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Henry</title> +<meta HTTP-EQUIV="content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> +<style type="text/css"> + body {background:#ffecdb; + color:black; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + font-size:14pt; + margin-top:100px; + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align:justify} + p {text-indent: 4% } + hr { width: 100%; } + 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: 9pt;} +table +{ + border-collapse: collapse; + border-spacing: 0pt; + border-color: black; + empty-cells: show; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + font-size: 14pt; + font-weight: normal; + font-style: normal +} + + +</style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Whirligigs, by O. Henry</h1> + +<pre> +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Whirligigs + +Author: O. Henry + +Release Date: January, 1999 [EBook #1595] +[This HTML version was first posted on May 2, 2004] + +Edition: 11 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: iso-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, WHIRLIGIGS *** + + + + +E-text prepared by anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteers and revised by +Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D. + + + + + + + +</pre> +<hr size="5" noshade> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<center> +<h1>WHIRLIGIGS</h1> +<br> +<h3>by</h3> +<br> +<h2>O. Henry</h2> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> +<br> +<table cellpadding="6" cellspacing="0"> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">I. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#1">THE WORLD AND THE DOOR</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">II. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#2">THE THEORY AND THE HOUND</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">III. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#3">THE HYPOTHESES OF FAILURE</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">IV. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#4">CALLOWAY'S CODE</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">V. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#5">A MATTER OF MEAN ELEVATION</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">VI. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#6">"GIRL"</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">VII. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#7">SOCIOLOGY IN SERGE AND STRAW</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">VIII. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#8">THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">IX. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#9">THE MARRY MONTH OF MAY</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">X. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#10">A TECHNICAL ERROR</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XI. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#11">SUITE HOMES AND THEIR ROMANCE</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XII. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#12">THE WHIRLIGIG OF LIFE</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XIII. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#13">A SACRIFICE HIT</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XIV. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#14">THE ROADS WE TAKE</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XV. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#15">A BLACKJACK BARGAINER</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XVI. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#16">THE SONG AND THE SERGEANT</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XVII. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#17">ONE DOLLAR'S WORTH</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XVIII. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#18">A NEWSPAPER STORY</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XIX. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#19">TOMMY'S BURGLAR</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XX. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#20">A CHAPARRAL CHRISTMAS GIFT</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XXI. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#21">A LITTLE LOCAL COLOUR</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XXII. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#22">GEORGIA'S RULING</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XXIII. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#23">BLIND MAN'S HOLIDAY</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td align="right" valign="top">XXIV. +</td> +<td valign="top"><a href="#24">MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES</a> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +</center> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<center> +<a name="1"></a> +<br> +<br> +<b> +I +<br> +<br> +THE WORLD AND THE DOOR<br> +</b> +</center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A favourite dodge to get your story read by the public is to assert that it is true, and +then add that Truth is stranger than Fiction. I do not know if the yarn I am anxious +for you to read is true; but the Spanish purser of the fruit steamer <i>El Carrero</i> swore +to me by the shrine of Santa Guadalupe that he had the facts from the U. S. +vice-consul at La Paz—a person who could not possibly have been cognizant of half +of them.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">As for the adage quoted above, I take pleasure in puncturing it by affirming that I +read in a purely fictional story the other day the line: "'Be it so,' said the policeman." +Nothing so strange has yet cropped out in Truth.</span></p> + +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When H. Ferguson Hedges, millionaire promoter, investor and man-about- +New-York, turned his thoughts upon matters convivial, and word of it went "down +the line," bouncers took a precautionary turn at the Indian clubs, waiters put +ironstone china on his favourite tables, cab drivers crowded close to the curbstone +in front of all-night cafés, and careful cashiers in his regular haunts charged up a +few bottles to his account by way of preface and introduction.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">As a money power a one-millionaire is of small account in a city where the man +who cuts your slice of beef behind the free-lunch counter rides to work in his own +automobile. But Hedges spent his money as lavishly, loudly and showily as though +he were only a clerk squandering a week's wages. And, after all, the bartender +takes no interest in your reserve fund. He would rather look you up on his cash +register than in Bradstreet.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On the evening that the material allegation of facts begins, Hedges was bidding dull +care begone in the company of five or six good fellows—acquaintances and friends +who had gathered in his wake. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Among them were two younger men—Ralph Merriam, a broker, and Wade, his +friend.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Two deep-sea cabmen were chartered. At Columbus Circle they hove to long +enough to revile the statue of the great navigator, unpatriotically rebuking him for +having voyaged in search of land instead of liquids. Midnight overtook the party +marooned in the rear of a cheap café far uptown.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Hedges was arrogant, overriding and quarrelsome. He was burly and tough, +iron-gray but vigorous, "good" for the rest of the night. There was a dispute—about +nothing that matters—and the five-fingered words were passed—the words that +represent the glove cast into the lists. Merriam played the rôle of the verbal +Hotspur. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Hedges rose quickly, seized his chair, swung it once and smashed wildly down at +Merriam's head. Merriam dodged, drew a small revolver and shot Hedges in the +chest. The leading roysterer stumbled, fell in a wry heap, and lay still.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Wade, a commuter, had formed that habit of promptness. He juggled Merriam out +a side door, walked him to the corner, ran him a block and caught a hansom. They +rode five minutes and then got out on a dark corner and dismissed the cab. Across +the street the lights of a small saloon betrayed its hectic hospitality.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Go in the back room of that saloon," said Wade, "and wait. I'll go find out what's +doing and let you know. You may take two drinks while I am gone—no more."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At ten minutes to one o'clock Wade returned. "Brace up, old chap," he said. "The +ambulance got there just as I did. The doctor says he's dead. You may have one +more drink. You let me run this thing for you. You've got to skip. I don't believe a +chair is legally a deadly weapon. You've got to make tracks, that's all there is to it."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Merriam complained of the cold querulously, and asked for another drink. "Did +you notice what big veins he had on the back of his hands?" he said. "I never could +stand—I never could—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Take one more," said Wade, "and then come on. I'll see you through."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Wade kept his promise so well that at eleven o'clock the next morning Merriam, +with a new suit case full of new clothes and hair-brushes, stepped quietly on board +a little 500-ton fruit steamer at an East River pier. The vessel had brought the +season's first cargo of limes from Port Limon, and was homeward bound. Merriam +had his bank balance of $2,800 in his pocket in large bills, and brief instructions to +pile up as much water as he could between himself and New York. There was no +time for anything more.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">From Port Limon Merriam worked down the coast by schooner and sloop to Colon, +thence across the isthmus to Panama, where he caught a tramp bound for Callao +and such intermediate ports as might tempt the discursive skipper from his course.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It was at La Paz that Merriam decided to land—La Paz the Beautiful, a little +harbourless town smothered in a living green ribbon that banded the foot of a +cloud-piercing mountain. Here the little steamer stopped to tread water while the +captain's dory took him ashore that he might feel the pulse of the cocoanut market. +Merriam went too, with his suit case, and remained.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Kalb, the vice-consul, a Græco-Armenian citizen of the United States, born in +Hessen-Darmstadt, and educated in Cincinnati ward primaries, considered all +Americans his brothers and bankers. He attached himself to Merriam's elbow, +introduced him to every one in La Paz who wore shoes, borrowed ten dollars and +went back to his hammock. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">There was a little wooden hotel in the edge of a banana grove, facing the sea, that +catered to the tastes of the few foreigners that had dropped out of the world into the +<i>triste</i> Peruvian town. At Kalb's introductory: "Shake hands with ––––," he had +obediently exchanged manual salutations with a German doctor, one French and +two Italian merchants, and three or four Americans who were spoken of as gold +men, rubber men, mahogany men—anything but men of living tissue.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">After dinner Merriam sat in a corner of the broad front <i>galeria</i> with Bibb, a +Vermonter interested in hydraulic mining, and smoked and drank Scotch "smoke." +The moonlit sea, spreading infinitely before him, seemed to separate him beyond all +apprehension from his old life. The horrid tragedy in which he had played such a +disastrous part now began, for the first time since he stole on board the fruiter, a +wretched fugitive, to lose its sharper outlines. Distance lent assuagement to his +view. Bibb had opened the flood-gates of a stream of long-dammed discourse, +overjoyed to have captured an audience that had not suffered under a hundred +repetitions of his views and theories.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"One year more," said Bibb, "and I'll go back to God's country. Oh, I know it's +pretty here, and you get <i>dolce far niente</i> handed to you in chunks, but this country +wasn't made for a white man to live in. You've got to have to plug through snow +now and then, and see a game of baseball and wear a stiff collar and have a +policeman cuss you. Still, La Paz is a good sort of a pipe-dreamy old hole. And +Mrs. Conant is here. When any of us feels particularly like jumping into the sea we +rush around to her house and propose. It's nicer to be rejected by Mrs. Conant than +it is to be drowned. And they say drowning is a delightful sensation."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Many like her here?" asked Merriam.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Not anywhere," said Bibb, with a comfortable sigh. She's the only white woman in +La Paz. The rest range from a dappled dun to the colour of a b-flat piano key. +She's been here a year. Comes from—well, you know how a woman can talk—ask +'em to say 'string' and they'll say 'crow's foot' or 'cat's cradle.' Sometimes you'd think +she was from Oshkosh, and again from Jacksonville, Florida, and the next day from +Cape Cod."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mystery?" ventured Merriam.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"M—well, she looks it; but her talk's translucent enough. But that's a woman. I +suppose if the Sphinx were to begin talking she'd merely say: 'Goodness me! more +visitors coming for dinner, and nothing to eat but the sand which is here.' But you +won't think about that when you meet her, Merriam. You'll propose to her too."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">To make a hard story soft, Merriam did meet her and propose to her. He found her +to be a woman in black with hair the colour of a bronze turkey's wings, and +mysterious, <i>remembering</i> eyes that—well, that looked as if she might have been a +trained nurse looking on when Eve was created. Her words and manner, though, +were translucent, as Bibb had said. She spoke, vaguely, of friends in California and +some of the lower parishes in Louisiana. The tropical climate and indolent life +suited her; she had thought of buying an orange grove later on; La Paz, all in all, +charmed her.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Merriam's courtship of the Sphinx lasted three months, although be did not know +that he was courting her. He was using her as an antidote for remorse, until he +found, too late, that he had acquired the habit. During that time he had received no +news from home. Wade did not know where he was; and he was not sure of +Wade's exact address, and was afraid to write. He thought he had better let matters +rest as they were for a while.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One afternoon he and Mrs. Conant hired two ponies and rode out along the +mountain trail as far as the little cold river that came tumbling down the foothills. +There they stopped for a drink, and Merriam spoke his piece—he proposed, as Bibb +had prophesied.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mrs. Conant gave him one glance of brilliant tenderness, and then her face took on +such a strange, haggard look that Merriam was shaken out of his intoxication and +back to his senses.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I beg your pardon, Florence," he said, releasing her hand; "but I'll have to hedge on +part of what I said. I can't ask you to marry me, of course. I killed a man in New +York—a man who was my friend—shot him down—in quite a cowardly manner, I +understand. Of course, the drinking didn't excuse it. Well, I couldn't resist having +my say; and I'll always mean it. I'm here as a fugitive from justice, and—I suppose +that ends our acquaintance."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mrs. Conant plucked little leaves assiduously from the low-hanging branch of a +lime tree.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I suppose so," she said, in low and oddly uneven tones; "but that depends upon +you. I'll be as honest as you were. I poisoned my husband. I am a self-made +widow. A man cannot love a murderess. So I suppose that ends our acquaintance."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She looked up at him slowly. His face turned a little pale, and he stared at her +blankly, like a deaf-and-dumb man who was wondering what it was all about.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She took a swift step toward him, with stiffened arms and eyes blazing.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Don't look at me like that!" she cried, as though she were in acute pain. "Curse +me, or turn your back on me, but don't look that way. Am I a woman to be beaten? +If I could show you—here on my arms, and on my back are scars—and it has been +more than a year—scars that he made in his brutal rages. A holy nun would have +risen and struck the fiend down. Yes, I killed him. The foul and horrible words +that he hurled at me that last day are repeated in my ears every night when I sleep. +And then came his blows, and the end of my endurance. I got the poison that +afternoon. It was his custom to drink every night in the library before going to bed +a hot punch made of rum and wine. Only from my fair hands would he receive it— +because he knew the fumes of spirits always sickened me. That night when the +maid brought it to me I sent her downstairs on an errand. Before taking him his +drink I went to my little private cabinet and poured into it more than a tea-spoonful +of tincture of aconite—enough to kill three men, so I had learned. I had drawn +$6,000 that I had in bank, and with that and a few things in a satchel I left the house +without any one seeing me. As I passed the library I heard him stagger up and fall +heavily on a couch. I took a night train for New Orleans, and from there I sailed to +the Bermudas. I finally cast anchor in La Paz. And now what have you to say? +Can you open your mouth?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Merriam came back to life.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Florence," he said earnestly, "I want you. I don't care what you've done. If the +world—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ralph," she interrupted, almost with a scream, "be my world!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Her eyes melted; she relaxed magnificently and swayed toward Merriam so +suddenly that he had to jump to catch her.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Dear me! in such scenes how the talk runs into artificial prose. But it can't be +helped. It's the subconscious smell of the footlights' smoke that's in all of us. Stir +the depths of your cook's soul sufficiently and she will discourse in +Bulwer-Lyttonese.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Merriam and Mrs. Conant were very happy. He announced their engagement at the +Hotel Orilla del Mar. Eight foreigners and four native Astors pounded his back and +shouted insincere congratulations at him. Pedrito, the Castilian-mannered barkeep, +was goaded to extra duty until his agility would have turned a Boston +cherry-phosphate clerk a pale lilac with envy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">They were both very happy. According to the strange mathematics of the god of +mutual affinity, the shadows that clouded their pasts when united became only half +as dense instead of darker. They shut the world out and bolted the doors. Each was +the other's world. Mrs. Conant lived again. The remembering look left her eyes. +Merriam was with her every moment that was possible. On a little plateau under a +grove of palms and calabash trees they were going to build a fairy bungalow. They +were to be married in two months. Many hours of the day they had their heads +together over the house plans. Their joint capital would set up a business in fruit or +woods that would yield a comfortable support. "Good night, my world," would say +Mrs. Conant every evening when Merriam left her for his hotel. They were very +happy. Their love had, circumstantially, that element of melancholy in it that it +seems to require to attain its supremest elevation. And it seemed that their mutual +great misfortune or sin was a bond that nothing could sever.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One day a steamer hove in the offing. Bare-legged and bare-shouldered La Paz +scampered down to the beach, for the arrival of a steamer was their loop-the-loop, +circus, Emancipation Day and four-o'clock tea. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When the steamer was near enough, wise ones proclaimed that she was the <i>Pajaro</i>, +bound up-coast from Callao to Panama.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The <i>Pajaro</i> put on brakes a mile off shore. Soon a boat came bobbing shoreward. +Merriam strolled down on the beach to look on. In the shallow water the Carib +sailors sprang out and dragged the boat with a mighty rush to the firm shingle. Out +climbed the purser, the captain and two passengers, ploughing their way through the +deep sand toward the hotel. Merriam glanced toward them with the mild interest +due to strangers. There was something familiar to him in the walk of one of the +passengers. He looked again, and his blood seemed to turn to strawberry ice cream +in his veins. Burly, arrogant, debonair as ever, H. Ferguson Hedges, the man he +had killed, was coming toward him ten feet away.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When Hedges saw Merriam his face flushed a dark red. Then he shouted in his old, +bluff way: "Hello, Merriam. Glad to see you. Didn't expect to find you out here. +Quinby, this is my old friend Merriam, of New York—Merriam, Mr. Quinby."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Merriam gave Hedges and then Quinby an ice-cold hand. "Br-r-r-r!" said Hedges. +"But you've got a frappéd flipper! Man, you're not well. You're as yellow as a +Chinaman. Malarial here? Steer us to a bar if there is such a thing, and let's take a +prophylactic."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Merriam, still half comatose, led them toward the Hotel Orilla del Mar.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Quinby and I," explained Hedges, puffing through the slippery sand, "are looking +out along the coast for some investments. We've just come up from Concepción +and Valparaiso and Lima. The captain of this subsidized ferry boat told us there +was some good picking around here in silver mines. So we got off. Now, where is +that café, Merriam? Oh, in this portable soda water pavilion?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Leaving Quinby at the bar, Hedges drew Merriam aside.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Now, what does this mean?" he said, with gruff kindness. "Are you sulking about +that fool row we had?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I thought," stammered Merriam—"I heard—they told me you were—that I had—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Well, you didn't, and I'm not," said Hedges. "That fool young ambulance surgeon +told Wade I was a candidate for a coffin just because I'd got tired and quit +breathing. I laid up in a private hospital for a month; but here I am, kicking as hard +as ever. Wade and I tried to find you, but couldn't. Now, Merriam, shake hands +and forget it all. I was as much to blame as you were; and the shot really did me +good—I came out of the hospital as healthy and fit as a cab horse. Come on; that +drink's waiting."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Old man," said Merriam, brokenly, "I don't know how to thank you—I—well, you +know—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, forget it," boomed Hedges. "Quinby'll die of thirst if we don't join him."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bibb was sitting on the shady side of the gallery waiting for the eleven-o'clock +breakfast. Presently Merriam came out and joined him. His eye was strangely +bright.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Bibb, my boy," said he, slowly waving his hand, "do you see those mountains and +that sea and sky and sunshine?—they're mine, Bibbsy—all mine."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You go in," said Bibb, "and take eight grains of quinine, right away. It won't do in +this climate for a man to get to thinking he's Rockefeller, or James O'Neill either."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Inside, the purser was untying a great roll of newspapers, many of them weeks old, +gathered in the lower ports by the <i>Pajaro</i> to be distributed at casual stopping-places. +Thus do the beneficent voyagers scatter news and entertainment among the +prisoners of sea and mountains.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Tio Pancho, the hotel proprietor, set his great silver-rimmed <i>anteojos</i> upon his nose +and divided the papers into a number of smaller rolls. A barefooted <i>muchacho</i> +dashed in, desiring the post of messenger. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"<i>Bien venido</i>," said Tio Pancho. "This to Señora Conant; that to el Doctor +S-S-Schlegel—<i>Dios</i>! what a name to say!—that to Señor Davis—one for Don +Alberto. These two for the <i>Casa de Huespedes</i>, <i>Numero 6</i>, <i>en la calle de las +Buenas Gracias</i>. And say to them all, <i>muchacho</i>, that the <i>Pajaro</i> sails for Panama +at three this afternoon. If any have letters to send by the post, let them come +quickly, that they may first pass through the <i>correo</i>."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mrs. Conant received her roll of newspapers at four o'clock. The boy was late in +delivering them, because he had been deflected from his duty by an iguana that +crossed his path and to which he immediately gave chase. But it made no hardship, +for she had no letters to send. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She was idling in a hammock in the patio of the house that she occupied, half +awake, half happily dreaming of the paradise that she and Merriam had created out +of the wrecks of their pasts. She was content now for the horizon of that +shimmering sea to be the horizon of her life. They had shut out the world and +closed the door. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Merriam was coming to her house at seven, after his dinner at the hotel. She would +put on a white dress and an apricot-coloured lace mantilla, and they would walk an +hour under the cocoanut palms by the lagoon. She smiled contentedly, and chose a +paper at random from the roll the boy had brought.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At first the words of a certain headline of a Sunday newspaper meant nothing to +her; they conveyed only a visualized sense of familiarity. The largest type ran thus: +"Lloyd B. Conant secures divorce." And then the subheadings: "Well-known Saint +Louis paint manufacturer wins suit, pleading one year's absence of wife." "Her +mysterious disappearance recalled." "Nothing has been heard of her since." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Twisting herself quickly out of the hammock, Mrs. Conant's eye soon traversed the +half-column of the "Recall." It ended thus: "It will be remembered that Mrs. Conant +disappeared one evening in March of last year. It was freely rumoured that her +marriage with Lloyd B. Conant resulted in much unhappiness. Stories were not +wanting to the effect that his cruelty toward his wife had more than once taken the +form of physical abuse. After her departure a full bottle of tincture of aconite, a +deadly poison, was found in a small medicine cabinet in her bedroom. This might +have been an indication that she meditated suicide. It is supposed that she +abandoned such an intention if she possessed it, and left her home instead."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mrs. Conant slowly dropped the paper, and sat on a chair, clasping her hands +tightly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Let me think—O God!—let me think," she whispered. "I took the bottle with me +. . . I threw it out of the window of the train . . . I— . . . there was another bottle in the +cabinet . . . there were two, side by side—the aconite—and the valerian that I took +when I could not sleep . . . If they found the aconite bottle full, why—but, he is +alive, of course—I gave him only a harmless dose of valerian . . . I am not a +murderess in fact . . . Ralph, I—O God, don't let this be a dream!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She went into the part of the house that she rented from the old Peruvian man and +his wife, shut the door, and walked up and down her room swiftly and feverishly +for half an hour. Merriam's photograph stood in a frame on a table. She picked it +up, looked at it with a smile of exquisite tenderness, and—dropped four tears on it. +And Merriam only twenty rods away! Then she stood still for ten minutes, looking +into space. She looked into space through a slowly opening door. On her side of +the door was the building material for a castle of Romance—love, an Arcady of +waving palms, a lullaby of waves on the shore of a haven of rest, respite, peace, a +lotus land of dreamy ease and security—a life of poetry and heart's ease and refuge. +Romanticist, will you tell me what Mrs. Conant saw on the other side of the door? +You cannot?—that is, you will not? Very well; then listen.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt"><i>She saw herself go into a department store and buy five spools of silk thread and +three yards of gingham to make an apron for the cook. "Shall I charge it, ma'am?" +asked the clerk. As she walked out a lady whom she met greeted her cordially. +"Oh, where did you get the pattern for those sleeves, dear Mrs. Conant?" she said. +At the corner a policeman helped her across the street and touched his helmet. +"Any callers?" she asked the maid when she reached home. "Mrs. Waldron," +answered the maid, "and the two Misses Jenkinson." "Very well," she said. "You may +bring me a cup of tea, Maggie."</i></span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mrs. Conant went to the door and called Angela, the old Peruvian woman. "If +Mateo is there send him to me." Mateo, a half-breed, shuffling and old but efficient, +came.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Is there a steamer or a vessel of any kind leaving this coast to-night or to-morrow +that I can get passage on?" she asked.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mateo considered.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"At Punta Reina, thirty miles down the coast, señora," he answered, "there is a +small steamer loading with cinchona and dyewoods. She sails for San Francisco +to-morrow at sunrise. So says my brother, who arrived in his sloop to-day, passing +by Punta Reina."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You must take me in that sloop to that steamer to-night. Will you do that?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Perhaps—" Mateo shrugged a suggestive shoulder. Mrs. Conant took a handful of +money from a drawer and gave it to him.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Get the sloop ready behind the little point of land below the town," she ordered. +"Get sailors, and be ready to sail at six o'clock. In half an hour bring a cart partly +filled with straw into the patio here, and take my trunk to the sloop. There is more +money yet. Now, hurry."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">For one time Mateo walked away without shuffling his feet.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Angela," cried Mrs. Conant, almost fiercely, "come and help me pack. I am going +away. Out with this trunk. My clothes first. Stir yourself. Those dark dresses +first. Hurry."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">From the first she did not waver from her decision. Her view was clear and final. +Her door had opened and let the world in. Her love for Merriam was not lessened; +but it now appeared a hopeless and unrealizable thing. The visions of their future +that had seemed so blissful and complete had vanished. She tried to assure herself +that her renunciation was rather for his sake than for her own. Now that she was +cleared of her burden—at least, technically—would not his own weigh too heavily +upon him? If she should cling to him, would not the difference forever silently mar +and corrode their happiness? Thus she reasoned; but there were a thousand little +voices calling to her that she could feel rather than hear, like the hum of distant, +powerful machinery—the little voices of the world, that, when raised in unison, can +send their insistent call through the thickest door.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Once while packing, a brief shadow of the lotus dream came back to her. She held +Merriam's picture to her heart with one hand, while she threw a pair of shoes into +the trunk with her other.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At six o'clock Mateo returned and reported the sloop ready. He and his brother +lifted the trunk into the cart, covered it with straw and conveyed it to the point of +embarkation. From there they transferred it on board in the sloop's dory. Then +Mateo returned for additional orders.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mrs. Conant was ready. She had settled all business matters with Angela, and was +impatiently waiting. She wore a long, loose black-silk duster that she often walked +about in when the evenings were chilly. On her head was a small round hat, and +over it the apricot-coloured lace mantilla.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Dusk had quickly followed the short twilight. Mateo led her by dark and +grass-grown streets toward the point behind which the sloop was anchored. On +turning a corner they beheld the Hotel Orilla del Mar three streets away, nebulously +aglow with its array of kerosene lamps. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mrs. Conant paused, with streaming eyes. "I must, I <i>must</i> see him once before I +go," she murmured in anguish. But even then she did not falter in her decision. +Quickly she invented a plan by which she might speak to him, and yet make her +departure without his knowing. She would walk past the hotel, ask some one to call +him out and talk a few moments on some trivial excuse, leaving him expecting to +see her at her home at seven.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She unpinned her hat and gave it to Mateo. "Keep this, and wait here till I come," +she ordered. Then she draped the mantilla over her head as she usually did when +walking after sunset, and went straight to the Orilla del Mar.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She was glad to see the bulky, white-clad figure of Tio Pancho standing alone on +the gallery.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Tio Pancho," she said, with a charming smile, "may I trouble you to ask Mr. +Merriam to come out for just a few moments that I may speak with him?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Tio Pancho bowed as an elephant bows.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Buenas tardes, Señora Conant," he said, as a cavalier talks. And then he went on, +less at his ease:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"But does not the señora know that Señor Merriam sailed on the <i>Pajaro</i> for Panama +at three o'clock of this afternoon?"</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="2"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center> +<b> +II +<br> +<br> +THE THEORY AND THE HOUND<br> +</b> +</center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Not many days ago my old friend from the tropics, J. P. Bridger, United States +consul on the island of Ratona, was in the city. We had wassail and jubilee and +saw the Flatiron building, and missed seeing the Bronxless menagerie by about a +couple of nights. And then, at the ebb tide, we were walking up a street that +parallels and parodies Broadway.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A woman with a comely and mundane countenance passed us, holding in leash a +wheezing, vicious, waddling, brute of a yellow pug. The dog entangled himself +with Bridger's legs and mumbled his ankles in a snarling, peevish, sulky bite. +Bridger, with a happy smile, kicked the breath out of the brute; the woman +showered us with a quick rain of well-conceived adjectives that left us in no doubt +as to our place in her opinion, and we passed on. Ten yards farther an old woman +with disordered white hair and her bankbook tucked well hidden beneath her +tattered shawl begged. Bridger stopped and disinterred for her a quarter from his +holiday waistcoat.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On the next corner a quarter of a ton of well-clothed man with a rice-powdered, fat, +white jowl, stood holding the chain of a devil-born bulldog whose forelegs were +strangers by the length of a dachshund. A little woman in a last-season's hat +confronted him and wept, which was plainly all she could do, while he cursed her +in low sweet, practised tones.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bridger smiled again—strictly to himself—and this time he took out a little +memorandum book and made a note of it. This he had no right to do without due +explanation, and I said so.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's a new theory," said Bridger, "that I picked up down in Ratona. I've been +gathering support for it as I knock about. The world isn't ripe for it yet, but—well +I'll tell you; and then you run your mind back along the people you've known and +see what you make of it." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And so I cornered Bridger in a place where they have artificial palms and wine; and +he told me the story which is here in my words and on his responsibility.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One afternoon at three o'clock, on the island of Ratona, a boy raced along the beach +screaming, "<i>Pajaro</i>, ahoy!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Thus he made known the keenness of his hearing and the justice of his +discrimination in pitch.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He who first heard and made oral proclamation concerning the toot of an +approaching steamer's whistle, and correctly named the steamer, was a small hero in +Ratona—until the next steamer came. Wherefore, there was rivalry among the +barefoot youth of Ratona, and many fell victims to the softly blown conch shells of +sloops which, as they enter harbour, sound surprisingly like a distant steamer's +signal. And some could name you the vessel when its call, in your duller ears, +sounded no louder than the sigh of the wind through the branches of the cocoanut +palms.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But to-day he who proclaimed the <i>Pajaro</i> gained his honours. Ratona bent its ear +to listen; and soon the deep-tongued blast grew louder and nearer, and at length +Ratona saw above the line of palms on the low "point" the two black funnels of the +fruiter slowly creeping toward the mouth of the harbour.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">You must know that Ratona is an island twenty miles off the south of a South +American republic. It is a port of that republic; and it sleeps sweetly in a smiling +sea, toiling not nor spinning; fed by the abundant tropics where all things "ripen, +cease and fall toward the grave."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Eight hundred people dream life away in a green-embowered village that follows +the horseshoe curve of its bijou harbour. They are mostly Spanish and Indian +<i>mestizos</i>, with a shading of San Domingo Negroes, a lightening of pure-blood +Spanish officials and a slight leavening of the froth of three or four pioneering +white races. No steamers touch at Ratona save the fruit steamers which take on +their banana inspectors there on their way to the coast. They leave Sunday +newspapers, ice, quinine, bacon, watermelons and vaccine matter at the island and +that is about all the touch Ratona gets with the world.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The <i>Pajaro</i> paused at the mouth of the harbour, rolling heavily in the swell that sent +the whitecaps racing beyond the smooth water inside. Already two dories from the +village—one conveying fruit inspectors, the other going for what it could get—were +halfway out to the steamer.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The inspectors' dory was taken on board with them, and the <i>Pajaro</i> steamed away +for the mainland for its load of fruit.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The other boat returned to Ratona bearing a contribution from the <i>Pajaro's</i> store of +ice, the usual roll of newspapers and one passenger—Taylor Plunkett, sheriff of +Chatham County, Kentucky.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bridger, the United States consul at Ratona, was cleaning his rifle in the official +shanty under a bread-fruit tree twenty yards from the water of the harbour. The +consul occupied a place somewhat near the tail of his political party's procession. +The music of the band wagon sounded very faintly to him in the distance. The +plums of office went to others. Bridger's share of the spoils—the consulship at +Ratona—was little more than a prune—a dried prune from the boarding-house +department of the public crib. But $900 yearly was opulence in Ratona. Besides, +Bridger had contracted a passion for shooting alligators in the lagoons near his +consulate, and was not unhappy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He looked up from a careful inspection of his rifle lock and saw a broad man filling +his doorway. A broad, noiseless, slow-moving man, sunburned almost to the brown +of Vandyke. A man of forty-five, neatly clothed in homespun, with scanty light +hair, a close-clipped brown-and-gray beard and pale-blue eyes expressing mildness +and simplicity.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You are Mr. Bridger, the consul," said the broad man. "They directed me here. +Can you tell me what those big bunches of things like gourds are in those trees that +look like feather dusters along the edge of the water?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Take that chair," said the consul, reoiling his cleaning rag. "No, the other one—that +bamboo thing won't hold you. Why, they're cocoanuts—green cocoanuts. The shell +of 'em is always a light green before they're ripe."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Much obliged," said the other man, sitting down carefully. "I didn't quite like to +tell the folks at home they were olives unless I was sure about it. My name is +Plunkett. I'm sheriff of Chatham County, Kentucky. I've got extradition papers in +my pocket authorizing the arrest of a man on this island. They've been signed by +the President of this country, and they're in correct shape. The man's name is Wade +Williams. He's in the cocoanut raising business. What he's wanted for is the +murder of his wife two years ago. Where can I find him?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The consul squinted an eye and looked through his rifle barrel. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"There's nobody on the island who calls himself 'Williams,'" he remarked.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Didn't suppose there was," said Plunkett mildly. "He'll do by any other name."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Besides myself," said Bridger, "there are only two Americans on Ratona—Bob +Reeves and Henry Morgan."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The man I want sells cocoanuts," suggested Plunkett.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You see that cocoanut walk extending up to the point?" said the consul, waving his +hand toward the open door. "That belongs to Bob Reeves. Henry Morgan owns +half the trees to loo'ard on the island."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"One, month ago," said the sheriff, "Wade Williams wrote a confidential letter to a +man in Chatham county, telling him where he was and how he was getting along. +The letter was lost; and the person that found it gave it away. They sent me after +him, and I've got the papers. I reckon he's one of your cocoanut men for certain." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You've got his picture, of course," said Bridger. "It might be Reeves or Morgan, +but I'd hate to think it. They're both as fine fellows as you'd meet in an all-day auto +ride."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No," doubtfully answered Plunkett; "there wasn't any picture of Williams to be +had. And I never saw him myself. I've been sheriff only a year. But I've got a +pretty accurate description of him. About 5 feet 11; dark-hair and eyes; nose +inclined to be Roman; heavy about the shoulders; strong, white teeth, with none +missing; laughs a good deal, talkative; drinks considerably but never to +intoxication; looks you square in the eye when talking; age thirty-five. Which one +of your men does that description fit?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The consul grinned broadly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'll tell you what you do," he said, laying down his rifle and slipping on his dingy +black alpaca coat. "You come along, Mr. Plunkett, and I'll take you up to see the +boys. If you can tell which one of 'em your description fits better than it does the +other you have the advantage of me."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bridger conducted the sheriff out and along the hard beach close to which the tiny +houses of the village were distributed. Immediately back of the town rose sudden, +small, thickly wooded hills. Up one of these, by means of steps cut in the hard clay, +the consul led Plunkett. On the very verge of an eminence was perched a two-room +wooden cottage with a thatched roof. A Carib woman was washing clothes outside. +The consul ushered the sheriff to the door of the room that overlooked the harbour.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Two men were in the room, about to sit down, in their shirt sleeves, to a table +spread for dinner. They bore little resemblance one to the other in detail; but the +general description given by Plunkett could have been justly applied to either. In +height, colour of hair, shape of nose, build and manners each of them tallied with it. +They were fair types of jovial, ready-witted, broad-gauged Americans who had +gravitated together for companionship in an alien land. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Hello, Bridger" they called in unison at sight Of the consul. "Come and have +dinner with us!" And then they noticed Plunkett at his heels, and came forward +with hospitable curiosity.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Gentlemen," said the consul, his voice taking on unaccustomed formality, "this is +Mr. Plunkett. Mr. Plunkett—Mr. Reeves and Mr. Morgan."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The cocoanut barons greeted the newcomer joyously. Reeves seemed about an inch +taller than Morgan, but his laugh was not quite as loud. Morgan's eyes were deep +brown; Reeves's were black. Reeves was the host and busied himself with fetching +other chairs and calling to the Carib woman for supplemental table ware. It was +explained that Morgan lived in a bamboo shack to “loo'ard,” but that every day the +two friends dined together. Plunkett stood still during the preparations, looking +about mildly with his pale-blue eyes. Bridger looked apologetic and uneasy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At length two other covers were laid and the company was assigned to places. +Reeves and Morgan stood side by side across the table from the visitors. Reeves +nodded genially as a signal for all to seat themselves. And then suddenly Plunkett +raised his hand with a gesture of authority. He was looking straight between +Reeves and Morgan.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Wade Williams," he said quietly, "you are under arrest for murder." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Reeves and Morgan instantly exchanged a quick, bright glance, the quality of which +was interrogation, with a seasoning of surprise. Then, simultaneously they turned to +the speaker with a puzzled and frank deprecation in their gaze.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Can't say that we understand you, Mr. Plunkett," said Morgan, cheerfully. "Did +you say 'Williams'?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What's the joke, Bridgy?" asked Reeves, turning, to the consul with a smile.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Before Bridger could answer Plunkett spoke again.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'll explain," he said, quietly. "One of you don't need any explanation, but this is +for the other one. One of you is Wade Williams of Chatham County, Kentucky. +You murdered your wife on May 5, two years ago, after ill-treating and abusing her +continually for five years. I have the proper papers in my pocket for taking you +back with me, and you are going. We will return on the fruit steamer that comes +back by this island to-morrow to leave its inspectors. I acknowledge, gentlemen, +that I'm not quite sure which one of you is Williams. But Wade Williams goes back +to Chatham County to-morrow. I want you to understand that."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A great sound of merry laughter from Morgan and Reeves went out over the still +harbour. Two or three fishermen in the fleet of sloops anchored there looked up at +the house of the diablos Americanos on the hill and wondered.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"My dear Mr. Plunkett," cried Morgan, conquering his mirth, "the dinner is getting, +cold. Let us sit down and eat. I am anxious to get my spoon into that shark-fin +soup. Business afterward." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Sit down, gentlemen, if you please," added Reeves, pleasantly. "I am sure Mr. +Plunkett will not object. Perhaps a little time may be of advantage to him in +identifying—the gentleman he wishes to arrest."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No objections, I'm sure," said Plunkett, dropping into his chair heavily. "I'm +hungry myself. I didn't want to accept the hospitality of you folks without giving +you notice; that's all." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Reeves set bottles and glasses on the table.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"There's cognac," he said, "and anisada, and Scotch 'smoke,' and rye. Take your +choice."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bridger chose rye, Reeves poured three fingers of Scotch for himself, Morgan took +the same. The sheriff, against much protestation, filled his glass from the water +bottle.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Here's to the appetite," said Reeves, raising his glass, "of Mr. Williams!" Morgan's +laugh and his drink encountering sent him into a choking splutter. All began to pay +attention to the dinner, which was well cooked and palatable.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Williams!" called Plunkett, suddenly and sharply.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">All looked up wonderingly. Reeves found the sheriff's mild eye resting upon him. +He flushed a little.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"See here," he said, with some asperity, "my name's Reeves, and I don't want you +to—" But the comedy of the thing came to his rescue, and he ended with a laugh.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I suppose, Mr. Plunkett," said Morgan, carefully seasoning an alligator pear, "that +you are aware of the fact that you will import a good deal of trouble for yourself +into Kentucky if you take back the wrong man—that is, of course, if you take +anybody back?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Thank you for the salt," said the sheriff. "Oh, I'll take somebody back. It'll be one +of you two gentlemen. Yes, I know I'd get stuck for damages if I make a mistake. +But I'm going to try to get the right man."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'll tell you what you do," said Morgan, leaning forward with a jolly twinkle in his +eyes. "You take me. I'll go without any trouble. The cocoanut business hasn't +panned out well this year, and I'd like to make some extra money out of your +bondsmen."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"That's not fair," chimed in Reeves. "I got only $16 a thousand for my last +shipment. Take me, Mr. Plunkett."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'll take Wade Williams," said the sheriff, patiently, "or I'll come pretty close to it."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's like dining with a ghost," remarked Morgan, with a pretended shiver. "The +ghost of a murderer, too! Will somebody pass the toothpicks to the shade of the +naughty Mr. Williams?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Plunkett seemed as unconcerned as if he were dining at his own table in Chatham +County. He was a gallant trencherman, and the strange tropic viands tickled his +palate. Heavy, commonplace, almost slothful in his movements, he appeared to be +devoid of all the cunning and watchfulness of the sleuth. He even ceased to +observe, with any sharpness or attempted discrimination, the two men, one of +whom he had undertaken with surprising self-confidence, to drag away upon the +serious charge of wife-murder. Here, indeed, was a problem set before him that if +wrongly solved would have amounted to his serious discomfiture, yet there he sat +puzzling his soul (to all appearances) over the novel flavour of a broiled iguana +cutlet. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The consul felt a decided discomfort. Reeves and Morgan were his friends and +pals; yet the sheriff from Kentucky had a certain right to his official aid and moral +support. So Bridger sat the silentest around the board and tried to estimate the +peculiar situation. His conclusion was that both Reeves and Morgan, quickwitted, +as he knew them to be, had conceived at the moment of Plunkett's disclosure of his +mission—and in the brief space of a lightning flash—the idea that the other might be +the guilty Williams; and that each of them had decided in that moment loyally to +protect his comrade against the doom that threatened him. This was the consul's +theory and if he had been a bookmaker at a race of wits for life and liberty he would +have offered heavy odds against the plodding sheriff from Chatham County, +Kentucky.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When the meal was concluded the Carib woman came and removed the dishes and +cloth. Reeves strewed the table with excellent cigars, and Plunkett, with the others, +lighted one of these with evident gratification.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I may be dull," said Morgan, with a grin and a wink at Bridger; "but I want to +know if I am. Now, I say this is all a joke of Mr. Plunkett's, concocted to frighten +two babes-in-the-woods. Is this Williamson to be taken seriously or not?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"'Williams,'" corrected Plunkett gravely. "I never got off any jokes in my life. I +know I wouldn't travel 2,000 miles to get off a poor one as this would be if I didn't +take Wade Williams back with me. Gentlemen!" continued the sheriff, now letting +his mild eyes travel impartially from one of the company to another, "see if you can +find any joke in this case. Wade Williams is listening to the words I utter now; but +out of politeness, I will speak of him as a third person. For five years he made his +wife lead the life of a dog—No; I'll take that back. No dog in Kentucky was ever +treated as she was. He spent the money that she brought him—spent it at races, at +the card table and on horses and hunting. He was a good fellow to his friends, but a +cold, sullen demon at home. He wound up the five years of neglect by striking her +with his closed hand—a hand as hard as a stone—when she was ill and weak from +suffering. She died the next day; and he skipped. That's all there is to it. It's +enough. I never saw Williams; but I knew his wife. I'm not a man to tell half. She +and I were keeping company when she met him. She went to Louisville on a visit +and saw him there. I'll admit that he spoilt my chances in no time. I lived then on +the edge of the Cumberland mountains. I was elected sheriff of Chatham County a +year after Wade Williams killed his wife. My official duty sends me out here after +him; but I'll admit that there's personal feeling, too. And he's going back with me. +Mr.—er—Reeves, will you pass me a match?</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Awfully imprudent of Williams," said Morgan, putting his feet up against the wall, +"to strike a Kentucky lady. Seems to me I've heard they were scrappers."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Bad, bad Williams," said Reeves, pouring out more Scotch.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The two men spoke lightly, but the consul saw and felt the tension and the +carefulness in their actions and words. "Good old fellows," he said to himself; +"they're both all right. Each of 'em is standing by the other like a little brick +church."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And then a dog walked into the room where they sat—a black-and-tan hound, +long-eared, lazy, confident of welcome.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Plunkett turned his head and looked at the animal, which halted, confidently, within +a few feet of his chair.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Suddenly the sheriff, with a deep-mouthed oath, left his seat and, bestowed upon +the dog a vicious and heavy kick, with his ponderous shoe.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The hound, heartbroken, astonished, with flapping ears and incurved tail, uttered a +piercing yelp of pain and surprise.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Reeves and the consul remained in their chairs, saying nothing, but astonished at +the unexpected show of intolerance from the easy-going man from Chatham county.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But Morgan, with a suddenly purpling face, leaped, to his feet and raised a +threatening arm above the guest.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You—brute!" he shouted, passionately; "why did you do that?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Quickly the amenities returned, Plunkett muttered some indistinct apology and +regained his seat. Morgan with a decided effort controlled his indignation and also +returned to his chair. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And then Plunkett with the spring of a tiger, leaped around the corner of the table +and snapped handcuffs on the paralyzed Morgan's wrists.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Hound-lover and woman-killer!" he cried; "get ready to meet your God."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When Bridger had finished I asked him:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Did he get the right man?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"He did," said the Consul.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"And how did he know?" I inquired, being in a kind of bewilderment. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"When he put Morgan in the dory," answered Bridger, "the next day to take him +aboard the <i>Pajaro</i>, this man Plunkett stopped to shake hands with me and I asked +him the same question."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"'Mr. Bridger,' said he, 'I'm a Kentuckian, and I've seen a great deal of both men and +animals. And I never yet saw a man that was overfond of horses and dogs but what +was cruel to women.'" </span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="3"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +III<br> +<br> +THE HYPOTHESES OF FAILURE<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lawyer Gooch bestowed his undivided attention upon the engrossing arts of his +profession. But one flight of fancy did he allow his mind to entertain. He was fond +of likening his suite of office rooms to the bottom of a ship. The rooms were three +in number, with a door opening from one to another. These doors could also be +closed. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ships," Lawyer Gooch would say, "are constructed for safety, with separate, +water-tight compartments in their bottoms. If one compartment springs a leak it +fills with water; but the good ship goes on unhurt. Were it not for the separating +bulkheads one leak would sink the vessel. Now it often happens that while I am +occupied with clients, other clients with conflicting interests call. With the +assistance of Archibald—an office boy with a future—I cause the dangerous influx to +be diverted into separate compartments, while I sound with my legal plummet the +depth of each. If necessary, they may be baled into the hallway and permitted to +escape by way of the stairs, which we may term the lee scuppers. Thus the good +ship of business is kept afloat; whereas if the element that supports her were +allowed to mingle freely in her hold we might be swamped—ha, ha, ha!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The law is dry. Good jokes are few. Surely it might be permitted Lawyer Gooch to +mitigate the bore of briefs, the tedium of torts and the prosiness of processes with +even so light a levy upon the good property of humour.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lawyer Gooch's practice leaned largely to the settlement of marital infelicities. Did +matrimony languish through complications, he mediated, soothed and arbitrated. +Did it suffer from implications, he readjusted, defended and championed. Did it +arrive at the extremity of duplications, he always got light sentences for his clients.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But not always was Lawyer Gooch the keen, armed, wily belligerent, ready with his +two-edged sword to lop off the shackles of Hymen. He had been known to build up +instead of demolishing, to reunite instead of severing, to lead erring and foolish +ones back into the fold instead of scattering the flock. Often had he by his eloquent +and moving appeals sent husband and wife, weeping, back into each other's arms. +Frequently he had coached childhood so successfully that, at the psychological +moment (and at a given signal) the plaintive pipe of "Papa, won't you tum home +adain to me and muvver?" had won the day and upheld the pillars of a tottering +home.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Unprejudiced persons admitted that Lawyer Gooch received as big fees from these +reyoked clients as would have been paid him had the cases been contested in court. +Prejudiced ones intimated that his fees were doubled, because the penitent couples +always came back later for the divorce, anyhow.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">There came a season in June when the legal ship of Lawyer Gooch (to borrow his +own figure) was nearly becalmed. The divorce mill grinds slowly in June. It is the +month of Cupid and Hymen.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lawyer Gooch, then, sat idle in the middle room of his clientless suite. A small +anteroom connected—or rather separated—this apartment from the hallway. Here +was stationed Archibald, who wrested from visitors their cards or oral nomenclature +which he bore to his master while they waited.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Suddenly, on this day, there came a great knocking at the outermost door.