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O'Brien. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + text-indent: 2%; + } + p.n {text-indent: 0%; + } + p.r {text-align: right; + } + p.e {text-indent: -3%; + margin-left: 5%; + } + p.g {text-indent: -3%; + margin-left: 3%; + } + p.f {text-indent: -3%; + margin-left: 25%; + } + p.d {font-size: 120%; + text-indent: 0%; + text-align: center; + } + p.s {text-indent: 10%; + } + h1,h2,h3 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + background:#fdfdfd; + color:black; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + font-size: large; + } + a:link {background-color: #ffffff; color: blue; text-decoration: none; } + link {background-color: #ffffff; color: blue; text-decoration: none; } + a:visited {background-color: #ffffff; color: blue; text-decoration: none; } + a:hover {background-color: #ffffff; color: red; text-decoration:underline; } + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: 75%; + text-align: right; + color: gray; + background-color: #ffffff; + } /* page numbers */ + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + font-size: large; + } + .blockquot {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .blockquot2 {margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; + font-size: 90%;} + .c {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0%; + } + img {border: none;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: 40%; text-decoration: none;} + .poem {margin-left: 15%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Best Short Stories of 1917, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Best Short Stories of 1917 + and the Yearbook of the American Short Story + +Author: Various + +Editor: Edward J. O'Brien + +Release Date: March 22, 2007 [EBook #20872] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1917 *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Lybarger, Chuck Greif and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>THE<br />BEST SHORT STORIES<br />OF 1917</h1> + +<p class="c">AND THE</p> + +<p class="d">YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY</p> + +<p class="c">EDITED BY</p> +<p class="d">EDWARD J. O'BRIEN</p> + +<p class="c">EDITOR OF "THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1915,"<br /> +"THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1916," ETC.</p> + +<p class="c"><img src="images/001.png" alt="SCIRE QVOD SCIENDVM" /></p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p class="d"> +BOSTON<br /> +SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY</p> +<p class="c">PUBLISHERS</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>Copyright, 1918, by The Boston Transcript Company</p> + +<p>Copyright, 1917, by The Pictorial Review Company, The Century Company, +Charles Scribner's Sons, The Curtis Publishing Company, Harper & +Brothers, The Metropolitan Magazine Company, The Atlantic Monthly +Company, The Crowell Publishing Company, The International Magazine +Company, The Pagan Publishing Company, The Stratford Journal, and The +Boston Transcript Company</p> + +<p>Copyright, 1918, by Edwina Stanton Babcock, Thomas Beer, Maxwell +Struthers Burt, Francis Buzzell, Irvin S. Cobb, Charles Caldwell Dobie, +H. G. Dwight, Edna Ferber, Katharine Fullerton Gerould, Susan Glaspell +Cook, Frederick Stuart Greene, Richard Matthews Hallet, Fannie Hurst, +Fanny Kemble Costello, Burton Kline, Vincent O'Sullivan, Lawrence Perry, +Mary Brecht Pulver, Wilbur Daniel Steele, and Mary Synon</p> + +<p>Copyright, 1918, by Edward J. O'Brien</p> + +<p>Copyright, 1918, by Small, Maynard & Company, Inc.</p> +</div> + +<table summary="printings" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2"> +<tr><td>Fourth printing, January, 1919<br /> +Fifth printing, September, 1919<br /> +Sixth printing, August, 1920<br /> +Seventh printing, August, 1921<br /> +</td></tr> +</table> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p class="c">TO</p> + +<p class="d">WILBUR DANIEL STEELE</p> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p class="d">BY WAY OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Grateful</span> acknowledgment for permission to include the stories and other +material in this volume is made to the following authors, editors, +publishers, and copyright holders:</p> + +<div class="blockquot2"><p>To The Pictorial Review Company and Miss Edwina Stanton Babcock for +permission to reprint "The Excursion," first published in <i>The +Pictorial Review</i>; to The Century Company and Mr. Thomas Beer for +permission to reprint "Onnie," first published in <i>The Century +Magazine</i>; to Charles Scribner's Sons and Mr. Maxwell Struthers +Burt for permission to reprint "A Cup of Tea," first published in +<i>Scribner's Magazine</i>; to The Pictorial Review Company and Mr. +Francis Buzzell for permission to reprint "Lonely Places," first +published in <i>The Pictorial Review</i>; to The Curtis Publishing +Company and Mr. Irvin S. Cobb for permission to reprint "Boys Will +Be Boys," first published in <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i>; to Harper +and Brothers and Mr. Charles Caldwell Dobie for permission to +reprint "Laughter," first published in <i>Harper's Magazine</i>; to The +Century Company and Mr. H. G. Dwight for permission to reprint "The +Emperor of Elam," first published in <i>The Century Magazine</i>; to The +Metropolitan Magazine Company and Miss Edna Ferber for permission +to reprint "The Gay Old Dog," first published in <i>The Metropolitan +Magazine</i>; to The Atlantic Monthly Company and Mrs. Katharine +Fullerton Gerould for permission to reprint "The Knight's Move," +first published in <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i>; to The Crowell +Publishing Company, the editor of <i>Every Week</i>, and Mrs. George +Cram Cook for permission to reprint "A Jury of Her Peers," by Susan +Glaspell, first published in <i>Every Week</i> and <i>The Associated +Sunday Magazines</i>; to The Century Company and Captain Frederick +Stuart Greene for permission to reprint "The Bunker Mouse," first +published in <i>The Century Magazine</i>; to Mr. Paul R. Reynolds for +confirmation of Captain Greene's permission; to The Pictorial +Review Company and Mr. Richard Matthews Hallet for permission to +reprint "Rainbow Pete," first published in <i>The Pictorial Review</i>; +to The International Magazine Company, the editor of <i>The +Cosmopolitan Magazine</i>, and Miss Fannie Hurst for permission to +reprint "Get Ready the Wreaths," first published in <i>The +Cosmopolitan Magazine</i>; to the editor of <i>The Pagan</i> and Mrs. +Vincent Costello for permission to reprint "The Strange-Looking +Man," by Fanny Kemble Johnson, first published in <i>The Pagan</i>; to +The Stratford Journal, the editor of <i>The Stratford Journal</i>, and +Mr. Burton Kline for permission to reprint "The Caller in the +Night," first published in <i>The Stratford Journal</i>; to The Boston +Transcript Company and Mr. Vincent O'Sullivan for permission to +reprint "The Interval," first published in <i>The Boston Evening +Transcript</i>; to Charles Scribner's Sons and Mr. Lawrence Perry for +permission to reprint "'A Certain Rich Man—,'" first published in +<i>Scribner's Magazine</i>; to The Curtis Publishing Company and Mrs. +Mary Brecht Pulver for permission to reprint "The Path of Glory," +first published in <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i>; to The Pictorial +Review Company and Mr. Wilbur Daniel Steele for permission to +reprint "Ching, Ching, Chinaman," first published in <i>The Pictorial +Review</i>; and to Harper and Brothers and Miss Mary Synon for +permission to reprint "None So Blind," first published in <i>Harper's +Magazine</i>.</p> + +<p>Acknowledgments are specially due to <i>The Boston Evening +Transcript</i> and <i>The Bookman</i> for permission to reprint the large +body of material previously published in their pages.</p></div> + +<p>I wish specially to express my gratitude to the following who have +materially assisted by their efforts and advice in making this year-book +of American fiction possible and more nearly complete:</p> + +<p>Mrs. Padraic Colum, Mr. A. A. Boyden, Mr. Ellery Sedgwick, Mr. Henry A. +Bellows, Mr. Herman E. Cassino, Mr. G. G. Wyant, Mr. Burton Kline, Mr. +Douglas Z. Doty, Mr. Barry Benefield, Mr. T. R. Smith, Mr. Frederick +Lewis Allen, Mr. Henry J. Forman, Miss Honoré Willsie, Mr. Harold +Hersey, Mr. Bruce Barton, Miss Bernice Brown, Miss Mariel Brady, Mr. +William Frederick Bigelow, Mr. John Chapman Hilder, Mr. Thomas B. +Wells, Mr. Lee Foster Hartman, Mr. Sewell Haggard, Mr. Samuel W. +Hippler, Mr. Joseph Bernard Rethy, Mr. Karl Edwin Harriman, Mr. +Christopher Morley, Miss Margaret Anderson, Mrs. Hughes Cornell, Miss +Myra G. Reed, Mr. Merrill Rogers, Mr. Charles Hanson Towne, Mr. Carl +Hovey, Miss Sonya Levien, Mr. John T. Frederick, Mr. Ival McPeak, Mr. +Robert H. Davis, Mrs. R. M. Hallowell, Mr. Harold T. Pulsifer, Mr. +Wyndham Martyn, Mr. Frank Harris, Mr. Robert W. Sneddon, Miss Rose L. +Ellerbe, Mr. Arthur T. Vance, Miss Jane Lee, Mr. Joseph Kling, Mr. +William Marion Reedy, Mr. Leo Pasvolsky, Mr. Churchill Williams, Mr. +Robert Bridges, Mr. Waldo Frank, Mr. H. E. Maule, Mr. Henry L. Mencken, +Mr. Robert Thomas Hardy, Miss Anne Rankin, Mr. Henry T. Schnittkind, Dr. +Isaac Goldberg, Mr. Charles K. Field, Mrs. Mary Fanton Roberts, Miss +Sarah Field Splint, Miss Mabel Barker, Mr. Hayden Carruth, Mrs. Kathleen +Norris, Mrs. Ethel Hoe, Miss Mildred Cram, Miss Dorothea Lawrance Mann, +Miss Hilda Baker, Mr. William Stanley Braithwaite, Mr. Frank Owen, Mr. +Alexander Harvey, Mr. Seumas O'Brien, Madame Gaston Lachaise, Mr. John +J. Phillips, Mr. Sylvester Baxter, Miss Alice Brown, Mr. Francis +Buzzell, Mr. Will Levington Comfort, Mr. Robert A. Parker, Mr. Randolph +Edgar, Miss Augusta B. Fowler, Captain Frederick Stuart Greene, Mr. +Emanuel Haldeman-Julius, Mr. Reginald Wright Kauffman, Mr. J. B. +Kerfoot, Mrs. Elsie S. Lewars, Miss Jeannette Marks, Mr. W. M. Clayton, +Mr. Vincent O'Sullivan, Mr. Henry Wallace Phillips, Mr. Melville +Davisson Post, Mr. John D. Sabine, Mr. Richard Barker Shelton, Mrs. A. +M. Scruggs, Miss May Selley, Mr. Daniel J. Shea, Mr. Vincent Starrett, +Mr. M. M. Stearns, Mrs. Ann Watkins, Dr. Blanche Colton Williams, Mr. +Edward P. Nagel, Mr. G. Humphrey, Rev. J.-F. Raiche, Mr. Wilbur Daniel +Steele, Miss Louise Rand Bascom, Mr. Octavus Roy Cohen, Mr. Robert +Cumberland, Mr. Charles Divine, Mr. Frank C. Dodd, Mr. William R. Kane, +Mr. David Gibson, Miss Ida Warren Gould, Miss Ella E. Hirsch, Miss Marie +Louise Kinsella, Mr. Frank E. Lohn, Mrs. Margaret Medbury, Miss Anna +Mitchell, Mr. Robert W. Neal, Mr. Edwin Carty Ranck, Miss Anne B. +Schultze, Mrs. Celia Baldwin Whitehead, Mr. Horatio Winslow, Miss Kate +Buss, Mrs. E. B. Dewing, Mr. A. E. Dingle, Mr. Edmund R. Brown, Mr. +George Gilbert, Mr. Harry E. Jergens, Mr. Eric Levison, Mr. Robert +McBlair, Mrs. Vivien C. Mackenzie, Mr. W. W. Norman, Rev. Wilbur +Fletcher Steele, Mrs. Elizabeth C. A. Smith, Captain Achmed Abdullah, +Mr. H. H. Howland, Mr. Howard W. Cook, Mr. Newton A. Fuessle, Mr. B. +Guilbert Guerney, Mr. William H. Briggs, Mr. Francis Garrison, Mr. +Albert J. Klinck, Mr. Alfred A. Knopf, Miss Mary Lerner, Mr. H. F. +Jenkins, Mr. Guy Holt, Mr. H. S. Latham, Mr. H. L. Pangborn, Miss Maisie +Prim, Mr. S. Edgar Briggs, Mr. William Morrow, Mr. Sherwood Anderson, +Hon. W. Andrews, Miss Edwina Stanton Babcock, Mr. Thomas Beer, Mrs. +Fleta Campbell Springer, Miss Sarah N. Cleghorn, Mr. Irvin S. Cobb, Miss +Alice Cowdery, Miss Bertha Helen Crabbe, Mr. H. G. Dwight, Miss Edna +Ferber, Mrs. Elizabeth Irons Folsom, Miss Ellen Glasgow, Mrs. George +Cram Cook, Mr. Armistead C. Gordon, Miss Fannie Hurst, Mrs. Vincent +Costello, Mrs. E. Clement Jones, Mrs. Gerald Stanley Lee, Mr. Addison +Lewis, Mr. Edison Marshall, Mr. Edgar Lee Masters, Miss Gertrude Nafe, +Mr. Meredith Nicholson, Mr. Harvey J. O'Higgins, Mr. Lawrence Perry, +Mrs. Olive Higgins Prouty, Mrs. Mary Brecht Pulver, Mr. Benjamin +Rosenblatt, Mr. Herman Schneider, Professor Grant Showerman, Miss Mary +Synon, Mrs. Mary Heaton O'Brien, Mr. George Weston, and especially to +Mr. Francis J. Hannigan, to whom I owe invaluable cooperation in ways +too numerous to mention.</p> + +<p>I shall be grateful to my readers for corrections, and particularly for +suggestions leading to the wider usefulness of this annual volume. In +particular, I shall welcome the receipt, from authors, editors, and +publishers, of stories published during 1918 which have qualities of +distinction, and yet are not printed in periodicals falling under my +regular notice. It is also my intention during 1918 to review all +volumes of short stories published during that year in the United +States. All communications and volumes submitted for review in "The Best +Short Stories of 1918" maybe addressed to me at <i>South Yarmouth, +Massachusetts</i>. For such assistance, I shall make due and grateful +acknowledgment in next year's annual.</p> + +<p>If I have been guilty of any omissions in these acknowledgments, it is +quite unintentional, and I trust that I shall be absolved for my good +intentions.</p> + +<p class="r"> +E. J. O.<br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="toc" id="toc"></a>CONTENTS<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></h2> +<table summary="toc" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="5"> +<tr><td> </td><td><span class="smcap">Page</span></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#INTRODUCTION"><span class="smcap">Introduction.</span> By the Editor</a></td><td>xvii</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_EXCURSION"><span class="smcap">The Excursion.</span> By Edwina Stanton Babcock</a></td><td align="center">1</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Pictorial Review</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ONNIE"><span class="smcap">Onnie.</span> By Thomas Beer</a></td><td align="center">20</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Century Magazine</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#A_CUP_OF_TEA"><span class="smcap">A Cup of Tea.</span> By Maxwell Struthers Burt</a></td><td align="center">45</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>Scribner's Magazine</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#LONELY_PLACES5"><span class="smcap">Lonely Places.</span> By Francis Buzzell</a></td><td align="center">70</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Pictorial Review</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#BOYS_WILL_BE_BOYS"><span class="smcap">Boys Will Be Boys.</span> By Irvin S. Cobb</a></td><td align="center">86</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#LAUGHTER"><span class="smcap">Laughter.</span> By Charles Caldwell Dobie</a></td><td align="center">128</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>Harper's Magazine</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_EMPEROR_OF_ELAM"><span class="smcap">The Emperor of Elam.</span> By H. G. Dwight</a></td><td align="center">147</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Century Magazine</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_GAY_OLD_DOG9"><span class="smcap">The Gay Old Dog.</span> By Edna Ferber</a></td><td align="center">208</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Metropolitan Magazine</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_KNIGHTS_MOVE10"><span class="smcap">The Knight's Move.</span> By Katharine Fullerton Gerould</a></td><td align="center">234</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#A_JURY_OF_HER_PEERS11"><span class="smcap">A Jury of Her Peers.</span> By Susan Glaspell</a></td><td align="center">256</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>Every Week</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_BUNKER_MOUSE12"><span class="smcap">The Bunker Mouse.</span> By Frederick Stuart Greene</a></td><td align="center">283</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Century Magazine</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#TEARAINBOW_PETE"><span class="smcap">Rainbow Pete.</span> By Richard Matthews Hallet</a></td><td align="center">307</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Pictorial Review</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#GET_READY_THE_WREATHS14"><span class="smcap">Get Ready the Wreaths.</span> By Fannie Hurst</a></td><td align="center">326</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Cosmopolitan Magazine</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_STRANGE-LOOKING_MAN15"><span class="smcap">The Strange-looking Man.</span> By Fanny Kemble Johnson</a></td><td align="center">361</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Pagan</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_CALLER_IN_THE_NIGHT16"><span class="smcap">The Caller in the Night.</span> By Burton Kline</a></td><td align="center">365</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Stratford Journal</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_INTERVAL"><span class="smcap">The Interval.</span> By Vincent O'Sullivan</a></td><td align="center">383</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Boston Evening Transcript</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#A_CERTAIN_RICH_MAN_mdash18"><span class="smcap">A Certain Rich Man</span>—." By Lawrence Perry</a></td><td align="center">391</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>Scribner's Magazine</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_PATH_OF_GLORY19"><span class="smcap">The Path of Glory.</span> By Mary Brecht Pulver</a></td><td align="center">412</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHING_CHING_BOYS_CHINAMAN"><span class="smcap">Ching, Ching, Chinaman.</span> By Wilbur Daniel Steele</a></td><td align="center">441</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>The Pictorial Review</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#NONE_SO_BLIND21"><span class="smcap">None So Blind.</span> By Mary Synon</a></td><td align="center">468</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">(From <i>Harper's Magazine</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_YEARBOOK_OF_THE_AMERICAN_SHORT_STORY_FOR_1917"><span class="smcap">The Yearbook of the American Short Story for 1917</span></a></td><td align="center">483</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ADDRESSES_OF_AMERICAN_MAGAZINES_PUBLISHING_SHORT_STORIES"> Addresses of American Magazines Publishing Short Stories</a></td><td align="center">485</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_BIOGRAPHICAL_ROLL_OF_HONOR_OF_AMERICAN_SHORT_STORIES_FOR_1917"> The Biographical Roll of Honor of American Short Stories for 1917</a></td><td align="center">487</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_ROLL_OF_HONOR_OF_FOREIGN_SHORT_STORIES_IN_AMERICAN_MAGAZINES_FOR"> The Roll of Honor of Foreign Short Stories in American Magazines for 1917</a></td><td align="center">506</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_BEST_BOOKS_OF_SHORT_STORIES_OF_1917_A_CRITICAL_ANALYSIS"> The Best Books of Short Stories of 1917: A Critical Summary</a></td><td align="center">509</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#VOLUMES_OF_SHORT_STORIES_PUBLISHED_DURING_1917"> Volumes of Short Stories Published During 1917: An Index</a></td><td align="center">521</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_BEST_SIXTY-THREE_AMERICAN_SHORT_STORIES_OF_1917"> The Best Sixty-three American Short Stories of 1917: A Critical Summary </a></td><td align="center">536</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#MAGAZINE_AVERAGES_FOR_1917"> Magazine Averages for 1917</a></td><td align="center">541</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#INDEX_OF_SHORT_STORIES_FOR_1917"> Index of Short Stories for 1917</a></td><td align="center">544</td></tr> +</table> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="INTRODUCTION" id="INTRODUCTION"></a>INTRODUCTION</h2> + + +<p>A year ago, in the introduction to "The Best Short Stories of 1916," I +pointed out that the American short story cannot be reduced to a +literary formula, because the art in which it finds its concrete +embodiment is a growing art. The critic, when he approaches American +literature, cannot regard it as he can regard any foreign literature. +Setting aside the question of whether our cosmopolitan population, with +its widely different kinds of racial heritage, is at an advantage or a +disadvantage because of its conflicting traditions, we must accept the +variety in substance and attempt to find in it a new kind of national +unity, hitherto unknown in the history of the world. The message voiced +in President Wilson's words on several occasions during the past year is +a true reflection of the message implicit in American literature. +Various in substance, it finds its unity in the new freedom of +democracy, and English and French, German and Slav, Italian and +Scandinavian bring to the common melting-pot ideals which are fused in a +national unity of democratic utterance.</p> + +<p>It is inevitable, therefore, that in this stage of our national literary +development, our newly conscious speech lacks the sophisticated +technique of older literatures. But, perhaps because of this very +limitation, it is much more alert to the variety and life of the human +substance with which it deals. It does not take the whole of life for +granted and it often reveals the fresh naïveté of childhood in its +discovery of life. When its sophistication is complete, it is the +sophistication of English rather than of American literature, and is +derivative rather than original, for the most part, in its criticism of +life. I would specifically except, however, from this criticism the +work of three writers, at least, whose sophistication is the embodiment +of a new American technique. Katharine Fullerton Gerould, Wilbur Daniel +Steele, and H. G. Dwight have each attained a distinction in our +contemporary literature which places them at the head of their craft.</p> + +<p>During the past year there has been much pessimistic criticism of the +American short story, some of it by Americans, and some by Europeans who +are now residing in our midst. To the European mind, trained in a +tradition where technique in story-writing is paramount, it is natural +that the American short story should seem to reveal grave deficiencies. +I am by no means disposed to minimize the weakness of American +craftsmanship, but I feel that at the present stage of our literary +development, discouragement will prove a very easy and fatal thing. The +typical point of view of the European critic, when justified, is +adequately reflected in an article by Mary M. Colum, which was published +in the Dial last spring: "Those of us who take an interest in literary +history will remember how particular literary forms at times seize hold +of a country: in Elizabethan England, it was the verse drama; in the +eighteenth century, it was the essay; in Scandinavia of a generation +ago, it was the drama again. At present America is in the grip of the +short story—so thoroughly in its grip indeed that, in addition to all +the important writers, nearly all the literate population who are not +writing movie scenarios are writing or are about to write short stories. +One reason for this is the general belief that this highly sophisticated +and subtle art is a means for making money in spare time, and so one +finds everybody, from the man who solicits insurance to the barber who +sells hair-tonics, engaged in writing, or in taking courses in the +writing, of short stories. Judging from what appears in the magazines, +one imagines that they get their efforts accepted. There is no doubt +that the butcher, the baker, and the candle-stick maker are easily +capable of producing the current short stories with the aids now +afforded."</p> + +<p>Now this is the heart of the matter with which criticism has to deal. It +is regrettable that the American magazine editor is not more mindful of +his high calling, but the tremendous advertising development of the +American magazine has bound American literature in the chains of +commercialism, and before a permanent literary criticism of the American +short story can be established, we must fight to break these bonds. I +conceive it to be my essential function to begin at the bottom and +record the first signs of grace, rather than to limit myself to the top +and write critically about work which will endure with or without +criticism. If American critics would devote their attention for ten +years to this spade work, they might not win so much honor, but we +should find the atmosphere clearer at the end of that period for the +true exercise of literary criticism.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless I contend that there is much fine work being accomplished +at present, which is buried in the ruck of the interminable commonplace. +I regard it as my duty to chronicle this work, and thus render it +accessible for others to discuss.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Colum continues: "Apart from the interesting experiments in free +verse or polyphonic prose, the short story in America is at a low ebb. +Magazine editors will probably say the blame rests with their readers. +This may be so, but do people really read the long, dreary stories of +from five to nine thousand words which the average American magazine +editor publishes? Why a vivid people like the American should be so +dusty and dull in their short stories is a lasting puzzle to the +European, who knows that America has produced a large proportion of the +great short stories of the world."</p> + +<p>I deny that the American short story is at a low ebb, and I offer the +present volume as a revelation of the best that is now being done in +this field. I agree with Mrs. Colum that the best stories are only to be +found after a laborious dusty search, but this is the proof rather than +the refutation of my position.</p> + +<p>Despite the touch of paradox, Mrs. Colum makes two admirable suggestions +to remedy this condition of affairs. "A few magazine editors could do a +great deal to raise the level of the American short story. They could at +once eradicate two of the things that cause a part of the evil—the +wordiness and the commercial standardization of the story. By declining +short stories over three thousand words long, and by refusing to pay +more than a hundred dollars for any short story, they could create a new +standard and raise both the prestige of the short story and of their +magazines. They would then get the imaginative writers, and not the +exploiters of a commercial article."</p> + +<p>I am not sure that the average American editor wishes to welcome the +imaginative writer, but assuming this to be true, I would modify Mrs. +Colum's suggestions and propose that, except in an unusual instance, the +short story should be limited to five thousand words, and that the +compensation for it should not exceed three hundred dollars.</p> + +<p>To repeat what I have said in previous volumes of this series, for the +benefit of the reader as yet unacquainted with my standards and +principles of selection, I shall point out that I have set myself the +task of disengaging the essential human qualities in our contemporary +fiction which, when chronicled conscientiously by our literary artists, +may fairly be called a criticism of life. I am not at all interested in +formulas, and organized criticism at its best would be nothing more than +dead criticism, as all dogmatic interpretation of life is always dead. +What has interested me, to the exclusion of other things, is the fresh +living current which flows through the best of our work, and the +psychological and imaginative reality which our writers have conferred +upon it.</p> + +<p>No substance is of importance in fiction, unless it is organic +substance, that is to say, substance in which the pulse of life is +beating. Inorganic fiction has been our curse in the past, and bids fair +to remain so, unless we exercise much greater artistic discrimination +than we display at present.</p> + +<p>During the past year I have sought to select from the stories published +in American magazines those which have rendered life imaginatively in +organic substance and artistic form. As the most adequate means to this +end, I have taken each short story by itself, and examined it +impartially. I have done my best to surrender myself to the writer's +point of view, and granting his choice of material and personal +interpretation of its value, have sought to test it by the double +standard of substance and form. Substance is something achieved by the +artist in every act of creation, rather than something already present, +and accordingly a fact or group of facts in a story only obtain +substantial embodiment when the artist's power of compelling imaginative +persuasion transforms them into a living truth. The first test of a +short story, therefore, in any qualitative analysis is to report upon +how vitally compelling the writer makes his selected facts or incidents. +This test may be known as the test of substance.</p> + +<p>But a second test is necessary if a story is to take high rank above +other stories. The true artist will seek to shape this living substance +into the most beautiful and satisfying form, by skilful selection and +arrangement of his material, and by the most direct and appealing +presentation of it in portrayal and characterization.</p> + +<p>The short stories which I have examined in this study, as in previous +years, have fallen naturally into four groups. The first group consists +of those stories which fail, in my opinion, to survive either the test +of substance or the test of form. These stories are listed in the +year-book without comment or a qualifying asterisk. The second group +consists of those stories which may fairly claim that they survive +either the test of substance or the test of form. Each of these stories +may claim to possess either distinction of technique alone, or more +frequently, I am glad to say, a persuasive sense of life in them to +which a reader responds with some part of his own experience. Stories +included in this group are indicated in the year-book index by a single +asterisk prefixed to the title. The third group, which is composed of +stories of still greater distinction, includes such narratives as may +lay convincing claim to a second reading, because each of them has +survived both tests, the test of substance and the test of form. Stories +included in this group are indicated in the year-book index by two +asterisks prefixed to the title.</p> + +<p>Finally, I have recorded the names of a small group of stories which +possess, I believe, an even finer distinction—the distinction of +uniting genuine substance and artistic form in a closely woven pattern +with such sincerity that these stories may fairly claim a position in +our literature. If all of these stories by American authors were +republished, they would not occupy more space than six average novels. +My selection of them does not imply the critical belief that they are +great stories. It is simply to be taken as meaning that I have found the +equivalent of six volumes worthy of republication among all the stories +published during 1917. These stories are indicated in the year-book +index by three asterisks prefixed to the title, and are listed in the +special "Rolls of Honor." In compiling these lists, I have permitted no +personal preference or prejudice to influence my judgment consciously +for or against a story. To the titles of certain stories, however, in +the American "Roll of Honor," an asterisk is prefixed, and this +asterisk, I must confess, reveals in some measure a personal preference. +It is from this final short list that the stories reprinted in this +volume have been selected.</p> + +<p>It has been a point of honor with me not to republish an English story, +nor a translation from a foreign author. I have also made it a rule not +to include more than one story by an individual author in the volume. +The general and particular results of my study will be found explained +and carefully detailed in the supplementary part of the volume.</p> + +<p>The Yearbook for 1917 contains three new features. The Roll of Honor of +American Short Stories includes a short biographical sketch of each +author; a selection from the volumes of short stories published during +the past year is reviewed at some length; and, in response to numerous +requests, a list of American magazines publishing short stories, with +their editorial addresses, has been compiled.</p> + +<p>Wilbur Daniel Steele and Katharine Fullerton Gerould are still at the +head of their craft. But during the past year the ten published stories +by Maxwell Struthers Burt and Charles Caldwell Dobie seem to promise a +future in our literature of equal importance to the later work of these +writers. Sherwood Anderson and Waldo Frank emerge as writers with a +great deal of importance to say, although they have not yet fully +mastered the art of saying it. The three new short story writers who +show most promise are Gertrude Nafe and Thomas Beer, whose first stories +appeared in the Century Magazine during 1917, and Elizabeth Stead Taber, +whose story, "The Scar," when it appeared in the Seven Arts, attracted +much favorable comment. Edwina Stanton Babcock and Lee Foster Hartman +have both published memorable stories, and "The Interval," which was +Vincent O'Sullivan's sole contribution to an American periodical during +1917, compels us to wonder why an artist, for whom men of such widely +different temperaments as Lionel Johnson, Remy de Gourmont, and Edward +Garnett had high critical esteem, finds the American public so +indifferent to his art.</p> + +<p>Addison Lewis has published during the past year a series of stories in +Reedy's Mirror which have more of O. Henry's magic than the thousand +writers who have endeavored to imitate him to the everlasting injury of +American literature. Frederick Stuart Greene, in "The Bunker Mouse" and +"Molly McGuire, Fourteen," shows marked literary development, and +reinforces my belief that in him we have an important new story-teller. +I suppose the best war story of the year is "The Flying Teuton," by +Alice Brown, soon to be reprinted in book form.</p> + +<p>I do not know whether it is an effect of the war or not, but during +1917, even more than during 1916, American magazines have been almost +absolutely devoid of humor. Save for Irvin S. Cobb, on whom the mantle +of Mark Twain has surely fallen, and for Seumas O'Brien, whom Mr. Dooley +must envy, I have found American fiction to be sufficiently solemn and +imperturbable.</p> + +<p>I need not emphasize again the fine art of Fannie Hurst. Two years ago +Mr. Howells stated more truly than I can the significance of her work. +Comparing her with two other contemporaries, he wrote: "Miss Fannie +Hurst shows the same artistic quality, the same instinct for reality, +the same confident recognition of the superficial cheapness and +commonness of the stuff she handles; but in her stories she also attests +the right to be named with them for the gift of penetrating to the heart +of life. No one with the love of the grotesque which is the American +portion of the human tastes or passions, can fail of his joy in the play +of the obvious traits and motives of her Hebrew comedy, but he will fail +of something precious if he does not sound the depths of true and +beautiful feeling which underlies the comedy."</p> + +<p>A similar distinction marks Edna Ferber's story entitled "The Gay Old +Dog."</p> + +<p>Of the English short story writers who have published during the past +year in American periodicals, Mr. Galsworthy has presented the most +evenly distinguished work. Hardly second to his best are the six stories +by J. D. Beresford and D. H. Lawrence, both well known realists of the +younger generation. Stacy Aumonier has continued the promise of "The +Friends" with three new stories written in the same key. Although the +vein of his talent is a narrow one, it reveals pure gold. Good +Housekeeping has published three war stories by an Englishwoman, I. A. +R. Wylie, which I should have coveted for this book had they been by an +American author. But perhaps the best English short story of the year in +an American magazine was "The Coming of the Terror," by Arthur Machen, +since republished in book form.</p> + +<p>Elsewhere I have discussed at some length the more important volumes of +short stories published during the year. "A Munster Twilight," by Daniel +Corkery is alone sufficient to mark a notable literary year. And "The +Echo of Voices," by Richard Curle is hardly second to it. Yet the year +has seen the publication of at least three other books by English +authors who are new to the reading public. Thomas Burke, Caradoc Evans, +and Arthur Machen have added permanent contributions to English +literature.</p> + +<p>In "A Handbook on Story Writing," Dr. Blanche Colton Williams has +written the first definitive textbook on the subject. Its many +predecessors have either been content to deal with narrow branches in +the same field, or have exploited quite frankly and shamelessly the +commercial possibilities of story writing as a cheap trade. Dr. +Williams's book will not be in all likelihood superseded for many years +to come, and the effects of her work are already to be seen in the short +stories of many established writers.</p> + +<p>In the death of Edward Thomas, England has lost a rare artist who, in +his particular field, was only rivalled by Richard Jefferies.</p> + +<p>During the past year the Seven Arts and the Masses have ceased +publication. The Craftsman, which ceased publication a year ago, has +been succeeded by the Touchstone, which is already beginning to print +many interesting stories; and to the list of magazines which publish +short stories must now be welcomed the Bookman.</p> + +<p>As it has been my happiness in past years to associate this annual with +the names of Benjamin Rosenblatt and Richard Matthews Hallet, whose +stories, "Zelig" and "Making Port," seemed to me respectively the best +short stories of 1915 and 1916, so it is my pleasure and honor this year +to dedicate the best that I have found in the American magazines as the +fruit of my labors to Wilbur Daniel Steele, who has contributed to +American literature, preëminently in "Ching, Ching, Chinaman," and +almost as finely in "White Hands" and "The Woman At Seven Brothers," +three stories which take their place for finality, to the best of my +belief, in the great English line.</p> + +<p class="r"> +<span class="smcap">Edward J. O'Brien.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">South Yarmouth, Massachusetts,</span><br /> + December 23, 1917.<br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1917</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Note.</span> The twenty stories which follow are arranged in the alphabetical +order of their authors' names. This arrangement does not imply any +precedence in merit of particular stories.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_EXCURSION" id="THE_EXCURSION"></a>THE EXCURSION<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> EDWINA STANTON BABCOCK</p> +<p class="c">From <i>The Pictorial Review</i></p> + + +<p>Mrs. Tuttle arrived breathless, bearing a large gilt parrot-cage. She +swept up the gangway of the <i>Fall of Rome</i> and was enthusiastically +received. There were, however, concealed titterings and suppressed +whispers. "My sakes! She's went and brought that bird."</p> + +<p>"I won't believe it till I see it."</p> + +<p>"There he sets in his gold coop."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Turtle brought Romeo to the excursion with the same assurance that +a woman of another stamp brings her Pekingese dog to a restaurant table. +While the <i>Fall of Rome</i> sounded a warning whistle, and hawsers were +loosed she adjusted her veil and took cognizance of fellow passengers.</p> + +<p>In spite of wealth and "owning her own automobile," Mrs. Turtle's fetish +was democratic popularity. She greeted one after another.</p> + +<p>"How do, Mis' Bridge, and Mister, too! Who's keeping store while you're +away?</p> + +<p>"Carrie Turpin! You here? Where's Si? Couldn't come? Now that's too +bad!" After a long stare, "You're some fleshier, ain't you, Carrie?"</p> + +<p>A large woman in a tan-colored linen duster came slowly down the deck, a +camp-stool in either hand. Her portly advance was intercepted by Mrs. +Tuttle.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mis' Tinneray! Same as ever!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tinneray dropped the camp-stools and adjusted her smoked glasses; +she gave a start and the two ladies embraced.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tuttle said that "it beat all," and Mrs. Tinneray said "she never!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tuttle, emerged from the embrace, re-adjusting her hat with +many-ringed fingers, inquiring, "How's the folks?"</p> + +<p>Up lumbered Mr. Tinneray, a large man with a chuckle and pale eyes, who +was introduced by the well-known formula, "Mis' Tuttle, Mr. Tinneray, +Mr. Tinneray, Mis' Tuttle."</p> + +<p>The Tinnerays said, "So you brought the bird along, hey?" Then, without +warning, all conversation ceased. The <i>Fall of Rome</i>, steaming slowly +away from the pier, whistled a sodden whistle, the flags flapped, every +one realized that the excursion had really begun.</p> + +<p>This excursion was one of the frank displays of human hopes, yearnings, +and vanities, that sometimes take place on steamboats. Feathers had a +hectic brilliancy that proved secret, dumb longings. Pendants known as +"lavaleers" hung from necks otherwise innocent of the costly fopperies +of Versailles. Old ladies clad in princess dresses with yachting caps +worn rakishly on their grey hair, vied with other old ladies in +automobile bonnets, who, with opera glasses, searched out the meaning of +every passing buoy. Young girls carrying "mesh-bags," that subtle +connotation of the feminine character, extracted tooth-picks from them +or searched for bits of chewing gum among their over scented treasures.</p> + +<p>As it was an excursion, the <i>Fall of Rome</i> carried a band and booths +laden with many delicious superfluities such as pop-corn and the +misleading compound known as "salt-water taffy." There were, besides, +the blue and red pennants that always go on excursions, and the yellow +and pink fly-flappers that always come home from them; also there were +stacks of whistle-whips and slender<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> canes with ivory heads with little +holes pierced through. These canes were bought only by cynical young men +whose new straw hats were fastened to their persons by thin black +strings. Each young man, after purchasing an ivory-headed cane retired +to privacy to squint through it undisturbed. Emerging from this privacy +the young man would then confer with other young men. What these joyless +young men saw when they squinted they never revealed. But among their +elders they spread the strong impression that it was the Capital at +Washington or Bunker Hill Monument.