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diff --git a/1583-h/1583-h.htm b/1583-h/1583-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f3acf58 --- /dev/null +++ b/1583-h/1583-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8214 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Options, by O. Henry</title> +<style type="text/css"> + body {background:#fdfdfd; + color:black; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + font-size: large; + margin-top:100px; + margin-left:15%; + margin-right:15%; + text-align:justify; } + h1,h2,h3,h4 {text-align: center; + clear: both; } + hr.narrow { width: 40%; + text-align: center; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; } + hr { width: 100%; } + blockquote { font-size: medium; } + blockquote.footnote { font-size: large; } + table {font-size: large; + text-align: left; } + table.ed {font-size: large; + text-align: justify; } + p {text-indent: 4%; } + p.noindent {text-indent: 0%; } + .center { text-align: center; } + .ind1 {margin-left: 1em; } + .ind2 {margin-left: 2em; } + .ind5 {margin-left: 5em; } + .ind10 {margin-left: 10em; } + .ind15 {margin-left: 15em; } + .jright {text-align: right; } + .smallcaps { font-variant: small-caps; } + .small {font-size: small; } + .xsmall {font-size: x-small; } + a:link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red} + pre {font-size: small; } +</style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Options, by O. Henry</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p class="noindent">Title: Options</p> +<p class="noindent"> "The Rose of Dixie"; The Third Ingredient; The Hiding of Black Bill; Schools and Schools; Thimble, Thimble; Supply and Demand; Buried Treasure; To Him Who Waits; He Also Serves; The Moment of Victory; The Head-Hunter; No Story; The Higher Pragmatism; Best-Seller; Rus in Urbe; A Poor Rule</p> +<p class="noindent">Author: O. Henry</p> +<p class="noindent">Release Date: December, 1998 [eBook #1583]<br /> +HTML version added: October 14, 2005<br /> +HTML version most recently updated: August 26, 2017</p> +<p class="noindent">Language: English</p> +<p class="noindent">Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p class="noindent">***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OPTIONS***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Tim O'Connell<br /> + and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.<br /> + <br /> + HTML version prepared by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.</h3> +<p> </p> +<table class="ed" style="margin: 0 auto; background-color: #ccccff;" border="0" cellpadding="10"> + <tr> + <td valign="top"> + Note: + </td> + <td> + Many of the author's spellings follow older, obsolete, or + intentionally incorrect practice. + </td> + </tr> +</table> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h1>Options</h1> + +<h4>by</h4> + +<h2>O. Henry</h2> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="narrow" /> +<p> </p> +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> +<p> </p> +<div class="center"> +<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="2"> +<tr><td><a href="#1" >"<span class="smallcaps">The Rose of Dixie</span>"</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#2" ><span class="smallcaps">The Third Ingredient</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#3" ><span class="smallcaps">The Hiding of Black Bill</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#4" ><span class="smallcaps">Schools and Schools</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#5" ><span class="smallcaps">Thimble, Thimble</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#6" ><span class="smallcaps">Supply and Demand</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#7" ><span class="smallcaps">Buried Treasure</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#8" ><span class="smallcaps">To Him Who Waits</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#9" ><span class="smallcaps">He Also Serves</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#10"><span class="smallcaps">The Moment of Victory</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#11"><span class="smallcaps">The Head-Hunter</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#12"><span class="smallcaps">No Story</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#13"><span class="smallcaps">The Higher Pragmatism</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#14"><span class="smallcaps">Best-Seller</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#15"><span class="smallcaps">Rus in Urbe</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#16"><span class="smallcaps">A Poor Rule</span></a></td></tr> +</table> +</div> +<p> </p> +<hr class="narrow" /> +<p> <a name="1"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>"THE ROSE OF DIXIE"</h3> +<p> </p> + +<p>When <i>The Rose of Dixie</i> magazine was started by a stock company +in Toombs City, Georgia, there was never but one candidate for its chief +editorial position in the minds of its owners. Col. Aquila Telfair was +the man for the place. By all the rights of learning, family, +reputation, and Southern traditions, he was its foreordained, fit, and +logical editor. So, a committee of the patriotic Georgia citizens who +had subscribed the founding fund of $100,000 called upon Colonel Telfair +at his residence, Cedar Heights, fearful lest the enterprise and the +South should suffer by his possible refusal.</p> + +<p>The colonel received them in his great library, where he spent +most of his days. The library had descended to him from his father. It +contained ten thousand volumes, some of which had been published as +late as the year 1861. When the deputation arrived, Colonel Telfair +was seated at his massive white-pine centre-table, reading Burton's +"Anatomy of Melancholy." He arose and shook hands punctiliously with +each member of the committee. If you were familiar with <i>The Rose of +Dixie</i> you will remember the colonel's portrait, which appeared in it +from time to time. You could not forget the long, carefully brushed +white hair; the hooked, high-bridged nose, slightly twisted to the +left; the keen eyes under the still black eyebrows; the classic mouth +beneath the drooping white mustache, slightly frazzled at the ends.</p> + +<p>The committee solicitously offered him the position of managing +editor, humbly presenting an outline of the field that the publication +was designed to cover and mentioning a comfortable salary. The +colonel's lands were growing poorer each year and were much cut up by +red gullies. Besides, the honor was not one to be refused.</p> + +<p>In a forty-minute speech of acceptance, Colonel Telfair gave an +outline of English literature from Chaucer to Macaulay, re-fought the +battle of Chancellorsville, and said that, God helping him, he would +so conduct <i>The Rose of Dixie</i> that its fragrance and beauty would +permeate the entire world, hurling back into the teeth of the Northern +minions their belief that no genius or good could exist in the brains +and hearts of the people whose property they had destroyed and whose +rights they had curtailed.</p> + +<p>Offices for the magazine were partitioned off and furnished in the +second floor of the First National Bank building; and it was for the +colonel to cause <i>The Rose of Dixie</i> to blossom and flourish or to +wilt in the balmy air of the land of flowers.</p> + +<p>The staff of assistants and contributors that Editor-Colonel Telfair +drew about him was a peach. It was a whole crate of Georgia peaches. +The first assistant editor, Tolliver Lee Fairfax, had had a father +killed during Pickett's charge. The second assistant, Keats Unthank, +was the nephew of one of Morgan's Raiders. The book reviewer, Jackson +Rockingham, had been the youngest soldier in the Confederate army, +having appeared on the field of battle with a sword in one hand and a +milk-bottle in the other. The art editor, Roncesvalles Sykes, was a +third cousin to a nephew of Jefferson Davis. Miss Lavinia Terhune, +the colonel's stenographer and typewriter, had an aunt who had once +been kissed by Stonewall Jackson. Tommy Webster, the head office-boy, +got his job by having recited Father Ryan's poems, complete, at the +commencement exercises of the Toombs City High School. The girls who +wrapped and addressed the magazines were members of old Southern +families in Reduced Circumstances. The cashier was a scrub named +Hawkins, from Ann Arbor, Michigan, who had recommendations and a bond +from a guarantee company filed with the owners. Even Georgia stock +companies sometimes realize that it takes live ones to bury the +dead.</p> + +<p>Well, sir, if you believe me, <i>The Rose of Dixie</i> blossomed five +times before anybody heard of it except the people who buy their hooks +and eyes in Toombs City. Then Hawkins climbed off his stool and told on +'em to the stock company. Even in Ann Arbor he had been used to having +his business propositions heard of at least as far away as Detroit. So +an advertising manager was engaged—Beauregard Fitzhugh +Banks—a young man in a lavender necktie, whose grandfather had +been the Exalted High Pillow-slip of the Kuklux Klan.</p> + +<p>In spite of which <i>The Rose of Dixie</i> kept coming out every +month. Although in every issue it ran photos of either the Taj Mahal or +the Luxembourg Gardens, or Carmencita or La Follette, a certain number +of people bought it and subscribed for it. As a boom for it, +Editor-Colonel Telfair ran three different views of Andrew Jackson's old +home, "The Hermitage," a full-page engraving of the second battle of +Manassas, entitled "Lee to the Rear!" and a five-thousand-word biography +of Belle Boyd in the same number. The subscription list that month +advanced 118. Also there were poems in the same issue by Leonina Vashti +Haricot (pen-name), related to the Haricots of Charleston, South +Carolina, and Bill Thompson, nephew of one of the stockholders. And an +article from a special society correspondent describing a tea-party +given by the swell Boston and English set, where a lot of tea was +spilled overboard by some of the guests masquerading as Indians.</p> + +<p>One day a person whose breath would easily cloud a mirror, he was so +much alive, entered the office of <i>The Rose of Dixie</i>. He was a man +about the size of a real-estate agent, with a self-tied tie and a +manner that he must have borrowed conjointly from W. J. Bryan, +Hackenschmidt, and Hetty Green. He was shown into the editor-colonel's +<i>pons asinorum</i>. Colonel Telfair rose and began a Prince +Albert bow.</p> + +<p>"I'm Thacker," said the intruder, taking the editor's +chair—"T. T. Thacker, of New York."</p> + +<p>He dribbled hastily upon the colonel's desk some cards, a bulky +manila envelope, and a letter from the owners of <i>The Rose of +Dixie</i>. This letter introduced Mr. Thacker, and politely requested +Colonel Telfair to give him a conference and whatever information about +the magazine he might desire.</p> + +<p>"I've been corresponding with the secretary of the magazine owners +for some time," said Thacker, briskly. "I'm a practical magazine man +myself, and a circulation booster as good as any, if I do say it. I'll +guarantee an increase of anywhere from ten thousand to a hundred +thousand a year for any publication that isn't printed in a dead +language. I've had my eye on <i>The Rose of Dixie</i> ever since it +started. I know every end of the business from editing to setting up the +classified ads. Now, I've come down here to put a good bunch of money in +the magazine, if I can see my way clear. It ought to be made to pay. The +secretary tells me it's losing money. I don't see why a magazine in the +South, if it's properly handled, shouldn't get a good circulation in the +North, too."</p> + +<p>Colonel Telfair leaned back in his chair and polished his gold-rimmed +glasses.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Thacker," said he, courteously but firmly, "<i>The Rose of +Dixie</i> is a publication devoted to the fostering and the voicing of +Southern genius. Its watchword, which you may have seen on the cover, is +'Of, For, and By the South.'"</p> + +<p>"But you wouldn't object to a Northern circulation, would you?" asked +Thacker.</p> + +<p>"I suppose," said the editor-colonel, "that it is customary to open +the circulation lists to all. I do not know. I have nothing to do +with the business affairs of the magazine. I was called upon to +assume editorial control of it, and I have devoted to its conduct such +poor literary talents as I may possess and whatever store of erudition +I may have acquired."</p> + +<p>"Sure," said Thacker. "But a dollar is a dollar anywhere, North, +South, or West—whether you're buying codfish, goober peas, +or Rocky Ford cantaloupes. Now, I've been looking over your November +number. I see one here on your desk. You don't mind running over it with +me?</p> + +<p>"Well, your leading article is all right. A good write-up of the +cotton-belt with plenty of photographs is a winner any time. New York +is always interested in the cotton crop. And this sensational account +of the Hatfield-McCoy feud, by a schoolmate of a niece of the Governor +of Kentucky, isn't such a bad idea. It happened so long ago that most +people have forgotten it. Now, here's a poem three pages long called +'The Tyrant's Foot,' by Lorella Lascelles. I've pawed around a good deal +over manuscripts, but I never saw her name on a rejection slip."</p> + +<p>"Miss Lascelles," said the editor, "is one of our most widely +recognized Southern poetesses. She is closely related to the Alabama +Lascelles family, and made with her own hands the silken Confederate +banner that was presented to the governor of that state at his +inauguration."</p> + +<p>"But why," persisted Thacker, "is the poem illustrated with a view of +the M. & O. Railroad freight depot at Tuscaloosa?"</p> + +<p>"The illustration," said the colonel, with dignity, "shows a corner +of the fence surrounding the old homestead where Miss Lascelles was +born."</p> + +<p>"All right," said Thacker. "I read the poem, but I couldn't tell +whether it was about the depot of the battle of Bull Run. Now, here's +a short story called 'Rosies' Temptation,' by Fosdyke Piggott. It's +rotten. What is a Piggott, anyway?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Piggott," said the editor, "is a brother of the principal +stockholder of the magazine."</p> + +<p>"All's right with the world—Piggott passes," said Thacker. +"Well this article on Arctic exploration and the one on tarpon fishing +might go. But how about this write-up of the Atlanta, New Orleans, +Nashville, and Savannah breweries? It seems to consist mainly of +statistics about their output and the quality of their beer. What's the +chip over the bug?"</p> + +<p>"If I understand your figurative language," answered Colonel Telfair, +"it is this: the article you refer to was handed to me by the owners +of the magazine with instructions to publish it. The literary quality +of it did not appeal to me. But, in a measure, I feel impelled to +conform, in certain matters, to the wishes of the gentlemen who are +interested in the financial side of <i>The Rose</i>."</p> + +<p>"I see," said Thacker. "Next we have two pages of selections from +'Lalla Rookh,' by Thomas Moore. Now, what Federal prison did Moore +escape from, or what's the name of the F.F.V. family that he +carries as a handicap?"</p> + +<p>"Moore was an Irish poet who died in 1852," said Colonel Telfair, +pityingly. "He is a classic. I have been thinking of reprinting his +translation of Anacreon serially in the magazine."</p> + +<p>"Look out for the copyright laws," said Thacker, flippantly. Who's +Bessie Belleclair, who contributes the essay on the newly completed +water-works plant in Milledgeville?"</p> + +<p>"The name, sir," said Colonel Telfair, "is the <i>nom de guerre</i> +of Miss Elvira Simpkins. I have not the honor of knowing the lady; but +her contribution was sent to us by Congressman Brower, of her native +state. Congressman Brower's mother was related to the Polks of +Tennessee.</p> + +<p>"Now, see here, Colonel," said Thacker, throwing down the magazine, +"this won't do. You can't successfully run a magazine for one +particular section of the country. You've got to make a universal +appeal. Look how the Northern publications have catered to the South +and encouraged the Southern writers. And you've got to go far and +wide for your contributors. You've got to buy stuff according to its +quality without any regard to the pedigree of the author. Now, I'll +bet a quart of ink that this Southern parlor organ you've been running +has never played a note that originated above Mason & Hamlin's line. +Am I right?"</p> + +<p>"I have carefully and conscientiously rejected all contributions from +that section of the country—if I understand your figurative +language aright," replied the colonel.</p> + +<p>"All right. Now I'll show you something."</p> + +<p>Thacker reached for his thick manila envelope and dumped a mass of +typewritten manuscript on the editors desk.</p> + +<p>"Here's some truck," said he, "that I paid cash for, and brought +along with me."</p> + +<p>One by one he folded back the manuscripts and showed their first pages +to the colonel.</p> + +<p>Here are four short stories by four of the highest priced authors in +the United States—three of 'em living in New York, and one +commuting. There's a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom +Vampson. Here's an Italian serial by Captain +Jack—no—it's the other Crawford. Here are three +separate exposés of city governments by Sniffings, and here's +a dandy entitled 'What Women Carry in Dress-Suit Cases'—a +Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady's +maid to get that information. And here's a Synopsis of Preceding +Chapters of Hall Caine's new serial to appear next June. And here's a +couple of pounds of <i>vers de société</i> that I got at a rate from the +clever magazines. That's the stuff that people everywhere want. And now +here's a write-up with photographs at the ages of four, twelve, +twenty-two, and thirty of George B. McClellan. It's a prognostication. +He's bound to be elected Mayor of New York. It'll make a big hit all +over the country. He—"</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," said Colonel Telfair, stiffening in his chair. +"What was the name?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see," said Thacker, with half a grin. Yes, he's a son of the +General. We'll pass that manuscript up. But, if you'll excuse me, +Colonel, it's a magazine we're trying to make go off—not the first +gun at Fort Sumter. Now, here's a thing that's bound to get next to +you. It's an original poem by James Whitcomb Riley. J. W. himself. +You know what that means to a magazine. I won't tell you what I had +to pay for that poem; but I'll tell you this—Riley can make +more money writing with a fountain-pen than you or I can with one that +lets the ink run. I'll read you the last two stanzas:<br /> </p> + + +<blockquote><blockquote> + <p class="noindent">"'Pa lays around 'n' loafs all day,<br /> + <span class="ind1">'N' reads and makes us leave him be.</span><br /> + He lets me do just like I please,<br /> + <span class="ind1">'N' when I'm bad he laughs at me,</span><br /> + 'N' when I holler loud 'n' say<br /> + <span class="ind1">Bad words 'n' then begin to tease</span><br /> + The cat, 'n' pa just smiles, ma's mad<br /> + <span class="ind1">'N' gives me Jesse crost her knees.</span><br /> + <span class="ind2">I always wondered why that wuz—</span><br /> + <span class="ind2">I guess it's cause</span><br /> + <span class="ind5">Pa never does.</span></p> + + <p class="noindent">"''N' after all the lights are out<br /> + <span class="ind1">I'm sorry 'bout it; so I creep</span><br /> + Out of my trundle bed to ma's<br /> + <span class="ind1">'N' say I love her a whole heap,</span><br /> + 'N' kiss her, 'n' I hug her tight.<br /> + <span class="ind1">'N' it's too dark to see her eyes,</span><br /> + But every time I do I know<br /> + <span class="ind1">She cries 'n' cries 'n' cries 'n' cries.</span><br /> + <span class="ind2">I always wondered why that wuz—</span><br /> + <span class="ind2">I guess it's 'cause</span><br /> + <span class="ind5">Pa never does.'</span><br /> </p> +</blockquote></blockquote> + + +<p>"That's the stuff," continued Thacker. "What do you think of +that?"</p> + +<p>"I am not unfamiliar with the works of Mr. Riley," said the colonel, +deliberately. "I believe he lives in Indiana. For the last ten years +I have been somewhat of a literary recluse, and am familiar with +nearly all the books in the Cedar Heights library. I am also of the +opinion that a magazine should contain a certain amount of poetry. +Many of the sweetest singers of the South have already contributed to +the pages of <i>The Rose of Dixie</i>. I, myself, have thought of +translating from the original for publication in its pages the works +of the great Italian poet Tasso. Have you ever drunk from the +fountain of this immortal poet's lines, Mr. Thacker?"</p> + +<p>"Not even a demi-Tasso," said Thacker. Now, let's come to the point, +Colonel Telfair. I've already invested some money in this as a flyer. +That bunch of manuscripts cost me $4,000. My object was to try a number +of them in the next issue—I believe you make up less than a +month ahead—and see what effect it has on the circulation. I +believe that by printing the best stuff we can get in the North, South, +East, or West we can make the magazine go. You have there the letter +from the owning company asking you to co-operate with me in the plan. +Let's chuck out some of this slush that you've been publishing just +because the writers are related to the Skoopdoodles of Skoopdoodle +County. Are you with me?"</p> + +<p>"As long as I continue to be the editor of The Rose," said Colonel +Telfair, with dignity, "I shall be its editor. But I desire also to +conform to the wishes of its owners if I can do so +conscientiously."</p> + +<p>"That's the talk," said Thacker, briskly. "Now, how much of this +stuff I've brought can we get into the January number? We want to +begin right away."</p> + +<p>"There is yet space in the January number," said the editor, "for +about eight thousand words, roughly estimated."</p> + +<p>"Great!" said Thacker. "It isn't much, but it'll give the readers +some change from goobers, governors, and Gettysburg. I'll leave the +selection of the stuff I brought to fill the space to you, as it's all +good. I've got to run back to New York, and I'll be down again in a +couple of weeks."</p> + +<p>Colonel Telfair slowly swung his eye-glasses by their broad, black +ribbon.</p> + +<p>"The space in the January number that I referred to," said he, +measuredly, "has been held open purposely, pending a decision that I +have not yet made. A short time ago a contribution was submitted to +<i>The Rose of Dixie</i> that is one of the most remarkable literary +efforts that has ever come under my observation. None but a master mind +and talent could have produced it. It would just fill the space that I +have reserved for its possible use."</p> + +<p>Thacker looked anxious.</p> + +<p>"What kind of stuff is it?" he asked. "Eight thousand words sounds +suspicious. The oldest families must have been collaborating. Is +there going to be another secession?"</p> + +<p>"The author of the article," continued the colonel, ignoring +Thacker's allusions, "is a writer of some reputation. He has also +distinguished himself in other ways. I do not feel at liberty to reveal +to you his name—at least not until I have decided whether or +not to accept his contribution."</p> + +<p>"Well," said Thacker, nervously, "is it a continued story, or an +account of the unveiling of the new town pump in Whitmire, South +Carolina, or a revised list of General Lee's body-servants, or +what?"</p> + +<p>"You are disposed to be facetious," said Colonel Telfair, calmly. +"The article is from the pen of a thinker, a philosopher, a lover of +mankind, a student, and a rhetorician of high degree."</p> + +<p>"It must have been written by a syndicate," said Thacker. "But, +honestly, Colonel, you want to go slow. I don't know of any +eight-thousand-word single doses of written matter that are read by +anybody these days, except Supreme Court briefs and reports of murder +trials. You haven't by any accident gotten hold of a copy of one of +Daniel Webster's speeches, have you?"</p> + +<p>Colonel Telfair swung a little in his chair and looked steadily from +under his bushy eyebrows at the magazine promoter.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Thacker," he said, gravely, "I am willing to segregate the +somewhat crude expression of your sense of humor from the solicitude +that your business investments undoubtedly have conferred upon you. +But I must ask you to cease your jibes and derogatory comments upon +the South and the Southern people. They, sir, will not be tolerated +in the office of <i>The Rose of Dixie</i> for one moment. And before you +proceed with more of your covert insinuations that I, the editor of this +magazine, am not a competent judge of the merits of the matter submitted +to its consideration, I beg that you will first present some evidence or +proof that you are my superior in any way, shape, or form relative to +the question in hand."</p> + +<p>"Oh, come, Colonel," said Thacker, good-naturedly. "I didn't do +anything like that to you. It sounds like an indictment by the fourth +assistant attorney-general. Let's get back to business. What's this +8,000 to 1 shot about?"</p> + +<p>"The article," said Colonel Telfair, acknowledging the apology by a +slight bow, "covers a wide area of knowledge. It takes up theories +and questions that have puzzled the world for centuries, and disposes +of them logically and concisely. One by one it holds up to view the +evils of the world, points out the way of eradicating them, and then +conscientiously and in detail commends the good. There is hardly a +phase of human life that it does not discuss wisely, calmly, and +equitably. The great policies of governments, the duties of private +citizens, the obligations of home life, law, ethics, +morality—all these important subjects are handled with a calm +wisdom and confidence that I must confess has captured my +admiration."</p> + +<p>"It must be a crackerjack," said Thacker, impressed.</p> + +<p>"It is a great contribution to the world's wisdom," said the colonel. +"The only doubt remaining in my mind as to the tremendous advantage it +would be to us to give it publication in <i>The Rose of Dixie</i> is +that I have not yet sufficient information about the author to give his +work publicity in our magazine.</p> + +<p>"I thought you said he is a distinguished man," said Thacker.</p> + +<p>"He is," replied the colonel, "both in literary and in other more +diversified and extraneous fields. But I am extremely careful about +the matter that I accept for publication. My contributors are people +of unquestionable repute and connections, which fact can be verified +at any time. As I said, I am holding this article until I can acquire +more information about its author. I do not know whether I will +publish it or not. If I decide against it, I shall be much pleased, +Mr. Thacker, to substitute the matter that you are leaving with me in +its place."</p> + +<p>Thacker was somewhat at sea.</p> + +<p>"I don't seem to gather," said he, "much about the gist of this +inspired piece of literature. It sounds more like a dark horse than +Pegasus to me."</p> + +<p>"It is a human document," said the colonel-editor, confidently, "from +a man of great accomplishments who, in my opinion, has obtained a +stronger grasp on the world and its outcomes than that of any man living +to-day."</p> + +<p>Thacker rose to his feet excitedly.</p> + +<p>"Say!" he said. "It isn't possible that you've cornered John D. +Rockefeller's memoirs, is it? Don't tell me that all at once."</p> + +<p>"No, sir," said Colonel Telfair. "I am speaking of mentality and +literature, not of the less worthy intricacies of trade."</p> + +<p>"Well, what's the trouble about running the article," asked Thacker, +a little impatiently, "if the man's well known and has got the +stuff?"</p> + +<p>Colonel Telfair sighed.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Thacker," said he, "for once I have been tempted. Nothing has +yet appeared in <i>The Rose of Dixie</i> that has not been from the pen +of one of its sons or daughters. I know little about the author of this +article except that he has acquired prominence in a section of the +country that has always been inimical to my heart and mind. But I +recognize his genius; and, as I have told you, I have instituted an +investigation of his personality. Perhaps it will be futile. But I shall +pursue the inquiry. Until that is finished, I must leave open the +question of filling the vacant space in our January number."</p> + +<p>Thacker arose to leave.</p> + +<p>"All right, Colonel," he said, as cordially as he could. "You use +your own judgment. If you've really got a scoop or something that +will make 'em sit up, run it instead of my stuff. I'll drop in again +in about two weeks. Good luck!"</p> + +<p>Colonel Telfair and the magazine promoter shook hands.</p> + +<p>Returning a fortnight later, Thacker dropped off a very rocky Pullman +at Toombs City. He found the January number of the magazine made up +and the forms closed.</p> + +<p>The vacant space that had been yawning for type was filled by an +article that was headed thus:<br /> </p> + +<div class="center"> +<p class="noindent"><span class="small"><span class="smallcaps">second +message to congress</span></span><br /> +<br /> +Written for</p> +</div> + +<h3>THE ROSE OF DIXIE</h3> + +<div class="center"> +<p class="noindent"><span class="small">BY</span><br /> +<br /> +A Member of the Well-known<br /> +<br /> +<b>BULLOCH FAMILY, OF GEORGIA</b><br /> +<br /> +<span class="small"><span class="smallcaps">T. +Roosevelt</span></span></p> +</div> +<p> </p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="2"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>THE THIRD INGREDIENT</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<p>The (so-called) Vallambrosa Apartment-House is not an +apartment-house. It is composed of two old-fashioned, brownstone-front +residences welded into one. The parlor floor of one side is gay with the +wraps and head-gear of a modiste; the other is lugubrious with the +sophistical promises and grisly display of a painless dentist. You may +have a room there for two dollars a week or you may have one for twenty +dollars. Among the Vallambrosa's roomers are stenographers, musicians, +brokers, shop-girls, space-rate writers, art students, wire-tappers, and +other people who lean far over the banister-rail when the door-bell +rings.</p> + +<p>This treatise shall have to do with but two of the +Vallambrosians—though meaning no disrespect to the others.</p> + +<p>At six o'clock one afternoon Hetty Pepper came back to her +third-floor rear $3.50 room in the Vallambrosa with her nose and chin +more sharply pointed than usual. To be discharged from the department +store where you have been working four years, and with only fifteen +cents in your purse, does have a tendency to make your features appear +more finely chiselled.</p> + +<p>And now for Hetty's thumb-nail biography while she climbs the two +flights of stairs.</p> + +<p>She walked into the Biggest Store one morning four years before with +seventy-five other girls, applying for a job behind the waist +department counter. The phalanx of wage-earners formed a bewildering +scene of beauty, carrying a total mass of blond hair sufficient to +have justified the horseback gallops of a hundred Lady Godivas.</p> + +<p>The capable, cool-eyed, impersonal, young, bald-headed man whose task +it was to engage six of the contestants, was aware of a feeling of +suffocation as if he were drowning in a sea of frangipanni, while +white clouds, hand-embroidered, floated about him. And then a sail +hove in sight. Hetty Pepper, homely of countenance, with small, +contemptuous, green eyes and chocolate-colored hair, dressed in a suit +of plain burlap and a common-sense hat, stood before him with every +one of her twenty-nine years of life unmistakably in sight.</p> + +<p>"You're on!" shouted the bald-headed young man, and was saved. And +that is how Hetty came to be employed in the Biggest Store. The story +of her rise to an eight-dollar-a-week salary is the combined stories +of Hercules, Joan of Arc, Una, Job, and Little-Red-Riding-Hood. You +shall not learn from me the salary that was paid her as a beginner. +There is a sentiment growing about such things, and I want no +millionaire store-proprietors climbing the fire-escape of my +tenement-house to throw dynamite bombs into my skylight boudoir.</p> + +<p>The story of Hetty's discharge from the Biggest Store is so nearly a +repetition of her engagement as to be monotonous.</p> + +<p>In each department of the store there is an omniscient, omnipresent, +and omnivorous person carrying always a mileage book and a red +necktie, and referred to as a "buyer." The destinies of the girls in +his department who live on (see Bureau of Victual Statistics)—so +much per week are in his hands.</p> + +<p>This particular buyer was a capable, cool-eyed, impersonal, young, +bald-headed man. As he walked along the aisles of his department he +seemed to be sailing on a sea of frangipanni, while white clouds, +machine-embroidered, floated around him. Too many sweets bring +surfeit. He looked upon Hetty Pepper's homely countenance, emerald +eyes, and chocolate-colored hair as a welcome oasis of green in a +desert of cloying beauty. In a quiet angle of a counter he pinched +her arm kindly, three inches above the elbow. She slapped him three +feet away with one good blow of her muscular and not especially +lily-white right. So, now you know why Hetty Pepper came to leave the +Biggest Store at thirty minutes' notice, with one dime and a nickel in +her purse.</p> + +<p>This morning's quotations list the price of rib beef at six cents per +(butcher's) pound. But on the day that Hetty was "released" by the B. +S. the price was seven and one-half cents. That fact is what makes +this story possible. Otherwise, the extra four cents would have—</p> + +<p>But the plot of nearly all the good stories in the world is concerned +with shorts who were unable to cover; so you can find no fault with +this one.</p> + +<p>Hetty mounted with her rib beef to her $3.50 third-floor back. One +hot, savory beef-stew for supper, a night's good sleep, and she would +be fit in the morning to apply again for the tasks of Hercules, Joan +of Arc, Una, Job, and Little-Red-Riding-Hood.</p> + +<p>In her room she got the granite-ware stew-pan out of the +2×4-foot china—er—I mean earthenware closet, +and began to dig down in a rat's-nest of paper bags for the potatoes and +onions. She came out with her nose and chin just a little sharper +pointed.</p> + +<p>There was neither a potato nor an onion. Now, what kind of a +beef-stew can you make out of simply beef? You can make oyster-soup +without oysters, turtle-soup without turtles, coffee-cake without +coffee, but you can't make beef-stew without potatoes and onions.</p> + +<p>But rib beef alone, in an emergency, can make an ordinary pine door +look like a wrought-iron gambling-house portal to the wolf. With salt +and pepper and a tablespoonful of flour (first well stirred in a +little cold water) 'twill serve—'tis not so deep as a lobster +à la Newburg nor so wide as a church festival doughnut; but +'twill serve.</p> + +<p>Hetty took her stew-pan to the rear of the third-floor hall. +According to the advertisements of the Vallambrosa there was running +water to be found there. Between you and me and the water-meter, it +only ambled or walked through the faucets; but technicalities have no +place here. There was also a sink where housekeeping roomers often +met to dump their coffee grounds and glare at one another's +kimonos.</p> + +<p>At this sink Hetty found a girl with heavy, gold-brown, artistic hair +and plaintive eyes, washing two large "Irish" potatoes. Hetty knew +the Vallambrosa as well as any one not owning "double +hextra-magnifying eyes" could compass its mysteries. The kimonos were +her encyclopedia, her "Who's What?" her clearinghouse of news, of goers +and comers. From a rose-pink kimono edged with Nile green she had +learned that the girl with the potatoes was a miniature-painter living +in a kind of attic—or "studio," as they prefer to call +it—on the top floor. Hetty was not certain in her mind what +a miniature was; but it certainly wasn't a house; because +house-painters, although they wear splashy overalls and poke ladders in +your face on the street, are known to indulge in a riotous profusion of +food at home.</p> + +<p>The potato girl was quite slim and small, and handled her potatoes as +an old bachelor uncle handles a baby who is cutting teeth. She had a +dull shoemaker's knife in her right hand, and she had begun to peel +one of the potatoes with it.</p> + +<p>Hetty addressed her in the punctiliously formal tone of one who +intends to be cheerfully familiar with you in the second round.</p> + +<p>"Beg pardon," she said, "for butting into what's not my business, but +if you peel them potatoes you lose out. They're new Bermudas. You +want to scrape 'em. Lemme show you."</p> + +<p>She took a potato and the knife, and began to demonstrate.</p> + +<p>"Oh, thank you," breathed the artist. "I didn't know. And I +<i>did</i> hate to see the thick peeling go; it seemed such a waste. But +I thought they always had to be peeled. When you've got only potatoes to +eat, the peelings count, you know."</p> + +<p>"Say, kid," said Hetty, staying her knife, "you ain't up against it, +too, are you?"</p> + +<p>The miniature artist smiled starvedly.</p> + +<p>"I suppose I am. Art—or, at least, the way I interpret +it—doesn't seem to be much in demand. I have only these +potatoes for my dinner. But they aren't so bad boiled and hot, with a +little butter and salt."</p> + +<p>"Child," said Hetty, letting a brief smile soften her rigid features, +"Fate has sent me and you together. I've had it handed to me in the +neck, too; but I've got a chunk of meat in my, room as big as a lap-dog. +And I've done everything to get potatoes except pray for 'em. Let's me +and you bunch our commissary departments and make a stew of 'em. We'll +cook it in my room. If we only had an onion to go in it! Say, kid, you +haven't got a couple of pennies that've slipped down into the lining of +your last winter's sealskin, have you? I could step down to the corner +and get one at old Giuseppe's stand. A stew without an onion is worse'n +a matinée without candy."</p> + +<p>"You may call me Cecilia," said the artist. "No; I spent my last +penny three days ago."</p> + +<p>"Then we'll have to cut the onion out instead of slicing it in," said +Hetty. "I'd ask the janitress for one, but I don't want 'em hep just +yet to the fact that I'm pounding the asphalt for another job. But I +wish we did have an onion."</p> + +<p>In the shop-girl's room the two began to prepare their supper. +Cecilia's part was to sit on the couch helplessly and beg to be +allowed to do something, in the voice of a cooing ring-dove. Hetty +prepared the rib beef, putting it in cold salted water in the stew-pan +and setting it on the one-burner gas-stove.</p> + +<p>"I wish we had an onion," said Hetty, as she scraped the two +potatoes.</p> + +<p>On the wall opposite the couch was pinned a flaming, gorgeous +advertising picture of one of the new ferry-boats of the P. U. F. +F. Railroad that had been built to cut down the time between Los +Angeles and New York City one-eighth of a minute.</p> + +<p>Hetty, turning her head during her continuous monologue, saw tears +running from her guest's eyes as she gazed on the idealized +presentment of the speeding, foam-girdled transport.</p> + +<p>"Why, say, Cecilia, kid," said Hetty, poising her knife, "is it as +bad art as that? I ain't a critic; but I thought it kind of brightened +up the room. Of course, a manicure-painter could tell it was a bum +picture in a minute. I'll take it down if you say so. I wish to the holy +Saint Potluck we had an onion."</p> + +<p>But the miniature miniature-painter had tumbled down, sobbing, with +her nose indenting the hard-woven drapery of the couch. Something was +here deeper than the artistic temperament offended at crude +lithography.</p> + +<p>Hetty knew. She had accepted her rôle long ago. How scant the +words with which we try to describe a single quality of a human being! +When we reach the abstract we are lost. The nearer to Nature that the +babbling of our lips comes, the better do we understand. Figuratively +(let us say), some people are Bosoms, some are Hands, some are Heads, +some are Muscles, some are Feet, some are Backs for burdens.</p> + +<p>Hetty was a Shoulder. Hers was a sharp, sinewy shoulder; but all her +life people had laid their heads upon it, metaphorically or actually, +and had left there all or half their troubles. Looking at Life +anatomically, which is as good a way as any, she was preordained to be +a Shoulder. There were few truer collar-bones anywhere than hers.</p> + +<p>Hetty was only thirty-three, and she had not yet outlived the little +pang that visited her whenever the head of youth and beauty leaned +upon her for consolation. But one glance in her mirror always served +as an instantaneous pain-killer. So she gave one pale look into the +crinkly old looking-glass on the wall above the gas-stove, turned down +the flame a little lower from the bubbling beef and potatoes, went +over to the couch, and lifted Cecilia's head to its confessional.</p> + +<p>"Go on and tell me, honey," she said. "I know now that it ain't art +that's worrying you. You met him on a ferry-boat, didn't you? Go on, +Cecilia, kid, and tell your—your Aunt Hetty about it."</p> + +<p>But youth and melancholy must first spend the surplus of sighs and +tears that waft and float the barque of romance to its harbor in the +delectable isles. Presently, through the stringy tendons that formed +the bars of the confessional, the penitent—or was it the +glorified communicant of the sacred flame—told her story +without art or illumination.</p> + +<p>"It was only three days ago. I was coming back on the ferry from +Jersey City. Old Mr. Schrum, an art dealer, told me of a rich man in +Newark who wanted a miniature of his daughter painted. I went to see +him and showed him some of my work. When I told him the price would +be fifty dollars he laughed at me like a hyena. He said an enlarged +crayon twenty times the size would cost him only eight dollars.</p> + +<p>"I had just enough money to buy my ferry ticket back to New York. I +felt as if I didn't want to live another day. I must have looked as I +felt, for I saw <i>him</i> on the row of seats opposite me, looking at +me as if he understood. He was nice-looking, but oh, above everything +else, he looked kind. When one is tired or unhappy or hopeless, kindness +counts more than anything else.</p> + +<p>"When I got so miserable that I couldn't fight against it any longer, +I got up and walked slowly out the rear door of the ferry-boat cabin. +No one was there, and I slipped quickly over the rail and dropped into +the water. Oh, friend Hetty, it was cold, cold!</p> + +<p>"For just one moment I wished I was back in the old Vallambrosa, +starving and hoping. And then I got numb, and didn't care. And then +I felt that somebody else was in the water close by me, holding me up. +<i>He</i> had followed me, and jumped in to save me.</p> + +<p>"Somebody threw a thing like a big, white doughnut at us, and he made +me put my arms through the hole. Then the ferry-boat backed, and they +pulled us on board. Oh, Hetty, I was so ashamed of my wickedness in +trying to drown myself; and, besides, my hair had all tumbled down and +was sopping wet, and I was such a sight.</p> + +<p>"And then some men in blue clothes came around; and he gave them his +card, and I heard him tell them he had seen me drop my purse on the +edge of the boat outside the rail, and in leaning over to get it I had +fallen overboard. And then I remembered having read in the papers that +people who try to kill themselves are locked up in cells with people who +try to kill other people, and I was afraid.</p> + +<p>"But some ladies on the boat took me downstairs to the furnace-room +and got me nearly dry and did up my hair. When the boat landed, +<i>he</i> came and put me in a cab. He was all dripping himself, but +laughed as if he thought it was all a joke. He begged me, but I wouldn't +tell him my name nor where I lived, I was so ashamed."</p> + +<p>"You were a fool, child," said Hetty, kindly. "Wait till I turn the +light up a bit. I wish to Heaven we had an onion."</p> + +<p>"Then he raised his hat," went on Cecilia, "and said: 'Very well. But +I'll find you, anyhow. I'm going to claim my rights of salvage.' +Then he gave money to the cab-driver and told him to take me where I +wanted to go, and walked away. What is 'salvage,' Hetty?"</p> + +<p>"The edge of a piece of goods that ain't hemmed," said the shop-girl. +"You must have looked pretty well frazzled out to the little hero +boy."</p> + +<p>"It's been three days," moaned the miniature-painter, "and he hasn't +found me yet."</p> + +<p>"Extend the time," said Hetty. "This is a big town. Think of how +many girls he might have to see soaked in water with their hair down +before he would recognize you. The stew's getting on fine—but +oh, for an onion! I'd even use a piece of garlic if I had it."</p> + +<p>The beef and potatoes bubbled merrily, exhaling a mouth-watering +savor that yet lacked something, leaving a hunger on the palate, a +haunting, wistful desire for some lost and needful ingredient.</p> + +<p>"I came near drowning in that awful river," said Cecilia, +shuddering.</p> + +<p>"It ought to have more water in it," said Hetty; "the stew, I mean. +I'll go get some at the sink."</p> + +<p>"It smells good," said the artist.</p> + +<p>"That nasty old North River?" objected Hetty. "It smells to me like +soap factories and wet setter-dogs—oh, you mean the stew. Well, +I wish we had an onion for it. Did he look like he had money?"</p> + +<p>"First, he looked kind," said Cecilia. "I'm sure he was rich; but +that matters so little. When he drew out his bill-folder to pay the +cab-man you couldn't help seeing hundreds and thousands of dollars in +it. And I looked over the cab doors and saw him leave the ferry +station in a motor-car; and the chauffeur gave him his bearskin to put +on, for he was sopping wet. And it was only three days ago."</p> + +<p>"What a fool!" said Hetty, shortly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, the chauffeur wasn't wet," breathed Cecilia. "And he drove the +car away very nicely."</p> + +<p>"I mean <i>you</i>," said Hetty. "For not giving him your +address."</p> + +<p>"I never give my address to chauffeurs," said Cecilia, +haughtily.</p> + +<p>"I wish we had one," said Hetty, disconsolately.</p> + +<p>"What for?"</p> + +<p>"For the stew, of course—oh, I mean an onion."