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Archibald, opening it, was thrust aside as superfluous by the visitor, who without +due reverence at once penetrated to the office of Lawyer Gooch and threw himself +with good-natured insolence into a comfortable chair facing that gentlemen.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You are Phineas C. Gooch, attorney-at-law?" said the visitor, his tone of voice and +inflection making his words at once a question, an assertion and an accusation.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Before committing himself by a reply, the lawyer estimated his possible client in +one of his brief but shrewd and calculating glances.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The man was of the emphatic type—large-sized, active, bold and debonair in +demeanour, vain beyond a doubt, slightly swaggering, ready and at ease. He was +well-clothed, but with a shade too much ornateness. He was seeking a lawyer; but +if that fact would seem to saddle him with troubles they were not patent in his +beaming eye and courageous air.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"My name is Gooch," at length the lawyer admitted. Upon pressure he would also +have confessed to the Phineas C. But he did not consider it good practice to +volunteer information. "I did not receive your card," he continued, by way of +rebuke, "so I—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I know you didn't," remarked the visitor, coolly; "And you won't just yet. Light +up?" He threw a leg over an arm of his chair, and tossed a handful of rich-hued +cigars upon the table. Lawyer Gooch knew the brand. He thawed just enough to +accept the invitation to smoke. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You are a divorce lawyer," said the cardless visitor. This time there was no +interrogation in his voice. Nor did his words constitute a simple assertion. They +formed a charge—a denunciation—as one would say to a dog: "You are a dog." +Lawyer Gooch was silent under the imputation.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You handle," continued the visitor, "all the various ramifications of busted-up +connubiality. You are a surgeon, we might saw, who extracts Cupid's darts when +he shoots 'em into the wrong parties. You furnish patent, incandescent lights for +premises where the torch of Hymen has burned so low you can't light a cigar at it. +Am I right, Mr. Gooch?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I have undertaken cases," said the lawyer, guardedly, "in the line to which your +figurative speech seems to refer. Do you wish to consult me professionally, Mr. ––––" The lawyer paused, with significance. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Not yet," said the other, with an arch wave of his cigar, "not just yet. Let us +approach the subject with the caution that should have been used in the original act +that makes this pow-wow necessary. There exists a matrimonial jumble to be +straightened out. But before I give you names I want your honest—well, anyhow, +your professional opinion on the merits of the mix-up. I want you to size up the +catastrophe—abstractly—you understand? I'm Mr. Nobody; and I've got a story to +tell you. Then you say what's what. Do you get my wireless?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You want to state a hypothetical case?" suggested Lawyer Gooch. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"That's the word I was after. 'Apothecary' was the best shot I could make at it in my +mind. The hypothetical goes. I'll state the case. Suppose there's a woman—a deuced +fine-looking woman—who has run away from her husband and home? She's badly +mashed on another man who went to her town to work up some real estate business. +Now, we may as well call this woman's husband Thomas R. Billings, for that's his +name. I'm giving you straight tips on the cognomens. The Lothario chap is Henry +K. Jessup. The Billingses lived in a little town called Susanville—a good many +miles from here. Now, Jessup leaves Susanville two weeks ago. The next day Mrs. +Billings follows him. She's dead gone on this man Jessup; you can bet your law +library on that."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lawyer Gooch's client said this with such unctuous satisfaction that even the callous +lawyer experienced a slight ripple of repulsion. He now saw clearly in his fatuous +visitor the conceit of the lady-killer, the egoistic complacency of the successful +trifler.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Now," continued the visitor, "suppose this Mrs. Billings wasn't happy at home? +We'll say she and her husband didn't gee worth a cent. They've got incompatibility +to burn. The things she likes, Billings wouldn't have as a gift with trading-stamps. +It's Tabby and Rover with them all the time. She's an educated woman in science +and culture, and she reads things out loud at meetings. Billings is not on. He don't +appreciate progress and obelisks and ethics, and things of that sort. Old Billings is +simply a blink when it comes to such things. The lady is out and out above his +class. Now, lawyer, don't it look like a fair equalization of rights and wrongs that a +woman like that should be allowed to throw down Billings and take the man that +can appreciate her?</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Incompatibility," said Lawyer Gooch, "is undoubtedly the source of much marital +discord and unhappiness. Where it is positively proved, divorce would seem to be +the equitable remedy. Are you—excuse me—is this man Jessup one to whom the +lady may safely trust her future?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, you can bet on Jessup," said the client, with a confident wag of his head. +"Jessup's all right. He'll do the square thing. Why, he left Susanville just to keep +people from talking about Mrs. Billings. But she followed him up, and now, of +course, he'll stick to her. When she gets a divorce, all legal and proper, Jessup will +do the proper thing."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"And now," said Lawyer Gooch, "continuing the hypothesis, if you prefer, and +supposing that my services should be desired in the case, what—" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The client rose impulsively to his feet.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, dang the hypothetical business," he exclaimed, impatiently. "Let's let her drop, +and get down to straight talk. You ought to know who I am by this time. I want +that woman to have her divorce. I'll pay for it. The day you set Mrs. Billings free +I'll pay you five hundred dollars."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lawyer Gooch's client banged his fist upon the table to punctuate his generosity.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"If that is the case—" began the lawyer.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Lady to see you, sir," bawled Archibald, bouncing in from his anteroom. He had +orders to always announce immediately any client that might come. There was no +sense in turning business away. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lawyer Gooch took client number one by the arm and led him suavely into one of +the adjoining rooms. "Favour me by remaining here a few minutes, sir," said he. "I +will return and resume our consultation with the least possible delay. I am rather +expecting a visit from a very wealthy old lady in connection with a will. I will not +keep you waiting long."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The breezy gentleman seated himself with obliging acquiescence, and took up a +magazine. The lawyer returned to the middle office, carefully closing behind him +the connecting door.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Show the lady in, Archibald," he said to the office boy, who was awaiting the +order.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A tall lady, of commanding presence and sternly handsome, entered the room. She +wore robes—robes; not clothes—ample and fluent. In her eye could be perceived the +lambent flame of genius and soul. In her hand was a green bag of the capacity of a +bushel, and an umbrella that also seemed to wear a robe, ample and fluent. She +accepted a chair.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Are you Mr. Phineas C. Gooch, the lawyer?" she asked, in formal and +unconciliatory tones.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I am," answered Lawyer Gooch, without circumlocution. He never circumlocuted +when dealing with a woman. Women circumlocute. Time is wasted when both +sides in debate employ the same tactics.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"As a lawyer, sir," began the lady, "you may have acquired some knowledge of the +human heart. Do you believe that the pusillanimous and petty conventions of our +artificial social life should stand as an obstacle in the way of a noble and +affectionate heart when it finds its true mate among the miserable and worthless +wretches in the world that are called men?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Madam," said Lawyer Gooch, in the tone that he used in curbing his female +clients, "this is an office for conducting the practice of law. I am a lawyer, not a +philosopher, nor the editor of an 'Answers to the Lovelorn' column of a newspaper. +I have other clients waiting. I will ask you kindly to come to the point."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Well, you needn't get so stiff around the gills about it," said the lady, with a snap of +her luminous eyes and a startling gyration of her umbrella. "Business is what I've +come for. I want your opinion in the matter of a suit for divorce, as the vulgar +would call it, but which is really only the readjustment of the false and ignoble +conditions that the short-sighted laws of man have interposed between a loving—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I beg your pardon, madam," interrupted Lawyer Gooch, with some impatience, +"for reminding you again that this is a law office. Perhaps Mrs. Wilcox—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mrs. Wilcox is all right," cut in the lady, with a hint of asperity. "And so are +Tolstoi, and Mrs. Gertrude Atherton, and Omar Khayyam, and Mr. Edward Bok. +I've read 'em all. I would like to discuss with you the divine right of the soul as +opposed to the freedom-destroying restrictions of a bigoted and narrow-minded +society. But I will proceed to business. I would prefer to lay the matter before you +in an impersonal way until you pass upon its merits. That is to describe it as a +supposable instance, without—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You wish to state a hypothetical case?" said Lawyer Gooch. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I was going to say that," said the lady, sharply. "Now, suppose there is a woman +who is all soul and heart and aspirations for a complete existence. This woman has +a husband who is far below her in intellect, in taste—in everything. Bah! he is a +brute. He despises literature. He sneers at the lofty thoughts of the world's great +thinkers. He thinks only of real estate and such sordid things. He is no mate for a +woman with soul. We will say that this unfortunate wife one day meets with her +ideal—a man with brain and heart and force. She loves him. Although this man +feels the thrill of a new-found affinity he is too noble, too honourable to declare +himself. He flies from the presence of his beloved. She flies after him, trampling, +with superb indifference, upon the fetters with which an unenlightened social +system would bind her. Now, what will a divorce cost? Eliza Ann Timmins, the +poetess of Sycamore Gap, got one for three hundred and forty dollars. Can I—I +mean can this lady I speak of get one that cheap?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Madam," said Lawyer Gooch, "your last two or three sentences delight me with +their intelligence and clearness. Can we not now abandon the hypothetical and +come down to names and business?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I should say so," exclaimed the lady, adopting the practical with admirable +readiness. "Thomas R. Billings is the name of the low brute who stands between +the happiness of his legal—his legal, but not his spiritual—wife and Henry K. Jessup, +the noble man whom nature intended for her mate. I," concluded the client, with an +air of dramatic revelation, "am Mrs. Billings!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Gentlemen to see you, sir," shouted Archibald, invading the room almost at a +handspring. Lawyer Gooch arose from his chair. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mrs. Billings," he said courteously, "allow me to conduct you into the adjoining +office apartment for a few minutes. I am expecting a very wealthy old gentleman +on business connected with a will. In a very short while I will join you, and continue +our consultation." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">With his accustomed chivalrous manner, Lawyer Gooch ushered his soulful client +into the remaining unoccupied room, and came out, closing the door with +circumspection.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The next visitor introduced by Archibald was a thin, nervous, irritable-looking man +of middle age, with a worried and apprehensive expression of countenance. He +carried in one hand a small satchel, which he set down upon the floor beside the +chair which the lawyer placed for him. His clothing was of good quality, but it was +worn without regard to neatness or style, and appeared to be covered with the dust +of travel.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You make a specialty of divorce cases," he said, in, an agitated but business-like +tone.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I may say," began Lawyer Gooch, "that my practice has not altogether avoided—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I know you do," interrupted client number three. "You needn't tell me. I've heard +all about you. I have a case to lay before you without necessarily disclosing any +connection that I might have with it—that is—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You wish," said Lawyer Gooch, "to state a hypothetical case. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You may call it that. I am a plain man of business. I will be as brief as possible. +We will first take up hypothetical woman. We will say she is married +uncongenially. In many ways she is a superior woman. Physically she is +considered to be handsome. She is devoted to what she calls literature—poetry and +prose, and such stuff. Her husband is a plain man in the business walks of life. +Their home has not been happy, although the husband has tried to make it so. +Some time ago a man—a stranger—came to the peaceful town in which they lived +and engaged in some real estate operations. This woman met him, and became +unaccountably infatuated with him. Her attentions became so open that the man +felt the community to be no safe place for him, so he left it. She abandoned +husband and home, and followed him. She forsook her home, where she was +provided with every comfort, to follow this man who had inspired her with such a +strange affection. Is there anything more to be deplored," concluded the client, in a +trembling voice, "than the wrecking of a home by a woman's uncalculating folly?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lawyer Gooch delivered the cautious opinion that there was not. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"This man she has gone to join," resumed the visitor, "is not the man to make her +happy. It is a wild and foolish self-deception that makes her think he will. Her +husband, in spite of their many disagreements, is the only one capable of dealing +with her sensitive and peculiar nature. But this she does not realize now."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Would you consider a divorce the logical cure in the case you present?" asked +Lawyer Gooch, who felt that the conversation was wandering too far from the field +of business.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A divorce!" exclaimed the client, feelingly—almost tearfully. "No, no—not that. I +have read, Mr. Gooch, of many instances where your sympathy and kindly interest +led you to act as a mediator between estranged husband and wife, and brought them +together again. Let us drop the hypothetical case—I need conceal no longer that it is +I who am the sufferer in this sad affair—the names you shall have—Thomas R. +Billings and wife—and Henry K. Jessup, the man with whom she is infatuated."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Client number three laid his hand upon Mr. Gooch's arm. Deep emotion was +written upon his careworn face. "For Heaven's sake", he said fervently, "help me in +this hour of trouble. Seek out Mrs. Billings, and persuade her to abandon this +distressing pursuit of her lamentable folly. Tell her, Mr. Gooch, that her husband is +willing to receive her back to his heart and home—promise her anything that will +induce her to return. I have heard of your success in these matters. Mrs. Billings +cannot be very far away. I am worn out with travel and weariness. Twice during +the pursuit I saw her, but various circumstances prevented our having an interview. +Will you undertake this mission for me, Mr. Gooch, and earn my everlasting +gratitude?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It is true," said Lawyer Gooch, frowning slightly at the other's last words, but +immediately calling up an expression of virtuous benevolence, "that on a number of +occasions I have been successful in persuading couples who sought the severing of +their matrimonial bonds to think better of their rash intentions and return to their +homes reconciled. But I assure you that the work is often exceedingly difficult. +The amount of argument, perseverance, and, if I may be allowed to say it, +eloquence that it requires would astonish you. But this is a case in which my +sympathies would be wholly enlisted. I feel deeply for you sir, and I would be most +happy to see husband and wife reunited. But my time," concluded the lawyer, +looking at his watch as if suddenly reminded of the fact, "is valuable."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I am aware of that," said the client, "and if you will take the case and persuade +Mrs. Billings to return home and leave the man alone that she is following—on that +day I will pay you the sum of one thousand dollars. I have made a little money in +real estate during the recent boom in Susanville, and I will not begrudge that +amount."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Retain your seat for a few moments, please," said Lawyer Gooch, arising, and +again consulting his watch. "I have another client waiting in an adjoining room +whom I had very nearly forgotten. I will return in the briefest possible space."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The situation was now one that fully satisfied Lawyer Gooch's love of intricacy and +complication. He revelled in cases that presented such subtle problems and +possibilities. It pleased him to think that he was master of the happiness and fate of +the three individuals who sat, unconscious of one another's presence, within his +reach. His old figure of the ship glided into his mind. But now the figure failed, +for to have filled every compartment of an actual vessel would have been to +endanger her safety; with his compartments full, his ship of affairs could but sail on +to the advantageous port of a fine, fat fee. The thing for him to do, of course, was to +wring the best bargain he could from some one of his anxious cargo.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">First he called to the office boy: "Lock the outer door, Archibald, and admit no +one." Then he moved, with long, silent strides into the room in which client +number one waited. That gentleman sat, patiently scanning the pictures in the +magazine, with a cigar in his mouth and his feet upon a table.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Well," he remarked, cheerfully, as the lawyer entered, "have you made up your +mind? Does five hundred dollars go for getting the fair lady a divorce?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You mean that as a retainer?" asked Lawyer Gooch, softly interrogative.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Hey? No; for the whole job. It's enough, ain't it?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"My fee," said Lawyer Gooch, "would be one thousand five hundred dollars. Five +hundred dollars down, and the remainder upon issuance of the divorce."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A loud whistle came from client number one. His feet descended to the floor.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Guess we can't close the deal," he said, arising, "I cleaned up five hundred dollars +in a little real estate dicker down in Susanville. I'd do anything I could to free the +lady, but it out-sizes my pile." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Could you stand one thousand two hundred dollars?" asked the lawyer, +insinuatingly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Five hundred is my limit, I tell you. Guess I'll have to hunt up a cheaper lawyer." +The client put on his hat.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Out this way, please," said Lawyer Gooch, opening the door that led into the +hallway.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">As the gentleman flowed out of the compartment and down the stairs, Lawyer +Gooch smiled to himself. "Exit Mr. Jessup," he murmured, as he fingered the +Henry Clay tuft of hair at his ear. "And now for the forsaken husband." He +returned to the middle office, and assumed a businesslike manner.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I understand," he said to client number three, "that you agree to pay one thousand +dollars if I bring about, or am instrumental in bringing about, the return of Mrs. +Billings to her home, and her abandonment of her infatuated pursuit of the man for +whom she has conceived such a violent fancy. Also that the case is now +unreservedly in my hands on that basis. Is that correct?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Entirely", said the other, eagerly. "And I can produce the cash any time at two +hours' notice."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lawyer Gooch stood up at his full height. His thin figure seemed to expand. His +thumbs sought the arm-holes of his vest. Upon his face was a look of sympathetic +benignity that he always wore during such undertakings.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Then, sir," he said, in kindly tones, "I think I can promise you an early relief from +your troubles. I have that much confidence in my powers of argument and +persuasion, in the natural impulses of the human heart toward good, and in the +strong influence of a husband's unfaltering love. Mrs. Billings, sir, is here—in that +room—" the lawyer's long arm pointed to the door. "I will call her in at once; and our +united pleadings—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lawyer Gooch paused, for client number three had leaped from his chair as if +propelled by steel springs, and clutched his satchel. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What the devil," he exclaimed, harshly, "do you mean? That woman in there! I +thought I shook her off forty miles back."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He ran to the open window, looked out below, and threw one leg over the sill.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Stop!" cried Lawyer Gooch, in amazement. "What would you do? Come, Mr. +Billings, and face your erring but innocent wife. Our combined entreaties cannot +fail to—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Billings!" shouted the now thoroughly moved client. "I'll Billings you, you old +idiot!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Turning, he hurled his satchel with fury at the lawyer's head. It struck that +astounded peacemaker between the eyes, causing him to stagger backward a pace or +two. When Lawyer Gooch recovered his wits he saw that his client had +disappeared. Rushing to the window, he leaned out, and saw the recreant gathering +himself up from the top of a shed upon which he had dropped from the +second-story window. Without stopping to collect his hat he then plunged +downward the remaining ten feet to the alley, up which he flew with prodigious +celerity until the surrounding building swallowed him up from view. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lawyer Gooch passed his hand tremblingly across his brow. It was a habitual act +with him, serving to clear his thoughts. Perhaps also it now seemed to soothe the +spot where a very hard alligator-hide satchel had struck.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The satchel lay upon the floor, wide open, with its contents spilled about. +Mechanically, Lawyer Gooch stooped to gather up the articles. The first was a +collar; and the omniscient eye of the man of law perceived, wonderingly, the initials +H. K. J. marked upon it. Then came a comb, a brush, a folded map, and a piece of +soap. Lastly, a handful of old business letters, addressed—every one of them—to +"Henry K. Jessup, Esq."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lawyer Gooch closed the satchel, and set it upon the table. He hesitated for a +moment, and then put on his hat and walked into the office boy's anteroom.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Archibald," he said mildly, as he opened the hall door, "I am going around to the +Supreme Court rooms. In five minutes you may step into the inner office, and +inform the lady who is waiting there that"—here Lawyer Gooch made use of the +vernacular—"that there's nothing doing."</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="4"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +IV<br> +<br> +CALLOWAY'S CODE<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The New York <i>Enterprise</i> sent H. B. Calloway as special correspondent to the +Russo-Japanese-Portsmouth war.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">For two months Calloway hung about Yokohama and Tokio, shaking dice with the +other correspondents for drinks of 'rickshaws—oh, no, that's something to ride in; +anyhow, he wasn't earning the salary that his paper was paying him. But that was +not Calloway's fault. The little brown men who held the strings of Fate between +their fingers were not ready for the readers of the <i>Enterprise</i> to season their +breakfast bacon and eggs with the battles of the descendants of the gods.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But soon the column of correspondents that were to go out with the First Army +tightened their field-glass belts and went down to the Yalu with Kuroki. Calloway +was one of these.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Now, this is no history of the battle of the Yalu River. That has been told in detail +by the correspondents who gazed at the shrapnel smoke rings from a distance of +three miles. But, for justice's sake, let it be understood that the Japanese +commander prohibited a nearer view.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Calloway's feat was accomplished before the battle. What he did was to furnish the +<i>Enterprise</i> with the biggest beat of the war. That paper published exclusively and +in detail the news of the attack on the lines of the Russian General on the same day +that it was made. No other paper printed a word about it for two days afterward, +except a London paper, whose account was absolutely incorrect and untrue. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Calloway did this in face of the fact that General Kuroki was making his moves and +laying his plans with the profoundest secrecy as far as the world outside his camps +was concerned. The correspondents were forbidden to send out any news whatever +of his plans; and every message that was allowed on the wires was censored with +rigid severity.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The correspondent for the London paper handed in a cablegram describing Kuroki's +plans; but as it was wrong from beginning to end the censor grinned and let it go +through.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">So, there they were—Kuroki on one side of the Yalu with forty-two thousand +infantry, five thousand cavalry, and one hundred and twenty-four guns. On the +other side, Zassulitch waited for him with only twenty-three thousand men, and +with a long stretch of river to guard. And Calloway had got hold of some important +inside information that he knew would bring the <i>Enterprise</i> staff around a +cablegram as thick as flies around a Park Row lemonade stand. If he could only get +that message past the censor—the new censor who had arrived and taken his post +that day!</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Calloway did the obviously proper thing. He lit his pipe and sat down on a gun +carriage to think it over. And there we must leave him; for the rest of the story +belongs to Vesey, a sixteen-dollar-a-week reporter on the <i>Enterprise</i>.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Calloway's cablegram was handed to the managing editor at four o'clock in the +afternoon. He read it three times; and then drew a pocket mirror from a pigeon-hole +in his desk, and looked at his reflection carefully. Then he went over to the desk of +Boyd, his assistant (he usually called Boyd when he wanted him), and laid the +cablegram before him.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's from Calloway," he said. "See what you make of it." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The message was dated at Wi-ju, and these were the words of it: </span></p> +<br> +<blockquote> +<span style="font-size: 12pt">Foregone preconcerted rash witching goes muffled rumour mine dark silent unfortunate +richmond existing great hotly brute select mooted parlous beggars ye angel +incontrovertible.</span> +</blockquote +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Boyd read it twice.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's either a cipher or a sunstroke," said he.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ever hear of anything like a code in the office—a secret code?" asked the m. e., +who had held his desk for only two years. Managing editors come and go.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"None except the vernacular that the lady specials write in," said Boyd. "Couldn't +be an acrostic, could it?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I thought of that," said the m. e., "but the beginning letters contain only four +vowels. It must be a code of some sort." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Try em in groups," suggested Boyd. "Let's see—'Rash witching goes'—not with me +it doesn't. 'Muffled rumour mine'—must have an underground wire. 'Dark silent +unfortunate richmond'—no reason why he should knock that town so hard. 'Existing +great hotly'—no it doesn't pan out. I'll call Scott."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The city editor came in a hurry, and tried his luck. A city editor must know +something about everything; so Scott knew a little about cipher-writing.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It may be what is called an inverted alphabet cipher," said he. "I'll try that. 'R' +seems to be the oftenest used initial letter, with the exception of 'm.' Assuming 'r' to +mean 'e', the most frequently used vowel, we transpose the letters—so."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Scott worked rapidly with his pencil for two minutes; and then showed the first +word according to his reading—the word "Scejtzez." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Great!" cried Boyd. "It's a charade. My first is a Russian general. Go on, Scott."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No, that won't work," said the city editor. "It's undoubtedly a code. It's impossible +to read it without the key. Has the office ever used a cipher code?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Just what I was asking," said the m.e. "Hustle everybody up that ought to know. +We must get at it some way. Calloway has evidently got hold of something big, and +the censor has put the screws on, or he wouldn't have cabled in a lot of chop suey +like this."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Throughout the office of the <i>Enterprise</i> a dragnet was sent, hauling in such +members of the staff as would be likely to know of a code, past or present, by +reason of their wisdom, information, natural intelligence, or length of servitude. +They got together in a group in the city room, with the m. e. in the centre. No one +had heard of a code. All began to explain to the head investigator that newspapers +never use a code, anyhow—that is, a cipher code. Of course the Associated Press +stuff is a sort of code—an abbreviation, rather—but—</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The m. e. knew all that, and said so. He asked each man how long he had worked +on the paper. Not one of them had drawn pay from an <i>Enterprise</i> envelope for +longer than six years. Calloway had been on the paper twelve years.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Try old Heffelbauer," said the m. e. "He was here when Park Row was a potato +patch."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Heffelbauer was an institution. He was half janitor, half handy-man about the +office, and half watchman—thus becoming the peer of thirteen and one-half tailors. +Sent for, he came, radiating his nationality.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Heffelbauer," said the m. e., "did you ever hear of a code belonging to the office a +long time ago—a private code? You know what a code is, don't you?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Yah," said Heffelbauer. "Sure I know vat a code is. Yah, apout dwelf or fifteen +year ago der office had a code. Der reborters in der city-room haf it here."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ah!" said the m. e. "We're getting on the trail now. Where was it kept, +Heffelbauer? What do you know about it?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Somedimes," said the retainer, "dey keep it in der little room behind der library +room."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Can you find it?" asked the m. e. eagerly. "Do you know where it is?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mein Gott!" said Heffelbauer. "How long you dink a code live? Der reborters +call him a maskeet. But von day he butt mit his head der editor, und—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, he's talking about a goat," said Boyd. "Get out, Heffelbauer." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Again discomfited, the concerted wit and resource of the <i>Enterprise</i> huddled around +Calloway's puzzle, considering its mysterious words in vain.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Then Vesey came in.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Vesey was the youngest reporter. He had a thirty-two-inch chest and wore a +number fourteen collar; but his bright Scotch plaid suit gave him presence and +conferred no obscurity upon his whereabouts. He wore his hat in such a position +that people followed him about to see him take it off, convinced that it must be +hung upon a peg driven into the back of his head. He was never without an +immense, knotted, hard-wood cane with a German-silver tip on its crooked handle. +Vesey was the best photograph hustler in the office. Scott said it was because no +living human being could resist the personal triumph it was to hand his picture over +to Vesey. Vesey always wrote his own news stories, except the big ones, which +were sent to the rewrite men. Add to this fact that among all the inhabitants, +temples, and groves of the earth nothing existed that could abash Vesey, and his +dim sketch is concluded.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Vesey butted into the circle of cipher readers very much as Heffelbauer's "code" +would have done, and asked what was up. Some one explained, with the touch of +half-familiar condescension that they always used toward him. Vesey reached out +and took the cablegram from the m. e.'s hand. Under the protection of some special +Providence, he was always doing appalling things like that, and coming, off +unscathed.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's a code," said Vesey. "Anybody got the key?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The office has no code," said Boyd, reaching for the message. Vesey held to it.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Then old Calloway expects us to read it, anyhow," said he. "He's up a tree, or +something, and he's made this up so as to get it by the censor. It's up to us. Gee! I +wish they had sent me, too. Say—we can't afford to fall down on our end of it. +'Foregone, preconcerted rash, witching'—h'm."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Vesey sat down on a table corner and began to whistle softly, frowning at the +cablegram.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Let's have it, please," said the m. e. "We've got to get to work on it."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I believe I've got a line on it," said Vesey. "Give me ten minutes."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He walked to his desk, threw his hat into a waste-basket, spread out flat on his chest +like a gorgeous lizard, and started his pencil going. The wit and wisdom of the +<i>Enterprise</i> remained in a loose group, and smiled at one another, nodding their +heads toward Vesey. Then they began to exchange their theories about the cipher. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It took Vesey exactly fifteen minutes. He brought to the m. e. a pad with the +code-key written on it.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I felt the swing of it as soon as I saw it," said Vesey. "Hurrah for old Calloway! +He's done the Japs and every paper in town that prints literature instead of news. +Take a look at that."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Thus had Vesey set forth the reading of the code:</span></p> +<br> +<blockquote><span style="font-size: 12pt"> +Foregone—conclusion<br> +Preconcerted—arrangement<br> +Rash—act<br> +Witching—hour of midnight<br> +Goes—without saying<br> +Muffled—report<br> +Rumour—hath it<br> +Mine—host<br> +Dark—horse<br> +Silent—majority<br> +Unfortunate—pedestrians*<br> +Richmond—in the field<br> +Existing—conditions<br> +Great—White Way<br> +Hotly—contested<br> +Brute—force<br> +Select—few<br> +Mooted—question<br> +Parlous—times<br> +Beggars—description<br> +Ye—correspondent<br> +Angel—unawares<br> +Incontrovertible—fact<br> +<br> +*Mr. Vesey afterward explained that the logical journalistic complement of the word +"unfortunate" was once the word "victim." But, since the automobile became so popular, +the correct following word is now "pedestrians". Of course, in Calloway's code it meant +infantry. +</span> +</blockquote> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's simply newspaper English," explained Vesey. "I've been reporting on the +<i>Enterprise</i> long enough to know it by heart. Old Calloway gives us the cue word, +and we use the word that naturally follows it just as we use 'em in the paper. Read +it over, and you'll see how pat they drop into their places. Now, here's the message +he intended us to get."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Vesey handed out another sheet of paper.</span></p> + +<br> +<blockquote><span style="font-size: 12pt"> +Concluded arrangement to act at hour of midnight without saying. Report hath it that a +large body of cavalry and an overwhelming force of infantry will be thrown into the field. +Conditions white. Way contested by only a small force. Question the <i>Times</i> description. +Its correspondent is unaware of the facts. +</span> +</blockquote> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Great stuff!" cried Boyd excitedly. "Kuroki crosses the Yalu to-night and attacks. +Oh, we won't do a thing to the sheets that make up with Addison's essays, real +estate transfers, and bowling scores!" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mr. Vesey," said the m. e., with his jollying-which-you-should-regard-as-a-favour +manner, "you have cast a serious reflection upon the literary standards of the paper +that employs you. You have also assisted materially in giving us the biggest 'beat' of +the year. I will let you know in a day or two whether you are to be discharged or +retained at a larger salary. Somebody send Ames to me."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Ames was the king-pin, the snowy-petalled Marguerite, the star-bright looloo of the +rewrite men. He saw attempted murder in the pains of green-apple colic, cyclones +in the summer zephyr, lost children in every top-spinning urchin, an uprising of the +down-trodden masses in every hurling of a derelict potato at a passing automobile. +When not rewriting, Ames sat on the porch of his Brooklyn villa playing checkers +with his ten-year-old son.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Ames and the "war editor" shut themselves in a room. There was a map in there +stuck full of little pins that represented armies and divisions. Their fingers had been +itching for days to move those pins along the crooked line of the Yalu. They did so +now; and in words of fire Ames translated Calloway's brief message into a front +page masterpiece that set the world talking. He told of the secret councils of the +Japanese officers; gave Kuroki's flaming speeches in full; counted the cavalry and +infantry to a man and a horse; described the quick and silent building, of the bridge +at Suikauchen, across which the Mikado's legions were hurled upon the surprised +Zassulitch, whose troops were widely scattered along the river. And the +battle!—well, you know what Ames can do with a battle if you give him just one +smell of smoke for a foundation. And in the same story, with seemingly +supernatural knowledge, he gleefully scored the most profound and ponderous +paper in England for the false and misleading account of the intended movements +of the Japanese First Army printed in its issue of <i>the same date</i>.</span></p> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt"> </span></p> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Only one error was made; and that was the fault of the cable operator at Wi-ju. +Calloway pointed it out after he came back. The word "great" in his code should +have been "gage," and its complemental words "of battle." But it went to Ames +"conditions white," and of course he took that to mean snow. His description of the +Japanese army struggling through the snowstorm, blinded by the whirling flakes, +was thrillingly vivid. The artists turned out some effective illustrations that made a +hit as pictures of the artillery dragging their guns through the drifts. But, as the +attack was made on the first day of May, "conditions white" excited some +amusement. But it in made no difference to the <i>Enterprise</i>, anyway.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It was wonderful. And Calloway was wonderful in having made the new censor +believe that his jargon of words meant no more than a complaint of the dearth of +news and a petition for more expense money. And Vesey was wonderful. And +most wonderful of all are words, and how they make friends one with another, +being oft associated, until not even obituary notices them do part.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On the second day following, the city editor halted at Vesey's desk where the +reporter was writing the story of a man who had broken his leg by falling into a +coal-hole—Ames having failed to find a murder motive in it.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The old man says your salary is to be raised to twenty a week," said Scott.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"All right," said Vesey. "Every little helps. Say—Mr. Scott, which would you +say—'We can state without fear of successful contradiction,' or, 'On the whole it can +be safely asserted'?" </span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="5"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +V<br> +<br> +A MATTER OF MEAN ELEVATION<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One winter the Alcazar Opera Company of New Orleans made a speculative trip +along the Mexican, Central American and South American coasts. The venture +proved a most successful one. The music-loving, impressionable +Spanish-Americans deluged the company with dollars and "vivas." The manager +waxed plump and amiable. But for the prohibitive climate he would have put forth +the distinctive flower of his prosperity—the overcoat of fur, braided, frogged and +opulent. Almost was he persuaded to raise the salaries of his company. But with a +mighty effort he conquered the impulse toward such an unprofitable effervescence +of joy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At Macuto, on the coast of Venezuela, the company scored its greatest success. +Imagine Coney Island translated into Spanish and you will comprehend Macuto. +The fashionable season is from November to March. Down from La Guayra and +Caracas and Valencia and other interior towns flock the people for their holiday +season. There are bathing and fiestas and bull fights and scandal. And then the +people have a passion for music that the bands in the plaza and on the sea beach stir +but do not satisfy. The coming of the Alcazar Opera Company aroused the utmost +ardour and zeal among the pleasure seekers. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The illustrious Guzman Blanco, President and Dictator of Venezuela, sojourned in +Macuto with his court for the season. That potent ruler—who himself paid a +subsidy of 40,000 pesos each year to grand opera in Caracas—ordered one of the +Government warehouses to be cleared for a temporary theatre. A stage was quickly +constructed and rough wooden benches made for the audience. Private boxes were +added for the use of the President and the notables of the army and Government. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The company remained in Macuto for two weeks. Each performance filled the +house as closely as it could be packed. Then the music-mad people fought for room +in the open doors and windows, and crowded about, hundreds deep, on the outside. +Those audiences formed a brilliantly diversified patch of colour. The hue of their +faces ranged from the clear olive of the pure-blood Spaniards down through the +yellow and brown shades of the Mestizos to the coal-black Carib and the Jamaica +Negro. Scattered among them were little groups of Indians with faces like stone +idols, wrapped in gaudy fibre-woven blankets—Indians down from the mountain +states of Zamora and Los Andes and Miranda to trade their gold dust in the coast +towns.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The spell cast upon these denizens of the interior fastnesses was remarkable. They +sat in petrified ecstasy, conspicuous among the excitable Macutians, who wildly +strove with tongue and hand to give evidence of their delight. Only once did the +sombre rapture of these aboriginals find expression. During the rendition of +"Faust," Guzman Blanco, extravagantly pleased by the "Jewel Song," cast upon the +stage a purse of gold pieces. Other distinguished citizens followed his lead to the +extent of whatever loose coin they had convenient, while some of the fair and +fashionable señoras were moved, in imitation, to fling a jewel or a ring or two at the +feet of the Marguerite—who was, according to the bills, Mlle. Nina Giraud. Then, +from different parts of the house rose sundry of the stolid hillmen and cast upon the +stage little brown and dun bags that fell with soft "thumps" and did not rebound. It +was, no doubt, pleasure at the tribute to her art that caused Mlle. Giraud's eyes to +shine so brightly when she opened these little deerskin bags in her dressing room +and found them to contain pure gold dust. If so, the pleasure was rightly hers, for +her voice in song, pure, strong and thrilling with the feeling of the emotional artist, +deserved the tribute that it earned.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But the triumph of the Alcazar Opera Company is not the theme—it but leans upon +and colours it. There happened in Macuto a tragic thing, an unsolvable mystery, +that sobered for a time the gaiety of the happy season.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One evening between the short twilight and the time when she should have whirled +upon the stage in the red and black of the ardent Carmen, Mlle. Nina Giraud +disappeared from the sight and ken of 6,000 pairs of eyes and as many minds in +Macuto. There was the usual turmoil and hurrying to seek her. Messengers flew to +the little French-kept hotel where she stayed; others of the company hastened here +or there where she might be lingering in some tienda or unduly prolonging her bath +upon the beach. All search was fruitless. Mademoiselle had vanished.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Half an hour passed and she did not appear. The dictator, unused to the caprices of +prime donne, became impatient. He sent an aide from his box to say to the manager +that if the curtain did not at once rise he would immediately hale the entire company +to the calabosa, though it would desolate his heart, indeed, to be compelled to such +an act. Birds in Macuto could be made to sing.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The manager abandoned hope for the time of Mlle. Giraud. A member of the +chorus, who had dreamed hopelessly for years of the blessed opportunity, quickly +Carmenized herself and the opera went on. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Afterward, when the lost cantatrice appeared not, the aid of the authorities was +invoked. The President at once set the army, the police and all citizens to the +search. Not one clue to Mlle. Giraud's disappearance was found. The Alcazar left to +fill engagements farther down the coast.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On the way back the steamer stopped at Macuto and the manager made anxious +inquiry. Not a trace of the lady had been discovered. The Alcazar could do no +more. The personal belongings of the missing lady were stored in the hotel against +her possible later reappearance and the opera company continued upon its +homeward voyage to New Orleans. </span></p> + +<p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 14pt">* * * * *</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On the camino real along the beach the two saddle mules and the four pack mules +of Don Señor Johnny Armstrong stood, patiently awaiting the crack of the whip of +the <i>arriero</i>, Luis. That would be the signal for the start on another long journey +into the mountains. The pack mules were loaded with a varied assortment of +hardware and cutlery. These articles Don Johnny traded to the interior Indians for +the gold dust that they washed from the Andean streams and stored in quills and +bags against his coming. It was a profitable business, and Señor Armstrong +expected soon to be able to purchase the coffee plantation that he coveted.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Armstrong stood on the narrow sidewalk, exchanging garbled Spanish with old +Peralto, the rich native merchant who had just charged him four prices for half a +gross of pot-metal hatchets, and abridged English with Rucker, the little German +who was Consul for the United States.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Take with you, señor," said Peralto, "the blessings of the saints upon your +journey."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Better try quinine," growled Rucker through his pipe. "Take two grains every +night. And don't make your trip too long, Johnny, because we haf needs of you. It +is ein villainous game dot Melville play of whist, and dere is no oder substitute. <i>Auf +wiedersehen</i>, und keep your eyes dot mule's ears between when you on der edge of +der brecipices ride."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The bells of Luis's mule jingled and the pack train filed after the warning note. +Armstrong, waved a good-bye and took his place at the tail of the procession. Up +the narrow street they turned, and passed the two-story wooden Hotel Ingles, where +Ives and Dawson and Richards and the rest of the chaps were dawdling on the +broad piazza, reading week-old newspapers. They crowded to the railing and +shouted many friendly and wise and foolish farewells after him. Across the plaza +they trotted slowly past the bronze statue of Guzman Blanco, within its fence of +bayoneted rifles captured from revolutionists, and out of the town between the rows +of thatched huts swarming with the unclothed youth of Macuto. They plunged into +the damp coolness of banana groves at length to emerge upon a bright stream, +where brown women in scant raiment laundered clothes destructively upon the +rocks. Then the pack train, fording the stream, attacked the sudden ascent, and bade +adieu to such civilization as the coast afforded. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">For weeks Armstrong, guided by Luis, followed his regular route among the +mountains. After he had collected an arroba of the precious metal, winning a profit +of nearly $5,000, the heads of the lightened mules were turned down-trail again. +Where the head of the Guarico River springs from a great gash in the +mountain-side, Luis halted the train.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Half a day's journey from here, Señor," said he, "is the village of Tacuzama, which +we have never visited. I think many ounces of gold may be procured there. It is +worth the trial."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Armstrong concurred, and they turned again upward toward Tacuzama. The trail +was abrupt and precipitous, mounting through a dense forest. As night fell, dark +and gloomy, Luis once more halted. Before them was a black chasm, bisecting the +path as far as they could see.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Luis dismounted. "There should be a bridge," he called, and ran along the cleft a +distance. "It is here," he cried, and remounting, led the way. In a few moments +Armstrong, heard a sound as though a thunderous drum were beating somewhere in +the dark. It was the falling of the mules' hoofs upon the bridge made of strong +hides lashed to poles and stretched across the chasm. Half a mile further was +Tacuzama. The village was a congregation of rock and mud huts set in the +profundity of an obscure wood. As they rode in a sound inconsistent with that +brooding solitude met their ears. From a long, low mud hut that they were nearing +rose the glorious voice of a woman in song. The words were English, the air +familiar to Armstrong's memory, but not to his musical knowledge.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He slipped from his mule and stole to a narrow window in one end of the house. +Peering cautiously inside, he saw, within three feet of him, a woman of marvellous, +imposing beauty, clothed in a splendid loose robe of leopard skins. The hut was +packed close to the small space in which she stood with the squatting figures of +Indians. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The woman finished her song and seated herself close to the little window, as if +grateful for the unpolluted air that entered it. When she had ceased several of the +audience rose and cast little softly-falling bags at her feet. A harsh murmur—no +doubt a barbarous kind of applause and comment—went through the grim assembly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Armstrong, was used to seizing opportunities promptly. Taking advantage of the +noise he called to the woman in a low but distinct voice: "Do not turn your head this +way, but listen. I am an American. If you need assistance tell me how I can render +it. Answer as briefly as you can."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The woman was worthy of his boldness. Only by a sudden flush of her pale cheek +did she acknowledge understanding of his words. Then she spoke, scarcely moving +her lips.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I am held a prisoner by these Indians. God knows I need help. In two hours come +to the little hut twenty yards toward the Mountainside. There will be a light and a +red curtain in the window. There is always a guard at the door, whom you will +have to overcome. For the love of heaven, do not fail to come."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The story seems to shrink from adventure and rescue and mystery. The theme is +one too gentle for those brave and quickening tones. And yet it reaches as far back +as time itself. It has been named "environment," which is as weak a word as any to +express the unnameable kinship of man to nature, that queer fraternity that causes +stones and trees and salt water and clouds to play upon our emotions. Why are we +made serious and solemn and sublime by mountain heights, grave and +contemplative by an abundance of overhanging trees, reduced to inconstancy and +monkey capers by the ripples on a sandy beach? Did the protoplasm—but enough. +The chemists are looking into the matter, and before long they will have all life in +the table of the symbols.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Briefly, then, in order to confine the story within scientific bounds, John +Armstrong, went to the hut, choked the Indian guard and carried away Mlle. +Giraud. With her was also conveyed a number of pounds of gold dust she had +collected during her six months' forced engagement in Tacuzama. The Carabobo +Indians are easily the most enthusiastic lovers of music between the equator and the +French Opera House in New Orleans. They are also strong believers that the advice +of Emerson was good when he said: "The thing thou wantest, O discontented man +—take it, and pay the price." A number of them had attended the performance of +the Alcazar Opera Company in Macuto, and found Mlle. Giraud's style and +technique satisfactory. They wanted her, so they took her one evening suddenly and +without any fuss. They treated her with much consideration, exacting only one song +recital each day. She was quite pleased at being rescued by Mr. Armstrong. So +much for mystery and adventure. Now to resume the theory of the protoplasm. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">John Armstrong and Mlle. Giraud rode among the Andean peaks, enveloped in their +greatness and sublimity. The mightiest cousins, furthest removed, in nature's great +family become conscious of the tie. Among those huge piles of primordial +upheaval, amid those gigantic silences and elongated fields of distance the +littlenesses of men are precipitated as one chemical throws down a sediment from +another. They moved reverently, as in a temple. Their souls were uplifted in unison +with the stately heights. They travelled in a zone of majesty and peace.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">To Armstrong the woman seemed almost a holy thing. Yet bathed in the white, still +dignity of her martyrdom that purified her earthly beauty and gave out, it seemed, +an aura of transcendent loveliness, in those first hours of companionship she drew +from him an adoration that was half human love, half the worship of a descended +goddess.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Never yet since her rescue had she smiled. Over her dress she still wore the robe of +leopard skins, for the mountain air was cold. She looked to be some splendid +princess belonging to those wild and awesome altitudes. The spirit of the region +chimed with hers. Her eyes were always turned upon the sombre cliffs, the blue +gorges and the snow-clad turrets, looking a sublime melancholy equal to their own. +At times on the journey she sang thrilling te deums and misereres that struck the +true note of the hills, and made their route seem like a solemn march down a +cathedral aisle. The rescued one spoke but seldom, her mood partaking of the hush +of nature that surrounded them. Armstrong looked upon her as an angel. He could +not bring himself to the sacrilege of attempting to woo her as other women may be +wooed. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On the third day they had descended as far as the <i>tierra templada</i>, the zona of the +table lands and foot hills. The mountains were receding in their rear, but still +towered, exhibiting yet impressively their formidable heads. Here they met signs of +man. They saw the white houses of coffee plantations gleam across the clearings. +They struck into a road where they met travellers and pack-mules. Cattle were +grazing on the slopes. They passed a little village where the round-eyed <i>niños</i> +shrieked and called at sight of them.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mlle. Giraud laid aside her leopard-skin robe. It seemed to be a trifle incongruous +now. In the mountains it had appeared fitting and natural. And if Armstrong was +not mistaken she laid aside with it something of the high dignity of her demeanour. +As the country became more populous and significant of comfortable life he saw, +with a feeling of joy, that the exalted princess and priestess of the Andean peaks +was changing to a woman—an earth woman, but no less enticing. A little colour +crept to the surface of her marble cheek. She arranged the conventional dress that +the removal of the robe now disclosed with the solicitous touch of one who is +conscious of the eyes of others. She smoothed the careless sweep of her hair. A +mundane interest, long latent in the chilling atmosphere of the ascetic peaks, +showed in her eyes.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">This thaw in his divinity sent Armstrong's heart going faster. So might an Arctic +explorer thrill at his first ken of green fields and liquescent waters. They were on a +lower plane of earth and life and were succumbing to its peculiar, subtle influence. +The austerity of the hills no longer thinned the air they breathed. About them was +the breath of fruit and corn and builded homes, the comfortable smell of smoke and +warm earth and the consolations man has placed between himself and the dust of +his brother earth from which he sprung. While traversing those awful mountains, +Mile. Giraud had seemed to be wrapped in their spirit of reverent reserve. Was this +that same woman—now palpitating, warm, eager, throbbing with conscious life and +charm, feminine to her finger-tips? Pondering over this, Armstrong felt certain +misgivings intrude upon his thoughts. He wished he could stop there with this +changing creature, descending no farther. Here was the elevation and environment +to which her nature seemed to respond with its best. He feared to go down upon the +man-dominated levels. Would her spirit not yield still further in that artificial zone +to which they were descending?</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Now from a little plateau they saw the sea flash at the edge of the green lowlands. +Mile. Giraud gave a little, catching sigh. </span></p> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh! look, Mr. Armstrong, there is the sea! Isn't it lovely? I'm so tired of +mountains." She heaved a pretty shoulder in a gesture of repugnance. "Those +horrid Indians! Just think of what I suffered! Although I suppose I attained my +ambition of becoming a stellar attraction, I wouldn't care to repeat the engagement. +It was very nice of you to bring me away. Tell me, Mr. Armstrong—honestly, now +—do I look such an awful, awful fright? I haven't looked into a mirror, you know, +for months."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Armstrong made answer according to his changed moods. Also he laid his hand +upon hers as it rested upon the horn of her saddle. Luis was at the head of the pack +train and could not see. She allowed it to remain there, and her eyes smiled frankly +into his.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Then at sundown they dropped upon the coast level under the palms and lemons +among the vivid greens and scarlets and ochres of the <i>tierra caliente</i>. They rode +into Macuto, and saw the line of volatile bathers frolicking in the surf. The +mountains were very far away. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mlle. Giraud's eyes were shining with a joy that could not have existed under the +chaperonage of the mountain-tops. There were other spirits calling to her—nymphs +of the orange groves, pixies from the chattering surf, imps, born of the music, the +perfumes, colours and the insinuating presence of humanity. She laughed aloud, +musically, at a sudden thought.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Won't there be a sensation?" she called to Armstrong. "Don't I wish I had an +engagement just now, though! What a picnic the press agent would have! 'Held a +prisoner by a band of savage Indians subdued by the spell of her wonderful +voice'—wouldn't that make great stuff? But I guess I quit the game winner, +anyhow—there ought to be a couple of thousand dollars in that sack of gold dust I +collected as encores, don't you think?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He left her at the door of the little Hotel de Buen Descansar, where she had stopped +before. Two hours later he returned to the hotel. He glanced in at the open door of +the little combined reception room and cafe.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Half a dozen of Macuto's representative social and official <i>caballeros</i> were +distributed about the room. Señor Villablanca, the wealthy rubber concessionist, +reposed his fat figure on two chairs, with an emollient smile beaming upon his +chocolate-coloured face. Guilbert, the French mining engineer, leered through his +polished nose-glasses. Colonel Mendez, of the regular army, in gold-laced uniform +and fatuous grin, was busily extracting corks from champagne bottles. Other +patterns of Macutian gallantry and fashion pranced and posed. The air was hazy +with cigarette smoke. Wine dripped upon the floor. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Perched upon a table in the centre of the room in an attitude of easy preëminence +was Mlle. Giraud. A chic costume of white lawn and cherry ribbons supplanted her +travelling garb. There was a suggestion of lace, and a frill or two, with a discreet, +small implication of hand-embroidered pink hosiery. Upon her lap rested a guitar. +In her face was the light of resurrection, the peace of elysium attained through fire +and suffering. She was singing to a lively accompaniment a little song:</span></p> + +<blockquote> +<blockquote> +<span style="font-size: 14pt"> +"<i>When you see de big round moon</i><br> +<i> Comin' up like a balloon,</i><br> +<i> Dis nigger skips fur to kiss de lips</i><br> +<i> Ob his stylish, black-faced coon.</i>"<br> +</span> +</blockquote> +</blockquote> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The singer caught sight of Armstrong.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Hi! there, Johnny," she called; "I've been expecting you for an hour. What kept +you? Gee! but these smoked guys are the slowest you ever saw. They ain't on, at +all. Come along in, and I'll make this coffee-coloured old sport with the gold +epaulettes open one for you right off the ice."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Thank you," said Armstrong; "not just now, I believe. I've several things to attend +to."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He walked out and down the street, and met Rucker coming up from the Consulate.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Play you a game of billiards," said Armstrong. "I want something to take the taste +of the sea level out of my mouth."</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="6"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +VI<br> +<br> +"GIRL"<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In gilt letters on the ground glass of the door of room No. 962 were the words: +"Robbins & Hartley, Brokers." The clerks had gone. It was past five, and with the +solid tramp of a drove of prize Percherons, scrub-women were invading the +cloud-capped twenty-story office building. A puff of red-hot air flavoured with +lemon peelings, soft-coal smoke and train oil came in through the half-open +windows. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Robbins, fifty, something of an overweight beau, and addicted to first nights and +hotel palm-rooms, pretended to be envious of his partner's commuter's joys.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Going to be something doing in the humidity line to-night," he said. "You +out-of-town chaps will be the people, with your katydids and moonlight and long +drinks and things out on the front porch." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Hartley, twenty-nine, serious, thin, good-looking, nervous, sighed and frowned a +little.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Yes," said he, "we always have cool nights in Floralhurst, especially in the winter."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A man with an air of mystery came in the door and went up to Hartley. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I've found where she lives," he announced in the portentous half-whisper that +makes the detective at work a marked being to his fellow men.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Hartley scowled him into a state of dramatic silence and quietude. But by that time +Robbins had got his cane and set his tie pin to his liking, and with a debonair nod +went out to his metropolitan amusements.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Here is the address," said the detective in a natural tone, being deprived of an +audience to foil.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Hartley took the leaf torn out of the sleuth's dingy memorandum book. On it were +pencilled the words "Vivienne Arlington, No. 341 East ––––th Street, care of Mrs. +McComus."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Moved there a week ago," said the detective. "Now, if you want any shadowing +done, Mr. Hartley, I can do you as fine a job in that line as anybody in the city. It +will be only $7 a day and expenses. Can send in a daily typewritten report, +covering—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You needn't go on," interrupted the broker. "It isn't a case of that kind. I merely +wanted the address. How much shall I pay you?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"One day's work," said the sleuth. "A tenner will cover it." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Hartley paid the man and dismissed him. Then he left the office and boarded a +Broadway car. At the first large crosstown artery of travel he took an eastbound car +that deposited him in a decaying avenue, whose ancient structures once sheltered +the pride and glory of the town.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Walking a few squares, he came to the building that he sought. It was a new +flathouse, bearing carved upon its cheap stone portal its sonorous name, "The +Vallambrosa." Fire-escapes zigzagged down its front—these laden with household +goods, drying clothes, and squalling children evicted by the midsummer heat. Here +and there a pale rubber plant peeped from the miscellaneous mass, as if wondering +to what kingdom it belonged—vegetable, animal or artificial. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Hartley pressed the "McComus" button. The door latch clicked +spasmodically—now hospitably, now doubtfully, as though in anxiety whether it +might be admitting friends or duns. Hartley entered and began to climb the stairs +after the manner of those who seek their friends in city flat-houses—which is the +manner of a boy who climbs an apple-tree, stopping when he comes upon what he +wants. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On the fourth floor he saw Vivienne standing in an open door. She invited him +inside, with a nod and a bright, genuine smile. She placed a chair for him near a +window, and poised herself gracefully upon the edge of one of those +Jekyll-and-Hyde pieces of furniture that are masked and mysteriously hooded, +unguessable bulks by day and inquisitorial racks of torture by night.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Hartley cast a quick, critical, appreciative glance at her before speaking, and told +himself that his taste in choosing had been flawless.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Vivienne was about twenty-one. She was of the purest Saxon type. Her hair was a +ruddy golden, each filament of the neatly gathered mass shining with its own lustre +and delicate graduation of colour. In perfect harmony were her ivory-clear +complexion and deep sea-blue eyes that looked upon the world with the ingenuous +calmness of a mermaid or the pixie of an undiscovered mountain stream. Her +frame was strong and yet possessed the grace of absolute naturalness. And yet with +all her Northern clearness and frankness of line and colouring, there seemed to be +something of the tropics in her—something of languor in the droop of her pose, of +love of ease in her ingenious complacency of satisfaction and comfort in the mere +act of breathing—something that seemed to claim for her a right as a perfect work of +nature to exist and be admired equally with a rare flower or some beautiful, +milk-white dove among its sober-hued companions.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She was dressed in a white waist and dark skirt—that discreet masquerade of +goose-girl and duchess.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Vivienne," said Hartley, looking at her pleadingly, "you did not answer my last +letter. It was only by nearly a week's search that I found where you had moved to. +Why have you kept me in suspense when you knew how anxiously I was waiting to +see you and hear from you?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The girl looked out the window dreamily.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mr. Hartley," she said hesitatingly, "I hardly know what to say to you. I realize all +the advantages of your offer, and sometimes I feel sure that I could be contented +with you. But, again, I am doubtful. I was born a city girl, and I am afraid to bind +myself to a quiet suburban life."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"My dear girl," said Hartley, ardently, "have I not told you that you shall have +everything that your heart can desire that is in my power to give you? You shall +come to the city for the theatres, for shopping and to visit your friends as often as +you care to. You can trust me, can you not?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"To the fullest," she said, turning her frank eyes upon him with a smile. "I know +you are the kindest of men, and that the girl you get will be a lucky one. I learned +all about you when I was at the Montgomerys'."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ah!" exclaimed Hartley, with a tender, reminiscent light in his eye; "I remember +well the evening I first saw you at the Montgomerys'. Mrs. Montgomery was +sounding your praises to me all the evening. And she hardly did you justice. I shall +never forget that supper. Come, Vivienne, promise me. I want you. You'll never +regret coming with me. No one else will ever give you as pleasant a home." </span></p> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The girl sighed and looked down at her folded hands.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A sudden jealous suspicion seized Hartley.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Tell me, Vivienne," he asked, regarding her keenly, "is there another—is there some +one else ?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A rosy flush crept slowly over her fair cheeks and neck.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You shouldn't ask that, Mr. Hartley," she said, in some confusion. "But I will tell +you. There is one other—but he has no right—I have promised him nothing."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"His name?" demanded Hartley, sternly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Townsend."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Rafford Townsend!" exclaimed Hartley, with a grim tightening of his jaw. "How +did that man come to know you? After all I've done for him—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"His auto has just stopped below," said Vivienne, bending over the window-sill. +"He's coming for his answer. Oh I don't know what to do!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The bell in the flat kitchen whirred. Vivienne hurried to press the latch button.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Stay here," said Hartley. "I will meet him in the hall." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Townsend, looking like a Spanish grandee in his light tweeds, Panama hat and +curling black mustache, came up the stairs three at a time. He stopped at sight of +Hartley and looked foolish.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Go back," said Hartley, firmly, pointing downstairs with his forefinger.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Hullo!" said Townsend, feigning surprise. "What's up? What are you doing here, +old man?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Go back," repeated Hartley, inflexibly. "The Law of the Jungle. Do you want the +Pack to tear you in pieces? The kill is mine." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I came here to see a plumber about the bathroom connections," said Townsend, +bravely.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"All right," said Hartley. "You shall have that lying plaster to stick upon your +traitorous soul. But, go back." Townsend went downstairs, leaving a bitter word to +be wafted up the draught of the staircase. Hartley went back to his wooing.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Vivienne," said he, masterfully. "I have got to have you. I will take no more +refusals or dilly-dallying."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"When do you want me?" she asked.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Now. As soon as you can get ready."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She stood calmly before him and looked him in the eye.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Do you think for one moment," she said, "that I would enter your home while +Héloise is there?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Hartley cringed as if from an unexpected blow. He folded his arms and paced the +carpet once or twice.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"She shall go," he declared grimly. Drops stood upon his brow. "Why should I let +that woman make my life miserable? Never have I seen one day of freedom from +trouble since I have known her. You are right, Vivienne. Héloise must be sent +away before I can take you home. But she shall go. I have decided. I will turn her +from my doors." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"When will you do this?" asked the girl.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Hartley clinched his teeth and bent his brows together.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"To-night," he said, resolutely. "I will send her away to-night." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Then," said Vivienne, "my answer is 'yes.' Come for me when you will."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She looked into his eyes with a sweet, sincere light in her own. Hartley could +scarcely believe that her surrender was true, it was so swift and complete.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Promise me," he said feelingly, "on your word and honour." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"On my word and honour," repeated Vivienne, softly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At the door he turned and gazed at her happily, but yet as one who scarcely trusts +the foundations of his joy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"To-morrow," he said, with a forefinger of reminder uplifted. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"To-morrow," she repeated with a smile of truth and candour. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In an hour and forty minutes Hartley stepped off the train at Floralhurst. A brisk +walk of ten minutes brought him to the gate of a handsome two-story cottage set +upon a wide and well-tended lawn. Halfway to the house he was met by a woman +with jet-black braided hair and flowing white summer gown, who half strangled +him without apparent cause.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When they stepped into the hall she said:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mamma's here. The auto is coming for her in half an hour. She came to dinner, +but there's no dinner."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I've something to tell you," said Hartley. "I thought to break it to you gently, but +since your mother is here we may as well out with it." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He stooped and whispered something at her ear.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">His wife screamed. Her mother came running into the hall. The dark-haired +woman screamed again—the joyful scream of a well-beloved and petted woman.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, mamma!" she cried ecstatically, "what do you think? Vivienne is coming to +cook for us! She is the one that stayed with the Montgomerys a whole year. And +now, Billy, dear," she concluded, "you must go right down into the kitchen and +discharge Héloise. She has been drunk again the whole day long."</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="7"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +VII<br> +<br> +SOCIOLOGY IN SERGE AND STRAW<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The season of irresponsibility is at hand. Come, let us twine round our brows +wreaths of poison ivy (that is for idiocy), and wander hand in hand with sociology +in the summer fields.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Likely as not the world is flat. The wise men have tried to prove that it is round, +with indifferent success. They pointed out to us a ship going to sea, and bade us +observe that, at length, the convexity of the earth hid from our view all but the +vessel's topmast. But we picked up a telescope and looked, and saw the decks and +hull again. Then the wise men said: "Oh, pshaw! anyhow, the variation of the +intersection of the equator and the ecliptic proves it." We could not see this through +our telescope, so we remained silent. But it stands to reason that, if the world were +round, the queues of Chinamen would stand straight up from their heads instead of +hanging down their backs, as travellers assure us they do.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Another hot-weather corroboration of the flat theory is the fact that all of life, as we +know it, moves in little, unavailing circles. More justly than to anything else, it can +be likened to the game of baseball. Crack! we hit the ball, and away we go. If we +earn a run (in life we call it success) we get back to the home plate and sit upon a +bench. If we are thrown out, we walk back to the home plate—and sit upon a +bench.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The circumnavigators of the alleged globe may have sailed the rim of a watery +circle back to the same port again. The truly great return at the high tide of their +attainments to the simplicity of a child. The billionaire sits down at his mahogany +to his bowl of bread and milk. When you reach the end of your career, just take +down the sign "Goal" and look at the other side of it. You will find "Beginning +Point" there. It has been reversed while you were going around the track. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But this is humour, and must be stopped. Let us get back to the serious questions +that arise whenever Sociology turns summer boarder. You are invited to consider +the scene of the story—wild, Atlantic waves, thundering against a wooded and +rock-bound shore—in the Greater City of New York.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The town of Fishampton, on the south shore of Long Island, is noted for its clam +fritters and the summer residence of the Van Plushvelts. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Van Plushvelts have a hundred million dollars, and their name is a household +word with tradesmen and photographers.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On the fifteenth of June the Van Plushvelts boarded up the front door of their city +house, carefully deposited their cat on the sidewalk, instructed the caretaker not to +allow it to eat any of the ivy on the walls, and whizzed away in a 40-horse-power to +Fishampton to stray alone in the shade—Amaryllis not being in their class. If you +are a subscriber to the <i>Toadies' Magazine</i>, you have often—You say you are not? +Well, you buy it at a news-stand, thinking that the newsdealer is not wise to you. +But he knows about it all. HE knows—HE knows! I say that you have often seen in +the <i>Toadies' Magazine</i> pictures of the Van Plushvelts' summer home; so it will not +be described here. Our business is with young Haywood Van Plushvelt, sixteen +years old, heir to the century of millions, darling of the financial gods and great +grandson of Peter Van Plushvelt, former owner of a particularly fine cabbage patch +that has been ruined by an intrusive lot of downtown skyscrapers.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One afternoon young Haywood Van Plushvelt strolled out between the granite gate +posts of "Dolce far Niente"—that's what they called the place; and it was an +improvement on dolce Far Rockaway, I can tell you.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Haywood walked down into the village. He was human, after all, and his +prospective millions weighed upon him. Wealth had wreaked upon him its +direfullest. He was the product of private tutors. Even under his first hobby-horse +had tan bark been strewn. He had been born with a gold spoon, lobster fork and +fish-set in his mouth. For which I hope, later, to submit justification, I must ask +your consideration of his haberdashery and tailoring.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Young Fortunatus was dressed in a neat suit of dark blue serge, a neat, white straw +hat, neat low-cut tan shoes, of the well-known "immaculate" trade mark, a neat, +narrow four-in-hand tie, and carried a slender, neat, bamboo cane.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Down Persimmon Street (there's never tree north of Hagerstown, Md.) came from +the village "Smoky" Dodson, fifteen and a half, worst boy in Fishampton. "Smoky" +was dressed in a ragged red sweater, wrecked and weather-worn golf cap, run-over +shoes, and trousers of the "serviceable" brand. Dust, clinging to the moisture +induced by free exercise, darkened wide areas of his face. "Smoky" carried a +baseball bat, and a league ball that advertised itself in the rotundity of his trousers +pocket. Haywood stopped and passed the time of day. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Going to play ball?" he asked.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Smoky's" eyes and countenance confronted him with a frank blue-and-freckled +scrutiny.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Me?" he said, with deadly mildness; "sure not. Can't you see I've got a divin' suit +on? I'm goin' up in a submarine balloon to catch butterflies with a two-inch auger.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Excuse me," said Haywood, with the insulting politeness of his caste, "for +mistaking you for a gentleman. I might have known better."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"How might you have known better if you thought I was one?" said "Smoky," +unconsciously a logician.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"By your appearance," said Haywood. "No gentleman is dirty, ragged and a liar."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Smoky" hooted once like a ferry-boat, spat on his hand, got a firm grip on his +baseball bat and then dropped it against the fence. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Say," said he, "I knows you. You're the pup that belongs in that swell private +summer sanitarium for city-guys over there. I seen you come out of the gate. You +can't bluff nobody because you're rich. And because you got on swell clothes. +Arabella! Yah!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ragamuffin!" said Haywood.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Smoky" picked up a fence-rail splinter and laid it on his shoulder. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Dare you to knock it off," he challenged.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I wouldn't soil my hands with you," said the aristocrat.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"'Fraid," said "Smoky" concisely. "Youse city-ducks ain't got the I sand. I kin lick +you with one-hand."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I don't wish to have any trouble with you," said Haywood. "I asked you a civil +question; and you replied, like a—like a—a cad." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Wot's a cad?" asked "Smoky."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A cad is a disagreeable person," answered Haywood, "who lacks manners and +doesn't know his place. They sometimes play baseball." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I can tell you what a mollycoddle is," said "Smoky." "It's a monkey dressed up by +its mother and sent out to pick daisies on the lawn." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"When you have the honour to refer to the members of my family," said Haywood, +with some dim ideas of a code in his mind, "you'd better leave the ladies out of your +remarks."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ho! ladies!" mocked the rude one. "I say ladies! I know what them rich women +in the city does. They, drink cocktails and swear and give parties to gorillas. The +papers say so."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Then Haywood knew that it must be. He took off his coat, folded it neatly and laid +it on the roadside grass, placed his hat upon it and began to unknot his blue silk tie.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Hadn't yer better ring fer yer maid, Arabella?" taunted "Smoky." "Wot yer going to +do—go to bed?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm going to give you a good trouncing," said the hero. He did not hesitate, +although the enemy was far beneath him socially. He remembered that his father +once thrashed a cabman, and the papers gave it two columns, first page. And the +<i>Toadies' Magazine</i> had a special article on Upper Cuts by the Upper Classes, and +ran new pictures of the Van Plushvelt country seat, at Fishampton.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Wot's trouncing?" asked "Smoky," suspiciously. "I don't want your old clothes. +I'm no—oh, you mean to scrap! My, my! I won't do a thing to mamma's pet. +Criminy! I'd hate to be a hand-laundered thing like you.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Smoky" waited with some awkwardness for his adversary to prepare for battle. +His own decks were always clear for action. When he should spit upon the palm of +his terrible right it was equivalent to "You may fire now, Gridley."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The hated patrician advanced, with his shirt sleeves neatly rolled up. "Smoky" +waited, in an attitude of ease, expecting the affair to be conducted according to +Fishampton's rules of war. These allowed combat to be prefaced by stigma, +recrimination, epithet, abuse and insult gradually increasing in emphasis and +degree. After a round of these "you're anothers" would come the chip knocked from +the shoulder, or the advance across the "dare" line drawn with a toe on the ground. +Next light taps given and taken, these also increasing in force until finally the blood +was up and fists going at their best.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But Haywood did not know Fishampton's rules. Noblesse oblige kept a faint smile +on his face as he walked slowly up to "Smoky" and said: </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Going to play ball?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Smoky" quickly understood this to be a putting of the previous question, giving +him the chance to make practical apology by answering it with civility and +relevance.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Listen this time," said he. "I'm goin' skatin' on the river. Don't you see me +automobile with Chinese lanterns on it standin' and waitin' for me?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Haywood knocked him down.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Smoky" felt wronged. To thus deprive him of preliminary wrangle and +objurgation was to send an armoured knight full tilt against a crashing lance without +permitting him first to caracole around the list to the flourish of trumpets. But he +scrambled up and fell upon his foe, head, feet and fists.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The fight lasted one round of an hour and ten minutes. It was lengthened until it +was more like a war or a family feud than a fight. Haywood had learned some of +the science of boxing and wrestling from his tutors, but these he discarded for the +more instinctive methods of battle handed down by the cave-dwelling Van +Plushvelts.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">So, when he found himself, during the mêlée, seated upon the kicking and roaring +"Smoky's" chest, he improved the opportunity by vigorously kneading handfuls of +sand and soil into his adversary's ears, eyes and mouth, and when "Smoky" got the +proper leg hold and "turned" him, he fastened both hands in the Plushvelt hair and +pounded the Plushvelt head against the lap of mother earth. Of course, the strife +was not incessantly active. There were seasons when one sat upon the other, +holding him down, while each blew like a grampus, spat out the more +inconveniently large sections of gravel and earth, and strove to subdue the spirit of +his opponent with a frightful and soul-paralyzing glare. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At last, it seemed that in the language of the ring, their efforts lacked steam. They +broke away, and each disappeared in a cloud as he brushed away the dust of the +conflict. As soon as his breath permitted, Haywood walked close to "Smoky" and +said:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Going to play ball?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Smoky" looked pensively at the sky, at his bat lying on the ground, and at the +"leaguer" rounding his pocket.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Sure," he said, offhandedly. "The 'Yellowjackets' plays the 'Long Islands.' I'm +cap'n of the 'Long Islands.'"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I guess I didn't mean to say you were ragged," said Haywood. "But you are dirty, +you know."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Sure," said "Smoky." "Yer get that way knockin' around. Say, I don't believe +them New York papers about ladies drinkin' and havin' monkeys dinin' at the table +with 'em. I guess they're lies, like they print about people eatin' out of silver plates, +and ownin' dogs that cost $100."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Certainly," said Haywood. "What do you play on your team?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ketcher. Ever play any?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Never in my life," said Haywood. "I've never known any fellows except one or +two of my cousins."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Jer like to learn? We're goin' to have a practice-game before the match. Wanter +come along? I'll put yer in left-field, and yer won't be long ketchin' on."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'd like it bully," said Haywood. "I've always wanted to play baseball."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The ladies' maids of New York and the families of Western mine owners with +social ambitions will remember well the sensation that was created by the report +that the young multi-millionaire, Haywood Van Plushvelt, was playing ball with the +village youths of Fishampton. It was conceded that the millennium of democracy +had come. Reporters and photographers swarmed to the island. The papers printed +half-page pictures of him as short-stop stopping a hot grounder. The <i>Toadies' +Magazine</i> got out a Bat and Ball number that covered the subject historically, +beginning with the vampire bat and ending with the Patriarchs' ball—illustrated with +interior views of the Van Plushvelt country seat. Ministers, educators and +sociologists everywhere hailed the event as the tocsin call that proclaimed the +universal brotherhood of man.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One afternoon I was reclining under the trees near the shore at Fishampton in the +esteemed company of an eminent, bald-headed young sociologist. By way of note it +may be inserted that all sociologists are more or less bald, and exactly thirty-two. +Look 'em over. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The sociologist was citing the Van Plushvelt case as the most important "uplift" +symptom of a generation, and as an excuse for his own existence.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Immediately before us were the village baseball grounds. And now came the +sportive youth of Fishampton and distributed themselves, shouting, about the +diamond.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"There," said the sociologist, pointing, "there is young Van Plushvelt."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I raised myself (so far a cosycophant with Mary Ann) and gazed. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Young Van Plushvelt sat upon the ground. He was dressed in a ragged red sweater, +wrecked and weather-worn golf cap, run-over shoes, and trousers of the +"serviceable" brand. Dust clinging to the moisture induced by free exercise, +darkened wide areas of his face. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"That is he," repeated the sociologist. If he had said "him" I could have been less +vindictive.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On a bench, with an air, sat the young millionaire's chum. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He was dressed in a neat suit of dark blue serge, a neat white straw hat, neat +low-cut tan shoes, linen of the well-known "immaculate" trade mark, a neat, narrow +four-in-hand tie, and carried a slender, neat bamboo cane.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I laughed loudly and vulgarly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What you want to do," said I to the sociologist, "is to establish a reformatory for +the Logical Vicious Circle. Or else I've got wheels. It looks to me as if things are +running round and round in circles instead of getting anywhere."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What do you mean?" asked the man of progress.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Why, look what he has done to 'Smoky'," I replied.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You will always be a fool," said my friend, the sociologist, getting up and walking +away.</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="8"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +VIII<br> +<br> +THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South, in +Alabama—Bill Driscoll and myself—when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as +Bill afterward expressed it, "during a moment of temporary mental apparition"; but +we didn't find that out till later.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called Summit, of +course. It contained inhabitants of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class of +peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and we needed just two +thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western Illinois +with. We talked it over on the front steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says +we, is strong in semi-rural communities; therefore and for other reasons, a +kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius of newspapers that +send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. We knew that +Summit couldn't get after us with anything stronger than constables and maybe +some lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in the <i>Weekly Farmers' +Budget</i>. So, it looked good. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer +Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stern, +upright collection-plate passer and forecloser. The kid was a boy of ten, with +bas-relief freckles, and hair the colour of the cover of the magazine you buy at the +news-stand when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer +would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell +you.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with a dense cedar +brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There we stored +provisions. One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset's +house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Hey, little boy!" says Bill, "would you like to have a bag of candy and a nice +ride?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars," says Bill, climbing over +the wheel.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but, at last, we got him +down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. We took him up to the cave and +I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I drove the buggy to the little +village, three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his features. There +was a fire burning behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was +watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tail-feathers stuck in his red +hair. He points a stick at me when I come up, and says:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the +plains?</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"He's all right now," says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examining some bruises +on his shins. "We're playing Indian. We're making Buffalo Bill's show look like +magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. I'm Old Hank, the Trapper, Red +Chief's captive, and I'm to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid can kick +hard." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of his life. The fun of camping out +in a cave had made him forget that he was a captive himself. He immediately +christened me Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced that, when his braves returned +from the warpath, I was to be broiled at the stake at the rising of the sun.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of bacon and bread and gravy, and +began to talk. He made a during-dinner speech something like this:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I had a pet 'possum once, and I was +nine last birthday. I hate to go to school. Rats ate up sixteen of Jimmy Talbot's +aunt's speckled hen's eggs. Are there any real Indians in these woods? I want some +more gravy. Does the trees moving make the wind blow? We had five puppies. +What makes your nose so red, Hank? My father has lots of money. Are the stars +hot? I whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don't like girls. You dassent catch +toads unless with a string. Do oxen make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have +you got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got six toes. A parrot can +talk, but a monkey or a fish can't. How many does it take to make twelve?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Every few minutes he would remember that he was a pesky redskin, and pick up his +stick rifle and tiptoe to the mouth of the cave to rubber for the scouts of the hated +paleface. Now and then he would let out a war-whoop that made Old Hank the +Trapper shiver. That boy had Bill terrorized from the start.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Red Chief," says I to the kid, "would you like to go home?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Aw, what for?" says he. "I don't have any fun at home. I hate to go to school. I +like to camp out. You won't take me back home again, Snake-eye, will you?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Not right away," says I. "We'll stay here in the cave a while." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"All right!" says he. "That'll be fine. I never had such fun in all my life."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">We went to bed about eleven o'clock. We spread down some wide blankets and +quilts and put Red Chief between us. We weren't afraid he'd run away. He kept us +awake for three hours, jumping up and reaching for his rifle and screeching: "Hist! +pard," in mine and Bill's ears, as the fancied crackle of a twig or the rustle of a leaf +revealed to his young imagination the stealthy approach of the outlaw band. At last, +I fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that I had been kidnapped and chained to a +tree by a ferocious pirate with red hair.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful screams from Bill. They +weren't yells, or howls, or shouts, or whoops, or yawps, such as you'd expect from a +manly set of vocal organs—they were simply indecent, terrifying, humiliating +screams, such as women emit when they see ghosts or caterpillars. It's an awful +thing to hear a strong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently in a cave at +daybreak. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief was sitting on Bill's chest, with +one hand twined in Bill's hair. In the other he had the sharp case-knife we used for +slicing bacon; and he was industriously and realistically trying to take Bill's scalp, +according to the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the evening before. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I got the knife away from the kid and made him lie down again. But, from that +moment, Bill's spirit was broken. He laid down on his side of the bed, but he never +closed an eye again in sleep as long as that boy was with us. I dozed off for a while, +but along toward sun-up I remembered that Red Chief had said I was to be burned +at the stake at the rising of the sun. I wasn't nervous or afraid; but I sat up and lit +my pipe and leaned against a rock.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What you getting up so soon for, Sam?" asked Bill.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Me?" says I. "Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my shoulder. I thought sitting up +would rest it."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You're a liar!" says Bill. "You're afraid. You was to be burned at sunrise, and +you was afraid he'd do it. And he would, too, if he could find a match. Ain't it +awful, Sam? Do you think anybody will pay out money to get a little imp like that +back home?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Sure," said I. "A rowdy kid like that is just the kind that parents dote on. Now, +you and the Chief get up and cook breakfast, while I go up on the top of this +mountain and reconnoitre."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran my eye over the contiguous +vicinity. Over toward Summit I expected to see the sturdy yeomanry of the village +armed with scythes and pitchforks beating the countryside for the dastardly +kidnappers. But what I saw was a peaceful landscape dotted with one man +ploughing with a dun mule. Nobody was dragging the creek; no couriers dashed +hither and yon, bringing tidings of no news to the distracted parents. There was a +sylvan attitude of somnolent sleepiness pervading that section of the external +outward surface of Alabama that lay exposed to my view. "Perhaps," says I to +myself, "it has not yet been discovered that the wolves have borne away the tender +lambkin from the fold. Heaven help the wolves!" says I, and I went down the +mountain to breakfast. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against the side of it, breathing hard, +and the boy threatening to smash him with a rock half as big as a cocoanut.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back," explained Bill, "and then mashed it +with his foot; and I boxed his ears. Have you got a gun about you, Sam?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I took the rock away from the boy and kind of patched up the argument. "I'll fix +you," says the kid to Bill. "No man ever yet struck the Red Chief but what he got +paid for it. You better beware!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with strings wrapped around it out of +his pocket and goes outside the cave unwinding it. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What's he up to now?" says Bill, anxiously. "You don't think he'll run away, do +you, Sam?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No fear of it," says I. "He don't seem to be much of a home body. But we've got to +fix up some plan about the ransom. There don't seem to be much excitement +around Summit on account of his disappearance; but maybe they haven't realized +yet that he's gone. His folks may think he's spending the night with Aunt Jane or +one of the neighbours. Anyhow, he'll be missed to-day. To-night we must get a +message to his father demanding the two thousand dollars for his return." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Just then we heard a kind Of war-whoop, such as David might have emitted when +he knocked out the champion Goliath. It was a sling that Red Chief had pulled out +of his pocket, and he was whirling it around his head.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I dodged, and heard a heavy thud and a kind of a sigh from Bill, like a horse gives +out when you take his saddle off. A niggerhead rock the size of an egg had caught +Bill just behind his left ear. He loosened himself all over and fell in the fire across +the frying pan of hot water for washing the dishes. I dragged him out and poured +cold water on his head for half an hour.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and says: "Sam, do you know who +my favourite Biblical character is?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Take it easy," says I. "You'll come to your senses presently." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"King Herod," says he. "You won't go away and leave me here alone, will you, +Sam?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I went out and caught that boy and shook him until his freckles rattled.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"If you don't behave," says I, "I'll take you straight home. Now, are you going to be +good, or not?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I was only funning," says he sullenly. "I didn't mean to hurt Old Hank. But what +did he hit me for? I'll behave, Snake-eye, if you won't send me home, and if you'll +let me play the Black Scout to-day." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I don't know the game," says I. "That's for you and Mr. Bill to decide. He's your +playmate for the day. I'm going away for a while, on business. Now, you come in +and make friends with him and say you are sorry for hurting him, or home you go, +at once."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took Bill aside and told him I was +going to Poplar Cove, a little village three miles from the cave, and find out what I +could about how the kidnapping had been regarded in Summit. Also, I thought it +best to send a peremptory letter to old man Dorset that day, demanding the ransom +and dictating how it should be paid.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You know, Sam," says Bill, "I've stood by you without batting an eye in +earthquakes, fire and flood—in poker games, dynamite outrages, police raids, train +robberies and cyclones. I never lost my nerve yet till we kidnapped that two-legged +skyrocket of a kid. He's got me going. You won't leave me long with him, will +you, Sam?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'll be back some time this afternoon," says I. "You must keep the boy amused and +quiet till I return. And now we'll write the letter to old Dorset."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the letter while Red Chief, with a +blanket wrapped around him, strutted up and down, guarding the mouth of the +cave. Bill begged me tearfully to make the ransom fifteen hundred dollars instead +of two thousand. "I ain't attempting," says he, "to decry the celebrated moral aspect +of parental affection, but we're dealing with humans, and it ain't human for anybody +to give up two thousand dollars for that forty-pound chunk of freckled wildcat. I'm +willing to take a chance at fifteen hundred dollars. You can charge the difference +up to me."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, and we collaborated a letter that ran this way:</span></p> +<br> +<blockquote> +<span style="font-size: 12pt"><i>Ebenezer Dorset, Esq.:</i><br> +<br> + We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit. It is useless for you or the most +skilful detectives to attempt to find him. Absolutely, the only terms on which you can +have him restored to you are these: We demand fifteen hundred dollars in large bills for +his return; the money to be left at midnight to-night at the same spot and in the same box +as your reply—as hereinafter described. If you agree to these terms, send your answer in +writing by a solitary messenger to-night at half-past eight o'clock. After crossing Owl +Creek, on the road to Poplar Cove, there are three large trees about a hundred yards apart, +close to the fence of the wheat field on the right-hand side. At the bottom of the +fence-post, opposite the third tree, will be found a small pasteboard box.<br> +<br> + The messenger will place the answer in this box and return immediately to Summit. <br> +<br> + If you attempt any treachery or fail to comply with our demand as stated, you will never +see your boy again.<br> +<br> + If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned to you safe and well within +three hours. These terms are final, and if you do not accede to them no +further communication will be attempted.<br> +<br> + TWO DESPERATE MEN.<br> +</span> +</blockquote> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in my pocket. As I was about to start, the +kid comes up to me and says:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black Scout while you was gone."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Play it, of course," says I. "Mr. Bill will play with you. What kind of a game is +it?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm the Black Scout," says Red Chief, "and I have to ride to the stockade to warn +the settlers that the Indians are coming. I'm tired of playing Indian myself. I want to +be the Black Scout."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"All right," says I. "It sounds harmless to me. I guess Mr. Bill will help you foil the +pesky savages."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What am I to do?" asks Bill, looking at the kid suspiciously. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You are the hoss," says Black Scout. "Get down on your hands and knees. How +can I ride to the stockade without a hoss?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You'd better keep him interested," said I, "till we get the scheme going. Loosen +up."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bill gets down on his all fours, and a look comes in his eye like a rabbit's when you +catch it in a trap.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"How far is it to the stockade, kid?" he asks, in a husky manner of voice.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ninety miles," says the Black Scout. "And you have to hump yourself to get there +on time. Whoa, now!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Black Scout jumps on Bill's back and digs his heels in his side. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"For Heaven's sake," says Bill, "hurry back, Sam, as soon as you can. I wish we +hadn't made the ransom more than a thousand. Say, you quit kicking me or I'll get +up and warm you good."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I walked over to Poplar Cove and sat around the postoffice and store, talking with +the chawbacons that came in to trade. One whiskerando says that he hears Summit +is all upset on account of Elder Ebenezer Dorset's boy having been lost or stolen. +That was all I wanted to know. I bought some smoking tobacco, referred casually to +the price of black-eyed peas, posted my letter surreptitiously and came away. The +postmaster said the mail-carrier would come by in an hour to take the mail on to +Summit.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were not to be found. I explored the +vicinity of the cave, and risked a yodel or two, but there was no response.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">So I lighted my pipe and sat down on a mossy bank to await developments.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In about half an hour I heard the bushes rustle, and Bill wabbled out into the little +glade in front of the cave. Behind him was the kid, stepping softly like a scout, with +a broad grin on his face. Bill stopped, took off his hat and wiped his face with a +red handkerchief. The kid stopped about eight feet behind him.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Sam," says Bill, "I suppose you'll think I'm a renegade, but I couldn't help it. I'm a +grown person with masculine proclivities and habits of self-defense, but there is a +time when all systems of egotism and predominance fail. The boy is gone. I have +sent him home. All is off. There was martyrs in old times," goes on Bill, "that +suffered death rather than give up the particular graft they enjoyed. None of 'em +ever was subjugated to such supernatural tortures as I have been. I tried to be +faithful to our articles of depredation; but there came a limit."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What's the trouble, Bill?" I asks him.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I was rode," says Bill, "the ninety miles to the stockade, not barring an inch. Then, +when the settlers was rescued, I was given oats. Sand ain't a palatable substitute. +And then, for an hour I had to try to explain to him why there was nothin' in holes, +how a road can run both ways and what makes the grass green. I tell you, Sam, a +human can only stand so much. I takes him by the neck of his clothes and drags +him down the mountain. On the way he kicks my legs black-and-blue from the +knees down; and I've got to have two or three bites on my thumb and hand +cauterized.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"But he's gone"—continues Bill—"gone home. I showed him the road to Summit and +kicked him about eight feet nearer there at one kick. I'm sorry we lose the ransom; +but it was either that or Bill Driscoll to the madhouse."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bill is puffing and blowing, but there is a look of ineffable peace and growing +content on his rose-pink features.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Bill," says I, "there isn't any heart disease in your family, is there?</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No," says Bill, "nothing chronic except malaria and accidents. Why?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Then you might turn around," says I, "and have a took behind you." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion and sits down plump on the +round and begins to pluck aimlessly at grass and little sticks. For an hour I was +afraid for his mind. And then I told him that my scheme was to put the whole job +through immediately and that we would get the ransom and be off with it by +midnight if old Dorset fell in with our proposition. So Bill braced up enough to +give the kid a weak sort of a smile and a promise to play the Russian in a Japanese +war with him is soon as he felt a little better.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I had a scheme for collecting that ransom without danger of being caught by +counterplots that ought to commend itself to professional kidnappers. The tree +under which the answer was to be left—and the money later on—was close to the +road fence with big, bare fields on all sides. If a gang of constables should be +watching for any one to come for the note they could see him a long way off +crossing the fields or in the road. But no, sirree! At half-past eight I was up in that +tree as well hidden as a tree toad, waiting for the messenger to arrive.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the road on a bicycle, locates the +pasteboard box at the foot of the fence-post, slips a folded piece of paper into it and +pedals away again back toward Summit.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I waited an hour and then concluded the thing was square. I slid down the tree, got +the note, slipped along the fence till I struck the woods, and was back at the cave in +another half an hour. I opened the note, got near the lantern and read it to Bill. It +was written with a pen in a crabbed hand, and the sum and substance of it was this: </span></p> +<br> +<blockquote> +<span style="font-size: 12pt"><i>Two Desperate Men.<br> +<br> + Gentlemen:</i> +I received your letter to-day by post, in regard to the ransom you ask for the +return of my son. I think you are a little high in your demands, and I hereby make you a +counter-proposition, which I am inclined to believe you will accept. You bring Johnny +home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and I agree to take him off your +hands. You had better come at night, for the neighbours believe he is lost, and I couldn't +be responsible for what they would do to anybody they saw bringing him back. Very +respectfully,<br> +<br> + EBENEZER DORSET.<br> +</span> +</blockquote> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Great pirates of Penzance!" says I; "of all the impudent—" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most appealing look in his eyes I +ever saw on the face of a dumb or a talking brute. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Sam," says he, "what's two hundred and fifty dollars, after all? We've got the +money. One more night of this kid will send me to a bed in Bedlam. Besides being +a thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset is a spendthrift for making us such a +liberal offer. You ain't going to let the chance go, are you?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Tell you the truth, Bill," says I, "this little he ewe lamb has somewhat got on my +nerves too. We'll take him home, pay the ransom and make our get-away."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">We took him home that night. We got him to go by telling him that his father had +bought a silver-mounted rifle and a pair of moccasins for him, and we were going +to hunt bears the next day.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It was just twelve o'clock when we knocked at Ebenezer's front door. Just at the +moment when I should have been abstracting the fifteen hundred dollars from the +box under the tree, according to the original proposition, Bill was counting out two +hundred and fifty dollars into Dorset's hand.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When the kid found out we were going to leave him at home he started up a howl +like a calliope and fastened himself as tight as a leech to Bill's leg. His father peeled +him away gradually, like a porous plaster.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"How long can you hold him?" asks Bill.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm not as strong as I used to be," says old Dorset, "but I think I can promise you +ten minutes."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Enough," says Bill. "In ten minutes I shall cross the Central, Southern and Middle +Western States, and be legging it trippingly for the Canadian border."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a runner as I am, he was +a good mile and a half out of Summit before I could catch up with him.</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="9"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +IX<br> +<br> +THE MARRY MONTH OF MAY<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Prithee, smite the poet in the eye when he would sing to you praises of the month of +May. It is a month presided over by the spirits of mischief and madness. Pixies and +flibbertigibbets haunt the budding woods: Puck and his train of midgets are busy in +town and country. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In May nature holds up at us a chiding finger, bidding us remember that we are not +gods, but overconceited members of her own great family. She reminds us that we +are brothers to the chowder-doomed clam and the donkey; lineal scions of the pansy +and the chimpanzee, and but cousins-german to the cooing doves, the quacking +ducks and the housemaids and policemen in the parks.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In May Cupid shoots blindfolded—millionaires marry stenographers; wise +professors woo white-aproned gum-chewers behind quick-lunch counters; +schoolma'ams make big bad boys remain after school; lads with ladders steal lightly +over lawns where Juliet waits in her trellissed window with her telescope packed; +young couples out for a walk come home married; old chaps put on white spats and +promenade near the Normal School; even married men, grown unwontedly tender +and sentimental, whack their spouses on the back and growl: "How goes it, old +girl:"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">This May, who is no goddess, but Circe, masquerading at the dance given in honour +of the fair débutante, Summer, puts the kibosh on us all.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Old Mr. Coulson groaned a little, and then sat up straight in his invalid's chair. He +had the gout very bad in one foot, a house near Gramercy Park, half a million +dollars and a daughter. And he had a housekeeper, Mrs. Widdup. The fact and the +name deserve a sentence each. They have it.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When May poked Mr. Coulson he became elder brother to the turtle-dove. In the +window near which he sat were boxes of jonquils, of hyacinths, geraniums and +pansies. The breeze brought their odour into the room. Immediately there was a +well-contested round between the breath of the flowers and the able and active +effluvium from gout liniment. The liniment won easily; but not before the flowers +got an uppercut to old Mr. Coulson's nose. The deadly work of the implacable, +false enchantress May was done.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Across the park to the olfactories of Mr. Coulson came other unmistakable, +characteristic, copyrighted smells of spring that belong to +the-big-city-above-the-Subway, alone. The smells of hot asphalt, underground +caverns, gasoline, patchouli, orange peel, sewer gas, Albany grabs, Egyptian +cigarettes, mortar and the undried ink on newspapers. The inblowing air was sweet +and mild. Sparrows wrangled happily everywhere outdoors. Never trust May.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mr. Coulson twisted the ends of his white mustache, cursed his foot, and pounded a +bell on the table by his side.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In came Mrs. Widdup. She was comely to the eye, fair, flustered, forty and foxy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Higgins is out, sir," she said, with a smile suggestive of vibratory massage. "He +went to post a letter. Can I do anything for you, sir?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's time for my aconite," said old Mr. Coulson. "Drop it for me. The bottle's there. +Three drops. In water. D–––– that is, confound Higgins! There's nobody in this +house cares if I die here in this chair for want of attention."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mrs. Widdup sighed deeply.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Don't be saying that, sir," she said. "There's them that would care more than any +one knows. Thirteen drops, you said, sir?