</p> + +<p>Besides bottled soda and all soft drinks the <i>Fall of Rome</i> carried +other stimuli in the shape of comic gentlemen—such beings, as, more or +less depressed in their own proper environment, on excursions suddenly +see themselves in their true light, irresistibly facetious. These funny +gentlemen, mostly husbands, seated themselves near to large groups of +indulgent women and kept up an exquisite banter directed at each other's +personal defects, or upon the idiosyncrasies of any bachelor or spinster +near. These funny gentlemen kept alluding to the excursion as the +"Exertion." If the boat rolled a little they said, "Now, Mother, don't +rock the boat."</p> + +<p>"Here, girls, sit up close, we'll all go down together."</p> + +<p>"Hold on to yer beau, Minnie. He'll fall overboard and where'll you git +another?"</p> + +<p>The peals of laughter at these sallies were unfailing. The crunch of +peanuts was unfailing. The band, with a sort of plethoric indulgence, +played slow waltzes in which the bass instruments frequently misapplied +notes, but to the allure of which came youthful dancers lovely in proud +awkward poses.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tuttle meanwhile was the social center, demonstrating that +mysterious psychic force known as being the "life of the party." She +advanced upon a tall sallow woman in mourning, challenging, "Now Mis' +Mealer, why don't you just set and take a little comfort,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> it won't cost +you nothing? Ain't that your girl over there by the coffee fountain? I +should ha' known her by the reesemblance to you; she's rill refined +lookin'."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mealer, a tall, sallow widow with carefully maintained mourning +visage, admitted that this was so. Refinement, she averred, was in the +family, but she hinted at some obscure ailment which, while it made Emma +refined, kept her "mizzable."</p> + +<p>"I brought her along," sighed Mrs. Mealer, "tain't as if neither of us +could take much pleasure into it, both of us being so deep in black fer +her Popper, but the styles is bound to do her good. Emma is such a great +hand for style."</p> + +<p>"Yuess?" replied Mrs. Tuttle blandly. This lady in blue was not nearly +so interested in Emma as in keeping a circle of admirers hanging around +her cerulean presence, but even slightly encouraged, Mrs. Mealer warmed +to her topic.</p> + +<p>"Style?" she repeated impressively, "style? Seems like Emma couldn't +never have enough of it. Where she got it I don't know. I wasn't never +much for dress, and give her Popper coat and pants, twuz all <i>he</i> +wanted. But Emma—ef you want to make her happy tie a bow onto suthin'."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tuttle nodded with ostentatious understanding. Rising, she seized +Romeo's cage and placed it more conspicuously near her. She was +critically watched by the older women. They viewed the thing with +mingled feelings, one or two going so far as to murmur darkly, "Her and +her parrot!"</p> + +<p>Still, the lady's elegance and the known fact that she owned and +operated her own automobile cast a spell over most of her observers, and +many faces, as Mrs. Tuttle proceeded to draw out her pet, were screwed +into watchful and ingratiating benevolence.</p> + +<p>Romeo, a blasé bird with the air of having bitter memories, affected for +a long time not to hear his mistress's blandishments. After looking +contemptuously<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> into his seed-cup, he crept slowly around the sides of +his cage, fixing a cynical eye upon all observers.</p> + +<p>"How goes it, Romeo?" appealed Mrs. Tuttle. Making sounds supposed to be +appreciated by birds, the lady put her feathered head down, suggesting, +"Ah there, Romeo?"</p> + +<p>"Rubberneck," returned Romeo sullenly. To show general scorn, the bird +revolved on one claw round and round his swing; he looked dangerous, +repeating, "Rubberneck."</p> + +<p>At this an interested group gathered around Mrs. Tuttle, who, affable +and indulgent, attempted by coaxings and flirtings of a fat bediamonded +finger to show Romeo off, but the pampered bird saw further opportunity +to offend.</p> + +<p>"Rubberneck," screamed Romeo again. He ruffled up his neck feathers, +repeating "Rubberneck, I'm cold as the deuce; what's the matter with +Hannah; let 'em all go to grass."</p> + +<p>Several of the youths with ivory-headed canes now forsook their +contemplations to draw near, grinning, to the parrot-cage.</p> + +<p>Stimulated by these youths, Romeo reeled off more ribald remarks, things +that created a sudden chill among the passengers on the <i>Fall of Rome</i>. +Mrs. Tinneray, looked upon as a leader, called up a shocked face and +walked away; Mrs. Mealer after a faint "Excuse <i>me</i>," also abandoned the +parrot-cage; and Mrs. Bean, a small stout woman with a brown false +front, followed the large lady with blue spectacles and the tan linen +duster. On some mysterious pretext of washing their hands, these two +left the upper deck and sought the calm of the white and gold passenger +saloon. Here they trod as in the very sanctities of luxury.</p> + +<p>"These carpets is nice, ain't they?" remarked Mrs. Bean.</p> + +<p>Then alluding to the scene they had just left: "Ain't it comical how she +idolizes that there bird?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Tinneray sniffed. "And what she spends on him! 'Nitials on his +seed-cup—and some says the cage itself is true gold."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bean, preparing to wash her hands, removed her black skirt and +pinned a towel around her waist. "This here liquid soap is +nice"—turning the faucets gingerly—"and don't the boat set good onto +the water?" Then returning to the rich topic of Mrs. Tuttle and her +pampered bird, "Where's she get all her money for her ottermobile and +her gold cage?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tinneray at an adjacent basin raised her head sharply, "You ain't +heard about the Tuttle money? You don't know how Mabel Hutch that was, +was hair to everything?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bean confessed that she had not heard, but she made it evident that +she thirsted for information. So the two ladies, exchanging remarks +about sunburn and freckles, finished their hand-washing and proceeded to +the dark-green plush seats of the saloon, where with appropriate looks +of horror and incredulity Mrs. Bean listened to the story of the hairs +to the Hutches' money.</p> + +<p>"Mabel was the favorite; her Pa set great store by her. There was +another sister—consumpted—she should have been a hair, but she died. +Then the youngest one, Hetty, she married my second cousin Hen +Cronney—well it seemed like they hadn't nothing but bad luck and her Pa +and Mabel sort of took against Hetty."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bean, herself chewing calculatingly, handed Mrs. Tinneray a bit of +sugared calamus-root.</p> + +<p>"Is your cousin Hen dark-complexioned like your folks?" she asked +scientifically.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tinneray, narrowing both eyes, considered. "More auburn-inclined, I +should say—he ain't rill smart, Hen ain't, he gets took with spells now +and then, but I never held <i>that</i> against him."</p> + +<p>"Uh-huh!" agreed Mrs. Bean sympathetically.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, Mabel Hutch and her Popper took against poor little Hetty. +Old man Hutch he died and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> left everything to Mabel, and she never goes +near her own sister!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bean raised gray-cotton gloved hands signifying horror.</p> + +<p>"St—st—st——!" she deplored. She searched in her reticule for more +calamus-root. "He didn't leave her <i>nothing</i>?"</p> + +<p>"No, ma'am! This one!" With a jerk of the head, Mrs. Tinneray indicated +a dashing blue feather seen through a distant saloon window. "This one's +got it all; hair to everything."</p> + +<p>"And what did she do—married a traveling salesman and built a tony +brick house. They never had no children, but when he was killed into a +railway accident she trimmed up that parrot's cage with crape—and +now,"—Mrs. Tinneray with increasing solemnity chewed her +calamus-root—"<i>now</i> she's been and bought one of them ottermobiles and +runs it herself like you'd run your sewin'-machine, just as +<i>shameless</i>—"</p> + +<p>Both of the ladies glared condemnation at the distant blue feather.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tinneray continued, "Hetty Cronney's worth a dozen of her. When I +think of that there bird goin' on this excursion and Hetty Cronney +stayin' home because she's too poor, I get <i>nesty</i>, Mrs. Bean, yes, I +do!"</p> + +<p>"Don't your cousin Hetty live over to Chadwick's Harbor," inquired Mrs. +Bean, "and don't this boat-ride stop there to take on more folks?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tinneray, acknowledging that these things were so, uncorked a small +bottle of cologne and poured a little of it on a handkerchief +embroidered in black forget-me-nots. She handed the bottle to Mrs. Bean +who took three polite sniffs and closed her eyes. The two ladies sat +silent for a moment. They experienced a detachment of luxurious abandon +filled with the poetry of the steamboat saloon. Psychically they were +affected as by ecclesiasticism. The perfume of the cologne and the throb +of the engines swept them with a sense of esthetic<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> reverie, the thrill +of travel, and the atmosphere of elegance. Moreover, the story of the +Hutch money and the Hutch hairs had in some undefined way affiliated the +two. At last by tacit consent they rose, went out on deck and, holding +their reticules tight, walked majestically up and down. When they passed +Mrs. Turtle's blue feathers and the gold parrot-cage they smiled +meaningly and looked at each other.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>As the <i>Fall of Rome</i> approached Chadwick's Landing more intimate groups +formed. The air was mild, the sun warm and inviting, and the water an +obvious and understandable blue. Some serious-minded excursionists sat +well forward on their camp-stools discussing deep topics over +half-skinned bananas.</p> + +<p>"Give me the Vote," a lady in a purple raincoat was saying, "Give me the +Vote and I undertake to close up every rum-hole in God's World."</p> + +<p>A mild-mannered youth with no chin, upon hearing this, edged away. He +went to the stern, looking down for a long time upon the white path of +foam left in the wake of the <i>Fall of Rome</i> and taking a harmonica from +his waistcoat pocket began to play, "Darling, I Am Growing Old." This +tune, played with emotional throbbings managed by spasmodic movements of +the hands over the sides of the mouth, seemed to convey anything but age +to Miss Mealer, the girl who was so refined. She also sat alone in the +stern, also staring down at the white water. As the wailings of the +harmonica ceased, she put up a thin hand and furtively controlled some +waving strands of hair. Suddenly with scarlet face the mild-mannered +youth moved up his camp-stool to her side.</p> + +<p>"They're talkin' about closing up the rum-holes." He indicated the group +dominated by the lady in the purple raincoat. "They don't know what +they're talking about. Some rum-holes is real refined and tasty, some of +them have got gramophones you can hear for nothin'."</p> + +<p>"Is that so?" responded the refined Miss Mealer.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> She smoothed her +gloves. She opened her "mesh" bag and took out an intensely perfumed +handkerchief. The mild-mannered youth put his harmonica in his pocket +and warmed to the topic.</p> + +<p>"Many's the time I've set into a saloon listening to that Lady that +sings high up—higher than any piano can go. I've set and listened till +I didn't know where I was settin'—of course I had to buy a drink, you +understand, or I couldn't 'a' set."</p> + +<p>"And they call that <i>vice</i>," remarked Miss Mealer with languid +criticism.</p> + +<p>The mild-mannered youth looked at her gratefully. The light of reason +and philosophy seemed to him to shine in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"You've got a piano to your house," he said boldly, "can you—ahem—play +classic pieces, can you play—ahem—'Asleep on the Deep'?"</p> + +<p>In another group where substantial sandwiches were being eaten, the main +theme was religion and psychic phenomena with a strong leaning toward +death-bed experiences.</p> + +<p>"And then, my sister's mother-in-law, she set up, and she says, 'Where +am I?' she says, like she was in a store or somethin', and she told how +she seen all white before her eyes and all like gentlemen in high silk +hats walkin' around."</p> + +<p>There were sighs of comprehension, gasps of dolorous interest.</p> + +<p>"The same with my Christopher!"</p> + +<p>"Just like my aunt's step-sister afore she went!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tuttle did not favor the grave character of these symposia.</p> + +<p>With the assured manner peculiar to her, she swept into such circles +bearing a round box of candy, upon which was tied a large bow of satin +ribbon of a convivial shade of heliotrope. Opening this box she handed +it about, commanding, "Help yourself."</p> + +<p>At first it was considered refined to refuse. One or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> two excursionists, +awed by the superfluity of heliotrope ribbon, said feebly, "Don't rob +yourself."</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Tuttle met this restraint with practised raillery. "What you +all afraid of? It ain't poisoned! I got more where this come from." She +turned to the younger people. "Come one, come all! It's French-mixed."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Mrs. Bean and Mrs. Tinneray, still aloof and enigmatic, paced +the deck. Mrs. Tuttle, blue feathers streaming, teetered on her high +heels in their direction. Again she proffered the box. One of the +cynical youths with the ivory-headed canes was following her, demanding +that the parrot be fed a caramel. Once more the sky-blue figure bent +over the ornate cage; then little Mrs. Bean looked at Mrs. Tinneray with +a gesture of utter repudiation.</p> + +<p>"Ain't she <i>terrible</i>?"</p> + +<p>As the steamboat approached the wharf and the dwarf pines and yellow +sand-banks of Chadwick's Landing, a whispered consultation between these +two ladies resulted in one desperate attempt to probe the heart of Mabel +Hutch that was. Drawing camp-stools up near the vicinity of the parrot's +cage, they began with what might to a suspicious nature have seemed +rather pointed speculation, to wonder who might or might not be at the +wharf when the <i>Fall of Rome</i> got in.</p> + +<p>Once more the bottle of cologne was produced and handkerchiefs genteelly +dampened. Mrs. Bean, taking off her green glasses, polished them and +held them up to the light, explaining, "This here sea air makes 'em all +of a muck."</p> + +<p>Suddenly she leaned over to Mrs. Tuttle with an air of sympathetic +interest.</p> + +<p>"I suppose—er—your sister Hetty'll be comin' on board when we get to +Chadwick's Landing—her and her husband?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tuttle fidgeted. She covered Romeo's cage with a curious +arrangement like an altar-cloth on which gay<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> embroidered parrakeets of +all colors were supposed to give Romeo, when lonely, a feeling of +congenial companionship.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bean, thus evaded, screwed up her eyes tight, then opened them wide +at Mrs. Tinneray, who sat rigid, her gaze riveted upon far-off horizons, +humming between long sighs a favorite hymn. Finally, however, the +last-named lady leaned past Mrs. Bean and touched Mrs. Turtle's silken +knee, volunteering,</p> + +<p>"Your sister Hetty likes the water, I know. You remember them days, Mis' +Tuttle, when we all went bathin' together down to old Chadwick's Harbor, +afore they built the new wharf?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tinneray continued reminiscently.</p> + +<p>"You remember them old dresses we wore—no classy bathin'-suits +then—but my—the mornings used to smell good! That path to the shore +was all wild roses and we used to find blueberries in them woods. Us +girls was always teasin' Hetty, her bathin'-dress was white muslin and +when it was wet it stuck to her all over, she showed through—my, how +we'd laugh, but yet for all," concluded Mrs. Tinneray sentimentally, +"she looked lovely—just like a little wet angel."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tuttle carefully smoothed her blue mitts, observing nervously, +"Funny how Mis' Tinneray could remember so far back."</p> + +<p>"Is Hetty your sister by rights," suavely inquired Mrs. Bean, "or ony by +your Pa's second marriage, as it were?"</p> + +<p>The owner of the overestimated parrot roused herself.</p> + +<p>"By rights," she admitted indifferently, "I don't see much of her—she +married beneath her."</p> + +<p>The tip of Mrs. Tinneray's nose, either from cologne inhalings or +sunburn, grew suddenly scarlet. However she still regarded the far-off +horizons and repeated the last stanza of her hymn, which stanza, sung +with much quavering and sighing was a statement to the effect that Mrs. +Tinneray would "cling to the old rugged cross."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> Suddenly, however, she +remarked to the surrounding Summer air,</p> + +<p><i>"Hen Cronney is my second cousin on the mother's side. Some thought he +was pretty smart until troubles come and his wife was done out of her +rights.</i>"</p> + +<p>The shaft, carefully aimed, went straight into Mrs. Turtle's blue bosom +and stuck there. Her eyes, not overintelligent, turned once in her +complacent face, then with an air of grandiose detachment, she occupied +herself with the ends of her sky-blue automobile veil.</p> + +<p>"I'll have to fix this different," she remarked unconcernedly, "or else +my waves'll come out. Well, I presume we'll soon be there. I better go +down-stairs and primp up some." The high heels clattered away. Mrs. Bean +fixed a long look of horror on Mrs. Tinneray, who silently turned her +eyes up to heaven!</p> + +<p>As the <i>Fall of Rome</i> churned its way up to the sunny wharf of +Chadwick's Landing, the groups already on the excursion bristled with +excitement. Children were prepared to meet indulgent grandparents, +lovers their sweethearts, and married couples old school friends they +had not seen for years. From time to time these admonished their +offspring.</p> + +<p>"Hypatia Smith, you're draggin' your pink sash, leave Mommer fix it. +There now, don't you dare to set down so Grammer can see you lookin' +good."</p> + +<p>"Lionel Jones, you throw that old pop-corn overboard. Do you want to eat +it after you've had it on the floor?"</p> + +<p>"Does your stomach hurt you, dear? Well, here don't cry Mommer'll give +you another cruller."</p> + +<p>With much shouting of jocular advice from the male passengers the <i>Fall +of Rome</i> was warped into Chadwick's Landing and the waiting groups came +aboard. As they streamed on, bearing bundles and boxes and all the +impedimenta of excursions, those already on board congregated on the +after-deck to distinguish familiar faces. A few persons had come down to +the landing merely to look upon the embarkation.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p> + +<p>These, not going themselves on the excursion, maintained an air of +benevolent superiority that could not conceal vivid curiosity. Among +them, eagerly scanning the faces on deck was a very small thin woman +clad in a gingham dress, on her head a battered straw hat of accentuated +by-gone mode, and an empty provision-basket swinging on her arm. Mrs. +Tinneray peering down on her through smoked glasses, suddenly started +violently. "My sakes," she ejaculated, "my sakes," then as the dramatic +significance of the thing gripped her, "My—my—my, ain't that +<i>terrible</i>?"</p> + +<p>Solemnly, with prunella portentousness, Mrs. Tinneray stole back of the +other passengers leaning over the rail up to Mrs. Bean, who turned to +her animatedly, exclaiming,</p> + +<p>"They've got a new schoolhouse. I can just see the cupola—there's some +changes since I was here. They tell me there's a flag sidewalk in front +of the Methodist church and that young Baxter the express agent has +growed a mustache, and's got married."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tinneray did not answer. She laid a compelling hand on Mrs. Bean's +shoulder and turned her so that she looked straight at the small group +of home-stayers down on the wharf. She pointed a sepulchral finger,</p> + +<p>"<i>That there, in the brown with the basket, is Hetty Cronney, own sister +to Mis' Josiah Tuttle.</i>"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bean clutched her reticule and leaned over the rail, gasping with +interest.</p> + +<p>"Ye don't say—that's her? My! My! My!"</p> + +<p>In solemn silence the two regarded the little brown woman so unconscious +of their gaze. By the piteous wizened face screwed up in the sunlight, +by the faded hair, nut-cracker jaws, and hollow eyes they utterly +condemned Mrs. Tuttle, who, blue feathers floating, was also absorbed in +watching the stream of embarking excursionists.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tinneray, after a whispered consultation with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> Mrs. Bean went up +and nudged her; without ceremony she pointed,</p> + +<p>"Your sister's down there on the wharf," she announced flatly, "come on +over where we are and you can see her."</p> + +<p>Frivolous Mrs. Tuttle turned and encountered a pair of eyes steely in +their determination. Re-adjusting the gold cage more comfortably on its +camp-stool and murmuring a blessing on the hooked-beak occupant, the +azure lady tripped off in the wake of her flat-heeled friend.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Mr. Tinneray, standing well aft, was calling cheerfully down +to the little figure on the wharf.</p> + +<p>"Next Summer you must git your nerve up and come along. Excursions is +all the rage nowadays. My wife's took in four a'ready."</p> + +<p>But little Mrs. Cronney did not answer. Shading her eyes from the sun +glare, she was establishing recognizance with her cerulean relative who, +waving a careless blue-mitted hand, called down in girlish greeting,</p> + +<p>"Heigho, Hetty, how's Cronney? Why ain't you to the excursion?"</p> + +<p>The little woman on the wharf was seen to wince slightly. She shifted +her brown basket to the other arm, ignoring the second question.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Cronney's good—ony he's low-spirited—seems as tho he couldn't get +no work."</p> + +<p>"Same old crooked stick, hey?" Mrs. Tuttle called down facetiously.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bean and Mrs. Tinneray stole horrified glances at each other. One +planted a cotton-gloved hand over an opening mouth. But little Mrs. +Cronney, standing alone on the pier was equal to the occasion. She shook +out a small and spotless handkerchief, blowing her nose with elegant +deliberation before she replied,</p> + +<p>"Well—I don't know as he needs to work <i>all</i> the time; Cronney is +<i>peculiar</i>, you know, he's one of them that is high-toned and nifty +about money—he ain't like <i>some</i>, clutching onto every penny!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p> + +<p>By degrees, other excursionists, leaning over the railing, began to +catch at something spicy in the situation of these two sisters brought +face to face. At Mrs. Cronney's sally, one of the funny men guffawed his +approval. Groups of excursionists explained to each other that that lady +down there, her on the wharf, in the brown, was own sister to Mrs. +Josiah Tuttle!</p> + +<p>The whistle of the <i>Fall of Rome</i> now sounded for all aboard. It was a +dramatic moment, the possibilities of which suddenly gripped Mrs. +Tinneray. She clasped her hands in effortless agony. This lady, as she +afterward related to Mrs. Bean, felt mean! She could see in her mind's +eye, she said, how it all looked to Hetty Cronney, the <i>Fall of Rome</i> +with its opulent leisurely class of excursionists steaming away from her +lonely little figure on the wharf; while Mabel Tuttle, selfish devourer +of the Hutches' substance and hair to everything, would still be handing +aroun' her boxes of French-mixed and talking baby talk to that there +bird!</p> + +<p>At the moment, Mrs. Tinneray's mind, dwelling upon the golden cage and +its over-estimated occupant, became a mere boiling of savage desires. +Suddenly the line of grim resolution hardened on her face. This look, +one that the Tinneray children invariably connected with the switch +hanging behind the kitchen door, Mr. Tinneray also knew well. Seeing it +now, he hastened to his wife.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter, Mother, seasick? Here I'll git you a lemon."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tinneray, jaw set, eyes rolling, was able to intimate that she +needed no lemon, but she drew her husband mysteriously aside. She fixed +him with a foreboding glare, she said it was a wonder the Lord didn't +sink the boat! Then she rapidly sketched the tragedy—Mrs. Tuttle serene +and pampered on the deck, and Hetty Cronney desolate on the wharf! She +pronounced verdict.</p> + +<p>"It's <i>terrible</i>—that's what it is!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Tinneray with great sagacity said he'd like to show<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> Mabel Tuttle +her place—then he nudged his wife and chuckled admiringly,</p> + +<p>"But yet for all, Hetty's got her tongue in her head yet—say, ain't she +the little stinger?"</p> + +<p><i>Sotto voce</i> Mr. Tinneray related to his spouse how Mabel Tuttle was +bragging about her brick house and her shower-bath and her automobile +and her hired girl, and how she'd druv herself and that there bird down +to Boston and back.</p> + +<p>"Hetty, she just stands there, just as easy, and hollers back that +Cronney has bought a gramophone and how they sets by it day and night +listening, and how it's son and daughter to 'em. Then she calls up to +Mabel Tuttle, 'I should think you'd be afraid of meddlin' with them +ottermobiles, <i>your</i> time of life.'"</p> + +<p>Mr. Tinneray choked over his own rendition of this audacity, but his +wife sniffed hopelessly.</p> + +<p>"<i>They</i> ain't got no gramophone—<i>her</i>, with that face and hat?—Cronney +don't make nothing; they two could <i>live</i> on what that Blue Silk Quilt +feeds that stinkin' parrot."</p> + +<p>But Mr. Tinneray chuckled again, he seemed to be possessed with the +humor of some delightful secret. Looking carefully around him and seeing +every one absorbed in other things he leaned closer to his wife.</p> + +<p>"She's liable to lose that bird," he whispered. "Them young fellers with +the canes—they're full of their devilment—well, they wanted I +shouldn't say nothing and I ain't sayin' nothing—only—"</p> + +<p>Fat Mr. Tinneray, pale eyes rolling in merriment, pointed to the +camp-stool where once the parrot's cage had rested and where now no +parrot-cage was to be seen.</p> + +<p>"As fur as I can see," he nudged his wife again, "that bird's liable to +get left ashore."</p> + +<p>For a moment Mrs. Tinneray received this news stolidly, then a look of +comprehension flashed over her face. "What you talkin' about, Henry?" +she demanded. "Say, ain't you never got grown up? Where's Manda Bean?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> + +<p>Having located Mrs. Bean, the two ladies indulged in a rapid whispered +conversation. Upon certain revelations made by Mrs. Bean, Mrs. Tinneray +turned and laid commands upon her husband.</p> + +<p>"Look here," she said, "that what you told me is true—them young +fellers—" she fixed Mr. Tinneray with blue-glassed significant eyes, +adding <i>sotto voce</i>, "<i>You keep Mabel Tuttle busy</i>."</p> + +<p>Fat Mr. Tinneray, chuckling anew, withdrew to the after-rail where the +azure lady still stood, chained as it were in a sort of stupor induced +by the incisive thrusts of the forlorn little woman on the wharf. He +joined in the conversation.</p> + +<p>"So yer got a gramophone, hey," he called down kindly—"Say, that's +nice, ain't it?—that's company fer you and Cronney." He appealed to +Mrs. Tuttle in her supposed part of interested relative. "Keeps 'em from +gettin' lonesome and all," he explained.</p> + +<p>That lady looking a pointed unbelief, could not, with the other +excursionists watching, but follow his lead.</p> + +<p>"Why—er—ye-ess, that's rill nice," she agreed, with all the patronage +of the wealthy relative.</p> + +<p>Little Mrs. Cronney's eyes glittered. The steamboat hands had begun +lifting the hawsers from the wharf piles and her time was short. She was +not going to be pitied by the opulent persons on the excursion. Getting +as it were into her stride, she took a bolder line of imagery.</p> + +<p>"And the telephone," looking up at Mr. Tinneray. "I got friends in +Quahawg Junction and Russell Center—we're talkin' sometimes till nine +o'clock at night. I can pick up jelly receipts and dress-patterns just +so easy."</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Tuttle now looked open incredulity. She turned to such +excursionists as stood by and registered emphatic denial. "Uh-huh?" she +called down in apparent acceptance of these lurid statements, at the +same time remarking baldly to Mr. Tinneray, who had placed himself at +her side,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> + +<p>"<i>She</i> ain't got no telephone!"</p> + +<p>At this moment something seemed to occur to little Mrs. Cronney. As she +gave a parting defiant scrutiny to her opulent sister her black eyes +snapped in hollow reminiscence and she called out,</p> + +<p>"Say—how's your parrot? How's your beau—Ro-me-o?"</p> + +<p>At this, understood to be a parting shot, the crowd strung along the +rail of the <i>Fall of Rome</i> burst into an appreciative titter. Mrs. +Tuttle, reddening, made no answer, but Mr. Tinneray, standing by and +knowing what he knew, seized this opportunity to call down vociferously,</p> + +<p>"Oh—he's good, Romeo is. But your sister's had him to the excursion and +he's got just a little seasick comin' over. Mis' Tuttle, yer sister, is +going to leave him with you, till she can come and take him home, by +land, ye know, in her ottermobile—she's coming to get you too, fer a +visit, ye know."</p> + +<p>There was an effect almost as of panic on the <i>Fall of Rome</i>. Not only +did the big whistle for "all aboard" blow, but some one's new hat went +overboard and while every one crowded to one side to see it rescued, it +was not discovered that Romeo's cage had disappeared! In the confusion +of a band of desperadoes composed of the entire group of cynical young +men with ivory-headed canes, seized upon an object covered with +something like an altar-cloth and ran down the gangplank with it.</p> + +<p>Going in a body to little Mrs. Cronney, these young men deposited a +glittering burden, the gold parrot-cage with the green bird sitting +within, in her surprised and gratified embrace. Like flashes these agile +young men jumped back upon the deck of the <i>Fall of Rome</i> just before +the space between wharf and deck became too wide to jump. Meanwhile on +the upper deck, before the petrified Mrs. Tuttle could open her mouth, +Mr. Tinneray shouted instructions,</p> + +<p>"Your sister wants you should keep him," he roared,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> "till she comes +over to see you in her +ottermobile—to—fetch—him—and—git—you—for—a—visit!"</p> + +<p>Suddenly the entire crowd of excursionists on the after-deck of the +<i>Fall of Rome</i> gave a rousing cheer. The gratified young men with the +ivory-headed canes suddenly saw themselves of the age of chivalry and +burst into ragtime rapture; the excursion, a mass of waving flags and +hats and automobile veils, made enthusiastic adieu to one faded little +figure on the wharf, who proud and happy gently waved back a gleaming +parrot's cage!</p> + +<p>It was Mr. Tinneray, dexterous in all such matters, that caught at a +drooping cerulean form as it toppled over.</p> + +<p>"I know'd she'd faint," the pale-eyed gentleman chuckled. He manfully +held his burden until Mrs. Tinneray and Mrs. Bean relieved him. These +ladies, practised in all smelling-bottle and cologne soothings, supplied +also verbal comfort.</p> + +<p>"Them young fellows," they explained to Mrs. Tuttle, "is full of their +devilment and you can't never tell what they'll do next. But ain't it +<i>lucky</i>, Mis' Tuttle, that it's your own sister has charge of that +bird?"</p> + +<p>When at last a pale and interesting lady in blue appeared feebly on +deck, wiping away recurrent tears, she was received with the most +perfect sympathy tempered with congratulations. There may have been a +few winks and one or two nods of understanding which she did not see, +but Mrs. Tuttle herself was petted and soothed like a queen of the +realm, only, to her mind was brought a something of obligation—the +eternal obligation of those who greatly possess—for every excursionist +said,</p> + +<p>"My, yes! No need to worry—your sister will take care of that bird like +he was one of her own, and then you can go over in yer ottermobile to +git him—and when you fetch him you can take her home with yer—fer a +visit."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ONNIE" id="ONNIE"></a>ONNIE<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> THOMAS BEER</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Century Magazine</i></p> + + +<p>Mrs. Rawling ordered Sanford to take a bath, and with the clear vision +of seven years Sanford noted that no distinct place for this process had +been recommended. So he retired to a sun-warmed tub of rain-water behind +the stables, and sat comfortably armpit deep therein, whirring a rattle +lately worn by a snake, and presented to him by one of the Varian tribe, +sons of his father's foreman. Soaking happily, Sanford admired his +mother's garden, spread up along the slope toward the thick cedar +forest, and thought of the mountain strawberries ripening in this hot +Pennsylvania June. His infant brother Peter yelled viciously in the big +gray-stone house, and the great sawmill snarled half a mile away, while +he waited patiently for the soapless water to remove all plantain stains +from his brown legs, the cause of this immersion.</p> + +<p>A shadow came between him and the sun, and Sanford abandoned the rattles +to behold a monstrous female, unknown, white-skinned, moving on majestic +feet to his seclusion. He sat deeper in the tub, but she seemed +unabashed, and stood with a red hand on each hip, a grin rippling the +length of her mouth.</p> + +<p>"Herself says you'll be comin' to herself now, if it's you that's Master +San," she said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p> + +<p>Sanford speculated. He knew that all things have an office in this +world, and tried to locate this preposterous, lofty creature while she +beamed upon him.</p> + +<p>"I'm San. Are you the new cook?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"I am the same," she admitted.</p> + +<p>"Are you a <i>good</i> cook?" he continued. "Aggie wasn't. She drank."</p> + +<p>"God be above us all! And whatever did herself do with a cook that drank +in this place?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. Aggie got married. Cooks <i>do</i>," said Sanford, much +entertained by this person. Her deep voice was soft, emerging from the +largest, reddest mouth he had ever seen. The size of her feet made him +dubious as to her humanity. "Anyhow," he went on, "tell mother I'm not +clean yet. What's your name?"</p> + +<p>"Onnie," said the new cook. "An' would this be the garden?"</p> + +<p>"Silly, what did you think?"</p> + +<p>"I'm a stranger in this place, Master San, an' I know not which is why +nor forever after."</p> + +<p>Sanford's brain refused this statement entirely, and he blinked.</p> + +<p>"I guess you're Irish," he meditated.</p> + +<p>"I am. Do you be gettin' out of your tub now, an' Onnie'll dry you," she +offered.</p> + +<p>"I can't," he said firmly; "you're a lady."</p> + +<p>"A lady? Blessed Mary save us from sin! A lady? Myself? I'm no such +thing in this world at all; I'm just Onnie Killelia."</p> + +<p>She appeared quite horrified, and Sanford was astonished. She seemed to +be a woman, for all her height and the extent of her hands.</p> + +<p>"Are you sure?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"As I am a Christian woman," said Onnie. "I never was a lady, nor could +I ever be such a thing."</p> + +<p>"Well," said Sanford, "I don't know, but I suppose you can dry me."</p> + +<p>He climbed out of his tub, and this novel being paid<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> kind attention to +his directions. He began to like her, especially as her hair was of a +singular, silky blackness, suggesting dark mulberries, delightful to the +touch. He allowed her to kiss him and to carry him, clothed, back to the +house on her shoulders, which were as hard as a cedar trunk, but covered +with green cloth sprinkled with purple dots.</p> + +<p>"And herself's in the libr'y drinkin' tea," said his vehicle, depositing +him on the veranda. "An' what might that be you'd be holdin'?"</p> + +<p>"Just a rattle off a snake."</p> + +<p>She examined the six-tiered, smoky rattle with a positive light in her +dull, black eyes and crossed herself.</p> + +<p>"A queer country, where they do be bellin' the snakes! I heard the like +in the gover'ment school before I did come over the west water, but I +misbelieved the same. God's ways is strange, as the priests will be +sayin'."</p> + +<p>"You can have it," said Sanford, and ran off to inquire of his mother +the difference between women and ladies.</p> + +<p>Rawling, riding slowly, came up the driveway from the single lane of his +village, and found the gigantic girl sitting on the steps so absorbed in +this sinister toy that she jumped with a little yelp when he dismounted.</p> + +<p>"What have you there?" he asked, using his most engaging smile.</p> + +<p>"'Tis a snake's bell, your Honor, which Master San did be givin' me. +'Tis welcome indeed, as I lost off my holy medal, bein' sick, forever on +the steamship crossin' the west water."</p> + +<p>"But—can you use a rattle for a holy medal?" said Rawling.</p> + +<p>"The gifts of children are the blessin's of Mary's self," Onnie +maintained. She squatted on the gravel and hunted for one of the big +hair-pins her jump had loosened, then used it to pierce the topmost +shell.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> Rawling leaned against his saddle, watching the huge hands, and +Pat Sheehan, the old coachman, chuckled, coming up for the tired horse.</p> + +<p>"You'll be from the West," he said, "where they string sea-shells."</p> + +<p>"I am, an' you'll be from Dublin, by the sound of your speakin'. So was +my father, who is now drowned forever, and with his wooden leg," she +added mournfully, finding a cord in some recess of her pocket, entangled +there with a rosary and a cluster of small fishhooks. She patted the odd +scapular into the cleft of her bosom and smiled at Rawling. "Them in the +kitchen are tellin' me you'll be ownin' this whole country an' sixty +miles of it, all the trees an' hills. You'll be no less than a +President's son, then, your Honor."</p> + +<p>Pat led the horse off hastily, and Rawling explained that his lineage +was not so interesting. The girl had arrived the night before, sent on +by an Oil City agency, and Mrs. Rawling had accepted the Amazon as +manna-fall. The lumber valley was ten miles above a tiny railroad +station, and servants had to be tempted with triple wages, were +transient, or married an employee before a month could pass. The valley +women regarded Rawling as their patron, heir of his father, and as +temporary aid gave feudal service on demand; but for the six months of +his family's residence each year house servants must be kept at any +price. He talked of his domain, and the Irish girl nodded, the rattles +whirring when she breathed, muffled in her breast, as if a snake were +crawling somewhere near.</p> + +<p>"When my father came here," he said, "there wasn't any railroad, and +there were still Indians in the woods."</p> + +<p>"Red Indians? Would they all be dead now? My brother Hyacinth is fair +departed his mind readin' of red Indians. Him is my twin."</p> + +<p>"How many of you are there?"</p> + +<p>"Twelve, your Honor," said Onnie, "an' me the first to go off, bein' +that I'm not so pretty a man would be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> marryin' me that day or this. An' +if herself is content, I am pleased entirely."</p> + +<p>"You're a good cook," said Rawling, honestly. "How old are you?"</p> + +<p>He had been puzzling about this; she was so wonderfully ugly that age +was difficult to conjecture. But she startled him.</p> + +<p>"I'll be sixteen next Easter-time, your Honor."</p> + +<p>"That's very young to leave home," he sympathized.</p> + +<p>"Who'd be doin' the like of me any hurt? I'd trample the face off his +head," she laughed.</p> + +<p>"I think you could. And now what do you think of my big son?"</p> + +<p>The amazing Onnie gurgled like a child, clasping her hands.</p> + +<p>"Sure, Mary herself bore the like among the Jew men, an' no one since +that day, or will forever. An' I must go to my cookin', or Master San +will have no dinner fit for him."</p> + +<p>Rawling looked after her pink flannel petticoat, greatly touched and +pleased by this eulogy. Mrs. Rawling strolled out of the hall and +laughed at the narrative.</p> + +<p>"She's appalling to look at, and she frightens the other girls, but +she's clean and teachable. If she likes San, she may not marry one of +the men—for a while."