The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Woman Gives, by Owen Johnson, Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy

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Title: The Woman Gives

A Story of Regeneration

Author: Owen Johnson

Release Date: December 12, 2014 [eBook #47640]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOMAN GIVES***

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THE WOMAN GIVES

In the subdued torment on his face there was a sudden flickering passage of absolute terror. Frontispiece. See page 175.

THE WOMAN
GIVES

A STORY OF REGENERATION

BY

OWEN JOHNSON

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

1916

Copyright, 1916,
By Owen Johnson.

All rights reserved

Published, September, 1916

THE COLONIAL PRESS
C.H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE WOMAN GIVES

Teagan’s Arcade stood, and in the slow upward progress of the city it may still stand, at that intersection of Broadway and Columbus Avenue, where the grumbling subway and the roaring elevated meet at Lincoln Square. It covered a block, bisected by an arcade and rising six capacious stories in the form of an enormous H. On Broadway, the glass front was given over to shops and offices of all descriptions, while in the back stretches of the top stories, artists, sculptors, students, and illustrators had their studios alongside of mediums, dentists, curious business offices, and derelicts of all description.

The square was a churning meeting of contending human tides. The Italians had installed their fruit shops and their groceries; the French their florists and their delicatessen shops; the Jews their clothing bazaars; the Germans their jewelers and their shoe stores; the Irish their saloons and their restaurants, while from Healy’s, one of the most remarkable meeting-grounds in the city, they dominated the neighborhood.

The Arcade, which had stood like a great glass barn, waiting the inevitable stone advance of reconstruction, looked down on this rushing stream of all nations, while occasionally from the mixed races outside, swimming on the current of the avenue, a bit of human débris was washed up and found its lodging. It was a bit of the Orient—the flotsam and jetsam of Hong Kong and Singapore in the heart of New York. It was a place where no questions were asked and no advice permitted; where if you found a man wandering in the long, drafty corridors you piloted him to his room and put him to bed and did not seek to reform him in the morning. This was its etiquette. There were the young and unafraid, who were coming up blithely, and the old and tired, who were going down, and it was understood that those who were bent on their own destruction should do it in their own chosen way—a place where souls in hunger and souls in despair met momentarily and passed.

In the whole city there was not such another incongruous gathering of activities. There was a vast billiard-parlor and a theater; a barber shop and shoe parlors; a telegraph station and an ice-cream-and-candy shop, thronged at the luncheon hour with crowds of schoolboys; there was also a millinery shop and one for fancy goods; a clock maker, and two corner saloons. Above, in the lower lofts, every conceivable human oddity was assembled in a sort of mercantile crazy quilt. One read such signs as