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Three," said old man Coulson.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He took his dose and then Mrs. Widdup's hand. She blushed. Oh, yes, it can be +done. Just hold your breath and compress the diaphragm. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mrs. Widdup," said Mr. Coulson, "the springtime's full upon us." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ain't that right?" said Mrs. Widdup. "The air's real warm. And there's bock-beer +signs on every corner. And the park's all yaller and pink and blue with flowers; and +I have such shooting pains up my legs and body."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"'In the spring,'" quoted Mr. Coulson, curling his mustache, "'a y–––– that is, a +man's—fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.'" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Lawsy, now!" exclaimed Mrs. Widdup; "ain't that right? Seems like it's in the +air."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"'In the spring,'" continued old Mr. Coulson, "'a livelier iris shines upon the +burnished dove.'"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"They do be lively, the Irish," sighed Mrs. Widdup pensively. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mrs. Widdup," said Mr. Coulson, making a face at a twinge of his gouty foot, "this +would be a lonesome house without you. I'm an—that is, I'm an elderly man—but +I'm worth a comfortable lot of money. If half a million dollars' worth of +Government bonds and the true affection of a heart that, though no longer beating +with the first ardour of youth, can still throb with genuine—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The loud noise of an overturned chair near the portières of the adjoining room +interrupted the venerable and scarcely suspecting victim of May.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In stalked Miss Van Meeker Constantia Coulson, bony, durable, tall, high-nosed, +frigid, well-bred, thirty-five, in-the-neighbourhood-of-Gramercy-Parkish. She put +up a lorgnette. Mrs. Widdup hastily stooped and arranged the bandages on Mr. +Coulson's gouty foot. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I thought Higgins was with you," said Miss Van Meeker Constantia. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Higgins went out," explained her father, "and Mrs. Widdup answered the bell. +That is better now, Mrs. Widdup, thank you. No; there is nothing else I require."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The housekeeper retired, pink under the cool, inquiring stare of Miss Coulson.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"This spring weather is lovely, isn't it, daughter?" said the old man, consciously +conscious.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"That's just it," replied Miss Van Meeker Constantia Coulson, somewhat obscurely. +"When does Mrs. Widdup start on her vacation, papa?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I believe she said a week from to-day," said Mr. Coulson. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Miss Van Meeker Constantia stood for a minute at the window gazing, toward the +little park, flooded with the mellow afternoon sunlight. With the eye of a botanist +she viewed the flowers—most potent weapons of insidious May. With the cool +pulses of a virgin of Cologne she withstood the attack of the ethereal mildness. The +arrows of the pleasant sunshine fell back, frostbitten, from the cold panoply of her +unthrilled bosom. The odour of the flowers waked no soft sentiments in the +unexplored recesses of her dormant heart. The chirp of the sparrows gave her a +pain. She mocked at May.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But although Miss Coulson was proof against the season, she was keen enough to +estimate its power. She knew that elderly men and thick-waisted women jumped as +educated fleas in the ridiculous train of May, the merry mocker of the months. She +had heard of foolish old gentlemen marrying their housekeepers before. What a +humiliating thing, after all, was this feeling called love!</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The next morning at 8 o'clock, when the iceman called, the cook told him that Miss +Coulson wanted to see him in the basement.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Well, ain't I the Olcott and Depew; not mentioning the first name at all?" said the +iceman, admiringly, of himself.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">As a concession he rolled his sleeves down, dropped his icehooks on a syringa and +went back. When Miss Van Meeker Constantia Coulson addressed him he took off +his hat.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"There is a rear entrance to this basement," said Miss Coulson, "which can be +reached by driving into the vacant lot next door, where they are excavating for a +building. I want you to bring in that way within two hours 1,000 pounds of ice. +You may have to bring another man or two to help you. I will show you where I +want it placed. I also want 1,000 pounds a day delivered the same way for the next +four days. Your company may charge the ice on our regular bill. This is for your +extra trouble."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Miss Coulson tendered a ten-dollar bill. The iceman bowed, and held his hat in his +two hands behind him.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Not if you'll excuse me, lady. It'll be a pleasure to fix things up for you any way +you please."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Alas for May!</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">About noon Mr. Coulson knocked two glasses off his table, broke the spring of his +bell and yelled for Higgins at the same time. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Bring an axe," commanded Mr. Coulson, sardonically, "or send out for a quart of +prussic acid, or have a policeman come in and shoot me. I'd rather that than be +frozen to death."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It does seem to be getting cool, Sir," said Higgins. "I hadn't noticed it before. I'll +close the window, Sir."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Do," said Mr. Coulson. "They call this spring, do they? If it keeps up long I'll go +back to Palm Beach. House feels like a morgue." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Later Miss Coulson dutifully came in to inquire how the gout was progressing.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"'Stantia," said the old man, "how is the weather outdoors?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Bright," answered Miss Coulson, "but chilly."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Feels like the dead of winter to me," said Mr. Coulson.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"An instance," said Constantia, gazing abstractedly out the window, "of 'winter +lingering in the lap of spring,' though the metaphor is not in the most refined taste."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A little later she walked down by the side of the little park and on westward to +Broadway to accomplish a little shopping.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A little later than that Mrs. Widdup entered the invalid's room. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Did you ring, Sir?" she asked, dimpling in many places. "I asked Higgins to go to +the drug store, and I thought I heard your bell." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I did not," said Mr. Coulson.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm afraid," said Mrs. Widdup, "I interrupted you sir, yesterday when you were +about to say something."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"How comes it, Mrs. Widdup," said old man Coulson sternly, "that I find it so cold +in this house?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Cold, Sir?" said the housekeeper, "why, now, since you speak of it it do seem cold +in this room. But, outdoors it's as warm and fine as June, sir. And how this +weather do seem to make one's heart jump out of one's shirt waist, sir. And the ivy +all leaved out on the side of the house, and the hand-organs playing, and the +children dancing on the sidewalk—'tis a great time for speaking out what's in the +heart. You were saying yesterday, sir—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Woman!" roared Mr. Coulson; "you are a fool. I pay you to take care of this +house. I am freezing to death in my own room, and you come in and drivel to me +about ivy and hand-organs. Get me an overcoat at once. See that all doors and +windows are closed below. An old, fat, irresponsible, one-sided object like you +prating about springtime and flowers in the middle of winter! When Higgins comes +back, tell him to bring me a hot rum punch. And now get out!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But who shall shame the bright face of May? Rogue though she be and disturber of +sane men's peace, no wise virgins cunning nor cold storage shall make her bow her +head in the bright galaxy of months. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Oh, yes, the story was not quite finished.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A night passed, and Higgins helped old man Coulson in the morning to his chair by +the window. The cold of the room was gone. Heavenly odours and fragrant +mildness entered.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In hurried Mrs. Widdup, and stood by his chair. Mr. Coulson reached his bony +hand and grasped her plump one.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mrs. Widdup," he said, "this house would be no home without you. I have half a +million dollars. If that and the true affection of a heart no lonoer in its youthful +prime, but still not cold, could—" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I found out what made it cold," said Mrs. Widdup, leanin' against his chair. +"'Twas ice—tons of it—in the basement and in the furnace room, everywhere. I shut +off the registers that it was coming through into your room, Mr. Coulson, poor soul! +And now it's Maytime again." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A true heart," went on old man Coulson, a little wanderingly, "that the springtime +has brought to life again, and—but what will my daughter say, Mrs. Widdup?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Never fear, sir," said Mrs. Widdup, cheerfully. "Miss Coulson, she ran away with +the iceman last night, sir!"</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="10"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +X<br> +<br> +A TECHNICAL ERROR<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I never cared especially for feuds, believing them to be even more overrated +products of our country than grapefruit, scrapple, or honeymoons. Nevertheless, if I +may be allowed, I will tell you of an Indian Territory feud of which I was +press-agent, camp-follower, and inaccessory during the fact.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I was on a visit to Sam Durkee's ranch, where I had a great time falling off +unmanicured ponies and waving my bare hand at the lower jaws of wolves about +two miles away. Sam was a hardened person of about twenty-five, with a +reputation for going home in the dark with perfect equanimity, though often with +reluctance.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Over in the Creek Nation was a family bearing the name of Tatum. I was told that +the Durkees and Tatums had been feuding for years. Several of each family had +bitten the grass, and it was expected that more Nebuchadnezzars would follow. A +younger generation of each family was growing up, and the grass was keeping pace +with them. But I gathered that they had fought fairly; that they had not lain in +cornfields and aimed at the division of their enemies' suspenders in the back—partly, +perhaps, because there were no cornfields, and nobody wore more than one +suspender. Nor had any woman or child of either house ever been harmed. In +those days—and you will find it so yet—their women were safe.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Sam Durkee had a girl. (If it were an all-fiction magazine that I expect to sell this +story to, I should say, "Mr. Durkee rejoiced in a fiancée.") Her name was Ella +Baynes. They appeared to be devoted to each other, and to have perfect confidence +in each other, as all couples do who are and have or aren't and haven't. She was +tolerably pretty, with a heavy mass of brown hair that helped her along. He +introduced me to her, which seemed not to lessen her preference for him; so I +reasoned that they were surely soul-mates.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Miss Baynes lived in Kingfisher, twenty miles from the ranch. Sam lived on a +gallop between the two places.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One day there came to Kingfisher a courageous young man, rather small, with +smooth face and regular features. He made many inquiries about the business of the +town, and especially of the inhabitants cognominally. He said he was from +Muscogee, and he looked it, with his yellow shoes and crocheted four-in-hand. I +met him once when I rode in for the mail. He said his name was Beverly Travers, +which seemed rather improbable.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">There were active times on the ranch, just then, and Sam was too busy to go to town +often. As an incompetent and generally worthless guest, it devolved upon me to +ride in for little things such as post cards, barrels of flour, baking-powder, +smoking-tobacco, and—letters from Ella.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One day, when I was messenger for half a gross of cigarette papers and a couple of +wagon tires, I saw the alleged Beverly Travers in a yellow-wheeled buggy with Ella +Baynes, driving about town as ostentatiously as the black, waxy mud would permit. +I knew that this information would bring no balm of Gilead to Sam's soul, so I +refrained from including it in the news of the city that I retailed on my return. But +on the next afternoon an elongated ex-cowboy of the name of Simmons, an old-time +pal of Sam's, who kept a feed store in Kingfisher, rode out to the ranch and rolled +and burned many cigarettes before he would talk. When he did make oration, his +words were these:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Say, Sam, there's been a description of a galoot miscallin' himself Bevel-edged +Travels impairing the atmospheric air of Kingfisher for the past two weeks. You +know who he was? He was not otherwise than Ben Tatum, from the Creek Nation, +son of old Gopher Tatum that your Uncle Newt shot last February. You know what +he done this morning? He killed your brother Lester—shot him in the co't-house +yard." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I wondered if Sam had heard. He pulled a twig from a mesquite bush, chewed it +gravely, and said:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"He did, did he? He killed Lester?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The same," said Simmons. "And he did more. He run away with your girl, the +same as to say Miss Ella Baynes. I thought you might like to know, so I rode out to +impart the information."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I am much obliged, Jim," said Sam, taking the chewed twig from his mouth. "Yes, +I'm glad you rode Out. Yes, I'm right glad." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Well, I'll be ridin' back, I reckon. That boy I left in the feed store don't know hay +from oats. He shot Lester in the back." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Shot him in the back?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Yes, while he was hitchin' his hoss."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm much obliged, Jim."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I kind of thought you'd like to know as soon as you could." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Come in and have some coffee before you ride back, Jim?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Why, no, I reckon not; I must get back to the store."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"And you say—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Yes, Sam. Everybody seen 'em drive away together in a buckboard, with a big +bundle, like clothes, tied up in the back of it. He was drivin' the team he brought +over with him from Muscogee. They'll be hard to overtake right away."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"And which—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I was goin' on to tell you. They left on the Guthrie road; but there's no tellin' which +forks they'll take—you know that." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"All right, Jim; much obliged."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You're welcome, Sam."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Simmons rolled a cigarette and stabbed his pony with both heels. Twenty yards +away he reined up and called back:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You don't want no—assistance, as you might say?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Not any, thanks."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I didn't think you would. Well, so long!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Sam took out and opened a bone-handled pocket-knife and scraped a dried piece of +mud from his left boot. I thought at first he was going to swear a vendetta on the +blade of it, or recite "The Gipsy's Curse." The few feuds I had ever seen or read +about usually opened that way. This one seemed to be presented with a new +treatment. Thus offered on the stage, it would have been hissed off, and one of +Belasco's thrilling melodramas demanded instead.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I wonder," said Sam, with a profoundly thoughtful expression, "if the cook has any +cold beans left over!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He called Wash, the Negro cook, and finding that he had some, ordered him to heat +up the pot and make some strong coffee. Then we went into Sam's private room, +where he slept, and kept his armoury, dogs, and the saddles of his favourite mounts. +He took three or four six-shooters out of a bookcase and began to look them over, +whistling "The Cowboy's Lament" abstractedly. Afterward he ordered the two best +horses on the ranch saddled and tied to the hitching-post. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Now, in the feud business, in all sections of the country, I have observed that in one +particular there is a delicate but strict etiquette belonging. You must not mention +the word or refer to the subject in the presence of a feudist. It would be more +reprehensible than commenting upon the mole on the chin of your rich aunt. I +found, later on, that there is another unwritten rule, but I think that belongs solely to +the West.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It yet lacked two hours to supper-time; but in twenty minutes Sam and I were +plunging deep into the reheated beans, hot coffee, and cold beef.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Nothing like a good meal before a long ride," said Sam. "Eat hearty." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I had a sudden suspicion.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Why did you have two horses saddled?" I asked.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"One, two—one, two," said Sam. "You can count, can't you?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">His mathematics carried with it a momentary qualm and a lesson. The thought had +not occurred to him that the thought could possibly occur to me not to ride at his +side on that red road to revenge and justice. It was the higher calculus. I was +booked for the trail. I began to eat more beans.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In an hour we set forth at a steady gallop eastward. Our horses were Kentucky-bred, +strengthened by the mesquite grass of the west. Ben Tatum's steeds may have been +swifter, and he had a good lead; but if he had heard the punctual thuds of the hoofs +of those trailers of ours, born in the heart of feudland, he might have felt that +retribution was creeping up on the hoof-prints of his dapper nags. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I knew that Ben Tatum's card to play was flight—flight until he came within the +safer territory of his own henchmen and supporters. He knew that the man pursuing +him would follow the trail to any end where it might lead.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">During the ride Sam talked of the prospect for rain, of the price of beef, and of the +musical glasses. You would have thought he had never had a brother or a +sweetheart or an enemy on earth. There are some subjects too big even for the +words in the "Unabridged." Knowing this phase of the feud code, but not having +practised it sufficiently, I overdid the thing by telling some slightly funny anecdotes. +Sam laughed at exactly the right place—laughed with his mouth. When I caught +sight of his mouth, I wished I had been blessed with enough sense of humour to +have suppressed those anecdotes.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Our first sight of them we had in Guthrie. Tired and hungry, we stumbled, +unwashed, into a little yellow-pine hotel and sat at a table. In the opposite corner +we saw the fugitives. They were bent upon their meal, but looked around at times +uneasily.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The girl was dressed in brown—one of these smooth, half-shiny, silky-looking +affairs with lace collar and cuffs, and what I believe they call an accordion-plaited +skirt. She wore a thick brown veil down to her nose, and a broad-brimmed straw +hat with some kind of feathers adorning it. The man wore plain, dark clothes, and +his hair was trimmed very short. He was such a man as you might see anywhere. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">There they were—the murderer and the woman he had stolen. There we were—the +rightful avenger, according to the code, and the supernumerary who writes these +words.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">For one time, at least, in the heart of the supernumerary there rose the killing +instinct. For one moment he joined the force of combatants—orally.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What are you waiting for, Sam?" I said in a whisper. "Let him have it now!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Sam gave a melancholy sigh.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You don't understand; but <i>he</i> does," he said. "<i>He</i> knows. Mr. Tenderfoot, there's +a rule out here among white men in the Nation that you can't shoot a man when he's +with a woman. I never knew it to be broke yet. You <i>can't</i> do it. You've got to get +him in a gang of men or by himself. That's why. He knows it, too. We all know. +So, that's Mr. Ben Tatum! One of the 'pretty men'! I'll cut him out of the herd +before they leave the hotel, and regulate his account!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">After supper the flying pair disappeared quickly. Although Sam haunted lobby and +stairway and halls half the night, in some mysterious way the fugitives eluded him; +and in the morning the veiled lady in the brown dress with the accordion-plaited +skirt and the dapper young man with the close-clipped hair, and the buckboard with +the prancing nags, were gone.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It is a monotonous story, that of the ride; so it shall be curtailed. Once again we +overtook them on a road. We were about fifty yards behind. They turned in the +buckboard and looked at us; then drove on without whipping up their horses. Their +safety no longer lay in speed. Ben Tatum knew. He knew that the only rock of +safety left to him was the code. There is no doubt that, had he been alone, the +matter would have been settled quickly with Sam Durkee in the usual way; but he +had something at his side that kept still the trigger-finger of both. It seemed likely +that he was no coward.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">So, you may perceive that woman, on occasions, may postpone instead of +precipitating conflict between man and man. But not willingly or consciously. She +is oblivious of codes.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Five miles farther, we came upon the future great Western city of Chandler. The +horses of pursuers and pursued were starved and weary. There was one hotel that +offered danger to man and entertainment to beast; so the four of us met again in the +dining room at the ringing of a bell so resonant and large that it had cracked the +welkin long ago. The dining room was not as large as the one at Guthrie. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Just as we were eating apple pie—how Ben Davises and tragedy impinge upon each +other!—I noticed Sam looking with keen intentness at our quarry where they were +seated at a table across the room. The girl still wore the brown dress with lace +collar and cuffs, and the veil drawn down to her nose. The man bent over his plate, +with his close cropped head held low.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"There's a code," I heard Sam say, either to me or to himself, "that won't let you +shoot a man in the company of a woman; but, by thunder, there ain't one to keep +you from killing a woman in the company of a man!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And, quicker than my mind could follow his argument, he whipped a Colt's +automatic from under his left arm and pumped six bullets into the body that the +brown dress covered—the brown dress with the lace collar and cuffs and the +accordion-plaited skirt.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The young person in the dark sack suit, from whose head and from whose life a +woman's glory had been clipped, laid her head on her arms stretched upon the table; +while people came running to raise Ben Tatum from the floor in his feminine +masquerade that had given Sam the opportunity to set aside, technically, the +obligations of the code. </span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="11"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XI<br> +<br> +SUITE HOMES AND THEIR ROMANCE<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Few young couples in the Big-City-of-Bluff began their married existence with +greater promise of happiness than did Mr. and Mrs. Claude Turpin. They felt no +especial animosity toward each other; they were comfortably established in a +handsome apartment house that had a name and accommodations like those of a +sleeping-car; they were living as expensively as the couple on the next floor above +who had twice their income; and their marriage had occurred on a wager, a +ferry-boat and first acquaintance, thus securing a sensational newspaper notice with +their names attached to pictures of the Queen of Roumania and M. Santos-Dumont.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Turpin's income was $200 per month. On pay day, after calculating the amounts +due for rent, instalments on furniture and piano, gas, and bills owed to the florist, +confectioner, milliner, tailor, wine merchant and cab company, the Turpins would +find that they still had $200 left to spend. How to do this is one of the secrets of +metropolitan life.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The domestic life of the Turpins was a beautiful picture to see. But you couldn't +gaze upon it as you could at an oleograph of "Don't Wake Grandma," or "Brooklyn +by Moonlight."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">You had to blink when looked at it; and you heard a fizzing sound just like the +machine with a "scope" at the end of it. Yes; there wasn't much repose about the +picture of the Turpins' domestic life. It was something like "Spearing Salmon in the +Columbia River," or "Japanese Artillery in Action."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Every day was just like another; as the days are in New York. In the morning +Turpin would take bromo-seltzer, his pocket change from under the clock, his hat, +no breakfast and his departure for the office. At noon Mrs. Turpin would get out of +bed and humour, put on a kimono, airs, and the water to boil for coffee.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Turpin lunched downtown. He came home at 6 to dress for dinner. They always +dined out. They strayed from the chop-house to chop-sueydom, from terrace to +table d'hôte, from rathskeller to roadhouse, from café to casino, from Maria's to the +Martha Washington. Such is domestic life in the great city. Your vine is the +mistletoe; your fig tree bears dates. Your household gods are Mercury and John +Howard Payne. For the wedding march you now hear only "Come with the Gypsy +Bride." You rarely dine at the same place twice in succession. You tire of the food; +and, besides, you want to give them time for the question of that souvenir silver +sugar bowl to blow over.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Turpins were therefore happy. They made many warm and delightful friends, +some of whom they remembered the next day. Their home life was an ideal one, +according to the rules and regulations of the Book of Bluff.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">There came a time when it dawned upon Turpin that his wife was getting away +with too much money. If you belong to the near-swell class in the Big City, and +your income is $200 per month, and you find at the end of the month, after looking +over the bills for current expenses, that you, yourself, have spent $150, you very +naturally wonder what has become of the other $50. So you suspect your wife. And +perhaps you give her a hint that something needs explanation.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I say, Vivien," said Turpin, one afternoon when they were enjoying in rapt silence +the peace and quiet of their cozy apartment, "you've been creating a hiatus big +enough for a dog to crawl through in this month's honorarium. You haven't been +paying your dressmaker anything on account, have you?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">There was a moment's silence. No sounds could be heard except the breathing of +the fox terrier, and the subdued, monotonous sizzling of Vivien's fulvous locks +against the insensate curling irons. Claude Turpin, sitting upon a pillow that he had +thoughtfully placed upon the convolutions of the apartment sofa, narrowly watched +the riante, lovely face of his wife.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Claudie, dear," said she, touching her finger to her ruby tongue and testing the +unresponsive curling irons, "you do me an injustice. Mme. Toinette has not seen a +cent of mine since the day you paid your tailor ten dollars on account."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Turpin's suspicions were allayed for the time. But one day soon there came an +anonymous letter to him that read:</span></p> +<br> +<blockquote> +<span style="font-size: 12pt"> + Watch your wife. She is blowing in your money secretly. I was a sufferer just as you +are. The place is No. 345 Blank Street. A word to the wise, etc.<br> +<br> + A MAN WHO KNOWS.<br> +</span> +</blockquote> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Turpin took this letter to the captain of police of the precinct that he lived in.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"My precinct is as clean as a hound's tooth," said the captain. "The lid's shut down +as close there as it is over the eye of a Williamsburg girl when she's kissed at a +party. But if you think there's anything queer at the address, I'll go there with ye."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On the next afternoon at 3, Turpin and the captain crept softly up the stairs of No. +345 Blank Street. A dozen plain-clothes men, dressed in full police uniforms, so as +to allay suspicion, waited in the hall below.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At the top of the stairs was a door, which was found to be locked. The captain took +a key from his pocket and unlocked it. The two men entered.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">They found themselves in a large room, occupied by twenty or twenty-five +elegantly clothed ladies. Racing charts hung against the walls, a ticker clicked in +one corner; with a telephone receiver to his ear a man was calling out the various +positions of the horses in a very exciting race. The occupants of the room looked +up at the intruders; but, as if reassured by the sight of the captain's uniform, they +reverted their attention to the man at the telephone.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You see," said the captain to Turpin, "the value of an anonymous letter! No +high-minded and self-respecting gentleman should consider one worthy of notice. Is +your wife among this assembly, Mr. Turpin?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"She is not," said Turpin.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"And if she was," continued the captain, "would she be within the reach of the +tongue of slander? These ladies constitute a Browning Society. They meet to +discuss the meaning of the great poet. The telephone is connected with Boston, +whence the parent society transmits frequently its interpretations of the poems. Be +ashamed of yer suspicions, Mr. Turpin."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Go soak your shield," said Turpin. "Vivien knows how to take care of herself in a +pool-room. She's not dropping anything on the ponies. There must be something +queer going on here."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Nothing but Browning," said the captain. "Hear that?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Thanatopsis by a nose," drawled the man at the telephone. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"That's not Browning; that's Longfellow," said Turpin, who sometimes read books.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Back to the pasture!" exclaimed the captain. "Longfellow made the +pacing-to-wagon record of 7.53 'way back in 1868."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I believe there's something queer about this joint," repeated Turpin. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I don't see it," said the captain.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I know it looks like a pool-room, all right," persisted Turpin, "but that's all a blind. +Vivien has been dropping a lot of coin somewhere. I believe there's some +under-handed work going on here."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A number of racing sheets were tacked close together, covering a large space on one +of the walls. Turpin, suspicious, tore several of them down. A door, previously +hidden, was revealed. Turpin placed an ear to the crack and listened intently. He +heard the soft hum of many voices, low and guarded laughter, and a sharp, metallic +clicking and scraping as if from a multitude of tiny but busy objects.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"My God! It is as I feared!" whispered Turpin to himself. "Summon your men at +once!" he called to the captain. "She is in there, I know."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At the blowing of the captain's whistle the uniformed plain-clothes men rushed up +the stairs into the pool-room. When they saw the betting paraphernalia distributed +around they halted, surprised and puzzled to know why they had been summoned.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But the captain pointed to the locked door and bade them break it down. In a few +moments they demolished it with the axes they carried. Into the other room sprang +Claude Turpin, with the captain at his heels.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The scene was one that lingered long in Turpin's mind. Nearly a score of +women—women expensively and fashionably clothed, many beautiful and of refined +appearance—had been seated at little marble-topped tables. When the police burst +open the door they shrieked and ran here and there like gayly plumed birds that had +been disturbed in a tropical grove. Some became hysterical; one or two fainted; +several knelt at the feet of the officers and besought them for mercy on account of +their families and social position.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A man who had been seated behind a desk had seized a roll of currency as large as +the ankle of a Paradise Roof Gardens chorus girl and jumped out of the window. +Half a dozen attendants huddled at one end of the room, breathless from fear.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Upon the tables remained the damning and incontrovertible evidences of the guilt of +the habituées of that sinister room—dish after dish heaped high with ice cream, and +surrounded by stacks of empty ones, scraped to the last spoonful.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ladies," said the captain to his weeping circle of prisoners, "I'll not hold any of +yez. Some of yez I recognize as having fine houses and good standing in the +community, with hard-working husbands and childer at home. But I'll read ye a bit +of a lecture before ye go. In the next room there's a 20-to-1 shot just dropped in +under the wire three lengths ahead of the field. Is this the way ye waste your +husbands' money instead of helping earn it? Home wid yez! The lid's on the +ice-cream freezer in this precinct."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Claude Turpin's wife was among the patrons of the raided room. He led her to their +apartment in stem silence. There she wept so remorsefully and besought his +forgiveness so pleadingly that he forgot his just anger, and soon he gathered his +penitent golden-haired Vivien in his arms and forgave her.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Darling," she murmured, half sobbingly, as the moonlight drifted through the open +window, glorifying her sweet, upturned face, "I know I done wrong. I will never +touch ice cream again. I forgot you were not a millionaire. I used to go there every +day. But to-day I felt some strange, sad presentiment of evil, and I was not myself. +I ate only eleven saucers."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Say no more," said Claude, gently as he fondly caressed her waving curls.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"And you are sure that you fully forgive me?" asked Vivien, gazing at him +entreatingly with dewy eyes of heavenly blue.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Almost sure, little one," answered Claude, stooping and lightly touching her snowy +forehead with his lips. "I'll let you know later on. I've got a month's salary down on +Vanilla to win the three-year-old steeplechase to-morrow; and if the ice-cream +hunch is to the good you are It again—see?"</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="12"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XII<br> +<br> +THE WHIRLIGIG OF LIFE<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Justice-of-the-Peace Benaja Widdup sat in the door of his office smoking his +elder-stem pipe. Half-way to the zenith the Cumberland range rose blue-gray in the +afternoon haze. A speckled hen swaggered down the main street of the +"settlement," cackling foolishly. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Up the road came a sound of creaking axles, and then a slow cloud of dust, and +then a bull-cart bearing Ransie Bilbro and his wife. The cart stopped at the Justice's +door, and the two climbed down. Ransie was a narrow six feet of sallow brown +skin and yellow hair. The imperturbability of the mountains hung upon him like a +suit of armour. The woman was calicoed, angled, snuff-brushed, and weary with +unknown desires. Through it all gleamed a faint protest of cheated youth +unconscious of its loss.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Justice of the Peace slipped his feet into his shoes, for the sake of dignity, and +moved to let them enter.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"We-all," said the woman, in a voice like the wind blowing through pine boughs, +"wants a divo'ce." She looked at Ransie to see if he noted any flaw or ambiguity or +evasion or partiality or self-partisanship in her statement of their business.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A divo'ce," repeated Ransie, with a solemn nod. "We-all can't git along together +nohow. It's lonesome enough fur to live in the mount'ins when a man and a woman +keers fur one another. But when she's a-spittin' like a wildcat or a-sullenin' like a +hoot-owl in the cabin, a man ain't got no call to live with her."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"When he's a no-'count varmint," said the woman, "without any especial warmth, +a-traipsin' along of scalawags and moonshiners and a-layin' on his back pizen 'ith +co'n whiskey, and a-pesterin' folks with a pack o' hungry, triflin' houn's to feed!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"When she keeps a-throwin' skillet lids," came Ransie's antiphony, "and slings b'ilin' +water on the best coon-dog in the Cumberlands, and sets herself agin' cookin' a +man's victuals, and keeps him awake o' nights accusin' him of a sight of doin's!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"When he's al'ays a-fightin' the revenues, and gits a hard name in the mount'ins fur +a mean man, who's gwine to be able fur to sleep o' nights?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Justice of the Peace stirred deliberately to his duties. He placed his one chair +and a wooden stool for his petitioners. He opened his book of statutes on the table +and scanned the index. Presently he wiped his spectacles and shifted his inkstand. </span></p> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The law and the statutes," said he, "air silent on the subjeck of divo'ce as fur as the +jurisdiction of this co't air concerned. But, accordin' to equity and the Constitution +and the golden rule, it's a bad barg'in that can't run both ways. If a justice of the +peace can marry a couple, it's plain that he is bound to be able to divo'ce 'em. This +here office will issue a decree of divo'ce and abide by the decision of the Supreme +Co't to hold it good."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Ransie Bilbro drew a small tobacco-bag from his trousers pocket. Out of this he +shook upon the table a five-dollar note. "Sold a b'arskin and two foxes fur that," he +remarked. "It's all the money we got." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The regular price of a divo'ce in this co't," said the Justice, "air five dollars." He +stuffed the bill into the pocket of his homespun vest with a deceptive air of +indifference. With much bodily toil and mental travail he wrote the decree upon +half a sheet of foolscap, and then copied it upon the other. Ransie Bilbro and his +wife listened to his reading of the document that was to give them freedom: </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Know all men by these presents that Ransie Bilbro and his wife, Ariela Bilbro, this +day personally appeared before me and promises that hereinafter they will neither +love, honour, nor obey each other, neither for better nor worse, being of sound mind +and body, and accept summons for divorce according to the peace and dignity of +the State. Herein fail not, so help you God. Benaja Widdup, justice of the peace in +and for the county of Piedmont, State of Tennessee."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Justice was about to hand one of the documents to Ransie. The voice of Ariela +delayed the transfer. Both men looked at her. Their dull masculinity was confronted +by something sudden and unexpected in the woman.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Judge, don't you give him that air paper yit. 'Tain't all settled, nohow. I got to +have my rights first. I got to have my ali-money. 'Tain't no kind of a way to do fur a +man to divo'ce his wife 'thout her havin' a cent fur to do with. I'm a-layin' off to be +a-goin' up to brother Ed's up on Hogback Mount'in. I'm bound fur to hev a pa'r of +shoes and some snuff and things besides. Ef Rance kin affo'd a divo'ce, let him pay +me ali-money."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Ransie Bilbro was stricken to dumb perplexity. There had been no previous hint of +alimony. Women were always bringing up startling and unlooked-for issues.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Justice Benaja Widdup felt that the point demanded judicial decision. The +authorities were also silent on the subject of alimony. But the woman's feet were +bare. The trail to Hogback Mountain was steep and flinty.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ariela Bilbro," he asked, in official tones, "how much did you 'low would be good +and sufficient ali-money in the case befo' the co't." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I 'lowed," she answered, "fur the shoes and all, to say five dollars. That ain't much +fur ali-money, but I reckon that'll git me to up brother Ed's."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The amount," said the Justice, "air not onreasonable. Ransie Bilbro, you air +ordered by the co't to pay the plaintiff the sum of five dollars befo' the decree of +divo'ce air issued."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I hain't no mo' money," breathed Ransie, heavily. "I done paid you all I had."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Otherwise," said the Justice, looking severely over his spectacles, "you air in +contempt of co't."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I reckon if you gimme till to-morrow," pleaded the husband, "I mout be able to +rake or scrape it up somewhars. I never looked for to be a-payin' no ali-money."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The case air adjourned," said Benaja Widdup, "till to-morrow, when you-all will +present yo'selves and obey the order of the co't. Followin' of which the decrees of +divo'ce will be delivered." He sat down in the door and began to loosen a +shoestring.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"We mout as well go down to Uncle Ziah's," decided Ransie, "and spend the night." +He climbed into the cart on one side, and Ariela climbed in on the other. Obeying +the flap of his rope, the little red bull slowly came around on a tack, and the cart +crawled away in the nimbus arising from its wheels.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Justice-of-the-peace Benaja Widdup smoked his elder-stem pipe. Late in the +afternoon he got his weekly paper, and read it until the twilight dimmed its lines. +Then he lit the tallow candle on his table, and read until the moon rose, marking the +time for supper. He lived in the double log cabin on the slope near the girdled +poplar. Going home to supper he crossed a little branch darkened by a laurel thicket. +The dark figure of a man stepped from the laurels and pointed a rifle at his breast. +His hat was pulled down low, and something covered most of his face.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I want yo' money," said the figure, "'thout any talk. I'm gettin' nervous, and my +finger's a-wabblin' on this here trigger." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I've only got f-f-five dollars," said the Justice, producing it from his vest pocket.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Roll it up," came the order, "and stick it in the end of this here gun-bar'l."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The bill was crisp and new. Even fingers that were clumsy and trembling found +little difficulty in making a spill of it and inserting it (this with less ease) into the +muzzle of the rifle. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Now I reckon you kin be goin' along," said the robber.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Justice lingered not on his way.</span></p> + + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The next day came the little red bull, drawing the cart to the office door. Justice +Benaja Widdup had his shoes on, for he was expecting the visit. In his presence +Ransie Bilbro handed to his wife a five-dollar bill. The official's eye sharply +viewed it. It seemed to curl up as though it had been rolled and inserted into the +end of a gun-barrel. But the Justice refrained from comment. It is true that other +bills might be inclined to curl. He handed each one a decree of divorce. Each stood +awkwardly silent, slowly folding the guarantee of freedom. The woman cast a shy +glance full of constraint at Ransie. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I reckon you'll be goin' back up to the cabin," she said, along 'ith the bull-cart. +There's bread in the tin box settin' on the shelf. I put the bacon in the b'ilin'-pot to +keep the hounds from gittin' it. Don't forget to wind the clock to-night."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You air a-goin' to your brother Ed's?" asked Ransie, with fine unconcern.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I was 'lowin' to get along up thar afore night. I ain't sayin' as they'll pester +theyselves any to make me welcome, but I hain't nowhar else fur to go. It's a right +smart ways, and I reckon I better be goin'. I'll be a-sayin' good-bye, Ranse—that is, +if you keer fur to say so."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I don't know as anybody's a hound dog," said Ransie, in a martyr's voice, "fur to +not want to say good-bye—'less you air so anxious to git away that you don't want +me to say it."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Ariela was silent. She folded the five-dollar bill and her decree carefully, and +placed them in the bosom of her dress. Benaja Widdup watched the money +disappear with mournful eyes behind his spectacles. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And then with his next words he achieved rank (as his thoughts ran) with either the +great crowd of the world's sympathizers or the little crowd of its great financiers.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Be kind o' lonesome in the old cabin to-night, Ranse," he said. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Ransie Bilbro stared out at the Cumberlands, clear blue now in the sunlight. He did +not look at Ariela.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I 'low it might be lonesome," he said; "but when folks gits mad and wants a +divo'ce, you can't make folks stay."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"There's others wanted a divo'ce," said Ariela, speaking to the wooden stool. +"Besides, nobody don't want nobody to stay."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Nobody never said they didn't."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Nobody never said they did. I reckon I better start on now to brother Ed's."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Nobody can't wind that old clock."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Want me to go back along 'ith you in the cart and wind it fur you, Ranse?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The mountaineer's countenance was proof against emotion. But he reached out a +big hand and enclosed Ariela's thin brown one. Her soul peeped out once through +her impassive face, hallowing it.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Them hounds shan't pester you no more," said Ransie. "I reckon I been mean and +low down. You wind that clock, Ariela."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"My heart hit's in that cabin, Ranse," she whispered, "along 'ith you. I ai'nt a-goin' +to git mad no more. Le's be startin', Ranse, so's we kin git home by sundown." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Justice-of-the-peace Benaja Widdup interposed as they started for the door, +forgetting his presence. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"In the name of the State of Tennessee," he said, "I forbid you-all to be a-defyin' of +its laws and statutes. This co't is mo' than willin' and full of joy to see the clouds of +discord and misunderstandin' rollin' away from two lovin' hearts, but it air the duty +of the co't to p'eserve the morals and integrity of the State. The co't reminds you +that you air no longer man and wife, but air divo'ced by regular decree, and as such +air not entitled to the benefits and 'purtenances of the mattermonal estate."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Ariela caught Ransie's arm. Did those words mean that she must lose him now +when they had just learned the lesson of life?</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"But the co't air prepared," went on the Justice, "fur to remove the disabilities set up +by the decree of divo'ce. The co't air on hand to perform the solemn ceremony of +marri'ge, thus fixin' things up and enablin' the parties in the case to resume the +honour'ble and elevatin' state of mattermony which they desires. The fee fur +performin' said ceremony will be, in this case, to wit, five dollars." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Ariela caught the gleam of promise in his words. Swiftly her hand went to her +bosom. Freely as an alighting dove the bill fluttered to the Justice's table. Her +sallow cheek coloured as she stood hand in hand with Ransie and listened to the +reuniting words.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Ransie helped her into the cart, and climbed in beside her. The little red bull turned +once more, and they set out, hand-clasped, for the mountains.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Justice-of-the-peace Benaja Widdup sat in his door and took off his shoes. Once +again he fingered the bill tucked down in his vest pocket. Once again he smoked +his elder-stem pipe. Once again the speckled hen swaggered down the main street +of the "settlement," cackling foolishly.</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="13"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XIII<br> +<br> +A SACRIFICE HIT<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The editor of the <i>Hearthstone Magazine</i> has his own ideas about the selection of +manuscript for his publication. His theory is no secret; in fact, he will expound it to +you willingly sitting at his mahogany desk, smiling benignantly and tapping his +knee gently with his gold-rimmed eye-glasses.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The <i>Hearthstone</i>," he will say, "does not employ a staff of readers. We obtain +opinions of the manuscripts submitted to us directly from types of the various +classes of our readers."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">That is the editor's theory; and this is the way he carries it out: </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When a batch of MSS. is received the editor stuffs every one of his pockets full of +them and distributes them as he goes about during the day. The office employees, +the hall porter, the janitor, the elevator man, messenger boys, the waiters at the café +where the editor has luncheon, the man at the news-stand where he buys his +evening paper, the grocer and milkman, the guard on the 5.30 uptown elevated +train, the ticket-chopper at Sixty ––––th street, the cook and maid at his home—these +are the readers who pass upon MSS. sent in to the <i>Hearthstone Magazine</i>. If his +pockets are not entirely emptied by the time he reaches the bosom of his family the +remaining ones are handed over to his wife to read after the baby goes to sleep. A +few days later the editor gathers in the MSS. during his regular rounds and +considers the verdict of his assorted readers.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">This system of making up a magazine has been very successful; and the circulation, +paced by the advertising rates, is making a wonderful record of speed.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The <i>Hearthstone</i> Company also publishes books, and its imprint is to be found on +several successful works—all recommended, says the editor, by the <i>Hearthstone's</i> +army of volunteer readers. Now and then (according to talkative members of the +editorial staff) the <i>Hearthstone</i> has allowed manuscripts to slip through its fingers +on the advice of its heterogeneous readers, that afterward proved to be famous +sellers when brought out by other houses.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">For instance (the gossips say), "The Rise and Fall of Silas Latham" was +unfavourably passed upon by the elevator-man; the office-boy unanimously rejected +"The Boss"; "In the Bishop's Carriage" was contemptuously looked upon by the +street-car conductor; "The Deliverance" was turned down by a clerk in the +subscription department whose wife's mother had just begun a two-months' visit at +his home; "The Queen's Quair" came back from the janitor with the comment: "So +is the book."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But nevertheless the <i>Hearthstone</i> adheres to its theory and system, and it will never +lack volunteer readers; for each one of the widely scattered staff, from the young +lady stenographer in the editorial office to the man who shovels in coal (whose +adverse decision lost to the <i>Hearthstone</i> Company the manuscript of "The Under +World"), has expectations of becoming editor of the magazine some day.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">This method of the <i>Hearthstone</i> was well known to Allen Slayton when he wrote +his novelette entitled "Love Is All." Slayton had hung about the editorial offices of +all the magazines so persistently that he was acquainted with the inner workings of +every one in Gotham. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He knew not only that the editor of the Hearthstone handed his MSS. around among +different types of people for reading, but that the stories of sentimental love-interest +went to Miss Puffkin, the editor's stenographer. Another of the editor's peculiar +customs was to conceal invariably the name of the writer from his readers of MSS. +so that a glittering name might not influence the sincerity of their reports.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Slayton made "Love Is All" the effort of his life. He gave it six months of the best +work of his heart and brain. It was a pure love-story, fine, elevated, romantic, +passionate—a prose poem that set the divine blessing of love (I am transposing from +the manuscript) high above all earthly gifts and honours, and listed it in the +catalogue of heaven's choicest rewards. Slayton's literary ambition was intense. He +would have sacrificed all other worldly possessions to have gained fame in his +chosen art. He would almost have cut off his right hand, or have offered himself to +the knife of the appendicitis fancier to have realized his dream of seeing one of his +efforts published in the <i>Hearthstone</i>.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Slayton finished "Love Is All," and took it to the <i>Hearthstone</i> in person. The office +of the magazine was in a large, conglomerate building, presided under by a janitor.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">As the writer stepped inside the door on his way to the elevator a potato masher +flew through the hall, wrecking Slayton's hat, and smashing the glass of the door. +Closely following in the wake of the utensil flew the janitor, a bulky, unwholesome +man, suspenderless and sordid, panic-stricken and breathless. A frowsy, fat woman +with flying hair followed the missile. The janitor's foot slipped on the tiled floor, he +fell in a heap with an exclamation of despair. The woman pounced upon him and +seized his hair. The man bellowed lustily. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Her vengeance wreaked, the virago rose and stalked triumphant as Minerva, back to +some cryptic domestic retreat at the rear. The janitor got to his feet, blown and +humiliated.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"This is married life," he said to Slayton, with a certain bruised humour. "That's the +girl I used to lay awake of nights thinking about. Sorry about your hat, mister. Say, +don't snitch to the tenants about this, will yer? I don't want to lose me job."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Slayton took the elevator at the end of the hall and went up to the offices of the +<i>Hearthstone</i>. He left the MS. of "Love Is All" with the editor, who agreed to give +him an answer as to its availability at the end of a week.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Slayton formulated his great winning scheme on his way down. It struck him with +one brilliant flash, and he could not refrain from admiring his own genius in +conceiving the idea. That very night he set about carrying it into execution.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Miss Puffkin, the <i>Hearthstone</i> stenographer, boarded in the same house with the +author. She was an oldish, thin, exclusive, languishing, sentimental maid; and +Slayton had been introduced to her some time before.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The writer's daring and self-sacrificing project was this: He knew that the editor of +the <i>Hearthstone</i> relied strongly upon Miss Puffkin's judgment in the manuscript of +romantic and sentimental fiction. Her taste represented the immense average of +mediocre women who devour novels and stories of that type. The central idea and +keynote of "Love Is All" was love at first sight—the enrapturing,</span></p> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">irresistible, soul-thrilling feeling that compels a man or a woman to recognize his or +her spirit-mate as soon as heart speaks to heart. Suppose he should impress this +divine truth upon Miss Puffkin personally!—would she not surely indorse her new +and rapturous sensations by recommending highly to the editor of the <i>Hearthstone</i> +the novelette "Love Is All"?</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Slayton thought so. And that night he took Miss Puffkin to the theatre. The next +night he made vehement love to her in the dim parlour of the boarding-house. He +quoted freely from "Love Is All"; and he wound up with Miss Puffkin's head on his +shoulder, and visions of literary fame dancing in his head.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But Slayton did not stop at love-making. This, he said to himself, was the turning +point of his life; and, like a true sportsman, he "went the limit." On Thursday night +he and Miss Puffkin walked over to the Big Church in the Middle of the Block and +were married. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Brave Slayton! Châteaubriand died in a garret, Byron courted a widow, Keats +starved to death, Poe mixed his drinks, De Quincey hit the pipe, Ade lived in +Chicago, James kept on doing it, Dickens wore white socks, De Maupassant wore a +strait-jacket, Tom Watson became a Populist, Jeremiah wept, all these authors did +these things for the sake of literature, but thou didst cap them all; thou marriedst a +wife for to carve for thyself a niche in the temple of fame!</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On Friday morning Mrs. Slayton said she would go over to the <i>Hearthstone</i> office, +hand in one or two manuscripts that the editor had given to her to read, and resign her +position as stenographer. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Was there anything—er—that—er—you particularly fancied in the stories you are +going to turn in?" asked Slayton with a thumping heart.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"There was one—a novelette, that I liked so much," said his wife. "I haven't read +anything in years that I thought was half as nice and true to life."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">That afternoon Slayton hurried down to the <i>Hearthstone</i> office. He felt that his +reward was close at hand. With a novelette in the <i>Hearthstone</i>, literary reputation +would soon be his.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The office boy met him at the railing in the outer office. It was not for unsuccessful +authors to hold personal colloquy with the editor except at rare intervals.