</p> + +<p>Hetty took a pitcher and started to the sink at the end of the +hall.</p> + +<p>A young man came down the stairs from above just as she was opposite +the lower step. He was decently dressed, but pale and haggard. His eyes +were dull with the stress of some burden of physical or mental woe. In +his hand he bore an onion—a pink, smooth, solid, shining onion +as large around as a ninety-eight-cent alarm-clock.</p> + +<p>Hetty stopped. So did the young man. There was something Joan of +Arc-ish, Herculean, and Una-ish in the look and pose of the +shop-lady—she had cast off the rôles of Job and +Little-Red-Riding-Hood. The young man stopped at the foot of the stairs +and coughed distractedly. He felt marooned, held up, attacked, assailed, +levied upon, sacked, assessed, panhandled, browbeaten, though he knew +not why. It was the look in Hetty's eyes that did it. In them he saw the +Jolly Roger fly to the masthead and an able seaman with a dirk between +his teeth scurry up the ratlines and nail it there. But as yet he did +not know that the cargo he carried was the thing that had caused him to +be so nearly blown out of the water without even a parley.</p> + +<p>"<i>Beg</i> your pardon," said Hetty, as sweetly as her dilute acetic +acid tones permitted, "but did you find that onion on the stairs? There +was a hole in the paper bag; and I've just come out to look for it."</p> + +<p>The young man coughed for half a minute. The interval may have given +him the courage to defend his own property. Also, he clutched his +pungent prize greedily, and, with a show of spirit, faced his grim +waylayer.</p> + +<p>"No," he said huskily, "I didn't find it on the stairs. It was given +to me by Jack Bevens, on the top floor. If you don't believe it, ask +him. I'll wait until you do."</p> + +<p>"I know about Bevens," said Hetty, sourly. "He writes books and +things up there for the paper-and-rags man. We can hear the postman +guy him all over the house when he brings them thick envelopes back. +Say—do you live in the Vallambrosa?"</p> + +<p>"I do not," said the young man. "I come to see Bevens sometimes. +He's my friend. I live two blocks west."</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do with the onion?—<i>begging</i> +your pardon," said Hetty.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to eat it."</p> + +<p>"Raw?"</p> + +<p>"Yes: as soon as I get home."</p> + +<p>"Haven't you got anything else to eat with it?"</p> + +<p>The young man considered briefly.</p> + +<p>"No," he confessed; "there's not another scrap of anything in my +diggings to eat. I think old Jack is pretty hard up for grub in his +shack, too. He hated to give up the onion, but I worried him into +parting with it."</p> + +<p>"Man," said Hetty, fixing him with her world-sapient eyes, and laying +a bony but impressive finger on his sleeve, "you've known trouble, +too, haven't you?"</p> + +<p>"Lots," said the onion owner, promptly. "But this onion is my own +property, honestly come by. If you will excuse me, I must be +going."</p> + +<p>"Listen," said Hetty, paling a little with anxiety. "Raw onion is a +mighty poor diet. And so is a beef-stew without one. Now, if you're +Jack Bevens' friend, I guess you're nearly right. There's a little +lady—a friend of mine—in my room there at the end +of the hall. Both of us are out of luck; and we had just potatoes and +meat between us. They're stewing now. But it ain't got any soul. There's +something lacking to it. There's certain things in life that are +naturally intended to fit and belong together. One is pink cheese-cloth +and green roses, and one is ham and eggs, and one is Irish and trouble. +And the other one is beef and potatoes <i>with</i> onions. And still +another one is people who are up against it and other people in the same +fix."</p> + +<p>The young man went into a protracted paroxysm of coughing. With one +hand he hugged his onion to his bosom.</p> + +<p>"No doubt; no doubt," said he, at length. "But, as I said, I must be +going, because—"</p> + +<p>Hetty clutched his sleeve firmly.</p> + +<p>"Don't be a Dago, Little Brother. Don't eat raw onions. Chip it in +toward the dinner and line yourself inside with the best stew you ever +licked a spoon over. Must two ladies knock a young gentleman down and +drag him inside for the honor of dining with 'em? No harm shall +befall you, Little Brother. Loosen up and fall into line."</p> + +<p>The young man's pale face relaxed into a grin.</p> + +<p>"Believe I'll go you," he said, brightening. "If my onion is good as +a credential, I'll accept the invitation gladly."</p> + +<p>"It's good as that, but better as seasoning," said Hetty. "You come +and stand outside the door till I ask my lady friend if she has any +objections. And don't run away with that letter of recommendation +before I come out."</p> + +<p>Hetty went into her room and closed the door. The young man waited +outside.</p> + +<p>"Cecilia, kid," said the shop-girl, oiling the sharp saw of her voice +as well as she could, "there's an onion outside. With a young man +attached. I've asked him in to dinner. You ain't going to kick, are +you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear!" said Cecilia, sitting up and patting her artistic hair. +She cast a mournful glance at the ferry-boat poster on the wall.</p> + +<p>"Nit," said Hetty. "It ain't him. You're up against real life now. +I believe you said your hero friend had money and automobiles. This +is a poor skeezicks that's got nothing to eat but an onion. But he's +easy-spoken and not a freshy. I imagine he's been a gentleman, he's +so low down now. And we need the onion. Shall I bring him in? I'll +guarantee his behavior."</p> + +<p>"Hetty, dear," sighed Cecilia, "I'm so hungry. What difference does +it make whether he's a prince or a burglar? I don't care. Bring him +in if he's got anything to eat with him."</p> + +<p>Hetty went back into the hall. The onion man was gone. Her heart +missed a beat, and a gray look settled over her face except on her +nose and cheek-bones. And then the tides of life flowed in again, for +she saw him leaning out of the front window at the other end of the +hall. She hurried there. He was shouting to some one below. The +noise of the street overpowered the sound of her footsteps. She +looked down over his shoulder, saw whom he was speaking to, and heard +his words. He pulled himself in from the window-sill and saw her +standing over him.</p> + +<p>Hetty's eyes bored into him like two steel gimlets.</p> + +<p>"Don't lie to me," she said, calmly. "What were you going to do with +that onion?"</p> + +<p>The young man suppressed a cough and faced her resolutely. His manner +was that of one who had been bearded sufficiently.</p> + +<p>"I was going to eat it," said he, with emphatic slowness; "just as I +told you before."</p> + +<p>"And you have nothing else to eat at home?"</p> + +<p>"Not a thing."</p> + +<p>"What kind of work do you do?"</p> + +<p>"I am not working at anything just now."</p> + +<p>"Then why," said Hetty, with her voice set on its sharpest edge, "do +you lean out of windows and give orders to chauffeurs in green +automobiles in the street below?"</p> + +<p>The young man flushed, and his dull eyes began to sparkle.</p> + +<p>"Because, madam," said he, in <i>accelerando</i> tones, "I pay the +chauffeur's wages and I own the automobile—and also this +onion—this onion, madam."</p> + +<p>He flourished the onion within an inch of Hetty's nose. The shop-lady +did not retreat a hair's-breadth.</p> + +<p>"Then why do you eat onions," she said, with biting contempt, "and +nothing else?"</p> + +<p>"I never said I did," retorted the young man, heatedly. "I said I had +nothing else to eat where I live. I am not a delicatessen +store-keeper."</p> + +<p>"Then why," pursued Hetty, inflexibly, "were you going to eat a raw +onion?"</p> + +<p>"My mother," said the young man, "always made me eat one for a cold. +Pardon my referring to a physical infirmity; but you may have noticed +that I have a very, very severe cold. I was going to eat the onion +and go to bed. I wonder why I am standing here and apologizing to you +for it."</p> + +<p>"How did you catch this cold?" went on Hetty, suspiciously.</p> + +<p>The young man seemed to have arrived at some extreme height of +feeling. There were two modes of descent open to him—a burst +of rage or a surrender to the ridiculous. He chose wisely; and the empty +hall echoed his hoarse laughter.</p> + +<p>"You're a dandy," said he. "And I don't blame you for being careful. +I don't mind telling you. I got wet. I was on a North River ferry a +few days ago when a girl jumped overboard. Of course, I—"</p> + +<p>Hetty extended her hand, interrupting his story.</p> + +<p>"Give me the onion," she said.</p> + +<p>The young man set his jaw a trifle harder.</p> + +<p>"Give me the onion," she repeated.</p> + +<p>He grinned, and laid it in her hand.</p> + +<p>Then Hetty's infrequent, grim, melancholy smile showed itself. She +took the young man's arm and pointed with her other hand to the door +of her room.</p> + +<p>"Little Brother," she said, "go in there. The little fool you fished +out of the river is there waiting for you. Go on in. I'll give you +three minutes before I come. Potatoes is in there, waiting. Go on +in, Onions."</p> + +<p>After he had tapped at the door and entered, Hetty began to peel and +wash the onion at the sink. She gave a gray look at the gray roofs +outside, and the smile on her face vanished by little jerks and +twitches.</p> + +<p>"But it's us," she said, grimly, to herself, "it's <i>us</i> that +furnished the beef."</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="3"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>THE HIDING OF BLACK BILL</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<p>A lank, strong, red-faced man with a Wellington beak and small, +fiery eyes tempered by flaxen lashes, sat on the station platform at +Los Pinos swinging his legs to and fro. At his side sat another man, +fat, melancholy, and seedy, who seemed to be his friend. They had +the appearance of men to whom life had appeared as a reversible +coat—seamy on both sides.</p> + +<p>"Ain't seen you in about four years, Ham," said the seedy man. +"Which way you been travelling?"</p> + +<p>"Texas," said the red-faced man. "It was too cold in Alaska for me. +And I found it warm in Texas. I'll tell you about one hot spell I +went through there.</p> + +<p>"One morning I steps off the International at a water-tank and lets +it go on without me. 'Twas a ranch country, and fuller of +spite-houses than New York City. Only out there they build 'em +twenty miles away so you can't smell what they've got for dinner, +instead of running 'em up two inches from their neighbors' windows.</p> + +<p>"There wasn't any roads in sight, so I footed it 'cross country. The +grass was shoe-top deep, and the mesquite timber looked just like a +peach orchard. It was so much like a gentleman's private estate that +every minute you expected a kennelful of bulldogs to run out and +bite you. But I must have walked twenty miles before I came in sight +of a ranch-house. It was a little one, about as big as an +elevated-railroad station.</p> + +<p>"There was a little man in a white shirt and brown overalls and a +pink handkerchief around his neck rolling cigarettes under a tree in +front of the door.</p> + +<p>"'Greetings,' says I. 'Any refreshment, welcome, emoluments, or even +work for a comparative stranger?'</p> + +<p>"'Oh, come in,' says he, in a refined tone. 'Sit down on that stool, +please. I didn't hear your horse coming.'</p> + +<p>"'He isn't near enough yet,' says I. 'I walked. I don't want to be +a burden, but I wonder if you have three or four gallons of water +handy.'</p> + +<p>"'You do look pretty dusty,' says he; 'but our bathing +arrangements—'</p> + +<p>"'It's a drink I want,' says I. 'Never mind the dust that's on the +outside.'</p> + +<p>"He gets me a dipper of water out of a red jar hanging up, and then +goes on:</p> + +<p>"'Do you want work?'</p> + +<p>"'For a time,' says I. 'This is a rather quiet section of the +country, isn't it?'</p> + +<p>"'It is,' says he. 'Sometimes—so I have been told—one sees no +human being pass for weeks at a time. I've been here only a month. +I bought the ranch from an old settler who wanted to move farther +west.'</p> + +<p>"'It suits me,' says I. 'Quiet and retirement are good for a man +sometimes. And I need a job. I can tend bar, salt mines, lecture, +float stock, do a little middle-weight slugging, and play the +piano.'</p> + +<p>"'Can you herd sheep?' asks the little ranchman.</p> + +<p>"'Do you mean <i>have</i> I heard sheep?' says I.</p> + +<p>"'Can you herd 'em—take charge of a flock of 'em?' says he.</p> + +<p>"'Oh,' says I, 'now I understand. You mean chase 'em around and bark +at 'em like collie dogs. Well, I might,' says I. 'I've never exactly +done any sheep-herding, but I've often seen 'em from car windows +masticating daisies, and they don't look dangerous.'</p> + +<p>"'I'm short a herder,' says the ranchman. 'You never can depend on +the Mexicans. I've only got two flocks. You may take out my bunch of +muttons—there are only eight hundred of 'em—in the morning, if you +like. The pay is twelve dollars a month and your rations furnished. +You camp in a tent on the prairie with your sheep. You do your own +cooking, but wood and water are brought to your camp. It's an easy +job.'</p> + +<p>"'I'm on,' says I. 'I'll take the job even if I have to garland my +brow and hold on to a crook and wear a loose-effect and play on a +pipe like the shepherds do in pictures.'</p> + +<p>"So the next morning the little ranchman helps me drive the flock of +muttons from the corral to about two miles out and let 'em graze on +a little hillside on the prairie. He gives me a lot of instructions +about not letting bunches of them stray off from the herd, and +driving 'em down to a water-hole to drink at noon.</p> + +<p>"'I'll bring out your tent and camping outfit and rations in the +buckboard before night,' says he.</p> + +<p>"'Fine,' says I. 'And don't forget the rations. Nor the camping +outfit. And be sure to bring the tent. Your name's Zollicoffer, +ain't it?"</p> + +<p>"'My name,' says he, 'is Henry Ogden.'</p> + +<p>"'All right, Mr. Ogden,' says I. 'Mine is Mr. Percival Saint +Clair.'</p> + +<p>"I herded sheep for five days on the Rancho Chiquito; and then the +wool entered my soul. That getting next to Nature certainly got next +to me. I was lonesomer than Crusoe's goat. I've seen a lot of +persons more entertaining as companions than those sheep were. I'd +drive 'em to the corral and pen 'em every evening, and then cook my +corn-bread and mutton and coffee, and lie down in a tent the size of +a table-cloth, and listen to the coyotes and whip-poor-wills singing +around the camp.</p> + +<p>"The fifth evening, after I had corralled my costly but uncongenial +muttons, I walked over to the ranch-house and stepped in the door. +"'Mr. Ogden,' says I, 'you and me have got to get sociable. Sheep +are all very well to dot the landscape and furnish eight-dollar +cotton suitings for man, but for table-talk and fireside companions +they rank along with five-o'clock teazers. If you've got a deck of +cards, or a parcheesi outfit, or a game of authors, get 'em out, and +let's get on a mental basis. I've got to do something in an +intellectual line, if it's only to knock somebody's brains out.'</p> + +<p>"This Henry Ogden was a peculiar kind of ranchman. He wore +finger-rings and a big gold watch and careful neckties. And his face +was calm, and his nose-spectacles was kept very shiny. I saw once, +in Muscogee, an outlaw hung for murdering six men, who was a dead +ringer for him. But I knew a preacher in Arkansas that you would +have taken to be his brother. I didn't care much for him either way; +what I wanted was some fellowship and communion with holy saints or +lost sinners—anything sheepless would do.</p> + +<p>"'Well, Saint Clair,' says he, laying down the book he was reading, +'I guess it must be pretty lonesome for you at first. And I don't +deny that it's monotonous for me. Are you sure you corralled your +sheep so they won't stray out?'</p> + +<p>"'They're shut up as tight as the jury of a millionaire murderer,' +says I. 'And I'll be back with them long before they'll need their +trained nurse.'</p> + +<p>"So Ogden digs up a deck of cards, and we play casino. After five +days and nights of my sheep-camp it was like a toot on Broadway. +When I caught big casino I felt as excited as if I had made a +million in Trinity. And when H. O. loosened up a little and told the +story about the lady in the Pullman car I laughed for five minutes.</p> + +<p>"That showed what a comparative thing life is. A man may see so much +that he'd be bored to turn his head to look at a $3,000,000 fire or +Joe Weber or the Adriatic Sea. But let him herd sheep for a spell, +and you'll see him splitting his ribs laughing at 'Curfew Shall Not +Ring To-night,' or really enjoying himself playing cards with +ladies.</p> + +<p>"By-and-by Ogden gets out a decanter of Bourbon, and then there is +a total eclipse of sheep.</p> + +<p>"'Do you remember reading in the papers, about a month ago,' says +he, 'about a train hold-up on the M. K. & T.? The express agent was +shot through the shoulder and about $15,000 in currency taken. And +it's said that only one man did the job.'</p> + +<p>"'Seems to me I do,' says I. 'But such things happen so often they +don't linger long in the human Texas mind. Did they overtake, +overhaul, seize, or lay hands upon the despoiler?'</p> + +<p>"'He escaped,' says Ogden. 'And I was just reading in a paper to-day +that the officers have tracked him down into this part of the +country. It seems the bills the robber got were all the first issue +of currency to the Second National Bank of Espinosa City. And so +they've followed the trail where they've been spent, and it leads +this way.'</p> + +<p>"Ogden pours out some more Bourbon, and shoves me the bottle.</p> + +<p>"'I imagine,' says I, after ingurgitating another modicum of the +royal booze, 'that it wouldn't be at all a disingenuous idea for a +train robber to run down into this part of the country to hide for +a spell. A sheep-ranch, now,' says I, 'would be the finest kind of a +place. Who'd ever expect to find such a desperate character among +these song-birds and muttons and wild flowers? And, by the way,' +says I, kind of looking H. Ogden over, 'was there any description +mentioned of this single-handed terror? Was his lineaments or height +and thickness or teeth fillings or style of habiliments set forth in +print?'</p> + +<p>"'Why, no,' says Ogden; 'they say nobody got a good sight of him +because he wore a mask. But they know it was a train-robber called +Black Bill, because he always works alone and because he dropped a +handkerchief in the express-car that had his name on it.'</p> + +<p>"'All right,' says I. 'I approve of Black Bill's retreat to the +sheep-ranges. I guess they won't find him.'</p> + +<p>"'There's one thousand dollars reward for his capture,' says +Ogden.</p> + +<p>"'I don't need that kind of money,' says I, looking Mr. Sheepman +straight in the eye. 'The twelve dollars a month you pay me is +enough. I need a rest, and I can save up until I get enough to pay +my fare to Texarkana, where my widowed mother lives. If Black Bill,' +I goes on, looking significantly at Ogden, 'was to have come down +this way—say, a month ago—and bought a little sheep-ranch and—'</p> + +<p>"'Stop,' says Ogden, getting out of his chair and looking pretty +vicious. 'Do you mean to insinuate—'</p> + +<p>"'Nothing,' says I; 'no insinuations. I'm stating a hypodermical +case. I say, if Black Bill had come down here and bought a +sheep-ranch and hired me to Little-Boy-Blue 'em and treated me +square and friendly, as you've done, he'd never have anything to +fear from me. A man is a man, regardless of any complications he may +have with sheep or railroad trains. Now you know where I stand.'</p> + +<p>"Ogden looks black as camp-coffee for nine seconds, and then he +laughs, amused.</p> + +<p>"'You'll do, Saint Clair,' says he. 'If I <i>was</i> Black Bill +I wouldn't be afraid to trust you. Let's have a game or two of seven-up +to-night. That is, if you don't mind playing with a train-robber.'</p> + +<p>"'I've told you,' says I, 'my oral sentiments, and there's no +strings to 'em.'</p> + +<p>"While I was shuffling after the first hand, I asks Ogden, as if +the idea was a kind of a casualty, where he was from.</p> + +<p>"'Oh,' says he, 'from the Mississippi Valley.'</p> + +<p>"'That's a nice little place,' says I. 'I've often stopped over +there. But didn't you find the sheets a little damp and the food +poor? Now, I hail,' says I, 'from the Pacific Slope. Ever put up +there?'</p> + +<p>"'Too draughty,' says Ogden. 'But if you're ever in the Middle West +just mention my name, and you'll get foot-warmers and dripped +coffee.'</p> + +<p>"'Well,' says I, 'I wasn't exactly fishing for your private +telephone number and the middle name of your aunt that carried off +the Cumberland Presbyterian minister. It don't matter. I just want +you to know you are safe in the hands of your shepherd. Now, don't +play hearts on spades, and don't get nervous.'</p> + +<p>"'Still harping,' says Ogden, laughing again. 'Don't you suppose +that if I was Black Bill and thought you suspected me, I'd put a +Winchester bullet into you and stop my nervousness, if I had any?'</p> + +<p>"'Not any,' says I. 'A man who's got the nerve to hold up a train +single-handed wouldn't do a trick like that. I've knocked about +enough to know that them are the kind of men who put a value on a +friend. Not that I can claim being a friend of yours, Mr. Ogden,' +says I, 'being only your sheep-herder; but under more expeditious +circumstances we might have been.'</p> + +<p>"'Forget the sheep temporarily, I beg,' says Ogden, 'and cut for +deal.'</p> + +<p>"About four days afterward, while my muttons was nooning on the +water-hole and I deep in the interstices of making a pot of coffee, +up rides softly on the grass a mysterious person in the garb of the +being he wished to represent. He was dressed somewhere between a +Kansas City detective, Buffalo Bill, and the town dog-catcher of +Baton Rouge. His chin and eye wasn't molded on fighting lines, so I +knew he was only a scout.</p> + +<p>"'Herdin' sheep?' he asks me.</p> + +<p>"'Well,' says I, 'to a man of your evident gumptional endowments, I +wouldn't have the nerve to state that I am engaged in decorating old +bronzes or oiling bicycle sprockets.'</p> + +<p>"'You don't talk or look like a sheep-herder to me,' says he.</p> + +<p>"'But you talk like what you look like to me,' says I.</p> + +<p>"And then he asks me who I was working for, and I shows him Rancho +Chiquito, two miles away, in the shadow of a low hill, and he tells +me he's a deputy sheriff.</p> + +<p>"'There's a train-robber called Black Bill supposed to be somewhere +in these parts,' says the scout. 'He's been traced as far as San +Antonio, and maybe farther. Have you seen or heard of any strangers +around here during the past month?'</p> + +<p>"'I have not,' says I, 'except a report of one over at the Mexican +quarters of Loomis' ranch, on the Frio.'</p> + +<p>"'What do you know about him?' asks the deputy.</p> + +<p>"'He's three days old,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'What kind of a looking man is the man you work for?' he asks. +'Does old George Ramey own this place yet? He's run sheep here for +the last ten years, but never had no success.'</p> + +<p>"'The old man has sold out and gone West,' I tells him. 'Another +sheep-fancier bought him out about a month ago.'</p> + +<p>"'What kind of a looking man is he?' asks the deputy again.</p> + +<p>"'Oh,' says I, 'a big, fat kind of a Dutchman with long whiskers and +blue specs. I don't think he knows a sheep from a ground-squirrel. +I guess old George soaked him pretty well on the deal,' says I.</p> + +<p>"After indulging himself in a lot more non-communicative information +and two-thirds of my dinner, the deputy rides away.</p> + +<p>"That night I mentions the matter to Ogden.</p> + +<p>"'They're drawing the tendrils of the octopus around Black +Bill,' says I. And then I told him about the deputy sheriff, and +how I'd described him to the deputy, and what the deputy said +about the matter.</p> + +<p>"'Oh, well,' says Ogden, 'let's don't borrow any of Black Bill's +troubles. We've a few of our own. Get the Bourbon out of the +cupboard and we'll drink to his health—unless,' says he, with his +little cackling laugh, 'you're prejudiced against train-robbers.'</p> + +<p>"'I'll drink,' says I, 'to any man who's a friend to a friend. And +I believe that Black Bill,' I goes on, 'would be that. So here's to +Black Bill, and may he have good luck.'</p> + +<p>"And both of us drank.</p> + +<p>"About two weeks later comes shearing-time. The sheep had to be +driven up to the ranch, and a lot of frowzy-headed Mexicans would +snip the fur off of them with back-action scissors. So the afternoon +before the barbers were to come I hustled my underdone muttons over +the hill, across the dell, down by the winding brook, and up to the +ranch-house, where I penned 'em in a corral and bade 'em my nightly +adieus.</p> + +<p>"I went from there to the ranch-house. I find H. Ogden, Esquire, +lying asleep on his little cot bed. I guess he had been overcome by +anti-insomnia or diswakefulness or some of the diseases peculiar to +the sheep business. His mouth and vest were open, and he breathed +like a second-hand bicycle pump. I looked at him and gave vent to +just a few musings. 'Imperial Cæsar,' says I, 'asleep in such +a way, might shut his mouth and keep the wind away.'</p> + +<p>"A man asleep is certainly a sight to make angels weep. What +good is all his brain, muscle, backing, nerve, influence, and family +connections? He's at the mercy of his enemies, and more so of his +friends. And he's about as beautiful as a cab-horse leaning against +the Metropolitan Opera House at +12.30 <span class="smallcaps">a.m.</span> dreaming of the plains of +Arabia. Now, a woman asleep you regard as different. No matter how +she looks, you know it's better for all hands for her to be that +way.</p> + +<p>"Well, I took a drink of Bourbon and one for Ogden, and started in +to be comfortable while he was taking his nap. He had some books on +his table on indigenous subjects, such as Japan and drainage and +physical culture—and some tobacco, which seemed more to the point.</p> + +<p>"After I'd smoked a few, and listened to the sartorial breathing of +H. O., I happened to look out the window toward the shearing-pens, +where there was a kind of a road coming up from a kind of a road +across a kind of a creek farther away.</p> + +<p>"I saw five men riding up to the house. All of 'em carried guns +across their saddles, and among 'em was the deputy that had talked +to me at my camp.</p> + +<p>"They rode up careful, in open formation, with their guns ready. I +set apart with my eye the one I opinionated to be the boss +muck-raker of this law-and-order cavalry.</p> + +<p>"'Good-evening, gents,' says I. 'Won't you 'light, and tie your +horses?'</p> + +<p>"The boss rides up close, and swings his gun over till the opening +in it seems to cover my whole front elevation.</p> + +<p>"'Don't you move your hands none,' says he, 'till you and me indulge +in a adequate amount of necessary conversation.'</p> + +<p>"'I will not,' says I. 'I am no deaf-mute, and therefore will not +have to disobey your injunctions in replying.'</p> + +<p>"'We are on the lookout,' says he, 'for Black Bill, the man that +held up the Katy for $15,000 in May. We are searching the ranches +and everybody on 'em. What is your name, and what do you do on this +ranch?'</p> + +<p>"'Captain,' says I, 'Percival Saint Clair is my occupation, and my +name is sheep-herder. I've got my flock of veals—no, +muttons—penned here to-night. The shearers are coming to-morrow to +give them a haircut—with baa-a-rum, I suppose.'</p> + +<p>"'Where's the boss of this ranch?' the captain of the gang +asks me.</p> + +<p>"'Wait just a minute, cap'n,' says I. 'Wasn't there a kind of a +reward offered for the capture of this desperate character you have +referred to in your preamble?'</p> + +<p>"'There's a thousand dollars reward offered,' says the captain, 'but +it's for his capture and conviction. There don't seem to be no +provision made for an informer.'</p> + +<p>"'It looks like it might rain in a day or so,' says I, in a tired +way, looking up at the cerulean blue sky.</p> + +<p>"'If you know anything about the locality, disposition, or +secretiveness of this here Black Bill,' says he, in a severe +dialect, 'you are amiable to the law in not reporting it.'</p> + +<p>"'I heard a fence-rider say,' says I, in a desultory kind of voice, +'that a Mexican told a cowboy named Jake over at Pidgin's store on +the Nueces that he heard that Black Bill had been seen in Matamoras +by a sheepman's cousin two weeks ago.'</p> + +<p>"'Tell you what I'll do, Tight Mouth,' says the captain, after +looking me over for bargains. 'If you put us on so we can scoop +Black Bill, I'll pay you a hundred dollars out of my own—out of our +own—pockets. That's liberal,' says he. 'You ain't entitled to +anything. Now, what do you say?'</p> + +<p>"'Cash down now?' I asks.</p> + +<p>"The captain has a sort of discussion with his helpmates, and they +all produce the contents of their pockets for analysis. Out of the +general results they figured up $102.30 in cash and $31 worth of +plug tobacco.</p> + +<p>"'Come nearer, capitan meeo,' says I, 'and listen.' He so did.</p> + +<p>"'I am mighty poor and low down in the world,' says I. 'I am working +for twelve dollars a month trying to keep a lot of animals together +whose only thought seems to be to get asunder. Although,' says I, 'I +regard myself as some better than the State of South Dakota, it's a +come-down to a man who has heretofore regarded sheep only in the +form of chops. I'm pretty far reduced in the world on account of +foiled ambitions and rum and a kind of cocktail they make along the +P. R. R. all the way from Scranton to Cincinnati—dry gin, French +vermouth, one squeeze of a lime, and a good dash of orange bitters. +If you're ever up that way, don't fail to let one try you. And, +again,' says I, 'I have never yet went back on a friend. I've stayed +by 'em when they had plenty, and when adversity's overtaken me I've +never forsook 'em.</p> + +<p>"'But,' I goes on, 'this is not exactly the case of a friend. Twelve +dollars a month is only bowing-acquaintance money. And I do not +consider brown beans and corn-bread the food of friendship. I am a +poor man,' says I, 'and I have a widowed mother in Texarkana. You +will find Black Bill,' says I, 'lying asleep in this house on a cot +in the room to your right. He's the man you want, as I know from his +words and conversation. He was in a way a friend,' I explains, 'and +if I was the man I once was the entire product of the mines of +Gondola would not have tempted me to betray him. But,' says I, +'every week half of the beans was wormy, and not nigh enough wood in +camp.</p> + +<p>"'Better go in careful, gentlemen,' says I. 'He seems impatient at +times, and when you think of his late professional pursuits one +would look for abrupt actions if he was come upon sudden.'</p> + +<p>"So the whole posse unmounts and ties their horses, and unlimbers +their ammunition and equipments, and tiptoes into the house. And I +follows, like Delilah when she set the Philip Steins on to Samson.</p> + +<p>"The leader of the posse shakes Ogden and wakes him up. And then he +jumps up, and two more of the reward-hunters grab him. Ogden was +mighty tough with all his slimness, and he gives 'em as neat a +single-footed tussle against odds as I ever see.</p> + +<p>"'What does this mean?' he says, after they had him down.</p> + +<p>"'You're scooped in, Mr. Black Bill,' says the captain. 'That's +all.'</p> + +<p>"'It's an outrage,' says H. Ogden, madder yet.</p> + +<p>"'It was,' says the peace-and-good-will man. 'The Katy wasn't +bothering you, and there's a law against monkeying with express +packages.'</p> + +<p>"And he sits on H. Ogden's stomach and goes through his pockets +symptomatically and careful.</p> + +<p>"'I'll make you perspire for this,' says Ogden, perspiring some +himself. 'I can prove who I am.'</p> + +<p>"'So can I,' says the captain, as he draws from H. Ogden's inside +coat-pocket a handful of new bills of the Second National Bank of +Espinosa City. 'Your regular engraved Tuesdays-and-Fridays +visiting-card wouldn't have a louder voice in proclaiming your +indemnity than this here currency. You can get up now and prepare to +go with us and expatriate your sins.'</p> + +<p>"H. Ogden gets up and fixes his necktie. He says no more after they +have taken the money off of him.</p> + +<p>"'A well-greased idea,' says the sheriff captain, admiring, 'to slip +off down here and buy a little sheep-ranch where the hand of man is +seldom heard. It was the slickest hide-out I ever see,' says the +captain.</p> + +<p>"So one of the men goes to the shearing-pen and hunts up the other +herder, a Mexican they call John Sallies, and he saddles Ogden's +horse, and the sheriffs all ride up close around him with their guns +in hand, ready to take their prisoner to town.</p> + +<p>"Before starting, Ogden puts the ranch in John Sallies' hands and +gives him orders about the shearing and where to graze the sheep, +just as if he intended to be back in a few days. And a couple of +hours afterward one Percival Saint Clair, an ex-sheep-herder of the +Rancho Chiquito, might have been seen, with a hundred and nine +dollars—wages and blood-money—in his pocket, riding south on +another horse belonging to said ranch."</p> + +<p>The red-faced man paused and listened. The whistle of a coming +freight-train sounded far away among the low hills.</p> + +<p>The fat, seedy man at his side sniffed, and shook his frowzy head +slowly and disparagingly.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Snipy?" asked the other. "Got the blues again?"</p> + +<p>"No, I ain't" said the seedy one, sniffing again. "But I don't like +your talk. You and me have been friends, off and on, for fifteen +year; and I never yet knew or heard of you giving anybody up to the +law—not no one. And here was a man whose saleratus you had et and +at whose table you had played games of cards—if casino can be so +called. And yet you inform him to the law and take money for it. It +never was like you, I say."</p> + +<p>"This H. Ogden," resumed the red-faced man, "through a lawyer, +proved himself free by alibis and other legal terminalities, as I so +heard afterward. He never suffered no harm. He did me favors, and I +hated to hand him over."</p> + +<p>"How about the bills they found in his pocket?" asked the seedy man.</p> + +<p>"I put 'em there," said the red-faced man, "while he was asleep, +when I saw the posse riding up. I was Black Bill. Look out, Snipy, +here she comes! We'll board her on the bumpers when she takes water +at the tank."</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="4"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>SCHOOLS AND SCHOOLS</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<h4>I<br /> </h4> + + +<p>Old Jerome Warren lived in a hundred-thousand-dollar house at 35 +East Fifty-Soforth Street. He was a downtown broker, so rich that +he could afford to walk—for his health—a few blocks in the +direction of his office every morning, and then call a cab.</p> + +<p>He had an adopted son, the son of an old friend named +Gilbert—Cyril Scott could play him nicely—who was becoming a +successful painter as fast as he could squeeze the paint out of +his tubes. Another member of the household was Barbara Ross, a +step-niece. Man is born to trouble; so, as old Jerome had no +family of his own, he took up the burdens of others.</p> + +<p>Gilbert and Barbara got along swimmingly. There was a tacit and +tactical understanding all round that the two would stand up under +a floral bell some high noon, and promise the minister to keep old +Jerome's money in a state of high commotion. But at this point +complications must be introduced.</p> + +<p>Thirty years before, when old Jerome was young Jerome, there was a +brother of his named Dick. Dick went West to seek his or somebody +else's fortune. Nothing was heard of him until one day old Jerome +had a letter from his brother. It was badly written on ruled paper +that smelled of salt bacon and coffee-grounds. The writing was +asthmatic and the spelling St. Vitusy.</p> + +<p>It appeared that instead of Dick having forced Fortune to stand +and deliver, he had been held up himself, and made to give +hostages to the enemy. That is, as his letter disclosed, he was on +the point of pegging out with a complication of disorders that +even whiskey had failed to check. All that his thirty years of +prospecting had netted him was one daughter, nineteen years old, +as per invoice, whom he was shipping East, charges prepaid, for +Jerome to clothe, feed, educate, comfort, and cherish for the rest +of her natural life or until matrimony should them part.</p> + +<p>Old Jerome was a board-walk. Everybody knows that the world is +supported by the shoulders of Atlas; and that Atlas stands on a +rail-fence; and that the rail-fence is built on a turtle's back. +Now, the turtle has to stand on something; and that is a +board-walk made of men like old Jerome.</p> + +<p>I do not know whether immortality shall accrue to man; but if not +so, I would like to know when men like old Jerome get what is due +them?</p> + +<p>They met Nevada Warren at the station. She was a little girl, +deeply sunburned and wholesomely good-looking, with a manner that +was frankly unsophisticated, yet one that not even a cigar-drummer +would intrude upon without thinking twice. Looking at her, somehow +you would expect to see her in a short skirt and leather leggings, +shooting glass balls or taming mustangs. But in her plain white +waist and black skirt she sent you guessing again. With an easy +exhibition of strength she swung along a heavy valise, which the +uniformed porters tried in vain to wrest from her.</p> + +<p>"I am sure we shall be the best of friends," said Barbara, pecking +at the firm, sunburned cheek.</p> + +<p>"I hope so," said Nevada.</p> + +<p>"Dear little niece," said old Jerome, "you are as welcome to my +home as if it were your father's own."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," said Nevada.</p> + +<p>"And I am going to call you 'cousin,'" said Gilbert, with his +charming smile.</p> + +<p>"Take the valise, please," said Nevada. "It weighs a million +pounds. It's got samples from six of dad's old mines in it," she +explained to Barbara. "I calculate they'd assay about nine cents +to the thousand tons, but I promised him to bring them along."</p> + + +<p> </p> +<h4>II<br /> </h4> + + +<p>It is a common custom to refer to the usual complication between +one man and two ladies, or one lady and two men, or a lady and a +man and a nobleman, or—well, any of those problems—as the +triangle. But they are never unqualified triangles. They are +always isosceles—never equilateral. So, upon the coming of Nevada +Warren, she and Gilbert and Barbara Ross lined up into such a +figurative triangle; and of that triangle Barbara formed the +hypotenuse.</p> + +<p>One morning old Jerome was lingering long after breakfast over the +dullest morning paper in the city before setting forth to his +down-town fly-trap. He had become quite fond of Nevada, finding in +her much of his dead brother's quiet independence and unsuspicious +frankness.</p> + +<p>A maid brought in a note for Miss Nevada Warren.</p> + +<p>"A messenger-boy delivered it at the door, please," she said. +"He's waiting for an answer."</p> + +<p>Nevada, who was whistling a Spanish waltz between her teeth, and +watching the carriages and autos roll by in the street, took the +envelope. She knew it was from Gilbert, before she opened it, by +the little gold palette in the upper left-hand corner.</p> + +<p>After tearing it open she pored over the contents for a while, +absorbedly. Then, with a serious face, she went and stood at her +uncle's elbow.</p> + +<p>"Uncle Jerome, Gilbert is a nice boy, isn't he?"</p> + +<p>"Why, bless the child!" said old Jerome, crackling his paper +loudly; "of course he is. I raised him myself."</p> + +<p>"He wouldn't write anything to anybody that wasn't exactly—I mean +that everybody couldn't know and read, would he?"</p> + +<p>"I'd just like to see him try it," said uncle, tearing a handful +from his newspaper. "Why, what—"</p> + +<p>"Read this note he just sent me, uncle, and see if you think it's +all right and proper. You see, I don't know much about city people +and their ways."</p> + +<p>Old Jerome threw his paper down and set both his feet upon it. He +took Gilbert's note and fiercely perused it twice, and then a +third time.</p> + +<p>"Why, child," said he, "you had me almost excited, although I was +sure of that boy. He's a duplicate of his father, and he was a +gilt-edged diamond. He only asks if you and Barbara will be ready +at four o'clock this afternoon for an automobile drive over to +Long Island. I don't see anything to criticise in it except the +stationery. I always did hate that shade of blue."</p> + +<p>"Would it be all right to go?" asked Nevada, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, yes, child; of course. Why not? Still, it pleases me to +see you so careful and candid. Go, by all means."</p> + +<p>"I didn't know," said Nevada, demurely. "I thought I'd ask you. +Couldn't you go with us, uncle?"</p> + +<p>"I? No, no, no, no! I've ridden once in a car that boy was +driving. Never again! But it's entirely proper for you and Barbara +to go. Yes, yes. But I will not. No, no, no, no!"</p> + +<p>Nevada flew to the door, and said to the maid:</p> + +<p>"You bet we'll go. I'll answer for Miss Barbara. Tell the boy to +say to Mr. Warren, 'You bet we'll go.'"</p> + +<p>"Nevada," called old Jerome, "pardon me, my dear, but wouldn't it +be as well to send him a note in reply? Just a line would do."</p> + +<p>"No, I won't bother about that," said Nevada, gayly. "Gilbert will +understand—he always does. I never rode in an automobile in my +life; but I've paddled a canoe down Little Devil River through the +Lost Horse Cañon, and if it's any livelier than that I'd like to +know!"</p> + + +<p> </p> +<h4>III<br /> </h4> + + +<p>Two months are supposed to have elapsed.</p> + +<p>Barbara sat in the study of the hundred-thousand-dollar house. It +was a good place for her. Many places are provided in the world +where men and women may repair for the purpose of extricating +themselves from divers difficulties. There are cloisters, +wailing-places, watering-places, confessionals, hermitages, +lawyer's offices, beauty parlors, air-ships, and studies; and the +greatest of these are studies.</p> + +<p>It usually takes a hypotenuse a long time to discover that it is +the longest side of a triangle. But it's a long line that has no +turning.</p> + +<p>Barbara was alone. Uncle Jerome and Nevada had gone to the +theatre. Barbara had not cared to go. She wanted to stay at home +and study in the study. If you, miss, were a stunning New York +girl, and saw every day that a brown, ingenuous Western witch was +getting hobbles and a lasso on the young man you wanted for +yourself, you, too, would lose taste for the oxidized-silver +setting of a musical comedy.</p> + +<p>Barbara sat by the quartered-oak library table. Her right arm +rested upon the table, and her dextral fingers nervously +manipulated a sealed letter. The letter was addressed to Nevada +Warren; and in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope was +Gilbert's little gold palette. It had been delivered at nine +o'clock, after Nevada had left.</p> + +<p>Barbara would have given her pearl necklace to know what the +letter contained; but she could not open and read it by the aid of +steam, or a pen-handle, or a hair-pin, or any of the generally +approved methods, because her position in society forbade such an +act. She had tried to read some of the lines of the letter by +holding the envelope up to a strong light and pressing it hard +against the paper, but Gilbert had too good a taste in stationery +to make that possible.</p> + +<p>At eleven-thirty the theatre-goers returned. It was a delicious +winter night. Even so far as from the cab to the door they were +powdered thickly with the big flakes downpouring diagonally from +the east. Old Jerome growled good-naturedly about villainous cab +service and blockaded streets. Nevada, colored like a rose, with +sapphire eyes, babbled of the stormy nights in the mountains +around dad's cabin. During all these wintry apostrophes, Barbara, +cold at heart, sawed wood—the only appropriate thing she could +think of to do.</p> + +<p>Old Jerome went immediately up-stairs to hot-water-bottles and +quinine. Nevada fluttered into the study, the only cheerfully +lighted room, subsided into an arm-chair, and, while at the +interminable task of unbuttoning her elbow gloves, gave oral +testimony as to the demerits of the "show."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I think Mr. Fields is really amusing—sometimes," said +Barbara. "Here is a letter for you, dear, that came by special +delivery just after you had gone."</p> + +<p>"Who is it from?" asked Nevada, tugging at a button.</p> + +<p>"Well, really," said Barbara, with a smile, "I can only guess. The +envelope has that queer little thing in one corner that Gilbert +calls a palette, but which looks to me rather like a gilt heart on +a school-girl's valentine."</p> + +<p>"I wonder what he's writing to me about" remarked Nevada, +listlessly.</p> + +<p>"We're all alike," said Barbara; "all women. We try to find out +what is in a letter by studying the postmark. As a last resort we +use scissors, and read it from the bottom upward. Here it is."</p> + +<p>She made a motion as if to toss the letter across the table to +Nevada.</p> + +<p>"Great catamounts!" exclaimed Nevada. "These centre-fire buttons +are a nuisance. I'd rather wear buckskins. Oh, Barbara, please +shuck the hide off that letter and read it. It'll be midnight +before I get these gloves off!"</p> + +<p>"Why, dear, you don't want me to open Gilbert's letter to you? +It's for you, and you wouldn't wish any one else to read it, of +course!"</p> + +<p>Nevada raised her steady, calm, sapphire eyes from her gloves.</p> + +<p>"Nobody writes me anything that everybody mightn't read," she +said. "Go on, Barbara. Maybe Gilbert wants us to go out in his car +again to-morrow."</p> + +<p>Curiosity can do more things than kill a cat; and if emotions, +well recognized as feminine, are inimical to feline life, then +jealousy would soon leave the whole world catless. Barbara opened +the letter, with an indulgent, slightly bored air.</p> + +<p>"Well, dear," said she, "I'll read it if you want me to."</p> + +<p>She slit the envelope, and read the missive with swift-travelling +eyes; read it again, and cast a quick, shrewd glance at Nevada, +who, for the time, seemed to consider gloves as the world of her +interest, and letters from rising artists as no more than messages +from Mars.