</p> + +<p>"He'd be a bold man. She's as big as Jim Varian. If we run short of +hands, I'll send her up to a cutting. Where's San?"</p> + +<p>"In the kitchen. He likes her. Heavens! if she'll only stay, Bob!"</p> + +<p>Onnie stayed, and Mrs. Rawling was gratified by humble obedience and +excellent cookery. Sanford was gratified by her address, strange to him. +He was the property of his father's lumbermen, and their wives called +him everything from "heart's love" to "little cabbage," as their origin +might dictate; but no one had ever called him "Master San." He was San +to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> whole valley, the first-born of the owner who gave their +children schools and stereopticon lectures in the union chapel, as his +father had before him. He went where he pleased, safe except from blind +nature and the unfriendly edges of whirling saws. Men fished him out of +the dammed river, where logs floated, waiting conversion into +merchantable planking, and the Varian boys, big, tawny youngsters, were +his body-guard. These perplexed Onnie Killelia in her first days at +Rawling's Hope.</p> + +<p>"The agent's lads are whistlin' for Master San," she reported to Mrs. +Rawling. "Shall I be findin' him?"</p> + +<p>"The agent's lads? Do you mean the Varian boys?"</p> + +<p>"Them's them. Wouldn't Jim Varian be his honor's agent? Don't he be +payin' the tenantry an' sayin' where is the trees to be felled? I forbid +them to come in, as Miss Margot—which is a queer name!—is asleep +sound, an' Master Pete."</p> + +<p>"Jim Varian came here with his honor's father, and taught his honor to +shoot and swim, also his honor's brother Peter, in New York, where we +live in winter. Yes, I suppose you'd call Jim Varian his honor's agent. +The boys take care of Master San almost as well as you do."</p> + +<p>Onnie sniffed, balancing from heel to heel.</p> + +<p>"Fine care! An' Bill Varian lettin' him go romping by the poison-ivy, +which God lets grow in this place like weeds in a widow's garden. An' +his honor, they do be sayin', sends Bill to a fine school, and will the +others after him, and to a college like Dublin has after. An' they +callin' himself San like he was their brother!"</p> + +<p>As a volunteer nurse-maid Onnie was quite miraculous to her mistress. +Apparently she could follow Sanford by scent, for his bare soles left no +traces in the wild grass, and he moved rapidly, appearing at home +exactly when his stomach suggested. He was forbidden only the slate +ledges beyond the log basin, where rattlesnakes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> took the sun, and the +trackless farther reaches of the valley, bewildering to a small boy, +with intricate brooks and fallen cedar or the profitable yellow pine. +Onnie, crying out on her saints, retrieved him from the turn-table-pit +of the narrow-gauge logging-road, and pursued his fair head up the +blue-stone crags behind the house, her vast feet causing avalanches +among the garden beds. She withdrew him with railings from the +enchanting society of louse-infested Polish children, and danced +hysterically on the shore of the valley-wide, log-stippled pool when the +Varians took him to swim. She bore him off to bed, lowering at the +actual nurse. She filled his bath, she cut his toe-nails. She sang him +to sleep with "Drolien" and the heart-shattering lament for Gerald. She +prayed all night outside his door when he had a brief fever. When +trouble was coming, she said the "snake's bells" told her, talking +loudly; and petty incidents confirmed her so far that, after she found +the child's room ablaze from one of Rawling's cigarettes, they did not +argue, and grew to share half-way her superstition.</p> + +<p>Women were scarce in the valley, and the well-fed, well-paid men needed +wives; and, as time went on, Honora Killelia was sought in marriage by +tall Scots and Swedes, who sat dumbly passionate on the back veranda, +where she mended Sanford's clothes. Even hawk-nosed Jim Varian, nearing +sixty, made cautious proposals, using Bill as messenger, when Sanford +was nine.</p> + +<p>"God spare us from purgatory!" she shouted. "Me to sew for the eight of +you? Even in the fine house his honor did be givin' the agent I could +not stand the noise of it. An' who'd be mendin' Master San's clothes? Be +out of this kitchen, Bill Varian!"</p> + +<p>Rawling, suffocated with laughter, reeled out of the pantry and fled to +his pretty wife.</p> + +<p>"She thinks San's her own kid!" he gasped.</p> + +<p>"She's perfectly priceless. I wish she'd be as careful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> of Margot and +Pete. I wish we could lure her to New York. She's worth twenty city +servants."</p> + +<p>"Her theory is that if she stays here there's some one to see that Pat +Sheehan doesn't neglect—what does she call San's pony?" Rawling asked.</p> + +<p>"The little horse. Yes, she told me she'd trample the face off Pat if +Shelty came to harm. She keeps the house like silver, too; and it's +heavenly to find the curtains put up when we get here. Heavens! listen!"</p> + +<p>They were in Rawling's bedroom, and Onnie came up the curved stairs. +Even in list house-slippers she moved like an elephant, and Sanford had +called her, so the speed of her approach shook the square upper hall, +and the door jarred a little way open with the impact of her feet.</p> + +<p>"Onnie, I'm not sleepy. Sing Gerald," he commanded.</p> + +<p>"I will do that same if you'll be lyin' down still, Master San. Now, +this is what Conia sang when she found her son all dead forever in the +sands of the west water."</p> + +<p>By the sound Onnie sat near the bed crooning steadily, her soft +contralto filling both stories of the happy house. Rawling went across +the hall to see, and stood in the boy's door. He loved Sanford as +imaginative men can who are still young, and the ugly girl's idolatry +seemed natural. Yet this was very charming, the simple room, the drowsy, +slender child, curled in his sheets, surrounded with song.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Onnie," said Sanford. "I suppose she loved him a lot. It's a +nice song. Goo' night."</p> + +<p>As Onnie passed her master, he saw the stupid eyes full of tears.</p> + +<p>"Now, why'll he be thankin' me," she muttered—"me that 'u'd die an' +stay in hell forever for him? Now I must go mend up the fish-bag your +Honor's brother's wife was for sendin' him an' which no decent fish +would be dyin' in."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Aren't you going to take Jim Varian?" asked Rawling.</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't be marryin' with Roosyvelt himself, that's President, an' +has his house built all of gold! Who'd be seein' he gets his meals, an' +no servants in the sufferin' land worth the curse of a heretic? Not the +agent, nor fifty of him," Onnie proclaimed, and marched away.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Sanford never came to scorn his slave or treat her as a servant. He was +proud of Onnie. She did not embarrass him by her all-embracing +attentions, although he weaned her of some of them as he grew into a +wood-ranging, silent boy, studious, and somewhat shy outside the feudal +valley. The Varian boys were sent, as each reached thirteen, to +Lawrenceville, and testified their gratitude to the patron by diligent +careers. They were Sanford's summer companions, with occasional visits +from his cousin Denis, whose mother disapproved of the valley and Onnie.</p> + +<p>"I really don't see how Sanford can let the poor creature fondle him," +she said. "Denny tells me she simply wails outside San's door if he +comes home wet or has a bruise. It's rather ludicrous, now that San's +fourteen. She writes to him at Saint Andrew's."</p> + +<p>"I told her Saint Andrew's wasn't far from Boston, and she offered to +get her cousin Dermot—he's a bellhop at the Touraine—to valet him. +Imagine San with a valet at Saint Andrew's!" Rawling laughed.</p> + +<p>"But San isn't spoiled," Peter observed, "and he's the idol of the +valley, Bob, even more than you are. Varian, McComas, Jansen—the whole +gang and their cubs. They'd slaughter any one who touched San."</p> + +<p>"I don't see how you stand the place," said Mrs. Peter. "Even if the men +are respectful, they're so familiar. And anything could happen there. +Denny tells me you have Poles and Russians—all sorts of dreadful +people."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> + +<p>Her horror tinkled prettily in the Chinese drawing-room, but Rawling +sighed.</p> + +<p>"We can't get the old sort—Scotch, Swedes, the <i>good</i> Irish. We get any +old thing. Varian swears like a trooper, but he has to fire them right +and left all summer through. We've a couple of hundred who are there to +stay, some of them born there; but God help San when he takes it over!"</p> + +<p>Sanford learned to row at Saint Andrew's, and came home in June with +new, flat bands of muscle in his chest, and Onnie worshiped with loud +Celtic exclamations, and bade small Pete grow up like Master San. And +Sanford grew two inches before he came home for the next summer, +reverting to bare feet, corduroys, and woolen shirts as usual. Onnie +eyed him dazedly when he strode into her kitchen for sandwiches against +an afternoon's fishing.</p> + +<p>"O Master San, you're all grown up sudden'!"</p> + +<p>"Just five foot eight, Onnie. Ling Varian's five foot nine; so's Cousin +Den."</p> + +<p>"But don't you be goin' round the cuttin' camps up valley, neither. +You're too young to be hearin' the awful way these news hands do talk. +It's a sin to hear how they curse an' swear."</p> + +<p>"The wumman's right," said Cameron, the smith, who was courting her +while he mended the kitchen range. "They're foul as an Edinburgh +fishwife—the new men. Go no place wi'out a Varian, two Varians, or one +of my lads."</p> + +<p>"Good Lord! I'm not a kid, Ian!"</p> + +<p>"Ye're no' a mon, neither. An' ye're the owner's first," said Cameron +grimly.</p> + +<p>Rawling nodded when Sanford told him this.</p> + +<p>"Jim carries an automatic in his belt, and we've had stabbings. Keep +your temper if they get fresh. We're in hot water constantly, San. Look +about the trails for whisky-caches. These rotten stevedores who come +floating in bother the girls and bully the kids. You're<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> fifteen, and I +count on you to help keep the property decent. The boys will tell you +the things they hear. Use the Varians; Ling and Reuben are clever. I pay +high enough wages for this riffraff. I'll pay anything for good hands; +and we get dirt!"</p> + +<p>Sanford enjoyed being a detective, and kept the Varians busy. Bill, +acting as assistant doctor of the five hundred, gave him advice on the +subject of cocaine symptoms and alcoholic eyes. Onnie raved when he +trotted in one night with Ling and Reuben at heel, their clothes rank +with the evil whiskey they had poured from kegs hidden in a cavern near +the valley-mouth.</p> + +<p>"You'll be killed forever with some Polack beast! O Master San, it's not +you that's the polis. 'Tis not fit for him, your Honor. Some Irish pig +will be shootin' him, or a sufferin' Bohemyun."</p> + +<p>"But it's the property, Onnie," the boy faltered. "Here's his honor +worked to death, and Uncle Jim. I've got to do something. They sell good +whisky at the store, and just smell me."</p> + +<p>But Onnie wept, and Rawling, for sheer pity, sent her out of the +dining-room.</p> + +<p>"She—she scares me!" Sanford said. "It's not natural, Dad, d' you +think?"</p> + +<p>He was sitting on his bed, newly bathed and pensive, reviewing the day.</p> + +<p>"Why not? She's alone here, and you're the only thing she's fond of. +Stop telling her about things or she'll get sick with worry."</p> + +<p>"She's fond of Margot and Pete, but she's just idiotic about me. She did +scare me!"</p> + +<p>Rawling looked at his son and wondered if the boy knew how attractive +were his dark, blue eyes and his plain, grave face. The younger children +were beautiful; but Sanford, reared more in the forest, had the forest +depth in his gaze and an animal litheness in his hard young body.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She's like a dog," Sanford reflected. "Only she's a woman. It's sort +of—"</p> + +<p>"Pathetic?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose that's the word. But I <i>do</i> love the poor old thing. Her +letters are rich. She tells me about all the new babies and who's +courting who and how the horses are. It <i>is</i> pathetic."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>He thought of Onnie often the next winter, and especially when she wrote +a lyric of thanksgiving after the family had come to Rawling's Hope in +April, saying that all would be well and trouble would cease. But his +father wrote differently:</p> + +<p>"You know there is a strike in the West Virginia mines, and it has sent +a mass of ruffians out looking for work. We need all the people we can +get, but they are a pestiferous outfit. I am opening up a camp in Bear +Run, and our orders are enormous already, but I hate littering the +valley with these swine. They are as insolent and dirty as Turks. Pete +says the village smells, and has taken to the woods. Onnie says the new +Irish are black scum of Limerick, and Jim Varian's language isn't +printable. The old men are complaining, and altogether I feel like Louis +XVI in 1789. About every day I have to send for the sheriff and have +some thug arrested. A blackguard from Oil City has opened a dive just +outside the property, on the road to the station, and Cameron tells me +all sorts of dope is for sale in the hoarding-houses. We have +cocaine-inhalers, opium-smokers, and all the other vices."</p> + +<p>After this outburst Sanford was not surprised when he heard from Onnie +that his father now wore a revolver, and that the overseers of the +sawmill did the same.</p> + +<p>On the first of June Rawling posted signs at the edge of his valley and +at the railroad stations nearest, saying that he needed no more labor. +The tide of applicants ceased, but Mrs. Rawling was nervous. Pete +declared his intention of running away, and riding home in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> late +afternoon, Margot was stopped by a drunken, babbling man, who seized her +pony's bridle, with unknown words. She galloped free, but next day +Rawling sent his wife and children to the seaside and sat waiting +Sanford's coming to cheer his desolate house, the new revolver cold on +his groin.</p> + +<p>Sanford came home a day earlier than he had planned, and drove in a +borrowed cart from the station, furious when an old cottage blazed in +the rainy night, just below the white posts marking his heritage, and +shrill women screamed invitation at the horse's hoof-beats. He felt the +valley smirched, and his father's worn face angered him when they met.</p> + +<p>"I almost wish you'd not come, Sonny. We're in rotten shape for a hard +summer. Go to bed, dear, and get warm."</p> + +<p>"Got a six-shooter for me?"</p> + +<p>"You? Who'd touch you? Some one would kill him. I let Bill have a gun, +and some other steady heads. You must keep your temper. You always have. +Ling Varian got into a splendid row with some hog who called Uncle +Jim—the usual name. Ling did him up. Ah, here's Onnie. Onnie, here's—"</p> + +<p>The cook rushed down the stairs, a fearful and notable bed-gown covering +her night-dress, and the rattles chattering loudly.</p> + +<p>"God's kind to us. See the chest of him! Master San! Master San!"</p> + +<p>"Good Lord, Onnie. I wasn't dead, you know! Don't <i>kill</i> a fellow!"</p> + +<p>For the first time her embrace was an embarrassment; her mouth on his +cheek made him flush. She loved him so desperately, this poor stupid +woman, and he could only be fond of her, give her a sort of tolerant +affection. Honesty reddened his face.</p> + +<p>"Come on and find me a hard-boiled egg, there's a—"</p> + +<p>"A hard-boiled egg? Listen to that, your Honor!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> An' it's near the +middle of the night! No, I'll not be findin' hard-boiled eggs for +you—oh, he's laughin' at me! Now you come into the dinin'-room, an' +I'll be hottin' some milk for you, for you're wet as any drowned little +cat. An' the mare's fine, an' I've the fishin'-sticks all dusted, an' +your new bathin'-tub's to your bath-room, though ill fate follow that +English pig Percival that put it in, for he dug holes with his heels! +An' would you be wantin' a roast-beef sandwidge?"</p> + +<p>"She's nearly wild," said Rawling as the pantry door slammed. "You must +be careful, San, and not get into any rows. She'd have a fit. What is +it?"</p> + +<p>"What do you do when you can't—care about a person as much as they care +about you?"</p> + +<p>"Put up with it patiently." Rawling shrugged. "What else <i>can</i> you do?"</p> + +<p>"I'm sixteen. She keeps on as if I were six. S-suppose she fell in love +with me? She's not old—very old."</p> + +<p>"It's another sort of thing, Sonny. Don't worry," said Rawling, gravely, +and broke off the subject lest the boy should fret.</p> + +<p>Late next afternoon Sanford rode down a trail from deep forest, lounging +in the saddle, and flicking brush aside with a long dog-whip. There was +a rain-storm gathering, and the hot air swayed no leaf. A rabbit, +sluggish and impertinent, hopped across his path and wandered up the +side trail toward Varian's cottage. Sanford halted the mare and +whistled. His father needed cheering, and Ling Varian, if obtainable, +would make a third at dinner. His intimate hurtled down the tunnel of +mountain ash directly and assented.</p> + +<p>"Wait till I go back and tell Reuben, though. I'm cooking this week. +Wish Onnie 'd marry dad. Make her, can't you? Hi, Reu! I'm eating at the +house. The beef's on, and dad wants fried onions. Why won't she have +dad? <i>You're</i> grown up."</p> + +<p>He trotted beside the mare noiselessly, chewing a birch spray, a hand on +his friend's knee.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She says she won't get married. I expect she'll stay here as long as +she lives."</p> + +<p>"I suppose so, but I wish she'd marry dad," said Ling. "All this +trouble's wearing him out, and he won't have a hired girl if we could +catch one. There's a pile of trouble, San. He has rows every day. Had a +hell of a row with Percival yesterday."</p> + +<p>"Who's this Percival? Onnie was cursing him out last night," Sanford +recollected.</p> + +<p>"He's an awful big hog who's pulling logs at the runway. Used to be a +plumber in Australia. Swears like a sailor. He's a—what d' you call +'em? You know, a London mucker?"</p> + +<p>"Cockney?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, that's it. He put in your new bath-tub, and Onnie jumped him for +going round the house looking at things. Dad's getting ready to fire +him. He's the worst hand in the place. I'll point him out to you."</p> + +<p>The sawmill whistle blew as the trail joined open road, and they passed +men, their shirts sweat-stained, nodding or waving to the boys as they +spread off to their houses and the swimming-place at the river bridge.</p> + +<p>A group gathered daily behind the engine-yard to play horseshoe quoits, +and Sanford pulled the mare to a walk on the fringes of this half-circle +as old friends hailed him and shy lads with hair already sun-bleached +wriggled out of the crowd to shake hands, Camerons, Jansens, Nattiers, +Keenans, sons of the faithful. Bill Varian strolled up, his medical case +under an arm.</p> + +<p>"I'm eating with you. The boss asked me. He feels better already. Come +in and speak to dad. He's hurt because <i>he's</i> not seen you, and you +stopped to see Ian at the forge. Hi, Dad!" he called over the felt hats +of the ring, "here's San."</p> + +<p>"Fetch him in, then," cried the foreman.</p> + +<p>Bill and Ling led the nervous mare through the group of pipe-smoking, +friendly lumbermen, and Varian hugged his fosterling's son.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Stop an' watch," he whispered. "They'll like seein' you, San. Onnie's +been tellin' the women you've growed a yard."</p> + +<p>Sanford settled to the monotony of the endless sport, saluting known +brown faces and answering yelps of pleasure from the small boys who +squatted against the high fence behind the stake.</p> + +<p>"That's Percival," said Ling, as a man swaggered out to the +pitching-mark.</p> + +<p>"Six foot three," Bill said, "and strong as an ox. Drinks all the time. +Think he dopes, too."</p> + +<p>Sanford looked at the fellow with a swift dislike for his vacant, heavy +face and his greasy, saffron hair. His bare arms were tattooed boldly +and in many colors, distorted with ropes of muscle. He seemed a little +drunk, and the green clouds cast a copper shade into his lashless eyes.</p> + +<p>"Can't pitch for beans," said Ling as the first shoe went wide. When the +second fell beside it, the crowd laughed.</p> + +<p>"Now," said Ian Cameron, "he'll be mad wi' vainglory. He's a camstearlie +ring' it an' a claverin' fu'."</p> + +<p>"Ho! larf ahead!" snapped the giant. "'Ow's a man to 'eave a bloody +thing at a bloody stike?"</p> + +<p>The experts chuckled, and he ruffled about the ring, truculent, +sneering, pausing before Varian, with a glance at Sanford.</p> + +<p>"Give me something with some balance. Hi can show yer. Look!"</p> + +<p>"I'm looking," said the foreman; "an' I ain't deaf, neither."</p> + +<p>"'Ere's wot you blighters carn't 'eave. Learned it in Auckland, where +there's <i>real</i> men." He fumbled in his shirt, and the mare snorted as +the eight-inch blade flashed out of its handle under her nose. "See? +That's the lidy! Now watch! There's a knot-'ole up the palings there."</p> + +<p>The crowd fixed a stare on the green, solid barrier,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> and the knife +soared a full twenty yards, but missed the knot-hole and rattled down. +There was flat derision in the following laughter, and Percival dug his +heel in the sod.</p> + +<p>"Larf ahead! Hany one else try 'er?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, shut up!" said some one across the ring. "We're pitchin' shoes."</p> + +<p>Percival slouched off after his knife, and the frieze of small boys +scattered except a lint-haired Cameron who was nursing a stray cat +busily, cross-legged against the green boarding.</p> + +<p>"Yon's Robert Sanford Cameron," said the smith. "He can say half his +catechism."</p> + +<p>"Good kid," said Sanford. "I never could get any—"</p> + +<p>Percival had wandered back and stood a yard off, glaring at Bill as the +largest object near.</p> + +<p>"Think I can't, wot?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not interested, and you're spoiling the game," said Bill, who +feared nothing alive except germs, and could afford to disregard most of +these. Sanford's fingers tightened on his whip.</p> + +<p>"Ho!" coughed the cockney. "See! You—there!"</p> + +<p>Robert Cameron looked up at the shout. The blade shot between the +child's head and the kitten and hummed gently, quivering in the wood.</p> + +<p>"Hi could 'a' cut 'is throat," said Percival so complacently that +Sanford boiled.</p> + +<p>"You scared him stiff," he choked. "You hog! Don't—"</p> + +<p>"'Ello, 'oo's the young dook?"</p> + +<p>"Look out," said a voice. "That's San, the—"</p> + +<p>"Ho! 'Im with the Hirish gal to 'elp 'im tike 'is bloody barth nights? +'Oo's <i>he</i>? She's a—"</p> + +<p>A second later Sanford knew that he had struck the man over the face +with his whip, cutting the phrase. The mare plunged and the whole crowd +congested about the bellowing cockney as Bill held Cameron back, and +huge Jansen planted a hand on Rawling's chest.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No worry," he said genially. "Yim an' us, Boss, our job."</p> + +<p>Varian had wedged his hawk face close to the cockney's, now purple +blotched with wrath, and Rawling waited.</p> + +<p>"Come to the office an' get your pay. You hear? Then you clear out. If +you ain't off the property in an hour you'll be dead. You hear?"</p> + +<p>"He ought to," muttered Ling, leading the mare away. "Dad hasn't yelled +that loud since that Dutchman dropped the kid in the—hello, it's +raining!"</p> + +<p>"Come on home, Sonny," said Rawling, "and tell us all about it. I didn't +see the start."</p> + +<p>But Sanford was still boiling, and the owner had recourse to his godson. +Ling told the story, unabridged, as they mounted toward the house.</p> + +<p>"Onnie'll hear of it," sighed Rawling. "Look, there she is by the +kitchen, and that's Jennie Cameron loping 'cross lots. Never mind, San. +You did the best you could; don't bother. Swine are swine."</p> + +<p>The rain was cooling Sanford's head, and he laughed awkwardly.</p> + +<p>"Sorry I lost my temper."</p> + +<p>"I'm not. Jennie's telling Onnie. Hear?"</p> + +<p>The smith's long-legged daughter was gesticulating at the kitchen +trellis, and Onnie's feet began a sort of war-dance in the wet grass as +Rawling approached.</p> + +<p>"Where is this sufferin' pig, could your honor be tellin' me? God be +above us all! With my name in his black, ugly mouth! I <i>knew</i> there'd be +trouble; the snake's bells did be sayin' so since the storm was comin'. +An' him three times the bigness of Master San! Where'd he be now?"</p> + +<p>"Jim gave him an hour to be off the property, Onnie."</p> + +<p>"God's mercy he had no knife in his hand, then, even with the men by an' +Master San on his horse. Blessed Mary! I will go wait an' have speech +with this Englishman on the road."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You'll go get dinner, Onnie Killelia," said Rawling. "Master San is +tired, Bill and Ling are coming—and look there!"</p> + +<p>The faithful were marching Percival down the road to the valley-mouth in +the green dusk. He walked between Jansen and Bill, a dozen men behind, +and a flying scud of boys before.</p> + +<p>"An' Robbie's not hurt," said Miss Cameron, "an' San ain't, neither; so +don't you worry, Onnie. It's all right."</p> + +<p>Onnie laughed.</p> + +<p>"I'd like well to have seen the whip fly, your Honor. The arm of him! +Will he be wantin' waffles to his dinner? Heyah! more trouble yet!" The +rattles had whirred, and she shook her head. "A forest fire likely now? +Or a child bein' born dead?"</p> + +<p>"Father says she's fëy," Jennie observed as the big woman lumbered off.</p> + +<p>"You mean she has second sight? Perhaps. Here's a dollar for Robbie, and +tell Ian he's lucky."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Bill raced up as the rain began to fall heavily in the windless gray of +six o'clock. He reported the cockney gone and the men loud in admiration +of Sanford; so dinner was cheerful enough, although Sanford felt limp +after his first attack of killing rage. Onnie's name on this animal's +tongue had maddened him, the reaction made him drowsy; but Ling's winter +at Lawrenceville and Bill's in New York needed hearing. Rawling left the +three at the hall fireplace while he read a new novel in the library. +The rain increased, and the fall became a continuous throbbing so steady +that he hardly heard the telephone ring close to his chair; but old +Varian's voice came clear along the wire.</p> + +<p>"Is that you, Bob? Now, listen. One of them girls at that place down the +station road was just talkin' to me. She's scared. She rung me up an' +Cameron. That dam' Englishman's gone out o' there bile drunk,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> swearin' +he'll cut San's heart out, the pup! He's gone off wavin' his knife. Now, +he knows the house, an' he ain't afraid of nothin'—when he's drunk. He +might get that far an' try breakin' in. You lock up—"</p> + +<p>"Lock up? What with?" asked Rawling. "There's not a lock in the place. +Father never had them put in, and I haven't."</p> + +<p>"Well, don't worry none. Ian's got out a dozen men or so with lights an' +guns, an' Bill's got his. You keep Bill an' Ling to sleep down-stairs. +Ian's got the men round the house by this. The hog'll make noise enough +to wake the dead."</p> + +<p>"Nice, isn't it, Uncle Jim, having this whelp out gunning for San! I'll +keep the boys. Good-night," he said hastily as a shadow on the rug +engulfed his feet. The rattles spoke behind him.</p> + +<p>"There's a big trouble sittin' on my soul," said Onnie. "Your Honor +knows there's nothing makes mortal flesh so wild mad as a whipping, an' +this dog does know the way of the house. Do you keep the agent's lads +to-night in this place with guns to hand. The snake's bells keep +ringin'."</p> + +<p>"My God! Onnie, you're making me believe in your rattles! Listen. +Percival's gone out of that den down the road, swearin' he'll kill San. +He's drunk, and Cameron's got men out."</p> + +<p>"That 'u'd be the why of the lanterns I was seein' down by the forge. +But it's black as the bowels of purgatory, your Honor, an' him a strong, +wicked devil, cruel an' angry. God destroy him! If he'd tread on a +poison snake! No night could be so black as his heart."</p> + +<p>"Steady, Onnie!"</p> + +<p>"I'm speakin' soft. Himself's not able to hear," she said, her eyes half +shut. She rocked slowly on the amazing feet. "Give me a pistol, your +Honor. I'll be for sleepin' outside his door this night."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You'll go to bed and keep your door open. If you hear a sound, yell +like perdition. Send Bill in here. Say I want him. That's all. There's +no danger, Onnie; but I'm taking no chances."</p> + +<p>"We'll take no chances, your Honor."</p> + +<p>She turned away quietly, and Rawling shivered at this cool fury. The +rattles made his spine itch, and suddenly his valley seemed like a place +of demons. The lanterns circling on the lawn seemed like frail +glow-worms, incredibly useless, and he leaned on the window-pane +listening with fever to the rain.</p> + +<p>"All right," said Bill when he had heard. "'Phone the sheriff. The man's +dangerous, sir. I doctored a cut he had the other day, and he tells me +he can see at night. That's a lie, of course, but he's light on his +feet, and he's a devil. I've seen some rotten curs in the hospitals, but +he's worse."</p> + +<p>"Really, Billy, you sound as fierce as Onnie. She wanted a gun."</p> + +<p>The handsome young man bit a lip, and his great body shook.</p> + +<p>"This is San," he said, "and the men would kill any one who touched you, +and they'd burn any one who touched San. Sorry if I'm rude."</p> + +<p>"We mustn't lose our heads." Rawling talked against his fear. "The man's +drunk. He'll never get near here, and he's got four miles to come in a +cold rain. But—"</p> + +<p>"May I sleep in San's room?"</p> + +<p>"Then he'll know. I don't want him to, or Ling, either; they're +imaginative kids. This is a vile mess, Billy."</p> + +<p>"Hush! Then I'll sleep outside his door. I <i>will</i>, sir!"</p> + +<p>"All right, old man. Thanks. Ling can sleep in Pete's room. Now I'll +'phone Mackintosh."</p> + +<p>But the sheriff did not answer, and his deputy was ill. Rawling +shrugged, but when Varian telephoned that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> there were thirty men +searching, he felt more comfortable.</p> + +<p>"You're using the wires a lot, Dad," said Sanford, roaming in. "Anything +wrong? Where's Ling to sleep?"</p> + +<p>"In Pete's room. Good-night, Godson. No, nothing wrong."</p> + +<p>But Sanford was back presently, his eyes wide.</p> + +<p>"I say, Onnie's asleep front of my door and I can't get over her. What's +got into the girl?"</p> + +<p>"She's worried. Her snake's bells are going, and she thinks the house'll +burn down. Let her be. Sleep with me, and keep my feet warm, Sonny."</p> + +<p>"Sure," yawned Sanford. "'Night, Billy."</p> + +<p>"Well," said Bill, "that settles that, sir. She'd hear anything, or I +will, and you're a light sleeper. Suppose we lock up as much as we can +and play some checkers?"</p> + +<p>They locked the doors, and toward midnight Cameron rapped at the library +window, his rubber coat glistening.</p> + +<p>"Not a print of the wastrel loon, sir; but the lads will bide out the +night. They've whusky an' biscuits an' keep moving."</p> + +<p>"I'll come out myself," Rawling began, but the smith grunted.</p> + +<p>"Ye're no stirrin' oot yer hoos, Robert Rawling! Ye're daft! Gin you met +this ganglin' assassinator, wha'd be for maister? San's no to lack a +father. Gae to yer bit bed!"</p> + +<p>"Gosh!" said Bill, shutting the window, "<i>he's</i> in earnest. He forgot to +try to talk English even. I feel better. The hog's fallen into a hole +and gone to sleep. Let's go up."</p> + +<p>"I suppose if I tell Onnie San's with me, she'll just change to my +door," Rawling considered; "but I'll try. Poor girl, she's faithful as a +dog!"</p> + +<p>They mounted softly and beheld her, huddled in a blanket, mountainous, +curled outside Sanford's closed door, just opposite the head of the +stairs. Rawling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> stooped over the heap and spoke to the tangle of +blue-shadowed hair.</p> + +<p>"Onnie Killelia, go to bed."</p> + +<p>"Leave me be, your Honor. I'm—"</p> + +<p>Sleep cut the protest. The rattles sounded feebly, and Rawling stood up.</p> + +<p>"Just like a dog," whispered Bill, stealing off to a guest-room. "I'll +leave my door open." He patted the revolver in his jacket and grinned +affectionately. "Good-night, Boss."</p> + +<p>Rawling touched the switch inside his own door, and the big globe set in +the hall ceiling blinked out. They had decided that, supposing the +cockney got so far, a lightless house would perplex his feet, and he +would be the noisier. Rawling could reach this button from his bed, and +silently undressed in the blackness, laying the automatic on the bedside +table, reassured by all these circling folk, Onnie, stalwart Bill, and +the loyal men out in the rain. Here slept Sanford, breathing happily, so +lost that he only sighed when his father crept in beside him, and did +not rouse when Rawling thrust an arm under his warm weight to bring him +closer, safe in the perilous night.</p> + +<p>The guest-room bed creaked beneath Bill's two hundred pounds of muscle, +and Ling snored in Peter's room. Rawling's nerves eased on the mattress, +and hypnotic rain began to deaden him, against his will. He saw Percival +sodden in some ditch, his knife forgotten in brandy's slumbers. No shout +came from the hillside. His mind edged toward vacancy, bore back when +the boy murmured once, then he gained a mid-state where sensation was +not, a mist.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>He sat up, tearing the blankets back, because some one moved in the +house, and the rain could be heard more loudly, as if a new window were +open. He swung his legs free. Some one breathed heavily in the hall.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +Rawling clutched his revolver, and the cold of it stung. This might be +Onnie, any one; but he put his finger on the switch.</p> + +<p>"Straight hover—hover the way it was," said a thick, puzzled voice. +"There, that one! 'Is bloody barth!"</p> + +<p>The rattles whirred as if their first owner lived. Rawling pressed the +switch.</p> + +<p>"Your Honor!" Onnie screamed. "Your Honor! Master San! Be lockin' the +door inside, Master San! Out of this, you! You!"</p> + +<p>Rawling's foot caught in the doorway of the bright hall, and he +stumbled, the light dazzling on the cockney's wet bulk hurling itself +toward the great woman where she stood, her arms flung cruciform, +guarding the empty room. The bodies met with a fearful jar as Rawling +staggered up, and there came a crisp explosion before he could raise his +hand. Bill's naked shoulder cannoned into him, charging, and Bill's +revolver clinked against his own. Rawling reeled to the stair-head, +aiming as Bill caught at the man's shirt; but the cockney fell backward, +crumpling down, his face purple, his teeth displayed.</p> + +<p>"In the head!" said Bill, and bent to look, pushing the plastered curls +from a temple. The beast whimpered and died; the knife rattled on the +planks.</p> + +<p>"Dad," cried Sanford, "what on—"</p> + +<p>"Stay where you are!" Rawling gasped, sick of this ugliness, dizzy with +the stench of powder and brandy. Death had never seemed so vile. He +looked away to the guardian where she knelt at her post, her hands +clasped on the breast of her coarse white robe as if she prayed, the +hair hiding her face.</p> + +<p>"I'll get a blanket," Bill said, rising. "There come the men! That you, +Ian?"</p> + +<p>The smith and a crowd of pale faces crashed up the stairs.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p> + +<p>"God forgie us! We let him by—the garden, sir. Alec thought he—"</p> + +<p>"Gosh, Onnie!" said Bill, "excuse <i>me</i>! I'll get some clothes on. Here, +Ian—"</p> + +<p>"Onnie," said Sanford, in the doorway—"Onnie, what's the matter?"</p> + +<p>As if to show him this, her hands, unclasping, fell from the dead bosom, +and a streak of heart's blood widened from the knife-wound like the +ribbon of some very noble order.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="A_CUP_OF_TEA" id="A_CUP_OF_TEA"></a>A CUP OF TEA<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>Scribner's Magazine</i>.</p> + + +<p>Young Burnaby was late. He was always late. One associated him with +lateness and certain eager, impossible excuses—he was always coming +from somewhere to somewheres, and his "train was delayed," or his huge +space-devouring motor "had broken down." You imagined him, enveloped in +dust and dusk, his face disguised beyond human semblance, tearing up and +down the highways of the world; or else in the corridor of a train, +biting his nails with poorly concealed impatience. As a matter of fact, +when you saw him, he was beyond average correctly attired, and his +manner was suppressed, as if to conceal the keenness that glowed behind +his dark eyes and kept the color mounting and receding in his sunburnt +cheeks. All of which, except the keenness, was a strange thing in a man +who spent half his life shooting big game and exploring. But then, one +imagined that Burnaby on the trail and Burnaby in a town were two +entirely different persons. He liked his life with a thrust to it, and +in a great city there are so many thrusts that, it is to be supposed, +one of Burnaby's temperament hardly has hours enough in a day to +appreciate all of them and at the same time keep appointments.</p> + +<p>On this February night, at all events, he was extremely late, even +beyond his custom, and Mrs. Malcolm, having waited as long as she +possibly could, sighed amusedly and told her man to announce dinner. +There were only three others besides herself in the drawing-room, +Masters—Sir John Masters,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> the English financier—and his wife, and +Mrs. Selden, dark, a little silent, with a flushed, finely cut face and +a slightly sorrow-stricken mouth. And already these people had reached +the point where talk is interesting. People did in Mrs. Malcolm's house. +One went there with anticipation, and came away with the delightful, a +little vague, exhilaration that follows an evening where the perfection +of the material background—lights, food, wine, flowers—has been almost +forgotten in the thrill of contact with real persons, a rare enough +circumstance in a period when the dullest people entertain the most. In +the presence of Mrs. Malcolm even the very great forgot the suspicions +that grow with success and became themselves, and, having come once, +came again vividly, overlooking other people who really had more right +to their attentions than had she.</p> + +<p>This was the case with Sir John Masters. And he was a very great man +indeed, not only as the world goes but in himself: a short, heavy man, +with a long, heavy head crowned with vibrant, still entirely dark hair +and pointed by a black, carefully kept beard, above which arose—"arose" +is the word, for Sir John's face was architectural—a splendid, slightly +curved nose—a buccaneering nose; a nose that, willy-nilly, would have +made its possessor famous. One suspected, far back in the yeoman strain, +a hurried, possibly furtive marriage with gypsy or Jew; a sudden +blossoming into lyricism on the part of a soil-stained Masters. +Certainly from somewhere Sir John had inherited an imagination which was +not insular. Dangerous men, these Sir Johns, with their hooked noses and +their lyric eyes!</p> + +<p>Mrs. Malcolm described him as fascinating. There was about him that +sense of secret power that only politicians, usually meretriciously, and +diplomats, and, above all, great bankers as a rule possess; yet he +seldom talked of his own life, or the mission that had brought him to +New York; instead, in his sonorous, slightly Hebraic voice, he drew +other people on to talk about themselves,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> or else, to artists and +writers and their sort, discovered an amazing, discouraging knowledge of +the trades by which they earned their living. "One feels," said Mrs. +Malcolm, "that one is eyeing a sensitive python. He uncoils +beautifully."</p> + +<p>They were seated at the round, candle-lit table, the rest of the room in +partial shadow, Sir John looking like a lost Rembrandt, and his blonde +wife, with her soft English face, like a rose-and-gray portrait by +Reynolds, when Burnaby strode in upon them ... strode in upon them, and +then, as if remembering the repression he believed in, hesitated, and +finally advanced quietly toward Mrs. Malcolm. One could smell the snowy +February night still about him.</p> + +<p>"I'm so sorry," he said. "I—"</p> + +<p>"You broke down, I suppose," said Mrs. Malcolm, "or the noon train from +Washington was late for the first time in six years. What do you do in +Washington, anyway? Moon about the Smithsonian?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Burnaby, as he sank into a chair and unfolded his napkin. +"Y'see—well, that is—I ran across a fellow—an Englishman—who knew a +chap I met last summer up on the Francis River—I didn't exactly meet +him, that is, I ran into him, and it wasn't the Francis River really, it +was the Upper Liara, a branch that comes in from the northwest. Strange, +wasn't it?—this fellow, this Englishman, got to talking about tea, and +that reminded me of the whole thing." He paused on the last word and, +with a peculiar habit that is much his own, stared across the table at +Lady Masters, but over and through her, as if that pretty pink-and-white +woman had entirely disappeared,—and the warm shadows behind her,—and +in her place were no one could guess what vistas of tumbling rivers and +barren tundras.