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Slayton, hugging himself internally, was nursing in his heart the exquisite hope of +being able to crush the office boy with his forthcoming success.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He inquired concerning his novelette. The office boy went into the sacred precincts +and brought forth a large envelope, thick with more than the bulk of a thousand +checks.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The boss told me to tell you he's sorry," said the boy, "but your manuscript ain't +available for the magazine."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Slayton stood, dazed. "Can you tell me," he stammered, "whether or no Miss +Puff—that is my—I mean Miss Puffkin—handed in a novelette this morning that she +had been asked to read?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Sure she did," answered the office boy wisely. "I heard the old man say that Miss +Puffkin said it was a daisy. The name of it was, 'Married for the Mazuma, or a +Working Girl's Triumph.'"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Say, you!" said the office boy confidentially, "your name's Slayton, ain't it? I +guess I mixed cases on you without meanin' to do it. The boss give me some +manuscript to hand around the other day and I got the ones for Miss Puffkin and the +janitor mixed. I guess it's all right, though."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And then Slayton looked closer and saw on the cover of his manuscript, under the +title "Love Is All," the janitor's comment scribbled with a piece of charcoal:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The –––– you say!"</span></p> + +<br> +<br> +<a name="14"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XIV<br> +<br> +THE ROADS WE TAKE<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Twenty miles west of Tucson, the "Sunset Express" stopped at a tank to take on +water. Besides the aqueous addition the engine of that famous flyer acquired some +other things that were not good for it. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">While the fireman was lowering the feeding hose, Bob Tidball, "Shark" Dodson and +a quarter-bred Creek Indian called John Big Dog climbed on the engine and showed +the engineer three round orifices in pieces of ordnance that they carried. These +orifices so impressed the engineer with their possibilities that he raised both hands +in a gesture such as accompanies the ejaculation "Do tell!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At the crisp command of Shark Dodson, who was leader of the attacking force the +engineer descended to the ground and uncoupled the engine and tender. Then John +Big Dog, perched upon the coal, sportively held two guns upon the engine driver +and the fireman, and suggested that they run the engine fifty yards away and there +await further orders. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Shark Dodson and Bob Tidball, scorning to put such low-grade ore as the +passengers through the mill, struck out for the rich pocket of the express car. They +found the messenger serene in the belief that the "Sunset Express" was taking on +nothing more stimulating and dangerous than aqua pura. While Bob was knocking +this idea out of his head with the butt-end of his six-shooter Shark Dodson was +already dosing the express-car safe with dynamite.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The safe exploded to the tune of $30,000, all gold and currency. The passengers +thrust their heads casually out of the windows to look for the thunder-cloud. The +conductor jerked at the bell-rope, which sagged down loose and unresisting, at his +tug. Shark Dodson and Bob Tidball, with their booty in a stout canvas bag, +tumbled out of the express car and ran awkwardly in their high-heeled boots to the +engine.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The engineer, sullenly angry but wise, ran the engine, according to orders, rapidly +away from the inert train. But before this was accomplished the express messenger, +recovered from Bob Tidball's persuader to neutrality, jumped out of his car with a +Winchester rifle and took a trick in the game. Mr. John Big Dog, sitting on the coal +tender, unwittingly made a wrong lead by giving an imitation of a target, and the +messenger trumped him. With a ball exactly between his shoulder blades the Creek +chevalier of industry rolled off to the ground, thus increasing the share of his +comrades in the loot by one-sixth each.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Two miles from the tank the engineer was ordered to stop.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The robbers waved a defiant adieu and plunged down the steep slope into the thick +woods that lined the track. Five minutes of crashing through a thicket of chaparral +brought them to open woods, where three horses were tied to low-hanging +branches. One was waiting for John Big Dog, who would never ride by night or +day again. This animal the robbers divested of saddle and bridle and set free. They +mounted the other two with the bag across one pommel, and rode fast and with +discretion through the forest and up a primeval, lonely gorge. Here the animal that +bore Bob Tidball slipped on a mossy boulder and broke a foreleg. They shot him +through the head at once and sat down to hold a council of flight. Made secure for +the present by the tortuous trail they had travelled, the question of time was no +longer so big. Many miles and hours lay between them and the spryest posse that +could follow. Shark Dodson's horse, with trailing rope and dropped bridle, panted +and cropped thankfully of the grass along the stream in the gorge. Bob Tidball +opened the sack, drew out double handfuls of the neat packages of currency and the +one sack of gold and chuckled with the glee of a child.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Say, you old double-decked pirate," he called joyfully to Dodson, "you said we +could do it—you got a head for financing that knocks the horns off of anything in +Arizona."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What are we going to do about a hoss for you, Bob? We ain't got long to wait here. +They'll be on our trail before daylight in the mornin'."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, I guess that cayuse of yourn'll carry double for a while," answered the +sanguine Bob. "We'll annex the first animal we come across. By jingoes, we made +a haul, didn't we? Accordin' to the marks on this money there's $30,000—$15,000 +apiece!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's short of what I expected," said Shark Dodson, kicking softly at the packages +with the toe of his boot. And then he looked pensively at the wet sides of his tired +horse.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Old Bolivar's mighty nigh played out," he said, slowly. "I wish that sorrel of yours +hadn't got hurt."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"So do I," said Bob, heartily, "but it can't be helped. Bolivar's got plenty of +bottom—he'll get us both far enough to get fresh mounts. Dang it, Shark, I can't help +thinkin' how funny it is that an Easterner like you can come out here and give us +Western fellows cards and spades in the desperado business. What part of the East +was you from, anyway?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"New York State," said Shark Dodson, sitting down on a boulder and chewing a +twig. "I was born on a farm in Ulster County. I ran away from home when I was +seventeen. It was an accident my coming West. I was walkin' along the road with +my clothes in a bundle, makin' for New York City. I had an idea of goin' there and +makin' lots of money. I always felt like I could do it. I came to a place one evenin' +where the road forked and I didn't know which fork to take. I studied about it for +half an hour, and then I took the left-hand. That night I run into the camp of a Wild +West show that was travellin' among the little towns, and I went West with it. I've +often wondered if I wouldn't have turned out different if I'd took the other road."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, I reckon you'd have ended up about the same," said Bob Tidball, cheerfully +philosophical. "It ain't the roads we take; it's what's inside of us that makes us turn +out the way we do."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Shark Dodson got up and leaned against a tree.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'd a good deal rather that sorrel of yourn hadn't hurt himself, Bob," he said again, +almost pathetically.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Same here," agreed Bob; "he was sure a first-rate kind of a crowbait. But Bolivar, +he'll pull us through all right. Reckon we'd better be movin' on, hadn't we, Shark? +I'll bag this boodle ag'in and we'll hit the trail for higher timber."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bob Tidball replaced the spoil in the bag and tied the mouth of it tightly with a cord. +When he looked up the most prominent object that he saw was the muzzle of Shark +Dodson's .45 held upon him without a waver.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Stop your funnin'," said Bob, with a grin. "We got to be hittin' the breeze."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Set still," said Shark. "You ain't goin' to hit no breeze, Bob. I hate to tell you, but +there ain't any chance for but one of us. Bolivar, he's plenty tired, and he can't carry +double."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"We been pards, me and you, Shark Dodson, for three year," Bob said quietly. +"We've risked our lives together time and again. I've always give you a square deal, +and I thought you was a man. I've heard some queer stories about you shootin' one +or two men in a peculiar way, but I never believed 'em. Now if you're just havin' a +little fun with me, Shark, put your gun up, and we'll get on Bolivar and vamose. If +you mean to shoot—shoot, you blackhearted son of a tarantula!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Shark Dodson's face bore a deeply sorrowful look. "You don't know how bad I +feel," he sighed, "about that sorrel of yourn breakin' his leg, Bob."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The expression on Dodson's face changed in an instant to one of cold ferocity +mingled with inexorable cupidity. The soul of the man showed itself for a moment +like an evil face in the window of a reputable house.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Truly Bob Tidball was never to "hit the breeze" again. The deadly .45 of the false +friend cracked and filled the gorge with a roar that the walls hurled back with +indignant echoes. And Bolivar, unconscious accomplice, swiftly bore away the last +of the holders-up of the "Sunset Express," not put to the stress of "carrying double." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But as "Shark" Dodson galloped away the woods seemed to fade from his view; the +revolver in his right hand turned to the curved arm of a mahogany chair; his saddle +was strangely upholstered, and he opened his eyes and saw his feet, not in stirrups, +but resting quietly on the edge of a quartered-oak desk.</span></p> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I am telling you that Dodson, of the firm of Dodson & Decker, Wall Street brokers, +opened his eyes. Peabody, the confidential clerk, was standing by his chair, +hesitating to speak. There was a confused hum of wheels below, and the sedative +buzz of an electric fan. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ahem! Peabody," said Dodson, blinking. "I must have fallen asleep. I had a most +remarkable dream. What is it, Peabody?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mr. Williams, sir, of Tracy & Williams, is outside. He has come to settle his deal +in X. Y. Z. The market caught him short, sir, if you remember."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Yes, I remember. What is X. Y. Z. quoted at to-day, Peabody?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"One eighty-five, sir."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Then that's his price."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Excuse me," said Peabody, rather nervously "for speaking of it, but I've been +talking to Williams. He's an old friend of yours, Mr. Dodson, and you practically +have a corner in X. Y. Z. I thought you might—that is, I thought you might not +remember that he sold you the stock at 98. If he settles at the market price it will +take every cent he has in the world and his home too to deliver the shares." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The expression on Dodson's face changed in an instant to one of cold ferocity +mingled with inexorable cupidity. The soul of the man showed itself for a moment +like an evil face in the window of a reputable house.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"He will settle at one eighty-five," said Dodson. "Bolivar cannot carry double."</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="15"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XV<br> +<br> +A BLACKJACK BARGAINER<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The most disreputable thing in Yancey Goree's law office was Goree himself, +sprawled in his creaky old arm-chair. The rickety little office, built of red brick, +was set flush with the street—the main street of the town of Bethel.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bethel rested upon the foot-hills of the Blue Ridge. Above it the mountains were +piled to the sky. Far below it the turbid Catawba gleamed yellow along its +disconsolate valley.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The June day was at its sultriest hour. Bethel dozed in the tepid shade. Trade was +not. It was so still that Goree, reclining in his chair, distinctly heard the clicking of +the chips in the grand-jury room, where the "court-house gang" was playing poker. +From the open back door of the office a well-worn path meandered across the +grassy lot to the court-house. The treading out of that path had cost Goree all he +ever had—first inheritance of a few thousand dollars, next the old family home, and, +latterly the last shreds of his self-respect and manhood. The "gang" had cleaned him +out. The broken gambler had turned drunkard and parasite; he had lived to see this +day come when the men who had stripped him denied him a seat at the game. His +word was no longer to be taken. The daily bouts at cards had arranged itself +accordingly, and to him was assigned the ignoble part of the onlooker. The sheriff, +the county clerk, a sportive deputy, a gay attorney, and a chalk-faced man hailing +"from the valley," sat at table, and the sheared one was thus tacitly advised to go +and grow more wool.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Soon wearying of his ostracism, Goree had departed for his office, muttering to +himself as he unsteadily traversed the unlucky pathway. After a drink of corn +whiskey from a demijohn under the table, he had flung himself into the chair, +staring, in a sort of maudlin apathy, out at the mountains immersed in the summer +haze. The little white patch he saw away up on the side of Blackjack was Laurel, +the village near which he had been born and bred. There, also, was the birthplace +of the feud between the Gorees and the Coltranes. Now no direct heir of the Gorees +survived except this plucked and singed bird of misfortune. To the Coltranes, also, +but one male supporter was left—Colonel Abner Coltrane, a man of substance and +standing, a member of the State Legislature, and a contemporary with Goree's +father. The feud had been a typical one of the region; it had left a red record of +hate, wrong and slaughter.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But Yancey Goree was not thinking of feuds. His befuddled brain was hopelessly +attacking the problem of the future maintenance of himself and his favourite follies. +Of late, old friends of the family had seen to it that he had whereof to eat and a +place to sleep—but whiskey they would not buy for him, and he must have whiskey. +His law business was extinct; no case had been intrusted to him in two years. He +had been a borrower and a sponge, and it seemed that if he fell no lower it would be +from lack of opportunity. One more chance—he was saying to himself—if he had +one more stake at the game, he thought he could win; but he had nothing left to sell, +and his credit was more than exhausted.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He could not help smiling, even in his misery, as he thought of the man to whom, +six months before, he had sold the old Goree homestead. There had come from +"back yan'" in the mountains two of the strangest creatures, a man named Pike +Garvey and his wife. "Back yan'," with a wave of the hand toward the hills, was +understood among the mountaineers to designate the remotest fastnesses, the +unplumbed gorges, the haunts of lawbreakers, the wolf's den, and the boudoir of the +bear. In the cabin far up on Blackjack's shoulder, in the wildest part of these +retreats, this odd couple had lived for twenty years. They had neither dog nor +children to mitigate the heavy silence of the hills. Pike Garvey was little known in +the settlements, but all who had dealt with him pronounced him "crazy as a loon." +He acknowledged no occupation save that of a squirrel hunter, but he "moonshined" +occasionally by way of diversion. Once the "revenues" had dragged him from his +lair, fighting silently and desperately like a terrier, and he had been sent to state's +prison for two years. Released, he popped back into his hole like an angry weasel.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Fortune, passing over many anxious wooers, made a freakish flight into Blackjack's +bosky pockets to smile upon Pike and his faithful partner. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One day a party of spectacled, knickerbockered, and altogether absurd prospectors +invaded the vicinity of the Garvey's cabin. Pike lifted his squirrel rifle off the hooks +and took a shot at them at long range on the chance of their being revenues. Happily +he missed, and the unconscious agents of good luck drew nearer, disclosing their +innocence of anything resembling law or justice. Later on, they offered the Garveys +an enormous quantity of ready, green, crisp money for their thirty-acre patch of +cleared land, mentioning, as an excuse for such a mad action, some irrelevant and +inadequate nonsense about a bed of mica underlying the said property.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When the Garveys became possessed of so many dollars that they faltered in +computing them, the deficiencies of life on Blackjack began to grow prominent. +Pike began to talk of new shoes, a hogshead of tobacco to set in the corner, a new +lock to his rifle; and, leading Martella to a certain spot on the mountain-side, he +pointed out to her how a small cannon—doubtless a thing not beyond the scope of +their fortune in price—might be planted so as to command and defend the sole +accessible trail to the cabin, to the confusion of revenues and meddling strangers +forever.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But Adam reckoned without his Eve. These things represented to him the applied +power of wealth, but there slumbered in his dingy cabin an ambition that soared far +above his primitive wants. Somewhere in Mrs. Garvey's bosom still survived a spot +of femininity unstarved by twenty years of Blackjack. For so long a time the +sounds in her ears had been the scaly-barks dropping in the woods at noon, and the +wolves singing among the rocks at night, and it was enough to have purged her of +vanities. She had grown fat and sad and yellow and dull. But when the means +came, she felt a rekindled desire to assume the perquisites of her sex—to sit at tea +tables; to buy futile things; to whitewash the hideous veracity of life with a little +form and ceremony. So she coldly vetoed Pike's proposed system of fortifications, +and announced that they would descend upon the world, and gyrate socially. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And thus, at length, it was decided, and the thing done. The village of Laurel was +their compromise between Mrs. Garvey's preference for one of the large valley +towns and Pike's hankering for primeval solitudes. Laurel yielded a halting round of +feeble social distractions comportable with Martella's ambitions, and was not +entirely without recommendation to Pike, its contiguity to the mountains presenting +advantages for sudden retreat in case fashionable society should make it advisable.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Their descent upon Laurel had been coincident with Yancey Goree's feverish desire +to convert property into cash, and they bought the old Goree homestead, paying four +thousand dollars ready money into the spendthrift's shaking hands.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Thus it happened that while the disreputable last of the Gorees sprawled in his +disreputable office, at the end of his row, spurned by the cronies whom he had +gorged, strangers dwelt in the halls of his fathers.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A cloud of dust was rolling, slowly up the parched street, with something travelling +in the midst of it. A little breeze wafted the cloud to one side, and a new, brightly +painted carryall, drawn by a slothful gray horse, became visible. The vehicle +deflected from the middle of the street as it neared Goree's office, and stopped in the +gutter directly in front of his door.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On the front seat sat a gaunt, tall man, dressed in black broadcloth, his rigid hands +incarcerated in yellow kid gloves. On the back seat was a lady who triumphed over +the June heat. Her stout form was armoured in a skin-tight silk dress of the +description known as "changeable," being a gorgeous combination of shifting hues. +She sat erect, waving a much-ornamented fan, with her eyes fixed stonily far down +the street. However Martella Garvey's heart might be rejoicing at the pleasures of +her new life, Blackjack had done his work with her exterior. He had carved her +countenance to the image of emptiness and inanity; had imbued her with the +stolidity of his crags, and the reserve of his hushed interiors. She always seemed to +hear, whatever her surroundings were, the scaly-barks falling and pattering down +the mountain-side. She could always hear the awful silence of Blackjack +sounding through the stillest of nights.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Goree watched this solemn equipage, as it drove to his door, with only faint interest; +but when the lank driver wrapped the reins about his whip, awkwardly descended, +and stepped into the office, he rose unsteadily to receive him, recognizing Pike +Garvey, the new, the transformed, the recently civilized.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The mountaineer took the chair Goree offered him. They who cast doubts upon +Garvey's soundness of mind had a strong witness in the man's countenance. His +face was too long, a dull saffron in hue, and immobile as a statue's. Pale-blue, +unwinking round eyes without lashes added to the singularity of his gruesome +visage. Goree was at a loss to account for the visit.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Everything all right at Laurel, Mr. Garvey?" he inquired. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Everything all right, sir, and mighty pleased is Missis Garvey and me with the +property. Missis Garvey likes yo' old place, and she likes the neighbourhood. +Society is what she 'lows she wants, and she is gettin' of it. The Rogerses, the +Hapgoods, the Pratts and the Troys hev been to see Missis Garvey, and she hev et +meals to most of thar houses. The best folks hev axed her to differ'nt kinds of +doin's. I cyan't say, Mr. Goree, that sech things suits me—fur me, give me them +thar." Garvey's huge, yellow-gloved hand flourished in the direction of the +mountains. "That's whar I b'long, 'mongst the wild honey bees and the b'ars. But +that ain't what I come fur to say, Mr. Goree. Thar's somethin' you got what me and +Missis Garvey wants to buy."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Buy!" echoed Goree. "From me?" Then he laughed harshly. "I reckon you are +mistaken about that. I reckon you are mistaken about that. I sold out to you, as you +yourself expressed it, 'lock, stock and barrel.' There isn't even a ramrod left to sell."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You've got it; and we 'uns want it. 'Take the money,' says Missis Garvey, 'and buy +it fa'r and squar'.'"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Goree shook his head. "The cupboard's bare," he said.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"We've riz," pursued the mountaineer, undeflected from his object, "a heap. We +was pore as possums, and now we could hev folks to dinner every day. We been +recognized, Missis Garvey says, by the best society. But there's somethin' we need +we ain't got. She says it ought to been put in the 'ventory ov the sale, but it tain't +thar. 'Take the money, then,' says she, 'and buy it fa'r and squar'."' </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Out with it," said Goree, his racked nerves growing impatient. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Garvey threw his slouch hat upon the table, and leaned forward, fixing his +unblinking eyes upon Goree's.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"There's a old feud," he said distinctly and slowly, "'tween you 'uns and the +Coltranes."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Goree frowned ominously. To speak of his feud to a feudist is a serious breach of +the mountain etiquette. The man from "back yan'" knew it as well as the lawyer did.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Na offense," he went on "but purely in the way of business. Missis Garvey hev +studied all about feuds. Most of the quality folks in the mountains hev 'em. The +Settles and the Goforths, the Rankins and the Boyds, the Silers and the Galloways, +hev all been cyarin' on feuds f'om twenty to a hundred year. The last man to drap +was when yo' uncle, Jedge Paisley Goree, 'journed co't and shot Len Coltrane f'om +the bench. Missis Garvey and me, we come f'om the po' white trash. Nobody +wouldn't pick a feud with we 'uns, no mo'n with a fam'ly of tree-toads. Quality +people everywhar, says Missis Garvey, has feuds. We 'uns ain't quality, but we're +buyin' into it as fur as we can. 'Take the money, then,' says Missis Garvey, 'and buy +Mr. Goree's feud, fa'r and squar'.'"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The squirrel hunter straightened a leg half across the room, drew a roll of bills from +his pocket, and threw them on the table. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Thar's two hundred dollars, Mr. Goree; what you would call a fa'r price for a feud +that's been 'lowed to run down like yourn hev. Thar's only you left to cyar' on yo' +side of it, and you'd make mighty po' killin'. I'll take it off yo' hands, and it'll set me +and Missis Garvey up among the quality. Thar's the money."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The little roll of currency on the table slowly untwisted itself, writhing and jumping +as its folds relaxed. In the silence that followed Garvey's last speech the rattling of +the poker chips in the court-house could be plainly heard. Goree knew that the +sheriff had just won a pot, for the subdued whoop with which he always greeted a +victory floated across the square upon the crinkly heat waves. Beads of moisture +stood on Goree's brow. Stooping, he drew the wicker-covered demijohn from under +the table, and filled a tumbler from it. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A little corn liquor, Mr. Garvey? Of course you are joking about—what you spoke +of? Opens quite a new market, doesn't it? Feuds. Prime, two-fifty to three. Feuds, +slightly damaged—two hundred, I believe you said, Mr. Garvey?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Goree laughed self-consciously.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The mountaineer took the glass Goree handed him, and drank the whisky without a +tremor of the lids of his staring eyes. The lawyer applauded the feat by a look of +envious admiration. He poured his own drink, and took it like a drunkard, by +gulps, and with shudders at the smell and taste.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Two hundred," repeated Garvey. "Thar's the money."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A sudden passion flared up in Goree's brain. He struck the table with his fist. One +of the bills flipped over and touched his hand. He flinched as if something had +stung him.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Do you come to me," he shouted, "seriously with such a ridiculous, insulting, +darned-fool proposition?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's fa'r and squar'," said the squirrel hunter, but he reached out his hand as if to +take back the money; and then Goree knew that his own flurry of rage had not been +from pride or resentment, but from anger at himself, knowing that he would set foot +in the deeper depths that were being opened to him. He turned in an instant from +an outraged gentleman to an anxious chafferer recommending his goods. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Don't be in a hurry, Garvey," he said, his face crimson and his speech thick. "I +accept your p-p-proposition, though it's dirt cheap at two hundred. A t-trade's all +right when both p-purchaser and b-buyer are s-satisfied. Shall I w-wrap it up for +you, Mr. Garvey?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Garvey rose, and shook out his broadcloth. "Missis Garvey will be pleased. You +air out of it, and it stands Coltrane and Garvey. Just a scrap ov writin', Mr. Goree, +you bein' a lawyer, to show we traded." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Goree seized a sheet of paper and a pen. The money was clutched in his moist +hand. Everything else suddenly seemed to grow trivial and light.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Bill of sale, by all means. 'Right, title, and interest in and to' . . . 'forever warrant +and—' No, Garvey, we'll have to leave out that 'defend,'" said Goree with a loud +laugh. "You'll have to defend this title yourself."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The mountaineer received the amazing screed that the lawyer handed him, folded it +with immense labour, and laced it carefully in his pocket.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Goree was standing near the window. "Step here," he said, raising his finger, "and +I'll show you your recently purchased enemy. There he goes, down the other side of +the street."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The mountaineer crooked his long frame to look through the window in the +direction indicated by the other. Colonel Abner Coltrane, an erect, portly gentleman +of about fifty, wearing the inevitable long, double-breasted frock coat of the +Southern lawmaker, and an old high silk hat, was passing on the opposite sidewalk. +As Garvey looked, Goree glanced at his face. If there be such a thing as a yellow +wolf, here was its counterpart. Garvey snarled as his unhuman eyes followed the +moving figure, disclosing long, amber-coloured fangs.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Is that him? Why, that's the man who sent me to the pen'tentiary once!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"He used to be district attorney," said Goree carelessly. "And, by the way, he's a +first-class shot."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I kin hit a squirrel's eye at a hundred yard," said Garvey. "So that thar's Coltrane! +I made a better trade than I was thinkin'. I'll take keer ov this feud, Mr. Goree, +better'n you ever did!" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He moved toward the door, but lingered there, betraying a slight perplexity.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Anything else to-day?" inquired Goree with frothy sarcasm. "Any family +traditions, ancestral ghosts, or skeletons in the closet? Prices as low as the lowest."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Thar was another thing," replied the unmoved squirrel hunter, "that Missis Garvey +was thinkin' of. 'Tain't so much in my line as t'other, but she wanted partic'lar that I +should inquire, and ef you was willin', 'pay fur it,' she says, 'fa'r and squar'.' Thar's a +buryin' groun', as you know, Mr. Goree, in the yard of yo' old place, under the +cedars. Them that lies thar is yo' folks what was killed by the Coltranes. The +monyments has the names on 'em. Missis Garvey says a fam'ly buryin' groun' is a +sho' sign of quality. She says ef we git the feud, thar's somethin' else ought to go +with it. The names on them monyments is 'Goree,' but they can be changed to ourn +by—" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Go! Go!" screamed Goree, his face turning purple. He stretched out both hands +toward the mountaineer, his fingers hooked and shaking. "Go, you ghoul! Even a +Ch-Chinaman protects the g-graves of his ancestors—go!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The squirrel hunter slouched out of the door to his carryall. While he was climbing +over the wheel Goree was collecting, with feverish celerity, the money that had +fallen from his hand to the floor. As the vehicle slowly turned about, the sheep, +with a coat of newly grown wool, was hurrying, in indecent haste, along the path to +the court-house.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At three o'clock in the morning they brought him back to his office, shorn and +unconscious. The sheriff, the sportive deputy, the county clerk, and the gay +attorney carried him, the chalk-faced man "from the valley" acting as escort.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"On the table," said one of them, and they deposited him there among the litter of +his unprofitable books and papers.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Yance thinks a lot of a pair of deuces when he's liquored up," sighed the sheriff +reflectively.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Too much," said the gay attorney. "A man has no business to play poker who +drinks as much as he does. I wonder how much he dropped to-night."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Close to two hundred. What I wonder is whar he got it. Yance ain't had a cent fur +over a month, I know."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Struck a client, maybe. Well, let's get home before daylight. He'll be all right +when he wakes up, except for a sort of beehive about the cranium."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The gang slipped away through the early morning twilight. The next eye to gaze +upon the miserable Goree was the orb of day. He peered through the uncurtained +window, first deluging the sleeper in a flood of faint gold, but soon pouring upon +the mottled red of his flesh a searching, white, summer heat. Goree stirred, half +unconsciously, among the table's débris, and turned his face from the window. His +movement dislodged a heavy law book, which crashed upon the floor. Opening his +eyes, he saw, bending over him, a man in a black frock coat. Looking higher, he +discovered a well-worn silk hat, and beneath it the kindly, smooth face of Colonel +Abner Coltrane.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A little uncertain of the outcome, the colonel waited for the other to make some sign +of recognition. Not in twenty years had male members of these two families faced +each other in peace. Goree's eyelids puckered as he strained his blurred sight +toward this visitor, and then he smiled serenely.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Have you brought Stella and Lucy over to play?" he said calmly. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Do you know me, Yancey?" asked Coltrane.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Of course I do. You brought me a whip with a whistle in the end." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">So he had—twenty-four years ago; when Yancey's father was his best friend.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Goree's eyes wandered about the room. The colonel understood. "Lie still, and I'll +bring you some," said he. There was a pump in the yard at the rear, and Goree +closed his eyes, listening with rapture to the click of its handle, and the bubbling of +the falling stream. Coltrane brought a pitcher of the cool water, and held it for him +to drink. Presently Goree sat up—a most forlorn object, his summer suit of flax +soiled and crumpled, his discreditable head tousled and unsteady. He tried to wave +one of his hands toward the colonel. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ex-excuse—everything, will you?" he said. "I must have drunk too much whiskey +last night, and gone to bed on the table." His brows knitted into a puzzled frown.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Out with the boys awhile?" asked Coltrane kindly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No, I went nowhere. I haven't had a dollar to spend in the last two months. Struck +the demijohn too often, I reckon, as usual." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Colonel Coltrane touched him on the shoulder.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A little while ago, Yancey," he began, "you asked me if I had brought Stella and +Lucy over to play. You weren't quite awake then, and must have been dreaming +you were a boy again. You are awake now, and I want you to listen to me. I have +come from Stella and Lucy to their old playmate, and to my old friend's son. They +know that I am going to bring you home with me, and you will find them as ready +with a welcome as they were in the old days. I want you to come to my house and +stay until you are yourself again, and as much longer as you will. We heard of your +being down in the world, and in the midst of temptation, and we agreed that you +should come over and play at our house once more. Will you come, my boy? Will +you drop our old family trouble and come with me?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Trouble!" said Goree, opening his eyes wide. "There was never any trouble +between us that I know of. I'm sure we've always been the best friends. But, good +Lord, Colonel, how could I go to your home as I am—a drunken wretch, a +miserable, degraded spendthrift and gambler—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He lurched from the table into his armchair, and began to weep maudlin tears, +mingled with genuine drops of remorse and shame. Coltrane talked to him +persistently and reasonably, reminding him of the simple mountain pleasures of +which he had once been so fond, and insisting upon the genuineness of the +invitation.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Finally he landed Goree by telling him he was counting upon his help in the +engineering and transportation of a large amount of felled timber from a high +mountain-side to a waterway. He knew that Goree had once invented a device for +this purpose—a series of slides and chutes upon which he had justly prided himself. +In an instant the poor fellow, delighted at the idea of his being of use to any one, +had paper spread upon the table, and was drawing rapid but pitifully shaky lines in +demonstration of what he could and would do.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The man was sickened of the husks; his prodigal heart was turning again toward the +mountains. His mind was yet strangely clogged, and his thoughts and memories +were returning to his brain one by one, like carrier pigeons over a stormy sea. But +Coltrane was satisfied with the progress he had made.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Bethel received the surprise of its existence that afternoon when a Coltrane and a +Goree rode amicably together through the town. Side by side they rode, out from +the dusty streets and gaping townspeople, down across the creek bridge, and up +toward the mountain. The prodigal had brushed and washed and combed himself to +a more decent figure, but he was unsteady in the saddle, and he seemed to be deep +in the contemplation of some vexing problem. Coltrane left him in his mood, +relying upon the influence of changed surroundings to restore his equilibrium.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Once Goree was seized with a shaking fit, and almost came to a collapse. He had to +dismount and rest at the side of the road. The colonel, foreseeing such a condition, +had provided a small flask of whisky for the journey but when it was offered to him +Goree refused it almost with violence, declaring he would never touch it again. By +and by he was recovered, and went quietly enough for a mile or two. Then he +pulled up his horse suddenly, and said:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I lost two hundred dollars last night, playing poker. Now, where did I get that +money?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Take it easy, Yancey. The mountain air will soon clear it up. We'll go fishing, +first thing, at the Pinnacle Falls. The trout are jumping there like bullfrogs. We'll +take Stella and Lucy along, and have a picnic on Eagle Rock. Have you forgotten +how a hickory-cured-ham sandwich tastes, Yancey, to a hungry fisherman?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Evidently the colonel did not believe the story of his lost wealth; so Goree retired +again into brooding silence.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">By late Afternoon they had travelled ten of the twelve miles between Bethel and +Laurel. Half a mile this side of Laurel lay the old Goree place; a mile or two +beyond the village lived the Coltranes. The road was now steep and laborious, but +the compensations were many. The tilted aisles of the forest were opulent with leaf +and bird and bloom. The tonic air put to shame the pharmacopæia. The glades were +dark with mossy shade, and bright with shy rivulets winking from the ferns and +laurels. On the lower side they viewed, framed in the near foliage, exquisite +sketches of the far valley swooning in its opal haze.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Coltrane was pleased to see that his companion was yielding to the spell of the hills +and woods. For now they had but to skirt the base of Painter's Cliff; to cross Elder +Branch and mount the hill beyond, and Goree would have to face the squandered +home of his fathers. Every rock he passed, every tree, every foot of the rocky way, +was familiar to him. Though he had forgotten the woods, they thrilled him like the +music of "Home, Sweet Home."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">They rounded the cliff, descended into Elder Branch, and paused there to let the +horses drink and splash in the swift water. On the right was a rail fence that +cornered there, and followed the road and stream. Inclosed by it was the old apple +orchard of the home place; the house was yet concealed by the brow of the steep +hill. Inside and along the fence, pokeberries, elders, sassafras, and sumac grew +high and dense. At a rustle of their branches, both Goree and Coltrane glanced up, +and saw a long, yellow, wolfish face above the fence, staring at them with pale, +unwinking eyes. The head quickly disappeared; there was a violent swaying of the +bushes, and an ungainly figure ran up through the apple orchard in the direction of +the house, zig-zagging among the trees.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"That's Garvey," said Coltrane; "the man you sold out to. There's no doubt but he's +considerably cracked. I had to send him up for moonshining once, several years +ago, in spite of the fact that I believed him irresponsible. Why, what's the matter, +Yancey?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Goree was wiping his forehead, and his face had lost its colour. "Do I look queer, +too?" he asked, trying to smile. "I'm just remembering a few more things." Some +of the alcohol had evaporated from his brain. "I recollect now where I got that two +hundred dollars."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Don't think of it," said Coltrane cheerfully. "Later on we'll figure it all out +together."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">They rode out of the branch, and when they reached the foot of the hill Goree +stopped again.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Did you ever suspect I was a very vain kind of fellow, Colonel?" he asked. "Sort +of foolish proud about appearances?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The colonel's eyes refused to wander to the soiled, sagging suit of flax and the faded +slouch hat.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It seems to me," he replied, mystified, but humouring him, "I remember a young +buck about twenty, with the tightest coat, the sleekest hair, and the prancingest +saddle horse in the Blue Ridge." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Right you are," said Goree eagerly. "And it's in me yet, though it don't show. Oh, +I'm as vain as a turkey gobbler, and as proud as Lucifer. I'm going to ask you to +indulge this weakness of mine in a little matter."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Speak out, Yancey. We'll create you Duke of Laurel and Baron of Blue Ridge, if +you choose; and you shall have a feather out of Stella's peacock's tail to wear in +your hat."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm in earnest. In a few minutes we'll pass the house up there on the hill where I +was born, and where my people have lived for nearly a century. Strangers live there +now—and look at me! I am about to show myself to them ragged and +poverty-stricken, a wastrel and a beggar. Colonel Coltrane, I'm ashamed to do it. I +want you to let me wear your coat and hat until we are out of sight beyond. I know +you think it a foolish pride, but I want to make as good a showing as I can when I +pass the old place."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Now, what does this mean?" said Coltrane to himself, as he compared his +companion's sane looks and quiet demeanour with his strange request. But he was +already unbuttoning the coat, assenting readily, as if the fancy were in no wise to be +considered strange. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The coat and hat fitted Goree well. He buttoned the former about him with a look +of satisfaction and dignity. He and Coltrane were nearly the same size—rather tall, +portly, and erect. Twenty-five years were between them, but in appearance they +might have been brothers. Goree looked older than his age; his face was puffy and +lined; the colonel had the smooth, fresh complexion of a temperate liver. He put on +Goree's disreputable old flax coat and faded slouch hat. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Now," said Goree, taking up the reins, "I'm all right. I want you to ride about ten +feet in the rear as we go by, Colonel, so that they can get a good look at me. They'll +see I'm no back number yet, by any means. I guess I'll show up pretty well to them +once more, anyhow. Let's ride on."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He set out up the hill at a smart trot, the colonel following, as he had been +requested.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Goree sat straight in the saddle, with head erect, but his eyes were turned to the +right, sharply scanning every shrub and fence and hiding-place in the old homestead +yard. Once he muttered to himself, "Will the crazy fool try it, or did I dream half of +it?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It was when he came opposite the little family burying ground that he saw what he +had been looking for—a puff of white smoke, coming from the thick cedars in one +corner. He toppled so slowly to the left that Coltrane had time to urge his horse to +that side, and catch him with one arm.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The squirrel hunter had not overpraised his aim. He had sent the bullet where he +intended, and where Goree had expected that it would pass—through the breast of +Colonel Abner Coltrane's black frock coat.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Goree leaned heavily against Coltrane, but he did not fall. The horses kept pace, +side by side, and the Colonel's arm kept him steady. The little white houses of +Laurel shone through the trees, half a mile away. Goree reached out one hand and +groped until it rested upon Coltrane's fingers, which held his bridle.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Good friend," he said, and that was all.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Thus did Yancey Goree, as he rode past his old home, make, considering all things, +the best showing that was in his power.</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="16"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XVI<br> +<br> +THE SONG AND THE SERGEANT<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Half a dozen people supping at a table in one of the upper-Broadway all-night +restaurants were making too much noise. Three times the manager walked past +them with a politely warning glance; but their argument had waxed too warm to be +quelled by a manager's gaze. It was midnight, and the restaurant was filled with +patrons from the theatres of that district. Some among the dispersed audiences +must have recognized among the quarrelsome sextet the faces of the players +belonging to the Carroll Comedy Company.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Four of the six made up the company. Another was the author of the comedietta, +"A Gay Coquette," which the quartette of players had been presenting with fair +success at several vaudeville houses in the city. The sixth at the table was a person +inconsequent in the realm of art, but one at whose bidding many lobsters had +perished.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Loudly the six maintained their clamorous debate. No one of the Party was silent +except when answers were stormed from him by the excited ones. That was the +comedian of "A Gay Coquette." He was a young man with a face even too +melancholy for his profession.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The oral warfare of four immoderate tongues was directed at Miss Clarice Carroll, +the twinkling star of the small aggregation. Excepting the downcast comedian, all +members of the party united in casting upon her with vehemence the blame of some +momentous misfortune. Fifty times they told her: "It is your fault, Clarice—it is you +alone who spoilt the scene. It is only of late that you have acted this way. At this +rate the sketch will have to be taken off." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Miss Carroll was a match for any four. Gallic ancestry gave her a vivacity that +could easily mount to fury. Her large eyes flashed a scorching denial at her +accusers. Her slender, eloquent arms constantly menaced the tableware. Her high, +clear soprano voice rose to what would have been a scream had it not possessed so +pure a musical quality. She hurled back at the attacking four their denunciations in +tones sweet, but of too great carrying power for a Broadway restaurant.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Finally they exhausted her patience both as a woman and an artist. She sprang up +like a panther, managed to smash half a dozen plates and glasses with one royal +sweep of her arm, and defied her critics. They rose and wrangled more loudly. The +comedian sighed and looked a trifle sadder and disinterested. The manager came +tripping and suggested peace. He was told to go to the popular synonym for war so +promptly that the affair might have happened at The Hague. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Thus was the manager angered. He made a sign with his hand and a waiter slipped +out of the door. In twenty minutes the party of six was in a police station facing a +grizzled and philosophical desk sergeant.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Disorderly conduct in a restaurant," said the policeman who had brought the party +in.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The author of "A Gay Coquette" stepped to the front. He wore nose-glasses and +evening clothes, even if his shoes had been tans before they met the +patent-leather-polish bottle.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mr. Sergeant," said he, out of his throat, like Actor Irving, "I would like to protest +against this arrest. The company of actors who are performing in a little play that I +have written, in company with a friend and myself were having a little supper. We +became deeply interested in the discussion as to which one of the cast is responsible +for a scene in the sketch that lately has fallen so flat that the piece is about to +become a failure. We may have been rather noisy and intolerant of interruption by +the restaurant people; but the matter was of considerable importance to all of us. +You see that we are sober and are not the kind of people who desire to raise +disturbances. I hope that the case will not be pressed and that we may be allowed to +go."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Who makes the charge?" asked the sergeant.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Me," said a white-aproned voice in the rear. "De restaurant sent me to. De gang +was raisin' a rough-house and breakin' dishes." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The dishes were paid for," said the playwright. "They were not broken purposely. +In her anger, because we remonstrated with her for spoiling the scene, Miss—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's not true, sergeant," cried the clear voice of Miss Clarice Carroll. In a long coat +of tan silk and a red-plumed hat, she bounded before the desk.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's not my fault," she cried indignantly. "How dare they say such a thing! I've +played the title rôle ever since it was staged, and if you want to know who made it a +success, ask the public—that's all." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What Miss Carroll says is true in part," said the author. "For five months the +comedietta was a drawing-card in the best houses. But during the last two weeks it +has lost favour. There is one scene in it in which Miss Carroll made a big hit. Now +she hardly gets a hand out of it. She spoils it by acting it entirely different from her +old way."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It is not my fault," reiterated the actress.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"There are only two of you on in the scene," argued the playwright hotly, "you and +Delmars, here—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Then it's his fault," declared Miss Carroll, with a lightning glance of scorn from +her dark eyes. The comedian caught it, and gazed with increased melancholy at the +panels of the sergeant's desk. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The night was a dull one in that particular police station. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The sergeant's long-blunted curiosity awoke a little.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I've heard you," he said to the author. And then he addressed the thin-faced and +ascetic-looking lady of the company who played "Aunt Turnip-top" in the little +comedy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Who do you think spoils the scene you are fussing about?" he asked. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm no knocker," said that lady, "and everybody knows it. So, when I say that +Clarice falls down every time in that scene I'm judging her art and not herself. She +was great in it once. She does it something fierce now. It'll dope the show if she +keeps it up."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The sergeant looked at the comedian.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You and the lady have this scene together, I understand. I suppose there's no use +asking you which one of you queers it?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The comedian avoided the direct rays from the two fixed stars of Miss Carroll's +eyes.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I don't know," he said, looking down at his patent-leather toes. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Are you one of the actors?" asked the sergeant of a dwarfish youth with a +middle-aged face.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Why, say!" replied the last Thespian witness, "you don't notice any tin spear in my +hands, do you? You haven't heard me shout: 'See, the Emperor comes!' since I've +been in here, have you? I guess I'm on the stage long enough for 'em not to start a +panic by mistaking me for a thin curl of smoke rising above the footlights."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"In your opinion, if you've got one," said the sergeant, "is the frost that gathers on +the scene in question the work of the lady or the gentleman who takes part in it?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The middle-aged youth looked pained.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I regret to say," he answered, "that Miss Carroll seems to have lost her grip on that +scene. She's all right in the rest of the play, but—but I tell you, sergeant, she can do +it—she has done it equal to any of 'em—and she can do it again."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Miss Carroll ran forward, glowing and palpitating.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Thank you, Jimmy, for the first good word I've had in many a day," she cried. +And then she turned her eager face toward the desk. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'll show you, sergeant, whether I am to blame. I'll show them whether I can do +that scene. Come, Mr. Delmars; let us begin. You will let us, won't you, sergeant?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"How long will it take?" asked the sergeant, dubiously.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Eight minutes," said the playwright. "The entire play consumes but thirty."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You may go ahead," said the sergeant. "Most of you seem to side against the little +lady. Maybe she had a right to crack up a saucer or two in that restaurant. We'll see +how she does the turn before we take that up."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The matron of the police station had been standing near, listening to the singular +argument. She came nigher and stood near the sergeant's chair. Two or three of the +reserves strolled in, big and yawning. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Before beginning the scene," said the playwright, "and assuming that you have not +seen a production of 'A Gay Coquette,' I will make a brief but necessary +explanation. It is a musical-farce-comedy—burlesque-comedietta. As the title +implies, Miss Carroll's rôle is that of a gay, rollicking, mischievous, heartless +coquette. She sustains that character throughout the entire comedy part of the +production. And I have designed the extravaganza features so that she may +preserve and present the same coquettish idea.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Now, the scene in which we take exception to Miss Carroll's acting is called the +'gorilla dance.' She is costumed to represent a wood nymph, and there is a great +song-and-dance scene with a gorilla—played by Mr. Delmars, the comedian. A +tropical-forest stage is set. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"That used to get four and five recalls. The main thing was the acting and the +dance—it was the funniest thing in New York for five months. Delmars's song, 'I'll +Woo Thee to My Sylvan Home,' while he and Miss Carroll were cutting +hide-and-seek capers among the tropical plants, was a winner."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What's the trouble with the scene now?" asked the sergeant. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Miss Carroll spoils it right in the middle of it," said the playwright wrathfully.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">With a wide gesture of her ever-moving arms the actress waved back the little group +of spectators, leaving a space in front of the desk for the scene of her vindication or +fall. Then she whipped off her long tan cloak and tossed it across the arm of the +policeman who still stood officially among them.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Miss Carroll had gone to supper well cloaked, but in the costume of the tropic wood +nymph. A skirt of fern leaves touched her knee; she was like a +humming-bird—green and golden and purple.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And then she danced a fluttering, fantastic dance, so agile and light and mazy in her +steps that the other three members of the Carroll Comedy Company broke into +applause at the art of it.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And at the proper time Delmars leaped out at her side, mimicking the uncouth, +hideous bounds of the gorilla so funnily that the grizzled sergeant himself gave a +short laugh like the closing of a padlock. They danced together the gorilla dance, +and won a hand from all.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Then began the most fantastic part of the scene—the wooing of the nymph by the +gorilla. It was a kind of dance itself—eccentric and prankish, with the nymph in +coquettish and seductive retreat, followed by the gorilla as he sang "I'll Woo Thee to +My Sylvan Home."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The song was a lyric of merit. The words were non-sense, as befitted the play, but +the music was worthy of something better. Delmars struck into it in a rich tenor +that owned a quality that shamed the flippant words.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">During one verse of the song the wood nymph performed the grotesque evolutions +designed for the scene. At the middle of the second verse she stood still, with a +strange look on her face, seeming to gaze dreamily into the depths of the scenic +forest. The gorilla's last leap had brought him to her feet, and there he knelt, +holding her hand, until he had finished the haunting-lyric that was set in the absurd +comedy like a diamond in a piece of putty.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When Delmars ceased Miss Carroll started, and covered a sudden flow of tears with +both hands.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"There!" cried the playwright, gesticulating with violence; "there you have it, +sergeant. For two weeks she has spoiled that scene in just that manner at every +performance. I have begged her to consider that it is not Ophelia or Juliet that she +is playing. Do you wonder now at our impatience? Tears for the gorilla song! The +play is lost!" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Out of her bewitchment, whatever it was, the wood nymph flared suddenly, and +pointed a desperate finger at Delmars.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It is you—you who have done this," she cried wildly. "You never sang that song +that way until lately. It is your doing."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I give it up," said the sergeant.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And then the gray-haired matron of the police station came forward from behind the +sergeant's chair.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Must an old woman teach you all?" she said. She went up to Miss Carroll and +took her hand.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The man's wearing his heart out for you, my dear. Couldn't you tell it the first note +you heard him sing? All of his monkey flip-flops wouldn't have kept it from me. +Must you be deaf as well as blind? That's why you couldn't act your part, child. Do +you love him or must he be a gorilla for the rest of his days?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Miss Carroll whirled around and caught Delmars with a lightning glance of her eye. +He came toward her, melancholy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Did you hear, Mr. Delmars?" she asked, with a catching breath. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I did," said the comedian. "It is true. I didn't think there was any use. I tried to let +you know with the song."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Silly!" said the matron; "why didn't you speak?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No, no," cried the wood nymph, "his way was the best. I didn't know, but—it was +just what I wanted, Bobby."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She sprang like a green grasshopper; and the comedian opened his arms, +and—smiled.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Get out of this," roared the desk sergeant to the waiting waiter from the restaurant. +"There's nothing doing here for you."</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="17"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XVII<br> +<br> +ONE DOLLAR'S WORTH<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The judge of the United States court of the district lying along the Rio Grande +border found the following letter one morning in his mail: </span></p> +<br> +<blockquote> +<span style="font-size: 12pt"> +JUDGE:<br> +<br> +When you sent me up for four years you made a talk. Among other hard things, you +called me a rattlesnake. Maybe I am one—anyhow, you hear me rattling now. One year +after I got to the pen, my daughter died of—well, they said it was poverty and the disgrace +together. You've got a daughter, Judge, and I'm going to make you know how it feels to +lose one. And I'm going to bite that district attorney that spoke against me. I'm free now, +and I guess I've turned to rattlesnake all right. I feel like one. I don't say much, but this is +my rattle. Look out when I strike.<br> +<br> + Yours respectfully,<br> +<br> + RATTLESNAKE.<br> +</span> +</blockquote> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Judge Derwent threw the letter carelessly aside. It was nothing new to receive such +epistles from desperate men whom he had been called upon to judge. He felt no +alarm. Later on he showed the letter to Littlefield, the young district attorney, for +Littlefield's name was included in the threat, and the judge was punctilious in +matters between himself and his fellow men.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Littlefield honoured the rattle of the writer, as far as it concerned himself, with a +smile of contempt; but he frowned a little over the reference to the Judge's daughter, +for he and Nancy Derwent were to be married in the fall.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Littlefield went to the clerk of the court and looked over the records with him. They +decided that the letter might have been sent by Mexico Sam, a half-breed border +desperado who had been imprisoned for manslaughter four years before. Then +official duties crowded the matter from his mind, and the rattle of the revengeful +serpent was forgotten.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Court was in session at Brownsville. Most of the cases to be tried were charges of +smuggling, counterfeiting, post-office robberies, and violations of Federal laws +along the border. One case was that of a young Mexican, Rafael Ortiz, who had +been rounded up by a clever deputy marshal in the act of passing a counterfeit silver +dollar. He had been suspected of many such deviations from rectitude, but this was +the first time that anything provable had been fixed upon him. Ortiz languished +cozily in jail, smoking brown cigarettes and waiting for trial. Kilpatrick, the +deputy, brought the counterfeit dollar and handed it to the district attorney in his +office in the court-house. The deputy and a reputable druggist were prepared to +swear that Ortiz paid for a bottle of medicine with it. The coin was a poor +counterfeit, soft, dull-looking, and made principally of lead. It was the day before +the morning on which the docket would reach the case of Ortiz, and the district +attorney was preparing himself for trial. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Not much need of having in high-priced experts to prove the coin's queer, is there, +Kil?" smiled Littlefield, as he thumped the dollar down upon the table, where it fell +with no more ring than would have come from a lump of putty.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I guess the Greaser's as good as behind the bars," said the deputy, easing up his +holsters. "You've got him dead. If it had been just one time, these Mexicans can't +tell good money from bad; but this little yaller rascal belongs to a gang of +counterfeiters, I know. This is the first time I've been able to catch him doing the +trick. He's got a girl down there in them Mexican jacals on the river bank. I seen her +one day when I was watching him. She's as pretty as a red heifer in a flower bed."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Littlefield shoved the counterfeit dollar into his pocket, and slipped his memoranda +of the case into an envelope. Just then a bright, winsome face, as frank and jolly as +a boy's, appeared in the doorway, and in walked Nancy Derwent.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, Bob, didn't court adjourn at twelve to-day until to-morrow?" she asked of +Littlefield.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It did," said the district attorney, "and I'm very glad of it. I've got a lot of rulings to +look up, and—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Now, that's just like you. I wonder you and father don't turn to law books or +rulings or something! I want you to take me out plover-shooting this afternoon. +Long Prairie is just alive with them. Don't say no, please! I want to try my new +twelve-bore hammerless. I've sent to the livery stable to engage Fly and Bess for the +buckboard; they stand fire so nicely. I was sure you would go."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">They were to be married in the fall. The glamour was at its height. The plovers won +the day—or, rather, the afternoon—over the calf-bound authorities. Littlefield began +to put his papers away. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">There was a knock at the door. Kilpatrick answered it. A beautiful, dark-eyed girl +with a skin tinged with the faintest lemon colour walked into the room. A black +shawl was thrown over her head and wound once around her neck.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She began to talk in Spanish, a voluble, mournful stream of melancholy music. +Littlefield did not understand Spanish. The deputy did, and he translated her talk +by portions, at intervals holding up his hand to check the flow of her words.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"She came to see you, Mr. Littlefield. Her name's Joya Treviñas. She wants to see +you about—well, she's mixed up with that Rafael Ortiz. She's his—she's his girl. She +says he's innocent. She says she made the money and got him to pass it. Don't you +believe her, Mr. Littlefield. That's the way with these Mexican girls; they'll lie, +steal, or kill for a fellow when they get stuck on him. Never trust a woman that's in +love!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mr. Kilpatrick!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Nancy Derwent's indignant exclamation caused the deputy to flounder for a +moment in attempting to explain that he had misquoted his own sentiments, and +then he went on with the translation:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"She says she's willing to take his place in the jail if you'll let him out. She says she +was down sick with the fever, and the doctor said she'd die if she didn't have +medicine. That's why he passed the lead dollar on the drug store. She says it saved +her life. This Rafael seems to be her honey, all right; there's a lot of stuff in her talk +about love and such things that you don't want to hear." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It was an old story to the district attorney.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Tell her," said he, "that I can do nothing. The case comes up in the morning, and +he will have to make his fight before the court." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Nancy Derwent was not so hardened. She was looking with sympathetic interest at +Joya Treviñas and at Littlefield alternately. The deputy repeated the district +attorney's words to the girl. She spoke a sentence or two in a low voice, pulled her +shawl closely about her face, and left the room.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What did she say then?" asked the district attorney.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Nothing special," said the deputy. "She said: 'If the life of the one'—let's see how it +went—'<i>Si la vida de ella a quien tu amas</i>—if the life of the girl you love is ever in +danger, remember Rafael Ortiz.'"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Kilpatrick strolled out through the corridor in the direction of the marshal's office.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Can't you do anything for them, Bob?" asked Nancy. "It's such a little thing—just +one counterfeit dollar—to ruin the happiness of two lives! She was in danger of +death, and he did it to save her. Doesn't the law know the feeling of pity?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It hasn't a place in jurisprudence, Nan," said Littlefield, "especially <i>in re</i> the +district attorney's duty. I'll promise you that the prosecution will not be vindictive; +but the man is as good as convicted when the case is called. Witnesses will swear to +his passing the bad dollar which I have in my pocket at this moment as 'Exhibit A.' +There are no Mexicans on the jury, and it will vote Mr. Greaser guilty without +leaving the box."</span></p> + +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The plover-shooting was fine that afternoon, and in the excitement of the sport the +case of Rafael and the grief of Joya Treviñas was forgotten. The district attorney +and Nancy Derwent drove out from the town three miles along a smooth, grassy +road, and then struck across a rolling prairie toward a heavy line of timber on Piedra +Creek. Beyond this creek lay Long Prairie, the favourite haunt of the plover. As +they were nearing the creek they heard the galloping of a horse to their right, and +saw a man with black hair and a swarthy face riding toward the woods at a tangent, +as if he had come up behind them.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I've seen that fellow somewhere," said Littlefield, who had a memory for faces, +"but I can't exactly place him. Some ranchman, I suppose, taking a short cut home."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">They spent an hour on Long Prairie, shooting from the buckboard. Nancy Derwent, +an active, outdoor Western girl, was pleased with her twelve-bore. She had bagged +within two brace of her companion's score.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">They started homeward at a gentle trot. When within a hundred yards of Piedra +Creek a man rode out of the timber directly toward them. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It looks like the man we saw coming over," remarked Miss Derwent. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">As the distance between them lessened, the district attorney suddenly pulled up his +team sharply, with his eyes fixed upon the advancing horseman. That individual +had drawn a Winchester from its scabbard on his saddle and thrown it over his arm.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Now I know you, Mexico Sam!" muttered Littlefield to himself. "It was you who +shook your rattles in that gentle epistle."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mexico Sam did not leave things long in doubt. He had a nice eye in all matters +relating to firearms, so when he was within good rifle range, but outside of danger +from No. 8 shot, he threw up his Winchester and opened fire upon the occupants of +the buckboard. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The first shot cracked the back of the seat within the two-inch space between the +shoulders of Littlefield and Miss Derwent. The next went through the dashboard +and Littlefield's trouser leg.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The district attorney hustled Nancy out of the buck-board to the ground. She was a +little pale, but asked no questions. She had the frontier instinct that accepts +conditions in an emergency without superfluous argument. They kept their guns in +hand, and Littlefield hastily gathered some handfuls of cartridges from the +pasteboard box on the seat and crowded them into his pockets.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Keep behind the horses, Nan," he commanded. "That fellow is a ruffian I sent to +prison once. He's trying to get even. He knows our shot won't hurt him at that +distance."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"All right, Bob," said Nancy steadily. "I'm not afraid. But you come close, too. +Whoa, Bess; stand still, now!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She stroked Bess's mane. Littlefield stood with his gun ready, praying that the +desperado would come within range.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But Mexico Sam was playing his vendetta along safe lines. He was a bird of +different feather from the plover. His accurate eye drew an imaginary line of +circumference around the area of danger from bird-shot, and upon this line lie rode. +His horse wheeled to the right, and as his victims rounded to the safe side of their +equine breast-work he sent a ball through the district attorney's hat. Once he +miscalculated in making a détour, and over-stepped his margin. Littlefield's gun +flashed, and Mexico Sam ducked his head to the harmless patter of the shot. A few +of them stung his horse, which pranced promptly back to the safety line.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The desperado fired again. A little cry came from Nancy Derwent. Littlefield +whirled, with blazing eyes, and saw the blood trickling down her cheek.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm not hurt, Bob—only a splinter struck me. I think he hit one of the +wheel-spokes."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Lord!" groaned Littlefield. "If I only had a charge of buckshot!" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The ruffian got his horse still, and took careful aim. Fly gave a snort and fell in the +harness, struck in the neck. Bess, now disabused of the idea that plover were being +fired at, broke her traces and galloped wildly away. Mexican Sam sent a ball neatly +through the fulness of Nancy Derwent's shooting jacket.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Lie down—lie down!" snapped Littlefield. "Close to the horse—flat on the +ground—so." He almost threw her upon the grass against the back of the recumbent +Fly. Oddly enough, at that moment the words of the Mexican girl returned to his +mind:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"If the life of the girl you love is ever in danger, remember Rafael Ortiz."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Littlefield uttered an exclamation.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Open fire on him, Nan, across the horse's back. Fire as fast as you can! You can't +hurt him, but keep him dodging shot for one minute while I try to work a little +scheme."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Nancy gave a quick glance at Littlefield, and saw him take out his pocket-knife and +open it. Then she turned her face to obey orders, keeping up a rapid fire at the +enemy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mexico Sam waited patiently until this innocuous fusillade ceased. He had plenty +of time, and he did not care to risk the chance of a bird-shot in his eye when it +could be avoided by a little caution. He pulled his heavy Stetson low down over his +face until the shots ceased. Then he drew a little nearer, and fired with careful aim +at what he could see of his victims above the fallen horse.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Neither of them moved. He urged his horse a few steps nearer. He saw the district +attorney rise to one knee and deliberately level his shotgun. He pulled his hat down +and awaited the harmless rattle of the tiny pellets.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The shotgun blazed with a heavy report. Mexico Sam sighed, turned limp all over, +and slowly fell from his horse—a dead rattlesnake. </span></p> + +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At ten o'clock the next morning court opened, and the case of the United States +versus Rafael Ortiz was called. The district attorney, with his arm in a sling, rose +and addressed the court.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"May it please your honour," he said, "I desire to enter a <i>nolle pros.</i> in this case. +Even though the defendant should be guilty, there is not sufficient evidence in the +hands of the government to secure a conviction. The piece of counterfeit coin upon +the identity of which the case was built is not now available as evidence. I ask, +therefore, that the case be stricken off."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At the noon recess Kilpatrick strolled into the district attorney's office.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I've just been down to take a squint at old Mexico Sam," said the deputy. "They've +got him laid out. Old Mexico was a tough outfit, I reckon. The boys was wonderin' +down there what you shot him with. Some said it must have been nails. I never see +a gun carry anything to make holes like he had."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I shot him," said the district attorney, "with Exhibit A of your counterfeiting case. +Lucky thing for me—and somebody else—that it was as bad money as it was! It +sliced up into slugs very nicely. Say, Kil, can't you go down to the jacals and find +where that Mexican girl lives? Miss Derwent wants to know."</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="18"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XVIII<br> +<br> +A NEWSPAPER STORY<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At 8 A. M. it lay on Giuseppi's news-stand, still damp from the presses. Giuseppi, +with the cunning of his ilk, philandered on the opposite corner, leaving his patrons +to help themselves, no doubt on a theory related to the hypothesis of the watched +pot.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">This particular newspaper was, according to its custom and design, an educator, a +guide, a monitor, a champion and a household counsellor and <i>vade mecum</i>.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">From its many excellencies might be selected three editorials. One was in simple +and chaste but illuminating language directed to parents and teachers, deprecating +corporal punishment for children. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Another was an accusive and significant warning addressed to a notorious labour +leader who was on the point of instigating his clients to a troublesome strike.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The third was an eloquent demand that the police force be sustained and aided in +everything that tended to increase its efficiency as public guardians and servants.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Besides these more important chidings and requisitions upon the store of good +citizenship was a wise prescription or form of procedure laid out by the editor of the +heart-to-heart column in the specific case of a young man who had complained of +the obduracy of his lady love, teaching him how he might win her.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Again, there was, on the beauty page, a complete answer to a young lady inquirer +who desired admonition toward the securing of bright eyes, rosy cheeks and a +beautiful countenance.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One other item requiring special cognizance was a brief "personal," running thus:</span></p> +<br> +<blockquote> +<span style="font-size: 12pt"> +DEAR JACK:—Forgive me. You were right. Meet me corner Madison and ––––th at 8.30 +this morning. We leave at noon. PENITENT.<br> +</span> +</blockquote> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At 8 o'clock a young man with a haggard look and the feverish gleam of unrest in +his eye dropped a penny and picked up the top paper as he passed Giuseppi's stand. +A sleepless night had left him a late riser. There was an office to be reached by +nine, and a shave and a hasty cup of coffee to be crowded into the interval.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He visited his barber shop and then hurried on his way. He pocketed his paper, +meditating a belated perusal of it at the luncheon hour. At the next corner it fell +from his pocket, carrying with it his pair of new gloves. Three blocks he walked, +missed the gloves and turned back fuming.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Just on the half-hour he reached the corner where lay the gloves and the paper. But +he strangely ignored that which he had come to seek. He was holding two little +hands as tightly as ever he could and looking into two penitent brown eyes, while +joy rioted in his heart. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Dear Jack," she said, "I knew you would be here on time." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I wonder what she means by that," he was saying to himself; "but it's all right, it's +all right."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A big wind puffed out of the west, picked up the paper from the sidewalk, opened it +out and sent it flying and whirling down a side street. Up that street was driving a +skittish bay to a spider-wheel buggy, the young man who had written to the +heart-to-heart editor for a recipe that he might win her for whom he sighed.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The wind, with a prankish flurry, flapped the flying newspaper against the face of +the skittish bay. There was a lengthened streak of bay mingled with the red of +running gear that stretched itself out for four blocks. Then a water-hydrant played +its part in the cosmogony, the buggy became matchwood as foreordained, and the +driver rested very quietly where he had been flung on the asphalt in front of a +certain brownstone mansion.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">They came out and had him inside very promptly. And there was one who made +herself a pillow for his head, and cared for no curious eyes, bending over and +saying, "Oh, it was you; it was you all the time, Bobby! Couldn't you see it? And if +you die, why, so must I, and—" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But in all this wind we must hurry to keep in touch with our paper. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Policeman O'Brine arrested it as a character dangerous to traffic. Straightening its +dishevelled leaves with his big, slow fingers, he stood a few feet from the family +entrance of the Shandon Bells Café. One headline he spelled out ponderously: "The +Papers to the Front in a Move to Help the Police."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But, whisht! The voice of Danny, the head bartender, through the crack of the +door: "Here's a nip for ye, Mike, ould man."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Behind the widespread, amicable columns of the press Policeman O'Brine receives +swiftly his nip of the real stuff. He moves away, stalwart, refreshed, fortified, to his +duties. Might not the editor man view with pride the early, the spiritual, the literal +fruit that had blessed his labours.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Policeman O'Brine folded the paper and poked it playfully under the arm of a small +boy that was passing. That boy was named Johnny, and he took the paper home +with him. His sister was named Gladys, and she had written to the beauty editor of +the paper asking for the practicable touchstone of beauty. That was weeks ago, and +she had ceased to look for an answer. Gladys was a pale girl, with dull eyes and a +discontented expression. She was dressing to go up to the avenue to get some braid. +Beneath her skirt she pinned two leaves of the paper Johnny had brought. When +she walked the rustling sound was an exact imitation of the real thing.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On the street she met the Brown girl from the flat below and stopped to talk. The +Brown girl turned green. Only silk at $5 a yard could make the sound that she heard +when Gladys moved. The Brown girl, consumed by jealousy, said something +spiteful and went her way, with pinched lips.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Gladys proceeded toward the avenue. Her eyes now sparkled like jagerfonteins. A +rosy bloom visited her cheeks; a triumphant, subtle, vivifying, smile transfigured +her face. She was beautiful. Could the beauty editor have seen her then! There +was something in her answer in the paper, I believe, about cultivating kind feelings +toward others in order to make plain features attractive.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The labour leader against whom the paper's solemn and weighty editorial injunction +was laid was the father of Gladys and Johnny. He picked up the remains of the +journal from which Gladys had ravished a cosmetic of silken sounds. The editorial +did not come under his eye, but instead it was greeted by one of those ingenious and +specious puzzle problems that enthrall alike the simpleton and the sage. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The labour leader tore off half of the page, provided himself with table, pencil and +paper and glued himself to his puzzle.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Three hours later, after waiting vainly for him at the appointed place, other more +conservative leaders declared and ruled in favour of arbitration, and the strike with +its attendant dangers was averted. Subsequent editions of the paper referred, in +coloured inks, to the clarion tone of its successful denunciation of the labour +leader's intended designs.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The remaining leaves of the active journal also went loyally to the proving of its +potency.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When Johnny returned from school he sought a secluded spot and removed the +missing columns from the inside of his clothing, where they had been artfully +distributed so as to successfully defend such areas as are generally attacked during +scholastic castigations. Johnny attended a private school and had had trouble with +his teacher. As has been said, there was an excellent editorial against corporal +punishment in that morning's issue, and no doubt it had its effect. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">After this can any one doubt the power of the press?</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="19"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XIX<br> +<br> +TOMMY'S BURGLAR<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At ten o'clock P. M. Felicia, the maid, left by the basement door with the policeman +to get a raspberry phosphate around the corner. She detested the policeman and +objected earnestly to the arrangement. She pointed out, not unreasonably, that she +might have been allowed to fall asleep over one of St. George Rathbone's novels on +the third floor, but she was overruled. Raspberries and cops were not created for +nothing.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The burglar got into the house without much difficulty; because we must have +action and not too much description in a 2,000-word story. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In the dining room he opened the slide of his dark lantern. With a brace and +centrebit he began to bore into the lock of the silver-closet.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Suddenly a click was heard. The room was flooded with electric light. The dark +velvet portières parted to admit a fair-haired boy of eight in pink pajamas, bearing a +bottle of olive oil in his hand. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Are you a burglar?" he asked, in a sweet, childish voice. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Listen to that," exclaimed the man, in a hoarse voice. "Am I a burglar? Wot do +you suppose I have a three-days' growth of bristly beard on my face for, and a cap +with flaps? Give me the oil, quick, and let me grease the bit, so I won't wake up +your mamma, who is lying down with a headache, and left you in charge of Felicia +who has been faithless to her trust."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, dear," said Tommy, with a sigh. "I thought you would be more up-to-date. +This oil is for the salad when I bring lunch from the pantry for you. And mamma +and papa have gone to the Metropolitan to hear De Reszke. But that isn't my fault. +It only shows how long the story has been knocking around among the editors. If +the author had been wise he'd have changed it to Caruso in the proofs."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Be quiet," hissed the burglar, under his breath. "If you raise an alarm I'll wring +your neck like a rabbit's."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Like a chicken's," corrected Tommy. "You had that wrong. You don't wring +rabbits' necks."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Aren't you afraid of me?" asked the burglar.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You know I'm not," answered Tommy. "Don't you suppose I know fact from +fiction. If this wasn't a story I'd yell like an Indian when I saw you; and you'd +probably tumble downstairs and get pinched on the sidewalk."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I see," said the burglar, "that you're on to your job. Go on with the performance."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Tommy seated himself in an armchair and drew his toes up under him. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Why do you go around robbing strangers, Mr. Burglar? Have you no friends?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I see what you're driving at," said the burglar, with a dark frown. "It's the same old +story. Your innocence and childish insouciance is going to lead me back into an +honest life. Every time I crack a crib where there's a kid around, it happens."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Would you mind gazing with wolfish eyes at the plate of cold beef that the butler +has left on the dining table?" said Tommy. "I'm afraid it's growing late."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The burglar accommodated.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Poor man," said Tommy. "You must be hungry. If you will please stand in a +listless attitude I will get you something to eat."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The boy brought a roast chicken, a jar of marmalade and a bottle of wine from the +pantry. The burglar seized a knife and fork sullenly. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's only been an hour," he grumbled, "since I had a lobster and a pint of musty ale +up on Broadway. I wish these story writers would let a fellow have a pepsin tablet, +anyhow, between feeds." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"My papa writes books," remarked Tommy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The burglar jumped to his feet quickly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You said he had gone to the opera," he hissed, hoarsely and with immediate +suspicion.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I ought to have explained," said Tommy. "He didn't buy the tickets." The burglar +sat again and toyed with the wishbone.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Why do you burgle houses?" asked the boy, wonderingly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Because," replied the burglar, with a sudden flow of tears. "God bless my little +brown-haired boy Bessie at home."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ah," said Tommy, wrinkling his nose, "you got that answer in the wrong place. +You want to tell your hard-luck story before you pull out the child stop."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, yes," said the burglar, "I forgot. Well, once I lived in Milwaukee, and—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Take the silver," said Tommy, rising from his chair.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Hold on," said the burglar. "But I moved away." I could find no other +employment. For a while I managed to support my wife and child by passing +confederate money; but, alas! I was forced to give that up because it did not belong +to the union. I became desperate and a burglar."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Have you ever fallen into the hands of the police?" asked Tommy. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I said 'burglar,' not 'beggar,'" answered the cracksman.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"After you finish your lunch," said Tommy, "and experience the usual change of +heart, how shall we wind up the story?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Suppose," said the burglar, thoughtfully, "that Tony Pastor turns out earlier than +usual to-night, and your father gets in from 'Parsifal' at 10.30. I am thoroughly +repentant because you have made me think of my own little boy Bessie, and—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Say," said Tommy, "haven't you got that wrong?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Not on your coloured crayon drawings by B. Cory Kilvert," said the burglar. "It's +always a Bessie that I have at home, artlessly prattling to the pale-cheeked burglar's +bride. As I was saying, your father opens the front door just as I am departing with +admonitions and sandwiches that you have wrapped up for me. Upon recognizing +me as an old Harvard classmate he starts back in—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Not in surprise?" interrupted Tommy, with wide, open eyes. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"He starts back in the doorway," continued the burglar. And then he rose to his feet +and began to shout "Rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Well," said Tommy, wonderingly, "that's, the first time I ever knew a burglar to +give a college yell when he was burglarizing a house, even in a story."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"That's one on you," said the burglar, with a laugh. "I was practising the +dramatization. If this is put on the stage that college touch is about the only thing +that will make it go."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Tommy looked his admiration.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You're on, all right," he said.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"And there's another mistake you've made," said the burglar. "You should have +gone some time ago and brought me the $9 gold piece your mother gave you on +your birthday to take to Bessie."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"But she didn't give it to me to take to Bessie," said Tommy, pouting. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Come, come!" said the burglar, sternly. "It's not nice of you to take advantage +because the story contains an ambiguous sentence. You know what I mean. It's +mighty little I get out of these fictional jobs, anyhow. I lose all the loot, and I have +to reform every time; and all the swag I'm allowed is the blamed little fol-de-rols +and luck-pieces that you kids hand over. Why, in one story, all I got was a kiss +from a little girl who came in on me when I was opening a safe. And it tasted of +molasses candy, too. I've a good notion to tie this table cover over your head and +keep on into the silver-closet." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, no, you haven't," said Tommy, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Because +if you did no editor would buy the story. You know you've got to preserve the +unities."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"So've you," said the burglar, rather glumly. "Instead of sitting here talking +impudence and taking the bread out of a poor man's mouth, what you'd like to be +doing is hiding under the bed and screeching at the top of your voice."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You're right, old man," said Tommy, heartily. "I wonder what they make us do it +for? I think the S. P. C. C. ought to interfere. I'm sure it's neither agreeable nor +usual for a kid of my age to butt in when a full-grown burglar is at work and offer +him a red sled and a pair of skates not to awaken his sick mother. And look how +they make the burglars act! You'd think editors would know—but what's the use?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The burglar wiped his hands on the tablecloth and arose with a yawn. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Well, let's get through with it," he said. "God bless you, my little boy! you have +saved a man from committing a crime this night. Bessie shall pray for you as soon +as I get home and give her her orders. I shall never burglarize another house—at +least not until the June magazines are out. It'll be your little sister's turn then to run +in on me while I am abstracting the U. S. 4 per cent. from the tea urn and buy me +off with her coral necklace and a falsetto kiss." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You haven't got all the kicks coming to you," sighed Tommy, crawling out of his +chair. "Think of the sleep I'm losing. But it's tough on both of us, old man. I wish +you could get out of the story and really rob somebody. Maybe you'll have the +chance if they dramatize us." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Never!" said the burglar, gloomily. "Between the box office and my better +impulses that your leading juveniles are supposed to awaken and the magazines that +pay on publication, I guess I'll always be broke."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm sorry," said Tommy, sympathetically. "But I can't help myself any more than +you can. It's one of the canons of household fiction that no burglar shall be +successful. The burglar must be foiled by a kid like me, or by a young lady heroine, +or at the last moment by his old pal, Red Mike, who recognizes the house as one in +which he used to be the coachman. You have got the worst end of it in any kind of +a story."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Well, I suppose I must be clearing out now," said the burglar, taking up his lantern +and bracebit.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You have to take the rest of this chicken and the bottle of wine with you for Bessie +and her mother," said Tommy, calmly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"But confound it," exclaimed the burglar, in an annoyed tone, "they don't want it. +I've got five cases of Château de Beychsvelle at home that was bottled in 1853. +That claret of yours is corked. And you couldn't get either of them to look at a +chicken unless it was stewed in champagne. You know, after I get out of the story I +don't have so many limitations. I make a turn now and then."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Yes, but you must take them," said Tommy, loading his arms with the bundles.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Bless you, young master!" recited the burglar, obedient. "Second-Story Saul will +never forget you. And now hurry and let me out, kid. Our 2,000 words must be +nearly up."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Tommy led the way through the hall toward the front door. Suddenly the burglar +stopped and called to him softly: "Ain't there a cop out there in front somewhere +sparking the girl?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Yes," said Tommy, "but what—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm afraid he'll catch me," said the burglar. "You mustn't forget that this is +fiction."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Great head!" said Tommy, turning. "Come out by the back door." </span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="20"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XX<br> +<br> +A CHAPARRAL CHRISTMAS GIFT<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The original cause of the trouble was about twenty years in growing. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At the end of that time it was worth it.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Had you lived anywhere within fifty miles of Sundown Ranch you would have +heard of it. It possessed a quantity of jet-black hair, a pair of extremely frank, +deep-brown eyes and a laugh that rippled across the prairie like the sound of a +hidden brook. The name of it was Rosita McMullen; and she was the daughter of +old man McMullen of the Sundown Sheep Ranch.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">There came riding on red roan steeds—or, to be more explicit, on a paint and a +flea-bitten sorrel—two wooers. One was Madison Lane, and the other was the Frio +Kid. But at that time they did not call him the Frio Kid, for he had not earned the +honours of special nomenclature. His name was simply Johnny McRoy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It must not be supposed that these two were the sum of the agreeable Rosita's +admirers. The bronchos of a dozen others champed their bits at the long hitching +rack of the Sundown Ranch. Many were the sheeps'-eyes that were cast in those +savannas that did not belong to the flocks of Dan McMullen. But of all the +cavaliers, Madison Lane and Johnny McRoy galloped far ahead, wherefore they are +to be chronicled.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Madison Lane, a young cattleman from the Nueces country, won the race. He and +Rosita were married one Christmas day. Armed, hilarious, vociferous, +magnanimous, the cowmen and the sheepmen, laying aside their hereditary hatred, +joined forces to celebrate the occasion. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Sundown Ranch was sonorous with the cracking of jokes and sixshooters, the shine +of buckles and bright eyes, the outspoken congratulations of the herders of kine.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But while the wedding feast was at its liveliest there descended upon it Johnny +McRoy, bitten by jealousy, like one possessed.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'll give you a Christmas present," he yelled, shrilly, at the door, with his .45 in his +hand. Even then he had some reputation as an offhand shot.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">His first bullet cut a neat underbit in Madison Lane's right ear. The barrel of his +gun moved an inch. The next shot would have been the bride's had not Carson, a +sheepman, possessed a mind with triggers somewhat well oiled and in repair. The +guns of the wedding party had been hung, in their belts, upon nails in the wall when +they sat at table, as a concession to good taste. But Carson, with great promptness, +hurled his plate of roast venison and frijoles at McRoy, spoiling his aim. The +second bullet, then, only shattered the white petals of a Spanish dagger flower +suspended two feet above Rosita's head.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The guests spurned their chairs and jumped for their weapons. It was considered an +improper act to shoot the bride and groom at a wedding. In about six seconds there +were twenty or so bullets due to be whizzing in the direction of Mr. McRoy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'll shoot better next time," yelled Johnny; "and there'll be a next time." He backed +rapidly out the door.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Carson, the sheepman, spurred on to attempt further exploits by the success of his +plate-throwing, was first to reach the door. McRoy's bullet from the darkness laid +him low.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The cattlemen then swept out upon him, calling for vengeance, for, while the +slaughter of a sheepman has not always lacked condonement, it was a decided +misdemeanour in this instance. Carson was innocent; he was no accomplice at the +matrimonial proceedings; nor had any one heard him quote the line "Christmas +comes but once a year" to the guests.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But the sortie failed in its vengeance. McRoy was on his horse and away, shouting +back curses and threats as he galloped into the concealing chaparral.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">That night was the birthnight of the Frio Kid. He became the "bad man" of that +portion of the State. The rejection of his suit by Miss McMullen turned him to a +dangerous man. When officers went after him for the shooting of Carson, he killed +two of them, and entered upon the life of an outlaw. He became a marvellous shot +with either hand. He would turn up in towns and settlements, raise a quarrel at the +slightest opportunity, pick off his man and laugh at the officers of the law. He was +so cool, so deadly, so rapid, so inhumanly blood-thirsty that none but faint attempts +were ever made to capture him. When he was at last shot and killed by a little +one-armed Mexican who was nearly dead himself from fright, the Frio Kid had the +deaths of eighteen men on his head. About half of these were killed in fair duels +depending upon the quickness of the draw. The other half were men whom he +assassinated from absolute wantonness and cruelty. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Many tales are told along the border of his impudent courage and daring. But he +was not one of the breed of desperadoes who have seasons of generosity and even +of softness. They say he never had mercy on the object of his anger. Yet at this +and every Christmastide it is well to give each one credit, if it can be done, for +whatever speck of good he may have possessed. If the Frio Kid ever did a kindly +act or felt a throb of generosity in his heart it was once at such a time and season, +and this is the way it happened.</span></p> + +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One who has been crossed in love should never breathe the odour from the +blossoms of the ratama tree. It stirs the memory to a dangerous degree.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One December in the Frio country there was a ratama tree in full bloom, for the +winter had been as warm as springtime. That way rode the Frio Kid and his +satellite and co-murderer, Mexican Frank. The kid reined in his mustang, and sat in +his saddle, thoughtful and grim, with dangerously narrowing eyes. The rich, sweet +scent touched him somewhere beneath his ice and iron.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I don't know what I've been thinking about, Mex," he remarked in his usual mild +drawl, "to have forgot all about a Christmas present I got to give. I'm going to ride +over to-morrow night and shoot Madison Lane in his own house. He got my +girl—Rosita would have had me if he hadn't cut into the game. I wonder why I +happened to overlook it up to now?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ah, shucks, Kid," said Mexican, "don't talk foolishness. You know you can't get +within a mile of Mad Lane's house to-morrow night. I see old man Allen day before +yesterday, and he says Mad is going to have Christmas doings at his house. You +remember how you shot up the festivities when Mad was married, and about the +threats you made? Don't you suppose Mad Lane'll kind of keep his eye open for a +certain Mr. Kid? You plumb make me tired, Kid, with such remarks." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm going," repeated the Frio Kid, without heat, "to go to Madison Lane's +Christmas doings, and kill him. I ought to have done it a long time ago. Why, +Mex, just two weeks ago I dreamed me and Rosita was married instead of her and +him; and we was living in a house, and I could see her smiling at me, and—oh! +h––––l, Mex, he got her; and I'll get him—yes, sir, on Christmas Eve he got her, and then's +when I'll get him."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"There's other ways of committing suicide," advised Mexican. "Why don't you go +and surrender to the sheriff?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'll get him," said the Kid.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Christmas Eve fell as balmy as April. Perhaps there was a hint of far-away +frostiness in the air, but it tingles like seltzer, perfumed faintly with late prairie +blossoms and the mesquite grass. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When night came the five or six rooms of the ranch-house were brightly lit. In one +room was a Christmas tree, for the Lanes had a boy of three, and a dozen or more +guests were expected from the nearer ranches.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At nightfall Madison Lane called aside Jim Belcher and three other cowboys +employed on his ranch.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Now, boys," said Lane, "keep your eyes open. Walk around the house and watch +the road well. All of you know the 'Frio Kid,' as they call him now, and if you see +him, open fire on him without asking any questions. I'm not afraid of his coming +around, but Rosita is. She's been afraid he'd come in on us every Christmas since +we were married." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The guests had arrived in buckboards and on horseback, and were making +themselves comfortable inside.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The evening went along pleasantly. The guests enjoyed and praised Rosita's +excellent supper, and afterward the men scattered in groups about the rooms or on +the broad "gallery," smoking and chatting. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Christmas tree, of course, delighted the youngsters, and above all were they +pleased when Santa Claus himself in magnificent white beard and furs appeared +and began to distribute the toys.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's my papa," announced Billy Sampson, aged six. "I've seen him wear 'em +before."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Berkly, a sheepman, an old friend of Lane, stopped Rosita as she was passing by +him on the gallery, where he was sitting smoking. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Well, Mrs. Lane," said he, "I suppose by this Christmas you've gotten over being +afraid of that fellow McRoy, haven't you? Madison and I have talked about it, you +know."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Very nearly," said Rosita, smiling, "but I am still nervous sometimes. I shall never +forget that awful time when he came so near to killing us."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"He's the most cold-hearted villain in the world," said Berkly. "The citizens all +along the border ought to turn out and hunt him down like a wolf."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"He has committed awful crimes," said Rosita, "but—I—don't—know. +I think there is +a spot of good somewhere in everybody. He was not always bad—that I know."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Rosita turned into the hallway between the rooms. Santa Claus, in muffling +whiskers and furs, was just coming through.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I heard what you said through the window, Mrs. Lane," he said. "I was just going +down in my pocket for a Christmas present for your husband. But I've left one for +you, instead. It's in the room to your right."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, thank you, kind Santa Claus," said Rosita, brightly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Rosita went into the room, while Santa Claus stepped into the cooler air of the yard.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She found no one in the room but Madison.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Where is my present that Santa said he left for me in here?" she asked.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Haven't seen anything in the way of a present," said her husband, laughing, "unless +he could have meant me."</span></p> + +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The next day Gabriel Radd, the foreman of the X O Ranch, dropped into the +post-office at Loma Alta.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Well, the Frio Kid's got his dose of lead at last," he remarked to the postmaster.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"That so? How'd it happen?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"One of old Sanchez's Mexican sheep herders did it!—think of it! the Frio Kid killed +by a sheep herder! The Greaser saw him riding along past his camp about twelve +o'clock last night, and was so skeered that he up with a Winchester and let him have +it. Funniest part of it was that the Kid was dressed all up with white Angora-skin +whiskers and a regular Santy Claus rig-out from head to foot. Think of the Frio Kid +playing Santy!"</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="21"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XXI<br> +<br> +A LITTLE LOCAL COLOUR<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I mentioned to Rivington that I was in search of characteristic New York scenes +and incidents—something typical, I told him, without necessarily having to spell the +first syllable with an "i." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, for your writing business," said Rivington; "you couldn't have applied to a +better shop. What I don't know about little old New York wouldn't make a sonnet +to a sunbonnet. I'll put you right in the middle of so much local colour that you +won't know whether you are a magazine cover or in the erysipelas ward. When do +you want to begin?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Rivington is a young-man-about-town and a New Yorker by birth, preference and +incommutability.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I told him that I would be glad to accept his escort and guardianship so that I might +take notes of Manhattan's grand, gloomy and peculiar idiosyncrasies, and that the +time of so doing would be at his own convenience.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"We'll begin this very evening," said Rivington, himself interested, like a good +fellow. "Dine with me at seven, and then I'll steer you up against metropolitan +phases so thick you'll have to have a kinetoscope to record 'em."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">So I dined with Rivington pleasantly at his club, in Forty-eleventh street, and then +we set forth in pursuit of the elusive tincture of affairs.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">As we came out of the club there stood two men on the sidewalk near the steps in +earnest conversation.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"And by what process of ratiocination," said one of them, "do you arrive at the +conclusion that the division of society into producing and non-possessing classes +predicates failure when compared with competitive systems that are monopolizing +in tendency and result inimically to industrial evolution?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, come off your perch!" said the other man, who wore glasses. "Your premises +won't come out in the wash. You wind-jammers who apply bandy-legged theories +to concrete categorical syllogisms send logical conclusions skallybootin' into the +infinitesimal ragbag. You can't pull my leg with an old sophism with whiskers on it. +You quote Marx and Hyndman and Kautsky—what are they?—shines! Tolstoi?—his +garret is full of rats. I put it to you over the home-plate that the idea of a +cooperative commonwealth and an abolishment of competitive systems simply takes +the rag off the bush and gives me hyperesthesia of the roopteetoop! The skookum +house for yours!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I stopped a few yards away and took out my little notebook. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, come ahead," said Rivington, somewhat nervously; "you don't want to listen to +that."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Why, man," I whispered, "this is just what I do want to hear. These slang types +are among your city's most distinguishing features. Is this the Bowery variety? I +really must hear more of it."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"If I follow you," said the man who had spoken first, "you do not believe it possible +to reorganize society on the basis of common interest?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Shinny on your own side!" said the man with glasses. "You never heard any such +music from my foghorn. What I said was that I did not believe it practicable just +now. The guys with wads are not in the frame of mind to slack up on the mazuma, +and the man with the portable tin banqueting canister isn't exactly ready to join the +Bible class. You can bet your variegated socks that the situation is all spifflicated up +from the Battery to breakfast! What the country needs is for some bully old bloke +like Cobden or some wise guy like old Ben Franklin to sashay up to the front and +biff the nigger's head with the baseball. Do you catch my smoke? What?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Rivington pulled me by the arm impatiently.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Please come on," he said. "Let's go see something. This isn't what you want."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Indeed, it is," I said resisting. "This tough talk is the very stuff that counts. There +is a picturesqueness about the speech of the lower order of people that is quite +unique. Did you say that this is the Bowery variety of slang?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, well," said Rivington, giving it up, "I'll tell you straight. That's one of our +college professors talking. He ran down for a day or two at the club. It's a sort of +fad with him lately to use slang in his conversation. He thinks it improves language. +The man he is talking to is one of New York's famous social economists. Now will +you come on. You can't use that, you know."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No," I agreed; "I can't use that. Would you call that typical of New York?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Of course not," said Rivington, with a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you see the +difference. But if you want to hear the real old tough Bowery slang I'll take you +down where you'll get your fill of it." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I would like it," I said; "that is, if it's the real thing. I've often read it in books, but I +never heard it. Do you think it will be dangerous to go unprotected among those +characters?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, no," said Rivington; "not at this time of night. To tell the truth, I haven't been +along the Bowery in a long time, but I know it as well as I do Broadway. We'll look +up some of the typical Bowery boys and get them to talk. It'll be worth your while. +They talk a peculiar dialect that you won't hear anywhere else on earth." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Rivington and I went east in a Forty-second street car and then south on the Third +avenue line.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At Houston street we got off and walked.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"We are now on the famous Bowery," said Rivington; "the Bowery celebrated in +song and story."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">We passed block after block of "gents'" furnishing stores—the windows full of shirts +with prices attached and cuffs inside. In other windows were neckties and no +shirts. People walked up and down the sidewalks.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"In some ways," said I, "this reminds me of Kokomono, Ind., during the +peach-crating season."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Rivington was nettled.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Step into one of these saloons or vaudeville shows," said he, "with a large roll of +money, and see how quickly the Bowery will sustain its reputation."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You make impossible conditions," said I, coldly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">By and by Rivington stopped and said we were in the heart of the Bowery. There +was a policeman on the corner whom Rivington knew. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Hallo, Donahue!" said my guide. "How goes it? My friend and I are down this +way looking up a bit of local colour. He's anxious to meet one of the Bowery types. +Can't you put us on to something genuine in that line—something that's got the +colour, you know?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Policeman Donahue turned himself about ponderously, his florid face full of +good-nature. He pointed with his club down the street. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Sure!" he said huskily. "Here comes a lad now that was born on the Bowery and +knows every inch of it. If he's ever been above Bleecker street he's kept it to +himself."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A man about twenty-eight or twenty-nine, with a smooth face, was sauntering +toward us with his hands in his coat pockets. Policeman Donahue stopped him +with a courteous wave of his club.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Evening, Kerry," he said. "Here's a couple of gents, friends of mine, that want to +hear you spiel something about the Bowery. Can you reel 'em off a few yards?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Certainly, Donahue," said the young man, pleasantly. "Good evening, gentlemen," +he said to us, with a pleasant smile. Donahue walked off on his beat.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"This is the goods," whispered Rivington, nudging me with his elbow. "Look at his +jaw!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Say, cull," said Rivington, pushing back his hat, "wot's doin'? Me and my friend's +taking a look down de old line—see? De copper tipped us off dat you was wise to +de bowery. Is dat right?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I could not help admiring Rivington's power of adapting himself to his +surroundings.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Donahue was right," said the young man, frankly; "I was brought up on the +Bowery. I have been news-boy, teamster, pugilist, member of an organized band of +'toughs,' bartender, and a 'sport' in various meanings of the word. The experience +certainly warrants the supposition that I have at least a passing acquaintance with a +few phases of Bowery life. I will be pleased to place whatever knowledge and +experience I have at the service of my friend Donahue's friends." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Rivington seemed ill at ease.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I say," he said—somewhat entreatingly, "I thought—you're not stringing us, are you? +It isn't just the kind of talk we expected. You haven't even said 'Hully gee!' once. +Do you really belong on the Bowery?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I am afraid," said the Bowery boy, smilingly, "that at some time you have been +enticed into one of the dives of literature and had the counterfeit coin of the Bowery +passed upon you. The 'argot' to which you doubtless refer was the invention of +certain of your literary 'discoverers' who invaded the unknown wilds below Third +avenue and put strange sounds into the mouths of the inhabitants. Safe in their +homes far to the north and west, the credulous readers who were beguiled by this +new 'dialect' perused and believed. Like Marco Polo and Mungo Park—pioneers +indeed, but ambitious souls who could not draw the line of demarcation between +discovery and invention—the literary bones of these explorers are dotting the +trackless wastes of the subway. While it is true that after the publication of the +mythical language attributed to the dwellers along the Bowery certain of its pat +phrases and apt metaphors were adopted and, to a limited extent, used in this +locality, it was because our people are prompt in assimilating whatever is to their +commercial advantage. To the tourists who visited our newly discovered clime, and +who expected a realization of their literary guide books, they supplied the demands +of the market.