</p> + +<p>For a quarter of a minute Barbara looked at Nevada with a strange +steadfastness; and then a smile so small that it widened her mouth +only the sixteenth part of an inch, and narrowed her eyes no more +than a twentieth, flashed like an inspired thought across her +face.</p> + +<p>Since the beginning no woman has been a mystery to another woman. +Swift as light travels, each penetrates the heart and mind of +another, sifts her sister's words of their cunningest disguises, +reads her most hidden desires, and plucks the sophistry from her +wiliest talk like hairs from a comb, twiddling them sardonically +between her thumb and fingers before letting them float away on +the breezes of fundamental doubt. Long ago Eve's son rang the +door-bell of the family residence in Paradise Park, bearing a +strange lady on his arm, whom he introduced. Eve took her +daughter-in-law aside and lifted a classic eyebrow.</p> + +<p>"The Land of Nod," said the bride, languidly flirting the leaf of +a palm. "I suppose you've been there, of course?"</p> + +<p>"Not lately," said Eve, absolutely unstaggered. "Don't you think +the apple-sauce they serve over there is execrable? I rather like +that mulberry-leaf tunic effect, dear; but, of course, the real +fig goods are not to be had over there. Come over behind this +lilac-bush while the gentlemen split a celery tonic. I think the +caterpillar-holes have made your dress open a little in the back."</p> + +<p>So, then and there—according to the records—was the alliance +formed by the only two who's-who ladies in the world. Then it was +agreed that woman should forever remain as clear as a pane of +glass—though glass was yet to be discovered—to other women, and +that she should palm herself off on man as a mystery.</p> + +<p>Barbara seemed to hesitate.</p> + +<p>"Really, Nevada," she said, with a little show of embarrassment, +"you shouldn't have insisted on my opening this. I—I'm sure it +wasn't meant for any one else to know."</p> + +<p>Nevada forgot her gloves for a moment.</p> + +<p>"Then read it aloud," she said. "Since you've already read it, +what's the difference? If Mr. Warren has written to me something +that any one else oughtn't to know, that is all the more reason +why everybody should know it."</p> + +<p>"Well," said Barbara, "this is what it says: 'Dearest Nevada—Come +to my studio at twelve o'clock to-night. Do not fail.'" Barbara +rose and dropped the note in Nevada's lap. "I'm awfully sorry," +she said, "that I knew. It isn't like Gilbert. There must be some +mistake. Just consider that I am ignorant of it, will you, dear? I +must go up-stairs now, I have such a headache. I'm sure I don't +understand the note. Perhaps Gilbert has been dining too well, and +will explain. Good night!"</p> + + +<p> </p> +<h4>IV<br /> </h4> + + +<p>Nevada tiptoed to the hall, and heard Barbara's door close +upstairs. The bronze clock in the study told the hour of twelve +was fifteen minutes away. She ran swiftly to the front door, and +let herself out into the snow-storm. Gilbert Warren's studio was +six squares away.</p> + +<p>By aerial ferry the white, silent forces of the storm attacked the +city from beyond the sullen East River. Already the snow lay a +foot deep on the pavements, the drifts heaping themselves like +scaling-ladders against the walls of the besieged town. The Avenue +was as quiet as a street in Pompeii. Cabs now and then skimmed +past like white-winged gulls over a moonlit ocean; and less +frequent motor-cars—sustaining the comparison—hissed through the +foaming waves like submarine boats on their jocund, perilous +journeys.</p> + +<p>Nevada plunged like a wind-driven storm-petrel on her way. She +looked up at the ragged sierras of cloud-capped buildings that +rose above the streets, shaded by the night lights and the +congealed vapors to gray, drab, ashen, lavender, dun, and cerulean +tints. They were so like the wintry mountains of her Western home +that she felt a satisfaction such as the hundred-thousand-dollar +house had seldom brought her.</p> + +<p>A policeman caused her to waver on a corner, just by his eye and +weight.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Mabel!" said he. "Kind of late for you to be out, ain't +it?"</p> + +<p>"I—I am just going to the drug store," said Nevada, hurrying past +him.</p> + +<p>The excuse serves as a passport for the most sophisticated. Does +it prove that woman never progresses, or that she sprang from +Adam's rib, full-fledged in intellect and wiles?</p> + +<p>Turning eastward, the direct blast cut down Nevada's speed +one-half. She made zigzag tracks in the snow; but she was as tough +as a piñon sapling, and bowed to it as gracefully. Suddenly the +studio-building loomed before her, a familiar landmark, like a +cliff above some well-remembered cañon. The haunt of business and +its hostile neighbor, art, was darkened and silent. The elevator +stopped at ten.</p> + +<p>Up eight flights of Stygian stairs Nevada climbed, and rapped +firmly at the door numbered "89." She had been there many times +before, with Barbara and Uncle Jerome.</p> + +<p>Gilbert opened the door. He had a crayon pencil in one hand, a +green shade over his eyes, and a pipe in his mouth. The pipe +dropped to the floor.</p> + +<p>"Am I late?" asked Nevada. "I came as quick as I could. Uncle and +me were at the theatre this evening. Here I am, Gilbert!"</p> + +<p>Gilbert did a Pygmalion-and-Galatea act. He changed from a statue +of stupefaction to a young man with a problem to tackle. He +admitted Nevada, got a whisk-broom, and began to brush the snow +from her clothes. A great lamp, with a green shade, hung over an +easel, where the artist had been sketching in crayon.</p> + +<p>"You wanted me," said Nevada simply, "and I came. You said so in +your letter. What did you send for me for?"</p> + +<p>"You read my letter?" inquired Gilbert, sparring for wind.</p> + +<p>"Barbara read it to me. I saw it afterward. It said: 'Come to my +studio at twelve to-night, and do not fail.' I thought you were +sick, of course, but you don't seem to be."</p> + +<p>"Aha!" said Gilbert irrelevantly. "I'll tell you why I asked you +to come, Nevada. I want you to marry me immediately—to-night. +What's a little snow-storm? Will you do it?"</p> + +<p>"You might have noticed that I would, long ago," said Nevada. "And +I'm rather stuck on the snow-storm idea, myself. I surely would +hate one of these flowery church noon-weddings. Gilbert, I didn't +know you had grit enough to propose it this way. Let's shock +'em—it's our funeral, ain't it?"</p> + +<p>"You bet!" said Gilbert. "Where did I hear that expression?" he +added to himself. "Wait a minute, Nevada; I want to do a little +'phoning."</p> + +<p>He shut himself in a little dressing-room, and called upon the +lightnings of the heavens—condensed into unromantic numbers and +districts.</p> + +<p>"That you, Jack? You confounded sleepyhead! Yes, wake up; this is +me—or I—oh, bother the difference in grammar! I'm going to be +married right away. Yes! Wake up your sister—don't answer me +back; bring her along, too—you <i>must</i>! Remind Agnes of the time I +saved her from drowning in Lake Ronkonkoma—I know it's caddish to +refer to it, but she must come with you. Yes. Nevada is here, +waiting. We've been engaged quite a while. Some opposition among +the relatives, you know, and we have to pull it off this way. +We're waiting here for you. Don't let Agnes out-talk you—bring +her! You will? Good old boy! I'll order a carriage to call for +you, double-quick time. Confound you, Jack, you're all right!"</p> + +<p>Gilbert returned to the room where Nevada waited.</p> + +<p>"My old friend, Jack Peyton, and his sister were to have been here +at a quarter to twelve," he explained; "but Jack is so +confoundedly slow. I've just 'phoned them to hurry. They'll be +here in a few minutes. I'm the happiest man in the world, Nevada! +What did you do with the letter I sent you to-day?"</p> + +<p>"I've got it cinched here," said Nevada, pulling it out from +beneath her opera-cloak.</p> + +<p>Gilbert drew the letter from the envelope and looked it over +carefully. Then he looked at Nevada thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"Didn't you think it rather queer that I should ask you to come to +my studio at midnight?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Why, no," said Nevada, rounding her eyes. "Not if you needed me. +Out West, when a pal sends you a hurry call—ain't that what you +say here?—we get there first and talk about it after the row is +over. And it's usually snowing there, too, when things happen. So +I didn't mind."</p> + +<p>Gilbert rushed into another room, and came back burdened with +overcoats warranted to turn wind, rain, or snow.</p> + +<p>"Put this raincoat on," he said, holding it for her. "We have a +quarter of a mile to go. Old Jack and his sister will be here in a +few minutes." He began to struggle into a heavy coat. "Oh, +Nevada," he said, "just look at the headlines on the front page of +that evening paper on the table, will you? It's about your section +of the West, and I know it will interest you."</p> + +<p>He waited a full minute, pretending to find trouble in the getting +on of his overcoat, and then turned. Nevada had not moved. She was +looking at him with strange and pensive directness. Her cheeks had +a flush on them beyond the color that had been contributed by the +wind and snow; but her eyes were steady.</p> + +<p>"I was going to tell you," she said, "anyhow, before you—before +we—before—well, before anything. Dad never gave me a day of +schooling. I never learned to read or write a darned word. Now +if—"</p> + +<p>Pounding their uncertain way up-stairs, the feet of Jack, the +somnolent, and Agnes, the grateful, were heard.</p> + + +<p> </p> +<h4>V<br /> </h4> + + +<p>When Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Warren were spinning softly homeward in +a closed carriage, after the ceremony, Gilbert said:</p> + +<p>"Nevada, would you really like to know what I wrote you in the +letter that you received to-night?"</p> + +<p>"Fire away!" said his bride.</p> + +<p>"Word for word," said Gilbert, "it was this: 'My dear Miss +Warren—You were right about the flower. It was a hydrangea, and +not a lilac.'"</p> + +<p>"All right," said Nevada. "But let's forget it. The joke's on +Barbara, anyway!"</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="5"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>THIMBLE, THIMBLE</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<p>These are the directions for finding the office of Carteret & +Carteret, Mill Supplies and Leather Belting:</p> + +<p>You follow the Broadway trail down until you pass the Crosstown +Line, the Bread Line, and the Dead Line, and come to the Big +Cañons of the Moneygrubber Tribe. Then you turn to the left, to +the right, dodge a push-cart and the tongue of a two-ton +four-horse dray and hop, skip, and jump to a granite ledge on the +side of a twenty-one-story synthetic mountain of stone and iron. +In the twelfth story is the office of Carteret & Carteret. The +factory where they make the mill supplies and leather belting is +in Brooklyn. Those commodities—to say nothing of Brooklyn—not +being of interest to you, let us hold the incidents within the +confines of a one-act, one-scene play, thereby lessening the toil +of the reader and the expenditure of the publisher. So, if you +have the courage to face four pages of type and Carteret & +Carteret's office boy, Percival, you shall sit on a varnished +chair in the inner office and peep at the little comedy of the Old +Nigger Man, the Hunting-Case Watch, and the Open-Faced +Question—mostly borrowed from the late Mr. Frank Stockton, as you +will conclude.</p> + +<p>First, biography (but pared to the quick) must intervene. I am for +the inverted sugar-coated quinine pill—the bitter on the outside.</p> + +<p>The Carterets were, or was (Columbia College professors please +rule), an old Virginia family. Long time ago the gentlemen of the +family had worn lace ruffles and carried tinless foils and owned +plantations and had slaves to burn. But the war had greatly +reduced their holdings. (Of course you can perceive at once that +this flavor has been shoplifted from Mr. F. Hopkinson Smith, in +spite of the "et" after "Carter.") Well, anyhow:</p> + +<p>In digging up the Carteret history I shall not take you farther +back than the year 1620. The two original American Carterets came +over in that year, but by different means of transportation. One +brother, named John, came in the <i>Mayflower</i> and became a Pilgrim +Father. You've seen his picture on the covers of the Thanksgiving +magazines, hunting turkeys in the deep snow with a blunderbuss. +Blandford Carteret, the other brother, crossed the pond in his own +brigantine, landed on the Virginia coast, and became an F. F. V. +John became distinguished for piety and shrewdness in business; +Blandford for his pride, juleps; marksmanship, and vast +slave-cultivated plantations.</p> + +<p>Then came the Civil War. (I must condense this historical +interpolation.) Stonewall Jackson was shot; Lee surrendered; Grant +toured the world; cotton went to nine cents; Old Crow whiskey and +Jim Crow cars were invented; the Seventy-ninth Massachusetts +Volunteers returned to the Ninety-seventh Alabama Zouaves the +battle flag of Lundy's Lane which they bought at a second-hand +store in Chelsea, kept by a man named Skzchnzski; Georgia sent the +President a sixty-pound watermelon—and that brings us up to the +time when the story begins. My! but that was sparring for an +opening! I really must brush op on my Aristotle.</p> + +<p>The Yankee Carterets went into business in New York long before +the war. Their house, as far as Leather Belting and Mill Supplies +was concerned, was as musty and arrogant and solid as one of those +old East India tea-importing concerns that you read about in +Dickens. There were some rumors of a war behind its counters, but +not enough to affect the business.</p> + +<p>During and after the war, Blandford Carteret, F.F.V., lost his +plantations, juleps, marksmanship, and life. He bequeathed little +more than his pride to his surviving family. So it came to pass +that Blandford Carteret, the Fifth, aged fifteen, was invited by +the leather-and-mill-supplies branch of that name to come North +and learn business instead of hunting foxes and boasting of the +glory of his fathers on the reduced acres of his impoverished +family. The boy jumped at the chance; and, at the age of +twenty-five, sat in the office of the firm equal partner with +John, the Fifth, of the blunderbuss-and-turkey branch. Here the +story begins again.</p> + +<p>The young men were about the same age, smooth of face, alert, easy +of manner, and with an air that promised mental and physical +quickness. They were razored, blue-serged, straw-hatted, and pearl +stick-pinned like other young New Yorkers who might be +millionaires or bill clerks.</p> + +<p>One afternoon at four o'clock, in the private office of the firm, +Blandford Carteret opened a letter that a clerk had just brought +to his desk. After reading it, he chuckled audibly for nearly a +minute. John looked around from his desk inquiringly.</p> + +<p>"It's from mother," said Blandford. "I'll read you the funny part +of it. She tells me all the neighborhood news first, of course, +and then cautions me against getting my feet wet and musical +comedies. After that come vital statistics about calves and pigs +and an estimate of the wheat crop. And now I'll quote some:</p> + +<p>"'And what do you think! Old Uncle Jake, who was seventy-six last +Wednesday, must go travelling. Nothing would do but he must go to +New York and see his "young Marster Blandford." Old as he is, he +has a deal of common sense, so I've let him go. I couldn't refuse +him—he seemed to have concentrated all his hopes and desires into +this one adventure into the wide world. You know he was born on +the plantation, and has never been ten miles away from it in his +life. And he was your father's body servant during the war, and +has been always a faithful vassal and servant of the family. He +has often seen the gold watch—the watch that was your father's +and your father's father's. I told him it was to be yours, And he +begged me to allow him to take it to you and to put it into your +hands himself.</p> + +<p>"'So he has it, carefully enclosed in a buck-skin case, and is +bringing it to you with all the pride and importance of a king's +messenger. I gave him money for the round trip and for a two +weeks' stay in the city. I wish you would see to it that he gets +comfortable quarters—Jake won't need much looking after—he's +able to take care of himself. But I have read in the papers that +African bishops and colored potentates generally have much trouble +in obtaining food and lodging in the Yankee metropolis. That may +be all right; but I don't see why the best hotel there shouldn't +take Jake in. Still, I suppose it's a rule.</p> + +<p>"'I gave him full directions about finding you, and packed his +valise myself. You won't have to bother with him; but I do hope +you'll see that he is made comfortable. Take the watch that he +brings you—it's almost a decoration. It has been worn by true +Carterets, and there isn't a stain upon it nor a false movement of +the wheels. Bringing it to you is the crowning joy of old Jake's +life. I wanted him to have that little outing and that happiness +before it is too late. You have often heard us talk about how +Jake, pretty badly wounded himself, crawled through the reddened +grass at Chancellorsville to where your father lay with the bullet +in his dear heart, and took the watch from his pocket to keep it +from the "Yanks."</p> + +<p>"'So, my son, when the old man comes consider him as a frail but +worthy messenger from the old-time life and home.</p> + +<p>"'You have been so long away from home and so long among the +people that we have always regarded as aliens that I'm not sure +that Jake will know you when he sees you. But Jake has a keen +perception, and I rather believe that he will know a Virginia +Carteret at sight. I can't conceive that even ten years in +Yankee-land could change a boy of mine. Anyhow, I'm sure you will +know Jake. I put eighteen collars in his valise. If he should have +to buy others, he wears a number 15½. Please see that he gets the +right ones. He will be no trouble to you at all.</p> + +<p>"'If you are not too busy, I'd like for you to find him a place to +board where they have white-meal corn-bread, and try to keep him +from taking his shoes off in your office or on the street. His +right foot swells a little, and he likes to be comfortable.</p> + +<p>"'If you can spare the time, count his handkerchiefs when they +come back from the wash. I bought him a dozen new ones before he +left. He should be there about the time this letter reaches you. I +told him to go straight to your office when he arrives.'"</p> + +<p>As soon as Blandford had finished the reading of this, something +happened (as there should happen in stories and must happen on the +stage).</p> + +<p>Percival, the office boy, with his air of despising the world's +output of mill supplies and leather belting, came in to announce +that a colored gentleman was outside to see Mr. Blandford +Carteret.</p> + +<p>"Bring him in," said Blandford, rising.</p> + +<p>John Carteret swung around in his chair and said to Percival: "Ask +him to wait a few minutes outside. We'll let you know when to +bring him in."</p> + +<p>Then he turned to his cousin with one of those broad, slow smiles +that was an inheritance of all the Carterets, and said:</p> + +<p>"Bland, I've always had a consuming curiosity to understand the +differences that you haughty Southerners believe to exist between +'you all' and the people of the North. Of course, I know that you +consider yourselves made out of finer clay and look upon Adam as +only a collateral branch of your ancestry; but I don't know why. I +never could understand the differences between us."</p> + +<p>"Well, John," said Blandford, laughing, "what you don't understand +about it is just the difference, of course. I suppose it was the +feudal way in which we lived that gave us our lordly baronial airs +and feeling of superiority."</p> + +<p>"But you are not feudal, now," went on John. "Since we licked you +and stole your cotton and mules you've had to go to work just as +we 'damyankees,' as you call us, have always been doing. And +you're just as proud and exclusive and upper-classy as you were +before the war. So it wasn't your money that caused it."</p> + +<p>"Maybe it was the climate," said Blandford, lightly, "or maybe our +negroes spoiled us. I'll call old Jake in, now. I'll be glad to +see the old villain again."</p> + +<p>"Wait just a moment," said John. "I've got a little theory I want +to test. You and I are pretty much alike in our general +appearance. Old Jake hasn't seen you since you were fifteen. Let's +have him in and play fair and see which of us gets the watch. The +old darky surely ought to be able to pick out his 'young marster' +without any trouble. The alleged aristocratic superiority of a +'reb' ought to be visible to him at once. He couldn't make the +mistake of handing over the timepiece to a Yankee, of course. The +loser buys the dinner this evening and two dozen 15½ collars for +Jake. Is it a go?"</p> + +<p>Blandford agreed heartily. Percival was summoned, and told to +usher the "colored gentleman" in.</p> + +<p>Uncle Jake stepped inside the private office cautiously. He was a +little old man, as black as soot, wrinkled and bald except for a +fringe of white wool, cut decorously short, that ran over his ears +and around his head. There was nothing of the stage "uncle" about +him: his black suit nearly fitted him; his shoes shone, and his +straw hat was banded with a gaudy ribbon. In his right hand he +carried something carefully concealed by his closed fingers.</p> + +<p>Uncle Jake stopped a few steps from the door. Two young men sat in +their revolving desk-chairs ten feet apart and looked at him in +friendly silence. His gaze slowly shifted many times from one to +the other. He felt sure that he was in the presence of one, at +least, of the revered family among whose fortunes his life had +begun and was to end.</p> + +<p>One had the pleasing but haughty Carteret air; the other had the +unmistakable straight, long family nose. Both had the keen black +eyes, horizontal brows, and thin, smiling lips that had +distinguished both the Carteret of the <i>Mayflower</i> and him of the +brigantine. Old Jake had thought that he could have picked out his +young master instantly from a thousand Northerners; but he found +himself in difficulties. The best he could do was to use strategy.</p> + +<p>"Howdy, Marse Blandford—howdy, suh?" he said, looking midway +between the two young men.</p> + +<p>"Howdy, Uncle Jake?" they both answered pleasantly and in unison. +"Sit down. Have you brought the watch?"</p> + +<p>Uncle Jake chose a hard-bottom chair at a respectful distance, sat +on the edge of it, and laid his hat carefully on the floor. The +watch in its buckskin case he gripped tightly. He had not risked +his life on the battle-field to rescue that watch from his "old +marster's" foes to hand it over again to the enemy without a +struggle.</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh; I got it in my hand, suh. I'm gwine give it to you +right away in jus' a minute. Old Missus told me to put it in young +Marse Blandford's hand and tell him to wear it for the family +pride and honor. It was a mighty longsome trip for an old nigger +man to make—ten thousand miles, it must be, back to old Vi'ginia, +suh. You've growed mightily, young marster. I wouldn't have +reconnized you but for yo' powerful resemblance to old marster."</p> + +<p>With admirable diplomacy the old man kept his eyes roaming in the +space between the two men. His words might have been addressed to +either. Though neither wicked nor perverse, he was seeking for a +sign.</p> + +<p>Blandford and John exchanged winks.</p> + +<p>"I reckon you done got you ma's letter," went on Uncle Jake. "She +said she was gwine to write to you 'bout my comin' along up this +er-way.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, Uncle Jake," said John briskly. "My cousin and I have +just been notified to expect you. We are both Carterets, you +know."</p> + +<p>"Although one of us," said Blandford, "was born and raised in the +North."</p> + +<p>"So if you will hand over the watch—" said John.</p> + +<p>"My cousin and I—" said Blandford.</p> + +<p>"Will then see to it—" said John.</p> + +<p>"That comfortable quarters are found for you," said Blandford.</p> + +<p>With creditable ingenuity, old Jake set up a cackling, +high-pitched, protracted laugh. He beat his knee, picked up his +hat and bent the brim in an apparent paroxysm of humorous +appreciation. The seizure afforded him a mask behind which he +could roll his eyes impartially between, above, and beyond his two +tormentors.</p> + +<p>"I sees what!" he chuckled, after a while. "You gen'lemen is +tryin' to have fun with the po' old nigger. But you can't fool old +Jake. I knowed you, Marse Blandford, the minute I sot eyes on you. +You was a po' skimpy little boy no mo' than about fo'teen when you +lef' home to come No'th; but I knowed you the minute I sot eyes on +you. You is the mawtal image of old marster. The other gen'leman +resembles you mightily, suh; but you can't fool old Jake on a +member of the old Vi'ginia family. No suh."</p> + +<p>At exactly the same time both Carterets smiled and extended a hand +for the watch.</p> + +<p>Uncle Jake's wrinkled, black face lost the expression of amusement +to which he had vainly twisted it. He knew that he was being +teased, and that it made little real difference, as far as its +safety went, into which of those outstretched hands he placed the +family treasure. But it seemed to him that not only his own pride +and loyalty but much of the Virginia Carterets' was at stake. He +had heard down South during the war about that other branch of the +family that lived in the North and fought on "the yuther side," +and it had always grieved him. He had followed his "old marster's" +fortunes from stately luxury through war to almost poverty. And +now, with the last relic and reminder of him, blessed by "old +missus," and intrusted implicitly to his care, he had come ten +thousand miles (as it seemed) to deliver it into the hands of the +one who was to wear it and wind it and cherish it and listen to it +tick off the unsullied hours that marked the lives of the +Carterets—of Virginia.</p> + +<p>His experience and conception of the Yankees had been an +impression of tyrants—"low-down, common trash"—in blue, laying +waste with fire and sword. He had seen the smoke of many burning +homesteads almost as grand as Carteret Hall ascending to the +drowsy Southern skies. And now he was face to face with one of +them—and he could not distinguish him from his "young marster" +whom he had come to find and bestow upon him the emblem of his +kingship—even as the arm "clothed in white samite, mystic, +wonderful" laid Excalibur in the right hand of Arthur. He saw +before him two young men, easy, kind, courteous, welcoming, either +of whom might have been the one he sought. Troubled, bewildered, +sorely grieved at his weakness of judgment, old Jake abandoned his +loyal subterfuges. His right hand sweated against the buckskin +cover of the watch. He was deeply humiliated and chastened. +Seriously, now, his prominent, yellow-white eyes closely scanned +the two young men. At the end of his scrutiny he was conscious of +but one difference between them. One wore a narrow black tie with +a white pearl stickpin. The other's "four-in-hand" was a narrow +blue one pinned with a black pearl.</p> + +<p>And then, to old Jake's relief, there came a sudden distraction. +Drama knocked at the door with imperious knuckles, and forced +Comedy to the wings, and Drama peeped with a smiling but set face +over the footlights.</p> + +<p>Percival, the hater of mill supplies, brought in a card, which he +handed, with the manner of one bearing a cartel, to Blue-Tie.</p> + +<p>"Olivia De Ormond," read Blue-Tie from the card. He looked +inquiringly at his cousin.</p> + +<p>"Why not have her in," said Black-Tie, "and bring matters to a +conclusion?"</p> + +<p>"Uncle Jake," said one of the young men, "would you mind taking +that chair over there in the corner for a while? A lady is coming +in—on some business. We'll take up your case afterward."</p> + +<p>The lady whom Percival ushered in was young and petulantly, +decidedly, freshly, consciously, and intentionally pretty. She was +dressed with such expensive plainness that she made you consider +lace and ruffles as mere tatters and rags. But one great ostrich +plume that she wore would have marked her anywhere in the army of +beauty as the wearer of the merry helmet of Navarre.</p> + +<p>Miss De Ormond accepted the swivel chair at Blue-Tie's desk. Then +the gentlemen drew leather-upholstered seats conveniently near, +and spoke of the weather.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said she, "I noticed it was warmer. But I mustn't take up +too much of your time during business hours. That is," she +continued, "unless we talk business."</p> + +<p>She addressed her words to Blue-Tie, with a charming smile.</p> + +<p>"Very well," said he. "You don't mind my cousin being present, do +you? We are generally rather confidential with each +other—especially in business matters."</p> + +<p>"Oh no," caroled Miss De Ormond. "I'd rather he did hear. He knows +all about it, anyhow. In fact, he's quite a material witness +because he was present when you—when it happened. I thought you +might want to talk things over before—well, before any action is +taken, as I believe the lawyers say."</p> + +<p>"Have you anything in the way of a proposition to make?" asked +Black-Tie.</p> + +<p>Miss De Ormond looked reflectively at the neat toe of one of her +dull kid-pumps.</p> + +<p>"I had a proposal made to me," she said. "If the proposal sticks +it cuts out the proposition. Let's have that settled first."</p> + +<p>"Well, as far as—" began Blue-Tie.</p> + +<p>"Excuse me, cousin," interrupted Black-Tie, "if you don't mind my +cutting in." And then he turned, with a good-natured air, toward +the lady.</p> + +<p>"Now, let's recapitulate a bit," he said cheerfully. "All three of +us, besides other mutual acquaintances, have been out on a good +many larks together."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid I'll have to call the birds by another name," said +Miss De Ormond.</p> + +<p>"All right," responded Black-Tie, with unimpaired cheerfulness; +"suppose we say 'squabs' when we talk about the 'proposal' and +'larks' when we discuss the 'proposition.' You have a quick mind, +Miss De Ormond. Two months ago some half-dozen of us went in a +motor-car for a day's run into the country. We stopped at a +road-house for dinner. My cousin proposed marriage to you then and +there. He was influenced to do so, of course, by the beauty and +charm which no one can deny that you possess."</p> + +<p>"I wish I had you for a press agent, Mr. Carteret," said the +beauty, with a dazzling smile.</p> + +<p>"You are on the stage, Miss De Ormond," went on Black-Tie. "You +have had, doubtless, many admirers, and perhaps other proposals. +You must remember, too, that we were a party of merrymakers on +that occasion. There were a good many corks pulled. That the +proposal of marriage was made to you by my cousin we cannot deny. +But hasn't it been your experience that, by common consent, such +things lose their seriousness when viewed in the next day's +sunlight? Isn't there something of a 'code' among good 'sports'—I +use the word in its best sense—that wipes out each day the +follies of the evening previous?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes," said Miss De Ormond. "I know that very well. And I've +always played up to it. But as you seem to be conducting the +case—with the silent consent of the defendant—I'll tell you +something more. I've got letters from him repeating the proposal. +And they're signed, too."</p> + +<p>"I understand," said Black-Tie gravely. "What's your price for the +letters?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not a cheap one," said Miss De Ormond. "But I had decided to +make you a rate. You both belong to a swell family. Well, if I <i>am</i> +on the stage nobody can say a word against me truthfully. And the +money is only a secondary consideration. It isn't the money I was +after. I—I believed him—and—and I liked him."</p> + +<p>She cast a soft, entrancing glance at Blue-Tie from under her long +eyelashes.</p> + +<p>"And the price?" went on Black-Tie, inexorably.</p> + +<p>"Ten thousand dollars," said the lady, sweetly.</p> + +<p>"Or—"</p> + +<p>"Or the fulfillment of the engagement to marry."</p> + +<p>"I think it is time," interrupted Blue-Tie, "for me to be allowed +to say a word or two. You and I, cousin, belong to a family that +has held its head pretty high. You have been brought up in a +section of the country very different from the one where our +branch of the family lived. Yet both of us are Carterets, even if +some of our ways and theories differ. You remember, it is a +tradition of the family, that no Carteret ever failed in chivalry +to a lady or failed to keep his word when it was given."</p> + +<p>Then Blue-Tie, with frank decision showing on his countenance, +turned to Miss De Ormond.</p> + +<p>"Olivia," said he, "on what date will you marry me?"</p> + +<p>Before she could answer, Black-Tie again interposed.</p> + +<p>"It is a long journey," said he, "from Plymouth rock to Norfolk +Bay. Between the two points we find the changes that nearly three +centuries have brought. In that time the old order has changed. We +no longer burn witches or torture slaves. And to-day we neither +spread our cloaks on the mud for ladies to walk over nor treat +them to the ducking-stool. It is the age of common sense, +adjustment, and proportion. All of us—ladies, gentlemen, women, +men, Northerners, Southerners, lords, caitiffs, actors, +hardware-drummers, senators, hod-carriers, and politicians—are +coming to a better understanding. Chivalry is one of our words +that changes its meaning every day. Family pride is a thing of +many constructions—it may show itself by maintaining a moth-eaten +arrogance in a cobwebbed Colonial mansion or by the prompt paying +of one's debts.</p> + +<p>"Now, I suppose you've had enough of my monologue. I've learned +something of business and a little of life; and I somehow believe, +cousin, that our great-great-grandfathers, the original Carterets, +would indorse my view of this matter."</p> + +<p>Black-Tie wheeled around to his desk, wrote in a check-book and +tore out the check, the sharp rasp of the perforated leaf making +the only sound in the room. He laid the check within easy reach of +Miss De Ormond's hand.</p> + +<p>"Business is business," said he. "We live in a business age. There +is my personal check for $10,000. What do you say, Miss De +Ormond—will it he orange blossoms or cash?"</p> + +<p>Miss De Ormond picked up the cheek carelessly, folded it +indifferently, and stuffed it into her glove.</p> + +<p>"Oh, this'll do," she said, calmly. "I just thought I'd call and +put it up to you. I guess you people are all right. But a girl has +feelings, you know. I've heard one of you was a Southerner—I +wonder which one of you it is?"</p> + +<p>She arose, smiled sweetly, and walked to the door. There, with a +flash of white teeth and a dip of the heavy plume, she +disappeared.</p> + +<p>Both of the cousins had forgotten Uncle Jake for the time. But now +they heard the shuffling of his shoes as he came across the rug +toward them from his seat in the corner.</p> + +<p>"Young marster," he said, "take yo' watch."</p> + +<p>And without hesitation he laid the ancient timepiece in the hand +of its rightful owner.</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="6"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>SUPPLY AND DEMAND</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<p>Finch keeps a hats-cleaned-by-electricity-while-you-wait +establishment, nine feet by twelve, in Third Avenue. Once a +customer, you are always his. I do not know his secret process, +but every four days your hat needs to be cleaned again.</p> + +<p>Finch is a leathern, sallow, slow-footed man, between twenty and +forty. You would say he had been brought up a bushelman in Essex +Street. When business is slack he likes to talk, so I had my hat +cleaned even oftener than it deserved, hoping Finch might let me +into some of the secrets of the sweatshops.</p> + +<p>One afternoon I dropped in and found Finch alone. He began to +anoint my headpiece de Panama with his mysterious fluid that +attracted dust and dirt like a magnet.</p> + +<p>"They say the Indians weave 'em under water," said I, for a +leader.</p> + +<p>"Don't you believe it," said Finch. "No Indian or white man could +stay under water that long. Say, do you pay much attention to +politics? I see in the paper something about a law they've passed +called 'the law of supply and demand.'"</p> + +<p>I explained to him as well as I could that the reference was to a +politico-economical law, and not to a legal statute.</p> + +<p>"I didn't know," said Finch. "I heard a good deal about it a year +or so ago, but in a one-sided way."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said I, "political orators use it a great deal. In fact, +they never give it a rest. I suppose you heard some of those +cart-tail fellows spouting on the subject over here on the east +side."</p> + +<p>"I heard it from a king," said Finch—"the white king of a tribe +of Indians in South America."</p> + +<p>I was interested but not surprised. The big city is like a +mother's knee to many who have strayed far and found the roads +rough beneath their uncertain feet. At dusk they come home and sit +upon the door-step. I know a piano player in a cheap café who +has shot lions in Africa, a bell-boy who fought in the British army +against the Zulus, an express-driver whose left arm had been +cracked like a lobster's claw for a stew-pot of Patagonian +cannibals when the boat of his rescuers hove in sight. So a +hat-cleaner who had been a friend of a king did not oppress me.</p> + +<p>"A new band?" asked Finch, with his dry, barren smile.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said I, "and half an inch wider." I had had a new band five +days before.</p> + +<p>"I meets a man one night," said Finch, beginning his story—"a man +brown as snuff, with money in every pocket, eating +schweinerknuckel in Schlagel's. That was two years ago, when I was +a hose-cart driver for No. 98. His discourse runs to the subject +of gold. He says that certain mountains in a country down South +that he calls Gaudymala is full of it. He says the Indians wash it +out of the streams in plural quantities.</p> + +<p>"'Oh, Geronimo!' says I. 'Indians! There's no Indians in the +South,' I tell him, 'except Elks, Maccabees, and the buyers for +the fall dry-goods trade. The Indians are all on the +reservations,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'I'm telling you this with reservations,' says he. 'They ain't +Buffalo Bill Indians; they're squattier and more pedigreed. They +call 'em Inkers and Aspics, and they was old inhabitants when +Mazuma was King of Mexico. They wash the gold out of the mountain +streams,' says the brown man, 'and fill quills with it; and then +they empty 'em into red jars till they are full; and then they +pack it in buckskin sacks of one arroba each—an arroba is +twenty-five pounds—and store it in a stone house, with an +engraving of a idol with marcelled hair, playing a flute, over the +door.'</p> + +<p>"'How do they work off this unearth increment?' I asks.</p> + +<p>"'They don't,' says the man. 'It's a case of "Ill fares the land +with the great deal of velocity where wealth accumulates and there +ain't any reciprocity."'</p> + +<p>"After this man and me got through our conversation, which left +him dry of information, I shook hands with him and told him I was +sorry I couldn't believe him. And a month afterward I landed on +the coast of this Gaudymala with $1,300 that I had been saving up +for five years. I thought I knew what Indians liked, and I fixed +myself accordingly. I loaded down four pack-mules with red woollen +blankets, wrought-iron pails, jewelled side-combs for the ladies, +glass necklaces, and safety-razors. I hired a black mozo, who was +supposed to be a mule-driver and an interpreter too. It turned out +that he could interpret mules all right, but he drove the English +language much too hard. His name sounded like a Yale key when you +push it in wrong side up, but I called him McClintock, which was +close to the noise.</p> + +<p>"Well, this gold village was forty miles up in the mountains, and +it took us nine days to find it. But one afternoon McClintock led +the other mules and myself over a rawhide bridge stretched across +a precipice five thousand feet deep, it seemed to me. The hoofs of +the beasts drummed on it just like before George M. Cohan makes +his first entrance on the stage.</p> + +<p>"This village was built of mud and stone, and had no streets. Some +few yellow-and-brown persons popped their heads out-of-doors, +looking about like Welsh rabbits with Worcester sauce on em. Out +of the biggest house, that had a kind of a porch around it, steps +a big white man, red as a beet in color, dressed in fine tanned +deerskin clothes, with a gold chain around his neck, smoking a +cigar. I've seen United States Senators of his style of features +and build, also head-waiters and cops.</p> + +<p>"He walks up and takes a look at us, while McClintock disembarks +and begins to interpret to the lead mule while he smokes a +cigarette.</p> + +<p>"'Hello, Buttinsky,' says the fine man to me. 'How did you get in +the game? I didn't see you buy any chips. Who gave you the keys of +the city?'</p> + +<p>"'I'm a poor traveller,' says I. 'Especially mule-back. You'll +excuse me. Do you run a hack line or only a bluff?'</p> + +<p>"'Segregate yourself from your pseudo-equine quadruped,' says he, +'and come inside.'</p> + +<p>"He raises a finger, and a villager runs up.</p> + +<p>"'This man will take care of your outfit,' says he, 'and I'll take +care of you.'</p> + +<p>"He leads me into the biggest house, and sets out the chairs and a +kind of a drink the color of milk. It was the finest room I ever +saw. The stone walls was hung all over with silk shawls, and there +was red and yellow rugs on the floor, and jars of red pottery and +Angora goat skins, and enough bamboo furniture to misfurnish half +a dozen seaside cottages.</p> + +<p>"'In the first place,' says the man, 'you want to know who I am. +I'm sole lessee and proprietor of this tribe of Indians. They call +me the Grand Yacuma, which is to say King or Main Finger of the +bunch. I've got more power here than a chargé d'affaires, a charge +of dynamite, and a charge account at Tiffany's combined. In fact, +I'm the Big Stick, with as many extra knots on it as there is on +the record run of the Lusitania. Oh, I read the papers now and +then,' says he. 'Now, let's hear your entitlements,' he goes on, +'and the meeting will be open.'</p> + +<p>"'Well,' says I, 'I am known as one W. D. Finch. Occupation, +capitalist. Address, 541 East Thirty-second—'</p> + +<p>"'New York,' chips in the Noble Grand. 'I know,' says he, +grinning. 'It ain't the first time you've seen it go down on the +blotter. I can tell by the way you hand it out. Well, explain +"capitalist."'</p> + +<p>"I tells this boss plain what I come for and how I come to came.</p> + +<p>"'Gold-dust?' says he, looking as puzzled as a baby that's got a +feather stuck on its molasses finger. 'That's funny. This ain't a +gold-mining country. And you invested all your capital on a +stranger's story? Well, well! These Indians of mine—they are the +last of the tribe of Peches—are simple as children. They know +nothing of the purchasing power of gold. I'm afraid you've been +imposed on,' says he.</p> + +<p>"'Maybe so,' says I, 'but it sounded pretty straight to me.'</p> + +<p>"'W. D.,' says the King, all of a sudden, 'I'll give you a square +deal. It ain't often I get to talk to a white man, and I'll give +you a show for your money. It may be these constituents of mine +have a few grains of gold-dust hid away in their clothes. +To-morrow you may get out these goods you've brought up and see if +you can make any sales. Now, I'm going to introduce myself +unofficially. My name is Shane—Patrick Shane. I own this tribe of +Peche Indians by right of conquest—single handed and unafraid. I +drifted up here four years ago, and won 'em by my size and +complexion and nerve. I learned their language in six weeks—it's +easy: you simply emit a string of consonants as long as your +breath holds out and then point at what you're asking for.</p> + +<p>"'I conquered 'em, spectacularly,' goes on King Shane, 'and then I +went at 'em with economical politics, law, sleight-of-hand, and a +kind of New England ethics and parsimony. Every Sunday, or as near +as I can guess at it, I preach to 'em in the council-house (I'm +the council) on the law of supply and demand. I praise supply and +knock demand. I use the same text every time. You wouldn't think, +W. D.,' says Shane, 'that I had poetry in me, would you?'</p> + +<p>"'Well,' says I, 'I wouldn't know whether to call it poetry or +not.'</p> + +<p>"'Tennyson,' says Shane, 'furnishes the poetic gospel I preach. I +always considered him the boss poet. Here's the way the text +goes:<br /> </p> + + +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p class="noindent">"'"For, not to admire, if a man could learn +it, were more<br /> +Than to walk all day like a Sultan of old in a garden of +spice."<br /> </p> +</blockquote></blockquote> + + +<p>"'You see, I teach 'em to cut out demand—that supply is the main +thing. I teach 'em not to desire anything beyond their simplest +needs. A little mutton, a little cocoa, and a little fruit brought +up from the coast—that's all they want to make 'em happy. I've +got 'em well trained. They make their own clothes and hats out of +a vegetable fibre and straw, and they're a contented lot. It's a +great thing,' winds up Shane, 'to have made a people happy by the +incultivation of such simple institutions.'</p> + +<p>"Well, the next day, with the King's permission, I has the +McClintock open up a couple of sacks of my goods in the little +plaza of the village. The Indians swarmed around by the hundred +and looked the bargain-counter over. I shook red blankets at 'em, +flashed finger-rings and ear-bobs, tried pearl necklaces and +side-combs on the women, and a line of red hosiery on the men. +'Twas no use. They looked on like hungry graven images, but I +never made a sale. I asked McClintock what was the trouble. Mac +yawned three or four times, rolled a cigarette, made one or two +confidential side remarks to a mule, and then condescended to +inform me that the people had no money.