</p> + +<p>"Tea!" ejaculated Mrs. Malcolm.</p> + +<p>Burnaby came back to the flower-scented circle of light.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said soberly, "tea. Exactly."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Malcolm's delicate eyebrows rose to a point. "What," she asked, in +the tones of delighted motherhood overlaid with a slight exasperation +which she habitually used toward Burnaby, "has tea got to do with a man +you met on the Upper Liara last summer and a man you met this afternoon? +Why tea?"</p> + +<p>"A lot," said Burnaby cryptically, and proceeded to apply himself to his +salad, for he had refused the courses his lateness had made him miss. +"Y'see," he said, after a moment's reflection, "it was this way—and +it's worth telling, for it's queer. I ran into this Terhune this +afternoon at a club—a big, blond Englishman who's been in the army, but +now he's out making money. Owns a tea house in London. Terhune & +Terhune—perhaps you know them?" He turned to Sir John.</p> + +<p>"Yes, very well. I imagine this is Arthur Terhune."</p> + +<p>"That's the man. Well, his being in tea and that sort of thing got me to +telling him about an adventure I had last summer, and, the first crack +out of the box, he said he remembered the other chap perfectly—had +known him fairly well at one time. Odd, wasn't it, when you come to +think of it? A big, blond, freshly bathed Englishman in a club, and that +other man away up there!"</p> + +<p>"And the other man? Is he in the tea business too?" asked Mrs. Selden. +She was interested by now, leaning across the table, her dark eyes +catching light from the candles. It was something—to interest Mrs. +Selden.</p> + +<p>"No," said Burnaby abruptly. "No. He's in no business at all, except +going to perdition. Y'see, he's a squaw-man—a big, black squaw-man, +with a nose like a Norman king's. The sort of person you imagine in +evening clothes in the Carleton lounge. He might have been anything but +what he is."</p> + +<p>"I wonder," said Sir John, "why we do that sort of thing so much more +than other nations? Our very best, too. It's odd."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It was odd enough the way it happened to me, anyhow," said Burnaby. +"I'd been knocking around up there all summer, just an Indian and +myself—around what they call Fort Francis and the Pelly Lakes, and +toward the end of August we came down the Liara in a canoe. We were +headed for Lower Post on the Francis, and it was all very lovely until, +one day, we ran into a rapid, a devil of a thing, and my Indian got +drowned."</p> + +<p>"How dreadful!" murmured Lady Masters.</p> + +<p>"It was," agreed Burnaby; "but it might have been worse—for me, that +is. It couldn't have been much worse for the poor devil of an Indian, +could it? But I had a pretty fair idea of the country, and had only +about fifty miles to walk, and a little waterproof box of grub turned up +out of the wreck, so I wasn't in any danger of starving. It was lonely, +though—it's lonely enough country, anyhow, and of course I couldn't +help thinking about that Indian and the way big rapids roar. I couldn't +sleep when night came—saw black rocks sticking up out of white water +like the fangs of a mad dog. I was pretty near the horrors, I guess. So +you can imagine I wasn't sorry when, about four o'clock of the next +afternoon, I came back to the river again and a teepee standing up all +by itself on a little pine-crowned bluff. In front of the teepee was an +old squaw—she wasn't very old, really, but you know how Indians +get—boiling something over a fire in a big pot. 'How!' I said, and she +grunted. 'If you'll lend me part of your fire, I'll make some tea,' I +continued. 'And if you're good, I'll give you some when it's done.' Tea +was one of the things cached in the little box that had been saved. She +moved the pot to one side, so I judged she understood, and I trotted +down to the river for water and set to work. As you can guess, I was +pretty anxious for any kind of conversation by then, so after a while I +said brightly: 'All alone?' She grunted again and pointed over her +shoulder to the teepee. 'Well, seeing you're so interested,' said I, +'and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> that the tea's done, we'll all go inside and ask your man to a +party—if you'll dig up two tin cups. I've got one of my own.' She +raised the flap of the teepee and I followed her. I could see she wasn't +a person who wasted words. Inside a little fire was smouldering, and +seated with his back to us was a big, broad-shouldered buck, with a dark +blanket wrapped around him. 'Your good wife,' I began cheerily—I was +getting pretty darned sick of silence—'has allowed me to make some tea +over your fire. Have some? I'm shipwrecked from a canoe and on my way to +Lower Post. If you don't understand what I say, it doesn't make the +slightest difference, but for God's sake grunt—just once, to show +you're interested.' He grunted. 'Thanks!' I said, and poured the tea +into the three tin cups. The squaw handed one to her buck. Then I sat +down.</p> + +<p>"There was nothing to be heard but the gurgling of the river outside and +the rather noisy breathing we three made as we drank; and then—very +clearly, just as if we'd been sitting in an English drawing-room—in the +silence a voice said: 'By Jove, that's the first decent cup of tea I've +had in ten years!' Yes, just that! 'By Jove, that's the first decent cup +of tea I've had in ten years!' I looked at the buck, but he hadn't +moved, and then I looked at the squaw, and she was still squatting and +sipping her tea, and then I said, very quietly, for I knew my nerves +were still ragged, 'Did any one speak?' and the buck turned slowly and +looked me up and down, and I saw the nose I was talking about—the nose +like a Norman king's. I was rattled, I admit; I forgot my manners. +'You're English!' I gasped out; and the buck said very sweetly: 'That's +none of your damned business.'"</p> + +<p>Burnaby paused and looked about the circle of attentive faces. "That's +all. But it's enough, isn't it? To come out of nothing, going nowheres, +and run into a dirty Indian who says: 'By Jove, that's the first decent +cup of tea I've had in ten years!' And then along<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> comes this Terhune +and says that he knows the man."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Malcolm raised her chin from the hand that had been supporting it. +"I don't blame you," she said, "for being late."</p> + +<p>"And this man," interrupted Sir John's sonorous voice, "this squaw-man, +did he tell you anything about himself?"</p> + +<p>Burnaby shook his head. "Not likely," he answered. "I tried to draw him +out, but he wasn't drawable. Finally he said: 'If you'll shut your +damned mouth I'll give you two dirty blankets to sleep on. If you won't, +I'll kick you out of here.' The next morning I pulled out, leaving him +crouched over the little teepee fire nursing his knees. But I hadn't +gone twenty yards when he came to the flap and called out after me: 'I +say!' I turned about sullenly. His dirty face had a queer, cracked smile +on it. 'Look here! Do you—where did you get that tea from, anyway? +I—there's a lot of skins I've got; I don't suppose you'd care to trade, +would you?' I took the tea out of the air-tight box and put it on the +ground. Then I set off down river. Henderson, the factor at Lower Post, +told me a little about him: his name—it wasn't assumed, it seems; and +that he'd been in the country about fifteen years, going from bad to +worse. He was certainly at 'worse' when I saw him." Burnaby paused and +stared across the table again with his curious, far-away look. "Beastly, +isn't it?" he said, as if to himself. "Cold up there now, too! The snow +must be deep." He came back to the present. "And I suppose, you know," +he said, smiling deprecatingly at Mrs. Selden, "he's just as fond of +flowers and lights and things as we are."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Selden shivered.</p> + +<p>"Fonder!" said Sir John. "Probably fonder. That sort is. It's the poets +of the world who can't write poetry who go to smash that way. They ought +to take a term at business, and"—he reflected—"the business men, of +course, at poetry." He regarded Burnaby with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> his inscrutable eyes, in +the depths of which danced little flecks of light.</p> + +<p>"What did you say this man's name was?" asked Lady Masters, in her soft +voice. She had an extraordinary way of advancing, with a timid rush, as +it were, into the foreground, and then receding again, melting back into +the shadows. She rarely ever spoke without a sensation of astonishment +making itself felt. "She is like a mist," thought Mrs. Malcolm.</p> + +<p>"Bewsher," said Burnaby—"Geoffrey Boisselier Bewsher. Quite a name, +isn't it? He was in the cavalry. His family are rather swells in an +old-fashioned way. He is the fifth son—or seventh, or whatever it +is—of a baronet and, Terhune says, was very much in evidence about +London twenty-odd years ago. Terhune used to see him in clubs, and every +now and then dining out. Although he himself, of course, was a much +younger man. Very handsome he was, too, Terhune said, and a favorite. +And then one day he just disappeared—got out—no one knows exactly why. +Terhune doesn't. Lost his money, or a woman, or something like that. The +usual thing, I suppose. I—You didn't hurt yourself, did you?"...</p> + +<p>He had paused abruptly and was looking across the table; for there had +been a little tinkle and a crash of breaking glass, and now a pool of +champagne was forming beside Lady Masters's plate, and finding its way +in a thin thread of gold along the cloth. There was a moment's silence, +and then she advanced again out of the shadows with her curious soft +rush. "How clumsy I am!" she murmured. "My arm—My bracelet! I—I'm so +sorry!" She looked swiftly about her, and then at Burnaby. "Oh, no! I'm +not cut, thanks!" Her eyes held a pained embarrassment. He caught the +look, and her eyelids flickered and fell before his gaze, and then, as +the footman repaired the damage, she sank back once more into the +half-light beyond the radiance of the candles. "How shy she is!" thought +Burnaby. "So<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> many of these English women are. She's an important woman +in her own right, too." He studied her furtively.</p> + +<p>Into the soft silence came Sir John's carefully modulated voice. +"Barbara and I," he explained, "will feel this very much. We both knew +Bewsher." His eyes became somber. "This is very distressing," he said +abruptly.</p> + +<p>"By Jove!" ejaculated Burnaby, and raised his head like an alert hound.</p> + +<p>"How odd it all is!" said Mrs. Malcolm. But she was wondering why men +are so queer with their wives—resent so much the slightest social +clumsiness on their part, while in other women—provided the offense is +not too great—it merely amuses them. Even the guarded manners of Sir +John had been disturbed. For a moment he had been very angry with the +shadow that bore his name; one could tell by the swift glance he had +cast in her direction. After all, upsetting a glass of champagne was a +very natural sequel to a story such as Burnaby had told, a story about a +former acquaintance—perhaps friend.</p> + +<p>Sir John thoughtfully helped himself to a spoonful of his dessert before +he looked up; when he did so he laid down his spoon and sat back in his +chair with the manner of a man who has made a sudden decision. "No," he +said, and an unexpected little smile hovered about his lips, "it isn't +so odd. Bewsher was rather a figure of a man twenty years ago. Shall I +tell you his history?"</p> + +<p>To Mrs. Malcolm, watching with alert, humorous eyes, there came a +curious impression, faint but distinct, like wind touching her hair; as +if, that is, a door into the room had opened and shut. She leaned +forward, supporting her chin in her hand.</p> + +<p>"Of course," she said.</p> + +<p>Sir John twisted between his fingers the stem of his champagne-glass and +studied thoughtfully the motes of at the heart of the amber wine. "You +see," he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> began thoughtfully, "it's such a difficult story to +tell—difficult because it took twenty-five—and, now that Mr. Burnaby +has furnished the sequel, forty-five years—to live; and difficult +because it is largely a matter of psychology. I can only give you the +high lights, as it were. You must fill in the rest for yourselves. You +must imagine, that is, Bewsher and this other fellow—this Morton. I +can't give you his real name—it is too important; you would know it. +No, it isn't obviously dramatic. And yet—" his voice suddenly became +vibrant—"such things compose, as a matter of fact, the real drama of +the world. It—" he looked about the table swiftly and leaned forward, +and then, as if interrupting himself, "but what <i>was</i> obviously +dramatic," he said—and the little dancing sparks in the depths of his +eyes were peculiarly noticeable—"was the way I, of all people, heard +it. Yes. You see, I heard it at a dinner party like this, in London; and +Morton—the man himself—told the story." He paused, and with +half-closed eyes studied the effect of his announcement.</p> + +<p>"You mean—?" asked Burnaby.</p> + +<p>"Exactly." Sir John spoke with a certain cool eagerness. "He sat up +before all those people and told the inner secrets of his life; and of +them all I was the only one who suspected the truth. Of course, he was +comparatively safe, none of them knew him well except myself, but think +of it! The bravado—the audacity! Rather magnificent, wasn't it?" He +sank back once more in his chair.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Malcolm agreed. "Yes," she said. "Magnificent and insulting."</p> + +<p>Sir John smiled. "My dear lady," he asked, "doesn't life consist largely +of insults from the strong to the weak?"</p> + +<p>"And were all these people so weak, then?"</p> + +<p>"No, in their own way they were fairly important, I suppose, but +compared to Morton they were weak—very weak—Ah, yes! I like this +custom of smoking at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> table. Thanks!" He selected a cigarette +deliberately, and stooped toward the proffered match. The flame +illumined the swarthy curve of his beard and the heavy lines of his dark +face. "You see," he began, straightening up in his chair, "the whole +thing—that part of it, and the part I'm to tell—is really, if you +choose, an allegory of strength, of strength and weakness. On the one +side Morton—there's strength, sheer, undiluted power, the thing that +runs the world; and on the other Bewsher, the ordinary man, with all his +mixed-up ideas of right and wrong and the impossible, confused thing he +calls a 'code'—Bewsher, and later on the girl. She too is part of the +allegory. She represents—what shall I say? A composite portrait of the +ordinary young woman? Religion, I suppose. Worldly religion. The +religion of most of my good friends in England. A vague but none the +less passionate belief in a heaven populated by ladies and gentlemen who +dine out with a God who resembles royalty. And coupled with this +religion the girl had, of course, as have most of her class, a very +distinct sense of her own importance in the world; not that +exactly—personally she was over-modest; a sense rather of her +importance as a unit of an important family, and a deep-rooted +conviction of the fundamental necessity of unimportant things: parties, +and class-worship, and the whole jumbled-up order as it is. The usual +young woman, that is, if you lay aside her unusual beauty. And, you see, +people like Bewsher and the girl haven't much chance against a man like +Morton, have they? Do you remember the girl, my dear?" he asked, turning +to his wife.</p> + +<p>"Yes," murmured Lady Masters.</p> + +<p>"Well, then," continued Sir John, "you must imagine this Morton, an ugly +little boy of twelve, going up on a scholarship to a great public +school—a rather bitter little boy, without any particular prospects +ahead of him except those his scholarship held out; and back of him a +poor, stunted life, with a mother in it—a sad<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> dehumanized creature, I +gathered, who subsisted on the bounty of a niggardly brother. And this, +you can understand, was the first thing that made Morton hate virtue +devoid of strength. His mother, he told me, was the best woman he had +ever known. The world had beaten her unmercifully. His earliest +recollection was hearing her cry at night.... And there, at the school, +he had his first glimpse of the great world that up to then he had only +dimly suspected. Dramatic enough in itself, isn't it?—if you can +visualize the little dark chap. A common enough drama, too, the Lord +knows. We people on top are bequeathing misery to our posterity when we +let the Mortons of the world hate the rich. And head and shoulders above +the other boys of his age at the school was Bewsher; not that +materially, of course, there weren't others more important; Bewsher's +family was old and rich as such families go, but he was very much a +younger son, and his people lived mostly in the country; yet even then +there was something about him—a manner, an adeptness in sports, an +unsought popularity, that picked him out; the beginnings of that Norman +nose that Mr. Burnaby has mentioned. And here"—Sir John paused and +puffed thoughtfully at his cigarette—"is the first high light.</p> + +<p>"To begin with, of course, Morton hated Bewsher and all he represented, +hated him in a way that only a boy of his nature can; and then, one +day—I don't know exactly when it could have been, probably a year or +two after he had gone up to school—he began to see quite clearly what +this hate meant; began to see that for such as he to hate the Bewshers +of the world was the sheerest folly—a luxury far beyond his means. +Quaint, wasn't it? In a boy of his age! You can imagine him working it +out at night, in his narrow dormitory bed, when the other boys were +asleep. You see, he realized, dimly at first, clearly at last, that +through Bewsher and his kind lay the hope of Morton and his kind. Nice +little boys think the same thing, only they are trained not to admit<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> +it. That was the first big moment of Morton's life, and with the +determination characteristic of him he set out to accomplish what he had +decided. In England we make our future through our friends, in this +country you make it through your enemies. But it wasn't easy for Morton; +such tasks never are. He had a good many insults to swallow. In the end, +however, from being tolerated he came to be indispensable, and from +being indispensable eventually to be liked. He had planned his campaign +with care. Carefulness, recklessly carried out, has been, I think, the +guiding rule of his life. He had modelled himself on Bewsher; he walked +like Bewsher; tried to think like Bewsher—that is, in the less +important things of life—and, with the divination that marks his type +of man, the little money he had, the little money that as a schoolboy he +could borrow, he had spent with precision on clothes and other things +that brought him personal distinction; in what people call necessities +he starved himself. By the time he was ready to leave school you could +hardly have told him from the man he had set out to follow: he was +equally well-mannered; equally at his ease; if anything, more conscious +of prerogative than Bewsher. He had come to spend most of his holidays +at Bewsher's great old house in Gloucestershire. That, too, was an +illumination. It showed him what money was made for—the sunny quiet of +the place, the wheels of a spacious living that ran so smoothly, the +long gardens, the inevitableness of it all. Some day, he told himself, +he would have just such a house. He has. It is his mistress. The world +has not allowed him much of the poetry that, as you must already see, +the man has in him; he takes it out on his place.</p> + +<p>"It was in Morton's last year at Oxford, just before his graduation, +that the second great moment of his life occurred. He had done well at +his college, not a poor college either; and all the while, you must +remember, he was borrowing money and running up bills. But this didn't +bother him. He was perfectly assured in his own<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> mind concerning his +future. He had counted costs. In that May, Bewsher, who from school had +gone to Sandhurst, came up on a visit with two or three other fledgling +officers, and they had a dinner in Morton's rooms. It turned into rather +a 'rag,' as those things do, and it was there, across a flower-strewn, +wine-stained table, that Morton had his second revelation. He wasn't +drunk—he never got drunk; the others were. The thing came in upon him +slowly, warmingly, like the breeze that stirred the curtains. He felt +himself, as never before, a man. You can see him sitting back in his +chair, in the smoke and the noise and the foolish singing, cool, his +eyes a little closed. He knew now that he had passed the level of these +men; yes, even the shining mark Bewsher had set. He had gone on, while +they had stood still. To him, he suddenly realized, and to such as he, +belonged the heritage of the years, not to these men who thought they +held it. These old gray buildings stretching away into the May dusk, the +history of a thousand years, were his. These sprawled young aristocrats +before him—they, whether they eventually came to know it or not, they, +and Bewsher with them—would one day do his bidding: come when he +beckoned, go when he sent. It was a big thought, wasn't it, for a man of +twenty-two?" Sir John paused and puffed at his cigarette.</p> + +<p>"That was the second high light," he continued, "and the third did not +come until fifteen years later. Bewsher went into the Indian army—his +family had ideas of service—and Morton into a banking-house in London. +And there, as deliberately as he had taken them up, he laid aside for +the time being all the social perquisites which he had with so much +pains acquired. Do you know—he told me that for fifteen years not once +had he dined out, except when he thought his ambitions would be +furthered by so doing, and then, as one turns on a tap, he turned on the +charm he now knew himself to possess. It is not astonishing, is it, when +you come to think of it, that eventually he became rich and famous?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +Most people are unwilling to sacrifice their youth to their future. He +wasn't. But it wasn't a happy time. He hated it. He paid off his debts, +however, and at the end of the fifteen years found himself a big man in +a small way, with every prospect of becoming a big man in a big way. +Then, of course—such men do—he began to look about him. He wanted +wider horizons, he wanted luxury, he wanted a wife; and he wanted them +as a starved man wants food. He experienced comparatively little +difficulty in getting started. Some of his school and university friends +remembered him, and there was a whisper about that he was a man that +bore watching. But afterward he stuck. The inner citadel of London is by +no means as assailable as the outer fortifications lead one to suppose.</p> + +<p>"They say a man never has a desire but there's an angel or a devil to +write it down. Morton had hardly made his discovery when Bewsher turned +up from India, transferred to a crack cavalry regiment; a sunburnt, +cordial Bewsher, devilishly determined to enjoy the fulness of his +prime. On his skirts, as he had done once before, Morton penetrated +farther and farther into the esoteric heart of society. I'm not sure +just how Bewsher felt toward Morton at the time; he liked him, I think; +at all events, he had the habit of him. As for Morton, he liked Bewsher +as much as he dared; he never permitted himself to like any one too +much.</p> + +<p>"I don't know how it is with you, but I have noticed again and again +that intimate friends are prone to fall in love with the same woman: +perhaps it is because they have so many tastes in common; perhaps it is +jealousy—I don't know. Anyhow, that is what happened to these two, +Morton first, then Bewsher; and it is characteristic that the former +mentioned it to no one, while the latter was confidential and expansive. +Such men do not deserve women, and yet they are often the very men women +fall most in love with. At first the girl had been attracted to Morton, +it seems; he intrigued her—no doubt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> the sense of power about him; but +the handsomer man, when he entered the running, speedily drew ahead. You +can imagine the effect of this upon her earlier suitor. It was the first +rebuff that for a long time had occurred to him in his ordered plan of +life. He resented it and turned it over in his mind, and eventually, as +it always does to men of his kind, his opportunity came. You see, unlike +Bewsher and his class, all his days had been an exercise in the +recognition and appreciation of chances. He isolated the inevitable fly +in the ointment, and in this particular ointment the fly happened to be +Bewsher's lack of money and the education the girl had received. She was +poor in the way that only the daughter of a great house can be. To +Morton, once he was aware of the fly, and once he had combined the +knowledge of it with what these two people most lacked, it was a simple +thing. They lacked, as you have already guessed, courage and directness. +On Morton's side was all the dunder-headism of an aristocracy, all its +romanticism, all its gross materialism, all its confusion of ideals. But +you mustn't think that he, Morton, was cold or objective in all this: +far from it; he was desperately in love with the girl himself, and he +was playing his game like a man in a corner—all his wits about him, but +fever in his heart.</p> + +<p>"There was the situation, an old one—a girl who dare not marry a poor +man, and a poor man cracking his brains to know where to get money from. +I dare say Bewsher never questioned the rightness of it all—he was too +much in love with the girl, his own training had been too similar. And +Morton, hovering on the outskirts, talked—to weak people the most fatal +doctrine in the world—the doctrine of power, the doctrine that each man +and woman can have just what they want if they will only get out and +seek it. That's true for the big people; for the small it usually spells +death. They falter on methods. They are too afraid of unimportant +details. His insistence had its results even more speedily than he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> had +hoped. Before long the girl, too, was urging Bewsher on to effort. It +isn't the first time goodness has sent weakness to the devil. Meanwhile +the instigator dropped from his one-time position of tentative lover to +that of adviser in particular. It was just the position that at the time +he most desired.</p> + +<p>"Things came to a head on a warm night in April. Bewsher dropped in upon +Morton in his chambers. Very handsome he looked, too, I dare say, in his +evening clothes, with an opera-coat thrown back from his shoulders. I +remember well myself his grand air, with a touch of cavalry swagger +about it. I've no doubt he leaned against the chimney-piece and tapped +his leg with his stick. And the upshot of it was that he wanted money.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no! not a loan. It wasn't as bad as that. He had enough to screw +along with himself; although he was frightfully in debt. He wanted a big +sum. An income. To make money, that was. He didn't want to go into +business if he could help it; hadn't any ability that way; hated it. But +perhaps Morton could put him in the way of something? He didn't mind +chances."</p> + +<p>"Do you see?" Sir John leaned forward. "And he never realized the +vulgarity of it—that product of five centuries, that English gentleman. +Never realized the vulgarity of demanding of life something for nothing; +of asking from a man as a free gift what that man had sweated for and +starved for all his life; yes, literally, all his life. It was an +illumination, as Morton said, upon that pitiful thing we call 'class.' +He demanded all this as his right, too; demanded power, the one precious +possession. Well, the other man had his code as well, and the first +paragraph in it was that a man shall get only what he works for. Can you +imagine him, the little ugly man, sitting at his table and thinking all +this? And suddenly he got to his feet. 'Yes,' he said, 'I'll make you a +rich man.' But he didn't say he would keep him one. That was the third +high light—the little man standing where all through the ages had stood +men like him, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> secret movers of the world, while before them, +supplicating, had passed the beauty and the pride of their times. In the +end they all beg at the feet of power—the kings and the fighting men. +And yet, although this was the great, hidden triumph of his life, and, +moreover, beyond his hopes a realization of the game he had been +playing—for it put Bewsher, you see, utterly in his power—Morton said +at the moment it made him a little sick. It was too crude; Bewsher's +request too unashamed; it made suddenly too cheap, since men could ask +for it so lightly, all the stakes for which he, Morton, had sacrificed +the slow minutes and hours of his life. And then, of course, there was +this as well: Bewsher had been to Morton an ideal, and ideals can't die, +even the memory of them, without some pain."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Malcolm, watching with lips a little parted, said to herself: "He +has uncoiled too much."</p> + +<p>"Yes"—Sir John reached out his hand and, picking up a long-stemmed rose +from the table, began idly to twist it in his fingers. "And that was the +end. From then on the matter was simple. It was like a duel between a +trained swordsman and a novice; only it wasn't really a duel at all, for +one of the antagonists was unaware that he was fighting. I suppose that +most people would call it unfair. I have wondered. And yet Bewsher, in a +polo game, or in the game of social life, would not have hesitated to +use all the skill and craft he knew. But, you say, he would not have +played against beginners. Well, he had asked himself into this game; he +had not been invited. And so, all through that spring and into the +summer and autumn the three-cornered contest went on, and into the +winter and on to the spring beyond. Unwittingly, the girl was playing +more surely than ever into Morton's hand. The increasing number of +Bewsher's platitudes about wealth, about keeping up tradition, about +religion, showed that. He even talked vaguely about giving up the army +and going into business. 'It must have its fascinations, you know,' he +remarked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> lightly. In the eyes of both of them Morton had become sort of +fairy godfather—a mysterious, wonderful gnome at whose beck gold leaped +from the mountainside. It was just the illusion he wished to create. In +the final analysis the figure of the gnome is the most beloved figure in +the rotten class to which we belong.</p> + +<p>"And then, just as spontaneously as it had come, Bewsher's money began +to melt away—slowly at first; faster afterward until, finally, he was +back again to his original income. This was a time of stress, of hurried +consultations, of sympathy on the part of Morton, of some rather ugly +funk on the part of Bewsher; and Morton realized that in the eyes of the +girl he was rapidly becoming once more the dominant figure. It didn't do +him much good"—Sir John broke the stem of the rose between his fingers.</p> + +<p>"Soon there was an end to it all. There came, finally, a very unpleasant +evening. This too was in April; April a year after Bewsher's visit to +Morton's chambers, only this time the scene was laid in an office. +Bewsher had put a check on the desk. 'Here,' he said, 'that will tide me +over until I can get on my feet,' and his voice was curiously thick; and +Morton, looking down, had seen that the signature wasn't genuine—a +clumsy business done by a clumsy man—and, despite all his training, +from what he said, a little cold shiver had run up and down his back. +This had gone farther than he had planned. But he made no remark, simply +pocketed the check, and the next day settled out of his own pockets +Bewsher's sorry affairs; put him back, that is, where he had started, +with a small income mortgaged beyond hope. Then he sent a note to the +girl requesting an interview on urgent business. She saw him that night +in her drawing-room. She was very lovely. Morton was all friendly +sympathy. It wasn't altogether unreal, either. I think, from what he +told me, he was genuinely touched. But he felt, you know—the urge, the +goad, of his own career. His kind do. Ultimately they are not their own +masters. He showed the girl the check—not at first, you understand,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> +but delicately, after preliminary discussion; reluctantly upon repeated +urging. 'What was he to do? What would she advise? Bewsher was safe, of +course; he had seen to that; but the whole unintelligible, shocking +aspect of the thing!' He tore the check up and threw it in the fire. He +was not unaware that the girl's eyes admired him. It was a warm night. +He said good-by and walked home along the deserted street. He +remembered, he told me, how sweet the trees smelled. He was not happy. +You see, Bewsher had been the nearest approach to a friend he had ever +had.</p> + +<p>"That practically finished the sordid business. What the girl said to +Bewsher Morton never knew; he trusted to her conventionalized religion +and her family pride to break Bewsher's heart, and to Bewsher's +sentimentality to eliminate him forever from the scene. In both surmises +he was correct; he was only not aware that at the same time the girl had +broken her own heart. He found that out afterward. And Bewsher +eliminated himself more thoroughly than necessary. I suppose the shame +of the thing was to him like a blow to a thoroughbred, instead of an +incentive, as it would have been to a man of coarser fibre. He went from +bad to worse, resigned from his regiment, finally disappeared. +Personally, I had hoped that he had begun again somewhere on the +outskirts of the world. But he isn't that sort. There's not much of the +Norman king to him except his nose. The girl married Morton. He gave her +no time to recover from her gratitude. He felt very happy, he told me, +the day of his wedding, very elated. It was one of those rare occasions +when he felt that the world was a good place. Another high light, you +see. And it was no mean thing, if you consider it, for a man such as he +to marry the daughter of a peer, and at the same time to love her. He +was not a gentleman, you understand, he could never be that—it was the +one secret thing that always hurt him—no amount of brains, no amount of +courage could<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> make him what he wasn't; he never lied to himself as most +men do; so he had acquired a habit of secretly triumphing over those who +possessed the gift. The other thing that hurt him was when, a few months +later, he discovered that his wife still loved Bewsher and always would. +And that"—Sir John picked up the broken rose again—"is, I suppose, the +end of the story."</p> + +<p>There was a moment's silence and then Burnaby lifted his pointed chin. +"By George!" he said, "it <i>is</i> interesting to know how things really +happen, isn't it? But I think—you have, haven't you, left out the real +point. Do you—would you mind telling just why you imagine Morton did +this thing? Told his secret before all those people? It wasn't like him, +was it?"</p> + +<p>Sir John slowly lighted another cigarette, and then he turned to Burnaby +and smiled. "Yes," he said, "it was extremely like him. Still, it's very +clever of you, very clever. Can't you guess? It isn't so very +difficult."</p> + +<p>"No," said Burnaby, "I can't guess at all."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, listen." And to Mrs. Malcolm it seemed as if Sir John had +grown larger, had merged in the shadows about him; at least he gave that +impression, for he sat up very straight and threw back his shoulders. +For a moment he hesitated, then he began, "You must go back to the +dinner I was describing," he said—"the dinner in London. I too was +intrigued as you are, and when it was over I followed Morton out and +walked with him toward his club. And, like you, I asked the question. I +think that he had known all along that I suspected; at all events, it is +characteristic of the man that he did not try to bluff me. He walked on +for a little while in silence, and then he laughed abruptly. 'Yes,' he +said, 'I'll tell you. Yes. Just this. What there is to be got, I've got; +what work can win I've won; but back of it all there's something else, +and back even of that there's a careless god who gives his gifts where +they are least deserved. That's one reason why I talked as I did<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> +to-night. To all of us—the men like me—there comes in the end a time +when we realize that what a man can do we can do, but that love, the +touch of other people's minds, these two things are the gifts of the +careless god. And it irritates us, I suppose, irritates us! We want them +in a way that the ordinary man who has them cannot understand. We want +them as damned souls in hell want water. And sometimes the strain's too +much. It was to-night. To touch other minds, even for a moment, even if +they hate you while you are doing it, that's the thing! To lay yourself, +just once, bare to the gaze of ordinary people! With the hope, perhaps, +that even then they may still find in you something to admire or love. +Self-revelation! Every man confesses sometime. It happened that I chose +a dinner party. Do you understand?'" It was almost as if Sir John +himself had asked the question.</p> + +<p>"And then"—he was speaking in his usual calm tones again—"there +happened a curious thing, a very curious thing, for Morton stopped and +turned toward me and began to laugh. I thought he would never stop. It +was rather uncanny, under the street lamp there, this usually rather +quiet man. 'And that,' he said at length, 'that's only half the story. +The cream of it is this: the way I myself felt, sitting there among all +those soft, easily lived people. That's the cream of it. To flout them, +to sting them, to laugh at them, to know you had more courage than all +of them put together, you who were once so afraid of them! To feel +that—even if they knew it was about yourself you were talking—that +even then they were afraid of you, and would to-morrow ask you back +again to their houses. That's power! That's worth doing! After all, you +can keep your love and your sympathy and your gentlemen; it's only to +men like me, men who've sweated and come up, that moments arise such as +I've had to-night.' And then, 'It's rather a pity,' he said, after a +pause, 'that of them all you alone knew of whom I was talking. Rather a +pity, isn't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> it?'" Sir John hesitated and looked about the table. "It +was unusual, wasn't it?" he said at length gently. "Have I been too +dramatic?"</p> + +<p>In the little silence that followed, Mrs. Malcolm leaned forward, her +eyes starry. "I would rather," she said, "talk to Bewsher in his teepee +than talk to Morton with all his money."</p> + +<p>Sir John looked at her and smiled—his charming smile. "Oh, no, you +wouldn't," he said. "Oh, no! We say those things, but we don't mean +them. If you sat next to Morton at dinner you'd like him; but as for +Bewsher you'd despise him, as all right-minded women despise a failure. +Oh, no; you'd prefer Morton."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you're right," sighed Mrs. Malcolm; "pirates are fascinating, I +suppose." She arose to her feet. Out of the shadows Lady Masters +advanced to meet her. "She <i>is</i> like a mist," thought Mrs. Malcolm. +"Exactly like a rather faint mist."</p> + +<p>Burnaby leaned over and lit a cigarette at one of the candles. "And, of +course," he said quietly, without raising his head, "the curious thing +is that this fellow Morton, despite all his talk of power, in the end is +merely a ghost of Bewsher, after all, isn't he?"</p> + +<p>Sir John turned and looked at the bowed sleek head with a puzzled +expression. "A ghost!" he murmured. "I don't think I quite understand."</p> + +<p>"It's very simple," said Burnaby, and raised his head. "Despite all +Morton has done, in the things worth while, in the things he wants the +most, he can at best be only a shadow of the shadow Bewsher has left—a +shadow of a man to the woman who loves Bewsher, a shadow of a friend to +the men who liked Bewsher, a shadow of a gentleman to the gentlemen +about him. A ghost, in other words. It's the inevitable end of all +selfishness. I think Bewsher has rather the best of it, don't you?"</p> + +<p>"I—I had never thought of it in quite that light," said Sir John, and +followed Mrs. Malcolm.</p> + +<p>They went into the drawing-room beyond—across a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> hallway, and up a +half-flight of stairs, and through glass doors. "Play for us!" said Mrs. +Malcolm, and Burnaby, that remarkable young man, sat down to the piano +and for perhaps an hour made the chords sob to a strange music, mostly +his own.</p> + +<p>"That's Bewsher!" he said when he was through, and had sat back on his +stool, and was sipping a long-neglected cordial.</p> + +<p>"Br-r-r-!" shivered Mrs. Selden from her place by the fire. "How +unpleasant you are!"</p> + +<p>Sir John looked troubled. "I hope," he said, "my story hasn't depressed +you too much. Burnaby's was really worse, you know. Well, I must be +going." He turned to Mrs. Malcolm. "You are one of the few women who can +make me sit up late."</p> + +<p>He bade each in turn good-night in his suave, charming, slightly Hebraic +manner. To Burnaby he said: "Thank you for the music. Improvisation is +perhaps the happiest of gifts."</p> + +<p>But Burnaby for once was awkward. He was watching Sir John's face with +the curious, intent look of a forest animal that so often possessed his +long, dark eyes. Suddenly he remembered himself. "Oh, yes," he said +hastily, "I beg your pardon. Thanks, very much."</p> + +<p>"Good-night!" Sir John and Lady Masters passed through the glass doors.