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"But perhaps I am wandering from the question. In what way can I assist you, +gentlemen? I beg you will believe that the hospitality of the street is extended to all. +There are, I regret to say, many catchpenny places of entertainment, but I cannot +conceive that they would entice you."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I felt Rivington lean somewhat heavily against me.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Say!" he remarked, with uncertain utterance; "come and have a drink with us." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Thank you, but I never drink. I find that alcohol, even in the smallest quantities, +alters the perspective. And I must preserve my perspective, for I am studying the +Bowery. I have lived in it nearly thirty years, and I am just beginning to understand +its heartbeats. It is like a great river fed by a hundred alien streams. Each influx +brings strange seeds on its flood, strange silt and weeds, and now and then a flower +of rare promise. To construe this river requires a man who can build dykes against +the overflow, who is a naturalist, a geologist, a humanitarian, a diver and a strong +swimmer. I love my Bowery. It was my cradle and is my inspiration. I have +published one book. The critics have been kind. I put my heart in it. I am writing +another, into which I hope to put both heart and brain. Consider me your guide, +gentlemen. Is there anything I can take you to see, any place to which I can conduct +you?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">I was afraid to look at Rivington except with one eye.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Thanks," said Rivington. "We were looking up . . . that is . . . my friend . . . +confound it; it's against all precedent, you know . . . awfully obliged . . . just the +same."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"In case," said our friend, "you would like to meet some of our Bowery young men +I would be pleased to have you visit the quarters of our East Side Kappa Delta Phi +Society, only two blocks east of here." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Awfully sorry," said Rivington, "but my friend's got me on the jump to-night. He's +a terror when he's out after local colour. Now, there's nothing I would like better +than to drop in at the Kappa Delta Phi, but—some other time!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">We said our farewells and boarded a home-bound car. We had a rabbit on upper +Broadway, and then I parted with Rivington on a street corner. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Well, anyhow," said he, braced and recovered, "it couldn't have happened +anywhere but in little old New York."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Which to say the least, was typical of Rivington.</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="22"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XXII<br> +<br> +GEORGIA'S RULING<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">If you should chance to visit the General Land Office, step into the draughtsmen's +room and ask to be shown the map of Salado County. A leisurely +German—possibly old Kampfer himself—will bring it to you. It will be four feet +square, on heavy drawing-cloth. The lettering and the figures will be beautifully +clear and distinct. The title will be in splendid, undecipherable German text, +ornamented with classic Teutonic designs—very likely Ceres or Pomona leaning +against the initial letters with cornucopias venting grapes and wieners. You must +tell him that this is not the map you wish to see; that he will kindly bring you its +official predecessor. He will then say, "Ach, so!" and bring out a map half the size +of the first, dim, old, tattered, and faded.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">By looking carefully near its northwest corner you will presently come upon the +worn contours of Chiquito River, and, maybe, if your eyes are good, discern the +silent witness to this story.</span></p> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Commissioner of the Land Office was of the old style; his antique courtesy was +too formal for his day. He dressed in fine black, and there was a suggestion of +Roman drapery in his long coat-skirts. His collars were "undetached" (blame +haberdashery for the word); his tie was a narrow, funereal strip, tied in the same +knot as were his shoe-strings. His gray hair was a trifle too long behind, but he kept +it smooth and orderly. His face was clean-shaven, like the old statesmen's. Most +people thought it a stern face, but when its official expression was off, a few had +seen altogether a different countenance. Especially tender and gentle it had appeared +to those who were about him during the last illness of his only child.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Commissioner had been a widower for years, and his life, outside his official +duties, had been so devoted to little Georgia that people spoke of it as a touching +and admirable thing. He was a reserved man, and dignified almost to austerity, but +the child had come below it all and rested upon his very heart, so that she scarcely +missed the mother's love that had been taken away. There was a wonderful +companionship between them, for she had many of his own ways, being thoughtful +and serious beyond her years.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One day, while she was lying with the fever burning brightly in her checks, she said +suddenly:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Papa, I wish I could do something good for a whole lot of children!" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What would you like to do, dear?" asked the Commissioner. "Give them a party?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, I don't mean those kind. I mean poor children who haven't homes, and aren't +loved and cared for as I am. I tell you what, papa!" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What, my own child?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"If I shouldn't get well, I'll leave them you—not <i>give</i> you, but just lend you, for you +must come to mamma and me when you die too. If you can find time, wouldn't you +do something to help them, if I ask you, papa?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Hush, hush dear, dear child," said the Commissioner, holding her hot little hand +against his cheek; "you'll get well real soon, and you and I will see what we can do +for them together."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But in whatsoever paths of benevolence, thus vaguely premeditated, the +Commissioner might tread, he was not to have the company of his beloved. That +night the little frail body grew suddenly too tired to struggle further, and Georgia's +exit was made from the great stage when she had scarcely begun to speak her little +piece before the footlights. But there must be a stage manager who understands. +She had given the cue to the one who was to speak after her.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A week after she was laid away, the Commissioner reappeared at the office, a little +more courteous, a little paler and sterner, with the black frock-coat hanging a little +more loosely from his tall figure. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">His desk was piled with work that had accumulated during the four heartbreaking +weeks of his absence. His chief clerk had done what he could, but there were +questions of law, of fine judicial decisions to be made concerning the issue of +patents, the marketing and leasing of school lands, the classification into grazing, +agricultural, watered, and timbered, of new tracts to be opened to settlers.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Commissioner went to work silently and obstinately, putting back his grief as +far as possible, forcing his mind to attack the complicated and important business of +his office. On the second day after his return he called the porter, pointed to a +leather-covered chair that stood near his own, and ordered it removed to a lumber-room at the top of the building. In that chair Georgia would always sit when she +came to the office for him of afternoons.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">As time passed, the Commissioner seemed to grow more silent, solitary, and +reserved. A new phase of mind developed in him. He could not endure the +presence of a child. Often when a clattering youngster belonging to one of the +clerks would come chattering into the big business-room adjoining his little +apartment, the Commissioner would steal softly and close the door. He would +always cross the street to avoid meeting the school-children when they came +dancing along in happy groups upon the sidewalk, and his firm mouth would close +into a mere line.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It was nearly three months after the rains had washed the last dead flower-petals +from the mound above little Georgia when the "land-shark" firm of Hamlin and +Avery filed papers upon what they considered the "fattest" vacancy of the year.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It should not be supposed that all who were termed "land-sharks" deserved the +name. Many of them were reputable men of good business character. Some of +them could walk into the most august councils of the State and say: "Gentlemen, we +would like to have this, and that, and matters go thus." But, next to a three years' +drought and the boll-worm, the Actual Settler hated the Land-shark. The +land-shark haunted the Land Office, where all the land records were kept, and +hunted "vacancies"—that is, tracts of unappropriated public domain, generally +invisible upon the official maps, but actually existing "upon the ground." The law +entitled any one possessing certain State scrip to file by virtue of same upon any +land not previously legally appropriated. Most of the scrip was now in the hands of +the land-sharks. Thus, at the cost of a few hundred dollars, they often secured lands +worth as many thousands. Naturally, the search for "vacancies" was lively.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But often—very often—the land they thus secured, though legally "unappropriated," +would be occupied by happy and contented settlers, who had laboured for years to +build up their homes, only to discover that their titles were worthless, and to receive +peremptory notice to quit. Thus came about the bitter and not unjustifiable hatred +felt by the toiling settlers toward the shrewd and seldom merciful speculators who +so often turned them forth destitute and homeless from their fruitless labours. The +history of the state teems with their antagonism. Mr. Land-shark seldom showed his +face on "locations" from which he should have to eject the unfortunate victims of a +monstrously tangled land system, but let his emissaries do the work. There was +lead in every cabin, moulded into balls for him; many of his brothers had enriched +the grass with their blood. The fault of it all lay far back.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When the state was young, she felt the need of attracting newcomers, and of +rewarding those pioneers already within her borders. Year after year she issued +land scrip—Headrights, Bounties, Veteran Donations, Confederates; and to +railroads, irrigation companies, colonies, and tillers of the soil galore. All required +of the grantee was that he or it should have the scrip properly surveyed upon the +public domain by the county or district surveyor, and the land thus appropriated +became the property of him or it, or his or its heirs and assigns, forever.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In those days—and here is where the trouble began—the state's domain was +practically inexhaustible, and the old surveyors, with princely—yea, even Western +American—liberality, gave good measure and over-flowing. Often the jovial man of +metes and bounds would dispense altogether with the tripod and chain. Mounted on +a pony that could cover something near a "vara" at a step, with a pocket compass to +direct his course, he would trot out a survey by counting the beat of his pony's +hoofs, mark his corners, and write out his field notes with the complacency +produced by an act of duty well performed. Sometimes—and who could blame the +surveyor?—when the pony was "feeling his oats," he might step a little higher and +farther, and in that case the beneficiary of the scrip might get a thousand or two +more acres in his survey than the scrip called for. But look at the boundless leagues +the state had to spare! However, no one ever had to complain of the pony +under-stepping. Nearly every old survey in the state contained an excess of land.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In later years, when the state became more populous, and land values increased, this +careless work entailed incalculable trouble, endless litigation, a period of riotous +land-grabbing, and no little bloodshed. The land-sharks voraciously attacked these +excesses in the old surveys, and filed upon such portions with new scrip as +unappropriated public domain. Wherever the identifications of the old tracts were +vague, and the corners were not to be clearly established, the Land Office would +recognize the newer locations as valid, and issue title to the locators. Here was the +greatest hardship to be found. These old surveys, taken from the pick of the land, +were already nearly all occupied by unsuspecting and peaceful settlers, and thus +their titles were demolished, and the choice was placed before them either to buy +their land over at a double price or to vacate it, with their families and personal +belongings, immediately. Land locators sprang up by hundreds. The country was +held up and searched for "vacancies" at the point of a compass. Hundreds of +thousands of dollars' worth of splendid acres were wrested from their innocent +purchasers and holders. There began a vast hegira of evicted settlers in tattered +wagons; going nowhere, cursing injustice, stunned, purposeless, homeless, +hopeless. Their children began to look up to them for bread, and cry.</span></p> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It was in consequence of these conditions that Hamilton and Avery had filed upon a +strip of land about a mile wide and three miles long, comprising about two thousand +acres, it being the excess over complement of the Elias Denny three-league survey +on Chiquito River, in one of the middle-western counties. This two-thousand-acre +body of land was asserted by them to be vacant land, and improperly considered a +part of the Denny survey. They based this assertion and their claim upon the land +upon the demonstrated facts that the beginning corner of the Denny survey was +plainly identified; that its field notes called to run west 5,760 varas, and then called +for Chiquito River; thence it ran south, with the meanders—and so on—and that the +Chiquito River was, on the ground, fully a mile farther west from the point reached +by course and distance. To sum up: there were two thousand acres of vacant land +between the Denny survey proper and Chiquito River.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One sweltering day in July the Commissioner called for the papers in connection +with this new location. They were brought, and heaped, a foot deep, upon his +desk—field notes, statements, sketches, affidavits, connecting lines—documents of +every description that shrewdness and money could call to the aid of Hamlin and +Avery. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The firm was pressing the Commissioner to issue a patent upon their location. They +possesed inside information concerning a new railroad that would probably pass +somewhere near this land. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The General Land Office was very still while the Commissioner was delving into +the heart of the mass of evidence. The pigeons could be heard on the roof of the +old, castle-like building, cooing and fretting. The clerks were droning everywhere, +scarcely pretending to earn their salaries. Each little sound echoed hollow and loud +from the bare, stone-flagged floors, the plastered walls, and the iron-joisted ceiling. +The impalpable, perpetual limestone dust that never settled, whitened a long +streamer of sunlight that pierced the tattered window-awning.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It seemed that Hamlin and Avery had builded well. The Denny survey was +carelessly made, even for a careless period. Its beginning corner was identical with +that of a well-defined old Spanish grant, but its other calls were sinfully vague. The +field notes contained no other object that survived—no tree, no natural object save +Chiquito River, and it was a mile wrong there. According to precedent, the Office +would be justified in giving it its complement by course and distance, and +considering the remainder vacant instead of a mere excess.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Actual Settler was besieging the office with wild protests <i>in re</i>. Having the +nose of a pointer and the eye of a hawk for the land-shark, he had observed his +myrmidons running the lines upon his ground. Making inquiries, he learned that the +spoiler had attacked his home, and he left the plough in the furrow and took his pen +in hand. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One of the protests the Commissioner read twice. It was from a woman, a widow, +the granddaughter of Elias Denny himself. She told how her grandfather had sold +most of the survey years before at a trivial price—land that was now a principality in +extent and value. Her mother had also sold a part, and she herself had succeeded to +this western portion, along Chiquito River. Much of it she had been forced to part +with in order to live, and now she owned only about three hundred acres, on which +she had her home. Her letter wound up rather pathetically:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I've got eight children, the oldest fifteen years. I work all day and half the night to +till what little land I can and keep us in clothes and books. I teach my children too. +My neighbours is all poor and has big families. The drought kills the crops every +two or three years and then we has hard times to get enough to eat. There is ten +families on this land what the land-sharks is trying to rob us of, and all of them got +titles from me. I sold to them cheap, and they aint paid out yet, but part of them is, +and if their land should be took from them I would die. My grandfather was an +honest man, and he helped to build up this state, and he taught his children to be +honest, and how could I make it up to them who bought from me? Mr. +Commissioner, if you let them land-sharks take the roof from over my children and +the little from them as they has to live on, whoever again calls this state great or its +government just will have a lie in their mouths"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Commissioner laid this letter aside with a sigh. Many, many such letters he had +received. He had never been hurt by them, nor had he ever felt that they appealed +to him personally. He was but the state's servant, and must follow its laws. And +yet, somehow, this reflection did not always eliminate a certain responsible feeling +that hung upon him. Of all the state's officers he was supremest in his department, +not even excepting the Governor. Broad, general land laws he followed, it was true, +but he had a wide latitude in particular ramifications. Rather than law, what he +followed was Rulings: Office Rulings and precedents. In the complicated and new +questions that were being engendered by the state's development the</span></p> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Commissioner's ruling was rarely appealed from. Even the courts sustained it when +its equity was apparent.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Commissioner stepped to the door and spoke to a clerk in the other +room—spoke as he always did, as if he were addressing a prince of the blood:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mr. Weldon, will you be kind enough to ask Mr. Ashe, the state school-land +appraiser, to please come to my office as soon as convenient?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Ashe came quickly from the big table where he was arranging his reports.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mr. Ashe," said the Commissioner, "you worked along the Chiquito River, in +Salado County, during your last trip, I believe. Do you remember anything of the +Elias Denny three-league survey?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Yes, sir, I do," the blunt, breezy, surveyor answered. "I crossed it on my way to +Block H, on the north side of it. The road runs with the Chiquito River, along the +valley. The Denny survey fronts three miles on the Chiquito."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It is claimed," continued the commissioner, "that it fails to reach the river by as +much as a mile."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The appraiser shrugged his shoulder. He was by birth and instinct an Actual +Settler, and the natural foe of the land-shark.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It has always been considered to extend to the river," he said, dryly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"But that is not the point I desired to discuss," said the Commissioner. "What kind +of country is this valley portion of (let us say, then) the Denny tract?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The spirit of the Actual Settler beamed in Ashe's face.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Beautiful," he said, with enthusiasm. "Valley as level as this floor, with just a little +swell on, like the sea, and rich as cream. Just enough brakes to shelter the cattle in +winter. Black loamy soil for six feet, and then clay. Holds water. A dozen nice +little houses on it, with windmills and gardens. People pretty poor, I guess—too far +from market—but comfortable. Never saw so many kids in my life."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"They raise flocks?" inquired the Commissioner.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ho, ho! I mean two-legged kids," laughed the surveyor; "two-legged, and +bare-legged, and tow-headed."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Children! oh, children!" mused the Commissioner, as though a new view had +opened to him; "they raise children!</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's a lonesome country, Commissioner," said the surveyor. "Can you blame 'em?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I suppose," continued the Commissioner, slowly, as one carefully pursues +deductions from a new, stupendous theory, "not all of them are tow-headed. It +would not be unreasonable, Mr. Ashe, I conjecture, to believe that a portion of them +have brown, or even black, hair." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Brown and black, sure," said Ashe; "also red."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No doubt," said the Commissioner. "Well, I thank you for your courtesy in +informing me, Mr. Ashe. I will not detain you any longer from your duties."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Later, in the afternoon, came Hamlin and Avery, big, handsome, genial, sauntering +men, clothed in white duck and low-cut shoes. They permeated the whole office +with an aura of debonair prosperity. They passed among the clerks and left a wake +of abbreviated given names and fat brown cigars.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">These were the aristocracy of the land-sharks, who went in for big things. Full of +serene confidence in themselves, there was no corporation, no syndicate, no railroad +company or attorney general too big for them to tackle. The peculiar smoke of their +rare, fat brown cigars was to be perceived in the sanctum of every department of +state, in every committee-room of the Legislature, in every bank parlour and every +private caucus-room in the state Capital. Always pleasant, never in a hurry, in +seeming to possess unlimited leisure, people wondered when they gave their +attention to the many audacious enterprises in which they were known to be +engaged.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">By and by the two dropped carelessly into the Commissioner's room and reclined +lazily in the big, leather-upholstered arm-chairs. They drawled a good-natured +complaint of the weather, and Hamlin told the Commissioner an excellent story he +had amassed that morning from the Secretary of State.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But the Commissioner knew why they were there. He had half promised to render +a decision that day upon their location.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The chief clerk now brought in a batch of duplicate certificates for the +Commissioner to sign. As he traced his sprawling signature, "Hollis Summerfield, +Comr. Genl. Land Office," on each one, the chief clerk stood, deftly removing them +and applying the blotter. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I notice," said the chief clerk, "you've been going through that Salado County +location. Kampfer is making a new map of Salado, and I believe is platting in that +section of the county now."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I will see it," said the Commissioner. A few moments later he went to the +draughtsmen's room.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">As he entered he saw five or six of the draughtsmen grouped about Kampfer's desk, +gargling away at each other in pectoral German, and gazing at something thereupon. +At the Commissioner's approach they scattered to their several places. Kampfer, a +wizened little German, with long, frizzled ringlets and a watery eye, began to +stammer forth some sort of an apology, the Commissioner thought, for the +congregation of his fellows about his desk.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Never mind," said the Commissioner, "I wish to see the map you are making"; and, +passing around the old German, seated himself upon the high draughtsman's stool. +Kampfer continued to break English in trying to explain.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Herr Gommissioner, I assure you blenty sat I haf not it bremeditated—sat it +wass—sat it itself make. Look you! from se field notes wass it blatted—blease to +observe se calls: South, 10 degrees west 1,050 varas; south, 10 degrees east 300 +varas; south, 100; south, 9 west, 200; south, 40 degrees west 400—and so on. Herr +Gommissioner, nefer would I have—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Commissioner raised one white hand, silently, Kampfer dropped his pipe and +fled.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">With a hand at each side of his face, and his elbows resting upon the desk, the +Commissioner sat staring at the map which was spread and fastened there—staring +at the sweet and living profile of little Georgia drawn thereupon—at her face, +pensive, delicate, and infantile, outlined in a perfect likeness.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When his mind at length came to inquire into the reason of it, he saw that it must +have been, as Kampfer had said, unpremeditated. The old draughtsman had been +platting in the Elias Denny survey, and Georgia's likeness, striking though it was, +was formed by nothing more than the meanders of Chiquito River. Indeed, +Kampfer's blotter, whereon his preliminary work was done, showed the laborious +tracings of the calls and the countless pricks of the compasses. Then, over his faint +pencilling, Kampfer had drawn in India ink with a full, firm pen the similitude of +Chiquito River, and forth had blossomed mysteriously the dainty, pathetic profile of +the child.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Commissioner sat for half an hour with his face in his hands, gazing +downward, and none dared approach him. Then he arose and walked out. In the +business office he paused long enough to ask that the Denny file be brought to his +desk.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He found Hamlin and Avery still reclining in their chairs, apparently oblivious of +business. They were lazily discussing summer opera, it being, their habit—perhaps +their pride also—to appear supernaturally indifferent whenever they stood with large +interests imperilled. And they stood to win more on this stake than most people +knew. They possessed inside information to the effect that a new railroad would, +within a year, split this very Chiquito River valley and send land values ballooning +all along its route. A dollar under thirty thousand profit on this location, if it should +hold good, would be a loss to their expectations. So, while they chatted lightly and +waited for the Commissioner to open the subject, there was a quick, sidelong +sparkle in their eyes, evincing a desire to read their title clear to those fair acres on +the Chiquito.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A clerk brought in the file. The Commissioner seated himself and wrote upon it in +red ink. Then he rose to his feet and stood for a while looking straight out of the +window. The Land Office capped the summit of a bold hill. The eyes of the +Commissioner passed over the roofs of many houses set in a packing of deep green, +the whole checkered by strips of blinding white streets. The horizon, where his +gaze was focussed, swelled to a fair wooded eminence flecked with faint dots of +shining white. There was the cemetery, where lay many who were forgotten, and a +few who had not lived in vain. And one lay there, occupying very small space, +whose childish heart had been large enough to desire, while near its last beats, good +to others. The Commissioner's lips moved slightly as he whispered to himself: "It +was her last will and testament, and I have neglected it so long!" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The big brown cigars of Hamlin and Avery were fireless, but they still gripped them +between their teeth and waited, while they marvelled at the absent expression upon +the Commissioner's face.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">By and by he spoke suddenly and promptly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Gentlemen, I have just indorsed the Elias Denny survey for patenting. This office +will not regard your location upon a part of it as legal." He paused a moment, and +then, extending his hand as those dear old-time ones used to do in debate, he +enunciated the spirit of that Ruling that subsequently drove the land-sharks to the +wall, and placed the seal of peace and security over the doors of ten thousand +homes. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"And, furthermore," he continued, with a clear, soft light upon his face, "it may +interest you to know that from this time on this office will consider that when a +survey of land made by virtue of a certificate granted by this state to the men who +wrested it from the wilderness and the savage—made in good faith, settled in good +faith, and left in good faith to their children or innocent purchasers—when such a +survey, although overrunning its complement, shall call for any natural object +visible to the eye of man, to that object it shall hold, and be good and valid. And +the children of this state shall lie down to sleep at night, and rumours of disturbers +of title shall not disquiet them. For," concluded the Commissioner, "of such is the +Kingdom of Heaven."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In the silence that followed, a laugh floated up from the patent-room below. The +man who carried down the Denny file was exhibiting it among the clerks.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Look here," he said, delightedly, "the old man has forgotten his name. He's written +'Patent to original grantee,' and signed it 'Georgia Summerfield, Comr."'</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The speech of the Commissioner rebounded lightly from the impregnable Hamlin +and Avery. They smiled, rose gracefully, spoke of the baseball team, and argued +feelingly that quite a perceptible breeze had arisen from the east. They lit fresh fat +brown cigars, and drifted courteously away. But later they made another +tiger-spring for their quarry in the courts. But the courts, according to reports in the +papers, "coolly roasted them" (a remarkable performance, suggestive of liquid-air +didoes), and sustained the Commissioner's Ruling. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And this Ruling itself grew to be a Precedent, and the Actual Settler framed it, and +taught his children to spell from it, and there was sound sleep o' nights from the +pines to the sage-brush, and from the chaparral to the great brown river of the north.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But I think, and I am sure the Commissioner never thought otherwise, that whether +Kampfer was a snuffy old instrument of destiny, or whether the meanders of the +Chiquito accidentally platted themselves into that memorable sweet profile or not, +there was brought about "something good for a whole lot of children," and the result +ought to be called "Georgia's Ruling."</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="23"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XXIII<br> +<br> +BLIND MAN'S HOLIDAY<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Alas for the man and for the artist with the shifting point of perspective! Life shall +be a confusion of ways to the one; the landscape shall rise up and confound the +other. Take the case of Lorison. At one time he appeared to himself to be the +feeblest of fools; at another he conceived that he followed ideals so fine that the +world was not yet ready to accept them. During one mood he cursed his folly; +possessed by the other, he bore himself with a serene grandeur akin to greatness: in +neither did he attain the perspective. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Generations before, the name had been "Larsen." His race had bequeathed him its +fine-strung, melancholy temperament, its saving balance of thrift and industry.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">From his point of perspective he saw himself an outcast from society, forever to be +a shady skulker along the ragged edge of respectability; a denizen <i>des trois-quartz +de monde</i>, that pathetic spheroid lying between the <i>haut</i> and the <i>demi</i>, whose +inhabitants envy each of their neighbours, and are scorned by both. He was +self-condemned to this opinion, as he was self-exiled, through it, to this quaint +Southern city a thousand miles from his former home. Here he had dwelt for longer +than a year, knowing but few, keeping in a subjective world of shadows which was +invaded at times by the perplexing bulks of jarring realities. Then he fell in love +with a girl whom he met in a cheap restaurant, and his story begins.</span></p> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Rue Chartres, in New Orleans, is a street of ghosts. It lies in the quarter where +the Frenchman, in his prime, set up his translated pride and glory; where, also, the +arrogant don had swaggered, and dreamed of gold and grants and ladies' gloves. +Every flagstone has its grooves worn by footsteps going royally to the wooing and +the fighting. Every house has a princely heartbreak; each doorway its untold tale of +gallant promise and slow decay.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">By night the Rue Chartres is now but a murky fissure, from which the groping +wayfarer sees, flung against the sky, the tangled filigree of Moorish iron balconies. +The old houses of monsieur stand yet, indomitable against the century, but their +essence is gone. The street is one of ghosts to whosoever can see them.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A faint heartbeat of the street's ancient glory still survives in a corner occupied by +the Café Carabine d'Or. Once men gathered there to plot against kings, and to warn +presidents. They do so yet, but they are not the same kind of men. A brass button +will scatter these; those would have set their faces against an army. Above the door +hangs the sign board, upon which has been depicted a vast animal of unfamiliar +species. In the act of firing upon this monster is represented an unobtrusive human +levelling an obtrusive gun, once the colour of bright gold. Now the legend above +the picture is faded beyond conjecture; the gun's relation to the title is a matter of +faith; the menaced animal, wearied of the long aim of the hunter, has resolved itself +into a shapeless blot.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The place is known as "Antonio's," as the name, white upon the red-lit +transparency, and gilt upon the windows, attests. There is a promise in "Antonio"; +a justifiable expectancy of savoury things in oil and pepper and wine, and perhaps +an angel's whisper of garlic. But the rest of the name is "O'Riley." Antonio +O'Riley!</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Carabine d'Or is an ignominious ghost of the Rue Chartres. The café where +Bienville and Conti dined, where a prince has broken bread, is become a "family +ristaurant."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Its customers are working men and women, almost to a unit. Occasionally you will +see chorus girls from the cheaper theatres, and men who follow avocations subject +to quick vicissitudes; but at Antonio's—name rich in Bohemian promise, but tame in +fulfillment—manners debonair and gay are toned down to the "family" standard. +Should you light a cigarette, mine host will touch you on the "arrum" and remind +you that the proprieties are menaced. "Antonio" entices and beguiles from fiery +legend without, but "O'Riley" teaches decorum within.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It was at this restaurant that Lorison first saw the girl. A flashy fellow with a +predatory eye had followed her in, and had advanced to take the other chair at the +little table where she stopped, but Lorison slipped into the seat before him. Their +acquaintance began, and grew, and now for two months they had sat at the same +table each evening, not meeting by appointment, but as if by a series of fortuitous +and happy accidents. After dining, they would take a walk together in one of the +little city parks, or among the panoramic markets where exhibits a continuous +vaudeville of sights and sounds. Always at eight o'clock their steps led them to a +certain street corner, where she prettily but firmly bade him good night and left him. +"I do not live far from here," she frequently said, "and you must let me go the rest of +the way alone."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But now Lorison had discovered that he wanted to go the rest of the way with her, +or happiness would depart, leaving, him on a very lonely corner of life. And at the +same time that he made the discovery, the secret of his banishment from the society +of the good laid its finger in his face and told him it must not be.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Man is too thoroughly an egoist not to be also an egotist; if he love, the object shall +know it. During a lifetime he may conceal it through stress of expediency and +honour, but it shall bubble from his dying lips, though it disrupt a neighbourhood. +It is known, however, that most men do not wait so long to disclose their passion. +In the case of Lorison, his particular ethics positively forbade him to declare his +sentiments, but he must needs dally with the subject, and woo by innuendo at least.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">On this night, after the usual meal at the Carabine d'Or, he strolled with his +companion down the dim old street toward the river.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The Rue Chartres perishes in the old Place d'Armes. The ancient Cabildo, where +Spanish justice fell like hail, faces it, and the Cathedral, another provincial ghost, +overlooks it. Its centre is a little, iron-railed park of flowers and immaculate +gravelled walks, where citizens take the air of evenings. Pedestalled high above it, +the general sits his cavorting steed, with his face turned stonily down the river +toward English Turn, whence come no more Britons to bombard his cotton bales.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Often the two sat in this square, but to-night Lorison guided her past the +stone-stepped gate, and still riverward. As they walked, he smiled to himself to +think that all he knew of her—except that be loved her—was her name, Norah +Greenway, and that she lived with her brother. They had talked about everything +except themselves. Perhaps her reticence had been caused by his.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">They came, at length, upon the levee, and sat upon a great, prostrate beam. The air +was pungent with the dust of commerce. The great river slipped yellowly past. +Across it Algiers lay, a longitudinous black bulk against a vibrant electric haze +sprinkled with exact stars. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The girl was young and of the piquant order. A certain bright melancholy pervaded +her; she possessed an untarnished, pale prettiness doomed to please. Her voice, +when she spoke, dwarfed her theme. It was the voice capable of investing little +subjects with a large interest. She sat at ease, bestowing her skirts with the little +womanly touch, serene as if the begrimed pier were a summer garden. Lorison +poked the rotting boards with his cane.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He began by telling her that he was in love with some one to whom he durst not +speak of it. "And why not?" she asked, accepting swiftly his fatuous presentation +of a third person of straw. "My place in the world," he answered, "is none to ask a +woman to share. I am an outcast from honest people; I am wrongly accused of one +crime, and am, I believe, guilty of another."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Thence he plunged into the story of his abdication from society. The story, pruned +of his moral philosophy, deserves no more than the slightest touch. It is no new +tale, that of the gambler's declension. During one night's sitting he lost, and then +had imperilled a certain amount of his employer's money, which, by accident, he +carried with him. He continued to lose, to the last wager, and then began to gain, +leaving the game winner to a somewhat formidable sum. The same night his +employer's safe was robbed. A search was had; the winnings of Lorison were +found in his room, their total forming an accusative nearness to the sum purloined. +He was taken, tried and, through incomplete evidence, released, smutched with the +sinister <i>devoirs</i> of a disagreeing jury.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It is not in the unjust accusation," he said to the girl, "that my burden lies, but in +the knowledge that from the moment I staked the first dollar of the firm's money I +was a criminal—no matter whether I lost or won. You see why it is impossible for +me to speak of love to her."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It is a sad thing," said Norah, after a little pause, +"to think what very good people there are in the world."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Good?" said Lorison.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I was thinking of this superior person whom you say you love. She must be a very +poor sort of creature."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I do not understand."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Nearly," she continued, "as poor a sort of creature as yourself." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You do not understand," said Lorison, removing his hat and sweeping back his +fine, light hair. "Suppose she loved me in return, and were willing to marry me. +Think, if you can, what would follow. Never a day would pass but she would be +reminded of her sacrifice. I would read a condescension in her smile, a pity even in +her affection, that would madden me. No. The thing would stand between us +forever. Only equals should mate. I could never ask her to come down upon my +lower plane."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">An arc light faintly shone upon Lorison's face. An illumination from within also +pervaded it. The girl saw the rapt, ascetic look; it was the face either of Sir Galahad +or Sir Fool.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Quite starlike," she said, "is this unapproachable angel. Really too high to be +grasped."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"By me, yes."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She faced him suddenly. "My dear friend, would you prefer your star fallen?" +Lorison made a wide gesture.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You push me to the bald fact," he declared; "you are not in sympathy with my +argument. But I will answer you so. If I could reach my particular star, to drag it +down, I would not do it; but if it were fallen, I would pick it up, and thank Heaven +for the privilege." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">They were silent for some minutes. Norah shivered, and thrust her hands deep into +the pockets of her jacket. Lorison uttered a remorseful exclamation.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm not cold," she said. "I was just thinking. I ought to tell you something. You +have selected a strange confidante. But you cannot expect a chance acquaintance, +picked up in a doubtful restaurant, to be an angel."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Norah!" cried Lorison.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Let me go on. You have told me about yourself. We have been such good friends. +I must tell you now what I never wanted you to know. I am—worse than you are. I +was on the stage . . . I sang in the chorus . . . I was pretty bad, I guess . . . I stole +diamonds from the prima donna . . . they arrested me . . . I gave most of them up, +and they let me go . . . I drank wine every night . . . a great deal . . . I was very +wicked, but—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lorison knelt quickly by her side and took her hands.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Dear Norah!" he said, exultantly. "It is you, it is you I love! You never guessed it, +did you? 'Tis you I meant all the time. Now I can speak. Let me make you forget +the past. We have both suffered; let us shut out the world, and live for each other. +Norah, do you hear me say I love you?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"In spite of—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Rather say because of it. You have come out of your past noble and good. Your +heart is an angel's. Give it to me."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A little while ago you feared the future too much to even speak." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"But for you; not for myself. Can you love me?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She cast herself, wildly sobbing, upon his breast.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Better than life—than truth itself—than everything."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"And my own past," said Lorison, with a note of solicitude—"can you forgive and—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I answered you that," she whispered, "when I told you I loved you." She leaned +away, and looked thoughtfully at him. "If I had not told you about myself, would +you have—would you—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No," he interrupted; "I would never have let you know I loved you. I would never +have asked you this—Norah, will you be my wife?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She wept again.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, believe me; I am good now—I am no longer wicked! I will be the best wife in +the world. Don't think I am—bad any more. If you do I shall die, I shall die!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">While he was consoling, her, she brightened up, eager and impetuous. "Will you +marry me to-night?" she said. "Will you prove it that way. I have a reason for +wishing it to be to-night. Will you?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Of one of two things was this exceeding frankness the outcome: either of +importunate brazenness or of utter innocence. The lover's perspective contained +only the one.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The sooner," said Lorison, "the happier I shall be."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What is there to do?" she asked. "What do you have to get? Come! You should +know."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Her energy stirred the dreamer to action.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A city directory first," he cried, gayly, "to find where the man lives who gives +licenses to happiness. We will go together and rout him out. Cabs, cars, +policemen, telephones and ministers shall aid us."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Father Rogan shall marry us," said the girl, with ardour. "I will take you to him."</span></p> + +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">An hour later the two stood at the open doorway of an immense, gloomy brick +building in a narrow and lonely street. The license was tight in Norah's hand.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Wait here a moment," she said, "till I find Father Rogan." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She plunged into the black hallway, and the lover was left standing, as it were, on +one leg, outside. His impatience was not greatly taxed. Gazing curiously into what +seemed the hallway to Erebus, he was presently reassured by a stream of light that +bisected the darkness, far down the passage. Then he heard her call, and fluttered +lampward, like the moth. She beckoned him through a doorway into the room +whence emanated the light. The room was bare of nearly everything except books, +which had subjugated all its space. Here and there little spots of territory had been +reconquered. An elderly, bald man, with a superlatively calm, remote eye, stood by +a table with a book in his hand, his finger still marking a page. His dress was +sombre and appertained to a religious order. His eye denoted an acquaintance with +the perspective.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Father Rogan," said Norah, "this is <i>he</i>."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The two of ye," said Father Rogan, "want to get married?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">They did not deny it. He married them. The ceremony was quickly done. One +who could have witnessed it, and felt its scope, might have trembled at the terrible +inadequacy of it to rise to the dignity of its endless chain of results.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Afterward the priest spake briefly, as if by rote, of certain other civil and legal +addenda that either might or should, at a later time, cap the ceremony. Lorison +tendered a fee, which was declined, and before the door closed after the departing +couple Father Rogan's book popped open again where his finger marked it.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In the dark hall Norah whirled and clung to her companion, tearful. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Will you never, never be sorry?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At last she was reassured.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At the first light they reached upon the street, she asked the time, just as she had +each night. Lorison looked at his watch. Half-past eight.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lorison thought it was from habit that she guided their steps toward the corner +where they always parted. But, arrived there, she hesitated, and then released his +arm. A drug store stood on the corner; its bright, soft light shone upon them.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Please leave me here as usual to-night," said Norah, sweetly. "I must—I would +rather you would. You will not object? At six to-morrow evening I will meet you +at Antonio's. I want to sit with you there once more. And then—I will go where you +say." She gave him a bewildering, bright smile, and walked swiftly away.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Surely it needed all the strength of her charm to carry off this astounding behaviour. +It was no discredit to Lorison's strength of mind that his head began to whirl. +Pocketing his hands, he rambled vacuously over to the druggist's windows, and +began assiduously to spell over the names of the patent medicines therein displayed. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">As soon as be had recovered his wits, he proceeded along the street in an aimless +fashion. After drifting for two or three squares, he flowed into a somewhat more +pretentious thoroughfare, a way much frequented by him in his solitary ramblings. +For here was a row of shops devoted to traffic in goods of the widest range of +choice—handiworks of art, skill and fancy, products of nature and labour from +every zone.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Here, for a time, he loitered among the conspicuous windows, where was set, +emphasized by congested floods of light, the cunningest spoil of the interiors. +There were few passers, and of this Lorison was glad. He was not of the world. For +a long time he had touched his fellow man only at the gear of a levelled +cog-wheel—at right angles, and upon a different axis. He had dropped into a +distinctly new orbit. The stroke of ill fortune had acted upon him, in effect, as a +blow delivered upon the apex of a certain ingenious toy, the musical top, which, +when thus buffeted while spinning, gives forth, with scarcely retarded motion, a +complete change of key and chord.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Strolling along the pacific avenue, he experienced singular, supernatural calm, +accompanied by an unusual a activity of brain. Reflecting upon recent affairs, he +assured himself of his happiness in having won for a bride the one he had so greatly +desired, yet he wondered mildly at his dearth of active emotion. Her strange +behaviour in abandoning him without valid excuse on his bridal eve aroused in him +only a vague and curious speculation. Again, he found himself contemplating, with +complaisant serenity, the incidents of her somewhat lively career. His perspective +seemed to have been queerly shifted.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">As he stood before a window near a corner, his ears were assailed by a waxing +clamour and commotion. He stood close to the window to allow passage to the +cause of the hubbub—a procession of human beings, which rounded the corner and +headed in his direction. He perceived a salient hue of blue and a glitter of brass +about a central figure of dazzling white and silver, and a ragged wake of black, +bobbing figures.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Two ponderous policemen were conducting between them a woman dressed as if +for the stage, in a short, white, satiny skirt reaching to the knees, pink stockings, +and a sort of sleeveless bodice bright with relucent, armour-like scales. Upon her +curly, light hair was perched, at a rollicking angle, a shining tin helmet. The +costume was to be instantly recognized as one of those amazing conceptions to +which competition has harried the inventors of the spectacular ballet. One of the +officers bore a long cloak upon his arm, which, doubtless, had been intended to veil +the I candid attractions of their effulgent prisoner, but, for some reason, it had not +been called into use, to the vociferous delight of the tail of the procession.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Compelled by a sudden and vigorous movement of the woman, the parade halted +before the window by which Lorison stood. He saw that she was young, and, at the +first glance, was deceived by a sophistical prettiness of her face, which waned +before a more judicious scrutiny. Her look was bold and reckless, and upon her +countenance, where yet the contours of youth survived, were the finger-marks of +old age's credentialed courier, Late Hours.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The young woman fixed her unshrinking gaze upon Lorison, and called to him in +the voice of the wronged heroine in straits:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Say! You look like a good fellow; come and put up the bail, won't you? I've done +nothing to get pinched for. It's all a mistake. See how they're treating me! You +won't be sorry, if you'll help me out of this. Think of your sister or your girl being +dragged along the streets this way! I say, come along now, like a good fellow." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It may be that Lorison, in spite of the unconvincing bathos of this appeal, showed a +sympathetic face, for one of the officers left the woman's side, and went over to +him.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's all right, Sir," he said, in a husky, confidential tone; "she's the right party. We +took her after the first act at the Green Light Theatre, on a wire from the chief of +police of Chicago. It's only a square or two to the station. Her rig's pretty bad, but +she refused to change clothes—or, rather," added the officer, with a smile, "to put on +some. I thought I'd explain matters to you so you wouldn't think she was being +imposed upon."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What is the charge?" asked Lorison.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Grand larceny. Diamonds. Her husband is a jeweller in Chicago. She cleaned his +show case of the sparklers, and skipped with a comic-opera troupe."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The policeman, perceiving that the interest of the entire group of spectators was +centred upon himself and Lorison—their conference being regarded as a possible +new complication—was fain to prolong the situation—which reflected his own +importance—by a little afterpiece of philosophical comment.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A gentleman like you, Sir," he went on affably, "would never notice it, but it +comes in my line to observe what an immense amount of trouble is made by that +combination—I mean the stage, diamonds and light-headed women who aren't +satisfied with good homes. I tell you, Sir, a man these days and nights wants to +know what his women folks are up to."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The policeman smiled a good night, and returned to the side of his charge, who had +been intently watching Lorison's face during the conversation, no doubt for some +indication of his intention to render succour. Now, at the failure of the sign, and at +the movement made to continue the ignominious progress, she abandoned hope, and +addressed him thus, pointedly:</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You damn chalk-faced quitter! You was thinking of giving me a hand, but you let +the cop talk you out of it the first word. You're a dandy to tie to. Say, if you ever +get a girl, she'll have a picnic. Won't she work you to the queen's taste! Oh, my!" +She concluded with a taunting, shrill laugh that rasped Lorison like a saw. The +policemen urged her forward; the delighted train of gaping followers closed up the +rear; and the captive Amazon, accepting her fate, extended the scope of her +maledictions so that none in hearing might seem to be slighted.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Then there came upon Lorison an overwhelming revulsion of his perspective. It +may be that he had been ripe for it, that the abnormal condition of mind in which he +had for so long existed was already about to revert to its balance; however, it is +certain that the events of the last few minutes had furnished the channel, if not the +impetus, for the change.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The initial determining influence had been so small a thing as the fact and manner +of his having been approached by the officer. That agent had, by the style of his +accost, restored the loiterer to his former place in society. In an instant he had been +transformed from a somewhat rancid prowler along the fishy side streets of gentility +into an honest gentleman, with whom even so lordly a guardian of the peace might +agreeably exchange the compliments.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">This, then, first broke the spell, and set thrilling in him a resurrected longing for the +fellowship of his kind, and the rewards of the virtuous. To what end, he +vehemently asked himself, was this fanciful self-accusation, this empty +renunciation, this moral squeamishness through which he had been led to abandon +what was his heritage in life, and not beyond his deserts? Technically, he was +uncondemned; his sole guilty spot was in thought rather than deed, and cognizance +of it unshared by others. For what good, moral or sentimental, did he slink, +retreating like the hedgehog from his own shadow, to and fro in this musty +Bohemia that lacked even the picturesque?</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But the thing that struck home and set him raging was the part played by the +Amazonian prisoner. To the counterpart of that astounding belligerent—identical at +least, in the way of experience—to one, by her own confession, thus far fallen, had +he, not three hours since, been united in marriage. How desirable and natural it had +seemed to him then, and how monstrous it seemed now! How the words of +diamond thief number two yet burned in his ears: "If you ever get a girl, she'll have +a picnic." What did that mean but that women instinctively knew him for one they +could hoodwink? Still again, there reverberated the policeman's sapient +contribution to his agony: "A man these days and nights wants to know what his +women folks are up to." Oh, yes, he had been a fool; he had looked at things from +the wrong standpoint. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But the wildest note in all the clamour was struck by pain's forefinger, jealousy. +Now, at least, he felt that keenest sting—a mounting love unworthily bestowed. +Whatever she might be, he loved her; he bore in his own breast his doom. A +grating, comic flavour to his predicament struck him suddenly, and he laughed +creakingly as he swung down the echoing pavement. An impetuous desire to act, to +battle with his fate, seized him. He stopped upon his heel, and smote his palms +together triumphantly. His wife was—where? But there was a tangible link; an +outlet more or less navigable, through which his derelict ship of matrimony might +yet be safely towed—the priest!</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Like all imaginative men with pliable natures, Lorison was, when thoroughly +stirred, apt to become tempestuous. With a high and stubborn indignation upon +him, be retraced his steps to the intersecting street by which he had come. Down +this he hurried to the corner where he had parted with—an astringent grimace +tinctured the thought—his wife. Thence still back he harked, following through an +unfamiliar district his stimulated recollections of the way they had come from that +preposterous wedding. Many times he went abroad, and nosed his way back to the +trail, furious.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At last, when he reached the dark, calamitous building in which his madness had +culminated, and found the black hallway, he dashed down it, perceiving no light or +sound. But he raised his voice, hailing loudly; reckless of everything but that he +should find the old mischief-maker with the eyes that looked too far away to see the +disaster he had wrought. The door opened, and in the stream of light Father Rogan +stood, his book in hand, with his finger marking the place.