</p> + +<p>"Just then up strolls King Patrick, big and red and royal as +usual, with the gold chain over his chest and his cigar in front +of him.</p> + +<p>"'How's business, W. D.?' he asks.</p> + +<p>"'Fine,' says I. 'It's a bargain-day rush. I've got one more line +of goods to offer before I shut up shop. I'll try 'em with +safety-razors. I've got two gross that I bought at a fire sale.'</p> + +<p>"Shane laughs till some kind of mameluke or private secretary he +carries with him has to hold him up.</p> + +<p>"'O my sainted Aunt Jerusha!' says he, 'ain't you one of the Babes +in the Goods, W. D.? Don't you know that no Indians ever shave? +They pull out their whiskers instead.'</p> + +<p>"'Well,' says I, 'that's just what these razors would do for +'em—they wouldn't have any kick coming if they used 'em once.'</p> + +<p>"Shane went away, and I could hear him laughing a block, if there +had been any block.</p> + +<p>"'Tell 'em,' says I to McClintock, 'it ain't money I want—tell +'em I'll take gold-dust. Tell 'em I'll allow 'em sixteen dollars +an ounce for it in trade. That's what I'm out for—the dust.'</p> + +<p>"Mac interprets, and you'd have thought a squadron of cops had +charged the crowd to disperse it. Every uncle's nephew and aunt's +niece of 'em faded away inside of two minutes.</p> + +<p>"At the royal palace that night me and the King talked it over.</p> + +<p>"'They've got the dust hid out somewhere,' says I, 'or they +wouldn't have been so sensitive about it.'</p> + +<p>"'They haven't,' says Shane. 'What's this gag you've got about +gold? You been reading Edward Allen Poe? They ain't got any gold.'</p> + +<p>"'They put it in quills,' says I, 'and then they empty it in jars, +and then into sacks of twenty-five pounds each. I got it +straight.'</p> + +<p>"'W. D.,' says Shane, laughing and chewing his cigar, 'I don't +often see a white man, and I feel like putting you on. I don't +think you'll get away from here alive, anyhow, so I'm going to +tell you. Come over here.'</p> + +<p>"He draws aside a silk fibre curtain in a corner of the room and +shows me a pile of buckskin sacks.</p> + +<p>"'Forty of 'em,' says Shane. 'One arroba in each one. In round +numbers, $220,000 worth of gold-dust you see there. It's all mine. +It belongs to the Grand Yacuma. They bring it all to me. Two +hundred and twenty thousand dollars—think of that, you glass-bead +peddler,' says Shane—'and all mine.'</p> + +<p>"'Little good it does you,' says I, contemptuously and hatefully. +'And so you are the government depository of this gang of +moneyless money-makers? Don't you pay enough interest on it to +enable one of your depositors to buy an Augusta (Maine) Pullman +carbon diamond worth $200 for $4.85?'</p> + +<p>"'Listen,' says Patrick Shane, with the sweat coming out on his +brow. 'I'm confidant with you, as you have, somehow, enlisted my +regards. Did you ever,' he says, 'feel the avoirdupois power of +gold—not the troy weight of it, but the +sixteen-ounces-to-the-pound force of it?'</p> + +<p>"'Never,' says I. 'I never take in any bad money.'</p> + +<p>"Shane drops down on the floor and throws his arms over the sacks +of gold-dust.</p> + +<p>"'I love it,' says he. 'I want to feel the touch of it day and +night. It's my pleasure in life. I come in this room, and I'm a +king and a rich man. I'll be a millionaire in another year. The +pile's getting bigger every month. I've got the whole tribe +washing out the sands in the creeks. I'm the happiest man in the +world, W. D. I just want to be near this gold, and know it's mine +and it's increasing every day. Now, you know,' says he, 'why my +Indians wouldn't buy your goods. They can't. They bring all the +dust to me. I'm their king. I've taught 'em not to desire or +admire. You might as well shut up shop.'</p> + +<p>"'I'll tell you what you are,' says I. 'You're a plain, +contemptible miser. You preach supply and you forget demand. Now, +supply,' I goes on, 'is never anything but supply. On the +contrary,' says I, 'demand is a much broader syllogism and +assertion. Demand includes the rights of our women and children, +and charity and friendship, and even a little begging on the +street corners. They've both got to harmonize equally. And I've +got a few things up my commercial sleeve yet,' says I, 'that may +jostle your preconceived ideas of politics and economy.</p> + +<p>"The next morning I had McClintock bring up another mule-load of +goods to the plaza and open it up. The people gathered around the +same as before.</p> + +<p>"I got out the finest line of necklaces, bracelets, hair-combs, +and earrings that I carried, and had the women put 'em on. And +then I played trumps.</p> + +<p>"Out of my last pack I opened up a half gross of hand-mirrors, +with solid tinfoil backs, and passed 'em around among the ladies. +That was the first introduction of looking-glasses among the Peche +Indians.</p> + +<p>"Shane walks by with his big laugh.</p> + +<p>"'Business looking up any?' he asks.</p> + +<p>"'It's looking at itself right now,' says I.</p> + +<p>"By-and-by a kind of a murmur goes through the crowd. The women +had looked into the magic crystal and seen that they were +beautiful, and was confiding the secret to the men. The men seemed +to be urging the lack of money and the hard times just before the +election, but their excuses didn't go.</p> + +<p>"Then was my time.</p> + +<p>"I called McClintock away from an animated conversation with his +mules and told him to do some interpreting.</p> + +<p>"'Tell 'em,' says I, 'that gold-dust will buy for them these +befitting ornaments for kings and queens of the earth. Tell 'em +the yellow sand they wash out of the waters for the High +Sanctified Yacomay and Chop Suey of the tribe will buy the +precious jewels and charms that will make them beautiful and +preserve and pickle them from evil spirits. Tell 'em the +Pittsburgh banks are paying four per cent. interest on deposits by +mail, while this get-rich-frequently custodian of the public funds +ain't even paying attention. Keep telling 'em, Mac,' says I, 'to +let the gold-dust family do their work. Talk to 'em like a born +anti-Bryanite,' says I. 'Remind 'em that Tom Watson's gone back to +Georgia,' says I.</p> + +<p>"McClintock waves his hand affectionately at one of his mules, and +then hurls a few stickfuls of minion type at the mob of shoppers.</p> + +<p>"A gutta-percha Indian man, with a lady hanging on his arm, with +three strings of my fish-scale jewelry and imitation marble beads +around her neck, stands up on a block of stone and makes a talk +that sounds like a man shaking dice in a box to fill aces and +sixes.</p> + +<p>"'He says,' says McClintock, 'that the people not know that +gold-dust will buy their things. The women very mad. The Grand +Yacuma tell them it no good but for keep to make bad spirits keep +away.'</p> + +<p>"'You can't keep bad spirits away from money,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'They say,' goes on McClintock, 'the Yacuma fool them. They raise +plenty row.'</p> + +<p>"'Going! Going!' says I. 'Gold-dust or cash takes the entire +stock. The dust weighed before you, and taken at sixteen dollars +the ounce—the highest price on the Gaudymala coast.'</p> + +<p>"Then the crowd disperses all of a sudden, and I don't know what's +up. Mac and me packs away the hand-mirrors and jewelry they had +handed back to us, and we had the mules back to the corral they +had set apart for our garage.</p> + +<p>"While we was there we hear great noises of shouting, and down +across the plaza runs Patrick Shane, hotfoot, with his clothes +ripped half off, and scratches on his face like a cat had fought +him hard for every one of its lives.</p> + +<p>"'They're looting the treasury, W. D.,' he sings out. 'They're +going to kill me and you, too. Unlimber a couple of mules at once. +We'll have to make a get-away in a couple of minutes.'</p> + +<p>"'They've found out,' says I,' the truth about the law of supply +and demand.'</p> + +<p>"'It's the women, mostly,' says the King. 'And they used to admire +me so!'</p> + +<p>"'They hadn't seen looking-glasses then,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'They've got knives and hatchets,' says Shane; 'hurry!'</p> + +<p>"'Take that roan mule,' says I. 'You and your law of supply! I'll +ride the dun, for he's two knots per hour the faster. The roan has +a stiff knee, but he may make it,' says I. 'If you'd included +reciprocity in your political platform I might have given you the +dun,' says I.</p> + +<p>"Shane and McClintock and me mounted our mules and rode across the +rawhide bridge just as the Peches reached the other side and began +firing stones and long knives at us. We cut the thongs that held +up our end of the bridge and headed for the coast."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>A tall, bulky policeman came into Finch's shop at that moment and +leaned an elbow on the showcase. Finch nodded at him friendly.</p> + +<p>"I heard down at Casey's," said the cop, in rumbling, husky tones, +"that there was going to be a picnic of the Hat-Cleaners' Union +over at Bergen Beach, Sunday. Is that right?"</p> + +<p>"Sure," said Finch. "There'll be a dandy time."</p> + +<p>"Gimme five tickets," said the cop, throwing a five-dollar bill on +the showcase.</p> + +<p>"Why," said Finch, "ain't you going it a little too—"</p> + +<p>"Go to h––––!" said the cop. "You got 'em +to sell, ain't you? Somebody's got to buy 'em. Wish I could go +along."</p> + +<p>I was glad to See Finch so well thought of in his neighborhood.</p> + +<p>And then in came a wee girl of seven, with dirty face and pure +blue eyes and a smutched and insufficient dress.</p> + +<p>"Mamma says," she recited shrilly, "that you must give me eighty +cents for the grocer and nineteen for the milkman and five cents +for me to buy hokey-pokey with—but she didn't say that," the elf +concluded, with a hopeful but honest grin.</p> + +<p>Finch shelled out the money, counting it twice, but I noticed that +the total sum that the small girl received was one dollar and four +cents.</p> + +<p>"That's the right kind of a law," remarked Finch, as he carefully +broke some of the stitches of my hatband so that it would +assuredly come off within a few days—"the law of supply and +demand. But they've both got to work together. I'll bet," he went +on, with his dry smile, "she'll get jelly beans with that +nickel—she likes 'em. What's supply if there's no demand for it?"</p> + +<p>"What ever became of the King?" I asked, curiously.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I might have told you," said Finch. "That was Shane came in +and bought the tickets. He came back with me, and he's on the +force now."</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="7"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>BURIED TREASURE</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<p>There are many kinds of fools. Now, will everybody please sit +still until they are called upon specifically to rise?</p> + +<p>I had been every kind of fool except one. I had expended my +patrimony, pretended my matrimony, played poker, lawn-tennis, and +bucket-shops—parted soon with my money in many ways. But there +remained one rule of the wearer of cap and bells that I had not +played. That was the Seeker after Buried Treasure. To few does the +delectable furor come. But of all the would-be followers in the +hoof-prints of King Midas none has found a pursuit so rich in +pleasurable promise.</p> + +<p>But, going back from my theme a while—as lame pens must do—I was +a fool of the sentimental sort. I saw May Martha Mangum, and was +hers. She was eighteen, the color of the white ivory keys of a new +piano, beautiful, and possessed by the exquisite solemnity and +pathetic witchery of an unsophisticated angel doomed to live in a +small, dull, Texas prairie-town. She had a spirit and charm that +could have enabled her to pluck rubies like raspberries from the +crown of Belgium or any other sporty kingdom, but she did not know +it, and I did not paint the picture for her.</p> + +<p>You see, I wanted May Martha Mangum for to have and to hold. I +wanted her to abide with me, and put my slippers and pipe away +every day in places where they cannot be found of evenings.</p> + +<p>May Martha's father was a man hidden behind whiskers and +spectacles. He lived for bugs and butterflies and all insects that +fly or crawl or buzz or get down your back or in the butter. He +was an etymologist, or words to that effect. He spent his life +seining the air for flying fish of the June-bug order, and then +sticking pins through 'em and calling 'em names.</p> + +<p>He and May Martha were the whole family. He prized her highly as a +fine specimen of the <i>racibus humanus</i> because she saw that he had +food at times, and put his clothes on right side before, and kept +his alcohol-bottles filled. Scientists, they say, are apt to be +absent-minded.</p> + +<p>There was another besides myself who thought May Martha Mangum one +to be desired. That was Goodloe Banks, a young man just home from +college. He had all the attainments to be found in books—Latin, +Greek, philosophy, and especially the higher branches of +mathematics and logic.</p> + +<p>If it hadn't been for his habit of pouring out this information +and learning on every one that he addressed, I'd have liked him +pretty well. But, even as it was, he and I were, you would have +thought, great pals.</p> + +<p>We got together every time we could because each of us wanted to +pump the other for whatever straws we could to find which way the +wind blew from the heart of May Martha Mangum—rather a mixed +metaphor; Goodloe Banks would never have been guilty of that. That +is the way of rivals.</p> + +<p>You might say that Goodloe ran to books, manners, culture, rowing, +intellect, and clothes. I would have put you in mind more of +baseball and Friday-night debating societies—by way of +culture—and maybe of a good horseback rider.</p> + +<p>But in our talks together, and in our visits and conversation with +May Martha, neither Goodloe Banks nor I could find out which one +of us she preferred. May Martha was a natural-born non-committal, +and knew in her cradle how to keep people guessing.</p> + +<p>As I said, old man Mangum was absent-minded. After a long time he +found out one day—a little butterfly must have told him—that two +young men were trying to throw a net over the head of the young +person, a daughter, or some such technical appendage, who looked +after his comforts.</p> + +<p>I never knew scientists could rise to such occasions. Old Mangum +orally labelled and classified Goodloe and myself easily among the +lowest orders of the vertebrates; and in English, too, without +going any further into Latin than the simple references to +<i>Orgetorix, Rex Helvetii</i>—which is as far as I ever went, myself. +And he told us that if he ever caught us around his house again he +would add us to his collection.</p> + +<p>Goodloe Banks and I remained away five days, expecting the storm +to subside. When we dared to call at the house again May Martha +Mangum and her father were gone. Gone! The house they had rented +was closed. Their little store of goods and chattels was gone +also.</p> + +<p>And not a word of farewell to either of us from May Martha—not a +white, fluttering note pinned to the hawthorn-bush; not a +chalk-mark on the gate-post nor a post-card in the post-office to +give us a clew.</p> + +<p>For two months Goodloe Banks and I—separately—tried every scheme +we could think of to track the runaways. We used our friendship +and influence with the ticket-agent, with livery-stable men, +railroad conductors, and our one lone, lorn constable, but without +results.</p> + +<p>Then we became better friends and worse enemies than ever. We +forgathered in the back room of Snyder's saloon every afternoon +after work, and played dominoes, and laid conversational traps to +find out from each other if anything had been discovered. That is +the way of rivals.</p> + +<p>Now, Goodloe Banks had a sarcastic way of displaying his own +learning and putting me in the class that was reading "Poor Jane +Ray, her bird is dead, she cannot play." Well, I rather liked +Goodloe, and I had a contempt for his college learning, and I was +always regarded as good-natured, so I kept my temper. And I was +trying to find out if he knew anything about May Martha, so I +endured his society.</p> + +<p>In talking things over one afternoon he said to me:</p> + +<p>"Suppose you do find her, Ed, whereby would you profit? Miss +Mangum has a mind. Perhaps it is yet uncultured, but she is +destined for higher things than you could give her. I have talked +with no one who seemed to appreciate more the enchantment of the +ancient poets and writers and the modern cults that have +assimilated and expended their philosophy of life. Don't you think +you are wasting your time looking for her?"</p> + +<p>"My idea," said I, "of a happy home is an eight-room house in a +grove of live-oaks by the side of a <i>charco</i> on a Texas prairie. A +piano," I went on, "with an automatic player in the sitting-room, +three thousand head of cattle under fence for a starter, a +buckboard and ponies always hitched at a post for 'the +missus'—and May Martha Mangum to spend the profits of the ranch +as she pleases, and to abide with me, and put my slippers and pipe +away every day in places where they cannot be found of evenings. +That," said I, "is what is to be; and a fig—a dried, Smyrna, +dago-stand fig—for your curriculums, cults, and philosophy."</p> + +<p>"She is meant for higher things," repeated Goodloe Banks.</p> + +<p>"Whatever she is meant for," I answered, just now she is out of +pocket. And I shall find her as soon as I can without aid of the +colleges."</p> + +<p>"The game is blocked," said Goodloe, putting down a domino; and we +had the beer.</p> + +<p>Shortly after that a young farmer whom I knew came into town and +brought me a folded blue paper. He said his grandfather had just +died. I concealed a tear, and he went on to say that the old man +had jealously guarded this paper for twenty years. He left it to +his family as part of his estate, the rest of which consisted of +two mules and a hypotenuse of non-arable land.</p> + +<p>The sheet of paper was of the old, blue kind used during the +rebellion of the abolitionists against the secessionists. It was +dated June 14, 1863, and it described the hiding-place of ten +burro-loads of gold and silver coin valued at three hundred +thousand dollars. Old Rundle—grandfather of his grandson, +Sam—was given the information by a Spanish priest who was in on +the treasure-burying, and who died many years before—no, +afterward—in old Rundle's house. Old Rundle wrote it down from +dictation.</p> + +<p>"Why didn't your father look this up?" I asked young Rundle.</p> + +<p>"He went blind before he could do so," he replied.</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you hunt for it yourself?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Well," said he, "I've only known about the paper for ten years. +First there was the spring ploughin' to do, and then choppin' the +weeds out of the corn; and then come takin' fodder; and mighty +soon winter was on us. It seemed to run along that way year after +year."</p> + +<p>That sounded perfectly reasonable to me, so I took it up with +young Lee Rundle at once.</p> + +<p>The directions on the paper were simple. The whole burro cavalcade +laden with the treasure started from an old Spanish mission in +Dolores County. They travelled due south by the compass until they +reached the Alamito River. They forded this, and buried the +treasure on the top of a little mountain shaped like a pack-saddle +standing in a row between two higher ones. A heap of stones marked +the place of the buried treasure. All the party except the Spanish +priest were killed by Indians a few days later. The secret was a +monopoly. It looked good to me.</p> + +<p>Lee Rundle suggested that we rig out a camping outfit, hire a +surveyor to run out the line from the Spanish mission, and then +spend the three hundred thousand dollars seeing the sights in Fort +Worth. But, without being highly educated, I knew a way to save +time and expense.</p> + +<p>We went to the State land-office and had a practical, what they +call a "working," sketch made of all the surveys of land from the +old mission to the Alamito River. On this map I drew a line due +southward to the river. The length of lines of each survey and +section of land was accurately given on the sketch. By these we +found the point on the river and had a "connection" made with it +and an important, well-identified corner of the Los Animos +five-league survey—a grant made by King Philip of Spain.</p> + +<p>By doing this we did not need to have the line run out by a +surveyor. It was a great saving of expense and time.</p> + +<p>So, Lee Rundle and I fitted out a two-horse wagon team with all +the accessories, and drove a hundred and forty-nine miles to +Chico, the nearest town to the point we wished to reach. There we +picked up a deputy county surveyor. He found the corner of the Los +Animos survey for us, ran out the five thousand seven hundred and +twenty varas west that our sketch called for, laid a stone on the +spot, had coffee and bacon, and caught the mail-stage back to +Chico.</p> + +<p>I was pretty sure we would get that three hundred thousand +dollars. Lee Rundle's was to be only one-third, because I was +paying all the expenses. With that two hundred thousand dollars I +knew I could find May Martha Mangum if she was on earth. And with +it I could flutter the butterflies in old man Mangum's dovecot, +too. If I could find that treasure!</p> + +<p>But Lee and I established camp. Across the river were a dozen +little mountains densely covered by cedar-brakes, but not one +shaped like a pack-saddle. That did not deter us. Appearances are +deceptive. A pack-saddle, like beauty, may exist only in the eye +of the beholder.</p> + +<p>I and the grandson of the treasure examined those cedar-covered +hills with the care of a lady hunting for the wicked flea. We +explored every side, top, circumference, mean elevation, angle, +slope, and concavity of every one for two miles up and down the +river. We spent four days doing so. Then we hitched up the roan +and the dun, and hauled the remains of the coffee and bacon the +one hundred and forty-nine miles back to Concho City.</p> + +<p>Lee Rundle chewed much tobacco on the return trip. I was busy +driving, because I was in a hurry.</p> + +<p>As shortly as could be after our empty return Goodloe Banks and I +forgathered in the back room of Snyder's saloon to play dominoes +and fish for information. I told Goodloe about my expedition after +the buried treasure.</p> + +<p>"If I could have found that three hundred thousand dollars," I +said to him, "I could have scoured and sifted the surface of the +earth to find May Martha Mangum."</p> + +<p>"She is meant for higher things," said Goodloe. "I shall find her +myself. But, tell me how you went about discovering the spot where +this unearthed increment was imprudently buried."</p> + +<p>I told him in the smallest detail. I showed him the draughtsman's +sketch with the distances marked plainly upon it.</p> + +<p>After glancing over it in a masterly way, he leaned back in his +chair and bestowed upon me an explosion of sardonic, superior, +collegiate laughter.</p> + +<p>"Well, you <i>are</i> a fool, Jim," he said, when he could speak.</p> + +<p>"It's your play," said I, patiently, fingering my double-six.</p> + +<p>"Twenty," said Goodloe, making two crosses on the table with his +chalk.</p> + +<p>"Why am I a fool?" I asked. "Buried treasure has been found before +in many places."</p> + +<p>"Because," said he, "in calculating the point on the river where +your line would strike you neglected to allow for the variation. +The variation there would be nine degrees west. Let me have your +pencil."</p> + +<p>Goodloe Banks figured rapidly on the back of an envelope.</p> + +<p>"The distance, from north to south, of the line run from the +Spanish mission," said he, "is exactly twenty-two miles. It was +run by a pocket-compass, according to your story. Allowing for the +variation, the point on the Alamito River where you should have +searched for your treasure is exactly six miles and nine hundred +and forty-five varas farther west than the place you hit upon. Oh, +what a fool you are, Jim!"</p> + +<p>"What is this variation that you speak of?" I asked. "I thought +figures never lied."</p> + +<p>"The variation of the magnetic compass," said Goodloe, "from the +true meridian."</p> + +<p>He smiled in his superior way; and then I saw come out in his face +the singular, eager, consuming cupidity of the seeker after buried +treasure.</p> + +<p>"Sometimes," he said with the air of the oracle, "these old +traditions of hidden money are not without foundation. Suppose you +let me look over that paper describing the location. Perhaps +together we might—"</p> + +<p>The result was that Goodloe Banks and I, rivals in love, became +companions in adventure. We went to Chico by stage from +Huntersburg, the nearest railroad town. In Chico we hired a team +drawing a covered spring-wagon and camping paraphernalia. We had +the same surveyor run out our distance, as revised by Goodloe and +his variations, and then dismissed him and sent him on his +homeward road.</p> + +<p>It was night when we arrived. I fed the horses and made a fire +near the bank of the river and cooked supper. Goodloe would have +helped, but his education had not fitted him for practical things.</p> + +<p>But while I worked he cheered me with the expression of great +thoughts handed down from the dead ones of old. He quoted some +translations from the Greek at much length.</p> + +<p>"Anacreon," he explained. "That was a favorite passage with Miss +Mangum—as I recited it."</p> + +<p>"She is meant for higher things," said I, repeating his phrase.</p> + +<p>"Can there be anything higher," asked Goodloe, "than to dwell in +the society of the classics, to live in the atmosphere of learning +and culture? You have often decried education. What of your wasted +efforts through your ignorance of simple mathematics? How soon +would you have found your treasure if my knowledge had not shown +you your error?"</p> + +<p>"We'll take a look at those hills across the river first," said I, +"and see what we find. I am still doubtful about variations. I +have been brought up to believe that the needle is true to the +pole."</p> + +<p>The next morning was a bright June one. We were up early and had +breakfast. Goodloe was charmed. He recited—Keats, I think it was, +and Kelly or Shelley—while I broiled the bacon. We were getting +ready to cross the river, which was little more than a shallow +creek there, and explore the many sharp-peaked cedar-covered hills +on the other side.</p> + +<p>"My good Ulysses," said Goodloe, slapping me on the shoulder while +I was washing the tin breakfast-plates, "let me see the enchanted +document once more. I believe it gives directions for climbing the +hill shaped like a pack-saddle. I never saw a pack-saddle. What is +it like, Jim?"</p> + +<p>"Score one against culture," said I. "I'll know it when I see it."</p> + +<p>Goodloe was looking at old Rundle's document when he ripped out a +most uncollegiate swear-word.</p> + +<p>"Come here," he said, holding the paper up against the sunlight. +"Look at that," he said, laying his finger against it.</p> + +<p>On the blue paper—a thing I had never noticed before—I saw stand +out in white letters the word and figures: "Malvern, 1898."</p> + +<p>"What about it?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"It's the water-mark," said Goodloe. "The paper was manufactured +in 1898. The writing on the paper is dated 1863. This is a +palpable fraud."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know," said I. "The Rundles are pretty reliable, +plain, uneducated country people. Maybe the paper manufacturers +tried to perpetrate a swindle."</p> + +<p>And then Goodloe Banks went as wild as his education permitted. He +dropped the glasses off his nose and glared at me.</p> + +<p>"I've often told you you were a fool," he said. "You have let +yourself be imposed upon by a clodhopper. And you have imposed +upon me."</p> + +<p>"How," I asked, "have I imposed upon you?"</p> + +<p>"By your ignorance," said he. "Twice I have discovered serious +flaws in your plans that a common-school education should have +enabled you to avoid. And," he continued, "I have been put to +expense that I could ill afford in pursuing this swindling quest. +I am done with it."</p> + +<p>I rose and pointed a large pewter spoon at him, fresh from the +dish-water.</p> + +<p>"Goodloe Banks," I said, "I care not one parboiled navy bean for +your education. I always barely tolerated it in any one, and I +despised it in you. What has your learning done for you? It is a +curse to yourself and a bore to your friends. Away," I said—"away +with your water-marks and variations! They are nothing to me. They +shall not deflect me from the quest."</p> + +<p>I pointed with my spoon across the river to a small mountain +shaped like a pack-saddle.</p> + +<p>"I am going to search that mountain," I went on, "for the +treasure. Decide now whether you are in it or not. If you wish to +let a water-mark or a variation shake your soul, you are no true +adventurer. Decide."</p> + +<p>A white cloud of dust began to rise far down the river road. It +was the mail-wagon from Hesperus to Chico. Goodloe flagged it.</p> + +<p>"I am done with the swindle," said he, sourly. "No one but a fool +would pay any attention to that paper now. Well, you always were a +fool, Jim. I leave you to your fate."</p> + +<p>He gathered his personal traps, climbed into the mail-wagon, +adjusted his glasses nervously, and flew away in a cloud of dust.</p> + +<p>After I had washed the dishes and staked the horses on new grass, +I crossed the shallow river and made my way slowly through the +cedar-brakes up to the top of the hill shaped like a pack-saddle.</p> + +<p>It was a wonderful June day. Never in my life had I seen so many +birds, so many butter-flies, dragon-flies, grasshoppers, and such +winged and stinged beasts of the air and fields.</p> + +<p>I investigated the hill shaped like a pack-saddle from base to +summit. I found an absolute absence of signs relating to buried +treasure. There was no pile of stones, no ancient blazes on the +trees, none of the evidences of the three hundred thousand +dollars, as set forth in the document of old man Rundle.</p> + +<p>I came down the hill in the cool of the afternoon. Suddenly, out +of the cedar-brake I stepped into a beautiful green valley where a +tributary small stream ran into the Alamito River.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>And there I was startled to see what I took to be a wild man, with +unkempt beard and ragged hair, pursuing a giant butterfly with +brilliant wings.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he is an escaped madman," I thought; and wondered how he +had strayed so far from seats of education and learning.</p> + +<p>And then I took a few more steps and saw a vine-covered cottage +near the small stream. And in a little grassy glade I saw May +Martha Mangum plucking wild flowers.</p> + +<p>She straightened up and looked at me. For the first time since I +knew her I saw her face—which was the color of the white keys of +a new piano—turn pink. I walked toward her without a word. She +let the gathered flowers trickle slowly from her hand to the +grass.</p> + +<p>"I knew you would come, Jim," she said clearly. "Father wouldn't +let me write, but I knew you would come."</p> + +<p>What followed you may guess—there was my wagon and team just +across the river.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I've often wondered what good too much education is to a man if he +can't use it for himself. If all the benefits of it are to go to +others, where does it come in?</p> + +<p>For May Martha Mangum abides with me. There is an eight-room house +in a live-oak grove, and a piano with an automatic player, and a +good start toward the three thousand head of cattle is under +fence.</p> + +<p>And when I ride home at night my pipe and slippers are put away in +places where they cannot be found.</p> + +<p>But who cares for that? Who cares—who cares?</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="8"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>TO HIM WHO WAITS</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<p>The Hermit of the Hudson was hustling about his cave with unusual +animation.</p> + +<p>The cave was on or in the top of a little spur of the Catskills +that had strayed down to the river's edge, and, not having a ferry +ticket, had to stop there. The bijou mountains were densely wooded +and were infested by ferocious squirrels and woodpeckers that +forever menaced the summer transients. Like a badly sewn strip of +white braid, a macadamized road ran between the green skirt of the +hills and the foamy lace of the river's edge. A dim path wound +from the comfortable road up a rocky height to the hermit's cave. +One mile upstream was the Viewpoint Inn, to which summer folk from +the city came; leaving cool, electric-fanned apartments that they +might be driven about in burning sunshine, shrieking, in gasoline +launches, by spindle-legged Modreds bearing the blankest of +shields.</p> + +<p>Train your lorgnette upon the hermit and let your eye receive the +personal touch that shall endear you to the hero.</p> + +<p>A man of forty, judging him fairly, with long hair curling at the +ends, dramatic eyes, and a forked brown beard like those that were +imposed upon the West some years ago by self-appointed "divine +healers" who succeeded the grasshopper crop. His outward vesture +appeared to be kind of gunny-sacking, cut and made into a garment +that would have made the fortune of a London tailor. His long, +well-shaped fingers, delicate nose, and poise of manner raised him +high above the class of hermits who fear water and bury money in +oyster-cans in their caves in spots indicated by rude crosses +chipped in the stone wall above.</p> + +<p>The hermit's home was not altogether a cave. The cave was an +addition to the hermitage, which was a rude hut made of poles +daubed with clay and covered with the best quality of rust-proof +zinc roofing.</p> + +<p>In the house proper there were stone slabs for seats, a rustic +bookcase made of unplaned poplar planks, and a table formed of a +wooden slab laid across two upright pieces of granite—something +between the furniture of a Druid temple and that of a Broadway +beefsteak dungeon. Hung against the walls were skins of wild +animals purchased in the vicinity of Eighth Street and University +Place, New York.</p> + +<p>The rear of the cabin merged into the cave. There the hermit +cooked his meals on a rude stone hearth. With infinite patience +and an old axe he had chopped natural shelves in the rocky walls. +On them stood his stores of flour, bacon, lard, talcum-powder, +kerosene, baking-powder, soda-mint tablets, pepper, salt, and +Olivo-Cremo Emulsion for chaps and roughness of the hands and +face.</p> + +<p>The hermit had hermited there for ten years. He was an asset of +the Viewpoint Inn. To its guests he was second in interest only to +the Mysterious Echo in the Haunted Glen. And the Lover's Leap beat +him only a few inches, flat-footed. He was known far (but not very +wide, on account of the topography) as a scholar of brilliant +intellect who had forsworn the world because he had been jilted in +a love affair. Every Saturday night the Viewpoint Inn sent to him +surreptitiously a basket of provisions. He never left the +immediate outskirts of his hermitage. Guests of the inn who +visited him said his store of knowledge, wit, and scintillating +philosophy were simply wonderful, you know.</p> + +<p>That summer the Viewpoint Inn was crowded with guests. So, on +Saturday nights, there were extra cans of tomatoes, and sirloin +steak, instead of "rounds," in the hermit's basket.</p> + +<p>Now you have the material allegations in the case. So, make way +for Romance.</p> + +<p>Evidently the hermit expected a visitor. He carefully combed his +long hair and parted his apostolic beard. When the +ninety-eight-cent alarm-clock on a stone shelf announced the hour +of five he picked up his gunny-sacking skirts, brushed them +carefully, gathered an oaken staff, and strolled slowly into the +thick woods that surrounded the hermitage.</p> + +<p>He had not long to wait. Up the faint pathway, slippery with its +carpet of pine-needles, toiled Beatrix, youngest and fairest of +the famous Trenholme sisters. She was all in blue from hat to +canvas pumps, varying in tint from the shade of the tinkle of a +bluebell at daybreak on a spring Saturday to the deep hue of a +Monday morning at nine when the washerwoman has failed to show up.</p> + +<p>Beatrix dug her cerulean parasol deep into the pine-needles and +sighed. The hermit, on the <i>q. t.</i>, removed a grass burr from the +ankle of one sandalled foot with the big toe of his other one. She +blued—and almost starched and ironed him—with her cobalt eyes.</p> + +<p>"It must be so nice," she said in little, tremulous gasps, "to be +a hermit, and have ladies climb mountains to talk to you."</p> + +<p>The hermit folded his arms and leaned against a tree. Beatrix, +with a sigh, settled down upon the mat of pine-needles like a +bluebird upon her nest. The hermit followed suit; drawing his feet +rather awkwardly under his gunny-sacking.</p> + +<p>"It must be nice to be a mountain," said he, with ponderous +lightness, "and have angels in blue climb up you instead of flying +over you."</p> + +<p>"Mamma had neuralgia," said Beatrix, "and went to bed, or I +couldn't have come. It's dreadfully hot at that horrid old inn. +But we hadn't the money to go anywhere else this summer."</p> + +<p>"Last night," said the hermit, "I climbed to the top of that big +rock above us. I could see the lights of the inn and hear a strain +or two of the music when the wind was right. I imagined you moving +gracefully in the arms of others to the dreamy music of the waltz +amid the fragrance of flowers. Think how lonely I must have been!"</p> + +<p>The youngest, handsomest, and poorest of the famous Trenholme +sisters sighed.</p> + +<p>"You haven't quite hit it," she said, plaintively. "I was moving +gracefully <i>at</i> the arms of another. Mamma had one of her periodical +attacks of rheumatism in both elbows and shoulders, and I had to +rub them for an hour with that horrid old liniment. I hope you +didn't think <i>that</i> smelled like flowers. You know, there were +some West Point boys and a yacht load of young men from the city at +last evening's weekly dance. I've known mamma to sit by an open +window for three hours with one-half of her registering 85 degrees +and the other half frostbitten, and never sneeze once. But just +let a bunch of ineligibles come around where I am, and she'll +begin to swell at the knuckles and shriek with pain. And I have to +take her to her room and rub her arms. To see mamma dressed you'd +be surprised to know the number of square inches of surface there +are to her arms. I think it must be delightful to be a hermit. +That—cassock—or gabardine, isn't it?—that you wear is so +becoming. Do you make it—or them—of course you must have +changes—yourself? And what a blessed relief it must be to wear +sandals instead of shoes! Think how we must suffer—no matter how +small I buy my shoes they always pinch my toes. Oh, why can't +there be lady hermits, too!"</p> + +<p>The beautifulest and most adolescent Trenholme sister extended two +slender blue ankles that ended in two enormous blue-silk bows that +almost concealed two fairy Oxfords, also of one of the forty-seven +shades of blue. The hermit, as if impelled by a kind of +reflex-telepathic action, drew his bare toes farther beneath his +gunny-sacking.</p> + +<p>"I have heard about the romance of your life," said Miss +Trenholme, softly. "They have it printed on the back of the menu +card at the inn. Was she very beautiful and charming?"</p> + +<p>"On the bills of fare!" muttered the hermit; "but what do I care +for the world's babble? Yes, she was of the highest and grandest +type. Then," he continued, "<i>then</i> I thought the world could never +contain another equal to her. So I forsook it and repaired to this +mountain fastness to spend the remainder of my life alone—to +devote and dedicate my remaining years to her memory."</p> + +<p>"It's grand," said Miss Trenholme, "absolutely grand. I think a +hermit's life is the ideal one. No bill-collectors calling, no +dressing for dinner—how I'd like to be one! But there's no such +luck for me. If I don't marry this season I honestly believe mamma +will force me into settlement work or trimming hats. It isn't +because I'm getting old or ugly; but we haven't enough money left +to butt in at any of the swell places any more. And I don't want +to marry—unless it's somebody I like. That's why I'd like to be a +hermit. Hermits don't ever marry, do they?"</p> + +<p>"Hundreds of 'em," said the hermit, "when they've found the right +one."</p> + +<p>"But they're hermits," said the youngest and beautifulest, +"because they've lost the right one, aren't they?"</p> + +<p>"Because they think they have," answered the recluse, fatuously. +"Wisdom comes to one in a mountain cave as well as to one in the +world of 'swells,' as I believe they are called in the argot."</p> + +<p>"When one of the 'swells' brings it to them," said Miss Trenholme. +"And my folks are swells. That's the trouble. But there are so +many swells at the seashore in the summer-time that we hardly +amount to more than ripples. So we've had to put all our money +into river and harbor appropriations. We were all girls, you know. +There were four of us. I'm the only surviving one. The others have +been married off. All to money. Mamma is so proud of my sisters. +They send her the loveliest pen-wipers and art calendars every +Christmas. I'm the only one on the market now. I'm forbidden to +look at any one who hasn't money."</p> + +<p>"But—" began the hermit.</p> + +<p>"But, oh," said the beautifulest, "of course hermits have great +pots of gold and doubloons buried somewhere near three great +oak-trees. They all have."</p> + +<p>"I have not," said the hermit, regretfully.</p> + +<p>"I'm so sorry," said Miss Trenholme. "I always thought they had. I +think I must go now."</p> + +<p>Oh, beyond question, she was the beautifulest.</p> + +<p>"Fair lady—" began the hermit.</p> + +<p>"I am Beatrix Trenholme—some call me Trix," she said. "You must +come to the inn to see me."</p> + +<p>"I haven't been a stone's-throw from my cave in ten years," said +the hermit.</p> + +<p>"You must come to see me there," she repeated. "Any evening except +Thursday."</p> + +<p>The hermit smiled weakly.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," she said, gathering the folds of her pale-blue skirt. +"I shall expect you. But not on Thursday evening, remember."</p> + +<p>What an interest it would give to the future menu cards of the +Viewpoint Inn to have these printed lines added to them: "Only +once during the more than ten years of his lonely existence did +the mountain hermit leave his famous cave. That was when he was +irresistibly drawn to the inn by the fascinations of Miss Beatrix +Trenholme, youngest and most beautiful of the celebrated Trenholme +sisters, whose brilliant marriage to—"</p> + +<p>Aye, to whom?</p> + +<p>The hermit walked back to the hermitage. At the door stood Bob +Binkley, his old friend and companion of the days before he had +renounced the world—Bob, himself, arrayed like the orchids of the +greenhouse in the summer man's polychromatic garb—Bob, the +millionaire, with his fat, firm, smooth, shrewd face, his diamond +rings, sparkling fob-chain, and pleated bosom. He was two years +older than the hermit, and looked five years younger.</p> + +<p>"You're Hamp Ellison, in spite of those whiskers and that +going-away bathrobe," he shouted. "I read about you on the bill of +fare at the inn. They've run your biography in between the cheese +and 'Not Responsible for Coats and Umbrellas.' What 'd you do it +for, Hamp? And ten years, too—gee whilikins!"</p> + +<p>"You're just the same," said the hermit. "Come in and sit down. +Sit on that limestone rock over there; it's softer than the +granite."</p> + +<p>"I can't understand it, old man," said Binkley. "I can see how you +could give up a woman for ten years, but not ten years for a +woman. Of course I know why you did it. Everybody does. Edith +Carr. She jilted four or five besides you. But you were the only +one who took to a hole in the ground. The others had recourse to +whiskey, the Klondike, politics, and that <i>similia similibus</i> cure. +But, say—Hamp, Edith Carr was just about the finest woman in the +world—high-toned and proud and noble, and playing her ideals to +win at all kinds of odds. She certainly was a crackerjack."</p> + +<p>"After I renounced the world," said the hermit, "I never heard of +her again."</p> + +<p>"She married me," said Binkley.</p> + +<p>The hermit leaned against the wooden walls of his ante-cave and +wriggled his toes.</p> + +<p>"I know how you feel about it," said Binkley. "What else could she +do? There were her four sisters and her mother and old man +Carr—you remember how he put all the money he had into dirigible +balloons? Well, everything was coming down and nothing going up +with 'em, as you might say. Well, I know Edith as well as you +do—although I married her. I was worth a million then, but I've +run it up since to between five and six. It wasn't me she wanted +as much as—well, it was about like this. She had that bunch on +her hands, and they had to be taken care of. Edith married me two +months after you did the ground-squirrel act. I thought she liked +me, too, at the time."</p> + +<p>"And now?" inquired the recluse.</p> + +<p>"We're better friends than ever now. She got a divorce from me two +years ago. Just incompatibility. I didn't put in any defence. +Well, well, well, Hamp, this is certainly a funny dugout you've +built here. But you always were a hero of fiction. Seems like +you'd have been the very one to strike Edith's fancy. Maybe you +did—but it's the bank-roll that catches 'em, my boy—your caves +and whiskers won't do it. Honestly, Hamp, don't you think you've +been a darned fool?"</p> + +<p>The hermit smiled behind his tangled beard. He was and always had +been so superior to the crude and mercenary Binkley that even his +vulgarities could not anger him. Moreover, his studies and +meditations in his retreat had raised him far above the little +vanities of the world. His little mountain-side had been almost an +Olympus, over the edge of which he saw, smiling, the bolts hurled +in the valleys of man below. Had his ten years of renunciation, of +thought, of devotion to an ideal, of living scorn of a sordid +world, been in vain? Up from the world had come to him the +youngest and beautifulest—fairer than Edith—one and +three-seventh times lovelier than the seven-years-served Rachel. +So the hermit smiled in his beard.