</p> + +<p>Burnaby paused a moment where he had shaken hands, and then, with the +long stride characteristic of him, went to the window and, drawing aside +the curtain, peered into the darkness beyond. He stood listening until +the purr of a great motor rose and died on the snow-muffled air. "He's +gone!" he said, and turned back into the room. He spread his arms out +and dropped them to his sides. "Swastika!" he said. "And God keep us +from the evil eye!"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Malcolm.</p> + +<p>"Sir John," said Burnaby. "He has 'a bad heart.'"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Stop talking your Indian talk and tell us what you mean."</p> + +<p>Burnaby balanced himself on the hearth. "Am I to understand you don't +know?" he asked. "Well, Morton's Masters, and 'the girl's' Lady Masters, +and Bewsher—well, he's just a squaw-man."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it!" said Mrs. Malcolm. "He wouldn't dare."</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't dare?" Burnaby laughed shortly. "My dear Minna, he'd dare +anything if it gave him a sense of power."</p> + +<p>"But why—why did he choose us? We're not so important as all that?"</p> + +<p>"Because—well, Bewsher's name came up. Because, well, you heard what he +said—self-revelation—men who had sweated. Because—" suddenly Burnaby +took a step forward and his jaw shot out—"because that shadow of his, +that wife of his, broke a champagne-glass when I said Geoffrey +Boisselier Bewsher; broke her champagne-glass and, I've no doubt, cried +out loud in her heart. Power can't buy love—no; but power can stamp to +death anything that won't love it. That's Masters. I can tell a +timber-wolf far off. Can you see him now in his motor? He'll have turned +the lights out, and she—his wife—will be looking out of the window at +the snow. All you can see of him would be his nose and his beard and the +glow of his cigar—except his smile. You could see that when the car +passed a corner lamp, couldn't you?"</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it yet," said Mrs. Malcolm. "It's too preposterous."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LONELY_PLACES5" id="LONELY_PLACES5"></a>LONELY PLACES<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> FRANCIS BUZZELL</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Pictorial Review</i></p> + + +<p>She was not quite forty years old, but so aged was she in appearance +that another twenty-five years would not find her perceptibly older. And +to the people of Almont she was still Abbie Snover, or "that Snover +girl." Age in Almont is not reckoned in years, but by marriage, and by +children, and grandchildren.</p> + +<p>Nearly all the young men of Abbie's generation had gone to the City, +returning only in after years, with the intention of staying a week or +two weeks, and leaving at the end of a day, or two days. So Abbie never +married.</p> + +<p>It had never occurred to Abbie to leave Almont because all the young men +had gone away. She had been born in the big house at the foot of Tillson +Street; she had never lived anywhere else; she had never slept anywhere +but in the black walnut bed in the South bedroom.</p> + +<p>At the age of twenty-five, Abbie inherited the big house, and with it +hired-man Chris. He was part of her inheritance. Her memory of him, like +her memory of the big house, went back as far as her memory of herself.</p> + +<p>Every Winter evening, between seven and eight o'clock, Abbie lighted the +glass-handled lamp, placed it on the marble-topped table in the parlor +window, and sat down beside it. The faint light of this lamp, gleaming +through the snow-hung, shelving evergreens, was the only sign that the +big house was there, and occupied. When the wind blew from the West she +could<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> occasionally hear a burst of laughter from the boys and girls +sliding down Giddings's Hill; the song of some young farmer driving +home. She thought of the Spring, when the snow would disappear, and the +honeysuckle would flower, and the wrens would again occupy the old +teapots hung in the vines of the dining-room porch.</p> + +<p>The things that made the people of Almont interesting to each other and +drew them together meant nothing to Abbie Snover. When she had become +too old to be asked in marriage by any one, she had stopped going to +dances and to sleigh-rides, and no one had asked her why. Then she had +left the choir.</p> + +<p>Except when she went to do her marketing, Abbie was never seen on the +streets.</p> + +<p>For fifteen years after Amos Snover died, Abbie and Old Chris lived +alone in the big house. Every Saturday morning, as her mother had done +before her, Abbie went to the grocery store, to the butcher shop, and to +"Newberry's." She always walked along the East side of Main Street, Old +Chris, with the market-basket, following about three feet behind her. +And every Saturday night Old Chris went down-town to sit in the back of +Pot Lippincott's store and visit with Owen Frazer, who drove in from the +sixty acres he farmed as a "renter" at Mile Corners. Once every week +Abbie made a batch of cookies, cutting the thin-rolled dough into the +shape of leaves with an old tin cutter that had been her mother's. She +stored the cookies in the shiny tin pail that stood on the shelf in the +clothes-press of the downstairs bedroom, because that was where her +mother had always kept them, to be handy and yet out of reach of the +hired help. And when Jennie Sanders's children came to her door on their +way home from school she gave them two cookies each, because her mother +had always given her two.</p> + +<p>Once every three months "the Jersey girls," dressed in black broadcloth, +with black, fluted ruffles around their necks, and black-flowered +bonnets covering their scanty<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> hair, turned the corner at Chase's Lane, +walked three blocks to the foot of Tilson Street, and rang Abbie +Snover's door-bell.</p> + +<p>As Old Chris grew older and less able, Abbie was compelled to close off +first one room and then another; but Old Chris still occupied the back +chamber near the upstairs woodroom, and Abbie still slept in the South +bedroom.</p> + +<p>Early one October afternoon, Jim East, Almont's express agent and keeper +of the general store, drove his hooded delivery cart up to the front +steps of the big house. He trembled with excitement as he climbed down +from the seat.</p> + +<p>"Abbie Snover! Ab—bie!" he called. "I got somethin' for you! A package +all the way from China! Just you come an' look!"</p> + +<p>Jim East lifted the package out of the delivery cart, carried it up the +steps, and set it down at Abbie's feet.</p> + +<p>"Just you look, Abbie! That there crate's made of little fishin' poles, +an' what's inside's all wrapped up in Chinee mats!"</p> + +<p>Old Chris came around from the back of the house. Jim East grabbed his +arm and pointed at the bamboo crate:</p> + +<p>"Just you put your nose down, Chris, an' smell. Ain't that foreign?"</p> + +<p>Abbie brought her scissors. Carefully she removed the red and yellow +labels.</p> + +<p>"There's American writin' on 'em, too," Jim East hastened to explain, +"'cause otherwise how'd I know who it was <i>for</i>, hey?"</p> + +<p>Abbie carried the labels into the parlor and looked for a safe place for +them. She saw the picture-album and put them in it. Then she hurried +back to the porch. Old Chris opened one end of the crate.</p> + +<p>"It's a plant," Jim East whispered; "a Chinee plant."</p> + +<p>"It's a dwarf orange-tree," Old Chris announced. "See, it says so on +that there card."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> + +<p>Abbie carried the little orange-tree into the parlor. Who could have +sent it to her? There was no one she knew, away off there in China!</p> + +<p>"You be careful of that bamboo and the wrappings," she warned Old Chris. +"I'll make something decorative-like out of them."</p> + +<p>Abbie waited until Jim East drove away in his delivery cart. Then she +sat down at the table in the parlor and opened the album. She found her +name on one of the labels—<span class="smcap">Abbie Snover, Almont, Michigan</span>, U. S. A. It +seemed queer to her that her name had come all the way from China. On +the card that said that the plant was a dwarf orange-tree she found the +name—Thomas J. Thorington. Thomas? Tom? Tom Thorington! Why, the last +she had heard of Tom had been fifteen years back. He had gone out West. +She had received a picture of him in a uniform, with a gun on his +shoulder. She dimly recollected that he had been a guard at some +penitentiary. How long ago it seemed! He must have become a missionary +or something, to be away off in China. And he had remembered her! She +sat for a long time looking at the labels. She wondered if the queer +Chinese letters spelled <span class="smcap">Abbie Snover, Almont, Michigan</span>. She opened the +album again and hunted until she found the picture of Tom Thorington in +his guard's uniform. Then she placed the labels next to the picture, +closed the album, and carefully fastened the adjustable clasp.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Under Abbie's constant attention, the little orange-tree thrived. A tiny +green orange appeared. Day by day she watched it grow, looking forward +to the time when it would become large and yellow. The days grew shorter +and colder, but she did not mind; every week the orange grew larger. +After the first snow, she moved the tree into the down-stairs bedroom. +She placed it on a little stand in the South window. The inside blinds, +which she had always kept as her mother liked them best—the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> lower +blinds closed, the top blinds opened a little to let in the morning +light—she now threw wide open so that the tree would get all of the +sun. And she kept a fire in the small sheet-iron stove, for fear that +the old, drafty wood furnace might not send up a steady enough heat +through the register. When the nights became severe, she crept down the +narrow, winding stairs, and through the cold, bare halls, to put an +extra chunk of hardwood into the stove. Every morning she swept and +dusted the room; the ashes and wood dirt around the stove gave her +something extra to do near the orange-tree. She removed the red and +white coverlet from the bed, and put in its place the fancy patch-quilt +with the green birds and the yellow flowers, to make the room look +brighter.</p> + +<p>"Abbie Snover loves that orange-tree more'n anything in the world," Old +Chris cautioned the children when they came after cookies, "an' don't +you dare touch it, even with your little finger."</p> + +<p>The growing orange was as wonderful to the children as it was to Abbie. +Instead of taking the cookies and hurrying home, they stood in front of +the tree, their eyes round and big. And one day, when Abbie went to the +clothes-press to get the cookie-pail, Bruce Sanders snipped the orange +from the tree.</p> + +<p>The children were unnaturally still when Abbie came out of the +clothes-press. They did not rush forward to get the cookies. Abbie +looked quickly at the tree; the pail of cookies dropped from her hands. +She grabbed the two children nearest and shook them until their heads +bumped together. Then she drove them all in front of her to the door and +down the path to the gate, which she slammed shut behind them.</p> + +<p>Once outside the gate the children ran, yelling: "Ab-bie Sno-ver, +na—aa—ah! Ab-bie Sno-ver, na—aa—ah!"</p> + +<p>Abbie, her hands trembling, her eyes hot, went back into the house. That +was what came of letting them<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> take fruit from the trees and vines in +the yard; of giving them cookies every time they rang her door-bell. +Well, there would be no more cookies, and Old Chris should be told never +to let them come into the yard again.</p> + +<p>That evening, when the metallic hiccough of the well pump on the kitchen +porch told her that Old Chris was drawing up fresh water for the night, +Abbie went out into the kitchen to make sure that he placed one end of +the prop under the knob of the kitchen door and the other end against +the leg of the kitchen table.</p> + +<p>"It'll freeze afore mornin'," said Old Chris.</p> + +<p>"Yes," Abbie answered.</p> + +<p>But she did not get up in the night to put an extra chunk of wood in the +stove of the down-stairs bedroom.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>"Ab-bie Sno-ver, na—aa—ah! Ab-bie Sno-ver, na—aa—ah!"</p> + +<p>Old Chris stopped shoveling snow to shake his fist at the yelling +children.</p> + +<p>"Your Mas'll fix you, if you don't stop that screechin'!"</p> + +<p>And they answered: "Ab-bie Sno-ver, an' old Chris! Ab-bie Sno-ver, an' +old Chris!"</p> + +<p>Every day they yelled the two names as they passed the big house. They +yelled them on their way to and from school, and on their way to +Giddings's Hill to slide. The older boys took it up, and yelled it when +they saw Abbie and Old Chris on Main Street Saturday mornings. And +finally they rimed it into a couplet,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ab-bie Sno-ver, an' Old Chris—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We saw Chris an' Ab-bie kiss!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It was too much. Abbie went to Hugh Perry's mother.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Perry defended her young son. "He couldn't have done it," she told +Abbie. "He ain't that kind of a boy, and you can just tell that Old +Chris I said so. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> guess it must be true, the way you're fussin' +round!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Perry slammed the door in Abbie's face. Then she whipped her young +son, and hated Abbie and Old Chris because they were responsible for it.</p> + +<p>"That Abbie Snover came to my house," Mrs. Perry told Mrs. Rowles, "an' +said my Hugh had been a-couplin' her name with Old Chris's in a nasty +way. An' I told her—"</p> + +<p>"The idea! the idea!" Mrs. Rowles interrupted.</p> + +<p>"An' I told her it must be so, an' I guess it is," Mrs. Perry concluded.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rowles called upon Pastor Lucus's wife.</p> + +<p>"Abbie Snover an' Old Chris was seen kissin'."</p> + +<p>"It's scandalous," Mrs. Lucas told the pastor. "The town shouldn't put +up with it a minute longer. That's what comes of Abbie Snover not coming +to church since her Ma died."</p> + +<p>On Saturday mornings when Abbie went down-town followed by Old Chris, +the women eyed her coldly, and the faces of the men took on quizzical, +humorous expressions. Abbie could not help but notice it; she was +disturbed. The time for "the Jersey girls" to call came around. Every +afternoon Abbie sat in the window and watched for them to turn the +corner at Chase's Lane. She brought out the polished apples which she +kept in the clothes-press all ready for some one, but "the Jersey girls" +did not come.</p> + +<p>"You haven't heard of anybody being sick at the Jersey house, have you, +Chris?"</p> + +<p>"Um? Nope!"</p> + +<p>"Haven't seen Josie or Em Jersey anywhere lately?"</p> + +<p>"Seen 'em at the post-office night afore last."</p> + +<p>"H'mp!"</p> + +<p>Abbie pushed the kettle to the front of the kitchen stove, poked up the +fire, and put in fresh sticks of wood. When the water boiled she poured +it into a blue-lacquered pail with yellow bands around the rim, carried +it up the steep back stairs, and got out fresh stockings.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> + +<p>An hour later Old Chris saw her climbing up Tillson street. He scratched +his head and frowned.</p> + +<p>Abbie turned the corner at Chase's Lane. The snow, driven by the wind, +blinded her. She almost bumped into Viny Freeman.</p> + +<p>"My, Viny! What you doing out on such a day?"</p> + +<p>Viny Freeman passed her without answering.</p> + +<p>"Seems she didn't see me," Abbie muttered. "What can she be doing away +down here on such a day? Must be something special to bring her out of +her lonely old house with her lame side. My! I almost bumped that hand +she's always holding up her pain with. My!"</p> + +<p>Abbie turned into the Jersey gate and climbed the icy steps, hanging +onto the railing with both hands. She saw Em Jersey rise from her chair +in the parlor and go into the back sitting-room. Abbie pulled the +bell-knob and waited. No one answered. She pulled it again. No answer. +She rapped on the door with her knuckles. Big Mary, the Jersey hired +girl, opened the door part way.</p> + +<p>"They ain't to home."</p> + +<p>"Ain't to home?" exclaimed Abbie. "My land! Didn't I just see Em Jersey +through the parlor window?"</p> + +<p>"No'm, you never did. They ain't to home."</p> + +<p>"Well, I never! And their Ma and mine was cousins! They ain't sick or +nothing? Well!"</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The snow melted; the streets ran with water and then froze. Old Chris no +longer came into the parlor in the evening to sit, his hands clasped +over his thin stomach, his bald head bent until his chin rested upon the +starched neckband of his shirt.</p> + +<p>They ate in silence the meals which Abbie prepared: Old Chris at one end +of the long table, and Abbie at the other end.</p> + +<p>In silence they went about their accustomed tasks.</p> + +<p>Abbie, tired with a new weariness, sat in her chair<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> beside the +marble-topped table. The village was talking about her; she knew it; she +felt it all around her. Well, let them talk!</p> + +<p>But one day Almont sent a committee to her. It was composed of one man +and three women. Abbie saw them when they turned in at her gate—Pastor +Lucus Lorina Inman, Antha Ewell, and Aunt Alphie Newberry.</p> + +<p>Abbie walked to the center of the parlor and stood there, her hands +clenched, her face set. The door-bell rang; for a moment her body +swayed. Then she went into the bay window and drew the blinds aside. +Antha Ewell saw her and jerked Pastor Lucus's arm. Pastor Lucus turned +and caught sight of Abbie; he thought that she had not heard the bell, +so he tapped the door panel with his fingers and nodded his head at her +invitingly, as if to say:</p> + +<p>"See, we're waiting for you to let us in." Abbie's expression did not +change. Pastor Lucus tapped at the door again, this time hesitantly, and +still she looked at them with unseeing eyes. He tapped a third time, +then turned and looked at the three women. Aunt Alphie Newberry tugged, +at his arm, and the committee of four turned about without looking at +Abbie, and walked down the steps.</p> + +<p>A few minutes later Abbie heard the door between the parlor and +dining-room open. Old Chris came in. For a moment or two neither spoke. +Old Chris fingered his cap.</p> + +<p>"Abbie, I lived here forty-two years. I was here when you was born. I +carried you around in my arms a little bit of thing an' made you laugh."</p> + +<p>Abbie did not turn away from the window.</p> + +<p>"I know what they came for," Old Chris continued. "Your Ma—your Ma, +she'd never thought I'd have to go away from here."</p> + +<p>Abbie could not answer him.</p> + +<p>"I don't know who'll keep the furnace a-goin' when I'm gone, nor fill +the up-stairs woodroom."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> + +<p>Still no answer.</p> + +<p>"I'm old now—I'll go to Owen Frazer's farm—down to Mile Corners. He'll +have some work I can do."</p> + +<p>Old Chris stroked his baggy cheeks with trembling hands. Abbie still +looked out of the window.</p> + +<p>"I'm a-goin' down to the post-office now," said Old Chris, as he turned +and went to the door. "Be there anything you want?"</p> + +<p>Abbie shook her head; she could not find words. As Old Chris went down +the hall she heard him mumble, "I don't know what she'll do when I'm +gone."</p> + +<p>That night Abbie sat in the parlor window longer than usual. It was a +white night; wet snow had been falling heavily all day. Some time +between eight and nine o'clock she arose from her chair and went into +the long, narrow dining-room. The pat-pat of her slippered feet aroused +Old Chris from his nodding over the <i>Farm Herald</i>. Finding that the hot +air was not coming up strong through the register over which he sat, the +old man slowly pushed his wool-socked feet into felt-lined overshoes and +tramped down into the cellar, picking up the kitchen lamp as he went. +Abbie followed as far as the kitchen. The pungent dry-wood smell that +came up the stairs when Old Chris swung open the door of the wood cellar +made her sniff. She heard the sounds as he loaded the wheelbarrow with +the sticks of quartered hardwood; the noise of the wheel bumping over +the loose boards as he pushed his load into the furnace-room. She went +back into the parlor and stood over the register. Hollow sounds came up +through the pipe as Old Chris leveled the ashes in the fire-box and +threw in the fresh sticks.</p> + +<p>When Old Chris came up from the cellar and went out onto the porch to +draw up fresh water for the night, Abbie went back into the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"It's snowin' hard out," said Old Chris.</p> + +<p>"Yes," Abbie answered.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p> + +<p>She led the way back into the dining-room. Old Chris placed the kitchen +lamp on the stand under the fruit picture and waited. For a few moments +they stood in the blast of hot air rising from the register. Then Abbie +took up the larger of the two lamps. Through the bare, high-ceilinged +rooms she went, opening and closing the heavy doors; on through the +cold, empty hall, up the stairs, into the South bedroom. While she was +closing the blinds she heard Old Chris stumble up the back stairs and +into the chamber he had occupied ever since she could remember.</p> + +<p>The night after Old Chris had gone, Abbie took the brass dinner-bell +from the pantry shelf and set it on the chair beside her bed. Over the +back of the chair she placed her heavy, rabbit-lined coat; it would be +handy if any one disturbed her. Once or twice when she heard sounds, she +put out her hand and touched the bell; but the sounds did not recur. The +next night she tried sleeping in the down-stairs bedroom. The +blue-and-gray carpet, the blue fixings on the bureau and commode, the +blue bands around the wash-bowl and pitcher—all faded and +old-looking—reminded her of her mother and father, and would not let +her sleep. On the wall in front of her was a picture in a black frame of +a rowboat filled with people. It was called "From Shore to Shore." +Trying not to see it, her eyes were caught by a black-and-white print in +a gilt frame, called "The First Steps." How she had loved the picture +when she was a little girl; her mother had explained it to her many +times—the bird teaching its little ones to fly; the big, shaggy dog +encouraging its waddling puppies; the mother coaxing her baby to walk +alone.</p> + +<p>At midnight Abbie got out of bed, picked up the dinner-bell by the +clapper, and went back up-stairs to the South bedroom.</p> + +<p>The tall, bare walls of the big house, the high ceilings with their +centerpieces of plaster fruits and flowers, the cold whiteness, closed +her in. Having no one to talk<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> to, she talked to herself: "It's snowin' +hard out——why! that was what Old Chris said the night before he went +away." She began to be troubled by a queer, detached feeling; she knew +that she had mislaid something, but just what she could not remember. +Forebodings came to her, distressing, disquieting. There would never be +any one for her to speak to—never! The big house grew terrible; the +rooms echoed her steps. She would have given everything for a little +house of two or three small, low-ceilinged rooms close to the sidewalk +on a street where people passed up and down.</p> + +<p>A night came when Abbie forgot that Old Chris had gone away. She had +been sitting in her chair beside the marble-topped table, staring out +into the night. All day the wind had blown; snow was piled high around +the porch. Her thoughts had got back to her childhood. Somehow they had +centered around the old grandfather who, years before, had sat in the +same window. She saw him in his chair; heard his raspy old voice, "I +married Jane sixty-eight an' a half years ago, an' a half year in a +man's life is something, I'll bet you. An' I buried her thirty years +ago, an' that's a long time, too. We never tore each other's shirts. +Jane wanted to live a quiet life. She wanted one child, an' she was +tenacious 'bout that. She never wanted any more, an' she had three, an' +one of 'em was your Ma. She never wanted to be seen out with a baby in +her arms, Jane didn't. I made her get bundled up once or twice, an' I +hitched up the horse an' took her ridin' in my phaeton that cost two +hundred dollars.—You'll be in your dotage some day, Abbie. I've been in +my dotage for years now.—Oh, I altered my life to fit Jane's. I +expected I had a wife to go out and see the neighbors with. By gosh! we +never went across the street—I'll take on goodness some day, Abbie. By +goll! that's all I'm good for to take on now.—Oh, it beat all what a +boy I was. I and Mother broke our first team of oxen. When you get +children, Abbie, let them raise themselves up. They'll do better<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> at it +than a poor father or mother can. I had the finest horses and the best +phaeton for miles around, but you never saw a girl a-ridin' by the side +of me.—Some men can't work alone, Abbie. They got to have the women +around or they quit. Don't you get that kind of a man, Abbie.—Oh, she +was renowned was my old mare, Kit. You never got to the end of her. She +lived to be more'n thirty year, an' she raised fourteen colts. She was a +darned good little thing she was. I got her for a big black mare that +weighed fourteen hundred pound, an' I made 'em give me ten dollars, too, +an' I got her colt with her—"</p> + +<p>Abbie suddenly realized that she was shivering; that her feet were cold; +that it was long after nine o'clock. Old Chris must have fallen asleep +in his chair. She went to the dining-room door and opened it; the +dining-room was dark. Why?—why, of course! Old Chris had been gone for +more than three weeks. She took hold of the door to steady herself; her +hands shook. How could she have forgotten? Was she going crazy? Would +the loneliness come to that?</p> + +<p>Abbie went to bed. All night she lay awake, thinking. The thoughts came +of themselves. What the town had to say didn't matter after all; the +town had paid her no attention for years; it was paying her no attention +now. Why, then, should she live without any one to speak to? "I'll go +and get Old Chris, that's what I'll do. I won't live here alone any +longer." And with this decision she went to sleep.</p> + +<p>In the morning when Abbie opened the kitchen door and stepped out onto +the porch, frost lay thick upon the well pump.</p> + +<p>She drew her shawl close around her and took hold of the pump-handle +with her mittened hands. When she had filled the pail she went back into +the kitchen. The sound of the wind made her shiver. To walk all the way +to Mile Corners on such a day required green tea, so Abbie drank three +cupfuls. Then, as on the day<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> when she went out to call upon "the Jersey +girls," she carried hot water up-stairs and got out fresh stockings.</p> + +<p>About nine o'clock three women of Pastor Lucus's church, standing on the +front steps of Aunt Alphie Newberry's house, saw Abbie struggling +through a drift.</p> + +<p>"Why, there's Abbie Snover," said Jennie Chipman.</p> + +<p>"She's turnin' down the road to Mile Corners," added Judie Wing.</p> + +<p>Aunt Alphie Newberry opened the door to the three women:</p> + +<p>"Whatever's the matter to be bringin' you callin' so early?"</p> + +<p>"Ain't you heard yet?"</p> + +<p>"We come to tell you."</p> + +<p>"My! my! my! What can have happened?" Aunt Alphie exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"Old Chris died last night—"</p> + +<p>"Just after bein' middlin' sick for a day an'—"</p> + +<p>"An' they say," Judie Wing interrupted, "that it was 'cause Abbie Snover +turned him out."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Abbie reached the end of the town sidewalk. Lifting her skirts high, she +waded through the deep snow to the rough-rutted track left by the +farmers' sleighs. Every little while she had to step off the road into +the deep snow to let a bob-sled loaded high with hay or straw pass on +its way into town. Some of the farmers recognized her; they spoke to her +with kindly voices, but she made no answer. Walking was hard; Owen +Frazer's farm was over the hill; there was a steep climb ahead of her. +And besides, Owen Frazer's house was no place for Old Chris. No one knew +anything about Owen Frazer and that woman of his; they hadn't been born +in Almont. How could she have let Old Chris go down there, anyway?</p> + +<p>"Whoa up! Hey! Better climb in, Abbie, an' ride with me. This ain't no +day for walkin'. Get up here on the seat. I'll come down an' help you."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> + +<p>Abbie looked up at Undertaker Hopkins. In the box of his funeral wagon +was a black coffin with a sprinkling of snow on its top. Abbie shook her +head, but did not speak.</p> + +<p>"Guess I shouldn't have asked you," Undertaker Hopkins apologized. +"Sorry! Get along as fast as you can, Abbie. It's gettin' mighty, +all-fired cold. It'll be a little sheltered when you get over the hill."</p> + +<p>Undertaker Hopkins drove on. Abbie tried to keep her feet in the fresh +track made by the runners. She reached the top of the hill. Owen +Frazer's red barn stood up above the snow. Undertaker Hopkins and his +funeral wagon had disappeared.</p> + +<p>"He must have turned down the Mill Road," Abbie muttered.</p> + +<p>She reached the gate in front of the low, one-story farmhouse. A +shepherd dog barked as she went up the path. She rapped at the front +door. A woman appeared at the window and pointed to the side of the +house. Abbie's face expressed surprise and resentment. She backed down +the steps and made her way to the back door. The woman, Owen Frazer's +wife, let her into the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"Owen! Here be Abbie Snover!"</p> + +<p>Owen Frazer came in from the front of the house.</p> + +<p>"Good day! Didn't expect you here. Pretty cold out, ain't it? Have a +chair."</p> + +<p>Abbie did not realize how numb the cold had made her body until she +tried to sit down.</p> + +<p>"Maggie, give her a cup of that hot tea," Owen Frazer continued. "She's +been almost froze, an' I guess she'll have a cup of tea. Hey! Miss +Snover?"</p> + +<p>"I want to talk to Old Chris."</p> + +<p>"Talk to Old Chris! Talk to Old Chris, you want to?"</p> + +<p>Owen Frazer looked at his wife. Abbie Snover didn't know, yet she had +walked all the way to Mile Corners in the cold. He couldn't understand +it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What'd you come for, anyhow, Abbie Snover?"</p> + +<p>"Now, Owen, you wait!" Owen Frazer's wife turned to Abbie:</p> + +<p>"Got lonesome, did you, all by yourself in that big barn of a house?"</p> + +<p>"I want to talk to Old Chris," Abbie repeated.</p> + +<p>"Was you so fond of him, then?"</p> + +<p>Abbie made no answer. Owen Frazer went over to the sink and looked out +of the window at the bed-tick smoldering on the rubbish heap. Owen +Frazer's wife pushed open the door of the sitting-room, then stood back +and turned to Abbie:</p> + +<p>"You may be fine old family, Abbie Snover, but we're better. You turned +Old Chris out, an' now you want to talk to him. All right, talk to him +if you want to. He's in the parlor. Go on in now. Talk to him if you +want to—go on in!"</p> + +<p>The animosity in Mrs. Frazer's voice shook Abbie; she was disturbed; +doubt came to her for the first time. As she went through the +sitting-room, fear slowed her steps. Perhaps they had turned Old Chris +away from her and she would have to go back alone, to live alone, for +all the remaining years of her life, in that big house.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="BOYS_WILL_BE_BOYS" id="BOYS_WILL_BE_BOYS"></a>BOYS WILL BE BOYS<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> IRVIN S. COBB</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i></p> + + +<p>When Judge Priest, on this particular morning, came puffing into his +chambers at the courthouse, looking, with his broad beam and in his +costume of flappy, loose white ducks, a good deal like an old-fashioned +full-rigger with all sails set, his black shadow, Jeff Poindexter, had +already finished the job of putting the quarters to rights for the day. +The cedar water bucket had been properly replenished; the jagged flange +of a fifteen-cent chunk of ice protruded above the rim of the bucket; +and alongside, on the appointed nail, hung the gourd dipper that the +master always used. The floor had been swept, except, of course, in the +corners and underneath things; there were evidences, in streaky scrolls +of fine grit particles upon various flat surfaces, that a dusting brush +had been more or less sparingly employed. A spray of trumpet flowers, +plucked from the vine that grew outside the window, had been draped over +the framed steel engraving of President Davis and his Cabinet upon the +wall; and on the top of the big square desk in the middle of the room, +where a small section of cleared green-blotter space formed an oasis in +a dry and arid desert of cluttered law journals and dusty documents, the +morning's mail rested in a little heap.</p> + +<p>Having placed his old cotton umbrella in a corner, having removed his +coat and hung it upon a peg behind the hall door, and having seen to it +that a palm-leaf fan was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> in arm's reach should he require it, the +Judge, in his billowy white shirt, sat down at his desk and gave his +attention to his letters. There was an invitation from the Hylan B. +Gracey Camp of Confederate Veterans of Eddyburg, asking him to deliver +the chief oration at the annual reunion, to be held at Mineral Springs +on the twelfth day of the following month; an official notice from the +clerk of the Court of Appeals concerning the affirmation of a judgment +that had been handed down by Judge Priest at the preceding term of his +own court; a bill for five pounds of a special brand of smoking tobacco; +a notice of a lodge meeting—altogether quite a sizable batch of mail.</p> + +<p>At the bottom of the pile he came upon a long envelope addressed to him +by his title, instead of by his name, and bearing on its upper +right-hand corner several foreign-looking stamps; they were British +stamps, he saw, on closer examination.</p> + +<p>To the best of his recollection it had been a good long time since Judge +Priest had had a communication by post from overseas. He adjusted his +steel-bowed spectacles, ripped the wrapper with care and shook out the +contents. There appeared to be several inclosures; in fact, there were +several—a sheaf of printed forms, a document with seals attached, and a +letter that covered two sheets of paper with typewritten lines. To the +letter the recipient gave consideration first. Before he reached the end +of the opening paragraph he uttered a profound grunt of surprise; his +reading of the rest was frequently punctuated by small exclamations, his +face meantime puckering up in interested lines. At the conclusion, when +he came to the signature, he indulged himself in a soft low whistle. He +read the letter all through again, and after that he examined the forms +and the document which had accompanied it.</p> + +<p>Chuckling under his breath, he wriggled himself free from the snug +embrace of his chair arms and waddled out of his own office and down the +long bare empty hall to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> office of Sheriff Giles Birdsong. Within, +that competent functionary, Deputy Sheriff Breck Quarles, sat at ease in +his shirt sleeves, engaged, with the smaller blade of his pocketknife, +in performing upon his finger nails an operation that combined the fine +deftness of the manicure with the less delicate art of the farrier. At +the sight of the Judge in the open doorway he hastily withdrew from a +tabletop, where they rested, a pair of long thin legs, and rose.</p> + +<p>"Mornin', Breck," said Judge Priest to the other's salutation. "No, +thank you, son. I won't come in; but I've got a little job for you. I +wisht, ef you ain't too busy, that you'd step down the street and see ef +you can't find Peep O'Day fur me and fetch him back here with you. It +won't take you long, will it?"</p> + +<p>"No, suh—not very." Mr. Quarles reached for his hat and snuggled his +shoulder holster back inside his unbuttoned waistcoat. "He'll most +likely be down round Gafford's stable. Whut's Old Peep been doin', +Judge—gettin' himself in contempt of court or somethin'?" He grinned, +asking the question with the air of one making a little joke.</p> + +<p>"No," vouchsafed the Judge; "he ain't done nothin'. But he's about to +have somethin' of a highly onusual nature done to him. You jest tell him +I'm wishful to see him right away—that'll be sufficient, I reckin."</p> + +<p>Without making further explanation, Judge Priest returned to his +chambers and for the third time read the letter from foreign parts. +Court was not in session, and the hour was early and the weather was +hot; nobody interrupted him. Perhaps fifteen minutes passed. Mr. Quarles +poked his head in at the door.</p> + +<p>"I found him, suh," the deputy stated. "He's outside here in the hall."</p> + +<p>"Much obliged to you, son," said Judge Priest. "Send him on in, will +you, please?"</p> + +<p>The head was withdrawn; its owner lingered out of sight of His Honor, +but within earshot. It was hard to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> figure the presiding judge of the +First Judicial District of the State of Kentucky as having business with +Peep O'Day; and, though Mr. Quarles was no eavesdropper, still he felt a +pardonable curiosity in whatsoever might transpire. As he feigned an +absorbed interest in a tax notice, which was pasted on a blackboard just +outside the office door, there entered the presence of the Judge a man +who seemingly was but a few years younger than the Judge himself—a man +who looked to be somewhere between sixty-five and seventy. There is a +look that you may have seen in the eyes of ownerless but +well-intentioned dogs—dogs that, expecting kicks as their daily +portion, are humbly grateful for kind words and stray bones; dogs that +are fairly yearning to be adopted by somebody—by anybody—being +prepared to give to such a benefactor a most faithful doglike devotion +in return.</p> + +<p>This look, which is fairly common among masterless and homeless dogs, is +rare among humans; still, once in a while you do find it there too. The +man who now timidly shuffled himself across the threshold of Judge +Priest's office had such a look out of his eyes. He had a long simple +face, partly inclosed in gray whiskers. Four dollars would have been a +sufficient price to pay for the garments he stood in, including the +wrecked hat he held in his hands and the broken, misshaped shoes on his +feet. A purchaser who gave more than four dollars for the whole in its +present state of decrepitude would have been but a poor hand at +bargaining.</p> + +<p>The man who wore this outfit coughed in an embarrassed fashion and +halted, fumbling his ruinous hat in his hands.</p> + +<p>"Howdy do?" said Judge Priest heartily. "Come in!"</p> + +<p>The other diffidently advanced himself a yard or two.</p> + +<p>"Excuse me, suh," he said apologetically; "but this here Breck Quarles +he come after me and he said ez how you wanted to see me. 'Twas him ez +brung me here, suh."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p> + +<p>Faintly underlying the drawl of the speaker was just a suspicion—a mere +trace, as you might say—of a labial softness that belongs solely and +exclusively to the children, and in a diminishing degree to the +grandchildren, of native-born sons and daughters of a certain small +green isle in the sea. It was not so much a suggestion of a brogue as it +was the suggestion of the ghost of a brogue; a brogue almost +extinguished, almost obliterated, and yet persisting through the +generations—South of Ireland struggling beneath south of Mason and +Dixon's Line.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the Judge; "that's right. I do want to see you." The tone +was one that he might employ in addressing a bashful child. "Set down +there and make yourself at home."</p> + +<p>The newcomer obeyed to the extent of perching himself on the extreme +forward edge of a chair. His feet shuffled uneasily where they were +drawn up against the cross rung of the chair.</p> + +<p>The Judge reared well back, studying his visitor over the tops of his +glasses with rather a quizzical look. In one hand he balanced the large +envelope which had come to him that morning.</p> + +<p>"Seems to me I heared somewheres, years back, that your regular +Christian name was Paul—is that right?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Shorely is, suh," assented the ragged man, surprised and plainly +grateful that one holding a supremely high position in the community +should vouchsafe to remember a fact relating to so inconsequent an atom +as himself. "But I ain't heared it fur so long I come mighty nigh +furgittin' it sometimes, myself. You see, Judge Priest, when I wasn't +nothin' but jest a shaver folks started in to callin' me Peep—on +account of my last name bein O'Day, I reckin. They been callin' me so +ever since. Fust off, 'twas Little Peep, and then jest plain Peep; and +now it's got to be Old Peep. But my real entitled name is Paul, jest +like you said, Judge—Paul Felix O'Day."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Uh-huh! And wasn't your father's name Philip and your mother's name +Katherine Dwyer O'Day?"</p> + +<p>"To the best of my recollection that's partly so, too, suh. They both of +'em up and died when I was a baby, long before I could remember anything +a-tall. But they always told me my paw's name was Phil, or Philip. Only +my maw's name wasn't Kath—Kath—wasn't whut you jest now called it, +Judge. It was plain Kate."