FullReads

And this story, improved upon in the repeating by Mr. Meyer to reporters, and embellished still further by the reporters as they wrote it up, particularly in the part pertaining to the polar bear,–blazoned out in the great dailies of England and the Continent, and was cabled to New York, with the name of the steamer in which John Rowland had sailed (for his movements had been traced in the search for evidence), where it arrived, too late for publication, the morning of the day on which, with Myra on his shoulder, he stepped down the gang-plank at a North River dock. As a consequence, he was surrounded on the dock by enthusiastic reporters, who spoke of the story and asked for details. He refused to talk, escaped them, and gaining the side streets, soon found himself in crowded Broadway, where he entered the office of the steamship company in whose employ he had been wrecked, and secured from the Titan’s passenger-list the address of Mrs. Selfridge–the only woman saved. Then he took a car up Broadway and alighted abreast of a large department store.

“We’re going to see mamma, soon, Myra,” he whispered in the pink ear; “and you must go dressed up. It don’t matter about me; but you’re a Fifth Avenue baby–a little aristocrat. These old clothes won’t do, now.” But she had forgotten the word “mamma,” and was more interested in the exciting noise and life of the street than in the clothing she wore. In the store, Rowland asked for, and was directed to the children’s department, where a young woman waited on him.

“This child has been shipwrecked,” he said. “I have sixteen dollars and a half to spend on it. Give it a bath, dress its hair, and use up the money on a dress, shoes, and stockings, underclothing, and a hat.” The young woman stooped and kissed the little girl from sheer sympathy, but protested that not much could be done.

“Do your best,” said Rowland; “it is all I have. I will wait here.”

An hour later, penniless again, he emerged from the store with Myra, bravely dressed in her new finery, and was stopped at the corner by a policeman who had seen him come out, and who marveled, doubtless, at such juxtaposition of rags and ribbons.

“Whose kid ye got?” he demanded.

“I believe it is the daughter of Mrs. Colonel Selfridge,” answered Rowland, haughtily–too haughtily, by far.

“Ye believe–but ye don’t know. Come back into the shtore, me tourist, and we’ll see who ye shtole it from.”

“Very well, officer; I can prove possession.” They started back, the officer with his hand on Rowland’s collar, and were met at the door by a party of three or four people coming out. One of this party, a young woman in black, uttered a piercing shriek and sprang toward them.

“Myra!” she screamed. “Give me my baby–give her to me.”

She snatched the child from Rowland’s shoulder, hugged it, kissed it, cried, and screamed over it; then, oblivious to the crowd that collected, incontinently fainted in the arms of an indignant old gentleman.

“You scoundrel!” he exclaimed, as he flourished his cane over Rowland’s head with his free arm. “We’ve caught you. Officer, take that man to the station-house. I will follow and make a charge in the name of my daughter.”

“Then he shtole the kid, did he?” asked the policeman.

“Most certainly,” answered the old gentleman, as, with the assistance of the others, he supported the unconscious young mother to a carriage. They all entered, little Myra screaming for Rowland from the arms of a female member of the party, and were driven off.

“C’m an wi’ me,” uttered the officer, rapping his prisoner on the head with his club and jerking him off his feet.

Then, while an approving crowd applauded, the man who had fought and conquered a hungry polar bear was dragged through the streets like a sick animal by a New York policeman. For such is the stultifying effect of a civilized environment.