</p> + +<p>When Binkley had relieved the hermitage from the blot of his +presence and the first faint star showed above the pines, the +hermit got the can of baking-powder from his cupboard. He still +smiled behind his beard.</p> + +<p>There was a slight rustle in the doorway. There stood Edith Carr, +with all the added beauty and stateliness and noble bearing that +ten years had brought her.</p> + +<p>She was never one to chatter. She looked at the hermit with her +large, <i>thinking</i>, dark eyes. The hermit stood still, surprised into +a pose as motionless as her own. Only his subconscious sense of +the fitness of things caused him to turn the baking-powder can +slowly in his hands until its red label was hidden against his +bosom.</p> + +<p>"I am stopping at the inn," said Edith, in low but clear tones. "I +heard of you there. I told myself that I <i>must</i> see you. I want to +ask your forgiveness. I sold my happiness for money. There were +others to be provided for—but that does not excuse me. I just +wanted to see you and ask your forgiveness. You have lived here +ten years, they tell me, cherishing my memory! I was blind, +Hampton. I could not see then that all the money in the world +cannot weigh in the scales against a faithful heart. If—but it is +too late now, of course."</p> + +<p>Her assertion was a question clothed as best it could be in a +loving woman's pride. But through the thin disguise the hermit saw +easily that his lady had come back to him—if he chose. He had won +a golden crown—if it pleased him to take it. The reward of his +decade of faithfulness was ready for his hand—if he desired to +stretch it forth.</p> + +<p>For the space of one minute the old enchantment shone upon him +with a reflected radiance. And then by turns he felt the manly +sensations of indignation at having been discarded, and of +repugnance at having been—as it were—sought again. And last of +all—how strange that it should have come at last!—the pale-blue +vision of the beautifulest of the Trenholme sisters illuminated +his mind's eye and left him without a waver.</p> + +<p>"It is too late," he said, in deep tones, pressing the +baking-powder can against his heart.</p> + +<p>Once she turned after she had gone slowly twenty yards down the +path. The hermit had begun to twist the lid off his can, but he +hid it again under his sacking robe. He could see her great eyes +shining sadly through the twilight; but he stood inflexible in the +doorway of his shack and made no sign.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Just as the moon rose on Thursday evening the hermit was seized by +the world-madness.</p> + +<p>Up from the inn, fainter than the horns of elf-land, came now and +then a few bars of music played by the casino band. The Hudson was +broadened by the night into an illimitable sea—those lights, dimly +seen on its opposite shore, were not beacons for prosaic +trolley-lines, but low-set stars millions of miles away. The waters +in front of the inn were gay with fireflies—or were they motor-boats, +smelling of gasoline and oil? Once the hermit had known these things +and had sported with Amaryllis in the shade of the +red-and-white-striped awnings. But for ten years he had turned a +heedless ear to these far-off echoes of a frivolous world. But +to-night there was something wrong.</p> + +<p>The casino band was playing a waltz—a waltz. What a fool he had +been to tear deliberately ten years of his life from the calendar of +existence for one who had given him up for the false joys that +wealth—"<i>tum</i> ti <i>tum</i> ti <i>tum</i> ti"—how did that +waltz go? But those years had not been sacrificed—had they not +brought him the star and pearl of all the world, the youngest and +beautifulest of—</p> + +<p>"But do <i>not</i> come on Thursday evening," she had insisted. Perhaps +by now she would be moving slowly and gracefully to the strains of that +waltz, held closely by West-Pointers or city commuters, while he, +who had read in her eyes things that had recompensed him for ten +lost years of life, moped like some wild animal in its mountain den. +Why should—"</p> + +<p>"Damn it," said the hermit, suddenly, "I'll do it!"</p> + +<p>He threw down his Marcus Aurelius and threw off his gunny-sack toga. +He dragged a dust-covered trunk from a corner of the cave, and with +difficulty wrenched open its lid.</p> + +<p>Candles he had in plenty, and the cave was soon aglow. Clothes—ten +years old in cut—scissors, razors, hats, shoes, all his discarded +attire and belongings, were dragged ruthlessly from their +renunciatory rest and strewn about in painful disorder.</p> + +<p>A pair of scissors soon reduced his beard sufficiently for the +dulled razors to perform approximately their office. Cutting his own +hair was beyond the hermit's skill. So he only combed and brushed it +backward as smoothly as he could. Charity forbids us to consider the +heartburnings and exertions of one so long removed from haberdashery +and society.</p> + +<p>At the last the hermit went to an inner corner of his cave and began +to dig in the soft earth with a long iron spoon. Out of the cavity +he thus made he drew a tin can, and out of the can three thousand +dollars in bills, tightly rolled and wrapped in oiled silk. He was a +real hermit, as this may assure you.</p> + +<p>You may take a brief look at him as he hastens down the little +mountain-side. A long, wrinkled black frock-coat reached to his +calves. White duck trousers, unacquainted with the tailor's goose, a +pink shirt, white standing collar with brilliant blue butterfly tie, +and buttoned congress gaiters. But think, sir and madam—ten years! +From beneath a narrow-brimmed straw hat with a striped band flowed +his hair. Seeing him, with all your shrewdness you could not have +guessed him. You would have said that he played Hamlet—or the +tuba—or pinochle—you would never have laid your hand on your heart +and said: "He is a hermit who lived ten years in a cave for love of +one lady—to win another."</p> + +<p>The dancing pavilion extended above the waters of the river. Gay +lanterns and frosted electric globes shed a soft glamour within it. +A hundred ladies and gentlemen from the inn and summer cottages +flitted in and about it. To the left of the dusty roadway down which +the hermit had tramped were the inn and grill-room. Something seemed +to be on there, too. The windows were brilliantly lighted, and music +was playing—music different from the two-steps and waltzes of the +casino band.</p> + +<p>A negro man wearing a white jacket came through the iron gate, with +its immense granite posts and wrought-iron lamp-holders.</p> + +<p>"What is going on here to-night?" asked the hermit.</p> + +<p>"Well, sah," said the servitor, "dey is having de reg'lar +Thursday-evenin' dance in de casino. And in de grill-room dere's a +beefsteak dinner, sah."</p> + +<p>The hermit glanced up at the inn on the hillside whence burst +suddenly a triumphant strain of splendid harmony.</p> + +<p>"And up there," said he, "they are playing Mendelssohn—what is +going on up there?"</p> + +<p>"Up in de inn," said the dusky one, "dey is a weddin' goin' on. Mr. +Binkley, a mighty rich man, am marryin' Miss Trenholme, sah—de +young lady who am quite de belle of de place, sah."</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="9"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>HE ALSO SERVES</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<p>If I could have a thousand years—just one little thousand +years—more of life, I might, in that time, draw near enough to true +Romance to touch the hem of her robe.</p> + +<p>Up from ships men come, and from waste places and forest and road +and garret and cellar to maunder to me in strangely distributed +words of the things they have seen and considered. The recording of +their tales is no more than a matter of ears and fingers. There are +only two fates I dread—deafness and writer's cramp. The hand is yet +steady; let the ear bear the blame if these printed words be not in +the order they were delivered to me by Hunky Magee, true +camp-follower of fortune.</p> + +<p>Biography shall claim you but an instant—I first knew Hunky when +he was head-waiter at Chubb's little beefsteak restaurant and +café on Third Avenue. There was only one waiter besides.</p> + +<p>Then, successively, I caromed against him in the little streets of +the Big City after his trip to Alaska, his voyage as cook with a +treasure-seeking expedition to the Caribbean, and his failure as a +pearl-fisher in the Arkansas River. Between these dashes into the +land of adventure he usually came back to Chubb's for a while. +Chubb's was a port for him when gales blew too high; but when you +dined there and Hunky went for your steak you never knew whether he +would come to anchor in the kitchen or in the Malayan Archipelago. +You wouldn't care for his description—he was soft of voice and hard +of face, and rarely had to use more than one eye to quell any +approach to a disturbance among Chubb's customers.</p> + +<p>One night I found Hunky standing at a corner of Twenty-third Street +and Third Avenue after an absence of several months. In ten minutes +we had a little round table between us in a quiet corner, and my +ears began to get busy. I leave out my sly ruses and feints to draw +Hunky's word-of-mouth blows—it all came to something like this:</p> + +<p>"Speaking of the next election," said Hunky, "did you ever know much +about Indians? No? I don't mean the Cooper, Beadle, cigar-store, or +Laughing Water kind—I mean the modern Indian—the kind that takes +Greek prizes in colleges and scalps the half-back on the other side +in football games. The kind that eats macaroons and tea in the +afternoons with the daughter of the professor of biology, and fills +up on grasshoppers and fried rattlesnake when they get back to the +ancestral wickiup.</p> + +<p>"Well, they ain't so bad. I like 'em better than most foreigners +that have come over in the last few hundred years. One thing about +the Indian is this: when he mixes with the white race he swaps all +his own vices for them of the pale-faces—and he retains all his own +virtues. Well, his virtues are enough to call out the reserves +whenever he lets 'em loose. But the imported foreigners adopt our +virtues and keep their own vices—and it's going to take our whole +standing army some day to police that gang.</p> + +<p>"But let me tell you about the trip I took to Mexico with High +Jack Snakefeeder, a Cherokee twice removed, a graduate of a +Pennsylvania college and the latest thing in pointed-toed, +rubber-heeled, patent kid moccasins and Madras hunting-shirt with +turned-back cuffs. He was a friend of mine. I met him in +Tahlequah when I was out there +during the land boom, and we got thick. He had got all there was out +of colleges and had come back to lead his people out of Egypt. He +was a man of first-class style and wrote essays, and had been +invited to visit rich guys' houses in Boston and such places.</p> + +<p>"There was a Cherokee girl in Muscogee that High Jack was foolish +about. He took me to see her a few times. Her name was Florence Blue +Feather—but you want to clear your mind of all ideas of squaws with +nose-rings and army blankets. This young lady was whiter than you +are, and better educated than I ever was. You couldn't have told her +from any of the girls shopping in the swell Third Avenue stores. I +liked her so well that I got to calling on her now and then when +High Jack wasn't along, which is the way of friends in such matters. +She was educated at the Muscogee College, and was making a specialty +of—let's see—eth—yes, ethnology. That's the art that goes back +and traces the descent of different races of people, leading up from +jelly-fish through monkeys and to the O'Briens. High Jack had took +up that line too, and had read papers about it before all kinds of +riotous assemblies—Chautauquas and Choctaws and chowder-parties, +and such. Having a mutual taste for musty information like that was +what made 'em like each other, I suppose. But I don't know! What +they call congeniality of tastes ain't always it. Now, when Miss +Blue Feather and me was talking together, I listened to her +affidavits about the first families of the Land of Nod being cousins +german (well, if the Germans don't nod, who does?) to the +mound-builders of Ohio with incomprehension and respect. And when +I'd tell her about the Bowery and Coney Island, and sing her a few +songs that I'd heard the Jamaica niggers sing at their church +lawn-parties, she didn't look much less interested than she did when +High Jack would tell her that he had a pipe that the first +inhabitants of America originally arrived here on stilts after a +freshet at Tenafly, New Jersey.</p> + +<p>"But I was going to tell you more about High Jack.</p> + +<p>"About six months ago I get a letter from him, saying he'd been +commissioned by the Minority Report Bureau of Ethnology at +Washington to go down to Mexico and translate some excavations or +dig up the meaning of some shorthand notes on some ruins—or +something of that sort. And if I'd go along he could squeeze the +price into the expense account.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'd been holding a napkin over my arm at Chubb's about long +enough then, so I wired High Jack 'Yes'; and he sent me a ticket, +and I met him in Washington, and he had a lot of news to tell me. +First of all, was that Florence Blue Feather had suddenly +disappeared from her home and environments.</p> + +<p>"'Run away?' I asked.</p> + +<p>"'Vanished,' says High Jack. 'Disappeared like your shadow when the +sun goes under a cloud. She was seen on the street, and then she +turned a corner and nobody ever seen her afterward. The whole +community turned out to look for her, but we never found a clew.'</p> + +<p>"'That's bad—that's bad,' says I. 'She was a mighty nice girl, and +as smart as you find em.'</p> + +<p>"High Jack seemed to take it hard. I guess he must have esteemed +Miss Blue Feather quite highly. I could see that he'd referred the +matter to the whiskey-jug. That was his weak point—and many another +man's. I've noticed that when a man loses a girl he generally takes +to drink either just before or just after it happens.</p> + +<p>"From Washington we railroaded it to New Orleans, and there took a +tramp steamer bound for Belize. And a gale pounded us all down the +Caribbean, and nearly wrecked us on the Yucatan coast opposite a +little town without a harbor called Boca de Coacoyula. Suppose the +ship had run against that name in the dark!</p> + +<p>"'Better fifty years of Europe than a cyclone in the bay,' says High +Jack Snakefeeder. So we get the captain to send us ashore in a dory +when the squall seemed to cease from squalling.</p> + +<p>"'We will find ruins here or make 'em,' says High. 'The Government +doesn't care which we do. An appropriation is an appropriation.'</p> + +<p>"Boca de Coacoyula was a dead town. Them biblical towns we read +about—Tired and Siphon—after they was destroyed, they must have +looked like Forty-second Street and Broadway compared to this Boca +place. It still claimed 1300 inhabitants as estimated and engraved +on the stone court-house by the census-taker in 1597. The citizens +were a mixture of Indians and other Indians; but some of 'em was +light-colored, which I was surprised to see. The town was huddled +up on the shore, with woods so thick around it that a +subpoena-server couldn't have reached a monkey ten yards away with +the papers. We wondered what kept it from being annexed to Kansas; +but we soon found out that it was Major Bing.</p> + +<p>"Major Bing was the ointment around the fly. He had the cochineal, +sarsaparilla, log-wood, annatto, hemp, and all other dye-woods and +pure food adulteration concessions cornered. He had five-sixths of +the Boca de Thingama-jiggers working for him on shares. It was a +beautiful graft. We used to brag about Morgan and E. H. and others +of our wisest when I was in the provinces—but now no more. That +peninsula has got our little country turned into a submarine without +even the observation tower showing.</p> + +<p>"Major Bing's idea was this. He had the population go forth into the +forest and gather these products. When they brought 'em in he gave +'em one-fifth for their trouble. Sometimes they'd strike and demand +a sixth. The Major always gave in to 'em.</p> + +<p>"The Major had a bungalow so close on the sea that the nine-inch +tide seeped through the cracks in the kitchen floor. Me and him and +High Jack Snakefeeder sat on the porch and drank rum from noon till +midnight. He said he had piled up $300,000 in New Orleans banks, and +High and me could stay with him forever if we would. But High Jack +happened to think of the United States, and began to talk ethnology.</p> + +<p>"'Ruins!' says Major Bing. 'The woods are full of 'em. I don't know +how far they date back, but they was here before I came.'</p> + +<p>"High Jack asks what form of worship the citizens of that locality +are addicted to.</p> + +<p>"'Why,' says the Major, rubbing his nose, 'I can't hardly say. I +imagine it's infidel or Aztec or Nonconformist or something like +that. There's a church here—a Methodist or some other kind—with a +parson named Skidder. He claims to have converted the people to +Christianity. He and me don't assimilate except on state occasions. +I imagine they worship some kind of gods or idols yet. But Skidder +says he has 'em in the fold.'</p> + +<p>"A few days later High Jack and me, prowling around, strikes a plain +path into the forest, and follows it a good four miles. Then a +branch turns to the left. We go a mile, maybe, down that, and run up +against the finest ruin you ever saw—solid stone with trees and +vines and under-brush all growing up against it and in it and +through it. All over it was chiselled carvings of funny beasts and +people that would have been arrested if they'd ever come out in +vaudeville that way. We approached it from the rear.</p> + +<p>"High Jack had been drinking too much rum ever since we landed in +Boca. You know how an Indian is—the palefaces fixed his clock when +they introduced him to firewater. He'd brought a quart along with +him.</p> + +<p>"'Hunky,' says he, 'we'll explore the ancient temple. It may be that +the storm that landed us here was propitious. The Minority Report +Bureau of Ethnology,' says he, 'may yet profit by the vagaries of +wind and tide.'</p> + +<p>"We went in the rear door of the bum edifice. We struck a kind of +alcove without bath. There was a granite davenport, and a stone +wash-stand without any soap or exit for the water, and some +hardwood pegs drove into holes in the wall, and that was all. To go +out of that furnished apartment into a Harlem hall bedroom would +make you feel like getting back home from an amateur violoncello +solo at an East Side Settlement house.</p> + +<p>"While High was examining some hieroglyphics on the wall that the +stone-masons must have made when their tools slipped, I stepped into +the front room. That was at least thirty by fifty feet, stone floor, +six little windows like square port-holes that didn't let much light +in.</p> + +<p>"I looked back over my shoulder, and sees High Jack's face three +feet away.</p> + +<p>"'High,' says I, 'of all the—'</p> + +<p>"And then I noticed he looked funny, and I turned around.</p> + +<p>"He'd taken off his clothes to the waist, and he didn't seem to hear +me. I touched him, and came near beating it. High Jack had turned to +stone. I had been drinking some rum myself.</p> + +<p>"'Ossified!' I says to him, loudly. 'I knew what would happen if you +kept it up.'</p> + +<p>"And then High Jack comes in from the alcove when he hears me +conversing with nobody, and we have a look at Mr. Snakefeeder No. 2. +It's a stone idol, or god, or revised statute or something, and it +looks as much like High Jack as one green pea looks like itself. +It's got exactly his face and size and color, but it's steadier on +its pins. It stands on a kind of rostrum or pedestal, and you can +see it's been there ten million years.</p> + +<p>"'He's a cousin of mine,' sings High, and then he turns solemn.</p> + +<p>"'Hunky,' he says, putting one hand on my shoulder and one on the +statue's, 'I'm in the holy temple of my ancestors.'</p> + +<p>"'Well, if looks goes for anything,' says I, 'you've struck a twin. +Stand side by side with buddy, and let's see if there's any +difference.'</p> + +<p>"There wasn't. You know an Indian can keep his face as still as an +iron dog's when he wants to, so when High Jack froze his features +you couldn't have told him from the other one.</p> + +<p>"'There's some letters,' says I, 'on his nob's pedestal, but I can't +make 'em out. The alphabet of this country seems to be composed of +sometimes <i>a</i>, <i>e</i>, <i>i</i>, <i>o</i>, and <i>u</i>, but +generally <i>z's</i>, <i>l's</i>, and <i>t's</i>.'</p> + +<p>"High Jack's ethnology gets the upper hand of his rum for a minute, +and he investigates the inscription.</p> + +<p>"'Hunky,' says he, 'this is a statue of Tlotopaxl, one of the most +powerful gods of the ancient Aztecs.'</p> + +<p>"'Glad to know him,' says I, 'but in his present condition he +reminds me of the joke Shakespeare got off on Julius Cæsar. +We might say about your friend:<br /> </p> + + +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p class="noindent">"'Imperious what's-his-name, dead and turned to +stone—<br /> + No use to write or call him on the 'phone.'<br /> </p> +</blockquote></blockquote> + + +<p>"'Hunky,' says High Jack Snakefeeder, looking at me funny, 'do you +believe in reincarnation?'</p> + +<p>"'It sounds to me,' says I, 'like either a clean-up of the +slaughter-houses or a new kind of Boston pink. I don't know.'</p> + +<p>"'I believe,' says he, 'that I am the reincarnation of Tlotopaxl. My +researches have convinced me that the Cherokees, of all the North +American tribes, can boast of the straightest descent from the proud +Aztec race. That,' says he, 'was a favorite theory of mine and +Florence Blue Feather's. And she—what if she—'</p> + +<p>"High Jack grabs my arm and walls his eyes at me. Just then he +looked more like his eminent co-Indian murderer, Crazy Horse.</p> + +<p>"'Well,' says I, 'what if she, what if she, what if she? You're +drunk,' says I. 'Impersonating idols and believing in—what was +it?—recarnalization? Let's have a drink,' says I. 'It's as spooky +here as a Brooklyn artificial-limb factory at midnight with the gas +turned down.'</p> + +<p>"Just then I heard somebody coming, and I dragged High Jack into the +bedless bedchamber. There was peep-holes bored through the wall, so +we could see the whole front part of the temple. Major Bing told me +afterward that the ancient priests in charge used to rubber through +them at the congregation.</p> + +<p>"In a few minutes an old Indian woman came in with a big oval +earthen dish full of grub. She set it on a square block of stone in +front of the graven image, and laid down and walloped her face on +the floor a few times, and then took a walk for herself.</p> + +<p>"High Jack and me was hungry, so we came out and looked it over. +There was goat steaks and fried rice-cakes, and plantains and +cassava, and broiled land-crabs and mangoes—nothing like what you +get at Chubb's.</p> + +<p>"We ate hearty—and had another round of rum.</p> + +<p>"'It must be old Tecumseh's—or whatever you call him—birthday,' +says I. 'Or do they feed him every day? I thought gods only drank +vanilla on Mount Catawampus.'</p> + +<p>"Then some more native parties in short kimonos that showed their +aboriginees punctured the near-horizon, and me and High had to skip +back into Father Axletree's private boudoir. They came by ones, +twos, and threes, and left all sorts of offerings—there was enough +grub for Bingham's nine gods of war, with plenty left over for the +Peace Conference at The Hague. They brought jars of honey, and +bunches of bananas, and bottles of wine, and stacks of tortillas, +and beautiful shawls worth one hundred dollars apiece that the +Indian women weave of a kind of vegetable fibre like silk. All of +'em got down and wriggled on the floor in front of that hard-finish +god, and then sneaked off through the woods again.</p> + +<p>"'I wonder who gets this rake-off?' remarks High Jack.</p> + +<p>"'Oh,' says I, 'there's priests or deputy idols or a committee of +disarrangements somewhere in the woods on the job. Wherever you find +a god you'll find somebody waiting to take charge of the burnt +offerings.'</p> + +<p>"And then we took another swig of rum and walked out to the parlor +front door to cool off, for it was as hot inside as a summer camp on +the Palisades.</p> + +<p>"And while we stood there in the breeze we looks down the path and +sees a young lady approaching the blasted ruin. She was bare-footed +and had on a white robe, and carried a wreath of white flowers in +her hand. When she got nearer we saw she had a long blue feather +stuck through her black hair. And when she got nearer still me and +High Jack Snakefeeder grabbed each other to keep from tumbling down +on the floor; for the girl's face was as much like Florence Blue +Feather's as his was like old King Toxicology's.</p> + +<p>"And then was when High Jack's booze drowned his system of +ethnology. He dragged me inside back of the statue, and says:</p> + +<p>"'Lay hold of it, Hunky. We'll pack it into the other room. I felt +it all the time,' says he. 'I'm the reconsideration of the god +Locomotorataxia, and Florence Blue Feather was my bride a thousand +years ago. She has come to seek me in the temple where I used to +reign.'</p> + +<p>"'All right,' says I. 'There's no use arguing against the rum +question. You take his feet.'</p> + +<p>"We lifted the three-hundred-pound stone god, and carried him into +the back room of the café—the temple, I mean—and leaned him +against the wall. It was more work than bouncing three live ones +from an all-night Broadway joint on New-Year's Eve.</p> + +<p>"Then High Jack ran out and brought in a couple of them Indian silk +shawls and began to undress himself.</p> + +<p>"'Oh, figs!' says I. 'Is it thus? Strong drink is an adder and +subtractor, too. Is it the heat or the call of the wild that's got +you?'</p> + +<p>"But High Jack is too full of exaltation and cane-juice to reply. He +stops the disrobing business just short of the Manhattan Beach +rules, and then winds them red-and-white shawls around him, and goes +out and. stands on the pedestal as steady as any platinum deity you +ever saw. And I looks through a peek-hole to see what he is up to.</p> + +<p>"In a few minutes in comes the girl with the flower wreath. Danged +if I wasn't knocked a little silly when she got close, she looked so +exactly much like Florence Blue Feather. 'I wonder,' says I to +myself, 'if she has been reincarcerated, too? If I could see,' says +I to myself, 'whether she has a mole on her left—' But the next +minute I thought she looked one-eighth of a shade darker than +Florence; but she looked good at that. And High Jack hadn't drunk +all the rum that had been drank.</p> + +<p>"The girl went up within ten feet of the bum idol, and got down and +massaged her nose with the floor, like the rest did. Then she went +nearer and laid the flower wreath on the block of stone at High +Jack's feet. Rummy as I was, I thought it was kind of nice of her to +think of offering flowers instead of household and kitchen +provisions. Even a stone god ought to appreciate a little sentiment +like that on top of the fancy groceries they had piled up in front +of him.</p> + +<p>"And then High Jack steps down from his pedestal, quiet, and +mentions a few words that sounded just like the hieroglyphics carved +on the walls of the ruin. The girl gives a little jump backward, and +her eyes fly open as big as doughnuts; but she don't beat it.</p> + +<p>"Why didn't she? I'll tell you why I think why. It don't seem to a +girl so supernatural, unlikely, strange, and startling that a stone +god should come to life for <i>her</i>. If he was to do it for one of +them snub-nosed brown girls on the other side of the woods, now, it +would be different—but <i>her</i>! I'll bet she said to herself: +'Well, goodness me! you've been a long time getting on your job. +I've half a mind not to speak to you.'</p> + +<p>"But she and High Jack holds hands and walks away out of the temple +together. By the time I'd had time to take another drink and enter +upon the scene they was twenty yards away, going up the path in the +woods that the girl had come down. With the natural scenery already +in place, it was just like a play to watch 'em—she looking up at +him, and him giving her back the best that an Indian can hand, out +in the way of a goo-goo eye. But there wasn't anything in that +recarnification and revulsion to tintype for me.</p> + +<p>"'Hey! Injun!' I yells out to High Jack. 'We've got a board-bill due +in town, and you're leaving me without a cent. Brace up and cut out +the Neapolitan fisher-maiden, and let's go back home.'</p> + +<p>"But on the two goes; without looking once back until, as you might +say, the forest swallowed 'em up. And I never saw or heard of High +Jack Snakefeeder from that day to this. I don't know if the +Cherokees came from the Aspics; but if they did, one of 'em went +back.</p> + +<p>"All I could do was to hustle back to that Boca place and panhandle +Major Bing. He detached himself from enough of his winnings to buy +me a ticket home. And I'm back again on the job at Chubb's, sir, and +I'm going to hold it steady. Come round, and you'll find the steaks +as good as ever."</p> + +<p>I wondered what Hunky Magee thought about his own story; so I asked +him if he had any theories about reincarnation and +transmogrification and such mysteries as he had touched upon.</p> + +<p>"Nothing like that," said Hunky, positively. "What ailed High Jack +was too much booze and education. They'll do an Indian up every +time."</p> + +<p>"But what about Miss Blue Feather?" I persisted.</p> + +<p>"Say," said Hunky, with a grin, "that little lady that stole High +Jack certainly did give me a jar when I first took a look at her, +but it was only for a minute. You remember I told you High Jack said +that Miss Florence Blue Feather disappeared from home about a year +ago? Well, where she landed four days later was in as neat a +five-room flat on East Twenty-third Street as you ever walked +sideways through—and she's been Mrs. Magee ever since."</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="10"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>THE MOMENT OF VICTORY</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<p>Ben Granger is a war veteran aged twenty-nine—which should enable +you to guess the war. He is also principal merchant and postmaster +of Cadiz, a little town over which the breezes from the Gulf of +Mexico perpetually blow.</p> + +<p>Ben helped to hurl the Don from his stronghold in the Greater +Antilles; and then, hiking across half the world, he marched as a +corporal-usher up and down the blazing tropic aisles of the open-air +college in which the Filipino was schooled. Now, with his bayonet +beaten into a cheese-slicer, he rallies his corporal's guard of +cronies in the shade of his well-whittled porch, instead of in the +matted jungles of Mindanao. Always have his interest and choice been +for deeds rather than for words; but the consideration and digestion +of motives is not beyond him, as this story, which is his, will +attest.</p> + +<p>"What is it," he asked me one moonlit eve, as we sat among his boxes +and barrels, "that generally makes men go through dangers, and fire, +and trouble, and starvation, and battle, and such recourses? What +does a man do it for? Why does he try to outdo his fellow-humans, +and be braver and stronger and more daring and showy than even his +best friends are? What's his game? What does he expect to get out of +it? He don't do it just for the fresh air and exercise. What would +you say, now, Bill, that an ordinary man expects, generally +speaking, for his efforts along the line of ambition and +extraordinary hustling in the marketplaces, forums, +shooting-galleries, lyceums, battle-fields, links, cinder-paths, and +arenas of the civilized and <i>vice versa</i> places of the +world?"</p> + +<p>"Well, Ben," said I, with judicial seriousness, "I think we might +safely limit the number of motives of a man who seeks fame to +three—to ambition, which is a desire for popular applause; to +avarice, which looks to the material side of success; and to love of +some woman whom he either possesses or desires to possess."</p> + +<p>Ben pondered over my words while a mocking-bird on the top of a +mesquite by the porch trilled a dozen bars.</p> + +<p>"I reckon," said he, "that your diagnosis about covers the case +according to the rules laid down in the copy-books and historical +readers. But what I had in my mind was the case of Willie Robbins, a +person I used to know. I'll tell you about him before I close up the +store, if you don't mind listening.</p> + +<p>"Willie was one of our social set up in San Augustine. I was +clerking there then for Brady & Murchison, wholesale dry-goods +and ranch supplies. Willie and I belonged to the same german club +and athletic association and military company. He played the +triangle in our serenading and quartet crowd that used to ring the +welkin three nights a week somewhere in town.</p> + +<p>"Willie jibed with his name considerable. He weighed about as much +as a hundred pounds of veal in his summer suitings, and he had a +'Where-is-Mary?' expression on his features so plain that you could +almost see the wool growing on him.</p> + +<p>"And yet you couldn't fence him away from the girls with barbed +wire. You know that kind of young fellows—a kind of a mixture of +fools and angels—they rush in and fear to tread at the same time; +but they never fail to tread when they get the chance. He was always +on hand when 'a joyful occasion was had,' as the morning paper would +say, looking as happy as a king full, and at the same time as +uncomfortable as a raw oyster served with sweet pickles. He danced +like he had hind hobbles on; and he had a vocabulary of about three +hundred and fifty words that he made stretch over four germans a +week, and plagiarized from to get him through two ice-cream suppers +and a Sunday-night call. He seemed to me to be a sort of a mixture +of Maltese kitten, sensitive plant, and a member of a stranded 'Two +Orphans' company.</p> + +<p>"I'll give you an estimate of his physiological and pictorial +make-up, and then I'll stick spurs into the sides of my narrative.</p> + +<p>"Willie inclined to the Caucasian in his coloring and manner of +style. His hair was opalescent and his conversation fragmentary. His +eyes were the same blue shade as the china dog's on the right-hand +corner of your Aunt Ellen's mantelpiece. He took things as they +came, and I never felt any hostility against him. I let him live, +and so did others.</p> + +<p>"But what does this Willie do but coax his heart out of his boots +and lose it to Myra Allison, the liveliest, brightest, keenest, +smartest, and prettiest girl in San Augustine. I tell you, she had +the blackest eyes, the shiniest curls, and the most tantalizing—Oh, +no, you're off—I wasn't a victim. I might have been, but I knew +better. I kept out. Joe Granberry was It from the start. He had +everybody else beat a couple of leagues and thence east to a stake +and mound. But, anyhow, Myra was a nine-pound, full-merino, +fall-clip fleece, sacked and loaded on a four-horse team for San +Antone.</p> + +<p>"One night there was an ice-cream sociable at Mrs. Colonel +Spraggins', in San Augustine. We fellows had a big room up-stairs +opened up for us to put our hats and things in, and to comb our hair +and put on the clean collars we brought along inside the sweat-bands +of our hats—in short, a room to fix up in just like they have +everywhere at high-toned doings. A little farther down the hall was +the girls' room, which they used to powder up in, and so forth. +Downstairs we—that is, the San Augustine Social Cotillion and +Merrymakers' Club—had a stretcher put down in the parlor where our +dance was going on.</p> + +<p>"Willie Robbins and me happened to be up in our—cloak-room, I +believe we called it—when Myra Allison skipped through the hall on +her way down-stairs from the girls' room. Willie was standing before +the mirror, deeply interested in smoothing down the blond grass-plot +on his head, which seemed to give him lots of trouble. Myra was +always full of life and devilment. She stopped and stuck her head in +our door. She certainly was good-looking. But I knew how Joe +Granberry stood with her. So did Willie; but he kept on ba-a-a-ing +after her and following her around. He had a system of persistence +that didn't coincide with pale hair and light eyes.</p> + +<p>"'Hello, Willie!' says Myra. 'What are you doing to yourself in the +glass?'</p> + +<p>"'I'm trying to look fly,' says Willie.</p> + +<p>"'Well, you never could <i>be</i> fly,' says Myra, with her special +laugh, which was the provokingest sound I ever heard except the rattle of +an empty canteen against my saddle-horn.</p> + +<p>"I looked around at Willie after Myra had gone. He had a kind of a +lily-white look on him which seemed to show that her remark had, as +you might say, disrupted his soul. I never noticed anything in what +she said that sounded particularly destructive to a man's ideas of +self-consciousness; but he was set back to an extent you could +scarcely imagine.</p> + +<p>"After we went down-stairs with our clean collars on, Willie never +went near Myra again that night. After all, he seemed to be a +diluted kind of a skim-milk sort of a chap, and I never wondered +that Joe Granberry beat him out.</p> + +<p>"The next day the battleship <i>Maine</i> was blown up, and then +pretty soon somebody—I reckon it was Joe Bailey, or Ben Tillman, or +maybe the Government—declared war against Spain.</p> + +<p>"Well, everybody south of Mason & Hamlin's line knew that the +North by itself couldn't whip a whole country the size of Spain. So +the Yankees commenced to holler for help, and the Johnny Rebs +answered the call. 'We're coming, Father William, a hundred thousand +strong—and then some,' was the way they sang it. And the old party +lines drawn by Sherman's march and the Kuklux and nine-cent cotton +and the Jim Crow street-car ordinances faded away. We became one +undivided. country, with no North, very little East, a good-sized +chunk of West, and a South that loomed up as big as the first +foreign label on a new eight-dollar suit-case.</p> + +<p>"Of course the dogs of war weren't a complete pack without a yelp +from the San Augustine Rifles, Company D, of the Fourteenth Texas +Regiment. Our company was among the first to land in Cuba and strike +terror into the hearts of the foe. I'm not going to give you a +history of the war, I'm just dragging it in to fill out my story +about Willie Robbins, just as the Republican party dragged it in to +help out the election in 1898.</p> + +<p>"If anybody ever had heroitis, it was that Willie Robbins. From the +minute he set foot on the soil of the tyrants of Castile he seemed +to engulf danger as a cat laps up cream. He certainly astonished +every man in our company, from the captain up. You'd have expected +him to gravitate naturally to the job of an orderly to the colonel, +or typewriter in the commissary—but not any. He created the part of +the flaxen-haired boy hero who lives and gets back home with the +goods, instead of dying with an important despatch in his hands at +his colonel's feet.</p> + +<p>"Our company got into a section of Cuban scenery where one of the +messiest and most unsung portions of the campaign occurred. We were +out every day capering around in the bushes, and having little +skirmishes with the Spanish troops that looked more like kind of +tired-out feuds than anything else. The war was a joke to us, and of +no interest to them. We never could see it any other way than as a +howling farce-comedy that the San Augustine Rifles were actually +fighting to uphold the Stars and Stripes. And the blamed little +señors didn't get enough pay to make them care whether they were +patriots or traitors. Now and then somebody would get killed. It +seemed like a waste of life to me. I was at Coney Island when I went +to New York once, and one of them down-hill skidding apparatuses +they call 'roller-coasters' flew the track and killed a man in a +brown sack-suit. Whenever the Spaniards shot one of our men, it +struck me as just about as unnecessary and regrettable as that was.</p> + +<p>"But I'm dropping Willie Robbins out of the conversation.</p> + +<p>"He was out for bloodshed, laurels, ambition, medals, +recommendations, and all other forms of military glory. And he +didn't seem to be afraid of any of the recognized forms of military +danger, such as Spaniards, cannon-balls, canned beef, gunpowder, or +nepotism. He went forth with his pallid hair and china-blue eyes and +ate up Spaniards like you would sardines <i>à la canopy</i>. +Wars and rumbles of wars never flustered him. He would stand +guard-duty, mosquitoes, hardtack, treat, and fire with equally perfect +unanimity. No blondes in history ever come in comparison distance of +him except the Jack of Diamonds and Queen Catherine of Russia.</p> + +<p>"I remember, one time, a little <i>caballard</i> of Spanish men +sauntered out from behind a patch of sugar-cane and shot Bob Turner, +the first sergeant of our company, while we were eating dinner. As +required by the army regulations, we fellows went through the usual +tactics of falling into line, saluting the enemy, and loading and +firing, kneeling.</p> + +<p>"That wasn't the Texas way of scrapping; but, being a very important +addendum and annex to the regular army, the San Augustine Rifles had +to conform to the red-tape system of getting even.</p> + +<p>"By the time we had got out our 'Upton's Tactics,' turned to page +fifty-seven, said 'one—two—three—one—two—three' a couple of +times, and got blank cartridges into our Springfields, the Spanish +outfit had smiled repeatedly, rolled and lit cigarettes by squads, +and walked away contemptuously.</p> + +<p>"I went straight to Captain Floyd, and says to him: 'Sam, I don't +think this war is a straight game. You know as well as I do that Bob +Turner was one of the whitest fellows that ever threw a leg over a +saddle, and now these wirepullers in Washington have fixed his +clock. He's politically and ostensibly dead. It ain't fair. Why +should they keep this thing up? If they want Spain licked, why don't +they turn the San Augustine Rifles and Joe Seely's ranger company +and a car-load of West Texas deputy-sheriffs onto these Spaniards, +and let us exonerate them from the face of the earth? I never did,' +says I, 'care much about fighting by the Lord Chesterfield ring +rules. I'm going to hand in my resignation and go home if anybody +else I am personally acquainted with gets hurt in this war. If you +can get somebody in my place, Sam,' says I, 'I'll quit the first of +next week. I don't want to work in an army that don't give its help +a chance. Never mind my wages,' says I; 'let the Secretary of the +Treasury keep 'em.'</p> + +<p>"'Well, Ben,' says the captain to me, 'your allegations and +estimations of the tactics of war, government, patriotism, +guard-mounting, and democracy are all right. But I've looked into the +system of international arbitration and the ethics of justifiable +slaughter a little closer, maybe, than you have. Now, you can hand +in your resignation the first of next week if you are so minded. But +if you do,' says Sam, 'I'll order a corporal's guard to take you +over by that limestone bluff on the creek and shoot enough lead into +you to ballast a submarine air-ship. I'm captain of this company, +and I've swore allegiance to the Amalgamated States regardless of +sectional, secessional, and Congressional differences. Have you got +any smoking-tobacco?' winds up Sam. 'Mine got wet when I swum the +creek this morning.'</p> + +<p>"The reason I drag all this <i>non ex parte</i> evidence in is +because Willie Robbins was standing there listening to us. I was a +second sergeant and he was a private then, but among us Texans and +Westerners there never was as much tactics and subordination as +there was in the regular army. We never called our captain anything +but 'Sam' except when there was a lot of major-generals and admirals +around, so as to preserve the discipline.</p> + +<p>"And says Willie Robbins to me, in a sharp construction of voice +much unbecoming to his light hair and previous record:</p> + +<p>"'You ought to be shot, Ben, for emitting any such sentiments. A +man that won't fight for his country is worse than a horse-thief. If I +was the cap, I'd put you in the guard-house for thirty days on round +steak and tamales. War,' says Willie, 'is great and glorious. I +didn't know you were a coward.'</p> + +<p>"'I'm not,' says I. 'If I was, I'd knock some of the pallidness off +of your marble brow. I'm lenient with you,' I says, 'just as I am +with the Spaniards, because you have always reminded me of something +with mushrooms on the side. Why, you little Lady of Shalott,' says +I, 'you underdone leader of cotillions, you glassy fashion and +moulded form, you white-pine soldier made in the Cisalpine Alps in +Germany for the late New-Year trade, do you know of whom you are +talking to? We've been in the same social circle,' says I, 'and I've +put up with you because you seemed so meek and self-un-satisfying. I +don't understand why you have so sudden taken a personal interest in +chivalrousness and murder. Your nature's undergone a complete +revelation. Now, how is it?'</p> + +<p>"'Well, you wouldn't understand, Ben,' says Willie, giving one of +his refined smiles and turning away.</p> + +<p>"'Come back here!' says I, catching him by the tail of his khaki +coat. 'You've made me kind of mad, in spite of the aloofness in +which I have heretofore held you. You are out for making a success +in this hero business, and I believe I know what for. You are doing +it either because you are crazy or because you expect to catch some +girl by it. Now, if it's a girl, I've got something here to show +you.'</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't have done it, but I was plumb mad. I pulled a San +Augustine paper out of my hip-pocket, and showed him an item. It was +a half a column about the marriage of Myra Allison and Joe +Granberry.</p> + +<p>"Willie laughed, and I saw I hadn't touched him.</p> + +<p>"'Oh,' says he, 'everybody knew that was going to happen. I heard +about that a week ago.' And then he gave me the laugh again.</p> + +<p>"'All right,' says I. 'Then why do you so recklessly chase the +bright rainbow of fame? Do you expect to be elected President, or do +you belong to a suicide club?'</p> + +<p>"And then Captain Sam interferes.</p> + +<p>"'You gentlemen quit jawing and go back to your quarters,' says he, +'or I'll have you escorted to the guard-house. Now, scat, both of +you! Before you go, which one of you has got any chewing-tobacco?'</p> + +<p>"'We're off, Sam,' says I. 