</p> + +<p>"Kate or Katherine—it makes no great difference," explained Judge +Priest. "I reckin the record is straight this fur. And now think hard +and see ef you kin ever remember hearin' of an uncle named Daniel +O'Day—your father's brother."</p> + +<p>The answer was a shake of the tousled head.</p> + +<p>"I don't know nothin' about my people. I only jest know they come over +frum some place with a funny name in the Old Country before I was born. +The onliest kin I ever had over here was that there no-'count triflin' +nephew of mine—Perce Dwyer—him that uster hang round this town. I +reckin you call him to mind, Judge?"</p> + +<p>The old Judge nodded before continuing:</p> + +<p>"All the same, I reckin there ain't no manner of doubt but whut you had +an uncle of the name of Daniel. All the evidences would seem to p'int +that way. Accordin' to the proofs, this here Uncle Daniel of yours lived +in a little town called Kilmare, in Ireland." He glanced at one of the +papers that lay on his desktop; then added in a casual tone: "Tell me, +Peep, whut are you doin' now fur a livin'?"</p> + +<p>The object of this examination grinned a faint grin of extenuation.</p> + +<p>"Well, suh, I'm knockin' about, doin' the best I kin—which ain't much. +I help out round Gafford's liver' stable, and Pete Gafford he lets me +sleep in a little room behind the feed room, and his wife she gives me +my vittles. Oncet in a while I git a chancet to do odd jobs fur folks +round town—cuttin' weeds and splittin' stove wood and packin' in coal, +and sech ez that."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not much money in it, is there?"</p> + +<p>"No, suh; not much. Folks is more prone to offer me old clothes than +they are to pay me in cash. Still, I manage to git along. I don't live +very fancy; but, then, I don't starve, and that's more'n some kin say."</p> + +<p>"Peep, whut was the most money you ever had in your life—at one time?"</p> + +<p>Peep scratched with a freckled hand at his thatch of faded whitish hair +to stimulate recollection.</p> + +<p>"I reckin not more'n six bits at any one time, suh. Seems like I've +sorter got the knack of livin' without money."</p> + +<p>"Well, Peep, sech bein' the case, whut would you say ef I was to tell +you that you're a rich man?"</p> + +<p>The answer came slowly:</p> + +<p>"I reckin, suh, ef it didn't sound disrespectful, I'd say you was +prankin' with me—makin' fun of me, suh."</p> + +<p>Judge Priest bent forward in his chair.</p> + +<p>"I'm not prankin' with you. It's my pleasant duty to inform you that at +this moment you are the rightful owner of eight thousand pounds."</p> + +<p>"Pounds of whut, Judge?" The tone expressed a heavy incredulity.</p> + +<p>"Why, pounds in money."</p> + +<p>Outside, in the hall, with one ear held conveniently near the crack in +the door, Deputy Sheriff Quarles gave a violent start; and then, at +once, was torn between a desire to stay and hear more and an urge to +hurry forth and spread the unbelievable tidings. After the briefest of +struggles the latter inclination won; this news was too marvelously good +to keep; surely a harbinger and a herald were needed to spread it +broadcast.</p> + +<p>Mr. Quarles tiptoed rapidly down the hall. When he reached the sidewalk +the volunteer bearer of a miraculous tale fairly ran. As for the man who +sat facing the Judge, he merely stared in a dull bewilderment.</p> + +<p>"Judge," he said at length, "eight thousand pounds of money oughter make +a powerful big pile, oughten it?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It wouldn't weigh quite that much ef you put it on the scales," +explained His Honor painstakingly. "I mean pounds sterlin'—English +money. Near ez I kin figger offhand, it comes in our money to somewheres +between thirty-five and forty thousand dollars—nearer forty than +thirty-five. And it's yours, Peep—every red cent of it."</p> + +<p>"Excuse me, suh, and not meanin' to contradict you, or nothin' like +that; but I reckin there must be some mistake. Why, Judge, I don't +scursely know anybody that's ez wealthy ez all that, let alone anybody +that'd give me sech a lot of money."</p> + +<p>"Listen, Peep: This here letter I'm holdin' in my hand came to me by +to-day's mail—jest a little spell ago. It's frum Ireland—frum the town +of Kilmare, where your people came frum. It was sent to me by a firm of +barristers in that town—lawyers we'd call 'em. In this letter they ask +me to find you and to tell you what's happened. It seems, from whut they +write, that your uncle, by name Daniel O'Day, died not very long ago +without issue—that is to say, without leavin' any children of his own, +and without makin' any will.</p> + +<p>"It appears he had eight thousand pounds saved up. Ever since he died +those lawyers and some other folks over there in Ireland have been +tryin' to find out who that money should go to. They learnt in some way +that your father and your mother settled in this town a mighty long time +ago, and that they died here and left one son, which is you. All the +rest of the family over there in Ireland have already died out, it +seems; that natchelly makes you the next of kin and the heir at law, +which means that all your uncle's money comes direct to you.</p> + +<p>"So, Peep, you're a wealthy man in your own name. That's the news I had +to tell you. Allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune."</p> + +<p>The beneficiary rose to his feet, seeming not to see the hand the old +Judge had extended across the desktop toward him. On his face, of a +sudden, was a queer,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> eager look. It was as though he foresaw the coming +true of long-cherished and heretofore unattainable visions.</p> + +<p>"Have you got it here, suh?"</p> + +<p>He glanced about him as though expecting to see a bulky bundle. Judge +Priest smiled.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no; they didn't send it along with the letter—that wouldn't be +regular. There's quite a lot of things to be done fust. There'll be some +proofs to be got up and sworn to before a man called a British consul; +and likely there'll be a lot of papers that you'll have to sign; and +then all the papers and the proofs and things will be sent across the +ocean. And, after some fees are paid out over there—why, then you'll +git your inheritance."</p> + +<p>The rapt look faded from the strained face, leaving it downcast. "I'm +afeared, then, I won't be able to claim that there money," he said +forlornly.</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Because I don't know how to sign my own name. Raised the way I was, I +never got no book learnin'. I can't neither read nor write."</p> + +<p>Compassion shadowed the Judge's chubby face; and compassion was in his +voice as he made answer:</p> + +<p>"You don't need to worry about that part of it. You can make your +mark—- just a cross mark on the paper, with witnesses present—like +this."</p> + +<p>He took up a pen, dipped it in the inkwell and illustrated his meaning.</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh; I'm glad it kin be done thataway. I always wisht I knowed how +to read big print and spell my own name out. I ast a feller oncet to +write my name out fur me in plain letters on a piece of paper. I was +aimin' to learn to copy it off; but I showed it to one of the hands at +the liver' stable and he busted out laughin'. And then I come to find +out this here feller had tricked me fur to make game of me. He hadn't +wrote my name out a-tall—- he'd wrote some dirty words instid. So after +that I give up tryin' to educate myself. That was several years back and +I ain't tried sence. Now I reckin I'm too old<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> learn.... I wonder, +suh—I wonder ef it'll be very long before that there money gits here +and I begin to have the spendin' of it?"</p> + +<p>"Makin' plans already?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh," O'Day answered truthfully; "I am." He was silent for a +moment, his eyes on the floor; then timidly he advanced the thought that +had come to him. "I reckin, suh, it wouldn't be no more'n fair and +proper ef I divided my money with you to pay you back fur all this +trouble, you're fixin' to take on my account. Would—would half of it be +enough? The other half oughter last me fur what uses I'll make of it."</p> + +<p>"I know you mean well and I'm much obliged to you fur your offer," +stated Judge Priest, smiling a little; "but it wouldn't be fittin' or +proper fur me to tech a cent of your money. There'll be some court dues +and some lawyers' fees, and sech, to pay over there in Ireland; but +after that's settled up everything comes direct to you. It's goin' to be +a pleasure to me to help you arrange these here details that you don't +understand—a pleasure and not a burden."</p> + +<p>He considered the figure before him.</p> + +<p>"Now here's another thing, Peep; I judge it's hardly fittin' fur a man +of substance to go on livin' the way you've had to live durin' your +life. Ef you don't mind my offerin' you a little advice I would suggest +that you go right down to Felsburg Brothers when you leave here and git +yourself fitted out with some suitable clothin'. And you'd better go to +Max Biederman's, too, and order a better pair of shoes fur yourself than +them you've got on. Tell 'em I sent you and that I guarantee the payment +of your bills. Though I reckin that'll hardly be necessary—when the +news of your good luck gits noised round I misdoubt whether there's any +firm in our entire city that wouldn't be glad to have you on their books +fur a stiddy customer.</p> + +<p>"And, also, ef I was you I'd arrange to git me regular board and +lodgin's somewheres round town. You see,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> Peep, comin' into a property +entails consider'ble many responsibilities right frum the start."</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh," assented the legatee obediently. "I'll do jest ez you say, +Judge Priest, about the clothes and the shoes, and all that; but—but, +ef you don't mind, I'd like to go on livin' at Gafford's. Pete Gafford's +been mighty good to me—him and his wife both; and I wouldn't like fur +'em to think I was gittin' stuck up jest because I've had this here +streak of luck come to me. Mebbe, seein' ez how things has changed with +me, they'd be willin' to take me in fur a table boarder at their house; +but I shorely would hate to give up livin' in that there little room +behind the feed room at the liver' stable. I don't know ez I could ever +find any place that would seem ez homelike to me ez whut it is."</p> + +<p>"Suit yourself about that," said Judge Priest heartily. "I don't know +but whut you've got the proper notion about it after all."</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh. Them Gaffords have been purty nigh the only real true friends +I ever had that I could count on." He hesitated a moment. "I reckin—I +reckin, suh, it'll be a right smart while, won't it, before that money +gits here frum all the way acrost the ocean?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes; I imagine it will. Was you figurin' on investin' a little of +it now?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh; I was."</p> + +<p>"About how much did you think of spendin' fur a beginnin'?"</p> + +<p>O'Day squinted his eyes, his lips moving in silent calculation.</p> + +<p>"Well, suh," he said at length, "I could use ez much ez a silver dollar. +But, of course, sence—"</p> + +<p>"That sounds kind of moderate to me," broke in Judge Priest. He shoved a +pudgy hand into a pocket of his white trousers. "I reckin this detail +kin be arranged. Here, Peep"—he extended his hand—"here's your +dollar." Then, as the other drew back, stammering a refusal, he hastily +added: "No, no, no; go ahead and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> take it—it's yours. I'm jest +advancin' it to you out of whut'll be comin' to you shortly.</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you whut: Until sech time ez you are in position to draw on +your own funds you jest drap in here to see me when you're in need of +cash, and I'll try to let you have whut you require—in reason. I'll +keep a proper reckinin' of whut you git and you kin pay me back ez soon +ez your inheritance is put into your hands.</p> + +<p>"One thing more," he added as the heir, having thanked him, was making +his grateful adieu at the threshold: "Now that you're wealthy, or about +to be so, I kind of imagine quite a passel of fellers will suddenly +discover themselves strangely and affectionately drawed toward you. +You're liable to find out you've always had more true and devoted +friends in this community than whut you ever imagined to be the case +before.</p> + +<p>"Now friendship is a mighty fine thing, takin' it by and large; but it +kin be overdone. It's barely possible that some of this here new crop of +your well-wishers and admirers will be makin' little business +propositions to you—desirin' to have you go partners with 'em in +business, or to sell you desirable pieces of real estate; or even to let +you loan 'em various sums of money. I wouldn't be surprised but whut a +number of sech chances will be comin' your way durin' the next few days, +and frum then on. Ef sech should be the case I would suggest to you +that, before committin' yourself to anybody or anything, you tell 'em +that I'm sort of actin' as your unofficial adviser in money matters, and +that they should come to me and outline their little schemes in person. +Do you git my general drift?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh," said Peep. "I won't furgit; and thank you ag'in, Judge, +specially fur lettin' me have this dollar ahead of time."</p> + +<p>He shambled out with the coin in his hand; and on his face was again the +look of one who sees before him the immediate fulfillment of a +delectable dream.</p> + +<p>With lines of sympathy and amusement crosshatched<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> at the outer corners +of his eyelids, Judge Priest, rising and stepping to his door, watched +the retreating figure of the town's newest and strangest capitalist +disappear down the wide front steps of the courthouse.</p> + +<p>Presently he went back to his chair and sat down, tugging at his short +chin beard.</p> + +<p>"I wonder now," said he, meditatively addressing the emptiness of the +room, "I wonder whut a man sixty-odd-year old is goin' to do with the +fust whole dollar he ever had in his life!"</p> + +<p>It was characteristic of our circuit judge that he should have voiced +his curiosity aloud. Talking to himself when he was alone was one of his +habits. Also, it was characteristic of him that he had refrained from +betraying his inquisitiveness to his late caller. Similar motives of +delicacy had kept him from following the other man to watch the +sequence.</p> + +<p>However, at secondhand, the details very shortly reached him. They were +brought by no less a person than Deputy Sheriff Quarles, who, some +twenty minutes or possibly half an hour later, obtruded himself upon +Judge Priest's presence.</p> + +<p>"Judge," began Mr. Quarles, "you'd never in the world guess whut Old +Peep O'Day done with the first piece of money he got his hands on out of +that there forty thousand pounds of silver dollars he's come into from +his uncle's estate."</p> + +<p>The old man slanted a keen glance in Mr. Quarles' direction.</p> + +<p>"Tell me, son," he asked softly, "how did you come to hear the glad +tidin's so promptly?"</p> + +<p>"Me?" said Mr. Quarles innocently. "Why, Judge Priest, the word is all +over this part of town by this time. Why, I reckin twenty-five or fifty +people must 'a' been watchin' Old Peep to see how he was goin' to act +when he come out of this courthouse."</p> + +<p>"Well, well, well!" murmured the Judge blandly. "Good news travels +almost ez fast sometimes ez whut<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> bad news does—don't it, now? Well, +son, I give up the riddle. Tell me jest whut our elderly friend did do +with the first installment of his inheritance."</p> + +<p>"Well, suh, he turned south here at the gate and went down the street, +a-lookin' neither to the right nor the left. He looked to me like a man +in a trance, almost. He keeps right on through Legal Row till he comes +to Franklin Street, and then he goes up Franklin to B. Weil & Son's +confectionery store; and there he turns in. I happened to be followin' +'long behind him, with a few others—with several others, in fact—and +we-all sort of slowed up in passin' and looked in at the door; and +that's how I come to be in a position to see what happened.</p> + +<p>"Old Peep, he marches in jest like I'm tellin' it to you, suh; and Mr. +B. Weil comes to wait on him, and he starts in buyin'. He buys hisself a +five-cent bag of gumdrops; and a five-cent bag of jelly beans; and a +ten-cent bag of mixed candies—kisses and candy mottoes, and sech ez +them, you know; and a sack of fresh-roasted peanuts—a big sack, it was, +fifteen-cent size; and two prize boxes; and some gingersnaps—ten cents' +worth; and a cocoanut; and half a dozen red bananas; and half a dozen +more of the plain yaller ones. Altogether I figger he spent a even +dollar; in fact, I seen him hand Mr. Weil a dollar, and I didn't see him +gittin' no change back out of it.</p> + +<p>"Then he comes on out of the store, with all these things stuck in his +pockets and stacked up in his arms till he looks sort of like some new +kind of a summertime Santy Klaws; and he sets down on a goods box at the +edge of the pavement, with his feet in the gutter, and starts in eatin' +all them things.</p> + +<p>"First, he takes a bite off a yaller banana and then off a red banana, +and then a mouthful of peanuts; and then maybe some mixed candies—not +sayin' a word to nobody, but jest natchelly eatin' his fool head off. A +young chap that's clerkin' in Bagby's grocery, next door, steps up to +him and speaks to him, meanin', I suppose,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> to ast him is it true he's +wealthy. And Old Peep, he says to him, 'Please don't come botherin' me +now, sonny—I'm busy ketchin' up,' he says; and keeps right on +a-munchin' and a-chewin' like all possessed.</p> + +<p>"That ain't all of it, neither, Judge—not by a long shot it ain't! +Purty soon Old Peep looks round him at the little crowd that's gathered. +He didn't seem to pay no heed to the grown-up people standin' there; but +he sees a couple of boys about ten years old in the crowd, and he +beckons to them to come to him, and he makes room fur them alongside him +on the box and divides up his knick-knacks with them.</p> + +<p>"When I left there to come on back here he had no less'n six kids +squatted round him, includin' one little nigger boy; and between 'em all +they'd jest finished up the last of the bananas and peanuts and the +candy and the gingersnaps, and was fixin' to take turns drinkin' the +milk out of the cocoanut. I s'pose they've got it all cracked out of the +shell and et up by now—the cocoanut, I mean. Judge, you oughter stepped +down into Franklin Street and taken a look at the picture whilst there +was still time. You never seen sech a funny sight in all your days, I'll +bet!"</p> + +<p>"I reckin 'twould be too late to be startin' now," said Judge Priest. +"I'm right sorry I missed it.... Busy ketchin' up, huh? Yes; I reckin he +is.... Tell me, son, whut did you make out of the way Peep O'Day acted?"</p> + +<p>"Why, suh," stated Mr. Quarles, "to my mind, Judge, there ain't no +manner of doubt but whut prosperity has went to his head and turned it. +He acted to me like a plum' distracted idiot. A grown man with forty +thousand pounds of solid money settin' on the side of a gutter eatin' +jimcracks with a passel of dirty little boys! Kin you figure it out any +other way, Judge—except that his mind is gone?"</p> + +<p>"I don't set myself up to be a specialist in mental disorders, son," +said Judge Priest softly; "but, sence you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> ask me the question, I should +say, speakin' offhand, that it looks to me more ez ef the heart was the +organ that was mainly affected. And possibly"—he added this last with a +dry little smile—"and possibly, by now, the stomach also."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Whether or not Mr. Quarles was correct in his psychopathic diagnosis, he +certainly had been right when he told Judge Priest that the word was +already all over the business district. It had spread fast and was still +spreading; it spread to beat the wireless, traveling as it did by that +mouth-to-ear method of communication which is so amazingly swift and +generally so tremendously incorrect. Persons who could not credit the +tale at all, nevertheless lost no time in giving to it a yet wider +circulation; so that, as though borne on the wind, it moved in every +direction, like ripples on a pond; and with each time of retelling the +size of the legacy grew.</p> + +<p>The <i>Daily Evening News</i>, appearing on the streets at five <span class="smcap">P. M.</span>, +confirmed the tale; though by its account the fortune was reduced to a +sum far below the gorgeously exaggerated estimates of most of the +earlier narrators. Between breakfast and supper-time Peep O'Day's +position in the common estimation of his fellow citizens underwent a +radical and revolutionary change. He ceased—automatically, as it +were—to be a town character; he became, by universal consent, a town +notable, whose every act and every word would thereafter be subjected to +close scrutiny and closer analysis.</p> + +<p>The next morning the nation at large had opportunity to know of the +great good fortune that had befallen Paul Felix O'Day, for the story had +been wired to the city papers by the local correspondents of the same; +and the press associations had picked up a stickful of the story and +sped it broadcast over leased wires. Many who until that day had never +heard of the fortunate man, or, indeed, of the place where he lived, at +once manifested a concern in his well-being.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span></p> + +<p>Certain firms of investment brokers in New York and Chicago promptly +added a new name to what vulgarly they called their "sucker" lists. +Dealers in mining stocks, in oil stocks, in all kinds of attractive +stocks showed interest; in circular form samples of the most optimistic +and alluring literature the world has ever known were consigned to the +post, addressed to Mr. P. F. O'Day, such-and-such a town, such-and-such +a state, care of general delivery.</p> + +<p>Various lonesome ladies in various lonesome places lost no time in +sitting themselves down and inditing congratulatory letters; object +matrimony. Some of these were single ladies; others had been widowed, +either by death or request. Various other persons of both sexes, +residing here, there, and elsewhere in our country, suddenly remembered +that they, too, were descended from the O'Days of Ireland, and wrote on +forthwith to claim proud and fond relationship with the particular O'Day +who had come into money.</p> + +<p>It was a remarkable circumstance, which speedily developed, that one man +should have so many distant cousins scattered over the Union, and a +thing equally noteworthy that practically all these kinspeople, through +no fault of their own, should at the present moment be in such +straitened circumstances and in such dire need of temporary assistance +of a financial nature. Ticker and printer's ink, operating in +conjunction, certainly did their work mighty well; even so, several days +were to elapse before the news reached one who, of all those who read +it, had most cause to feel a profound personal sensation in the +intelligence.</p> + +<p>This delay, however, was nowise to be blamed upon the tardiness of the +newspapers; it was occasioned by the fact that the person referred to +was for the moment well out of contact with the active currents of world +affairs, he being confined in a workhouse at Evansville, Indiana.</p> + +<p>As soon as he had rallied from the shock this individual set about +making plans to put himself in direct touch<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> with the inheritor. He had +ample time in which to frame and shape his campaign, inasmuch as there +remained for him yet to serve nearly eight long and painfully tedious +weeks of a three-months' vagrancy sentence. Unlike most of those now +manifesting their interest, he did not write a letter; but he dreamed +dreams that made him forget the annoyances of a ball and chain fast on +his ankle and piles of stubborn stones to be cracked up into fine bits +with a heavy hammer.</p> + +<p>We are getting ahead of our narrative, though—days ahead of it. The +chronological sequence of events properly dates from the morning +following the morning when Peep O'Day, having been abruptly translated +from the masses of the penniless to the classes of the wealthy, had +forthwith embarked upon the gastronomic orgy so graphically detailed by +Deputy Sheriff Quarles.</p> + +<p>On that next day more eyes probably than had been trained in Peep +O'Day's direction in all the unremarked and unremarkable days of his +life put together were focused upon him. Persons who theretofore had +regarded his existence—if indeed they gave it a thought—as one of the +utterly trivial and inconsequential incidents of the cosmic scheme, were +moved to speak to him, to clasp his hand, and, in numerous instances, to +express a hearty satisfaction over his altered circumstances. To all +these, whether they were moved by mere neighborly good will, or +perchance were inspired by impulses of selfishness, the old man +exhibited a mien of aloofness and embarrassment.</p> + +<p>This diffidence or this suspicion—or this whatever it was—protected +him from those who might entertain covetous and ulterior designs upon +his inheritance even better than though he had been brusque and rude; +while those who sought to question him regarding his plans for the +future drew from him only mumbled and evasive replies, which left them +as deeply in the dark as they had been before. Altogether, in his +intercourse with adults he appeared shy and very ill at ease.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was noted, though, that early in the forenoon he attached to him +perhaps half a dozen urchins, of whom the oldest could scarcely have +been more than twelve or thirteen years of age; and that these +youngsters remained his companions throughout the day. Likewise the +events of that day were such as to confirm a majority of the observers +in practically the same belief that had been voiced of Mr. +Quarles—namely, that whatever scanty brains Peep O'Day might have ever +had were now completely addled by the stroke of luck that had befallen +him.</p> + +<p>In fairness to all—to O'Day and to the town critics who sat in judgment +upon his behavior—it should be stated that his conduct at the very +outset was not entirely devoid of evidences of sanity. With his troupe +of ragged juveniles trailing behind him, he first visited Felsburg +Brothers' Emporium to exchange his old and disreputable costume for a +wardrobe that, in accordance with Judge Priest's recommendation, he had +ordered on the afternoon previous, and which had since been undergoing +certain necessary alterations.</p> + +<p>With his meager frame incased in new black woolens, and wearing, as an +incongruous added touch, the most brilliant of neckties, a necktie of +the shade of a pomegranate blossom, he presently issued from Felsburg +Brothers' and entered M. Biederman's shoe store, two doors below. Here +Mr. Biederman fitted him with shoes, and in addition noted down a +further order, which the purchaser did not give until after he had +conferred earnestly with the members of his youthful entourage.</p> + +<p>Those watching this scene from a distance saw—and perhaps marveled at +the sight—that already, between these small boys, on the one part, and +this old man, on the other, a perfect understanding appeared to have +been established.</p> + +<p>After leaving Biederman's, and tagged by his small escorts, O'Day went +straight to the courthouse and, upon knocking at the door, was admitted +to Judge Priest's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> private chambers, the boys meantime waiting outside +in the hall. When he came forth he showed them something he held in his +hand and told them something; whereupon all of them burst into excited +and joyous whoops.</p> + +<p>It was at that point that O'Day, by the common verdict of most grown-up +onlookers, began to betray the vagaries of a disordered intellect. Not +that his reason had not been under suspicion already, as a result of his +freakish excess in the matter of B. Weil & Son's wares on the preceding +day; but the relapse that now followed, as nearly everybody agreed, was +even more pronounced, even more symptomatic than the earlier attack of +aberration.</p> + +<p>In brief, this was what happened: To begin with, Mr. Virgil Overall, who +dealt in lands and houses and sold insurance of all the commoner +varieties on the side, had stalked O'Day to this point and was lying in +wait for him as he came out of the courthouse into the Public Square, +being anxious to describe to him some especially desirable bargains, in +both improved and unimproved realty; also, Mr. Overall was prepared to +book him for life, accident and health policies on the spot.</p> + +<p>So pleased was Mr. Overall at having distanced his professional rivals +in the hunt that he dribbled at the mouth. But the warmth of his +disappointment and indignation dried up the salivary founts instantly +when the prospective patron declined to listen to him at all and, +breaking free from Mr. Overall's detaining clasp, hurried on into Legal +Row, with his small convoys trotting along ahead and alongside him.</p> + +<p>At the door of the Blue Goose Saloon and Short Order Restaurant its +proprietor, by name Link Iserman, was lurking, as it were, in ambush. He +hailed the approaching O'Day most cordially; he inquired in a warm voice +regarding O'Day's health; and then, with a rare burst of generosity, he +invited, nay urged, O'Day to step inside and have something on the +house—wines, ales, liquors or cigars; it was all one to Mr. Iserman. +The other merely shook his head and, without a word of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> thanks for the +offer, passed on as though bent upon a important mission.</p> + +<p>Mark how the proofs were accumulating: The man had disdained the company +of men of approximately his own age or thereabout; he had refused an +opportunity to partake of refreshment suitable to his years; and now he +stepped into the Bon Ton toy store and bought for cash—most +inconceivable of acquisitions!—a little wagon that was painted bright +red and bore on its sides in curlicued letters, the name Comet.</p> + +<p>His next stop was made at Bishop & Bryan's grocery, where, with the aid +of his youthful compatriots, he first discriminatingly selected, and +then purchased on credit, and finally loaded into the wagon, such +purchases as a dozen bottles of soda pop, assorted flavors; cheese, +crackers—soda and animal; sponge cakes with weather-proof pink icing on +them; fruits of the season; cove oysters; a bottle of pepper sauce; and +a quantity of the extra large sized bright green cucumber pickles known +to the trade as the Fancy Jumbo Brand, Prime Selected.</p> + +<p>Presently the astounding spectacle was presented of two small boys, with +string bridles on their arms, drawing the wagon through our town and out +of it into the country, with Peep O'Day in the rôle of teamster walking +alongside the laden wagon. He was holding the lines in his hands and +shouting orders at his team, who showed a colty inclination to shy at +objects, to kick up their heels without provocation, and at intervals to +try to run away. Eight or ten small boys—for by now the troupe had +grown in number and in volume of noise—trailed along, keeping step with +their elderly patron and advising him shrilly regarding the management +of his refractory span.</p> + +<p>As it turned out, the destination of this preposterous procession was +Bradshaw's Grove, where the entire party spent the day picnicking in the +woods and, as reported by several reliable witnesses, playing games. It +was not so strange that holidaying boys should play games; the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> amazing +feature of the performance was that Peep O'Day, a man old enough to be +grandfather to any of them, played with them, being by turns an Indian +chief, a robber baron, and the driver of a stagecoach attacked by Wild +Western desperadoes.</p> + +<p>When he returned to town at dusk, drawing his little red wagon behind +him, his new suit was rumpled into many wrinkles and marked by dust and +grass stains; his flame-colored tie was twisted under one ear; his new +straw hat was mashed quite out of shape; and in his eyes was a light +that sundry citizens, on meeting him, could only interpret for a spark +struck from inner fires of madness.</p> + +<p>Days that came after this, on through the midsummer, were, with +variations, but repetitions of the day I have just described. Each +morning Peep O'Day would go to either the courthouse or Judge Priest's +home to turn over to the Judge the unopened mail which had been +delivered to him at Gafford's stables; then he would secure from the +Judge a loan of money against his inheritance. Generally the amount of +his daily borrowing was a dollar; rarely was it so much as two dollars; +and only once was it more than two dollars.</p> + +<p>By nightfall the sum would have been expended upon perfectly useless and +absolutely childish devices. It might be that he would buy toy pistols +and paper caps for himself and his following of urchins; or that his +whim would lead him to expend all the money in tin flutes. In one case +the group he so incongruously headed would be for that one day a gang of +make-believe banditti; in another, they would constitute themselves a +fife-and-drum corps—with barreltops for the drums—and would march +through the streets, where scandalized adults stood in their tracks to +watch them go by, they all the while making weird sounds, which with +them passed for music.</p> + +<p>Or again, the available cash resources would be invested in provender; +and then there would be an outing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> in the woods. Under Peep O'Day's +captaincy his chosen band of youngsters picked dewberries; they went +swimming together in Guthrie's Gravel Pit, out by the old Fair Grounds, +where his spare naked shanks contrasted strongly with their plump +freckled legs as all of them splashed through the shallows, making for +deep water. Under his leadership they stole watermelons from Mr. Dick +Bell's patch, afterward eating their spoils in thickets of grapevines +along the banks of Perkins' Creek.</p> + +<p>It was felt that mental befuddlement and mortal folly could reach no +greater heights—or no lower depths—than on a certain hour of a certain +day, along toward the end of August, when O'Day came forth from his +quarters in Gafford's stables, wearing a pair of boots that M. +Biederman's establishment had turned out to his order and his +measure—not such boots as a sensible man might be expected to wear, but +boots that were exaggerated and monstrous counterfeits of the +red-topped, scroll-fronted, brass-toed, stub-heeled, squeaky-soled +bootees that small boys of an earlier generation possessed.</p> + +<p>Very proudly and seemingly unconscious of, or, at least, oblivious to, +the derisive remarks that the appearance of these new belongings drew +from many persons, the owner went clumping about in them, with the +rumply legs of his trousers tucked down in them, and ballooning up and +out over the tops in folds which overlapped from his knee joints halfway +down his attenuated calves.</p> + +<p>As Deputy Sheriff Quarles said, the combination was a sight fit to make +a horse laugh. It may be that small boys have a lesser sense of humor +than horses have, for certainly the boys who were the old man's +invariable shadows did not laugh at him, or at his boots either. Between +the whiskered senior and his small comrades there existed a freemasonry +that made them all sense a thing beyond the ken of most of their elders. +Perhaps this was because the elders, being blind in their superior +wisdom, saw neither this thing nor the communion that flourished. They +saw only the farcical joke. But His<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> Honor, Judge Priest, to cite a +conspicuous exception, seemed not to see the lamentable comedy of it.</p> + +<p>Indeed, it seemed to some almost as if Judge Priest were aiding and +abetting the befogged O'Day in his demented enterprises, his peculiar +excursions and his weird purchases. If he did not actually encourage him +in these constant exhibitions of witlessness, certainly there were no +evidences available to show that he sought to dissuade O'Day from his +strange course.</p> + +<p>At the end of a fortnight one citizen, in whom patience had ceased to be +a virtue and to whose nature long-continued silence on any public topic +was intolerable, felt it his duty to speak to the Judge upon the +subject. This gentleman—his name was S. P. Escott—held, with many, +that, for the good name of the community, steps should be taken to abate +the infantile, futile activities of the besotted legatee.</p> + +<p>Afterward Mr. Escott, giving a partial account of the conversation with +Judge Priest to certain of his friends, showed unfeigned annoyance at +the outcome.</p> + +<p>"I claim that old man's not fittin' to be runnin' a court any longer," +he stated bitterly. "He's too old and peevish—that's what ails him! For +one, I'm certainly not never goin' to vote fur him again. Why, it's +gettin' to be ez much ez a man's life is worth to stop that there +spiteful old crank in the street and put a civil question to him—that's +whut's the matter!"</p> + +<p>"What happened S. P.?" inquired some one.</p> + +<p>"Why, here's what happened!" exclaimed the aggrieved Mr. Escott. "I +hadn't any more than started in to tell him the whole town was talkin' +about the way that daffy Old Peep O'Day was carryin' on, and that +somethin' had oughter be done about it, and didn't he think it was +beholdin' on him ez circuit judge to do somethin' right away, sech ez +havin' O'Day tuck up and tried fur a lunatic, and that I fur one was +ready and willin' to testify to the crazy things I'd seen done with my +own eyes—when he cut in on me and jest ez good ez told<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> me to my own +face that ef I'd quit tendin' to other people's business I'd mebbe have +more business of my own to tend to.</p> + +<p>"Think of that, gentlemen! A circuit judge bemeanin' a citizen and a +taxpayer"—he checked himself slightly—"anyhow, a citizen, thataway! It +shows he can't be rational his ownself. Personally I claim Old Priest is +failin' mentally—he must be! And ef anybody kin be found to run against +him at the next election you gentlemen jest watch and see who gits my +vote!"</p> + +<p>Having uttered this threat with deep and significant emphasis Mr. +Escott, still muttering, turned and entered the front gate of his +boarding house. It was not exactly his boarding house; his wife ran it. +But Mr. Escott lived there and voted from there.</p> + +<p>But the apogee of Peep O'Day's carnival of weird vagaries of deportment +came at the end of two months—two months in which each day the man +furnished cumulative and piled-up material for derisive and jocular +comment on the part of a very considerable proportion of his fellow +townsmen.</p> + +<p>Three occurrences of a widely dissimilar nature, yet all closely +interrelated to the main issue, marked the climax of the man's new rôle +in his new career. The first of these was the arrival of his legacy; the +second was a one-ring circus; and the third and last was a nephew.</p> + +<p>In the form of sundry bills of exchange the estate left by the late +Daniel O'Day, of the town of Kilmare, in the island of Ireland, was on a +certain afternoon delivered over into Judge Priest's hands, and by him, +in turn, handed to the rightful owner, after which sundry +indebtednesses, representing the total of the old Judge's day-to-day +cash advances to O'Day, were liquidated.</p> + +<p>The ceremony of deducting this sum took place at the Planters' Bank, +whither the two had journeyed in company from the courthouse. Having, +with the aid of the paying teller, instructed O'Day in the technical +details<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> requisite to the drawing of personal checks, Judge Priest went +home and had his bag packed, and left for Reelfoot Lake to spend a week +fishing. As a consequence he missed the remaining two events, following +immediately thereafter.</p> + +<p>The circus was no great shakes of a circus; no grand, glittering, +gorgeous, glorious pageant of education and entertainment, traveling on +its own special trains; no vast tented city of world's wonders and +world's champions, heralded for weeks and weeks in advance of its coming +by dead walls emblazoned with the finest examples of the lithographer's +art, and by half-page advertisements in the <i>Daily Evening News</i>. On the +contrary, it was a shabby little wagon show, which, coming overland on +short notice, rolled into town under horse power, and set up its ragged +and dusty canvases on the vacant lot across from Yeiser's drug store.</p> + +<p>Compared with the street parade of any of its great and famous rivals, +the street parade of this circus was a meager and disappointing thing. +Why, there was only one elephant, a dwarfish and debilitated-looking +creature, worn mangy and slick on its various angles, like the cover of +an old-fashioned haircloth trunk; and obviously most of the closed cages +were weather-beaten stake wagons in disguise. Nevertheless, there was a +sizable turnout of people for the afternoon performance. After all, a +circus was a circus.</p> + +<p>Moreover, this particular circus was marked at the afternoon performance +by happenings of a nature most decidedly unusual. At one o'clock the +doors were opened; at one-ten the eyes of the proprietor were made glad +and his heart was uplifted within him by the sight of a strange +procession, drawing nearer and nearer across the scuffed turf of the +Common, and heading in the direction of the red ticket wagon.