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ah!" cried Lorison. "You are the man I want. I had a wife of you a few hours +ago. I would not trouble you, but I neglected to note how it was done. Will you +oblige me with the information whether the business is beyond remedy?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Come inside," said the priest; "there are other lodgers in the house, who might +prefer sleep to even a gratified curiosity." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lorison entered the room and took the chair offered him. The priest's eyes looked a +courteous interrogation.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I must apologize again," said the young man, "for so soon intruding upon you with +my marital infelicities, but, as my wife has neglected to furnish me with her +address, I am deprived of the legitimate recourse of a family row."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I am quite a plain man," said Father Rogan, pleasantly; "but I do not see how I am +to ask you questions."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Pardon my indirectness," said Lorison; "I will ask one. In this room to-night you +pronounced me to be a husband. You afterward spoke of additional rites or +performances that either should or could be effected. I paid little attention to your +words then, but I am hungry to hear them repeated now. As matters stand, am I +married past all help?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You are as legally and as firmly bound," said the priest, "as though it had been +done in a cathedral, in the presence of thousands. The additional observances I +referred to are not necessary to the strictest legality of the act, but were advised as a +precaution for the future—for convenience of proof in such contingencies as wills, +inheritances and the like."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lorison laughed harshly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Many thanks," he said. "Then there is no mistake, and I am the happy benedict. I +suppose I should go stand upon the bridal corner, and when my wife gets through +walking the streets she will look me up." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Father Rogan regarded him calmly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"My son," he said, "when a man and woman come to me to be married I always +marry them. I do this for the sake of other people whom they might go away and +marry if they did not marry each other. As you see, I do not seek your confidence; +but your case seems to me to be one not altogether devoid of interest. Very few +marriages that have come to my notice have brought such well-expressed regret +within so short a time. I will hazard one question: were you not under the +impression that you loved the lady you married, at the time you did so;" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Loved her!" cried Lorison, wildly. "Never so well as now, though she told me she +deceived and sinned and stole. Never more than now, when, perhaps, she is +laughing at the fool she cajoled and left, with scarcely a word, to return to God only +knows what particular line of her former folly."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Father Rogan answered nothing. During the silence that succeeded, he sat with a +quiet expectation beaming in his full, lambent eye. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"If you would listen—" began Lorison. The priest held up his hand. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"As I hoped," he said. "I thought you would trust me. Wait but a moment." He +brought a long clay pipe, filled and lighted it. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Now, my son," he said.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lorison poured a twelve month's accumulated confidence into Father Rogan's ear. +He told all; not sparing himself or omitting the facts of his past, the events of the +night, or his disturbing conjectures and fears.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The main point," said the priest, when he had concluded, "seems to me to be +this—are you reasonably sure that you love this woman whom you have married?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Why," exclaimed Lorison, rising impulsively to his feet—"why should I deny it? +But look at me—am fish, flesh or fowl? That is the main point to me, I assure you."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I understand you," said the priest, also rising, and laying down his pipe. "The +situation is one that has taxed the endurance of much older men than you—in fact, +especially much older men than you. I will try to relieve you from it, and this night. +You shall see for yourself into exactly what predicament you have fallen, and how +you shall, possibly, be extricated. There is no evidence so credible as that of the +eyesight."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Father Rogan moved about the room, and donned a soft black hat. Buttoning his +coat to his throat, he laid his hand on the doorknob. "Let us walk," he said.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The two went out upon the street. The priest turned his face down it, and Lorison +walked with him through a squalid district, where the houses loomed, awry and +desolate-looking, high above them. Presently they turned into a less dismal side +street, where the houses were smaller, and, though hinting of the most meagre +comfort, lacked the concentrated wretchedness of the more populous byways.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">At a segregated, two-story house Father Rogan halted, and mounted the steps with +the confidence of a familiar visitor. He ushered Lorison into a narrow hallway, +faintly lighted by a cobwebbed hanging lamp. Almost immediately a door to the +right opened and a dingy Irishwoman protruded her head.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Good evening to ye, Mistress Geehan," said the priest, unconsciously, it seemed, +falling into a delicately flavoured brogue. "And is it yourself can tell me if Norah +has gone out again, the night, maybe?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, it's yer blissid riverence! Sure and I can tell ye the same. The purty darlin' +wint out, as usual, but a bit later. And she says: 'Mother Geehan,' says she, 'it's me +last noight out, praise the saints, this noight is!' And, oh, yer riverence, the swate, +beautiful drame of a dress she had this toime! White satin and silk and ribbons, and +lace about the neck and arrums—'twas a sin, yer reverence, the gold was spint upon +it."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The priest heard Lorison catch his breath painfully, and a faint smile flickered +across his own clean-cut mouth.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Well, then, Mistress Geehan," said he, "I'll just step upstairs and see the bit boy for +a minute, and I'll take this gentleman up with me."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"He's awake, thin," said the woman. 'I've just come down from sitting wid him the +last hour, tilling him fine shtories of ould County Tyrone. 'Tis a greedy gossoon, it +is, yer riverence, for me shtories."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Small the doubt," said Father Rogan. "There's no rocking would put him to slape +the quicker, I'm thinking."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Amid the woman's shrill protest against the retort, the two men ascended the steep +stairway. The priest pushed open the door of a room near its top.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Is that you already, sister?" drawled a sweet, childish voice from the darkness.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's only ould Father Denny come to see ye, darlin'; and a foine gentleman I've +brought to make ye a gr-r-and call. And ye resaves us fast aslape in bed! Shame on +yez manners!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, Father Denny, is that you? I'm glad. And will you light the lamp, please? It's +on the table by the door. And quit talking like Mother Geehan, Father Denny."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The priest lit the lamp, and Lorison saw a tiny, towsled-haired boy, with a thin, +delicate face, sitting up in a small bed in a corner. Quickly, also, his rapid glance +considered the room and its contents. It was furnished with more than comfort, and +its adornments plainly indicated a woman's discerning taste. An open door beyond +revealed the blackness of an adjoining room's interior.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The boy clutched both of Father Rogan's hands. "I'm so glad you came," he said; +"but why did you come in the night? Did sister send you?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Off wid ye! Am I to be sint about, at me age, as was Terence McShane, of +Ballymahone? I come on me own r-r-responsibility." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lorison had also advanced to the boy's bedside. He was fond of children; and the +wee fellow, laying himself down to sleep alone in that dark room, stirred-his heart.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Aren't you afraid, little man?" he asked, stooping down beside him. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Sometimes," answered the boy, with a shy smile, "when the rats make too much +noise. But nearly every night, when sister goes out, Mother Geehan stays a while +with me, and tells me funny stories. I'm not often afraid, sir."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"This brave little gentleman," said Father Rogan, "is a scholar of mine. Every day +from half-past six to half-past eight—when sister comes for him—he stops in my +study, and we find out what's in the inside of books. He knows multiplication, +division and fractions; and he's troubling me to begin wid the chronicles of Ciaran +of Clonmacnoise, Corurac McCullenan and Cuan O'Lochain, the gr-r-reat Irish +histhorians." The boy was evidently accustomed to the priest's Celtic pleasantries. +A little, appreciative grin was all the attention the insinuation of pedantry received.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lorison, to have saved his life, could not have put to the child one of those vital +questions that were wildly beating about, unanswered, in his own brain. The little +fellow was very like Norah; he had the same shining hair and candid eyes.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, Father Denny," cried the boy, suddenly, "I forgot to tell you! Sister is not +going away at night any more! She told me so when she kissed me good night as +she was leaving. And she said she was so happy, and then she cried. Wasn't that +queer? But I'm glad; aren't you?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Yes, lad. And now, ye omadhaun, go to sleep, and say good night; we must be +going."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Which shall I do first, Father Denny?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Faith, he's caught me again! Wait till I get the sassenach into the annals of +Tageruach, the hagiographer; I'll give him enough of the Irish idiom to make him +more respectful."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The light was out, and the small, brave voice bidding them good night from the +dark room. They groped downstairs, and tore away from the garrulity of Mother +Geehan.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Again the priest steered them through the dim ways, but this time in another +direction. His conductor was serenely silent, and Lorison followed his example to +the extent of seldom speaking. Serene he could not be. His heart beat suffocatingly +in his breast. The following of this blind, menacing trail was pregnant with he +knew not what humiliating revelation to be delivered at its end.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">They came into a more pretentious street, where trade, it could be surmised, +flourished by day. And again the priest paused; this time before a lofty building, +whose great doors and windows in the lowest floor were carefully shuttered and +barred. Its higher apertures were dark, save in the third story, the windows of +which were brilliantly lighted. Lorison's ear caught a distant, regular, pleasing +thrumming, as of music above. They stood at an angle of the building. Up, along +the side nearest them, mounted an iron stairway. At its top was an upright, +illuminated parallelogram. Father Rogan had stopped, and stood, musing.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I will say this much," he remarked, thoughtfully: "I believe you to be a better man +than you think yourself to be, and a better man than I thought some hours ago. But +do not take this," he added, with a smile, "as much praise. I promised you a +possible deliverance from an unhappy perplexity. I will have to modify that +promise. I can only remove the mystery that enhanced that perplexity. Your +deliverance depends upon yourself. Come."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He led his companion up the stairway. Halfway up, Lorison caught him by the +sleeve. "Remember," he gasped, "I love that woman." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You desired to know.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I—Go on."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The priest reached the landing at the top of the stairway. Lorison, behind him, saw +that the illuminated space was the glass upper half of a door opening into the lighted +room. The rhythmic music increased as they neared it; the stairs shook with the +mellow vibrations. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Lorison stopped breathing when he set foot upon the highest step, for the priest +stood aside, and motioned him to look through the glass of the door.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">His eye, accustomed to the darkness, met first a blinding glare, and then he made +out the faces and forms of many people, amid an extravagant display of splendid +robings—billowy laces, brilliant-hued finery, ribbons, silks and misty drapery. And +then he caught the meaning of that jarring hum, and he saw the tired, pale, happy +face of his wife, bending, as were a score of others, over her sewing +machine—toiling, toiling. Here was the folly she pursued, and the end of his quest.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But not his deliverance, though even then remorse struck him. His shamed soul +fluttered once more before it retired to make room for the other and better one. For, +to temper his thrill of joy, the shine of the satin and the glimmer of ornaments +recalled the disturbing figure of the bespangled Amazon, and the base duplicate +histories lit by the glare of footlights and stolen diamonds. It is past the wisdom of +him who only sets the scenes, either to praise or blame the man. But this time his +love overcame his scruples. He took a quick step, and reached out his hand for the +doorknob. Father Rogan was quicker to arrest it and draw him back.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You use my trust in you queerly," said the priest sternly. "What are you about to +do?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I am going to my wife," said Lorison. "Let me pass."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Listen," said the priest, holding him firmly by the arm. "I am about to put you in +possession of a piece of knowledge of which, thus far, you have scarcely proved +deserving. I do not think you ever will; but I will not dwell upon that. You see in +that room the woman you married, working for a frugal living for herself, and a +generous comfort for an idolized brother. This building belongs to the chief +costumer of the city. For months the advance orders for the coming Mardi Gras +festivals have kept the work going day and night. I myself secured employment +here for Norah. She toils here each night from nine o'clock until daylight, and, +besides, carries home with her some of the finer costumes, requiring more delicate +needlework, and works there part of the day. Somehow, you two have remained +strangely ignorant of each other's lives. Are you convinced now that your wife is +not walking the streets?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Let me go to her," cried Lorison, again struggling, "and beg her forgiveness!'</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Sir," said the priest, "do you owe me nothing? Be quiet. It seems so often that +Heaven lets fall its choicest gifts into hands that must be taught to hold them. +Listen again. You forgot that repentant sin must not compromise, but look up, for +redemption, to the purest and best. You went to her with the fine-spun sophistry +that peace could be found in a mutual guilt; and she, fearful of losing what her heart +so craved, thought it worth the price to buy it with a desperate, pure, beautiful lie. I +have known her since the day she was born; she is as innocent and unsullied in life +and deed as a holy saint. In that lowly street where she dwells she first saw the +light, and she has lived there ever since, spending her days in generous self-sacrifice +for others. Och, ye spalpeen!" continued Father Rogan, raising his finger in kindly +anger at Lorison. "What for, I wonder, could she be after making a fool of hersilf, +and shamin' her swate soul with lies, for the like of you!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Sir," said Lorison, trembling, "say what you please of me. Doubt it as you must, I +will yet prove my gratitude to you, and my devotion to her. But let me speak to her +once now, let me kneel for just one moment at her feet, and—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Tut, tut!" said the priest. "How many acts of a love drama do you think an old +bookworm like me capable of witnessing? Besides, what kind of figures do we cut, +spying upon the mysteries of midnight millinery! Go to meet your wife to-morrow, +as she ordered you, and obey her thereafter, and maybe some time I shall get +forgiveness for the part I have played in this night's work. Off wid yez down the +shtairs, now! 'Tis late, and an ould man like me should be takin' his rest."</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="24"></a> +<br> +<br> +<center><b> +XXIV<br> +<br> +MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES<br> +</b></center> +<br> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Aunt Ellen," said Octavia, cheerfully, as she threw her black kid gloves carefully at +the dignified Persian cat on the window-seat, "I'm a pauper."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You are so extreme in your statements, Octavia, dear," said Aunt Ellen, mildly, +looking up from her paper. "If you find yourself temporarily in need of some small +change for bonbons, you will find my purse in the drawer of the writing desk." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia Beaupree removed her hat and seated herself on a footstool near her aunt's +chair, clasping her hands about her knees. Her slim and flexible figure, clad in a +modish mourning costume, accommodated itself easily and gracefully to the trying +position. Her bright and youthful face, with its pair of sparkling, life-enamoured +eyes, tried to compose itself to the seriousness that the occasion seemed to demand.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You good auntie, it isn't a case of bonbons; it is abject, staring, unpicturesque +poverty, with ready-made clothes, gasolined gloves, and probably one o'clock +dinners all waiting with the traditional wolf at the door. I've just come from my +lawyer, auntie, and, 'Please, ma'am, I ain't got nothink 't all. Flowers, lady? +Buttonhole, gentleman? Pencils, sir, three for five, to help a poor widow?' Do I do it +nicely, auntie, or, as a bread-winner accomplishment, were my lessons in elocution +entirely wasted?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Do be serious, my dear," said Aunt Ellen, letting her paper fall to the floor, "long +enough to tell me what you mean. Colonel Beaupree's estate—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Colonel Beaupree's estate," interrupted Octavia, emphasizing her words with +appropriate dramatic gestures, "is of Spanish castellar architecture. Colonel +Beaupree's resources are—wind. Colonel Beaupree's stocks are—water. Colonel +Beaupree's income is—all in. The statement lacks the legal technicalities to which I +have been listening for an hour, but that is what it means when translated." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Octavia!" Aunt Ellen was now visibly possessed by consternation. "I can hardly +believe it. And it was the impression that he was worth a million. And the De +Peysters themselves introduced him!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia rippled out a laugh, and then became properly grave. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"<i>De mortuis nil</i>, auntie—not even the rest of it. The dear old colonel—what a gold +brick he was, after all! I paid for my bargain fairly—I'm all here, am I not?—items: +eyes, fingers, toes, youth, old family, unquestionable position in society as called for +in the contract—no wild-cat stock here." Octavia picked up the morning paper from +the floor. "But I'm not going to 'squeal'—isn't that what they call it when you rail at +Fortune because you've, lost the game?" She turned the pages of the paper calmly. +"'Stock market'—no use for that. 'Society's doings'—that's done. Here is my page— +the wish column. A Van Dresser could not be said to 'want' for anything, of course. +'Chamber-maids, cooks, canvassers, stenographers—'"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Dear," said Aunt Ellen, with a little tremor in her voice, "please do not talk in that +way. Even if your affairs are in so unfortunate a condition, there is my three +thousand—"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia sprang up lithely, and deposited a smart kiss on the delicate cheek of the +prim little elderly maid.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Blessed auntie, your three thousand is just sufficient to insure your Hyson to be +free from willow leaves and keep the Persian in sterilized cream. I know I'd be +welcome, but I prefer to strike bottom like Beelzebub rather than hang around like +the Peri listening to the music from the side entrance. I'm going to earn my own +living. There's nothing else to do. I'm a—Oh, oh, oh!—I had forgotten. There's one +thing saved from the wreck. It's a corral—no, a ranch in—let me see—Texas: an asset, +dear old Mr. Bannister called it. How pleased he was to show me something he +could describe as unencumbered! I've a description of it among those stupid papers +he made me bring away with me from his office. I'll try to find it."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia found her shopping-bag, and drew from it a long envelope filled with +typewritten documents.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A ranch in Texas," sighed Aunt Ellen. "It sounds to me more like a liability than an +asset. Those are the places where the centipedes are found, and cowboys, and +fandangos."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"'The Rancho de las Sombras,'" read Octavia from a sheet of violently purple +typewriting, "'is situated one hundred and ten miles southeast of San Antonio, and +thirty-eight miles from its nearest railroad station, Nopal, on the I. and G. N. Ranch, +consists of 7,680 acres of well-watered land, with title conferred by State patents, +and twenty-two sections, or 14,080 acres, partly under yearly running lease and +partly bought under State's twenty-year-purchase act. Eight thousand graded merino +sheep, with the necessary equipment of horses, vehicles and general ranch +paraphernalia. Ranch-house built of brick, with six rooms comfortably furnished +according to the requirements of the climate. All within a strong barbed-wire fence.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"'The present ranch manager seems to be competent and reliable, and is rapidly +placing upon a paying basis a business that, in other hands, had been allowed to +suffer from neglect and misconduct.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"'This property was secured by Colonel Beaupree in a deal with a Western irrigation +syndicate, and the title to it seems to be perfect. With careful management and the +natural increase of land values, it ought to be made the foundation for a comfortable +fortune for its owner.'"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When Octavia ceased reading, Aunt Ellen uttered something as near a sniff as her +breeding permitted.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The prospectus," she said, with uncompromising metropolitan suspicion, "doesn't +mention the centipedes, or the Indians. And you never did like mutton, Octavia. I +don't see what advantage you can derive from this—desert."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">But Octavia was in a trance. Her eyes were steadily regarding something quite +beyond their focus. Her lips were parted, and her face was lighted by the kindling +furor of the explorer, the ardent, stirring disquiet of the adventurer. Suddenly she +clasped her hands together exultantly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The problem solves itself, auntie," she cried. "I'm going to that ranch. I'm going to +live on it. I'm going to learn to like mutton, and even concede the good qualities of +centipedes—at a respectful distance. It's just what I need. It's a new life that comes +when my old one is just ending. It's a release, auntie; it isn't a narrowing. Think of +the gallops over those leagues of prairies, with the wind tugging at the roots of your +hair, the coming close to the earth and learning over again the stories of the growing +grass and the little wild flowers without names! Glorious is what it will be. Shall I +be a shepherdess with a Watteau hat, and a crook to keep the bad wolves from the +lambs, or a typical Western ranch girl, with short hair, like the pictures of her in the +Sunday papers? I think the latter. And they'll have my picture, too, with the +wild-cats I've slain, single-handed, hanging from my saddle horn. 'From the Four +Hundred to the Flocks' is the way they'll headline it, and they'll print photographs of +the old Van Dresser mansion and the church where I was married. They won't have +my picture, but they'll get an artist to draw it. I'll be wild and woolly, and I'll grow +my own wool." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Octavia!" Aunt Ellen condensed into the one word all the protests she was unable +to utter.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Don't say a word, auntie. I'm going. I'll see the sky at night fit down on the world +like a big butter-dish cover, and I'll make friends again with the stars that I haven't +had a chat with since I was a wee child. I wish to go. I'm tired of all this. I'm glad I +haven't any money. I could bless Colonel Beaupree for that ranch, and forgive him +for all his bubbles. What if the life will be rough and lonely! I—I deserve it. I shut +my heart to everything except that miserable ambition. I—oh, I wish to go away, and +forget—forget!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia swerved suddenly to her knees, laid her flushed face in her aunt's lap, and +shook with turbulent sobs.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Aunt Ellen bent over her, and smoothed the coppery-brown hair. </span></p> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I didn't know," she said, gently; "I didn't know—that. Who was it, dear?"</span></p> + +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When Mrs. Octavia Beaupree, née Van Dresser, stepped from the train at Nopal, +her manner lost, for the moment, some of that easy certitude which had always +marked her movements. The town was of recent establishment, and seemed to have +been hastily constructed of undressed lumber and flapping canvas. The element that +had congregated about the station, though not offensively demonstrative, was +clearly composed of citizens accustomed to and prepared for rude alarms.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia stood on the platform, against the telegraph office, and attempted to choose +by intuition from the swaggering, straggling string of loungers, the manager of the +Rancho de las Sombras, who had been instructed by Mr. Bannister to meet her +there. That tall, serious, looking, elderly man in the blue flannel shirt and white tie +she thought must be he. But, no; he passed by, removing his gaze from the lady as +hers rested on him, according to the Southern custom. The manager, she thought, +with some impatience at being kept waiting, should have no difficulty in selecting +her. Young women wearing the most recent thing in ash-coloured travelling suits +were not so plentiful in Nopal!</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Thus keeping a speculative watch on all persons of possible managerial aspect, +Octavia, with a catching breath and a start of surprise, suddenly became aware of +Teddy Westlake hurrying along the platform in the direction of the train—of Teddy +Westlake or his sun-browned ghost in cheviot, boots and leather-girdled +hat—Theodore Westlake, Jr., amateur polo (almost) champion, all-round butterfly +and cumberer of the soil; but a broader, surer, more emphasized and determined +Teddy than the one she had known a year ago when last she saw him. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">He perceived Octavia at almost the same time, deflected his course, and steered for +her in his old, straightforward way. Something like awe came upon her as the +strangeness of his metamorphosis was brought into closer range; the rich, +red-brown of his complexion brought out so vividly his straw-coloured mustache +and steel-gray eyes. He seemed more grown-up, and, somehow, farther away. But, +when he spoke, the old, boyish Teddy came back again. They had been friends from +childhood.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Why, 'Tave!" he exclaimed, unable to reduce his perplexity to coherence. +"How—what—when—where?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Train," said Octavia; "necessity; ten minutes ago; home. Your complexion's gone, +Teddy. Now, how—what—when—where?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm working down here," said Teddy. He cast side glances about the station as one +does who tries to combine politeness with duty. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You didn't notice on the train," he asked, "an old lady with gray curls and a poodle, +who occupied two seats with her bundles and quarrelled with the conductor, did +you?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I think not," answered Octavia, reflecting. "And you haven't, by any chance, +noticed a big, gray-mustached man in a blue shirt and six-shooters, with little flakes +of merino wool sticking in his hair, have you?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Lots of 'em," said Teddy, with symptoms of mental delirium under the strain. Do +you happen to know any such individual?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No; the description is imaginary. Is your interest in the old lady whom you +describe a personal one?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Never saw her in my life. She's painted entirely from fancy. She owns the little +piece of property where I earn my bread and butter—the Rancho de las Sombras. I +drove up to meet her according to arrangement with her lawyer."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia leaned against the wall of the telegraph office. Was this possible? And +didn't he know?</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Are you the manager of that ranch?" she asked weakly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I am," said Teddy, with pride.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I am Mrs. Beaupree," said Octavia faintly; "but my hair never would curl, and I +was polite to the conductor."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">For a moment that strange, grown-up look came back, and removed Teddy miles +away from her.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I hope you'll excuse me," he said, rather awkwardly. "You see, I've been down +here in the chaparral a year. I hadn't heard. Give me your checks, please, and I'll +have your traps loaded into the wagon. José will follow with them. We travel ahead +in the buckboard."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Seated by Teddy in a feather-weight buckboard, behind a pair of wild, +cream-coloured Spanish ponies, Octavia abandoned all thought for the exhilaration +of the present. They swept out of the little town and down the level road toward the +south. Soon the road dwindled and disappeared, and they struck across a world +carpeted with an endless reach of curly mesquite grass. The wheels made no sound. +The tireless ponies bounded ahead at an unbroken gallop. The temperate wind, +made fragrant by thousands of acres of blue and yellow wild flowers, roared +gloriously in their ears. The motion was aërial, ecstatic, with a thrilling sense of +perpetuity in its effect. Octavia sat silent, possessed by a feeling of elemental, +sensual bliss. Teddy seemed to be wrestling with some internal problem.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm going to call you madama," he announced as the result of his labours. "That is +what the Mexicans will call you—they're nearly all Mexicans on the ranch, you +know. That seems to me about the proper thing."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Very well, Mr. Westlake," said Octavia, primly.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, now," said Teddy, in some consternation, "that's carrying the thing too far, +isn't it?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Don't worry me with your beastly etiquette. I'm just beginning to live. Don't +remind me of anything artificial. If only this air could be bottled! This much alone +is worth coming for. Oh, look I there goes a deer!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Jack-rabbit," said Teddy, without turning his head.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Could I—might I drive?" suggested Octavia, panting, with rose-tinted cheeks and +the eye of an eager child.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"On one condition. Could I—might I smoke?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Forever!" cried Octavia, taking the lines with solemn joy. "How shall I know +which way to drive?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Keep her sou' by sou'east, and all sail set. You see that black speck on the horizon +under that lowermost Gulf cloud? That's a group of live-oaks and a landmark. Steer +halfway between that and the little hill to the left. I'll recite you the whole code of +driving rules for the Texas prairies: keep the reins from under the horses' feet, and +swear at 'em frequent."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I'm too happy to swear, Ted. Oh, why do people buy yachts or travel in +palace-cars, when a buckboard and a pair of plugs and a spring morning like this +can satisfy all desire?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Now, I'll ask you," protested Teddy, who was futilely striking match after match +on the dashboard, "not to call those denizens of the air plugs. They can kick out a +hundred miles between daylight and dark." At last he succeeded in snatching a light +for his cigar from the flame held in the hollow of his hands.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Room!" said Octavia, intensely. "That's what produces the effect. I know now +what I've wanted—scope—range—room!"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Smoking-room," said Teddy, unsentimentally. "I love to smoke in a buckboard. +The wind blows the smoke into you and out again. It saves exertion."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The two fell so naturally into their old-time goodfellowship that it was only by +degrees that a sense of the strangeness of the new relations between them came to +be felt.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Madama," said Teddy, wonderingly, "however did you get it into your bead to cut +the crowd and come down here? Is it a fad now among the upper classes to trot off +to sheep ranches instead of to Newport?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I was broke, Teddy," said Octavia, sweetly, with her interest centred upon steering +safely between a Spanish dagger plant and a clump of chaparral; "I haven't a thing +in the world but this ranch—not even any other home to go to."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Come, now," said Teddy, anxiously but incredulously, "you don't mean it?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"When my husband," said Octavia, with a shy slurring of the word, "died three +months ago I thought I had a reasonable amount of the world's goods. His lawyer +exploded that theory in a sixty-minute fully illustrated lecture. I took to the sheep as +a last resort. Do you happen to know of any fashionable caprice among the gilded +youth of Manhattan that induces them to abandon polo and club windows to +become managers of sheep ranches?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's easily explained in my case," responded Teddy, promptly. "I had to go to work. +I couldn't have earned my board in New York, so I chummed a while with old +Sandford, one of the syndicate that owned the ranch before Colonel Beaupree +bought it, and got a place down here. I wasn't manager at first. I jogged around on +ponies and studied the business in detail, until I got all the points in my head. I saw +where it was losing and what the remedies were, and then Sandford put me in +charge. I get a hundred dollars a month, and I earn it." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Poor Teddy!" said Octavia, with a smile.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You needn't. I like it. I save half my wages, and I'm as hard as a water plug. It +beats polo."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Will it furnish bread and tea and jam for another outcast from civilization?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The spring shearing," said the manager, "just cleaned up a deficit in last year's +business. Wastefulness and inattention have been the rule heretofore. The autumn +clip will leave a small profit over all expenses. Next year there will be jam."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">When, about four o'clock in the afternoon, the ponies rounded a gentle, +brush-covered hill, and then swooped, like a double cream-coloured cyclone, upon +the Rancho de las Sombras, Octavia gave a little cry of delight. A lordly grove of +magnificent live-oaks cast an area of grateful, cool shade, whence the ranch had +drawn its name, "de las Sombras"—of the shadows. The house, of red brick, one +story, ran low and long beneath the trees. Through its middle, dividing its six rooms +in half, extended a broad, arched passageway, picturesque with flowering cactus +and hanging red earthern jars. A "gallery," low and broad, encircled the building. +Vines climbed about it, and the adjacent ground was, for a space, covered with +transplanted grass and shrubs. A little lake, long and narrow, glimmered in the sun +at the rear. Further away stood the shacks of the Mexican workers, the corrals, wool +sheds and shearing pens. To the right lay the low hills, splattered with dark patches +of chaparral; to the left the unbounded green prairie blending against the blue +heavens.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's a home, Teddy," said Octavia, breathlessly; that's what it is—it's a home."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Not so bad for a sheep ranch," admitted Teddy, with excusable pride. "I've been +tinkering on it at odd times."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A Mexican youth sprang from somewhere in the grass, and took charge of the +creams. The mistress and the manager entered the house. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Here's Mrs. MacIntyre," said Teddy, as a placid, neat, elderly lady came out upon +the gallery to meet them. "Mrs. Mac, here's the boss. Very likely she will be +wanting a hunk of ham and a dish of beans after her drive."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Mrs. MacIntyre, the housekeeper, as much a fixture on the place as the lake or the +live-oaks, received the imputation of the ranch's resources of refreshment with mild +indignation, and was about to give it utterance when Octavia spoke.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Oh, Mrs. MacIntyre, don't apologize for Teddy. Yes, I call him Teddy. So does +every one whom he hasn't duped into taking him seriously. You see, we used to cut +paper dolls and play jackstraws together ages ago. No one minds what he says."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No," said Teddy, "no one minds what he says, just so he doesn't do it again."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia cast one of those subtle, sidelong glances toward him from beneath her +lowered eyelids—a glance that Teddy used to describe as an upper-cut. But there +was nothing in his ingenuous, weather-tanned face to warrant a suspicion that he +was making an allusion—nothing. Beyond a doubt, thought Octavia, he had +forgotten.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Mr. Westlake likes his fun," said Mrs. Maclntyre, as she conducted Octavia to her +rooms. "But," she added, loyally, "people around here usually pay attention to what +he says when he talks in earnest. I don't know what would have become of this +place without him." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Two rooms at the east end of the house had been arranged for the occupancy of the +ranch's mistress. When she entered them a slight dismay seized her at their bare +appearance and the scantiness of their furniture; but she quickly reflected that the +climate was a semi-tropical one, and was moved to appreciation of the +well-conceived efforts to conform to it. The sashes had already been removed from +the big windows, and white curtains waved in the Gulf breeze that streamed +through the wide jalousies. The bare floor was amply strewn with cool rugs; the +chairs were inviting, deep, dreamy willows; the walls were papered with a light, +cheerful olive. One whole side of her sitting room was covered with books on +smooth, unpainted pine shelves. She flew to these at once. Before her was a +well-selected library. She caught glimpses of titles of volumes of fiction and travel +not yet seasoned from the dampness of the press.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Presently, recollecting that she was now in a wilderness given over to mutton, +centipedes and privations, the incongruity of these luxuries struck her, and, with +intuitive feminine suspicion, she began turning to the fly-leaves of volume after +volume. Upon each one was inscribed in fluent characters the name of Theodore +Westlake, Jr.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia, fatigued by her long journey, retired early that night. Lying upon her white, +cool bed, she rested deliciously, but sleep coquetted long with her. She listened to +faint noises whose strangeness kept her faculties on the alert—the fractious yelping +of the coyotes, the ceaseless, low symphony of the wind, the distant booming of the +frogs about the lake, the lamentation of a concertina in the Mexicans' quarters. +There were many conflicting feelings in her heart—thankfulness and rebellion, +peace and disquietude, loneliness and a sense of protecting care, happiness and an +old, haunting pain. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She did what any other woman would have done—sought relief in a wholesome tide +of unreasonable tears, and her last words, murmured to herself before slumber, +capitulating, came softly to woo her, were "He has forgotten."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The manager of the Rancho de las Sombras was no dilettante. He was a "hustler." +He was generally up, mounted, and away of mornings before the rest of the +household were awake, making the rounds of the flocks and camps. This was the +duty of the major-domo, a stately old Mexican with a princely air and manner, but +Teddy seemed to have a great deal of confidence in his own eyesight. Except in the +busy seasons, he nearly always returned to the ranch to breakfast at eight o'clock, +with Octavia and Mrs. Maclntyre, at the little table set in the central hallway, +bringing with him a tonic and breezy cheerfulness full of the health and flavour of +the prairies.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A few days after Octavia's arrival he made her get out one of her riding skirts, and +curtail it to a shortness demanded by the chaparral brakes.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">With some misgivings she donned this and the pair of buckskin leggings he +prescribed in addition, and, mounted upon a dancing pony, rode with him to view +her possessions. He showed her everything—the flocks of ewes, muttons and +grazing lambs, the dipping vats, the shearing pens, the uncouth merino rams in their +little pasture, the water-tanks prepared against the summer drought—giving account +of his stewardship with a boyish enthusiasm that never flagged.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Where was the old Teddy that she knew so well? This side of him was the same, +and it was a side that pleased her; but this was all she ever saw of him now. Where +was his sentimentality—those old, varying moods of impetuous love-making, of +fanciful, quixotic devotion, of heart-breaking gloom, of alternating, absurd +tenderness and haughty dignity? His nature had been a sensitive one, his +temperament bordering closely on the artistic. She knew that, besides being a +follower of fashion and its fads and sports, he had cultivated tastes of a finer nature. +He had written things, he had tampered with colours, he was something of a student +in certain branches of art, and once she had been admitted to all his aspirations and +thoughts. But now—and she could not avoid the conclusion—Teddy had</span></p> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">barricaded against her every side of himself except one—the side that showed the +manager of the Rancho de las Sombras and a jolly chum who had forgiven and +forgotten. Queerly enough the words of Mr. Bannister's description of her property +came into her mind—"all inclosed within a strong barbed-wire fence."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Teddy's fenced, too," said Octavia to herself.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It was not difficult for her to reason out the cause of his fortifications. It had +originated one night at the Hammersmiths' ball. It occurred at a time soon after she +had decided to accept Colonel Beaupree and his million, which was no more than +her looks and the entrée she held to the inner circles were worth. Teddy had +proposed with all his impetuosity and fire, and she looked him straight in the eyes, +an said, coldly and finally: "Never let me hear any such silly nonsense from you +again." "You won't," said Teddy, with an expression around his mouth, and—now +Teddy was inclosed within a strong barbed-wire fence.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It was on this first ride of inspection that Teddy was seized by the inspiration that +suggested the name of Mother Goose's heroine, and he at once bestowed it upon +Octavia. The idea, supported by both a similarity of names and identity of +occupations, seemed to strike him as a peculiarly happy one, and he never tired of +using it. The Mexicans on the ranch also took up the name, adding another syllable +to accommodate their lingual incapacity for the final "p," gravely referring to her as +"La Madama Bo-Peepy." Eventually it spread, and "Madame Bo-Peep's ranch" was +as often mentioned as the "Rancho de las Sombras."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Came the long, hot season from May to September, when work is scarce on the +ranches. Octavia passed the days in a kind of lotus-eater's dream. Books, +hammocks, correspondence with a few intimate friends, a renewed interest in her +old water-colour box and easel—these disposed of the sultry hours of daylight. The +evenings were always sure to bring enjoyment. Best of all were the rapturous +horseback rides with Teddy, when the moon gave light over the wind-swept +leagues, chaperoned by the wheeling night-hawk and the startled owl. Often the +Mexicans would come up from their shacks with their guitars and sing the weirdest +of heart-breaking songs. There were long, cosy chats on the breezy gallery, and an +interminable warfare of wits between Teddy and Mrs. MacIntyre, whose abundant +Scotch shrewdness often more than overmatched the lighter humour in which she +was lacking.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">And the nights came, one after another, and were filed away by weeks and +months—nights soft and languorous and fragrant, that should have driven Strephon +to Chloe over wires however barbed, that might have drawn Cupid himself to hunt, +lasso in hand, among those amorous pastures—but Teddy kept his fences up.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">One July night Madame Bo-Peep and her ranch manager were sitting on the east +gallery. Teddy had been exhausting the science of prognostication as to the +probabilities of a price of twenty-four cents for the autumn clip, and had then +subsided into an anesthetic cloud of Havana smoke. Only as incompetent a judge as +a woman would have failed to note long ago that at least a third of his salary must +have gone up in the fumes of those imported Regalias.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Teddy," said Octavia, suddenly, and rather sharply, "what are you working down +here on a ranch for?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"One hundred per," said Teddy, glibly, "and found."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I've a good mind to discharge you."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Can't do it," said Teddy, with a grin.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Why not?" demanded Octavia, with argumentative heat.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Under contract. Terms of sale respect all unexpired contracts. Mine runs until 12 +P. M., December thirty-first. You might get up at midnight on that date and fire me. +If you try it sooner I'll be in a position to bring legal proceedings."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia seemed to be considering the prospects of litigation. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"But," continued Teddy cheerfully, "I've been thinking of resigning anyway."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia's rocking-chair ceased its motion. There were centipedes in this country, +she felt sure; and Indians, and vast, lonely, desolate, empty wastes; all within strong +barbed-wire fence. There was a Van Dresser pride, but there was also a Van +Dresser heart. She must know for certain whether or not he had forgotten.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ah, well, Teddy," she said, with a fine assumption of polite interest, "it's lonely +down here; you're longing to get back to the old life—to polo and lobsters and +theatres and balls."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Never cared much for balls," said Teddy virtuously.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You're getting old, Teddy. Your memory is failing. Nobody ever knew you to miss +a dance, unless it occurred on the same night with another one which you attended. +And you showed such shocking bad taste, too, in dancing too often with the same +partner. Let me see, what was that Forbes girl's name—the one with wall +eyes—Mabel, wasn't it?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"No; Adéle. Mabel was the one with the bony elbows. That wasn't wall in Adéle's +eyes. It was soul. We used to talk sonnets together, and Verlaine. Just then I was +trying to run a pipe from the Pierian spring."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"You were on the floor with her," said Octavia, undeflected, "five times at the +Hammersmiths'."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Hammersmiths' what?" questioned Teddy, vacuously.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Ball—ball," said Octavia, viciously. "What were we talking of?" </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Eyes, I thought," said Teddy, after some reflection; "and elbows." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Those Hammersmiths," went on Octavia, in her sweetest society prattle, after +subduing an intense desire to yank a handful of sunburnt, sandy hair from the head +lying back contentedly against the canvas of the steamer chair, "had too much +money. Mines, wasn't it? It was something that paid something to the ton. You +couldn't get a glass of plain water in their house. Everything at that ball was +dreadfully overdone."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It was," said Teddy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Such a crowd there was!" Octavia continued, conscious that she was talking the +rapid drivel of a school-girl describing her first dance. "The balconies were as warm +as the rooms. I—lost—something at that ball." The last sentence was uttered in a tone +calculated to remove the barbs from miles of wire.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"So did I," confessed Teddy, in a lower voice.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A glove," said Octavia, falling back as the enemy approached her ditches.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Caste," said Teddy, halting his firing line without loss. "I hobnobbed, half the +evening with one of Hammersmith's miners, a fellow who kept his hands in his +pockets, and talked like an archangel about reduction plants and drifts and levels +and sluice-boxes."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A pearl-gray glove, nearly new," sighed Octavia, mournfully. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"A bang-up chap, that McArdle," maintained Teddy approvingly. "A man who +hated olives and elevators; a man who handled mountains as croquettes, and built +tunnels in the air; a man who never uttered a word of silly nonsense in his life. Did +you sign those lease-renewal applications yet, madama? They've got to be on file in +the land office by the thirty-first."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Teddy turned his head lazily. Octavia's chair was vacant.</span></p> + +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A certain centipede, crawling along the lines marked out by fate, expounded the +situation. It was early one morning while Octavia and Mrs. Maclntyre were +trimming the honeysuckle on the west gallery. Teddy had risen and departed hastily +before daylight in response to word that a flock of ewes had been scattered from +their bedding ground during the night by a thunder-storm.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The centipede, driven by destiny, showed himself on the floor of the gallery, and +then, the screeches of the two women giving him his cue, he scuttled with all his +yellow legs through the open door into the furthermost west room, which was +Teddy's. Arming themselves with domestic utensils selected with regard to their +length, Octavia and Mrs. Maclntyre, with much clutching of skirts and skirmishing +for the position of rear guard in the attacking force, followed.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Once outside, the centipede seemed to have disappeared, and his prospective +murderers began a thorough but cautious search for their victim.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Even in the midst of such a dangerous and absorbing adventure Octavia was +conscious of an awed curiosity on finding herself in Teddy's sanctum. In that room +he sat alone, silently communing with those secret thoughts that he now shared with +no one, dreamed there whatever dreams he now called on no one to interpret.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It was the room of a Spartan or a soldier. In one corner stood a wide, +canvas-covered cot; in another, a small bookcase; in another, a grim stand of +Winchesters and shotguns. An immense table, strewn with letters, papers and +documents and surmounted by a set of pigeon-holes, occupied one side.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The centipede showed genius in concealing himself in such bare quarters. Mrs. +Maclntyre was poking a broom-handle behind the bookcase. Octavia approached +Teddy's cot. The room was just as the manager had left it in his hurry. The Mexican +maid had not yet given it her attention. There was his big pillow with the imprint of +his head still in the centre. She thought the horrid beast might have climbed the cot +and hidden itself to bite Teddy. Centipedes were thus cruel and vindictive toward +managers.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">She cautiously overturned the pillow, and then parted her lips to give the signal for +reinforcements at sight of a long, slender, dark object lying there. But, repressing it +in time, she caught up a glove, a pearl-gray glove, flattened—it might be +conceived—by many, many months of nightly pressure beneath the pillow of the +man who had forgotten the Hammersmiths' ball. Teddy must have left so hurriedly +that morning that he had, for once, forgotten to transfer it to its resting-place by day. +Even managers, who are notoriously wily and cunning, are sometimes caught up +with.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia slid the gray glove into the bosom of her summery morning gown. It was +hers. Men who put themselves within a strong barbed-wire fence, and remember +Hammersmith balls only by the talk of miners about sluice-boxes, should not be +allowed to possess such articles. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">After all, what a paradise this prairie country was! How it blossomed like the rose +when you found things that were thought to be lost! How delicious was that +morning breeze coming in the windows, fresh and sweet with the breath of the +yellow ratama blooms! Might one not stand, for a minute, with shining, far-gazing +eyes, and dream that mistakes might be corrected?</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Why was Mrs. Maclntyre poking about so absurdly with a broom? </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"I've found it," said Mrs. MacIntyre, banging the door. "Here it is." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Did you lose something? asked Octavia, with sweetly polite non-interest.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"The little devil!" said Mrs. Maclntyre, driven to violence. "Ye've no forgotten him +alretty?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Between them they slew the centipede. Thus was he rewarded for his agency +toward the recovery of things lost at the Hammersmiths' ball. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">It seems that Teddy, in due course, remembered the glove, and when he returned to +the house at sunset made a secret but exhaustive search for it. Not until evening, +upon the moonlit eastern gallery, did he find it. It was upon the hand that he had +thought lost to him forever, and so he was moved to repeat certain nonsense that he +had been commanded never, never to utter again. Teddy's fences were down. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">This time there was no ambition to stand in the way, and the wooing was as natural +and successful as should be between ardent shepherd and gentle shepherdess.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">The prairies changed to a garden. The Rancho de las Sombras became the Ranch of +Light.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">A few days later Octavia received a letter from Mr. Bannister, in reply to one she +had written to him asking some questions about her business. A portion of the letter +ran as follows:</span></p> +<br> +<blockquote> +<span style="font-size: 12pt"> + "I am at a loss to account for your references to the sheep ranch. Two months after your +departure to take up your residence upon it, it was discovered that Colonel Beaupree's +title was worthless. A deed came to light showing that he disposed of the property before +his death. The matter was reported to your manager, Mr. Westlake, who at once +repurchased the property. It is entirely beyond my powers of conjecture to imagine how +you have remained in ignorance of this fact. I beg that you that will at once confer with +that gentleman, who will, at least, corroborate my statement."<br> +</span> +</blockquote> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia sought Teddy, with battle in her eye.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"What are you working on this ranch for?" she asked once more. </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"One hundred—" he began to repeat, but saw in her face that she knew. She held +Mr. Bannister's letter in her hand. He knew that the game was up.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's my ranch," said Teddy, like a schoolboy detected in evil. "It's a mighty poor +manager that isn't able to absorb the boss's business if you give him time."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Why were you working down here?" pursued Octavia still struggling after the key +to the riddle of Teddy.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"To tell the truth, 'Tave," said Teddy, with quiet candour, "it wasn't for the salary. +That about kept me in cigars and sunburn lotions. I was sent south by my doctor. +'Twas that right lung that was going to the bad on account of over-exercise and +strain at polo and gymnastics. I needed climate and ozone and rest and things of that +sort." </span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">In an instant Octavia was close against the vicinity of the affected organ. Mr. +Bannister's letter fluttered to the floor.</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"It's—it's well now, isn't it, Teddy?"</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"Sound as a mesquite chunk. I deceived you in one thing. I paid fifty thousand for +your ranch as soon as I found you had no title. I had just about that much income +accumulated at my banker's while I've been herding sheep down here, so it was +almost like picking the thing up on a bargain-counter for a penny. There's another +little surplus of unearned increment piling up there, 'Tave. I've been thinking of a +wedding trip in a yacht with white ribbons tied to the mast, through the +Mediterranean, and then up among the Hebrides and down Norway to the Zuyder +Zee."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">"And I was thinking," said Octavia, softly, "of a wedding gallop with my manager +among the flocks of sheep and back to a wedding breakfast with Mrs. MacIntyre on +the gallery, with, maybe, a sprig of orange blossom fastened to the red jar above the +table."</span></p> + +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Teddy laughed, and began to chant:</span></p> +<br> +<blockquote> +"Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,<br> + And doesn't know where to find 'em.<br> + Let 'em alone, and they'll come home,<br> + And—"<br> +</blockquote> +<br> +<p><span style="font-size: 14pt">Octavia drew his head down, and whispered in his ear, But that is one of the tales +they brought behind them.</span></p> +<br> +<br> +<hr size="5" noshade> +<pre> + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, WHIRLIGIGS *** + +This file should be named 8whrl11h.htm or 8whrl11h.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8whrl12h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8whrl11ah.htm + + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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