'It's supper-time, anyhow. But what do +you think of what we was talking about? I've noticed you throwing out +a good many grappling-hooks for this here balloon called fame—What's +ambition, anyhow? What does a man risk his life day after day +for? Do you know of anything he gets in the end that can pay him for +the trouble? I want to go back home,' says I. 'I don't care whether +Cuba sinks or swims, and I don't give a pipeful of rabbit tobacco +whether Queen Sophia Christina or Charlie Culberson rules these +fairy isles; and I don't want my name on any list except the list of +survivors. But I've noticed you, Sam,' says I, 'seeking the bubble +notoriety in the cannon's larynx a number of times. Now, what do you +do it for? Is it ambition, business, or some freckle-faced Phœbe +at home that you are heroing for?'</p> + +<p>"'Well, Ben,' says Sam, kind of hefting his sword out from between +his knees, 'as your superior officer I could court-martial you for +attempted cowardice and desertion. But I won't. And I'll tell you +why I'm trying for promotion and the usual honors of war and +conquest. A major gets more pay than a captain, and I need the +money.'</p> + +<p>"'Correct for you!' says I. 'I can understand that. Your system of +fame-seeking is rooted in the deepest soil of patriotism. But I +can't comprehend,' says I, 'why Willie Robbins, whose folks at home +are well off, and who used to be as meek and undesirous of notice as +a cat with cream on his whiskers, should all at once develop into a +warrior bold with the most fire-eating kind of proclivities. And the +girl in his case seems to have been eliminated by marriage to +another fellow. I reckon,' says I, 'it's a plain case of just common +ambition. He wants his name, maybe, to go thundering down the +coroners of time. It must be that.'</p> + +<p>"Well, without itemizing his deeds, Willie sure made good as a hero. +He simply spent most of his time on his knees begging our captain to +send him on forlorn hopes and dangerous scouting expeditions. In +every fight he was the first man to mix it at close quarters with +the Don Alfonsos. He got three or four bullets planted in various +parts of his autonomy. Once he went off with a detail of eight men +and captured a whole company of Spanish. He kept Captain Floyd busy +writing out recommendations of his bravery to send in to +headquarters; and he began to accumulate medals for all kinds of +things—heroism and target-shooting and valor and tactics and +uninsubordination, and all the little accomplishments that look good +to the third assistant secretaries of the War Department.</p> + +<p>"Finally, Cap Floyd got promoted to be a major-general, or a knight +commander of the main herd, or something like that. He pounded +around on a white horse, all desecrated up with gold-leaf and +hen-feathers and a Good Templar's hat, and wasn't allowed by the +regulations to speak to us. And Willie Robbins was made captain of +our company.</p> + +<p>"And maybe he didn't go after the wreath of fame then! As far as I +could see it was him that ended the war. He got eighteen of us +boys—friends of his, too—killed in battles that he stirred up +himself, and that didn't seem to me necessary at all. One night he +took twelve of us and waded through a little rill about a hundred and +ninety yards wide, and climbed a couple of mountains, and sneaked +through a mile of neglected shrubbery and a couple of rock-quarries +and into a rye-straw village, and captured a Spanish general named, +as they said, Benny Veedus. Benny seemed to me hardly worth the +trouble, being a blackish man without shoes or cuffs, and anxious to +surrender and throw himself on the commissary of his foe.</p> + +<p>"But that job gave Willie the big boost he wanted. The San Augustine +<i>News</i> and the Galveston, St. Louis, New York, and Kansas City +papers printed his picture and columns of stuff about him. Old San +Augustine simply went crazy over its 'gallant son.' The <i>News</i> had an +editorial tearfully begging the Government to call off the regular +army and the national guard, and let Willie carry on the rest of the +war single-handed. It said that a refusal to do so would be +regarded as a proof that the Northern jealousy of the South was +still as rampant as ever.</p> + +<p>"If the war hadn't ended pretty soon, I don't know to what heights +of gold braid and encomiums Willie would have climbed; but it did. +There was a secession of hostilities just three days after he was +appointed a colonel, and got in three more medals by registered +mail, and shot two Spaniards while they were drinking lemonade in an +ambuscade.</p> + +<p>"Our company went back to San Augustine when the war was over. There +wasn't anywhere else for it to go. And what do you think? The old +town notified us in print, by wire cable, special delivery, and a +nigger named Saul sent on a gray mule to San Antone, that they was +going to give us the biggest blow-out, complimentary, alimentary, +and elementary, that ever disturbed the kildees on the sand-flats +outside of the immediate contiguity of the city.</p> + +<p>"I say 'we,' but it was all meant for ex-Private, Captain <i>de +facto</i>, and Colonel-elect Willie Robbins. The town was crazy about +him. They notified us that the reception they were going to put up +would make the Mardi Gras in New Orleans look like an afternoon tea in +Bury St. Edmunds with a curate's aunt.</p> + +<p>"Well, the San Augustine Rifles got back home on schedule time. +Everybody was at the depot giving forth Roosevelt-Democrat—they +used to be called Rebel—yells. There was two brass-bands, and the +mayor, and schoolgirls in white frightening the street-car horses by +throwing Cherokee roses in the streets, and—well, maybe you've seen +a celebration by a town that was inland and out of water.</p> + +<p>"They wanted Brevet-Colonel Willie to get into a carriage and be +drawn by prominent citizens and some of the city aldermen to the +armory, but he stuck to his company and marched at the head of it up +Sam Houston Avenue. The buildings on both sides was covered with +flags and audiences, and everybody hollered 'Robbins!' or 'Hello, +Willie!' as we marched up in files of fours. I never saw a +illustriouser-looking human in my life than Willie was. He had at +least seven or eight medals and diplomas and decorations on the +breast of his khaki coat; he was sunburnt the color of a saddle, and +he certainly done himself proud.</p> + +<p>"They told us at the depot that the courthouse was to be illuminated +at half-past seven, and there would be speeches and chili-con-carne +at the Palace Hotel. Miss Delphine Thompson was to read an original +poem by James Whitcomb Ryan, and Constable Hooker had promised us a +salute of nine guns from Chicago that he had arrested that day.</p> + +<p>"After we had disbanded in the armory, Willie says to me:</p> + +<p>"'Want to walk out a piece with me?'</p> + +<p>"'Why, yes,' says I, 'if it ain't so far that we can't hear the +tumult and the shouting die away. I'm hungry myself,' says I, 'and +I'm pining for some home grub, but I'll go with you.'</p> + +<p>"Willie steered me down some side streets till we came to a little +white cottage in a new lot with a twenty-by-thirty-foot lawn +decorated with brickbats and old barrel-staves.</p> + +<p>"'Halt and give the countersign,' says I to Willie. 'Don't you know +this dugout? It's the bird's-nest that Joe Granberry built before he +married Myra Allison. What you going there for?'</p> + +<p>"But Willie already had the gate open. He walked up the brick walk +to the steps, and I went with him. Myra was sitting in a +rocking-chair on the porch, sewing. Her hair was smoothed back kind +of hasty and tied in a knot. I never noticed till then that she had +freckles. Joe was at one side of the porch, in his shirt-sleeves, +with no collar on, and no signs of a shave, trying to scrape out a +hole among the brickbats and tin cans to plant a little fruit-tree +in. He looked up but never said a word, and neither did Myra.</p> + +<p>"Willie was sure dandy-looking in his uniform, with medals strung on +his breast and his new gold-handled sword. You'd never have taken +him for the little white-headed snipe that the girls used to order +about and make fun of. He just stood there for a minute, looking at +Myra with a peculiar little smile on his face; and then he says to +her, slow, and kind of holding on to his words with his teeth:</p> + +<p>"'<i>Oh, I don't know! Maybe I could if I tried!</i>'</p> + +<p>"That was all that was said. Willie raised his hat, and we walked +away.</p> + +<p>"And, somehow, when he said that, I remembered, all of a sudden, the +night of that dance and Willie brushing his hair before the +looking-glass, and Myra sticking her head in the door to guy him.</p> + +<p>"When we got back to Sam Houston Avenue, Willie says:</p> + +<p>"'Well, so long, Ben. I'm going down home and get off my shoes and +take a rest.'</p> + +<p>"'You?' says I. 'What's the matter with you? Ain't the court-house +jammed with everybody in town waiting to honor the hero? And two +brass-bands, and recitations and flags and jags and grub to follow +waiting for you?'</p> + +<p>"Willie sighs.</p> + +<p>"'All right, Ben,' says he. 'Darned if I didn't forget all about +that.'</p> + +<p>"And that's why I say," concluded Ben Granger, "that you can't tell +where ambition begins any more than you can where it is going to +wind up."</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="11"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>THE HEAD-HUNTER</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<p>When the war between Spain and George Dewey was over, I went to the +Philippine Islands. There I remained as bush-whacker correspondent +for my paper until its managing editor notified me that an +eight-hundred-word cablegram describing the grief of a pet carabao +over the death of an infant Moro was not considered by the office to +be war news. So I resigned, and came home.</p> + +<p>On board the trading-vessel that brought me back I pondered much +upon the strange things I had sensed in the weird archipelago of the +yellow-brown people. The manœuvres and skirmishings of the petty +war interested me not: I was spellbound by the outlandish and +unreadable countenance of that race that had turned its +expressionless gaze upon us out of an unguessable past.</p> + +<p>Particularly during my stay in Mindanao had I been fascinated and +attracted by that delightfully original tribe of heathen known as +the head-hunters. Those grim, flinty, relentless little men, never +seen, but chilling the warmest noonday by the subtle terror of their +concealed presence, paralleling the trail of their prey through +unmapped forests, across perilous mountain-tops, adown bottomless +chasms, into uninhabitable jungles, always near with the invisible +hand of death uplifted, betraying their pursuit only by such signs +as a beast or a bird or a gliding serpent might make—a twig +crackling in the awful, sweat-soaked night, a drench of dew +showering from the screening foliage of a giant tree, a whisper at +even from the rushes of a water-level—a hint of death for every mile +and every hour—they amused me greatly, those little fellows of one +idea.</p> + +<p>When you think of it, their method is beautifully and almost +hilariously effective and simple.</p> + +<p>You have your hut in which you live and carry out the destiny that +was decreed for you. Spiked to the jamb of your bamboo doorway is a +basket made of green withes, plaited. From time to time, as vanity +or ennui or love or jealousy or ambition may move you, you creep +forth with your snickersnee and take up the silent trail. Back from +it you come, triumphant, bearing the severed, gory head of your +victim, which you deposit with pardonable pride in the basket at the +side of your door. It may be the head of your enemy, your friend, or +a stranger, according as competition, jealousy, or simple +sportiveness has been your incentive to labor.</p> + +<p>In any case, your reward is certain. The village men, in passing, +stop to congratulate you, as your neighbor on weaker planes of life +stops to admire and praise the begonias in your front yard. Your +particular brown maid lingers, with fluttering bosom, casting soft +tiger's eyes at the evidence of your love for her. You chew +betel-nut and listen, content, to the intermittent soft drip from +the ends of the severed neck arteries. And you show your teeth and +grunt like a water-buffalo—which is as near as you can come to +laughing—at the thought that the cold, acephalous body of your door +ornament is being spotted by wheeling vultures in the Mindanaoan +wilds.</p> + +<p>Truly, the life of the merry head-hunter captivated me. He had +reduced art and philosophy to a simple code. To take your +adversary's head, to basket it at the portal of your castle, to see +it lying there, a dead thing, with its cunning and stratagems and +power gone— Is there a better way to foil his plots, to refute his +arguments, to establish your superiority over his skill and wisdom?</p> + +<p>The ship that brought me home was captained by an erratic Swede, who +changed his course and deposited me, with genuine compassion, in a +small town on the Pacific coast of one of the Central American +republics, a few hundred miles south of the port to which he had +engaged to convey me. But I was wearied of movement and exotic +fancies; so I leaped contentedly upon the firm sands of the village +of Mojada, telling myself I should be sure to find there the rest +that I craved. After all, far better to linger there (I thought), +lulled by the sedative plash of the waves and the rustling of +palm-fronds, than to sit upon the horsehair sofa of my parental home +in the East, and there, cast down by currant wine and cake, and +scourged by fatuous relatives, drivel into the ears of gaping +neighbors sad stories of the death of colonial governors.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>When I first saw Chloe Greene she was standing, all in white, in the +doorway of her father's tile-roofed 'dobe house. She was polishing a +silver cup with a cloth, and she looked like a pearl laid against +black velvet. She turned on me a flatteringly protracted but a +wiltingly disapproving gaze, and then went inside, humming a light +song to indicate the value she placed upon my existence.</p> + +<p>Small wonder: for Dr. Stamford (the most disreputable professional +man between Juneau and Valparaiso) and I were zigzagging along the +turfy street, tunelessly singing the words of "Auld Lang Syne" to the +air of "Muzzer's Little Coal-Black Coon." We had come from the ice +factory, which was Mojada's palace of wickedness, where we had been +playing billiards and opening black bottles, white with frost, that +we dragged with strings out of old Sandoval's ice-cold vats.</p> + +<p>I turned in sudden rage to Dr. Stamford, as sober as the verger of a +cathedral. In a moment I had become aware that we were swine cast +before a pearl.</p> + +<p>"You beast," I said, "this is half your doing. And the other half is +the fault of this cursed country. I'd better have gone back to +Sleepy-town and died in a wild orgy of currant wine and buns than to +have had this happen."</p> + +<p>Stamford filled the empty street with his roaring laughter.</p> + +<p>"You too!" he cried. "And all as quick as the popping of a cork. +Well, she does seem to strike agreeably upon the retina. But don't +burn your fingers. All Mojada will tell you that Louis Devoe is the +man.</p> + +<p>"We will see about that," said I. "And, perhaps, whether he is +<i>a</i> man as well as <i>the</i> man."</p> + +<p>I lost no time in meeting Louis Devoe. That was easily accomplished, +for the foreign colony in Mojada numbered scarce a dozen; and they +gathered daily at a half-decent hotel kept by a Turk, where they +managed to patch together the fluttering rags of country and +civilization that were left them. I sought Devoe before I did my +pearl of the doorway, because I had learned a little of the game of +war, and knew better than to strike for a prize before testing the +strength of the enemy.</p> + +<p>A sort of cold dismay—something akin to fear—filled me when I had +estimated him. I found a man so perfectly poised, so charming, so +deeply learned in the world's rituals, so full of tact, courtesy, +and hospitality, so endowed with grace and ease and a kind of +careless, haughty power that I almost overstepped the bounds in +probing him, in turning him on the spit to find the weak point that +I so craved for him to have. But I left him whole—I had to make +bitter acknowledgment to myself that Louis Devoe was a gentleman +worthy of my best blows; and I swore to give him them. He was a +great merchant of the country, a wealthy importer and exporter. All +day he sat in a fastidiously appointed office, surrounded by works +of art and evidences of his high culture, directing through glass +doors and windows the affairs of his house.</p> + +<p>In person he was slender and hardly tall. His small, well-shaped +head was covered with thick, brown hair, trimmed short, and he wore +a thick, brown beard also cut close and to a fine point. His manners +were a pattern.</p> + +<p>Before long I had become a regular and a welcome visitor at the +Greene home. I shook my wild habits from me like a worn-out cloak. I +trained for the conflict with the care of a prize-fighter and the +self-denial of a Brahmin.</p> + +<p>As for Chloe Greene, I shall weary you with no sonnets to her +eyebrow. She was a splendidly feminine girl, as wholesome as a +November pippin, and no more mysterious than a window-pane. She had +whimsical little theories that she had deduced from life, and that +fitted the maxims of Epictetus like princess gowns. I wonder, after +all, if that old duffer wasn't rather wise!</p> + +<p>Chloe had a father, the Reverend Homer Greene, and an intermittent +mother, who sometimes palely presided over a twilight teapot. The +Reverend Homer was a burr-like man with a life-work. He was writing +a concordance to the Scriptures, and had arrived as far as Kings. +Being, presumably, a suitor for his daughter's hand, I was timber +for his literary outpourings. I had the family tree of Israel +drilled into my head until I used to cry aloud in my sleep: "And +Aminadab begat Jay Eye See," and so forth, until he had tackled +another book. I once made a calculation that the Reverend Homer's +concordance would be worked up as far as the Seven Vials mentioned +in Revelations about the third day after they were opened.</p> + +<p>Louis Devoe, as well as I, was a visitor and an intimate friend of +the Greenes. It was there I met him the oftenest, and a more +agreeable man or a more accomplished I have never hated in my life.</p> + +<p>Luckily or unfortunately, I came to be accepted as a Boy. My +appearance was youthful, and I suppose I had that pleading and +homeless air that always draws the motherliness that is in women and +the cursed theories and hobbies of paterfamilias.</p> + +<p>Chloe called me "Tommy," and made sisterly fun of my attempts to woo +her. With Devoe she was vastly more reserved. He was the man of +romance, one to stir her imagination and deepest feelings had her +fancy leaned toward him. I was closer to her, but standing in no +glamour; I had the task before me of winning her in what seems to me +the American way of fighting—with cleanness and pluck and everyday +devotion to break away the barriers of friendship that divided us, +and to take her, if I could, between sunrise and dark, abetted by +neither moonlight nor music nor foreign wiles.</p> + +<p>Chloe gave no sign of bestowing her blithe affections upon either of +us. But one day she let out to me an inkling of what she preferred +in a man. It was tremendously interesting to me, but not +illuminating as to its application. I had been tormenting her for +the dozenth time with the statement and catalogue of my sentiments +toward her.</p> + +<p>"Tommy," said she, "I don't want a man to show his love for me by +leading an army against another country and blowing people off the +earth with cannons."</p> + +<p>"If you mean that the opposite way," I answered, "as they say women +do, I'll see what I can do. The papers are full of this diplomatic +row in Russia. My people know some big people in Washington who are +right next to the army people, and I could get an artillery +commission and—"</p> + +<p>"I'm not that way," interrupted Chloe. "I mean what I say. It isn't +the big things that are done in the world, Tommy, that count with a +woman. When the knights were riding abroad in their armor to slay +dragons, many a stay-at-home page won a lonesome lady's hand by +being on the spot to pick up her glove and be quick with her cloak +when the wind blew. The man I am to like best, whoever he shall be, +must show his love in little ways. He must never forget, after +hearing it once, that I do not like to have any one walk at my left +side; that I detest bright-colored neckties; that I prefer to sit +with my back to a light; that I like candied violets; that I must +not be talked to when I am looking at the moonlight shining on +water, and that I very, very often long for dates stuffed with +English walnuts."</p> + +<p>"Frivolity," I said, with a frown. "Any well-trained servant would +be equal to such details."</p> + +<p>"And he must remember," went on Chloe, to remind me of what I want +when I do not know, myself, what I want."</p> + +<p>"You're rising in the scale," I said. "What you seem to need is a +first-class clairvoyant."</p> + +<p>"And if I say that I am dying to hear a Beethoven sonata, and stamp +my foot when I say it, he must know by that that what my soul craves +is salted almonds; and he will have them ready in his pocket."</p> + +<p>"Now," said I, "I am at a loss. I do not know whether your soul's +affinity is to be an impresario or a fancy grocer."</p> + +<p>Chloe turned her pearly smile upon me.</p> + +<p>"Take less than half of what I said as a jest," she went on. "And +don't think too lightly of the little things, Boy. Be a paladin if +you must, but don't let it show on you. Most women are only very big +children, and most men are only very little ones. Please us; don't +try to overpower us. When we want a hero we can make one out of even +a plain grocer the third time he catches our handkerchief before it +falls to the ground."</p> + +<p>That evening I was taken down with pernicious fever. That is a kind +of coast fever with improvements and high-geared attachments. Your +temperature goes up among the threes and fours and remains there, +laughing scornfully and feverishly at the cinchona trees and the +coal-tar derivatives. Pernicious fever is a case for a simple +mathematician instead of a doctor. It is merely this formula: +Vitality + the desire to live - the duration of the fever = the +result.</p> + +<p>I took to my bed in the two-roomed thatched hut where I had been +comfortably established, and sent for a gallon of rum. That was not +for myself. Drunk, Stamford was the best doctor between the Andes +and the Pacific. He came, sat at my bedside, and drank himself into +condition.</p> + +<p>"My boy," said he, "my lily-white and reformed Romeo, medicine will +do you no good. But I will give you quinine, which, being bitter, +will arouse in you hatred and anger—two stimulants that will add ten +per cent. to your chances. You are as strong as a caribou calf, and +you will get well if the fever doesn't get in a knockout blow when +you're off your guard."</p> + +<p>For two weeks I lay on my back feeling like a Hindoo widow on a +burning ghat. Old Atasca, an untrained Indian nurse, sat near the +door like a petrified statue of What's-the-Use, attending to her +duties, which were, mainly, to see that time went by without +slipping a cog. Sometimes I would fancy myself back in the +Philippines, or, at worse times, sliding off the horsehair sofa in +Sleepytown.</p> + +<p>One afternoon I ordered Atasca to vamose, and got up and dressed +carefully. I took my temperature, which I was pleased to find 104. I +paid almost dainty attention to my dress, choosing solicitously a +necktie of a dull and subdued hue. The mirror showed that I was +looking little the worse from my illness. The fever gave brightness +to my eyes and color to my face. And while I looked at my reflection +my color went and came again as I thought of Chloe Greene and the +millions of eons that had passed since I'd seen her, and of Louis +Devoe and the time he had gained on me.</p> + +<p>I went straight to her house. I seemed to float rather than walk; I +hardly felt the ground under my feet; I thought pernicious fever +must be a great boon to make one feel so strong.</p> + +<p>I found Chloe and Louis Devoe sitting under the awning in front of +the house. She jumped up and met me with a double handshake.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad, glad, glad to see you out again!" she cried, every word a +pearl strung on the string of her sentence. "You are well, Tommy—or +better, of course. I wanted to come to see you, but they wouldn't +let me."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes," said I, carelessly, "it was nothing. Merely a little +fever. I am out again, as you see."</p> + +<p>We three sat there and talked for half an hour or so. Then Chloe +looked out yearningly and almost piteously across the ocean. I could +see in her sea-blue eyes some deep and intense desire. Devoe, curse +him! saw it too.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" we asked, in unison.</p> + +<p>"Cocoanut-pudding," said Chloe, pathetically. "I've wanted some—oh, +so badly, for two days. It's got beyond a wish; it's an obsession."</p> + +<p>"The cocoanut season is over," said Devoe, in that voice of his that +gave thrilling interest to his most commonplace words. "I hardly +think one could be found in Mojada. The natives never use them +except when they are green and the milk is fresh. They sell all the +ripe ones to the fruiterers."</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't a broiled lobster or a Welsh rabbit do as well?" I +remarked, with the engaging idiocy of a pernicious-fever +convalescent.</p> + +<p>Chloe came as near to pouting as a sweet disposition and a perfect +profile would allow her to come.</p> + +<p>The Reverend Homer poked his ermine-lined face through the doorway +and added a concordance to the conversation.</p> + +<p>"Sometimes," said he, "old Campos keeps the dried nuts in his little +store on the hill. But it would be far better, my daughter, to +restrain unusual desires, and partake thankfully of the daily dishes +that the Lord has set before us."</p> + +<p>"Stuff!" said I.</p> + +<p>"How was that?" asked the Reverend Homer, sharply.</p> + +<p>"I say it's tough," said I, "to drop into the vernacular, that Miss +Greene should be deprived of the food she desires—a simple thing +like kalsomine-pudding. Perhaps," I continued, solicitously, "some +pickled walnuts or a fricassee of Hungarian butternuts would do as +well."</p> + +<p>Every one looked at me with a slight exhibition of curiosity.</p> + +<p>Louis Devoe arose and made his adieus. I watched him until he had +sauntered slowly and grandiosely to the corner, around which he +turned to reach his great warehouse and store. Chloe made her +excuses, and went inside for a few minutes to attend to some detail +affecting the seven-o'clock dinner. She was a passed mistress in +housekeeping. I had tasted her puddings and bread with beatitude.</p> + +<p>When all had gone, I turned casually and saw a basket made of +plaited green withes hanging by a nail outside the door-jamb. With a +rush that made my hot temples throb there came vividly to my mind +recollections of the head-hunters—<i>those grim, flinty, relentless +little men, never seen, but chilling the warmest noonday by the +subtle terror of their concealed presence… From time to time, +as vanity or ennui or love or jealousy or ambition may move him, one +creeps forth with his snickersnee and takes up the silent trail… +Back he comes, triumphant, bearing the severed, gory head of his +victim… His particular brown or white maid lingers, with +fluttering bosom, casting soft tiger's eyes at the evidence of his +love for her</i>.</p> + +<p>I stole softly from the house and returned to my hut. From its +supporting nails in the wall I took a machete as heavy as a +butcher's cleaver and sharper than a safety-razor. And then I +chuckled softly to myself, and set out to the fastidiously appointed +private office of Monsieur Louis Devoe, usurper to the hand of the +Pearl of the Pacific.</p> + +<p>He was never slow at thinking; he gave one look at my face and +another at the weapon in my hand as I entered his door, and then he +seemed to fade from my sight. I ran to the back door, kicked it +open, and saw him running like a deer up the road toward the wood +that began two hundred yards away. I was after him, with a shout. I +remember hearing children and women screaming, and seeing them +flying from the road.</p> + +<p>He was fleet, but I was stronger. A mile, and I had almost come up +with him. He doubled cunningly and dashed into a brake that extended +into a small cañon. I crashed through this after him, and in +five minutes had him cornered in an angle of insurmountable cliffs. +There his instinct of self-preservation steadied him, as it will +steady even animals at bay. He turned to me, quite calm, with a +ghastly smile.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Rayburn!" he said, with such an awful effort at ease that I was +impolite enough to laugh rudely in his face. "Oh, Rayburn!" said he, +"come, let's have done with this nonsense. Of course, I know it's +the fever and you're not yourself; but collect yourself, man—give me +that ridiculous weapon, now, and let's go back and talk it over."</p> + +<p>"I will go back," said I, "carrying your head with me. We will see +how charmingly it can discourse when it lies in the basket at her +door."</p> + +<p>"Come," said he, persuasively, "I think better of you than to +suppose that you try this sort of thing as a joke. But even the +vagaries of a fever-crazed lunatic come some time to a limit. What +is this talk about heads and baskets? Get yourself together and +throw away that absurd cane-chopper. What would Miss Greene think of +you?" he ended, with the silky cajolery that one would use toward a +fretful child.</p> + +<p>"Listen," said I. "At last you have struck upon the right note. What +would she think of me? Listen," I repeated.</p> + +<p>"There are women," I said, "who look upon horsehair sofas and +currant wine as dross. To them even the calculated modulation of +your well-trimmed talk sounds like the dropping of rotten plums +from a tree in the night. They are the maidens who walk back and +forth in the villages, scorning the emptiness of the baskets at the +doors of the young men who would win them.</p> + +<p>"One such as they," I said, "is waiting. Only a fool would try to +win a woman by drooling like a braggart in her doorway or by waiting +upon her whims like a footman. They are all daughters of Herodias, +and to gain their hearts one must lay the heads of his enemies +before them with his own hands. Now, bend your neck, Louis Devoe. Do +not be a coward as well as a chatterer at a lady's tea-table."</p> + +<p>"There, there!" said Devoe, falteringly. "You know me, don't you, +Rayburn?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes," I said, "I know you. I know you. I know you. But the +basket is empty. The old men of the village and the young men, and +both the dark maidens and the ones who are as fair as pearls walk +back and forth and see its emptiness. Will you kneel now, or must we +have a scuffle? It is not like you to make things go roughly and +with bad form. But the basket is waiting for your head."</p> + +<p>With that he went to pieces. I had to catch him as he tried to +scamper past me like a scared rabbit. I stretched him out and got a +foot on his chest, but he squirmed like a worm, although I appealed +repeatedly to his sense of propriety and the duty he owed to himself +as a gentleman not to make a row.</p> + +<p>But at last he gave me the chance, and I swung the machete.</p> + +<p>It was not hard work. He flopped like a chicken during the six or +seven blows that it took to sever his head; but finally he lay +still, and I tied his head in my handkerchief. The eyes opened and +shut thrice while I walked a hundred yards. I was red to my feet +with the drip, but what did that matter? With delight I felt under +my hands the crisp touch of his short, thick, brown hair and +close-trimmed beard.</p> + +<p>I reached the house of the Greenes and dumped the head of Louis +Devoe into the basket that still hung by the nail in the door-jamb. +I sat in a chair under the awning and waited. The sun was within two +hours of setting. Chloe came out and looked surprised.</p> + +<p>"Where have you been, Tommy?" she asked. "You were gone when I came +out."</p> + +<p>"Look in the basket," I said, rising to my feet. She looked, and +gave a little scream—of delight, I was pleased to note.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Tommy!" she said. "It was just what I wanted you to do. It's +leaking a little, but that doesn't matter. Wasn't I telling you? +It's the little things that count. And you remembered."</p> + +<p>Little things! She held the ensanguined head of Louis Devoe in her +white apron. Tiny streams of red widened on her apron and dripped +upon the floor. Her face was bright and tender.</p> + +<p>"Little things, indeed!" I thought again. "The head-hunters are +right. These are the things that women like you to do for them."</p> + +<p>Chloe came close to me. There was no one in sight. She looked tip at +me with sea-blue eyes that said things they had never said before.</p> + +<p>"You think of me," she said. "You are the man I was describing. You +think of the little things, and they are what make the world worth +living in. The man for me must consider my little wishes, and make +me happy in small ways. He must bring me little red peaches in +December if I wish for them, and then I will love him till June. I +will have no knight in armor slaying his rival or killing dragons +for me. You please me very well, Tommy."</p> + +<p>I stooped and kissed her. Then a moisture broke out on my forehead, +and I began to feel weak. I saw the red stains vanish from Chloe's +apron, and the head of Louis Devoe turn to a brown, dried cocoanut.</p> + +<p>"There will be cocoanut-pudding for dinner, Tommy, boy," said Chloe, +gayly, "and you must come. I must go in for a little while."</p> + +<p>She vanished in a delightful flutter.</p> + +<p>Dr. Stamford tramped up hurriedly. He seized my pulse as though it +were his own property that I had escaped with.</p> + +<p>"You are the biggest fool outside of any asylum!" he said, angrily. +"Why did you leave your bed? And the idiotic things you've been +doing!—and no wonder, with your pulse going like a sledge-hammer."</p> + +<p>"Name some of them," said I.</p> + +<p>"Devoe sent for me," said Stamford. "He saw you from his window go +to old Campos' store, chase him up the hill with his own yardstick, +and then come back and make off with his biggest cocoanut."</p> + +<p>"It's the little things that count, after all," said I.</p> + +<p>"It's your little bed that counts with you just now," said the +doctor. "You come with me at once, or I'll throw up the case. +'You're as loony as a loon."</p> + +<p>So I got no cocoanut-pudding that evening, but I conceived a +distrust as to the value of the method of the head-hunters. Perhaps +for many centuries the maidens of the villages may have been looking +wistfully at the heads in the baskets at the doorways, longing for +other and lesser trophies.</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="12"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>NO STORY</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<p>To avoid having this book hurled into corner of the room by the +suspicious reader, I will assert in time that this is not a +newspaper story. You will encounter no shirt-sleeved, omniscient +city editor, no prodigy "cub" reporter just off the farm, no scoop, +no story—no anything.</p> + +<p>But if you will concede me the setting of the first scene in the +reporters' room of the <i>Morning Beacon</i>, I will repay the favor by +keeping strictly my promises set forth above.</p> + +<p>I was doing space-work on the <i>Beacon</i>, hoping to be put on a +salary. Some one had cleared with a rake or a shovel a small space for +me at the end of a long table piled high with exchanges, <i>Congressional +Records</i>, and old files. There I did my work. I wrote whatever the +city whispered or roared or chuckled to me on my diligent wanderings +about its streets. My income was not regular.</p> + +<p>One day Tripp came in and leaned on my table. Tripp was something in +the mechanical department—I think he had something to do with the +pictures, for he smelled of photographers' supplies, and his hands +were always stained and cut up with acids. He was about twenty-five +and looked forty. Half of his face was covered with short, curly red +whiskers that looked like a door-mat with the "welcome" left off. He +was pale and unhealthy and miserable and fawning, and an assiduous +borrower of sums ranging from twenty-five cents to a dollar. One +dollar was his limit. He knew the extent of his credit as well as +the Chemical National Bank knows the amount of +H<span class="xsmall">2</span>O that collateral will show on +analysis. When he sat on my table he held one hand with the other +to keep both from shaking. Whiskey. He had a spurious air +of lightness and bravado about him that deceived no one, but was +useful in his borrowing because it was so pitifully and perceptibly +assumed.</p> + +<p>This day I had coaxed from the cashier five shining silver dollars +as a grumbling advance on a story that the Sunday editor had +reluctantly accepted. So if I was not feeling at peace with the +world, at least an armistice had been declared; and I was beginning +with ardor to write a description of the Brooklyn Bridge by +moonlight.</p> + +<p>"Well, Tripp," said I, looking up at him rather impatiently, "how +goes it?" He was looking to-day more miserable, more cringing and +haggard and downtrodden than I had ever seen him. He was at that +stage of misery where he drew your pity so fully that you longed to +kick him.</p> + +<p>"Have you got a dollar?" asked Tripp, with his most fawning look and +his dog-like eyes that blinked in the narrow space between his +high-growing matted beard and his low-growing matted hair.</p> + +<p>"I have," said I; and again I said, "I have," more loudly and +inhospitably, "and four besides. And I had hard work corkscrewing +them out of old Atkinson, I can tell you. And I drew them," I +continued, "to meet a want—a hiatus—a demand—a need—an +exigency—a requirement of exactly five dollars."</p> + +<p>I was driven to emphasis by the premonition that I was to lose one +of the dollars on the spot.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to borrow any," said Tripp, and I breathed again. "I +thought you'd like to get put onto a good story," he went on. "I've +got a rattling fine one for you. You ought to make it run a column +at least. It'll make a dandy if you work it up right. It'll probably +cost you a dollar or two to get the stuff. I don't want anything out +of it myself."</p> + +<p>I became placated. The proposition showed that Tripp appreciated +past favors, although he did not return them. If he had been wise +enough to strike me for a quarter then he would have got it.</p> + +<p>"What is the story?" I asked, poising my pencil with a finely +calculated editorial air.</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you," said Tripp. "It's a girl. A beauty. One of the +howlingest Amsden's Junes you ever saw. Rosebuds covered with +dew—violets in their mossy bed—and truck like that. She's lived on +Long Island twenty years and never saw New York City before. I ran +against her on Thirty-fourth Street. She'd just got in on the East +River ferry. I tell you, she's a beauty that would take the hydrogen +out of all the peroxides in the world. She stopped me on the street +and asked me where she could find George Brown. Asked me where she +could find <i>George Brown in New York City!</i> What do you think +of that?</p> + +<p>"I talked to her, and found that she was going to marry a young +farmer named Dodd—Hiram Dodd—next week. But it seems that George +Brown still holds the championship in her youthful fancy. George had +greased his cowhide boots some years ago, and came to the city to +make his fortune. But he forgot to remember to show up again at +Greenburg, and Hiram got in as second-best choice. But when it comes +to the scratch Ada—her name's Ada Lowery—saddles a nag and rides +eight miles to the railroad station and catches the +6.45 <span class="smallcaps">a.m.</span> train +for the city. Looking for George, you know—you understand about +women—George wasn't there, so she wanted him.</p> + +<p>"Well, you know, I couldn't leave her loose in +Wolftown-on-the-Hudson. I suppose she thought the first person she +inquired of would say: 'George Brown?—why, yes—lemme see—he's a +short man with light-blue eyes, ain't he? Oh yes—you'll find George +on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, right next to the grocery. +He's bill-clerk in a saddle-and-harness store.' That's about how +innocent and beautiful she is. You know those little Long Island +water-front villages like Greenburg—a couple of duck-farms for +sport, and clams and about nine summer visitors for industries. +That's the kind of a place she comes from. But, say—you ought to +see her!</p> + +<p>"What could I do? I don't know what money looks like in the morning. +And she'd paid her last cent of pocket-money for her railroad ticket +except a quarter, which she had squandered on gum-drops. She was +eating them out of a paper bag. I took her to a boarding-house on +Thirty-second Street where I used to live, and hocked her. She's in +soak for a dollar. That's old Mother McGinnis' price per day. I'll +show you the house."</p> + +<p>"What words are these, Tripp?" said I. "I thought you said you had a +story. Every ferryboat that crosses the East River brings or takes +away girls from Long Island."</p> + +<p>The premature lines on Tripp's face grew deeper. He frowned +seriously from his tangle of hair. He separated his hands and +emphasized his answer with one shaking forefinger.</p> + +<p>"Can't you see," he said, "what a rattling fine story it would make? +You could do it fine. All about the romance, you know, and describe +the girl, and put a lot of stuff in it about true love, and sling in +a few stickfuls of funny business—joshing the Long Islanders about +being green, and, well—you know how to do it. You ought to get +fifteen dollars out of it, anyhow. And it'll cost you only about +four dollars. You'll make a clear profit of eleven."</p> + +<p>"How will it cost me four dollars?" I asked, suspiciously.</p> + +<p>"One dollar to Mrs. McGinnis," Tripp answered, promptly, "and two +dollars to pay the girl's fare back home."</p> + +<p>"And the fourth dimension?" I inquired, making a rapid mental +calculation.</p> + +<p>"One dollar to me," said Tripp. "For whiskey. Are you on?"</p> + +<p>I smiled enigmatically and spread my elbows as if to begin writing +again. But this grim, abject, specious, subservient, burr-like wreck +of a man would not be shaken off. His forehead suddenly became +shiningly moist.</p> + +<p>"Don't you see," he said, with a sort of desperate calmness, "that +this girl has got to be sent home to-day—not to-night nor +to-morrow, but to-day? I can't do anything for her. You know, I'm +the janitor and corresponding secretary of the Down-and-Out Club. +I thought you could make a newspaper story out of it and win out a +piece of money on general results. But, anyhow, don't you see that +she's got to get back home before night?"</p> + +<p>And then I began to feel that dull, leaden, soul-depressing +sensation known as the sense of duty. Why should that sense fall +upon one as a weight and a burden? I knew that I was doomed that day +to give up the bulk of my store of hard-wrung coin to the relief of +this Ada Lowery. But I swore to myself that Tripp's whiskey dollar +would not be forthcoming. He might play knight-errant at my expense, +but he would indulge in no wassail afterward, commemorating my +weakness and gullibility. In a kind of chilly anger I put on my coat +and hat.</p> + +<p>Tripp, submissive, cringing, vainly endeavoring to please, conducted +me via the street-cars to the human pawn-shop of Mother McGinnis. I +paid the fares. It seemed that the collodion-scented Don Quixote and +the smallest minted coin were strangers.</p> + +<p>Tripp pulled the bell at the door of the mouldy red-brick +boarding-house. At its faint tinkle he paled, and crouched as a rabbit +makes ready to spring away at the sound of a hunting-dog. I guessed +what a life he had led, terror-haunted by the coming footsteps of +landladies.</p> + +<p>"Give me one of the dollars—quick!" he said.</p> + +<p>The door opened six inches. Mother McGinnis stood there with white +eyes—they were white, I say—and a yellow face, holding together at +her throat with one hand a dingy pink flannel dressing-sack. Tripp +thrust the dollar through the space without a word, and it bought us +entry.</p> + +<p>"She's in the parlor," said the McGinnis, turning the back of her +sack upon us.</p> + +<p>In the dim parlor a girl sat at the cracked marble centre-table +weeping comfortably and eating gum-drops. She was a flawless beauty. +Crying had only made her brilliant eyes brighter. When she crunched +a gum-drop you thought only of the poetry of motion and envied the +senseless confection. Eve at the age of five minutes must have been +a ringer for Miss Ada Lowery at nineteen or twenty. I was +introduced, and a gum-drop suffered neglect while she conveyed to me +a naïve interest, such as a puppy dog (a prize winner) might +bestow upon a crawling beetle or a frog.</p> + +<p>Tripp took his stand by the table, with the fingers of one hand +spread upon it, as an attorney or a master of ceremonies might have +stood. But he looked the master of nothing. His faded coat was +buttoned high, as if it sought to be charitable to deficiencies of +tie and linen.</p> + +<p>I thought of a Scotch terrier at the sight of his shifty eyes in the +glade between his tangled hair and beard. For one ignoble moment I +felt ashamed of having been introduced as his friend in the presence +of so much beauty in distress. But evidently Tripp meant to conduct +the ceremonies, whatever they might be. I thought I detected in his +actions and pose an intention of foisting the situation upon me as +material for a newspaper story, in a lingering hope of extracting +from me his whiskey dollar.</p> + +<p>"My friend" (I shuddered), "Mr. Chalmers," said Tripp, "will tell +you, Miss Lowery, the same that I did. He's a reporter, and he can +hand out the talk better than I can. That's why I brought him with +me." (O Tripp, wasn't it the <i>silver</i>-tongued orator you wanted?) +"He's wise to a lot of things, and he'll tell you now what's best to +do."