</p> + +<p>At the head of the procession marched Peep O'Day—only, of course, the +proprietor didn't know it was Peep O'Day—a queer figure in his rumpled +black clothes and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> his red-topped brass-toed boots, and with one hand +holding fast to the string of a captive toy balloon. Behind him, in an +uneven jostling formation, followed many small boys and some small +girls. A census of the ranks would have developed that here were +included practically all the juvenile white population who otherwise, +through a lack of funds, would have been denied the opportunity to +patronize this circus or, in fact, any circus.</p> + +<p>Each member of the joyous company was likewise the bearer of a toy +balloon—red, yellow, blue, green, or purple, as the case might be. Over +the line of heads the taut rubbery globes rode on their tethers, nodding +and twisting like so many big iridescent bubbles; and half a block away, +at the edge of the lot, a balloon vender, whose entire stock had been +disposed of in one splendid transaction, now stood, empty-handed but +full-pocketed, marveling at the stroke of luck that enabled him to take +an afternoon off and rest his voice.</p> + +<p>Out of a seemingly bottomless exchequer Peep O'Day bought tickets of +admission for all. But this was only the beginning. Once inside the tent +he procured accommodations in the reserved-seat section for himself and +those who accompanied him. From such superior points of vantage the +whole crew of them witnessed the performance, from the thrilling grand +entry, with spangled ladies and gentlemen riding two by two on +broad-backed steeds, to the tumbling bout introducing the full strength +of the company, which came at the end.</p> + +<p>They munched fresh-roasted peanuts and balls of sugar-coated popcorn, +slightly rancid, until they munched no longer with zest but merely +mechanically. They drank pink lemonade to an extent that threatened +absolute depletion of the fluid contents of both barrels in the +refreshment stand out in the menagerie tent. They whooped their +unbridled approval when the wild Indian chief, after shooting down a +stuffed coon with a bow and arrow from somewhere up near the top of the +center pole while balancing himself jauntily erect upon the haunches<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> of +a coursing white charger, suddenly flung off his feathered headdress, +his wig and his fringed leather garments, and revealed himself in pink +fleshings as the principal bareback rider.</p> + +<p>They screamed in a chorus of delight when the funny old clown, who had +been forcibly deprived of three tin flutes in rapid succession, now +produced yet a fourth from the seemingly inexhaustible depths of his +baggy white pants—a flute with a string and a bent pin attached to +it—and, secretly affixing the pin in the tail of the cross ringmaster's +coat, was thereafter enabled to toot sharp shrill blasts at frequent +intervals, much to the chagrin of the ringmaster, who seemed utterly +unable to discover the whereabouts of the instrument dangling behind +him.</p> + +<p>But no one among them whooped louder or laughed longer than their +elderly and bewhiskered friend, who sat among them, paying the bills. As +his guests they stayed for the concert; and, following this, they +patronized the side show in a body. They had been almost the first upon +the scene; assuredly they were the last of the audience to quit it.</p> + +<p>Indeed, before they trailed their confrère away from the spot the sun +was nearly down; and at scores of supper tables all over town the tale +of poor old Peep O'Day's latest exhibition of freakishness was being +retailed, with elaborations, to interested auditors. Estimates of the +sum probably expended by him in this crowning extravagance ranged well +up into the hundreds of dollars.</p> + +<p>As for the object of these speculations, he was destined not to eat any +supper at all that night. Something happened that so upset him as to +make him forget the meal altogether. It began to happen when he reached +the modest home of P. Gafford, adjoining the Gafford stables, on Locust +Street, and found sitting on the lower-most step of the porch a young +man of untidy and unshaved aspect, who hailed him affectionately as +Uncle Paul, and who showed deep annoyance and acute distress upon being +rebuffed with chill words.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> + +<p>It is possible that the strain of serving a three-months' sentence, on +the technical charge of vagrancy, in a workhouse somewhere in Indiana, +had affected the young man's nerves. His ankle bones still ached where +the ball and chain had been hitched; on his palms the blisters induced +by the uncongenial use of a sledge hammer on a rock pile had hardly as +yet turned to calluses. So it is only fair to presume that his nervous +system felt the stress of his recent confining experiences also.</p> + +<p>Almost tearfully he pleaded with Peep O'Day to remember the ties of +blood that bound them; repeatedly he pointed out that he was the only +known kinsman of the other in all the world, and, therefore, had more +reason than any other living being to expect kindness and generosity at +his uncle's hands. He spoke socialistically of the advisability of an +equal division; failing to make any impression here he mentioned the +subject of a loan—at first hopefully, but finally despairingly.</p> + +<p>When he was done Peep O'Day, in a perfectly colorless and unsympathetic +voice, bade him good-by—not good-night but good-by! And, going inside +the house, he closed the door behind him, leaving his newly returned +relative outside and quite alone.</p> + +<p>At this the young man uttered violent language; but, since there was +nobody present to hear him, it is likely he found small satisfaction in +his profanity, rich though it may have been in metaphor and variety. So +presently he betook himself off, going straight to the office in Legal +Row of H. B. Sublette, Attorney-at-law.</p> + +<p>From the circumstance that he found Mr. Sublette in, though it was long +past that gentleman's office hours, and, moreover, found Mr. Sublette +waiting in an expectant and attentive attitude, it might have been +adduced by one skilled in the trick of putting two and two together that +the pair of them had reached a prior understanding sometime during the +day; and that the visit of the young man to the Gafford home and his +speeches there had all been parts of a scheme planned out at a prior +conference.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> + +<p>Be this as it may, so soon as Mr. Sublette had heard his caller's +version of the meeting upon the porch he lost no time in taking certain +legal steps. That very night, on behalf of his client, denominated in +the documents as Percival Dwyer, Esquire, he prepared a petition +addressed to the circuit judge of the district, setting forth that, +inasmuch as Paul Felix O'Day had by divers acts shown himself to be of +unsound mind, now, therefore, came his nephew and next of kin praying +that a committee or curator be appointed to take over the estate of the +said Paul Felix O'Day, and administer the same in accordance with the +orders of the court until such time as the said Paul Felix O'Day should +recover his reason, or should pass from this life, and so forth and so +on; not to mention whereases in great number and aforesaids abounding +throughout the text in the utmost profusion.</p> + +<p>On the following morning the papers were filed with Circuit Clerk Milam. +That vigilant barrister, Mr. Sublette, brought them in person to the +courthouse before nine o'clock, he having the interests of his client at +heart and perhaps also visions of a large contingent fee in his mind. No +retainer had been paid. The state of Mr. Dwyer's finances—or, rather, +the absence of any finances—had precluded the performance of that +customary detail; but to Mr. Sublette's experienced mind the prospects +of future increment seemed large.</p> + +<p>Accordingly he was all for prompt action. Formally he said he wished to +go on record as demanding for his principal a speedy hearing of the +issue, with a view to preventing the defendant named in the pleadings +from dissipating any more of the estate lately bequeathed to him and now +fully in his possession—or words to that effect.</p> + +<p>Mr. Milam felt justified in getting into communication with Judge Priest +over the long-distance 'phone; and the Judge, cutting short his vacation +and leaving uncaught vast numbers of bass and perch in Reelfoot Lake, +came home, arriving late that night.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> + +<p>Next morning, having issued divers orders in connection with the +impending litigation, he sent a messenger to find Peep O'Day and to +direct O'Day to come to the courthouse for a personal interview.</p> + +<p>Shortly thereafter a scene that had occurred some two months earlier, +with his Honor's private chamber for a setting, was substantially +duplicated: there was the same cast of two, the same stage properties, +the same atmosphere of untidy tidiness. And, as before, the dialogue was +in Judge Priest's hands. He led and his fellow character followed his +leads.</p> + +<p>"Peep," he was saying, "you understand, don't you, that this here +fragrant nephew of yours that's turned up from nowheres in particular is +fixin' to git ready to try to prove that you are feeble-minded? And, on +top of that, that he's goin' to ask that a committee be app'inted fur +you—in other words, that somebody or other shall be named by the court, +meanin' me, to take charge of your property and control the spendin' of +it frum now on?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh," stated O'Day. "Pete Gafford he set down with me and made hit +all clear to me, yestiddy evenin', after they'd done served the papers +on me."</p> + +<p>"All right, then. Now I'm goin' to fix the hearin' fur to-morrow mornin' +at ten. The other side is askin' fur a quick decision; and I rather +figger they're entitled to it. Is that agreeable to you?"</p> + +<p>"Whutever you say, Judge."</p> + +<p>"Well, have you retained a lawyer to represent your interests in court? +That's the main question that I sent fur you to ast you."</p> + +<p>"Do I need a lawyer, Judge?"</p> + +<p>"Well, there have been times when I regarded lawyers ez bein' +superfluous," stated Judge Priest dryly. "Still, in most cases litigants +do have 'em round when the case is bein' heard."</p> + +<p>"I don't know ez I need any lawyer to he'p me say whut I've got to say," +said O'Day. "Judge, you ain't never ast me no questions about the way +I've<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> been carryin' on sence I come into this here money; but I reckin +mebbe this is ez good a time ez any to tell you jest why I've been +actin' the way I've done. You see, suh—"</p> + +<p>"Hold on!" broke in Judge Priest. "Up to now, ez my friend, it would 'a' +been perfectly proper fur you to give me your confidences ef you were +minded so to do; but now I reckin you'd better not. You see, I'm the +judge that's got to decide whether you are a responsible person—whether +you're mentally capable of handlin' your own financial affairs, or +whether you ain't. So you'd better wait and make your statement in your +own behalf to me whilst I'm settin' on the bench. I'll see that you git +an opportunity to do so and I'll listen to it; and I'll give it all the +consideration it's deservin' of.</p> + +<p>"And, on second thought, p'raps it would only be a waste of time and +money fur you to go hirin' a lawyer specially to represent you. Under +the law it's my duty, in sech a case ez this here one is, to app'int a +member of the bar to serve durin' the proceedin's ez your guardian <i>ad +litem</i>.</p> + +<p>"You don't need to be startled," he added, as O'Day flinched at the +sound in his ears of these strange and fearsome words. "A guardian <i>ad +litem</i> is simply a lawyer that tends to your affairs till the case is +settled one way or the other. Ef you had a dozen lawyers I'd have to +app'int him jest the same. So you don't need to worry about that part of +it.</p> + +<p>"That's all. You kin go now ef you want to. Only, ef I was you, I +wouldn't draw out any more money from the bank 'twixt now and the time +when I make my decision."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>All things considered, it was an unusual assemblage that Judge Priest +regarded over the top rims of his glasses as he sat facing it in his +broad armchair, with the flat top of the bench intervening between him +and the gathering. Not often, even in the case of exciting murder +trials, had the old courtroom held a larger crowd; certainly never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> had +it held so many boys. Boys, and boys exclusively, filled the back rows +of benches downstairs. More boys packed the narrow shelf-like balcony +that spanned the chamber across its far end—mainly small boys, +barefooted, sunburned, freckle-faced, shock-headed boys. And, for boys, +they were strangely silent and strangely attentive.</p> + +<p>The petitioner sat with his counsel, Mr. Sublette. The petitioner had +been newly shaved, and from some mysterious source had been equipped +with a neat wardrobe. Plainly he was endeavoring to wear a look of +virtue, which was a difficult undertaking, as you would understand had +you known the petitioner.</p> + +<p>The defending party to the action was seated across the room, touching +elbows with old Colonel Farrell, dean of the local bar and its most +florid orator.</p> + +<p>"The court will designate Col. Horatio Farrell as guardian <i>ad litem</i> +for the defendant during these proceedings," Judge Priest had stated a +few minutes earlier, using the formal and grammatical language he +reserved exclusively for his courtroom.</p> + +<p>At once old Colonel Farrell had hitched his chair up alongside O'Day; +had asked him several questions in a tone inaudible to those about them; +had listened to the whispered answers of O'Day; and then had nodded his +huge curly white dome of a head, as though amply satisfied with the +responses.</p> + +<p>Let us skip the preliminaries. True, they seemed to interest the +audience; here, though, they would be tedious reading. Likewise, in +touching upon the opening and outlining address of Attorney-at-Law +Sublette let us, for the sake of time and space, be very much briefer +than Mr. Sublette was. For our present purposes, I deem it sufficient to +say that in all his professional career Mr. Sublette was never more +eloquent, never more forceful never more vehement in his allegations, +and never more convinced—as he himself stated, not once but +repeatedly—of his ability to prove the facts he alleged<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> by competent +and unbiased testimony. These facts, he pointed out, were common +knowledge in the community; nevertheless, he stood prepared to buttress +them with the evidence of reputable witnesses, given under oath.</p> + +<p>Mr. Sublette, having unwound at length, now wound up. He sat down, +perspiring freely and through the perspiration radiating confidence in +his contentions, confidence in the result, and, most of all, unbounded +confidence in Mr. Sublette.</p> + +<p>Now Colonel Farrell was standing up to address the court. Under the +cloak of a theatrical presence and a large orotund manner, and behind a +Ciceronian command of sonorous language, the colonel carried concealed a +shrewd old brain. It was as though a skilled marksman lurked in ambush +amid a tangle of luxuriant foliage. In this particular instance, +moreover, it is barely possible that the colonel was acting on a cue, +privily conveyed to him before the court opened.</p> + +<p>"May it please Your Honor," he began, "I have just conferred with the +defendant here; and, acting in the capacity of his guardian <i>ad litem</i>, +I have advised him to waive an opening address by counsel. Indeed, the +defendant has no counsel. Furthermore, the defendant, also acting upon +my advice, will present no witnesses in his own behalf. But, with Your +Honor's permission, the defendant will now make a personal statement; +and thereafter he will rest content, leaving the final arbitrament of +the issue to Your Honor's discretion."</p> + +<p>"I object!" exclaimed Mr. Sublette briskly.</p> + +<p>"On what ground does the learned counsel object?" inquired Judge Priest.</p> + +<p>"On the grounds that, since the mental competence of this man is +concerned—since it is our contention that he is patently and plainly a +victim of senility, an individual prematurely in his dotage—any +utterances by him will be of no value whatsoever in aiding the +conscience and intelligence of the court to arrive at a fair and just +conclusion regarding the defendant's mental condition."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. Sublette excelled in the use of big words; there was no doubt about +that.</p> + +<p>"The objection is overruled," said Judge Priest. He nodded in the +direction of O'Day and Colonel Farrell. "The court will hear the +defendant. He is not to be interrupted while making his statement. The +defendant may proceed."</p> + +<p>Without further urging, O'Day stood up, a tall, slab-sided rack of a +man, with his long arms dangling at his sides, half facing Judge Priest +and half facing his nephew and his nephew's lawyer. Without hesitation +he began to speak. And this was what he said:</p> + +<p>"There's mebbe some here ez knows about how I was raised and fetched up. +My paw and my maw died when I was jest only a baby; so I was brung up +out here at the old county porehouse ez a pauper. I can't remember the +time when I didn't have to work for my board and keep, and work hard. +While other boys was goin' to school and playin' hooky, and goin' in +washin' in the creek, and playin' games, and all sech ez that, I had to +work. I never done no playin' round in my whole life—not till here jest +recently, anyway.</p> + +<p>"But I always craved to play round some. I didn't never say nothin' +about it to nobody after I growed up, 'cause I figgered it out they +wouldn't understand and mebbe'd laugh at me; but all these years, ever +sence I left that there porehouse, I've had a hankerin' here inside of +me"—he lifted one hand and touched his breast—"I've had a hankerin' to +be a boy and to do all the things a boy does; to do the things I was +chiseled out of doin' whilst I was of a suitable age to be doin' 'em. I +call to mind that I uster dream in my sleep about doin' 'em; but the +dream never come true—not till jest here lately. It didn't have no +chancet to come true—not till then.</p> + +<p>"So, when this money come to me so sudden and unbeknownstlike I said to +myself that I was goin' to make that there dream come true; and I +started out fur to do it. And I done it! And I reckin that's the cause +of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> my bein' here to-day, accused of bein' feeble-minded. But, even so, +I don't regret it none. Ef it was all to do over ag'in, I'd do it jest +the very same way.</p> + +<p>"Why, I never knowed whut it was, till here two months or so ago, to +have my fill of bananas and candy and gingersnaps, and all sech +knickknacks ez them. All my life I've been cravin' secretly to own a +pair of red-topped boots with brass toes on 'em, like I used to see +other boys wearin' in the wintertime when I was out yonder at that +porehouse wearin' an old pair of somebody else's cast-off shoes—mebbe a +man's shoes, with rags wropped round my feet to keep the snow frum +comin' through the cracks in 'em, and to keep 'em from slippin' right +spang off my feet. I got three toes frostbit oncet durin' a cold spell, +wearin' them kind of shoes. But here the other week I found myself able +to buy me some red-top boots with brass toes on 'em. So I had 'em made +to order and I'm wearin' 'em now. I wear 'em reg'lar even ef it is +summertime. I take a heap of pleasure out of 'em. And, also, all my life +long I've been wantin' to go to a circus. But not till three days ago I +didn't never git no chancet to go to one.</p> + +<p>"That gentleman yonder—Mister Sublette—he 'lowed jest now that I was +leadin' a lot of little boys in this here town into bad habits. He said +that I was learnin' 'em nobody knowed whut devilment. And he spoke of my +havin' egged 'em on to steal watermelons frum Mister Bell's watermelon +patch out here three miles frum town, on the Marshallville gravel road. +You-all heared whut he jest now said about that.</p> + +<p>"I don't mean no offense and I beg his pardon fur contradictin' him +right out before everybody here in the big courthouse; but, mister, +you're wrong. I don't lead these here boys astray that I've been runnin' +round with. They're mighty nice clean boys, all of 'em. Some of 'em are +mighty near ez pore ez whut I uster be; but there ain't no real harm in +any of 'em. We git along together <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>fine—me and them. And, without no +preachin', nor nothin' like that, I've done my best these weeks we've +been frolickin' and projectin' round together to keep 'em frum growin' +up to do mean things. I use chawin' tobacco myself; but I've told 'em, I +don't know how many times, that ef they chaw it'll stunt 'em in their +growth. And I've got several of 'em that was smokin' cigarettes on the +sly to promise me they'd quit. So I don't figger ez I've done them boys +any real harm by goin' round with 'em. And I believe ef you was to ast +'em they'd all tell you the same, suh.</p> + +<p>"Now about them watermelons: Sence this gentleman has brung them +watermelons up, I'm goin' to tell you-all the truth about that too."</p> + +<p>He cast a quick, furtive look, almost a guilty look, over his shoulder +toward the rear of the courtroom before he went on:</p> + +<p>"Them watermelons wasn't really stole at all. I seen Mister Dick Bell +beforehand and arranged with him to pay him in full fur whutever damage +mout be done. But, you see, I knowed watermelons tasted sweeter to a boy +ef he thought he'd hooked 'em out of a patch; so I never let on to my +little pardners yonder that I'd the same ez paid Mister Bell in advance +fur the melons we snuck out of his patch and et in the woods. They've +all been thinkin' up till now that we really hooked them watermelons. +But ef that was wrong I'm sorry fur it.</p> + +<p>"Mister Sublette, you jest now said that I was fritterin' away my +property on vain foolishment. Them was the words you used—'fritterin'' +and 'vain foolishment.' Mebbe you're right, suh, about the fritterin' +part; but ef spendin' money in a certain way gives a man ez much +pleasure ez it's give me these last two months, and ef the money is +his'n by rights, I figger it can't be so very foolish; though it may +'pear so to some.</p> + +<p>"Excusin' these here clothes I've got on and these here boots, which +ain't paid fur yet, but is charged up to me on Felsburg Brothers' books +and Mister M. Biederman's books, I didn't spend only a dollar a day, or +mebbe two<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> dollars, and once three dollars in a single day out of whut +was comin' to me. The Judge here, he let me have that out of his own +pocket; and I paid him back. And that was all I did spend till here +three days ago when that there circus come to town. I reckin I did spend +a right smart then.</p> + +<p>"My money had come frum the old country only the day before; so I went +to the bank and they writ out one of them pieces of paper which is +called a check, and I signed it—with my mark; and they give me the +money I wanted—an even two hundred dollars. And part of that there +money I used to pay fur circus tickets fur all the little boys and +little girls I could find in this town that couldn't 'a' got to the +circus no other way. Some of 'em are settin' back there behind you-all +now—some of the boys, I mean; I don't see none of the little girls.</p> + +<p>"There was several of 'em told me at the time they hadn't never seen a +circus—not in their whole lives. Fur that matter, I hadn't, neither; +but I didn't want no pore child in this town to grow up to be ez old ez +I am without havin' been to at least one circus. So I taken 'em all in +and paid all the bills; and when night come there wasn't but 'bout nine +dollars left out of the whole two hundred that I'd started out with in +the mornin'. But I don't begredge spendin' it. It looked to me like it +was money well invested. They all seemed to enjoy it; and I know I done +so.</p> + +<p>"There may be bigger circuses'n whut that one was; but I don't see how a +circus could 'a' been any better than this here one I'm tellin' about, +ef it was ten times ez big. I don't regret the investment and I don't +aim to lie about it now. Mister Sublette, I'd do the same thing over +ag'in ef the chance should come, lawsuit or no lawsuit. Ef you should +win this here case mebbe I wouldn't have no second chance.</p> + +<p>"Ef some gentleman is app'inted ez a committee to handle my money it's +likely he wouldn't look at the thing the same way I do; and it's likely +he wouldn't let me<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> have so much money all in one lump to spend takin' a +passel of little shavers that ain't no kin to me to the circus and to +the side show, besides lettin' 'em stay fur the grand concert or after +show, and all. But I done it once; and I've got it to remember about and +think about in my own mind ez long ez I live.</p> + +<p>"I'm 'bout finished now. There's jest one thing more I'd like to say, +and that is this: Mister Sublette he said a minute ago that I was in my +second childhood. Meanin' no offense, suh, but you was wrong there too. +The way I look at it, a man can't be in his second childhood without +he's had his first childhood; and I was cheated plum' out of mine. I'm +more'n sixty years old, ez near ez I kin figger; but I'm tryin' to be a +boy before it's too late."</p> + +<p>He paused a moment and looked round him.</p> + +<p>"The way I look at it, Judge Priest, suh, and you-all, every man that +grows up, no matter how old he may git to be, is entitled to 'a' been a +boy oncet in his lifetime. I—I reckin that's all."</p> + +<p>He sat down and dropped his eyes upon the floor, as though ashamed that +his temerity should have carried him so far. There was a strange little +hush filling the courtroom. It was Judge Priest who broke it.</p> + +<p>"The court," he said, "has by the words just spoken by this man been +sufficiently advised as to the sanity of the man himself. The court +cares to hear nothing more from either side on this subject. The +petition is dismissed."</p> + +<p>Very probably these last words may have been as so much Greek to the +juvenile members of the audience; possibly, though, they were made aware +of the meaning of them by the look upon the face of Nephew Percival +Dwyer and the look upon the face of Nephew Percival Dwyer's attorney. At +any rate, His Honor hardly had uttered the last syllable of his decision +before, from the rear of the courtroom and from the gallery above, there +arose a shrill, vehement, sincere sound of yelling—exultant,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +triumphant, and deafening. It continued for upward of a minute before +the small disturbers remembered where they were and reduced themselves +to a state of comparative quiet.</p> + +<p>For reasons best known to himself, Judge Priest, who ordinarily stickled +for order and decorum in his courtroom, made no effort to quell the +outburst or to have it quelled—not even when a considerable number of +the adults present joined in it, having first cleared their throats of a +slight huskiness that had come upon them, severally and generally.</p> + +<p>Presently the Judge rapped for quiet—and got it. It was apparent that +he had more to say; and all there hearkened to hear what it might be.</p> + +<p>"I have just this to add," quoth His Honor: "It is the official judgment +of this court that the late defendant, being entirely sane, is competent +to manage his own affairs after his preferences.</p> + +<p>"And it is the private opinion of this court that not only is the late +defendant sane but that he is the sanest man in this entire +jurisdiction. Mister Clerk, this court stands adjourned."</p> + +<p>Coming down the three short steps from the raised platform of the bench, +Judge Priest beckoned to Sheriff Giles Birdsong, who, at the tail of the +departing crowd, was shepherding its last exuberant members through the +doorway.</p> + +<p>"Giles," said Judge Priest in an undertone, when the worthy sheriff had +drawn near, "the circuit clerk tells me there's an indictment for +malicious mischief ag'in this here Perce Dwyer knockin' round amongst +the records somewheres—an indictment the grand jury returned several +sessions back, but which was never pressed, owin' to the sudden +departure frum our midst of the person in question.</p> + +<p>"I wonder ef it would be too much trouble fur you to sort of drap a hint +in the ear of the young man or his lawyer that the said indictment is +apt to be revived, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> that the said Dwyer is liable to be tuck into +custody by you and lodged in the county jail sometime during the ensuin' +forty-eight hours—without he should see his way clear durin' the +meantime to get clean out of this city, county and state! Would it?"</p> + +<p>"Trouble? No, suh! It won't be no trouble to me," said Mr. Birdsong +promptly. "Why, it'll be more of a pleasure, Judge."</p> + +<p>And so it was.</p> + +<p>Except for one small added and purely incidental circumstance, our +narrative is ended. That same afternoon Judge Priest sat on the front +porch of his old white house out on Clay Street, waiting for Jeff +Poindexter to summon him to supper. Peep O'Day opened the front gate and +came up the graveled walk between the twin rows of silver-leaf poplars. +The Judge, rising to greet his visitor, met him at the top step.</p> + +<p>"Come in," bade the Judge heartily, "and set down a spell and rest your +face and hands."</p> + +<p>"No, suh; much obliged, but I ain't got only a minute to stay," said +O'Day. "I jest come out here, suh, to thank you fur whut you done to-day +on my account in the big courthouse, and—and to make you a little kind +of a present."</p> + +<p>"It's all right to thank me," said Judge Priest; "but I couldn't accept +any reward fur renderin' a decision in accordance with the plain facts."</p> + +<p>"'Tain't no gift of money, or nothin' like that," O'Day hastened to +explain. "Really, suh, it don't amount to nothin' at all, scursely. But +a little while ago I happened to be in Mr. B. Weil & Son's store, doin' +a little tradin', and I run acrost a new kind of knickknack, which it +seemed like to me it was about the best thing I ever tasted in my whole +life. So, on the chancet, suh, that you might have a sweet tooth, too, I +taken the liberty of bringin' you a sack of 'em and—and—and here they +are, suh; three flavors—strawberry, lemon and vanilly."</p> + +<p>Suddenly overcome with confusion, he dislodged a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> large-sized paper bag +from his side coat pocket and thrust it into Judge Priest's hands; then, +backing away, he turned and clumped down the graveled path in great and +embarrassed haste.</p> + +<p>Judge Priest opened the bag and peered down into it.</p> + +<p>It contained a sticky sugary dozen of flattened confections, each molded +round a short length of wooden splinter. These sirupy articles, which +have since come into quite general use, are known, I believe, as all-day +suckers.</p> + +<p>When Judge Priest looked up again, Peep O'Day was outside the gate, +clumping down the uneven sidewalk of Clay Street with long strides of +his booted legs. Half a dozen small boys, who, it was evident, had +remained hidden during the ceremony of presentation, now mysteriously +appeared and were accompanying the departing donor, half trotting to +keep up with him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LAUGHTER" id="LAUGHTER"></a>LAUGHTER<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> CHARLES CALDWELL DOBIE</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>Harper's Magazine</i></p> + + +<p>As Suvaroff neared his lodgings, he began to wonder whether the Italian +who had the room next him would continue to grind out tunes all night +upon his accordion. The thought made Suvaroff shudder. What in Heaven's +name possessed people to grind out tunes, Suvaroff found himself +inquiring, unless one earned one's living that way? Certainly this +weather-beaten Italian was no musician; he smelled too strongly of fish +for any one to mistake his occupation. He tortured melody from choice, +blandly, for the pure enjoyment of the thing. With Suvaroff it was +different; if he did not play, he did not eat.</p> + +<p>Suvaroff's head had ached all day. The café where he scraped his violin +from early afternoon until midnight had never seemed so stuffy, so +tawdry, so impossible! All day he had sat and played and played, while +people ate and chattered and danced. No, that did not describe what +people did; they gorged and shrieked and gyrated like decapitated fowls, +accomplishing everything with a furious energy, primitive, abandoned, +disgusting. He wondered if he would ever again see people eat quietly +and simply, like normal human beings.</p> + +<p>If only the Italian would go away, or decide to sleep, or die! Yes, +Suvaroff would have been glad to have found his neighbor quite +dead—anything to still that terrible accordion, which had been pumping +out tunes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> for over a week at all hours of the day and night! The music +did not have the virtue of an attempt at gaiety; instead it droned out +prolonged wails, melancholy and indescribably discordant.</p> + +<p>The night was damp, a typical San Francisco midsummer night. A drizzling +fog had swept in from the ocean and fell refreshingly on the gray city. +But the keenness of the air irritated Suvaroff's headache instead of +soothing it; he felt the wind upon his temples as one feels the cool cut +of a knife. In short, everything irritated Suvaroff—his profession, the +café where he fiddled, the strident streets of the city, the evening +mist, the Hôtel des Alpes Maritimes, where he lodged, and the Italian +fisherman and his doleful accordion.</p> + +<p>Turning off Kearny Street into Broadway, he had half a notion not to go +home, but his dissatisfaction was so inclusive that home seemed, at +once, quite as good and as hopeless a place to go as any other. So he +pushed open the door of his lodging-house and stamped rather heavily +up-stairs.</p> + +<p>Although midnight, the first sound which greeted Suvaroff was the +wheezing of the Italian's accordion.</p> + +<p>"Now," muttered Suvaroff, "I shall suffer in silence no longer. Nobody +in this city, much less in these wretched lodgings, has an ear for +anything but the clink of money and the shrill laughter of women. If +fifty men were to file saws in front of the entrance of any one of these +rooms, there would be not the slightest concern. Every one would go on +sleeping as if they had nothing more weighty on their conscience than +the theft of a kiss from a pretty girl."</p> + +<p>He tossed his hat on the bed and made for the Italian's door. He did not +wait to knock, but broke in noisily. The accordion stopped with a +prolonged wail; its owner rose, visibly frightened.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" cried the Italian, "it is you! I am glad of that. See, I have not +left the house for three days."</p> + +<p>There was a genial simplicity about the man; Suvaroff<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> felt overcome +with confusion. "What is the matter? Are you ill?" he stammered, closing +the door.</p> + +<p>"No. I am afraid to go out. There is somebody waiting for me. Tell me, +did you see a cripple standing on the corner, near Bollo's Wine Shop, as +you came in?"</p> + +<p>Suvaroff reflected. "Well, not a cripple, exactly. But I saw a hunchback +with—with—"</p> + +<p>"Yes! yes!" cried the other, excitedly. "A hunchback with a handsome +face! That is he! I am afraid of him. For three days he has sat there, +waiting!"</p> + +<p>"For you? How absurd! Why should any one do such a ridiculous thing?"</p> + +<p>The Italian slipped his hands from the accordion and laid it aside. +"Nobody but one who is mad would do it, but he is mad. There is no doubt +about that!"</p> + +<p>Suvaroff began to feel irritated. "What are you talking about? Have you +lost your senses? If he is waiting for you, why do you not go out and +send him away? Go out and pay him what you owe him."</p> + +<p>The Italian rose and began to shudder. "I owe him nothing. He is waiting +for me—<i>to kill me</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" cried Suvaroff. "What is his reason?"</p> + +<p>"He is waiting to kill me because I laughed at him."</p> + +<p>"That is ridiculous!" said Suvaroff.</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless, it is true," replied the Italian. "He kills every one who +laughs at him. Three days ago I laughed at him. But I ran away. He +followed me. He does not know where I lodge, but he has wit enough to +understand that if he waits long enough he will find me out. In Heaven's +name, my friend, can you not help me? See, I am a simple soul. I cannot +think quickly. I have prayed to the Virgin, but it is no use. Tell me, +what can I do to escape?"</p> + +<p>"Why do you not see a policeman?"</p> + +<p>The Italian let his hands fall hopelessly. "A policeman? What good would +that do? Even <i>you</i> do not believe me!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> + +<p>A chill seized Suvaroff. He began to shake, and in the next instant a +fever burned his cheeks. His head was full of little darting pains. He +turned away from the Italian, impatiently. "You must be a pretty sort of +man to let a little hunchback frighten you! Good night."</p> + +<p>And with that Suvaroff went out, slamming the door.</p> + +<p>When Suvaroff got to his room he felt dizzy. He threw himself on the bed +and lay for some time in a stupor. When he came to his senses again the +first sound to greet him was the wail of his neighbor's accordion.</p> + +<p>"What a fool I am!" he muttered. "Here I go bursting into this Italian's +room for the purpose of asking him to quit his abominable noise, and I +listen like a dumb sheep to <i>his</i> bleatings, and so forget my errand!"</p> + +<p>The noise continued, grew more insistent, became unbearable. Suvaroff +covered his ears with a comforter. His head was throbbing so violently +that even the ticking of a clock upon the table by his bed cut his +senses like a two-edged sword. He rose, stumbling about with a feeling +of indescribable weakness. What was the matter? Why did he feel so ill? +His eyes burned, his legs seemed weighted, his throat was so dry that +there was no comfort when he swallowed. All this he could have stood if +it had not been for the fiendish noise which, he began to feel, was +being played merely for his torture.</p> + +<p>He put on his hat and stumbled down-stairs, out into the night. Crossing +the street, he went at once to Bollo's Wine Shop. The hunchback was +sitting on a garbage-can, almost at the entrance. At the sight of this +misshapen figure, the irritating memory of the Italian and his +impossible music recurred to Suvaroff. A sudden sinister cruelty came +over him; he felt a wanton ruthlessness that the sight of ugliness +sometimes engenders in natures sensitive to beauty. He went up to the +hunchback and looked searchingly into the man's face. It was a strangely +handsome face, and its incongruity struck<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> Suvaroff. Had Nature been +weary, or merely in a satirical mood, when she fashioned such a thing of +horror?—for Suvaroff found that the handsome face seemed even more +horrible than the twisted body, so sharp and violent was the contrast.</p> + +<p>The hunchback returned Suvaroff's stare with almost insulting +indifference, but there was something in the look that quickened the +beating of Suvaroff's heart.</p> + +<p>"You are waiting here," began Suvaroff, "for an Italian who lodges +across the street. Would you like me to tell you where he may be found?"</p> + +<p>The hunchback shrugged. "It does not matter in the slightest, one way or +another. If you tell me where he lodges, the inevitable will happen more +quickly than if I sat and waited for the rat to come out of his hole. +Waiting has its own peculiar interest. If you have ever waited, as I +wait now, you know the joy that a cat feels—expectation is two-thirds +of any game."</p> + +<p>Suvaroff shuddered. He had an impulse to walk away, but the eyes of the +other burned with a strange fascination.</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless," said Suvaroff, "I shall tell—"</p> + +<p>The hunchback waved him to silence. "Do whatever you wish, my friend, +but remember, if you do tell me this thing, you and I will be forever +bound by a tie that it will be impossible to break. With me it does not +matter, but you are a young man, and all your life you will drag a +secret about like a dead thing chained to your wrist. I am Flavio +Minetti, and I kill every one who laughs at me! This Italian of whom you +speak has laughed at me. I may wait a week—a month. It will be the +same. No one has yet escaped me."</p> + +<p>An exquisite fear began to move Suvaroff. "Nevertheless," he repeated +again, "I shall tell you where he lodges. You will find him upon the +third landing of the Hôtel des Alpes Maritimes. There are no numbers on +the doors, but it will be impossible for you to mistake his room. All +day and night he sits playing an accordion."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p> + +<p>Flavio Minetti took a cigarette from his pocket. "Remember, my young +friend, I gave you fair warning."</p> + +<p>"I shall not forget," replied Suvaroff.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Suvaroff climbed back to his room. He sat upon his bed holding his head +in his hands. The sound of the accordion seemed gruesome now.</p> + +<p>Presently he heard a step on the landing. His heart stood still. Sounds +drifted down the passageway. The noise was not heavy and clattering, but +it had a pattering quality, like a bird upon a roof. Above the wailing +of the music, Suvaroff heard a door opened—slowly, cautiously. There +followed a moment of silence; Suvaroff was frightened. But almost +immediately the playing began again.</p> + +<p>"Now," thought Suvaroff, "why is the Italian not frightened? The door +has been opened and he goes on playing, undisturbed.... It must be that +he is sitting with his back to the door. If this is so, God help him!... +Well, why need I worry? What is it to me? It is not my fault if a fool +like that sits with his door unlocked and his face turned from the face +of danger."