1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
|
<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN">
<html>
<head>
<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Whirligigs, by O. 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. Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.
Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.
Most people start at our Web sites at:
<a href="http://gutenberg.net">http://gutenberg.net</a> or
<a href="http://promo.net.pg">http://promo.net/pg</a>
These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).
Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.
<a href="http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext04">http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext05</a> or
<a href="ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext04">ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext05</a>
Or /etext05, 04, 03, 02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90
Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.
Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.
The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.
Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):
eBooks Year Month
1 1971 July
10 1991 January
100 1994 January
1000 1997 August
1500 1998 October
2000 1999 December
2500 2000 December
3000 2001 November
4000 2001 October/November
6000 2002 December*
9000 2003 November*
10000 2004 January*
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.
We need your donations more than ever!
As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.
We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.
As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.
In answer to various questions we have received on this:
We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.
While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.
International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.
Donations by check or money order may be sent to:
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109
Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.
We need your donations more than ever!
You can get up to date donation information online at:
<a href="http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html">http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html</a>
***
If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:
<a href="mailto:hart@pobox.com">Michael S. Hart [hart@pobox.com]</a>
Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.
We would prefer to send you information by email.
**The Legal Small Print**
(Three Pages)
***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.
*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.
ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.
To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.
If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.
THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.
INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.
DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:
[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this
requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however,
if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
including any form resulting from conversion by word
processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
*EITHER*:
[*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
does *not* contain characters other than those
intended by the author of the work, although tilde
(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
be used to convey punctuation intended by the
author, and additional characters may be used to
indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
the case, for instance, with most word processors);
OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
or other equivalent proprietary form).
[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
"Small Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you
don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are
payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to
let us know your plans and to work out the details.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.
The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com
[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]
*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*
</pre>
</body>
</html>
|