</p> + +<p>I stood on one foot, as it were, as I sat in my rickety chair.</p> + +<p>"Why—er—Miss Lowery," I began, secretly enraged at Tripp's awkward +opening, "I am at your service, of course, but—er—as I haven't +been apprized of the circumstances of the case, I—er—"</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Miss Lowery, beaming for a moment, "it ain't as bad as +that—there ain't any circumstances. It's the first time I've ever +been in New York except once when I was five years old, and I had no +idea it was such a big town. And I met Mr.—Mr. Snip on the street +and asked him about a friend of mine, and he brought me here and +asked me to wait."</p> + +<p>"I advise you, Miss Lowery," said Tripp, "to tell Mr. Chalmers all. +He's a friend of mine" (I was getting used to it by this time), "and +he'll give you the right tip."</p> + +<p>"Why, certainly," said Miss Ada, chewing a gum-drop toward me. +"There ain't anything to tell except that—well, everything's fixed +for me to marry Hiram Dodd next Thursday evening. Hi has got two +hundred acres of land with a lot of shore-front, and one of the best +truck-farms on the Island. But this morning I had my horse saddled +up—he's a white horse named Dancer—and I rode over to the station. +I told 'em at home I was going to spend the day with Susie Adams. It +was a story, I guess, but I don't care. And I came to New York on +the train, and I met Mr.—Mr. Flip on the street and asked him if he +knew where I could find G—G—"</p> + +<p>"Now, Miss Lowery," broke in Tripp, loudly, and with much bad taste, +I thought, as she hesitated with her word, "you like this young man, +Hiram Dodd, don't you? He's all right, and good to you, ain't he?"</p> + +<p>"Of course I like him," said Miss Lowery emphatically. "Hi's all +right. And of course he's good to me. So is everybody."</p> + +<p>I could have sworn it myself. Throughout Miss Ada Lowery's life all +men would be to good to her. They would strive, contrive, struggle, +and compete to hold umbrellas over her hat, check her trunk, pick up +her handkerchief, and buy for her soda at the fountain.</p> + +<p>"But," went on Miss Lowery, "last night I got to thinking about +G—George, and I—"</p> + +<p>Down went the bright gold head upon dimpled, clasped hands on the +table. Such a beautiful April storm! Unrestrainedly she sobbed. I wished +I could have comforted her. But I was not George. And I was glad I +was not Hiram—and yet I was sorry, too.</p> + +<p>By-and-by the shower passed. She straightened up, brave and half-way +smiling. She would have made a splendid wife, for crying only made +her eyes more bright and tender. She took a gum-drop and began her +story.</p> + +<p>"I guess I'm a terrible hayseed," she said between her little gulps +and sighs, "but I can't help it. G—George Brown and I were sweethearts +since he was eight and I was five. When he was nineteen—that was +four years ago—he left Greenburg and went to the city. He said +he was going to be a policeman or a railroad president or something. +And then he was coming back for me. But I never heard from him any +more. And I—I—liked him."</p> + +<p>Another flow of tears seemed imminent, but Tripp hurled himself into +the crevasse and dammed it. Confound him, I could see his game. He +was trying to make a story of it for his sordid ends and profit.</p> + +<p>"Go on, Mr. Chalmers," said he, "and tell the lady what's the proper +caper. That's what I told her—you'd hand it to her straight. Spiel +up."</p> + +<p>I coughed, and tried to feel less wrathful toward Tripp. I saw my +duty. Cunningly I had been inveigled, but I was securely trapped. +Tripp's first dictum to me had been just and correct. The young lady +must be sent back to Greenburg that day. She must be argued with, +convinced, assured, instructed, ticketed, and returned without +delay. I hated Hiram and despised George; but duty must be done. +<i>Noblesse oblige</i> and only five silver dollars are not strictly +romantic compatibles, but sometimes they can be made to jibe. It was +mine to be Sir Oracle, and then pay the freight. So I assumed an air +that mingled Solomon's with that of the general passenger agent of +the Long Island Railroad.</p> + +<p>"Miss Lowery," said I, as impressively as I could, "life is rather a +queer proposition, after all." There was a familiar sound to these +words after I had spoken them, and I hoped Miss Lowery had never +heard Mr. Cohan's song. "Those whom we first love we seldom wed. Our +earlier romances, tinged with the magic radiance of youth, often +fail to materialize." The last three words sounded somewhat trite +when they struck the air. "But those fondly cherished dreams," I +went on, "may cast a pleasant afterglow on our future lives, however +impracticable and vague they may have been. But life is full of +realities as well as visions and dreams. One cannot live on +memories. May I ask, Miss Lowery, if you think you could pass a +happy—that is, a contented and harmonious life with +Mr.—er—Dodd—if in other ways than romantic recollections he seems +to—er—fill the bill, as I might say?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Hi's all right," answered Miss Lowery. "Yes, I could get along +with him fine. He's promised me an automobile and a motor-boat. But +somehow, when it got so close to the time I was to marry him, I +couldn't help wishing—well, just thinking about George. Something +must have happened to him or he'd have written. On the day he left, +he and me got a hammer and a chisel and cut a dime into two pieces. +I took one piece and he took the other, and we promised to be true +to each other and always keep the pieces till we saw each other +again. I've got mine at home now in a ring-box in the top drawer of +my dresser. I guess I was silly to come up here looking for him. I +never realized what a big place it is."</p> + +<p>And then Tripp joined in with a little grating laugh that he had, +still trying to drag in a little story or drama to earn the +miserable dollar that he craved.</p> + +<p>"Oh, the boys from the country forget a lot when they come to the +city and learn something. I guess George, maybe, is on the bum, or +got roped in by some other girl, or maybe gone to the dogs on +account of whiskey or the races. You listen to Mr. Chalmers and go +back home, and you'll be all right."</p> + +<p>But now the time was come for action, for the hands of the clock +were moving close to noon. Frowning upon Tripp, I argued gently and +philosophically with Miss Lowery, delicately convincing her of the +importance of returning home at once. And I impressed upon her the +truth that it would not be absolutely necessary to her future +happiness that she mention to Hi the wonders or the fact of her +visit to the city that had swallowed up the unlucky George.</p> + +<p>She said she had left her horse (unfortunate Rosinante) tied to a +tree near the railroad station. Tripp and I gave her instructions to +mount the patient steed as soon as she arrived and ride home as fast +as possible. There she was to recount the exciting adventure of a +day spent with Susie Adams. She could "fix" Susie—I was sure of +that—and all would be well.</p> + +<p>And then, being susceptible to the barbed arrows of beauty, I warmed +to the adventure. The three of us hurried to the ferry, and there I +found the price of a ticket to Greenburg to be but a dollar and +eighty cents. I bought one, and a red, red rose with the twenty +cents for Miss Lowery. We saw her aboard her ferryboat, and stood +watching her wave her handkerchief at us until it was the tiniest +white patch imaginable. And then Tripp and I faced each other, +brought back to earth, left dry and desolate in the shade of the +sombre verities of life.</p> + +<p>The spell wrought by beauty and romance was dwindling. I looked at +Tripp and almost sneered. He looked more careworn, contemptible, and +disreputable than ever. I fingered the two silver dollars remaining +in my pocket and looked at him with the half-closed eyelids of +contempt. He mustered up an imitation of resistance.</p> + +<p>"Can't you get a story out of it?" he asked, huskily. "Some sort of +a story, even if you have to fake part of it?"</p> + +<p>"Not a line," said I. "I can fancy the look on Grimes' face if I +should try to put over any slush like this. But we've helped the +little lady out, and that'll have to be our only reward."</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry," said Tripp, almost inaudibly. "I'm sorry you're out +your money. Now, it seemed to me like a find of a big story, you +know—that is, a sort of thing that would write up pretty well."</p> + +<p>"Let's try to forget it," said I, with a praiseworthy attempt at +gayety, "and take the next car 'cross town."</p> + +<p>I steeled myself against his unexpressed but palpable desire. He +should not coax, cajole, or wring from me the dollar he craved. I +had had enough of that wild-goose chase.</p> + +<p>Tripp feebly unbuttoned his coat of the faded pattern and glossy +seams to reach for something that had once been a handkerchief deep +down in some obscure and cavernous pocket. As he did so I caught the +shine of a cheap silver-plated watch-chain across his vest, and +something dangling from it caused me to stretch forth my hand and +seize it curiously. It was the half of a silver dime that had been +cut in halves with a chisel.</p> + +<p>"What!" I said, looking at him keenly.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes," he responded, dully. "George Brown, alias Tripp. What's +the use?"</p> + +<p>Barring the W. C. T. U., I'd like to know if anybody disapproves of +my having produced promptly from my pocket Tripp's whiskey dollar +and unhesitatingly laying it in his hand.</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="13"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>THE HIGHER PRAGMATISM</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<h4>I<br /> </h4> + + +<p>Where to go for wisdom has become a question of serious import. The +ancients are discredited; Plato is boiler-plate; Aristotle is +tottering; Marcus Aurelius is reeling; Æsop has been copyrighted by +Indiana; Solomon is too solemn; you couldn't get anything out of +Epictetus with a pick.</p> + +<p>The ant, which for many years served as a model of intelligence and +industry in the school-readers, has been proven to be a doddering +idiot and a waster of time and effort. The owl to-day is hooted at. +Chautauqua conventions have abandoned culture and adopted diabolo. +Graybeards give glowing testimonials to the venders of patent +hair-restorers. There are typographical errors in the almanacs +published by the daily newspapers. College professors have become—</p> + +<p>But there shall be no personalities.</p> + +<p>To sit in classes, to delve into the encyclopedia or the +past-performances page, will not make us wise. As the +poet says, "Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers." +Wisdom is dew, which, while we know it not, soaks into us, refreshes +us, and makes us grow. Knowledge is a strong stream of water turned +on us through a hose. It disturbs our roots.</p> + +<p>Then, let us rather gather wisdom. But how to do so requires +knowledge. If we know a thing, we know it; but very often we are not +wise to it that we are wise, and—</p> + +<p>But let's go on with the story.</p> + + +<p> </p> +<h4>II<br /> </h4> + + +<p>Once upon a time I found a ten-cent magazine lying on a bench in a +little city park. Anyhow, that was the amount he asked me for when I +sat on the bench next to him. He was a musty, dingy, and tattered +magazine, with some queer stories bound in him, I was sure. He +turned out to be a scrap-book.</p> + +<p>"I am a newspaper reporter," I said to him, to try him. "I have been +detailed to write up some of the experiences of the unfortunate ones +who spend their evenings in this park. May I ask you to what you +attribute your downfall in—"</p> + +<p>I was interrupted by a laugh from my purchase—a laugh so rusty and +unpractised that I was sure it had been his first for many a day.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, no," said he. "You ain't a reporter. Reporters don't talk +that way. They pretend to be one of us, and say they've just got in +on the blind baggage from St. Louis. I can tell a reporter on sight. +Us park bums get to be fine judges of human nature. We sit here all +day and watch the people go by. I can size up anybody who walks past +my bench in a way that would surprise you."</p> + +<p>"Well," I said, "go on and tell me. How do you size me up?"</p> + +<p>"I should say," said the student of human nature with unpardonable +hesitation, "that you was, say, in the contracting business—or +maybe worked in a store—or was a sign-painter. You stopped in the +park to finish your cigar, and thought you'd get a little free +monologue out of me. Still, you might be a plasterer or a +lawyer—it's getting kind of dark, you see. And your wife won't let +you smoke at home."</p> + +<p>I frowned gloomily.</p> + +<p>"But, judging again," went on the reader of men, "I'd say you ain't +got a wife."</p> + +<p>"No," said I, rising restlessly. "No, no, no, I ain't. But I <i>will</i> +have, by the arrows of Cupid! That is, if—"</p> + +<p>My voice must have trailed away and muffled itself in uncertainty +and despair.</p> + +<p>"I see you have a story yourself," said the dusty +vagrant—impudently, it seemed to me. "Suppose you take your dime +back and spin your yarn for me. I'm interested myself in the ups and +downs of unfortunate ones who spend their evenings in the park."</p> + +<p>Somehow, that amused me. I looked at the frowsy derelict with more +interest. I did have a story. Why not tell it to him? I had told +none of my friends. I had always been a reserved and bottled-up man. +It was psychical timidity or sensitiveness—perhaps both. And I +smiled to myself in wonder when I felt an impulse to confide in this +stranger and vagabond.</p> + +<p>"Jack," said I.</p> + +<p>"Mack," said he.</p> + +<p>"Mack," said I, "I'll tell you."</p> + +<p>"Do you want the dime back in advance?" said he.</p> + +<p>I handed him a dollar.</p> + +<p>"The dime," said I, "was the price of listening to <i>your</i> +story."</p> + +<p>"Right on the point of the jaw," said he. "Go on."</p> + +<p>And then, incredible as it may seem to the lovers in the world who +confide their sorrows only to the night wind and the gibbous moon, I +laid bare my secret to that wreck of all things that you would have +supposed to be in sympathy with love.</p> + +<p>I told him of the days and weeks and months that I had spent in +adoring Mildred Telfair. I spoke of my despair, my grievous days and +wakeful nights, my dwindling hopes and distress of mind. I even +pictured to this night-prowler her beauty and dignity, the great +sway she had in society, and the magnificence of her life as the +elder daughter of an ancient race whose pride overbalanced the +dollars of the city's millionaires.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you cop the lady out?" asked Mack, bringing me down to +earth and dialect again.</p> + +<p>I explained to him that my worth was so small, my income so minute, +and my fears so large that I hadn't the courage to speak to her of +my worship. I told him that in her presence I could only blush and +stammer, and that she looked upon me with a wonderful, maddening +smile of amusement.</p> + +<p>"She kind of moves in the professional class, don't she?" asked +Mack.</p> + +<p>"The Telfair family—" I began, haughtily.</p> + +<p>"I mean professional beauty," said my hearer.</p> + +<p>"She is greatly and widely admired," I answered, cautiously.</p> + +<p>"Any sisters?"</p> + +<p>"One."</p> + +<p>"You know any more girls?"</p> + +<p>"Why, several," I answered. "And a few others."</p> + +<p>"Say," said Mack, "tell me one thing—can you hand out the dope to +other girls? Can you chin 'em and make matinée eyes at 'em +and squeeze 'em? You know what I mean. You're just shy when it comes +to this particular dame—the professional beauty—ain't that right?"</p> + +<p>"In a way you have outlined the situation with approximate truth," I +admitted.</p> + +<p>"I thought so," said Mack, grimly. "Now, that reminds me of my own +case. I'll tell you about it."</p> + +<p>I was indignant, but concealed it. What was this loafer's case or +anybody's case compared with mine? Besides, I had given him a dollar +and ten cents.</p> + +<p>"Feel my muscle," said my companion, suddenly, flexing his biceps. I +did so mechanically. The fellows in gyms are always asking you to do +that. His arm was as hard as cast-iron.</p> + +<p>"Four years ago," said Mack, "I could lick any man in New York +outside of the professional ring. Your case and mine is just the +same. I come from the West Side—between Thirtieth and Fourteenth—I +won't give the number on the door. I was a scrapper when I was ten, +and when I was twenty no amateur in the city could stand up four +rounds with me. 'S a fact. You know Bill McCarty? No? He managed the +smokers for some of them swell clubs. Well, I knocked out everything +Bill brought up before me. I was a middle-weight, but could train +down to a welter when necessary. I boxed all over the West Side at +bouts and benefits and private entertainments, and was never put out +once.</p> + +<p>"But, say, the first time I put my foot in the ring with a +professional I was no more than a canned lobster. I dunno how it +was—I seemed to lose heart. I guess I got too much imagination. +There was a formality and publicness about it that kind of weakened +my nerve. I never won a fight in the ring. Light-weights and all +kinds of scrubs used to sign up with my manager and then walk up and +tap me on the wrist and see me fall. The minute I seen the crowd and +a lot of gents in evening clothes down in front, and seen a +professional come inside the ropes, I got as weak as ginger-ale.</p> + +<p>"Of course, it wasn't long till I couldn't get no backers, and I +didn't have any more chances to fight a professional—or many +amateurs, either. But lemme tell you—I was as good as most men +inside the ring or out. It was just that dumb, dead feeling I had +when I was up against a regular that always done me up.</p> + +<p>"Well, sir, after I had got out of the business, I got a mighty +grouch on. I used to go round town licking private citizens and all +kinds of unprofessionals just to please myself. I'd lick cops in +dark streets and car-conductors and cab-drivers and draymen whenever +I could start a row with 'em. It didn't make any difference how big +they were, or how much science they had, I got away with 'em. If I'd +only just have had the confidence in the ring that I had beating up +the best men outside of it, I'd be wearing black pearls and +heliotrope silk socks to-day.</p> + +<p>"One evening I was walking along near the Bowery, thinking about +things, when along comes a slumming-party. About six or seven they +was, all in swallowtails, and these silk hats that don't shine. One +of the gang kind of shoves me off the sidewalk. I hadn't had a scrap +in three days, and I just says, 'De-light-ed!' and hits him back of +the ear.</p> + +<p>"Well, we had it. That Johnnie put up as decent a little fight as +you'd want to see in the moving pictures. It was on a side street, +and no cops around. The other guy had a lot of science, but it only +took me about six minutes to lay him out.</p> + +<p>"Some of the swallowtails dragged him up against some steps and +began to fan him. Another one of 'em comes over to me and says:</p> + +<p>"'Young man, do you know what you've done?'</p> + +<p>"'Oh, beat it,' says I. 'I've done nothing but a little punching-bag +work. Take Freddy back to Yale and tell him to quit studying +sociology on the wrong side of the sidewalk.'</p> + +<p>"'My good fellow,' says he, 'I don't know who you are, but I'd like +to. You've knocked out Reddy Burns, the champion middle-weight of +the world! He came to New York yesterday, to try to get a match on +with Jim Jeffries. If you—'</p> + +<p>"But when I come out of my faint I was laying on the floor in a +drug-store saturated with aromatic spirits of ammonia. If I'd known +that was Reddy Burns, I'd have got down in the gutter and crawled +past him instead of handing him one like I did. Why, if I'd ever +been in a ring and seen him climbing over the ropes, I'd have been +all to the sal-volatile.</p> + +<p>"So that's what imagination does," concluded Mack. "And, as I said, +your case and mine is simultaneous. You'll never win out. You can't +go up against the professionals. I tell you, it's a park bench for +yours in this romance business."</p> + +<p>Mack, the pessimist, laughed harshly.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid I don't see the parallel," I said, coldly. "I have only +a very slight acquaintance with the prize-ring."</p> + +<p>The derelict touched my sleeve with his forefinger, for emphasis, as +he explained his parable.</p> + +<p>"Every man," said he, with some dignity, "has got his lamps on +something that looks good to him. With you, it's this dame that +you're afraid to say your say to. With me, it was to win out in the +ring. Well, you'll lose just like I did."</p> + +<p>"Why do you think I shall lose?" I asked warmly.</p> + +<p>"'Cause," said he, "you're afraid to go in the ring. You dassen't +stand up before a professional. Your case and mine is just the same. +You're a amateur; and that means that you'd better keep outside of +the ropes."</p> + +<p>"Well, I must be going," I said, rising and looking with elaborate +care at my watch.</p> + +<p>When I was twenty feet away the park-bencher called to me.</p> + +<p>"Much obliged for the dollar," he said. "And for the dime. But +you'll never get 'er. You're in the amateur class."</p> + +<p>"Serves you right," I said to myself, "for hobnobbing with a tramp. +His impudence!"</p> + +<p>But, as I walked, his words seemed to repeat themselves over and +over again in my brain. I think I even grew angry at the man.</p> + +<p>"I'll show him!" I finally said, aloud. "I'll show him that I can +fight Reddy Burns, too—even knowing who he is."</p> + +<p>I hurried to a telephone-booth and rang up the Telfair residence.</p> + +<p>A soft, sweet voice answered. Didn't I know that voice? My hand +holding the receiver shook.</p> + +<p>"Is that <i>you</i>?" said I, employing the foolish words that form +the vocabulary of every talker through the telephone.</p> + +<p>"Yes, this is I," came back the answer in the low, clear-cut tones +that are an inheritance of the Telfairs. "Who is it, please?"</p> + +<p>"It's me," said I, less ungrammatically than egotistically. "It's +me, and I've got a few things that I want to say to you right now +and immediately and straight to the point."</p> + +<p>"<i>Dear</i> me," said the voice. "Oh, it's you, Mr. Arden!"</p> + +<p>I wondered if any accent on the first word was intended; Mildred was +fine at saying things that you had to study out afterward.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said I. "I hope so. And now to come down to brass tacks." I +thought that rather a vernacularism, if there is such a word, as +soon as I had said it; but I didn't stop to apologize. "You know, of +course, that I love you, and that I have been in that idiotic state +for a long time. I don't want any more foolishness about it—that +is, I mean I want an answer from you right now. Will you marry me or +not? Hold the wire, please. Keep out, Central. Hello, hello! Will +you, or will you <i>not</i>?"</p> + +<p>That was just the uppercut for Reddy Burns' chin. The answer came +back:</p> + +<p>"Why, Phil, dear, of course I will! I didn't know that you—that is, +you never said—oh, come up to the house, please—I can't say what I +want to over the 'phone. You are so importunate. But please come up +to the house, won't you?"</p> + +<p>Would I?</p> + +<p>I rang the bell of the Telfair house violently. Some sort of a human +came to the door and shooed me into the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well," said I to myself, looking at the ceiling, "any one can +learn from any one. That was a pretty good philosophy of Mack's, +anyhow. He didn't take advantage of his experience, but I get the +benefit of it. If you want to get into the professional class, +you've got to—"</p> + +<p>I stopped thinking then. Some one was coming down the stairs. My +knees began to shake. I knew then how Mack had felt when a +professional began to climb over the ropes.</p> + +<p>I looked around foolishly for a door or a window by which I might +escape. If it had been any other girl approaching, I mightn't +have—</p> + +<p>But just then the door opened, and Bess, Mildred's younger sister, +came in. I'd never seen her look so much like a glorified angel. She +walked straight tip to me, and—and—</p> + +<p>I'd never noticed before what perfectly wonderful eyes and hair +Elizabeth Telfair had.</p> + +<p>"Phil," she said, in the Telfair, sweet, thrilling tones, "why +didn't you tell me about it before? I thought it was sister you +wanted all the time, until you telephoned to me a few minutes ago!"</p> + +<p>I suppose Mack and I always will be hopeless amateurs. But, as the +thing has turned out in my case, I'm mighty glad of it.</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="14"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>BEST-SELLER</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<h4>I<br /> </h4> + +<p>One day last summer I went to Pittsburgh—well, I had to go there on +business.</p> + +<p>My chair-car was profitably well filled with people of the kind one +usually sees on chair-cars. Most of them were ladies in brown-silk +dresses cut with square yokes, with lace insertion, and dotted +veils, who refused to have the windows raised. Then there was the +usual number of men who looked as if they might be in almost any +business and going almost anywhere. Some students of human nature +can look at a man in a Pullman and tell you where he is from, his +occupation and his stations in life, both flag and social; but I +never could. The only way I can correctly judge a fellow-traveller +is when the train is held up by robbers, or when he reaches at the +same time I do for the last towel in the dressing-room of the +sleeper.</p> + +<p>The porter came and brushed the collection of soot on the +window-sill off to the left knee of my trousers. I removed it with +an air of apology. The temperature was eighty-eight. One of the +dotted-veiled ladies demanded the closing of two more ventilators, +and spoke loudly of Interlaken. I leaned back idly in chair No. 7, +and looked with the tepidest curiosity at the small, black, +bald-spotted head just visible above the back of No. 9.</p> + +<p>Suddenly No. 9 hurled a book to the floor between his chair and the +window, and, looking, I saw that it was "The Rose-Lady and Trevelyan," +one of the best-selling novels of the present day. And then the +critic or Philistine, whichever he was, veered his chair toward the +window, and I knew him at once for John A. Pescud, of Pittsburgh, +travelling salesman for a plate-glass company—an old acquaintance +whom I had not seen in two years.</p> + +<p>In two minutes we were faced, had shaken hands, and had finished +with such topics as rain, prosperity, health, residence, and +destination. Politics might have followed next; but I was not so +ill-fated.</p> + +<p>I wish you might know John A. Pescud. He is of the stuff that heroes +are not often lucky enough to be made of. He is a small man with a +wide smile, and an eye that seems to be fixed upon that little red +spot on the end of your nose. I never saw him wear but one kind of +necktie, and he believes in cuff-holders and button-shoes. He is as +hard and true as anything ever turned out by the Cambria Steel +Works; and he believes that as soon as Pittsburgh makes +smoke-consumers compulsory, St. Peter will come down and sit at the +foot of Smithfield Street, and let somebody else attend to the gate +up in the branch heaven. He believes that "our" plate-glass is the +most important commodity in the world, and that when a man is in his +home town he ought to be decent and law-abiding.</p> + +<p>During my acquaintance with him in the City of Diurnal Night I had +never known his views on life, romance, literature, and ethics. We +had browsed, during our meetings, on local topics, and then parted, +after Chateau Margaux, Irish stew, flannel-cakes, cottage-pudding, +and coffee (hey, there!—with milk separate). Now I was to get more +of his ideas. By way of facts, he told me that business had picked +up since the party conventions, and that he was going to get off at +Coketown.</p> + + +<p> </p> +<h4>II<br /> </h4> + + +<p>"Say," said Pescud, stirring his discarded book with the toe of his +right shoe, "did you ever read one of these best-sellers? I mean the +kind where the hero is an American swell—sometimes even from +Chicago—who falls in love with a royal princess from Europe who is +travelling under an alias, and follows her to her father's kingdom +or principality? I guess you have. They're all alike. Sometimes this +going-away masher is a Washington newspaper correspondent, and +sometimes he is a Van Something from New York, or a Chicago +wheat-broker worthy fifty millions. But he's always ready to break into +the king row of any foreign country that sends over their queens and +princesses to try the new plush seats on the Big Four or the B. and +O. There doesn't seem to be any other reason in the book for their +being here.</p> + +<p>"Well, this fellow chases the royal chair-warmer home, as I said, +and finds out who she is. He meets her on the <i>corso</i> or the +<i>strasse</i> one evening and gives us ten pages of conversation. +She reminds him of the difference in their stations, and that gives +him a chance to ring in three solid pages about America's uncrowned +sovereigns. If you'd take his remarks and set 'em to music, and then +take the music away from 'em, they'd sound exactly like one of +George Cohan's songs.</p> + +<p>"Well, you know how it runs on, if you've read any of 'em—he slaps +the king's Swiss body-guards around like everything whenever they +get in his way. He's a great fencer, too. Now, I've known of some +Chicago men who were pretty notorious fences, but I never heard of +any fencers coming from there. He stands on the first landing of the +royal staircase in Castle Schutzenfestenstein with a gleaming rapier +in his hand, and makes a Baltimore broil of six platoons of traitors +who come to massacre the said king. And then he has to fight duels +with a couple of chancellors, and foil a plot by four Austrian +archdukes to seize the kingdom for a gasoline-station.</p> + +<p>"But the great scene is when his rival for the princess' hand, Count +Feodor, attacks him between the portcullis and the ruined chapel, +armed with a mitrailleuse, a yataghan, and a couple of Siberian +bloodhounds. This scene is what runs the best-seller into the +twenty-ninth edition before the publisher has had time to draw a +check for the advance royalties.</p> + +<p>"The American hero shucks his coat and throws it over the heads of +the bloodhounds, gives the mitrailleuse a slap with his mitt, says +'Yah!' to the yataghan, and lands in Kid McCoy's best style on the +count's left eye. Of course, we have a neat little prize-fight right +then and there. The count—in order to make the go possible—seems +to be an expert at the art of self-defence, himself; and here we +have the Corbett-Sullivan fight done over into literature. The book +ends with the broker and the princess doing a John Cecil Clay cover +under the linden-trees on the Gorgonzola Walk. That winds up the +love-story plenty good enough. But I notice that the book dodges the +final issue. Even a best-seller has sense enough to shy at either +leaving a Chicago grain broker on the throne of Lobsterpotsdam or +bringing over a real princess to eat fish and potato salad in an +Italian chalet on Michigan Avenue. What do you think about 'em?"</p> + +<p>"Why," said I, "I hardly know, John. There's a saying: 'Love levels +all ranks,' you know."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Pescud, "but these kind of love-stories are rank—on the +level. I know something about literature, even if I am in plate-glass. +These kind of books are wrong, and yet I never go into a +train but what they pile 'em up on me. No good can come out of an +international clinch between the Old-World aristocracy and one of us +fresh Americans. When people in real life marry, they generally hunt +up somebody in their own station. A fellow usually picks out a girl +that went to the same high-school and belonged to the same +singing-society that he did. When young millionaires fall in love, they +always select the chorus-girl that likes the same kind of sauce on +the lobster that he does. Washington newspaper correspondents always +many widow ladies ten years older than themselves who keep +boarding-houses. No, sir, you can't make a novel sound right to me +when it makes one of C. D. Gibson's bright young men go abroad and +turn kingdoms upside down just because he's a Taft American and took +a course at a gymnasium. And listen how they talk, too!"</p> + +<p>Pescud picked up the best-seller and hunted his page.</p> + +<p>"Listen at this," said he. "Trevelyan is chinning with the Princess +Alwyna at the back end of the tulip-garden. This is how it +goes:<br /> </p> + + +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p>"'Say not so, dearest and sweetest of earth's fairest flowers. +Would I aspire? You are a star set high above me in a royal +heaven; I am only—myself. Yet I am a man, and I have a heart to +do and dare. I have no title save that of an uncrowned sovereign; +but I have an arm and a sword that yet might free +Schutzenfestenstein from the plots of traitors.'<br /> </p> +</blockquote></blockquote> + + +<p>"Think of a Chicago man packing a sword, and talking about freeing +anything that sounded as much like canned pork as that! He'd be much +more likely to fight to have an import duty put on it."</p> + +<p>"I think I understand you, John," said I. "You want fiction-writers +to be consistent with their scenes and characters. They shouldn't +mix Turkish pashas with Vermont farmers, or English dukes with Long +Island clam-diggers, or Italian countesses with Montana cowboys, or +Cincinnati brewery agents with the rajahs of India."</p> + +<p>"Or plain business men with aristocracy high above 'em," added +Pescud. "It don't jibe. People are divided into classes, whether we +admit it or not, and it's everybody's impulse to stick to their own +class. They do it, too. I don't see why people go to work and buy +hundreds of thousands of books like that. You don't see or hear of +any such didoes and capers in real life."</p> + + +<p> </p> +<h4>III<br /> </h4> + + +<p>"Well, John," said I, "I haven't read a best-seller in a long time. +Maybe I've had notions about them somewhat like yours. But tell me +more about yourself. Getting along all right with the company?"</p> + +<p>"Bully," said Pescud, brightening at once. "I've had my salary +raised twice since I saw you, and I get a commission, too. I've +bought a neat slice of real estate out in the East End, and have run +up a house on it. Next year the firm is going to sell me some shares +of stock. Oh, I'm in on the line of General Prosperity, no matter +who's elected!"</p> + +<p>"Met your affinity yet, John?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I didn't tell you about that, did I?" said Pescud with a +broader grin.</p> + +<p>"O-ho!" I said. "So you've taken time enough off from your +plate-glass to have a romance?"</p> + +<p>"No, no," said John. "No romance—nothing like that! But I'll tell +you about it.</p> + +<p>"I was on the south-bound, going to Cincinnati, about eighteen +months ago, when I saw, across the aisle, the finest-looking girl +I'd ever laid eyes on. Nothing spectacular, you know, but just the +sort you want for keeps. Well, I never was up to the flirtation +business, either handkerchief, automobile, postage-stamp, or +door-step, and she wasn't the kind to start anything. She read a +book and minded her business, which was to make the world prettier +and better just by residing on it. I kept on looking out of the side +doors of my eyes, and finally the proposition got out of the Pullman +class into a case of a cottage with a lawn and vines running over +the porch. I never thought of speaking to her, but I let the +plate-glass business go to smash for a while.</p> + +<p>"She changed cars at Cincinnati, and took a sleeper to Louisville +over the L. and N. There she bought another ticket, and went on +through Shelbyville, Frankfort, and Lexington. Along there I began +to have a hard time keeping up with her. The trains came along when +they pleased, and didn't seem to be going anywhere in particular, +except to keep on the track and the right of way as much as +possible. Then they began to stop at junctions instead of towns, and +at last they stopped altogether. I'll bet Pinkerton would outbid the +plate-glass people for my services any time if they knew how I +managed to shadow that young lady. I contrived to keep out of her +sight as much as I could, but I never lost track of her.</p> + +<p>"The last station she got off at was away down in Virginia, about +six in the afternoon. There were about fifty houses and four hundred +niggers in sight. The rest was red mud, mules, and speckled hounds.</p> + +<p>"A tall old man, with a smooth face and white hair, looking as proud +as Julius Cæsar and Roscoe Conkling on the same post-card, was +there to meet her. His clothes were frazzled, but I didn't notice +that till later. He took her little satchel, and they started over +the plank-walks and went up a road along the hill. I kept along a +piece behind 'em, trying to look like I was hunting a garnet ring in +the sand that my sister had lost at a picnic the previous Saturday.</p> + +<p>"They went in a gate on top of the hill. It nearly took my breath +away when I looked up. Up there in the biggest grove I ever saw was +a tremendous house with round white pillars about a thousand feet +high, and the yard was so full of rose-bushes and box-bushes and +lilacs that you couldn't have seen the house if it hadn't been as +big as the Capitol at Washington.</p> + +<p>"'Here's where I have to trail,' says I to myself. I thought before +that she seemed to be in moderate circumstances, at least. This must +be the Governor's mansion, or the Agricultural Building of a new +World's Fair, anyhow. I'd better go back to the village and get +posted by the postmaster, or drug the druggist for some information.</p> + +<p>"In the village I found a pine hotel called the Bay View House. The +only excuse for the name was a bay horse grazing in the front yard. +I set my sample-case down, and tried to be ostensible. I told the +landlord I was taking orders for plate-glass.</p> + +<p>"'I don't want no plates,' says he, 'but I do need another glass +molasses-pitcher.'</p> + +<p>"By-and-by I got him down to local gossip and answering questions.</p> + +<p>"'Why,' says he, 'I thought everybody knowed who lived in the big +white house on the hill. It's Colonel Allyn, the biggest man and the +finest quality in Virginia, or anywhere else. They're the oldest +family in the State. That was his daughter that got off the train. +She's been up to Illinois to see her aunt, who is sick.'</p> + +<p>"I registered at the hotel, and on the third day I caught the young +lady walking in the front yard, down next to the paling fence. I +stopped and raised my hat—there wasn't any other way.</p> + +<p>"'Excuse me,' says I, 'can you tell me where Mr. Hinkle lives?'</p> + +<p>"She looks at me as cool as if I was the man come to see about the +weeding of the garden, but I thought I saw just a slight twinkle of +fun in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"'No one of that name lives in Birchton,' says she. 'That is,' she +goes on, 'as far as I know. Is the gentleman you are seeking white?'</p> + +<p>"Well, that tickled me. 'No kidding,' says I. 'I'm not looking for +smoke, even if I do come from Pittsburgh.'</p> + +<p>"'You are quite a distance from home,' says she.</p> + +<p>"'I'd have gone a thousand miles farther,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'Not if you hadn't waked up when the train started in Shelbyville,' +says she; and then she turned almost as red as one of the roses on +the bushes in the yard. I remembered I had dropped off to sleep on a +bench in the Shelbyville station, waiting to see which train she +took, and only just managed to wake up in time.</p> + +<p>"And then I told her why I had come, as respectful and earnest as I +could. And I told her everything about myself, and what I was +making, and how that all I asked was just to get acquainted with her +and try to get her to like me.</p> + +<p>"She smiles a little, and blushes some, but her eyes never get mixed +up. They look straight at whatever she's talking to.</p> + +<p>"'I never had any one talk like this to me before, Mr. Pescud,' says +she. 'What did you say your name is—John?'</p> + +<p>"'John A.,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'And you came mighty near missing the train at Powhatan Junction, +too,' says she, with a laugh that sounded as good as a mileage-book +to me.</p> + +<p>"'How did you know?' I asked.</p> + +<p>"'Men are very clumsy,' said she. 'I knew you were on every train. I +thought you were going to speak to me, and I'm glad you didn't.'</p> + +<p>"Then we had more talk; and at last a kind of proud, serious look +came on her face, and she turned and pointed a finger at the big +house.</p> + +<p>"'The Allyns,' says she, 'have lived in Elmcroft for a hundred +years. We are a proud family. Look at that mansion. It has fifty +rooms. See the pillars and porches and balconies. The ceilings in +the reception-rooms and the ball-room are twenty-eight feet high. My +father is a lineal descendant of belted earls.'</p> + +<p>"'I belted one of 'em once in the Duquesne Hotel, in Pittsburgh,' +says I, 'and he didn't offer to resent it. He was there dividing his +attentions between Monongahela whiskey and heiresses, and he got +fresh.'</p> + +<p>"'Of course,' she goes on, 'my father wouldn't allow a drummer to +set his foot in Elmcroft. If he knew that I was talking to one over +the fence he would lock me in my room.'</p> + +<p>"'Would <i>you</i> let me come there?' says I. 'Would <i>you</i> +talk to me if I was to call? For,' I goes on, 'if you said I might +come and see you, the earls might be belted or suspendered, or pinned +up with safety-pins, as far as I am concerned.'</p> + +<p>"'I must not talk to you,' she says, 'because we have not been +introduced. It is not exactly proper. So I will say good-bye, +Mr.—'</p> + +<p>"'Say the name,' says I. 'You haven't forgotten it.'</p> + +<p>"'Pescud,' says she, a little mad.</p> + +<p>"'The rest of the name!' I demands, cool as could be.</p> + +<p>"'John,' says she.</p> + +<p>"'John—what?' I says.</p> + +<p>"'John A.,' says she, with her head high. 'Are you through, now?'</p> + +<p>"'I'm coming to see the belted earl to-morrow,' I says.</p> + +<p>"'He'll feed you to his fox-hounds,' says she, laughing.</p> + +<p>"'If he does, it'll improve their running,' says I. 'I'm something +of a hunter myself.'</p> + +<p>"'I must be going in now,' says she. 'I oughtn't to have spoken to +you at all. I hope you'll have a pleasant trip back to +Minneapolis—or Pittsburgh, was it? Good-bye!'</p> + +<p>"'Good-night,' says I, 'and it wasn't Minneapolis. What's your name, +first, please?'</p> + +<p>"She hesitated. Then she pulled a leaf off a bush, and said:</p> + +<p>"'My name is Jessie,' says she.</p> + +<p>"'Good-night, Miss Allyn,' says I.</p> + +<p>"The next morning at eleven, sharp, I rang the door-bell of that +World's Fair main building. After about three-quarters of an hour an +old nigger man about eighty showed up and asked what I wanted. I +gave him my business card, and said I wanted to see the colonel. He +showed me in.</p> + +<p>"Say, did you ever crack open a wormy English walnut? That's what +that house was like. There wasn't enough furniture in it to fill an +eight-dollar flat. Some old horsehair lounges and three-legged +chairs and some framed ancestors on the walls were all that met the +eye. But when Colonel Allyn comes in, the place seemed to light up. +You could almost hear a band playing, and see a bunch of old-timers +in wigs and white stockings dancing a quadrille. It was the style of +him, although he had on the same shabby clothes I saw him wear at +the station.</p> + +<p>"For about nine seconds he had me rattled, and I came mighty near +getting cold feet and trying to sell him some plate-glass. But I got +my nerve back pretty quick. He asked me to sit down, and I told him +everything. I told him how I followed his daughter from Cincinnati, +and what I did it for, and all about my salary and prospects, and +explained to him my little code of living—to be always decent and +right in your home town; and when you're on the road, never take +more than four glasses of beer a day or play higher than a +twenty-five-cent limit. At first I thought he was going to throw me +out of the window, but I kept on talking. Pretty soon I got a chance +to tell him that story about the Western Congressman who had lost +his pocket-book and the grass widow—you remember that story. Well, +that got him to laughing, and I'll bet that was the first laugh +those ancestors and horsehair sofas had heard in many a day.</p> + +<p>"We talked two hours. I told him everything I knew; and then he +began to ask questions, and I told him the rest. All I asked of him +was to give me a chance. If I couldn't make a hit with the little +lady, I'd clear out, and not bother any more. At last he says:</p> + +<p>"'There was a Sir Courtenay Pescud in the time of Charles I, if I +remember rightly.'</p> + +<p>"'If there was,' says I, 'he can't claim kin with our bunch. We've +always lived in and around Pittsburgh. I've got an uncle in the +real-estate business, and one in trouble somewhere out in Kansas. +You can inquire about any of the rest of us from anybody in old +Smoky Town, and get satisfactory replies. Did you ever run across +that story about the captain of the whaler who tried to make a +sailor say his prayers?' says I.</p> + +<p>"'It occurs to me that I have never been so fortunate,' says the +colonel.</p> + +<p>"So I told it to him. Laugh! I was wishing to myself that he was a +customer. What a bill of glass I'd sell him! And then he says:</p> + +<p>"'The relating of anecdotes and humorous occurrences has always +seemed to me, Mr. Pescud, to be a particularly agreeable way of +promoting and perpetuating amenities between friends. With your +permission, I will relate to you a fox-hunting story with which I +was personally connected, and which may furnish you some amusement.'</p> + +<p>"So he tells it. It takes forty minutes by the watch. Did I laugh? +Well, say! When I got my face straight he calls in old Pete, the +superannuated darky, and sends him down to the hotel to bring up my +valise. It was Elmcroft for me while I was in the town.