had sold, | |
| Else men should doubt the System’s word, | |
| Keep back the System’s gold. | |
| |
| The whiskey burned beneath his tongue: | 45 |
| “A hundred women dead! | |
| I guess the Boss can fix it up, | |
| Go home—and hide,” he said. | |
. . . . . . . . All day they brought the bodies down | |
| From Max Rogosky’s place— | 50 |
| And oh, the fearful touch of flame | |
| On hand and breast and face! | |
| |
| All day the white-lipped mothers came | |
| To search the sheeted dead; | |
| And Horror strode the blackened walls, | 55 |
| Where Death had walked in red. | |
| |
| But Max Rogosky did not weep. | |
| (He knew that tears were vain.) | |
| He paid the System’s price, and lived | |
| To lock his doors again. | 60 |
| |