</p> + +<p>"Two evenings later I got a chance to speak a word with Miss Jessie +alone on the porch while the colonel was thinking up another story.</p> + +<p>"'It's going to be a fine evening,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'He's coming,' says she. 'He's going to tell you, this time, the +story about the old negro and the green watermelons. It always comes +after the one about the Yankees and the game rooster. There was +another time,' she goes on, 'that you nearly got left—it was at +Pulaski City.'</p> + +<p>"'Yes,' says I, 'I remember. My foot slipped as I was jumping on the +step, and I nearly tumbled off.'</p> + +<p>"'I know,' says she. 'And—and I—<i>I was afraid you had, John A. I +was afraid you had.</i>'</p> + +<p>"And then she skips into the house through one of the big windows."</p> + + +<p> </p> +<h4>IV<br /> </h4> + + +<p>"Coketown!" droned the porter, making his way through the slowing +car.</p> + +<p>Pescud gathered his hat and baggage with the leisurely promptness of +an old traveller.</p> + +<p>"I married her a year ago," said John. "I told you I built a house +in the East End. The belted—I mean the colonel—is there, too. I +find him waiting at the gate whenever I get back from a trip to hear +any new story I might have picked up on the road."</p> + +<p>I glanced out of the window. Coketown was nothing more than a ragged +hillside dotted with a score of black dismal huts propped up against +dreary mounds of slag and clinkers. It rained in slanting torrents, +too, and the rills foamed and splashed down through the black mud to +the railroad-tracks.</p> + +<p>"You won't sell much plate-glass here, John," said I. "Why do you +get off at this end-o'-the-world?"</p> + +<p>"Why," said Pescud, "the other day I took Jessie for a little trip +to Philadelphia, and coming back she thought she saw some petunias +in a pot in one of those windows over there just like some she used +to raise down in the old Virginia home. So I thought I'd drop off +here for the night, and see if I could dig up some of the cuttings +or blossoms for her. Here we are. Good-night, old man. I gave you +the address. Come out and see us when you have time."</p> + +<p>The train moved forward. One of the dotted brown ladies insisted on +having windows raised, now that the rain beat against them. The +porter came along with his mysterious wand and began to light the +car.</p> + +<p>I glanced downward and saw the best-seller. I picked it up and set +it carefully farther along on the floor of the car, where the +rain-drops would not fall upon it. And then, suddenly, I smiled, and +seemed to see that life has no geographical metes and bounds.</p> + +<p>"Good-luck to you, Trevelyan," I said. "And may you get the petunias +for your princess!"</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="15"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>RUS IN URBE</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<p>Considering men in relation to money, there are three kinds whom I +dislike: men who have more money than they can spend; men who have +more money than they do spend; and men who spend more money than +they have. Of the three varieties, I believe I have the least liking +for the first. But, as a man, I liked Spencer Grenville North pretty +well, although he had something like two or ten or thirty +millions—I've forgotten exactly how many.</p> + +<p>I did not leave town that summer. I usually went down to a village +on the south shore of Long Island. The place was surrounded by +duck-farms, and the ducks and dogs and whippoorwills and rusty windmills +made so much noise that I could sleep as peacefully as if I were in +my own flat six doors from the elevated railroad in New York. But +that summer I did not go. Remember that. One of my friends asked me +why I did not. I replied:</p> + +<p>"Because, old man, New York is the finest summer resort in the +world." You have heard that phrase before. But that is what I told +him.</p> + +<p>I was press-agent that year for Binkly & Bing, the theatrical +managers and producers. Of course you know what a press-agent is. +Well, he is not. That is the secret of being one.</p> + +<p>Binkly was touring France in his new C. & N. Williamson car, and +Bing had gone to Scotland to learn curling, which he seemed to +associate in his mind with hot tongs rather than with ice. Before +they left they gave me June and July, on salary, for my vacation, +which act was in accord with their large spirit of liberality. But I +remained in New York, which I had decided was the finest summer +resort in—</p> + +<p>But I said that before.</p> + +<p>On July the 10th, North came to town from his camp in the +Adirondacks. Try to imagine a camp with sixteen rooms, plumbing, +eiderdown quilts, a butler, a garage, solid silver plate, and a +long-distance telephone. Of course it was in the woods—if Mr. +Pinchot wants to preserve the forests let him give every citizen two +or ten or thirty million dollars, and the trees will all gather +around the summer camps, as the Birnam woods came to Dunsinane, and +be preserved.</p> + +<p>North came to see me in my three rooms and bath, extra charge for +light when used extravagantly or all night. He slapped me on the +back (I would rather have my shins kicked any day), and greeted me +with out-door obstreperousness and revolting good spirits. He was +insolently brown and healthy-looking, and offensively well dressed.</p> + +<p>"Just ran down for a few days," said he, "to sign some papers and +stuff like that. My lawyer wired me to come. Well, you indolent +cockney, what are you doing in town? I took a chance and telephoned, +and they said you were here. What's the matter with that Utopia on +Long Island where you used to take your typewriter and your +villainous temper every summer? Anything wrong with the—er—swans, +weren't they, that used to sing on the farms at night?"</p> + +<p>"Ducks," said I. "The songs of swans are for luckier ears. They swim +and curve their necks in artificial lakes on the estates of the +wealthy to delight the eyes of the favorites of Fortune."</p> + +<p>"Also in Central Park," said North, "to delight the eyes of +immigrants and bummers. I've seen em there lots of times. But why +are you in the city so late in the summer?"</p> + +<p>"New York City," I began to recite, "is the finest sum—"</p> + +<p>"No, you don't," said North, emphatically. "You don't spring that +old one on me. I know you know better. Man, you ought to have gone +up with us this summer. The Prestons are there, and Tom Volney and +the Monroes and Lulu Stanford and the Miss Kennedy and her aunt that +you liked so well."</p> + +<p>"I never liked Miss Kennedy's aunt," I said.</p> + +<p>"I didn't say you did," said North. "We are having the greatest time +we've ever had. The pickerel and trout are so ravenous that I +believe they would swallow your hook with a Montana copper-mine +prospectus fastened on it. And we've a couple of electric launches; +and I'll tell you what we do every night or two—we tow a rowboat +behind each one with a big phonograph and a boy to change the discs +in 'em. On the water, and twenty yards behind you, they are not so +bad. And there are passably good roads through the woods where we go +motoring. I shipped two cars up there. And the Pinecliff Inn is only +three miles away. You know the Pinecliff. Some good people are there +this season, and we run over to the dances twice a week. Can't you +go back with me for a week, old man?"</p> + +<p>I laughed. "Northy," said I—"if I may be so familiar with a +millionaire, because I hate both the names Spencer and +Grenville—your invitation is meant kindly, but—the city in the +summer-time for me. Here, while the <i>bourgeoisie</i> is away, I can +live as Nero lived—barring, thank heaven, the fiddling—while the city +burns at ninety in the shade. The tropics and the zones wait upon me +like handmaidens. I sit under Florida palms and eat pomegranates +while Boreas himself, electrically conjured up, blows upon me his +Arctic breath. As for trout, you know, yourself, that Jean, at +Maurice's, cooks them better than any one else in the world."</p> + +<p>"Be advised," said North. "My chef has pinched the blue ribbon from +the lot. He lays some slices of bacon inside the trout, wraps it all +in corn-husks—the husks of green corn, you know—buries them in hot +ashes and covers them with live coals. We build fires on the bank of +the lake and have fish suppers."</p> + +<p>"I know," said I. "And the servants bring down tables and chairs and +damask cloths, and you eat with silver forks. I know the kind of +camps that you millionaires have. And there are champagne pails set +about, disgracing the wild flowers, and, no doubt, Madame Tetrazzini +to sing in the boat pavilion after the trout."</p> + +<p>"Oh no," said North, concernedly, "we were never as bad as that. We +did have a variety troupe up from the city three or four nights, but +they weren't stars by as far as light can travel in the same length +of time. I always like a few home comforts even when I'm roughing +it. But don't tell me you prefer to stay in the city during summer. +I don't believe it. If you do, why did you spend your summers there +for the last four years, even sneaking away from town on a night +train, and refusing to tell your friends where this Arcadian village +was?"</p> + +<p>"Because," said I, "they might have followed me and discovered it. +But since then I have learned that Amaryllis has come to town. The +coolest things, the freshest, the brightest, the choicest, are to be +found in the city. If you've nothing on hand this evening I will +show you."</p> + +<p>"I'm free," said North, "and I have my light car outside. I suppose, +since you've been converted to the town, that your idea of rural +sport is to have a little whirl between bicycle cops in Central Park +and then a mug of sticky ale in some stuffy rathskeller under a fan +that can't stir up as many revolutions in a week as Nicaragua can in +a day."</p> + +<p>"We'll begin with the spin through the Park, anyhow," I said. I was +choking with the hot, stale air of my little apartment, and I wanted +that breath of the cool to brace me for the task of proving to my +friend that New York was the greatest—and so forth.</p> + +<p>"Where can you find air any fresher or purer than this?" I asked, as +we sped into Central's boskiest dell.</p> + +<p>"Air!" said North, contemptuously. "Do you call this air?—this +muggy vapor, smelling of garbage and gasoline smoke. Man, I wish you +could get one sniff of the real Adirondack article in the pine woods +at daylight."</p> + +<p>"I have heard of it," said I. "But for fragrance and tang and a joy +in the nostrils I would not give one puff of sea breeze across the +bay, down on my little boat dock on Long Island, for ten of your +turpentine-scented tornadoes."</p> + +<p>"Then why," asked North, a little curiously, "don't you go there +instead of staying cooped up in this Greater Bakery?"</p> + +<p>"Because," said I, doggedly, "I have discovered that New York is the +greatest summer—"</p> + +<p>"Don't say that again," interrupted North, "unless you've actually +got a job as General Passenger Agent of the Subway. You can't really +believe it."</p> + +<p>I went to some trouble to try to prove my theory to my friend. The +Weather Bureau and the season had conspired to make the argument +worthy of an able advocate.</p> + +<p>The city seemed stretched on a broiler directly above the furnaces +of Avernus. There was a kind of tepid gayety afoot and awheel in the +boulevards, mainly evinced by languid men strolling about in straw +hats and evening clothes, and rows of idle taxicabs with their flags +up, looking like a blockaded Fourth of July procession. The hotels +kept up a specious brilliancy and hospitable outlook, but inside one +saw vast empty caverns, and the footrails at the bars gleamed +brightly from long disacquaintance with the sole-leather of +customers. In the cross-town streets the steps of the old brownstone +houses were swarming with "stoopers," that motley race hailing from +sky-light room and basement, bringing out their straw door-step mats +to sit and fill the air with strange noises and opinions.</p> + +<p>North and I dined on the top of a hotel; and here, for a few +minutes, I thought I had made a score. An east wind, almost cool, +blew across the roofless roof. A capable orchestra concealed in a +bower of wistaria played with sufficient judgment to make the art of +music probable and the art of conversation possible.</p> + +<p>Some ladies in reproachless summer gowns at other tables gave +animation and color to the scene. And an excellent dinner, mainly +from the refrigerator, seemed to successfully back my judgment as to +summer resorts. But North grumbled all during the meal, and cursed +his lawyers and prated so of his confounded camp in the woods that I +began to wish he would go back there and leave me in my peaceful +city retreat.</p> + +<p>After dining we went to a roof-garden vaudeville that was being much +praised. There we found a good bill, an artificially cooled +atmosphere, cold drinks, prompt service, and a gay, well-dressed +audience. North was bored.</p> + +<p>"If this isn't comfortable enough for you on the hottest August +night for five years," I said, a little sarcastically, "you might +think about the kids down in Delancey and Hester streets lying out +on the fire-escapes with their tongues hanging out, trying to get a +breath of air that hasn't been fried on both sides. The contrast +might increase your enjoyment."</p> + +<p>"Don't talk Socialism," said North. "I gave five hundred dollars to +the free ice fund on the first of May. I'm contrasting these stale, +artificial, hollow, wearisome 'amusements' with the enjoyment a man +can get in the woods. You should see the firs and pines do skirt-dances +during a storm; and lie down flat and drink out of a mountain +branch at the end of a day's tramp after the deer. That's the only +way to spend a summer. Get out and live with nature."</p> + +<p>"I agree with you absolutely," said I, with emphasis.</p> + +<p>For one moment I had relaxed my vigilance, and had spoken my true +sentiments. North looked at me long and curiously.</p> + +<p>"Then why, in the name of Pan and Apollo," he asked, "have you been +singing this deceitful pæan to summer in town?"</p> + +<p>I suppose I looked my guilt.</p> + +<p>"Ha," said North, "I see. May I ask her name?"</p> + +<p>"Annie Ashton," said I, simply. "She played Nannette in Binkley +& Bing's production of 'The Silver Cord.' She is to have a better +part next season."</p> + +<p>"Take me to see her," said North.</p> + +<p>Miss Ashton lived with her mother in a small hotel. They were out of +the West, and had a little money that bridged the seasons. As +press-agent of Binkley & Bing I had tried to keep her before the +public. As Robert James Vandiver I had hoped to withdraw her; for if +ever one was made to keep company with said Vandiver and smell the +salt breeze on the south shore of Long Island and listen to the +ducks quack in the watches of the night, it was the Ashton set forth +above.</p> + +<p>But she had a soul above ducks—above nightingales; aye, even above +birds of paradise. She was very beautiful, with quiet ways, and +seemed genuine. She had both taste and talent for the stage, and she +liked to stay at home and read and make caps for her mother. She was +unvaryingly kind and friendly with Binkley & Bing's press-agent. +Since the theatre had closed she had allowed Mr. Vandiver to call in +an unofficial rôle. I had often spoken to her of my friend, +Spencer Grenville North; and so, as it was early, the first turn of +the vaudeville being not yet over, we left to find a telephone.</p> + +<p>Miss Ashton would be very glad to see Mr. Vandiver and Mr. North.</p> + +<p>We found her fitting a new cap on her mother. I never saw her look +more charming.</p> + +<p>North made himself disagreeably entertaining. He was a good talker, +and had a way with him. Besides, he had two, ten, or thirty +millions, I've forgotten which. I incautiously admired the mother's +cap, whereupon she brought out her store of a dozen or two, and I +took a course in edgings and frills. Even though Annie's fingers had +pinked, or ruched, or hemmed, or whatever you do to 'em, they palled +upon me. And I could hear North drivelling to Annie about his odious +Adirondack camp.</p> + +<p>Two days after that I saw North in his motor-car with Miss Ashton +and her mother. On the next afternoon he dropped in on me.</p> + +<p>"Bobby," said he, "this old burg isn't such a bad proposition in the +summer-time, after all. Since I've keen knocking around it looks +better to me. There are some first-rate musical comedies and light +operas on the roofs and in the outdoor gardens. And if you hunt up +the right places and stick to soft drinks, you can keep about as +cool here as you can in the country. Hang it! when you come to think +of it, there's nothing much to the country, anyhow. You get tired +and sunburned and lonesome, and you have to eat any old thing that +the cook dishes up to you."</p> + +<p>"It makes a difference, doesn't it?" said I.</p> + +<p>"It certainly does. Now, I found some whitebait yesterday, at +Maurice's, with a new sauce that beats anything in the trout line I +ever tasted."</p> + +<p>"It makes a difference, doesn't it?" I said.</p> + +<p>"Immense. The sauce is the main thing with whitebait."</p> + +<p>"It makes a difference, doesn't it?" I asked, looking him straight +in the eye. He understood.</p> + +<p>"Look here, Bob," he said, "I was going to tell you. I couldn't help +it. I'll play fair with you, but I'm going in to win. She is the +'one particular' for me."</p> + +<p>"All right," said I. "It's a fair field. There are no rights for you +to encroach upon."</p> + +<p>On Thursday afternoon Miss Ashton invited North and myself to have +tea in her apartment. He was devoted, and she was more charming than +usual. By avoiding the subject of caps I managed to get a word or +two into and out of the talk. Miss Ashton asked me in a +make-conversational tone something about the next season's tour.</p> + +<p>"Oh," said I, "I don't know about that. I'm not going to be with +Binkley & Bing next season."</p> + +<p>"Why, I thought," said she, "that they were going to put the Number +One road company under your charge. I thought you told me so."</p> + +<p>"They were," said I, "but they won't.. I'll tell you what I'm going +to do. I'm going to the south shore of Long Island and buy a small +cottage I know there on the edge of the bay. And I'll buy a catboat +and a rowboat and a shotgun and a yellow dog. I've got money enough +to do it. And I'll smell the salt wind all day when it blows from +the sea and the pine odor when it blows from the land. And, of +course, I'll write plays until I have a trunk full of 'em on hand.</p> + +<p>"And the next thing and the biggest thing I'll do will be to buy +that duck-farm next door. Few people understand ducks. I can watch +'em for hours. They can march better than any company in the +National Guard, and they can play 'follow my leader' better than the +entire Democratic party. Their voices don't amount to much, but I +like to hear 'em. They wake you up a dozen times a night, but +there's a homely sound about their quacking that is more musical to +me than the cry of 'Fresh strawber-rees!' under your window in the +morning when you want to sleep.</p> + +<p>"And," I went on, enthusiastically, "do you know the value of ducks +besides their beauty and intelligence and order and sweetness of +voice? Picking their feathers gives you an unfailing and never-ceasing +income. On a farm that I know the feathers were sold for +$400 in one year. Think of that! And the ones shipped to the market +will bring in more money than that. Yes, I am for the ducks and the +salt breeze coming over the bay. I think I shall get a Chinaman +cook, and with him and the dog and the sunsets for company I shall +do well. No more of this dull, baking, senseless, roaring city for +me."</p> + +<p>Miss Ashton looked surprised. North laughed.</p> + +<p>"I am going to begin one of my plays tonight," I said, "so I must be +going." And with that I took my departure.</p> + +<p>A few days later Miss Ashton telephoned to me, asking me to call at +four in the afternoon.</p> + +<p>I did.</p> + +<p>"You have been very good to me," she said, hesitatingly, "and I +thought I would tell you. I am going to leave the stage."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said I, "I suppose you will. They usually do when there's so +much money."</p> + +<p>"There is no money," she said, "or very little. Our money is almost +gone."</p> + +<p>"But I am told," said I, "that he has something like two or ten or +thirty millions—I have forgotten which."</p> + +<p>"I know what you mean," she said. "I will not pretend that I do not. +I am not going to marry Mr. North."</p> + +<p>"Then why are you leaving the stage?" I asked, severely. "What else +can you do to earn a living?"</p> + +<p>She came closer to me, and I can see the look in her eyes yet as she +spoke.</p> + +<p>"I can pick ducks," she said.</p> + +<p>We sold the first year's feathers for $350.</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> <a name="16"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<h3>A POOR RULE</h3> +<p> </p> + + +<p>I have always maintained, and asserted time to time, that woman is +no mystery; that man can foretell, construe, subdue, comprehend, and +interpret her. That she is a mystery has been foisted by herself +upon credulous mankind. Whether I am right or wrong we shall see. As +"Harper's Drawer" used to say in bygone years: "The following good +story is told of Miss ––––, Mr. +––––, Mr. ––––, and +Mr. ––––."</p> + +<p>We shall have to omit "Bishop X" and "the Rev. +––––," for they do not belong.</p> + +<p>In those days Paloma was a new town on the line of the Southern +Pacific. A reporter would have called it a "mushroom" town; but it +was not. Paloma was, first and last, of the toadstool variety.</p> + +<p>The train stopped there at noon for the engine to drink and for the +passengers both to drink and to dine. There was a new yellow-pine +hotel, also a wool warehouse, and perhaps three dozen box +residences. The rest was composed of tents, cow ponies, "black-waxy" +mud, and mesquite-trees, all bound round by a horizon. Paloma was an +about-to-be city. The houses represented faith; the tents hope; the +twice-a-day train, by which you might leave, creditably sustained +the rôle of charity.</p> + +<p>The Parisian Restaurant occupied the muddiest spot in the town while +it rained, and the warmest when it shone. It was operated, owned, +and perpetrated by a citizen known as Old Man Hinkle, who had come +out of Indiana to make his fortune in this land of condensed milk +and sorghum.</p> + +<p>There was a four-room, unpainted, weather-boarded box house in which +the family lived. From the kitchen extended a "shelter" made of +poles covered with chaparral brush. Under this was a table and two +benches, each twenty feet long, the product of Paloma home +carpentry. Here was set forth the roast mutton, the stewed apples, +boiled beans, soda-biscuits, puddinorpie, and hot coffee of the +Parisian menu.</p> + +<p>Ma Hinkle and a subordinate known to the ears as "Betty," but denied +to the eyesight, presided at the range. Pa Hinkle himself, with +salamandrous thumbs, served the scalding viands. During rush hours a +Mexican youth, who rolled and smoked cigarettes between courses, +aided him in waiting on the guests. As is customary at Parisian +banquets, I place the sweets at the end of my wordy menu.</p> + +<p>Ileen Hinkle!</p> + +<p>The spelling is correct, for I have seen her write it. No doubt she +had been named by ear; but she so splendidly bore the orthography +that Tom Moore himself (had he seen her) would have endorsed the +phonography.</p> + +<p>Ileen was the daughter of the house, and the first Lady Cashier to +invade the territory south of an east-and-west line drawn through +Galveston and Del Rio. She sat on a high stool in a rough pine +grand-stand—or was it a temple?—under the shelter at the door of +the kitchen. There was a barbed-wire protection in front of her, +with a little arch under which you passed your money. Heaven knows +why the barbed wire; for every man who dined Parisianly there would +have died in her service. Her duties were light; each meal was a +dollar; you put it under the arch, and she took it.</p> + +<p>I set out with the intent to describe Ileen Hinkle to you. Instead, +I must refer you to the volume by Edmund Burke entitled: <i>A +Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime +and Beautiful</i>. It is an exhaustive treatise, dealing first with the +primitive conceptions of beauty—roundness and smoothness, I think +they are, according to Burke. It is well said. Rotundity is a patent +charm; as for smoothness—the more new wrinkles a woman acquires, +the smoother she becomes.</p> + +<p>Ileen was a strictly vegetable compound, guaranteed under the Pure +Ambrosia and Balm-of-Gilead Act of the year of the fall of Adam. She +was a fruit-stand blonde—strawberries, peaches, cherries, etc. Her +eyes were wide apart, and she possessed the calm that precedes a +storm that never comes. But it seems to me that words (at any rate +per) are wasted in an effort to describe the beautiful. Like fancy, +"It is engendered in the eyes." There are three kinds of beauties—I +was foreordained to be homiletic; I can never stick to a story.</p> + +<p>The first is the freckle-faced, snub-nosed girl whom you like. The +second is Maud Adams. The third is, or are, the ladies in +Bouguereau's paintings. Ileen Hinkle was the fourth. She was the +mayoress of Spotless Town. There were a thousand golden apples +coming to her as Helen of the Troy laundries.</p> + +<p>The Parisian Restaurant was within a radius. Even from beyond its +circumference men rode in to Paloma to win her smiles. They got +them. One meal—one smile—one dollar. But, with all her +impartiality, Ileen seemed to favor three of her admirers above the +rest. According to the rules of politeness, I will mention myself +last.</p> + +<p>The first was an artificial product known as Bryan Jacks—a name +that had obviously met with reverses. Jacks was the outcome of paved +cities. He was a small man made of some material resembling flexible +sandstone. His hair was the color of a brick Quaker meeting-house; +his eyes were twin cranberries; his mouth was like the aperture +under a drop-letters-here sign.</p> + +<p>He knew every city from Bangor to San Francisco, thence north to +Portland, thence S. 45 E. to a given point in Florida. He had +mastered every art, trade, game, business, profession, and sport in +the world, had been present at, or hurrying on his way to, every +headline event that had ever occurred between oceans since he was +five years old. You might open the atlas, place your finger at +random upon the name of a town, and Jacks would tell you the front +names of three prominent citizens before you could close it again. +He spoke patronizingly and even disrespectfully of Broadway, Beacon +Hill, Michigan, Euclid, and Fifth avenues, and the St. Louis Four +Courts. Compared with him as a cosmopolite, the Wandering Jew would +have seemed a mere hermit. He had learned everything the world could +teach him, and he would tell you about it.</p> + +<p>I hate to be reminded of Pollok's "Course of Time," and so do you; +but every time I saw Jacks I would think of the poet's description +of another poet by the name of G. G. Byron who "Drank early; deeply +drank—drank draughts that common millions might have quenched; then +died of thirst because there was no more to drink."</p> + +<p>That fitted Jacks, except that, instead of dying, he came to Paloma, +which was about the same thing. He was a telegrapher and station-and +express-agent at seventy-five dollars a month. Why a young man who +knew everything and could do everything was content to serve in such +an obscure capacity I never could understand, although he let out a +hint once that it was as a personal favor to the president and +stockholders of the S. P. Ry. Co.</p> + +<p>One more line of description, and I turn Jacks over to you. He wore +bright blue clothes, yellow shoes, and a bow tie made of the same +cloth as his shirt.</p> + +<p>My rival No.2 was Bud Cunningham, whose services had been engaged by +a ranch near Paloma to assist in compelling refractory cattle to +keep within the bounds of decorum and order. Bud was the only cowboy +off the stage that I ever saw who looked like one on it. He wore the +sombrero, the chaps, and the handkerchief tied at the back of his +neck.</p> + +<p>Twice a week Bud rode in from the Val Verde Ranch to sup at the +Parisian Restaurant. He rode a many-high-handed Kentucky horse at a +tremendously fast lope, which animal he would rein up so suddenly +under the big mesquite at the corner of the brush shelter that his +hoofs would plough canals yards long in the loam.</p> + +<p>Jacks and I were regular boarders at the restaurant, of course.</p> + +<p>The front room of the Hinkle House was as neat a little parlor as +there was in the black-waxy country. It was all willow rocking-chairs, +and home-knit tidies, and albums, and conch shells in a row. +And a little upright piano in one corner.</p> + +<p>Here Jacks and Bud and I—or sometimes one or two of us, according +to our good-luck—used to sit of evenings when the tide of trade was +over, and "visit" Miss Hinkle.</p> + +<p>Ileen was a girl of ideas. She was destined for higher things (if +there can be anything higher) than taking in dollars all day through +a barbed-wire wicket. She had read and listened and thought. Her +looks would have formed a career for a less ambitious girl; but, +rising superior to mere beauty, she must establish something in the +nature of a <i>salon</i>—the only one in Paloma.</p> + +<p>"Don't you think that Shakespeare was a great writer?" she would +ask, with such a pretty little knit of her arched brows that the +late Ignatius Donnelly, himself, had he seen it, could scarcely have +saved his Bacon.</p> + +<p>Ileen was of the opinion, also, that Boston is more cultured than +Chicago; that Rosa Bonheur was one of the greatest of women +painters; that Westerners are more spontaneous and open-hearted than +Easterners; that London must be a very foggy city, and that +California must be quite lovely in the springtime. And of many other +opinions indicating a keeping up with the world's best thought.</p> + +<p>These, however, were but gleaned from hearsay and evidence: Ileen +had theories of her own. One, in particular, she disseminated to us +untiringly. Flattery she detested. Frankness and honesty of speech +and action, she declared, were the chief mental ornaments of man and +woman. If ever she could like any one, it would be for those +qualities.</p> + +<p>"I'm awfully weary," she said, one evening, when we three musketeers +of the mesquite were in the little parlor, "of having compliments on +my looks paid to me. I know I'm not beautiful."</p> + +<p>(Bud Cunningham told me afterward that it was all he could do to +keep from calling her a liar when she said that.)</p> + +<p>"I'm only a little Middle-Western girl," went on Ileen, "who just +wants to be simple and neat, and tries to help her father make a +humble living."</p> + +<p>(Old Man Hinkle was shipping a thousand silver dollars a month, +clear profit, to a bank in San Antonio.)</p> + +<p>Bud twisted around in his chair and bent the rim of his hat, from +which he could never be persuaded to separate. He did not know +whether she wanted what she said she wanted or what she knew she +deserved. Many a wiser man has hesitated at deciding. Bud decided.</p> + +<p>"Why—ah, Miss Ileen, beauty, as you might say, ain't everything. +Not sayin' that you haven't your share of good looks, I always +admired more than anything else about you the nice, kind way you +treat your ma and pa. Any one what's good to their parents and is a +kind of home-body don't specially need to be too pretty."</p> + +<p>Ileen gave him one of her sweetest smiles. "Thank you, Mr. +Cunningham," she said. "I consider that one of the finest +compliments I've had in a long time. I'd so much rather hear you say +that than to hear you talk about my eyes and hair. I'm glad you +believe me when I say I don't like flattery."</p> + +<p>Our cue was there for us. Bud had made a good guess. You couldn't +lose Jacks. He chimed in next.</p> + +<p>"Sure thing, Miss Ileen," he said; "the good-lookers don't always +win out. Now, you ain't bad looking, of course—but that's +nix-cum-rous. I knew a girl once in Dubuque with a face like a +cocoanut, who could skin the cat twice on a horizontal bar without +changing hands. Now, a girl might have the California peach crop +mashed to a marmalade and not be able to do that. I've +seen—er—worse lookers than <i>you</i>, Miss Ileen; but what I like +about you is the business way you've got of doing things. Cool and +wise—that's the winning way for a girl. Mr. Hinkle told me the +other day you'd never taken in a lead silver dollar or a plugged one +since you've been on the job. Now, that's the stuff for a +girl—that's what catches me."</p> + +<p>Jacks got his smile, too.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Mr. Jacks," said Ileen. "If you only knew how I +appreciate any one's being candid and not a flatterer! I get so +tired of people telling me I'm pretty. I think it is the loveliest +thing to have friends who tell you the truth."</p> + +<p>Then I thought I saw an expectant look on Ileen's face as she +glanced toward me. I had a wild, sudden impulse to dare fate, and +tell her of all the beautiful handiwork of the Great Artificer she +was the most exquisite—that she was a flawless pearl gleaming pure +and serene in a setting of black mud and emerald prairies—that she +was—a—a corker; and as for mine, I cared not if she were as cruel +as a serpent's tooth to her fond parents, or if she couldn't tell a +plugged dollar from a bridle buckle, if I might sing, chant, praise, +glorify, and worship her peerless and wonderful beauty.</p> + +<p>But I refrained. I feared the fate of a flatterer. I had witnessed +her delight at the crafty and discreet words of Bud and Jacks. No! +Miss Hinkle was not one to be beguiled by the plated-silver tongue +of a flatterer. So I joined the ranks of the candid and honest. At +once I became mendacious and didactic.</p> + +<p>"In all ages, Miss Hinkle," said I, "in spite of the poetry and +romance of each, intellect in woman has been admired more than +beauty. Even in Cleopatra, herself, men found more charm in her +queenly mind than in her looks."</p> + +<p>"Well, I should think so!" said Ileen. "I've seen pictures of her +that weren't so much. She had an awfully long nose."</p> + +<p>"If I may say so," I went on, "you remind me of Cleopatra, Miss +Ileen."</p> + +<p>"Why, my nose isn't so long!" said she, opening her eyes wide and +touching that comely feature with a dimpled forefinger.</p> + +<p>"Why—er—I mean," said I—"I mean as to mental endowments."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said she; and then I got my smile just as Bud and Jacks had +got theirs.</p> + +<p>"Thank every one of you," she said, very, very sweetly, "for being +so frank and honest with me. That's the way I want you to be always. +Just tell me plainly and truthfully what you think, and we'll all be +the best friends in the world. And now, because you've been so good +to me, and understand so well how I dislike people who do nothing +but pay me exaggerated compliments, I'll sing and play a little for +you."</p> + +<p>Of course, we expressed our thanks and joy; but we would have been +better pleased if Ileen had remained in her low rocking-chair face +to face with us and let us gaze upon her. For she was no Adelina +Patti—not even on the farewellest of the diva's farewell tours. +She had a cooing little voice like that of a turtle-dove that could +almost fill the parlor when the windows and doors were closed, and +Betty was not rattling the lids of the stove in the kitchen. She had +a gamut that I estimate at about eight inches on the piano; and her +runs and trills sounded like the clothes bubbling in your +grandmother's iron wash-pot. Believe that she must have been +beautiful when I tell you that it sounded like music to us.</p> + +<p>Ileen's musical taste was catholic. She would sing through a pile of +sheet music on the left-hand top of the piano, laying each +slaughtered composition on the right-hand top. The next evening she +would sing from right to left. Her favorites were Mendelssohn, and +Moody and Sankey. By request she always wound up with "Sweet Violets" +and "When the Leaves Begin to Turn."</p> + +<p>When we left at ten o'clock the three of us would go down to Jacks' +little wooden station and sit on the platform, swinging our feet and +trying to pump one another for clews as to which way Miss Ileen's +inclinations seemed to lean. That is the way of rivals—they do not +avoid and glower at one another; they convene and converse and +construe—striving by the art politic to estimate the strength of +the enemy.</p> + +<p>One day there came a dark horse to Paloma, a young lawyer who at +once flaunted his shingle and himself spectacularly upon the town. +His name was C. Vincent Vesey. You could see at a glance that he was +a recent graduate of a southwestern law school. His Prince Albert +coat, light striped trousers, broad-brimmed soft black hat, and +narrow white muslin bow tie proclaimed that more loudly than any +diploma could. Vesey was a compound of Daniel Webster, Lord +Chesterfield, Beau Brummell, and Little Jack Horner. His coming +boomed Paloma. The next day after he arrived an addition to the town +was surveyed and laid off in lots.</p> + +<p>Of course, Vesey, to further his professional fortunes, must mingle +with the citizenry and outliers of Paloma. And, as well as with the +soldier men, he was bound to seek popularity with the gay dogs of +the place. So Jacks and Bud Cunningham and I came to be honored by +his acquaintance.</p> + +<p>The doctrine of predestination would have been discredited had not +Vesey seen Ileen Hinkle and become fourth in the tourney. +Magnificently, he boarded at the yellow pine hotel instead of at the +Parisian Restaurant; but he came to be a formidable visitor in the +Hinkle parlor. His competition reduced Bud to an inspired increase +of profanity, drove Jacks to an outburst of slang so weird that it +sounded more horrible than the most trenchant of Bud's imprecations, +and made me dumb with gloom.</p> + +<p>For Vesey had the rhetoric. Words flowed from him like oil from a +gusher. Hyperbole, compliment, praise, appreciation, honeyed +gallantry, golden opinions, eulogy, and unveiled panegyric vied with +one another for pre-eminence in his speech. We had small hopes that +Ileen could resist his oratory and Prince Albert.</p> + +<p>But a day came that gave us courage.</p> + +<p>About dusk one evening I was sitting on the little gallery in front +of the Hinkle parlor, waiting for Ileen to come, when I heard voices +inside. She had come into the room with her father, and Old Man +Hinkle began to talk to her. I had observed before that he was a +shrewd man, and not unphilosophic.</p> + +<p>"Ily," said he, "I notice there's three or four young fellers that +have been callin' to see you regular for quite a while. Is there any +one of 'em you like better than another?"</p> + +<p>"Why, pa," she answered, "I like all of 'em very well. I think Mr. +Cunningham and Mr. Jacks and Mr. Harris are very nice young men. +They are so frank and honest in everything they say to me. I haven't +known Mr. Vesey very long, but I think he's a very nice young man, +he's so frank and honest in everything he says to me."</p> + +<p>"Now, that's what I'm gittin' at," says old Hinkle. "You've always +been sayin' you like people what tell the truth and don't go +humbuggin' you with compliments and bogus talk. Now, suppose you +make a test of these fellers, and see which one of 'em will talk the +straightest to you."</p> + +<p>"But how'll I do it, pa?"</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you how. You know you sing a little bit, Ily; you took +music-lessons nearly two years in Logansport. It wasn't long, but it +was all we could afford then. And your teacher said you didn't have +any voice, and it was a waste of money to keep on. Now, suppose you +ask the fellers what they think of your singin', and see what each +one of 'em tells you. The man that'll tell you the truth about it'll +have a mighty lot of nerve, and 'll do to tie to. What do you +think of the plan?"</p> + +<p>"All right, pa," said Ileen. "I think it's a good idea. I'll try +it."</p> + +<p>Ileen and Mr. Hinkle went out of the room through the inside doors. +Unobserved, I hurried down to the station. Jacks was at his +telegraph table waiting for eight o'clock to come. It was Bud's +night in town, and when he rode in I repeated the conversation to +them both. I was loyal to my rivals, as all true admirers of all +Ileens should be.</p> + +<p>Simultaneously the three of us were smitten by an uplifting thought. +Surely this test would eliminate Vesey from the contest. He, with +his unctuous flattery, would be driven from the lists. Well we +remembered Ileen's love of frankness and honesty—how she treasured +truth and candor above vain compliment and blandishment.</p> + +<p>Linking arms, we did a grotesque dance of joy up and down the +platform, singing "Muldoon Was a Solid Man" at the top of our voices.</p> + +<p>That evening four of the willow rocking-chairs were filled besides +the lucky one that sustained the trim figure of Miss Hinkle. Three +of us awaited with suppressed excitement the application of the +test. It was tried on Bud first.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Cunningham," said Ileen, with her dazzling smile, after she had +sung "When the Leaves Begin to Turn," "what do you really think of my +voice? Frankly and honestly, now, as you know I want you to always +be toward me."</p> + +<p>Bud squirmed in his chair at his chance to show the sincerity that +he knew was required of him.</p> + +<p>"Tell you the truth, Miss Ileen," he said, earnestly, "you ain't got +much more voice than a weasel—just a little squeak, you know. Of +course, we all like to hear you sing, for it's kind of sweet and +soothin' after all, and you look most as mighty well sittin' on the +piano-stool as you do faced around. But as for real singin'—I +reckon you couldn't call it that."</p> + +<p>I looked closely at Ileen to see if Bud had overdone his frankness, +but her pleased smile and sweetly spoken thanks assured me that we +were on the right track.</p> + +<p>"And what do you think, Mr. Jacks?" she asked next.</p> + +<p>"Take it from me," said Jacks, "you ain't in the prima donna +class. I've heard 'em warble in every city in the United +States; and I tell you your vocal +output don't go. Otherwise, you've got the grand opera bunch sent to +the soap factory—in looks, I mean; for the high screechers +generally look like Mary Ann on her Thursday out. But nix for the +gargle work. Your epiglottis ain't a real side-stepper—its footwork +ain't good."</p> + +<p>With a merry laugh at Jacks' criticism, Ileen looked inquiringly at +me.</p> + +<p>I admit that I faltered a little. Was there not such a thing as +being too frank? Perhaps I even hedged a little in my verdict; but I +stayed with the critics.</p> + +<p>"I am not skilled in scientific music, Miss Ileen," I said, "but, +frankly, I cannot praise very highly the singing-voice that Nature +has given you. It has long been a favorite comparison that a great +singer sings like a bird. Well, there are birds and birds. I would +say that your voice reminds me of the thrush's—throaty and not +strong, nor of much compass or variety—but +still—er—sweet—in—er—its—way, and—er—"</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Mr. Harris," interrupted Miss Hinkle. "I knew I could +depend upon your frankness and honesty."</p> + +<p>And then C. Vincent Vesey drew back one sleeve from his snowy cuff, +and the water came down at Lodore.</p> + +<p>My memory cannot do justice to his masterly tribute to that +priceless, God-given treasure—Miss Hinkle's voice. He raved over it +in terms that, if they had been addressed to the morning stars when +they sang together, would have made that stellar choir explode in a +meteoric shower of flaming self-satisfaction.</p> + +<p>He marshalled on his white finger-tips the grand opera stars of all +the continents, from Jenny Lind to Emma Abbott, only to depreciate +their endowments. He spoke of larynxes, of chest notes, of phrasing, +arpeggios, and other strange paraphernalia of the throaty art. He +admitted, as though driven to a corner, that Jenny Lind had a note +or two in the high register that Miss Hinkle had not yet +acquired—but—"!!!"—that was a mere matter of practice and +training.</p> + +<p>And, as a peroration, he predicted—solemnly predicted—a career in +vocal art for the "coming star of the Southwest—and one of which +grand old Texas may well be proud," hitherto unsurpassed in the +annals of musical history.</p> + +<p>When we left at ten, Ileen gave each of us her usual warm, cordial +handshake, entrancing smile, and invitation to call again. I could +not see that one was favored above or below another—but three of us +knew—we knew.</p> + +<p>We knew that frankness and honesty had won, and that the rivals now +numbered three instead of four.</p> + +<p>Down at the station Jacks brought out a pint bottle of the proper +stuff, and we celebrated the downfall of a blatant interloper.</p> + +<p>Four days went by without anything happening worthy of recount.</p> + +<p>On the fifth, Jacks and I, entering the brush arbor for our supper, +saw the Mexican youth, instead of a divinity in a spotless waist and +a navy-blue skirt, taking in the dollars through the barbed-wire +wicket.</p> + +<p>We rushed into the kitchen, meeting Pa Hinkle coming out with two +cups of hot coffee in his hands.</p> + +<p>"Where's Ileen?" we asked, in recitative.</p> + +<p>Pa Hinkle was a kindly man. "Well, gents," said he, "it was a sudden +notion she took; but I've got the money, and I let her have her way. +She's gone to a corn—a conservatory in Boston for four years for to +have her voice cultivated. Now, excuse me to pass, gents, for this +coffee's hot, and my thumbs is tender."</p> + +<p>That night there were four instead of three of us sitting on the +station platform and swinging our feet. C. Vincent Vesey was one of +us. We discussed things while dogs barked at the moon that rose, as +big as a five-cent piece or a flour barrel, over the chaparral.</p> + +<p>And what we discussed was whether it is better to lie to a woman or +to tell her the truth.</p> + +<p>And as all of us were young then, we did not come to a decision.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OPTIONS***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 1583-h.txt or 1583-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/8/1583">https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/8/1583</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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