</p> + +<p>And, curiously, Suvaroff's thoughts wandered to other things, and a +picture of his native country flashed over him—Little Russia in the +languid embrace of summer—green and blue and golden. The soft notes of +the balalaika at twilight came to him, and the dim shapes of dancing +peasants, whirling like aspen-leaves in a fresh breeze. He remembered +the noonday laughter of skylarks; the pear-trees bending patiently +beneath their harvest; the placid river winding its willow-hedged way, +cutting the plain like a thin silver knife.</p> + +<p>Now, suddenly, it came upon him that the music in the next room had +stopped. He waited. There was not a sound!... After a time the door +banged sharply. The pattering began again, and died away. But still +there was no music!...</p> + +<p>Suvaroff rose and began to strip off his clothes. His<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> teeth were +chattering. "Well, at last," he muttered, "I shall have some peace!" He +threw himself on the bed, drawing the coverings up over his head.... +Presently a thud shook the house. "He has slipped from his seat," said +Suvaroff aloud. "It is all over!" And he drew the bedclothes higher and +went to sleep.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Next morning, Suvaroff felt better. To be sure, he was weak, but he rose +and dressed.</p> + +<p>"What strange dreams people have when they are in a fever!" he +exclaimed, as he put on his hat. Nevertheless, as he left the house, he +did not so much as glance at the Italian's door.</p> + +<p>It was a pleasant morning, the mist had lifted and the sky was a freshly +washed blue. Suvaroff walked down Kearny Street, and past Portsmouth +Square. At this hour the little park was cleared of its human wreckage, +and dowdy sparrows hopped unafraid upon the deserted benches. A Chinese +woman and her child romped upon the green; a weather-beaten peddler +stooped to the fountain and drank; the three poplar-trees about the +Stevenson monument trembled to silver in the frank sunshine. Suvaroff +could not remember when the city had appeared so fresh and innocent. It +seemed to him as if the gray, cold drizzle of the night had washed away +even the sins of the wine-red town. But an indefinite disquiet rippled +the surface of his content. His peace was filled with a vague suggestion +of sinister things to follow, like the dead calm of this very morning, +which so skilfully bound up the night wind in its cool, placid air. He +would have liked to linger a moment in the park, but he passed quickly +by and went into a little chop-house for his morning meal.</p> + +<p>As he dawdled over his cup of muddy coffee he had a curious sense that +his mind was intent on keeping at bay some half-formulated fear. He felt +pursued, as by an indistinct dream. Yet he was cunning enough to pretend +that this something was too illusive to capture<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> outright, so he turned +his thoughts to all manner of remote things. But there are times when it +is almost as difficult to deceive oneself as to cheat others. In the +midst of his thoughts he suddenly realized that under the stimulating +influence of a second cup of coffee he was feeling quite himself again.</p> + +<p>"That is because I got such a good night's sleep," he muttered. "For +over a week this Italian and his wretched accordion—" He halted his +thoughts abruptly. "What am I thinking about?" he demanded. Then he +rose, paid his bill, and departed.</p> + +<p>He turned back to his lodgings. At Bollo's Wine Shop he hesitated. A +knot of people stood at the entrance of the Hôtel des Alpes Maritimes, +and a curious wagon was drawn up to the curb.</p> + +<p>He stopped a child. "What is the trouble?" he inquired.</p> + +<p>The girl raised a pair of mournful eyes to him. "A man has been killed!" +she answered.</p> + +<p>Suvaroff turned quickly and walked in another direction. He went to the +café where he fiddled. At this hour it was like an empty cavern. A smell +of stale beer and tobacco smoke pervaded the imprisoned air. He sat down +upon the deserted platform and pretended to practise. He played +erratically, feverishly. The waiters, moving about their morning +preparations with an almost uncanny quiet, listened attentively. Finally +one of them stopped before him.</p> + +<p>"What has come over you, Suvaroff?" questioned the man. "You are making +our flesh creep!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, pardon me!" cried Suvaroff. "I shall not trouble you further!"</p> + +<p>And with that he packed up his violin and left. He did not go back to +the café, even at the appointed hour. Instead, he wandered aimlessly +about. All day he tramped the streets. He listened to street-fakirs, +peered into shop-windows, threw himself upon the grass of the public +squares and stared up at the blue sky. He had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> very little personal +consciousness; he seemed to have lost track of himself. He had an absurd +feeling that he had come away from somewhere and left behind a vital +part of his being.</p> + +<p>"Suvaroff! Suvaroff!" he would repeat over and over to himself, as if +trying to recall the memory of some one whose precise outline had +escaped him.</p> + +<p>He caught a glimpse of his figure in the mirror of a shop-window. He +went closer, staring for some moments at the face opposite him. There +followed an infinitesimal fraction of time when his spirit deserted him +as completely as if he were dead. When he recovered himself he had a +sense that he was staring at the reflection of a stranger. He moved +away, puzzled. Was he going mad? Then, suddenly, everything grew quite +clear. He remembered the Italian, the accordion, the hunchback. +Characters, circumstances, sequences—all stood out as sharply as the +sky-line of a city in the glow of sunset.... He put his fingers to his +pulse. Everything seemed normal; his skin was moist and cool. Yet last +night he had been very ill. That was it! Last night he had been ill!</p> + +<p>"What strange dreams people have when they are in a fever!" he exclaimed +for the second time that day. He decided to go home. "I wonder, though," +thought he, "whether the Italian is still playing that awful +instrument?" Curiously enough, the idea did not disturb him in the +least. "I shall teach him a Russian tune or two!" he decided, +cheerfully. "Then, maybe his playing will be endurable."</p> + +<p>When he came again to his lodgings he was surprised to find a knot of +curious people on the opposite side of the street, and another before +the entrance. He went up the stairs. His landlady came to meet him.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Suvaroff," she began at once, "have you not heard what has +happened? The man in the next room to you was found this +morning—<i>dead</i>!"</p> + +<p>He did not pretend to be surprised. "Well,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> he announced, brutally, "at +least we shall have no more of dreadful music! How did he kill himself?"</p> + +<p>The woman gave way to his advance with a movement of flattering +confusion. "The knife was in his side," she answered. "In his +side—toward the back."</p> + +<p>"Ah, then he was murdered!"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>He was mounting the second flight of stairs when his landlady again +halted him. "Mr. Suvaroff," she ventured, "I hope you will not be angry! +But his mother came early this morning. All day she has sat in your +room, weeping. I cannot persuade her to go away. What am I to do?"</p> + +<p>Suvaroff glared at her for a moment. "It is nothing!" he announced, as +he passed on, shrugging.</p> + +<p>The door of his room was open; he went in. A gnarled old woman sat on +the edge of the bed; a female consoler was on either side. At the sight +of Suvaroff the mourner rose and stood trembling before him, rolling a +gaudy handkerchief into a moist bundle.</p> + +<p>"My good woman," said Suvaroff, kindly, "do not stand; sit down."</p> + +<p>"Kind gentleman!" the old woman began. "Kind gentleman—"</p> + +<p>She got no further because of her tears. The other women rose and sat +her down again. She began to moan. Suvaroff, awkward and disturbed, +stood as men do in such situations.</p> + +<p>Finally the old woman found her voice. "Kind gentleman," she said, "I am +a poor old woman, and my son—Ah! I was washing his socks when they came +after me.... You see what has happened! He was a good son. Once a week +he came to me and brought me five dollars. Now—What am I to do, my kind +gentleman?"</p> + +<p>Suvaroff said nothing.</p> + +<p>She swayed back and forth, and spoke again. "Only last week he said: +'There is a man who lodges next<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> me who plays music.' Yes, my son was +fond of you because of that. He said: 'I have seen him only once. He +plays music all day and night, so that he may have money enough to live +on. When I hear him coming up the stairs I take down my accordion and +begin to play. All day and night he plays for others. So I think, Now it +will be nice to give him some pleasure. So I take down my accordion and +play for <i>him</i>!'... Yes, yes! He was like that all his life. He was a +good son. Now what am I to do?"</p> + +<p>A shudder passed over Suvaroff. There was a soft tap upon the door. The +three women and Suvaroff looked up. Flavio Minetti stood in the doorway.</p> + +<p>The three women gave the hunchback swift, inclusive glances, such as +women always use when they measure a newcomer, and speedily dropped +their eyes. Suvaroff stared silently at the warped figure. Minetti +leaned against the door; his smile was at once both cruel and curiously +touching. At length Minetti spoke. The sound of his voice provoked a +sort of terror in the breast of Suvaroff.</p> + +<p>"I have just heard," he said, benevolently, "from the proprietor of the +wine-shop across the way, that your neighbor has been murdered. The +landlady tells me that his mother is here."</p> + +<p>The old woman roused herself. "Yes—you can see for yourself that I am +here. I am a poor old woman, and my son—Ah! I was washing his socks +when—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes!" interrupted the hunchback, advancing into the room. "You are +a poor old woman! Let me give you some money in all charity."</p> + +<p>He threw gold into her lap. She began to tremble. Suvaroff saw her hands +greedily close over the coins, and the sight sickened him.</p> + +<p>"Why did you come?" Suvaroff demanded of Minetti. "Go away! You are not +wanted here!"</p> + +<p>The three women rose. The old woman began to mumble a blessing. She even +put up her hand in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> fashion of bestowing a benediction. Suvaroff +fancied that he saw Minetti wince.</p> + +<p>"He was a good son," the old woman began to mutter they led her out. At +the door she looked back. Suvaroff turned away. "Once a week he came to +me and brought me five dollars," she said, quite calmly. "He was a good +son. He even played his music to give pleasure to others. Yes, yes! He +was like that all his life...."</p> + +<p>When the women were gone, Suvaroff felt the hunchback's hand upon his. +Suvaroff turned a face of dry-eyed hopelessness toward his tormentor.</p> + +<p>"Did you not sleep peacefully last night, my friend?" Minetti inquired, +mockingly.</p> + +<p>"After the thud I knew nothing," replied Suvaroff.</p> + +<p>"The thud?"</p> + +<p>"He fell from his chair."</p> + +<p>"Of course. That was to be expected. Just so."</p> + +<p>"You see for yourself what you have done? Fancy, this man has a mother!"</p> + +<p>"See, it is just as I said. Already you are dragging this dead thing +about, chained to your wrist. Come, forget it. I should have killed him, +anyway."</p> + +<p>"That is not the point. The point is—My God! Tell me, in what fashion +do these people laugh at you? Tell me how it is done."</p> + +<p>"Laughter cannot be taught, my friend."</p> + +<p>"Then Heaven help me! for I should like to laugh at you. If I could but +laugh at you, all would be over."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said the hunchback. "I see."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>At the end of the week Minetti came to Suvaroff one evening and said, +not unkindly: "Why don't you leave? You are killing yourself. Go +away—miles away. It would have happened, anyway."</p> + +<p>Suvaroff was lying upon his bed. His face was turned toward the wall. He +did not trouble to look at Minetti.</p> + +<p>"I cannot leave. You know that as well as I do.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> When I am absent from +this room I am in a fever until I get back to it again. I lie here and +close my eyes and think.... Whenever a thud shakes the house I leap up, +trembling. I have not worked for five days. They have given up sending +for me from the café. Yesterday his mother came and sat with me. She +drove me mad. But I sat and listened to her. 'Yes, he was a good son!' +She repeats this by the hour, and rolls and unrolls her handkerchief.... +It is bad enough in the daytime. But at night—God! If only the music +would play again! I cannot endure such silence."</p> + +<p>He buried his face in the pillow. Minetti shrugged and left.</p> + +<p>In about an hour Suvaroff rose and went out. He found a squalid +wine-shop in the quarter just below the Barbary Coast. He went in and +sat alone at a table. The floors had not been freshly sanded for weeks; +a dank mildew covered the green wall-paper. He called for brandy, and a +fat, greasy-haired man placed a bottle of villainous stuff before him. +Suvaroff poured out a drink and swallowed it greedily. He drank another +and another. The room began to fill. The lights were dim, and the +arrival and departure of patrons threw an endless procession of +grotesque silhouettes upon the walls. Suvaroff was fascinated by these +dancing shadows. They seemed familiar and friendly. He sat sipping his +brandy, now, with a quieter, more leisurely air. The shadows were +indescribably fascinating; they were so horrible and amusing! He began +to wonder whether their antics would move him to laughter if he sat and +drank long enough. He had a feeling that laughter and sleep went hand in +hand. If he could but laugh again he was quite sure that he would fall +asleep. But he discovered a truth while he sat there. Amusement and +laughter were often strangers. He had known this all his life, of +course, but he had never thought of it. Once, when he was a child, an +old man had fallen in the road before him, in a fit. Suvaroff had stood +rooted to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> spot with amusement, but he had not laughed. Yet the man +had gone through the contortions of a clown.... Well, then he was not to +be moved to laughter, after all. He wearily put the cork back in the +bottle of brandy. The fat bartender came forward. Suvaroff paid him and +departed.</p> + +<p>He went to the wine-shop the next night—and the next. He began to have +a hope that if he persisted he would discover a shadow grotesque enough +to make him laugh. He sat for hours, drinking abominable brandy. The +patrons of the shop did not interest him. They were squalid, dirty, +uninteresting. But their shadows were things of wonder. How was it +possible for such drab people to have even interesting shadows? And why +were these shadows so familiar? Suvaroff recognized each in turn, as if +it were an old friend that he remembered but could not name. After the +second night he came to a definite conclusion.</p> + +<p>"They are not old friends at all," he said to himself. "They are not +even the shadows of these people who come here. They are merely the +silhouettes of my own thoughts.... If I could but draw my thoughts, they +would be as black and as fantastic."</p> + +<p>But at another time he dismissed this theory.</p> + +<p>"No," he muttered, "they are not the shadows of my thoughts at all. They +are the souls of these men. They are the twisted, dark, horrible souls +of these men, that cannot crawl out except at nightfall! They are the +souls of these men seeking to escape, like dogs chained to their +kennels!... I wonder if the Italian had such a soul?..."</p> + +<p>He rose suddenly. "I am wasting my time here," he said, almost aloud. +"One may learn to laugh at a shadow. One may even learn to laugh at the +picture of one's thoughts. But to laugh at a soul—No! A man's soul is +too dreadful a thing to laugh at." He staggered out into the night.</p> + +<p>On his way home he went into a pawn-shop and bought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> a pistol. He was in +a fever to get back to his lodgings. He found Minetti waiting for him. +He tried to conceal the pistol, but he knew that Minetti had seen it. +Minetti was as pleasant as one could imagine. He told the most droll +stories of his life in London. It appeared that he had lived there in a +hotbed of exiled radicals; but he, himself, seemed to have no +convictions. Everything he described was touched with a certain ironic +humor. When he rose to go he said, quite simply:</p> + +<p>"How are things? Do you sleep nights now?"</p> + +<p>"No. I never expect to sleep again."</p> + +<p>Minetti made no comment. "I see you have bought a pistol," he observed.</p> + +<p>"Yes," replied Suvaroff.</p> + +<p>"You have wasted your money, my young friend," declared the hunchback. +"You will never use it."</p> + +<p>With that Minetti left the room. Suvaroff laid the pistol on the table +and threw himself upon the bed. He lay there without moving until +morning.... Toward six o'clock he rose. He went over to the table and +deliberately put the pistol to his temple. The coldness of the muzzle +sent a tremor through him.... He put down the weapon in disgust.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Suvaroff stayed away from the wine-shop for two nights, but finally the +memory of its fascinating shadows lured him back. The fat bartender saw +him enter, and came forward with a bottle of brandy. Suvaroff smiled +grimly and said nothing. He turned his back upon the company and began +to watch the shadows enter and disappear. To-night the puppets seemed +more whimsical than grotesque, and once he nearly laughed. A shadow with +an enormous nose appeared; and a fly, as big as a bumblebee, lit upon +the nose and sat rubbing its legs together in insolent content. A hand, +upraised, struck at the fly. The nose disappeared as if completely +annihilated by the blow, while the fly hovered safely aloof. Feeling +encouraged, Suvaroff took another drink. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> the more he drank the less +genial were the shadows, and by midnight they all had become as sinister +and terrible as ever.</p> + +<p>On the way home to his room Suvaroff suddenly remembered that he had a +friend who was a druggist.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he can give me something to make me sleep," Suvaroff muttered.</p> + +<p>But the drug-store was closed. Suvaroff climbed wearily up the stairs of +the Hôtel des Alpes Maritimes. Minetti was sitting on the steps near the +third landing.</p> + +<p>"I was preparing to go home," said the hunchback. "What kept you so +late?"</p> + +<p>"I went around another way," answered Suvaroff. "I thought I might get +something from a druggist friend to help me sleep."</p> + +<p>They stood before the door of Suvaroff's room. Suvaroff opened the door +and they went in.</p> + +<p>"Sleeping-powders are dangerous," observed Minetti, throwing his hat +upon the bed.</p> + +<p>"So I fancied," replied Suvaroff, dryly.</p> + +<p>"Where do you spend your nights?" Minetti demanded suddenly.</p> + +<p>Suvaroff sat down. "Watching shadows in a wine-shop."</p> + +<p>"Ah—a puppet show!"</p> + +<p>"No, not exactly. I will explain.... No; come to think of it, there is +no explanation. But it is extremely amusing. To-night, for instance, I +nearly laughed.... Have you ever watched shadows upon a wall? Really, +they are diverting beyond belief."</p> + +<p>"Yes. I have watched them often. They are more real to me than actual +people, because they are uglier. Beauty is a lie!"</p> + +<p>A note of dreadful conviction crept into the hunchback's voice. Suvaroff +looked at him intently, and said, quite simply:</p> + +<p>"What a bitter truth <i>you</i> are, my friend!"</p> + +<p>Minetti stared at Suvaroff, and he rose. "Perhaps I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> shall see you at +your puppet show some evening," he said. And, without waiting for a +reply, he left the room.</p> + +<p>Suvaroff lay again all night upon his bed staring in a mute agony at the +ceiling. Once or twice he fancied he heard the sounds of music from the +next room. His heart leaped joyfully. But almost instantly his hopes +sank back, like spent swimmers in a relentless sea. It seemed as if his +brain were thirsting. He was in a pitiless desert of white-heated +thought, and there was not a cloud of oblivion upon the horizon of his +despair. Remembrance flamed like a molten sun, greedily withering every +green, refreshing thing in its path. How long before this dreadful +memory would consume him utterly?</p> + +<p>"If I could only laugh!" he cried in his agony. "<i>If I could only +laugh!</i>"</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>All next day Suvaroff was in a fever; not a physical fever, but a mental +fever that burned with devastating insistence. He could not lie still +upon his bed, so he rose and stumbled about the city's streets. But +nothing diverted him. Before his eyes a sheet of fire burned, and a +blinding light seemed to shut out everything else from his vision. Even +his thoughts crackled like dry faggots in a flame.</p> + +<p>"When evening comes," he said, "a breeze will spring up and I shall have +some relief." But almost at once he thought: "A breeze will do no good. +It will only make matters worse! I have heard that nothing puts out a +fire so quickly as a shower. Let me see—It is now the middle of +August.... It does not rain in this part of the world until October. +Well, I must wait until October, then. No; a breeze at evening will do +no good. I will go and watch the shadows again. Shadows are cool affairs +if one sits in them, but how...."</p> + +<p>And he began to wonder how he could contrive to sit in shadows that fell +only on a wall.</p> + +<p>How he got to the wine-shop he did not know, but at a late hour he found +himself sitting at his accustomed seat.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> His bottle of brandy stood +before him. To-night the shadows were blacker than ever, as if the fury +of the flames within him were providing these dancing figures with a +brighter background.</p> + +<p>"These shadows are not the pictures of my thoughts," he said to himself. +"Neither are they chained souls seeking to escape. They are the smoke +from the fire in my head. They are the black smoke from my brain which +is slowly burning away!"</p> + +<p>He sat for hours, staring at the wall. The figures came and went, but +they ceased to have any form or meaning. He merely sat and drank, and +stared.... All at once a strange shadow appeared. A shadow? No; a +phantom—a dreadful thing! Suvaroff leaned forward. His breath came +quickly, his body trembled in the grip of a convulsion, his hands were +clenched. He rose in his seat, and suddenly—quite suddenly, without +warning—he began to laugh.... The shadow halted in its flight across +the wall. Suvaroff circled the room with his gaze. In the center of the +wine-shop stood Flavio Minetti. Suvaroff sat down. He was still shaking +with laughter.</p> + +<p>Presently Suvaroff was conscious that Minetti had disappeared. The fire +in his brain had ceased to burn. Instead his senses seemed chilled, not +disagreeably, but with a certain pleasant numbness. He glanced about. +What was he doing in such a strange, squalid place? And the brandy was +abominable! He called the waiter, paid him what was owing, and left at +once.</p> + +<p>There was no mist in the air to-night. The sky was clear and a wisp of +moon crept on its disdainful way through the heavens.</p> + +<p>"I shall sleep to-night," muttered Suvaroff, as he climbed up to his +room upon the third story of the Hôtel des Alpes Maritimes.</p> + +<p>He undressed deliberately. All his former frenzy was gone. Shortly after +he had crawled into bed he heard a step on the landing. Then, as usual, +sounds began to drift down the passageway, not in heavy and clattering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +fashion, but with a pattering quality like a bird upon a roof. And, +curiously, Suvaroff's thoughts wandered to other things, and a picture +of his native country flashed over him—Little Russia in the languid +embrace of summer—green and blue and golden. The soft notes of the +balalaika at twilight came to him, and the dim shapes of dancing +peasants, whirling like aspen-leaves in a fresh breeze. He remembered +the noonday laughter of skylarks; the pear-trees bending patiently +beneath their harvest; the placid river winding its willow-hedged way, +cutting the plain like a thin silver knife.</p> + +<p>A fresh current of air began to blow upon him. He heard the creak of a +rusty hinge.</p> + +<p>"He has opened the door," Suvaroff whispered. His teeth began to +chatter. "Nevertheless, I shall sleep to-night," he said to himself +reassuringly.</p> + +<p>A faint footfall sounded upon the threshold.... Suvaroff drew the +bedclothes higher.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_EMPEROR_OF_ELAM" id="THE_EMPEROR_OF_ELAM"></a>THE EMPEROR OF ELAM<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> H. G. DWIGHT</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Century Magazine</i>.</p> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p><i>I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, +nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet +riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time +and chance happeneth to them all.</i></p> + +<p class="r"><i>Ecclesiastes</i>, ix, 11.</p> +</div> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>The first of the two boats to arrive at this unappointed rendezvous was +one to catch the eye even in that river of strange craft. She had +neither the raking bow nor the rising poop of the local <i>mehala</i>, but a +tall incurving beak, not unlike those of certain Mesopotamian +sculptures, with a windowed and curtained deck-house at the stern. +Forward she carried a short mast. The lateen sail was furled, however, +and the galley was propelled at a fairly good gait by seven pairs of +long sweeps. They flashed none too rhythmically, it must be added, at +the sun which had just risen above the Persian mountains. And although +the slit sleeves of the fourteen oarsmen, all of them young and none of +them ill to look upon, flapped decoratively enough about the handles of +the sweeps, they could not be said to present a shipshape appearance. +Neither did the black felt caps the boatmen wore, fantastically tall and +knotted about their heads with gay fringed scarves.</p> + +<p>This barge had passed out of the Ab-i-Diz and was making its stately +enough way across the basin of divided waters below Bund-i-Kir, when +from the mouth of the Ab-i-Gerger—the easterly of two turbid threads +into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> which the Karun above this point is split by a long island—there +shot a trim white motor-boat. The noise she made in the breathless +summer sunrise, intensified and reechoed by the high clay banks which +here rise thirty feet or more above the water, caused the rowers of the +galley to look around. Then they dropped their sweeps in astonishment at +the spectacle of the small boat advancing so rapidly toward them without +any effort on the part of the four men it contained, as if blown by the +breath of jinn. The word <i>Firengi</i>, however, passed around the +deck—that word so flattering to a great race, which once meant Frank +but which now, in one form or another, describes for the people of +western Asia the people of Europe and their cousins beyond the seas. +Among the friends of the jinn, of whom as it happened only two were +Europeans, there also passed an explanatory word. But although they +pronounced the strange oarsmen to be Lurs, they caused their jinni to +cease his panting, so struck were they by the appearance of the +high-beaked barge.</p> + +<p>The two craft drifted abreast of each other about midway of the sunken +basin. As they did so, one of the Europeans in the motor-boat, a stocky +black-moustached fellow in blue overalls, wearing in place of the +regulation helmet of that climate a greasy black <i>béret</i> over one ear, +lifted his hand from the wheel and called out the Arabic salutation of +the country:</p> + +<p>"Peace be unto you!"</p> + +<p>"And to you, peace!" responded a deep voice from the doorway of the +deck-house. It was evident that the utterer of this friendly antiphon +was not a Lur. Fairer, taller, stouter, and older than his wild-looking +crew, he was also better dressed—in a girdled robe of gray silk, with a +striped silk scarf covering his hair and the back of his neck in the +manner of the Arabs. A thick brown beard made his appearance more +imposing, while two scars across his left cheek, emerging from the +beard, suggested or added to something in him which might on occasion +become formidable. As it was he stepped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> forward with a bow and +addressed a slim young man who sat in the stern of the motor-boat. +"Shall we pass as Kinglake and the Englishman of <i>Eothen</i> did in the +desert," asked the stranger, smiling, in a very good English, "because +they had not been introduced? Or will you do me the honor to come on +board my—ark?"</p> + +<p>The slim young man, whose fair hair, smooth face, and white clothes made +him the most boyish looking of that curious company, lifted his white +helmet and smiled in return.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" he assented. And, becoming conscious that his examination of +this surprising stranger, who looked down at him with odd light eyes, +was too near a stare, he added: "What on earth is your ark made of, Mr. +Noah?"</p> + +<p>What she was made of, as a matter of fact, was what heightened the +effect of remoteness she produced—a hard dark wood unknown to the lower +Karun, cut in lengths of not more than two or three feet and caulked +with reeds and mud.</p> + +<p>"'Make thee an ark of gopher wood,'" quoted the stranger. "'Rooms shalt +thou make in the ark, and thou shalt pitch it within and without with +pitch.'"</p> + +<p>"Bitumen, eh?" exclaimed the slim young man. "Where did you get it?"</p> + +<p>"Do you ask, you who drill oil at Meidan-i-Naft?"</p> + +<p>"As it happens, I don't!" smiled the slim young man.</p> + +<p>"At any rate," continued the stranger, after a scarcely perceptible +pause, "let me welcome you on board the Ark." And when the unseen jinni +had made it possible for the slim young man to set foot on the deck of +the barge, the stranger added, with a bow: "Magin is my name—from +Brazil."</p> + +<p>If the slim young man did not stare again, he at least had time to make +out that the oddity of his host's light eyes lay not so much in the fact +of their failing to be distinctly brown, gray, or green, as that they +had a translucent look. Then he responded briefly, holding out his +hand:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Matthews. But isn't this a long way from Rio de Janeiro?"</p> + +<p>"Well," returned the other, "it's not so near London! But come in and +have something, won't you?" And he held aside the reed portière that +screened the door of the deck-house.</p> + +<p>"My word! You do know how to do yourself!" exclaimed Matthews. His eye +took in the Kerman embroidery on the table in the centre of the small +saloon, the gazelle skins and silky Shiraz rugs covering the two divans +at the sides, the fine Sumak carpet on the floor, and the lion pelt in +front of an inner door. "By Jove!" he exclaimed again. "That's a +beauty!"</p> + +<p>"Ha!" laughed the Brazilian. "The Englishman spies his lion first!"</p> + +<p>"Where did you find him?" asked Matthews, going behind the table for a +better look. "They're getting few and far between around here, they +say."</p> + +<p>"Oh, they still turn up," answered the Brazilian, it seemed to Matthews +not too definitely. Before he could pursue the question farther, Magin +clapped his hands. Instantly there appeared at the outer door a +barefooted Lur, whose extraordinary cap looked to Matthews even taller +and more pontifical than those of his fellow-countrymen at the oars. The +Lur, his hands crossed on his girdle, received a rapid order and +vanished as silently as he came.</p> + +<p>"I wish I knew the lingo like that!" commented Matthews.</p> + +<p>Magin waved a deprecatory hand.</p> + +<p>"One picks it up soon enough. Besides, what's the use—with a man like +yours? Who is he, by the way? He doesn't look English."</p> + +<p>"Who? Gaston? He isn't. He's French. And he doesn't know too much of the +lingo. But the blighter could get on anywhere. He's been all over the +place—Algiers, Egypt, Baghdad. He's been chauffeur to more nabobs in +turbans than you can count. He's a topping mechanic, too. The wheel +hasn't been invented<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> that beggar can't make go 'round. The only trouble +he has is with his own. He keeps time for a year or two, and then +something happens to his mainspring and he gets the sack. But he never +seems to go home. He always moves on to some place where it's hotter and +dirtier. You should hear his stories! He's an amusing devil."</p> + +<p>"And perhaps not so different from the rest of us!" threw out Magin. +"What flea bites us? Why do you come here, courting destruction in a +cockleshell that may any minute split on a rock and spill you to the +sharks, when you might be punting some pretty girl up the backwaters of +the Thames? Why do I float around in this old ark of reeds and +bulrushes, like an elderly Moses in search of a promised land, who +should be at home wearing the slippers of middle age? What is it? A +sunstroke? This is hardly the country where Goethe's citrons bloom!"</p> + +<p>"Damned if I know!" laughed Matthews. "I fancy we like a bit of a lark!"</p> + +<p>The Brazilian laughed too.</p> + +<p>"A bit of a lark!" he echoed.</p> + +<p>Just then the silent Lur reappeared with a tray.</p> + +<p>"I say!" protested Matthews. "Whiskey and soda at five o'clock in the +morning, in the middle of July—"</p> + +<p>"1914, if you must be so precise!" added Magin jovially. "But why not?" +he demanded. "Aren't you an Englishman? You mustn't shake the pious +belief in which I was brought up, that you are all weaned with Scotch! +Say when. It isn't every day that I have the pleasure of so fortunate an +encounter." And, rising, he lifted his glass, bowed, and said: "Here's +to a bit of a lark, Mr. Matthews!"</p> + +<p>The younger man rose to it. But inwardly he began to feel a little +irked.</p> + +<p>"By the way," he asked, nibbling at a biscuit, "can you tell me anything +about the Ab-i-Diz? I dare say you must know something about it—since +your men look as if they came from up that way. Is there a decent +channel as far as Dizful?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah!" uttered Magin slowly. "Are you thinking of going up there?" He +considered the question, and his guest, with a flicker in his lighted +eyes. "Well, decent is a relative word, you know. However, wonders can +be accomplished with a stout rope and a gang of natives, even beyond +Dizful. But here you see me and my ark still whole—after a night +journey, too. The worst thing is the sun. You see I am more careful of +my skin than you. As for the shoals, the rapids, the sharks, the lions, +the nomads who pop at you from the bank, <i>et cetera</i>—you are an +Englishman! Do you take an interest in antiques?" he broke off abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Yes—though interest is a relative word too, I expect."</p> + +<p>"Quite so!" agreed the Brazilian. "I have rather a mania for that sort +of thing, myself. Wait. Let me show you." And he went into the inner +cabin. When he came back he held up an alabaster cup. "A Greek kylix!" +he cried. "Pure Greek! What an outline, eh? This is what keeps me from +putting on my slippers! I have no doubt Alexander left it behind him. +Perhaps Hephaistion drank out of it, or Nearchus, to celebrate his +return from India. And some rascally Persian stole it out of a tent!"</p> + +<p>Matthews, taking the cup, saw the flicker brighten in the Brazilian's +eyes.</p> + +<p>"Nice little pattern of grape leaves, that," he said. "And think of +picking it up out here!"</p> + +<p>"Oh you can always pick things up, if you know where to look," said +Magin. "Dieulafoy and the rest of them didn't take everything. How could +they? The people who have come and gone through this country of Elam! +Why just over there, at Bund-i-Kir, Antigonus fought Eumenes and the +Silver Shields for the spoils of Susa—and won them! I have +discovered—But come in here." And he pushed wider open the door of the +inner cabin.</p> + +<p>Matthews stepped into what was evidently a stateroom.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> A broad bunk +filled one side of it, and the visitor could not help remarking a second +interior door. But his eye was chiefly struck by two, three, no four, +chests, which took up more space in the narrow cabin than could be +convenient for its occupant. They seemed to be made of the same +mysterious dark wood as the "ark," clamped with copper.</p> + +<p>"I say! Those aren't bad!" he exclaimed. "More of the spoils of Susa?"</p> + +<p>"Ho! My trunks? I had them made up the river, like the rest. But I +wonder what would interest you in my museum. Let's see." He bent over +one of the chests, unlocked it, rummaged under the cover, and brought +out a broad metal circlet which he handed to Matthews. "How would that +do for a crown, eh?"</p> + +<p>The young man took it over to the porthole. The metal, he then saw, was +a soft antique gold, wrought into a decoration of delicate spindles, +with a border of filigree. The circlet was beautiful in itself, and +astonishingly heavy. But what it chiefly did for Matthews was to sharpen +the sense of strangeness, of remoteness, which this bizarre galley, come +from unknown waters, had brought into the familiar muddy Karun.</p> + +<p>"As a matter of fact," went on the Brazilian, "it's an anklet. But can +you make it out? Those spindles are Persian, while the filigree is more +Byzantine than anything else. You find funny things up there, in +caves—"</p> + +<p>He tossed a vague hand, into which Matthews put the anklet, saying:</p> + +<p>"Take it before I steal it!"</p> + +<p>"Keep it, won't you?" proposed the astonishing Brazilian.</p> + +<p>"Oh, thanks. But I could hardly do that," Matthews replied.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" protested Magin. "As a souvenir of a pleasant meeting! I have +a ton of them." He waved his hand at the chests.</p> + +<p>"No, really, thanks," persisted the young man. "And<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> I'm afraid we must +be getting on. I don't know the river, you see, and I'd like to reach +Dizful before dark."</p> + +<p>The Brazilian studied him a moment.</p> + +<p>"As you say," he finally conceded. "But you will at least have another +drink before you go?"</p> + +<p>"No, not even that, thanks," said Matthews. "We really must be off. But +it's been very decent of you."</p> + +<p>He felt both awkward and amused as he backed out to the deck, followed +by his imposing host. At sight of the two the crew scattered to their +oars. They had been leaning over the side, absorbed in admiration of the +white jinn-boat. Matthews' Persian servant handed up to Magin's butler a +tray of tea glasses—on which Matthews also noted a bottle. In honor of +that bottle Gaston himself stood up and took off his greasy cap.</p> + +<p>"A thousand thanks, Monsieur," he said. "I have tasted nothing so good +since I left France."</p> + +<p>"In that case, my friend," rejoined Magin in French as good as his +English, "it is time you returned!" And he abounded in amiable speeches +and ceremonious bows until the last <i>au revoir</i>.</p> + +<p>"<i>Au plaisir!</i>" called back Gaston, having invoked his jinni. Then, +after a last look at the barge, he asked over his shoulder in a low +voice: "Who is this extraordinary type, M'sieu Guy? A species of an +Arab, who speaks French and English and who voyages in a galley from a +museum!"</p> + +<p>"A Brazilian, he says," imparted M'sieu Guy—whose surname was beyond +Gaston's gallic tongue.</p> + +<p>"Ah! The uncle of America! That understands itself! He sent me out a +cognac, too! And did he present you to his <i>dame de compagnie</i>? She put +her head out of a porthole to look at our boat. A Lur, like the others, +but with a pair of blistering black eyes! And a jewel in her nose!"</p> + +<p>"It takes you, Gaston," said Guy Matthews, "to discover a dame of +company!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>When the white motor-boat had disappeared in the glitter of the +Ab-i-Diz, Senhor Magin, not unlike other fallible human beings when +released from the necessity of keeping up a pitch, appeared to lose +something of his gracious humor. So, it transpired, did his decorative +boatmen, who had not expected to row twenty-five miles upstream at a +time when most people in that climate seek the relief of their +<i>serdabs</i>—which are underground chambers cooled by running water, it +may be, and by a tall <i>badgir</i>, or air chimney. The running water, to be +sure, was here, and had already begun to carry the barge down the Karun. +If the high banks of that tawny stream constituted a species of air +chimney, however, such air as moved therein was not calculated for +relief. But when Brazilians command, even a Lur may obey. These Lurs, at +all events, propelled their galley back to the basin of Bund-i-Kir, and +on into the Ab-i-Shuteit—which is the westerly of those two halves of +the Karun. Before nightfall the barge had reached the point where +navigation ends. There Magin sent his majordomo ashore to procure +mounts. And at sunset the two of them, followed by a horse boy, rode +northward six or seven miles, till the city of Shuster rose dark above +them in the summer evening, on its rock that cleaves the Karun in two.</p> + +<p>The Bazaar by which they entered the town was deserted at that hour, +save by dogs that set up a terrific barking at the sight of strangers. +Here the <i>charvadar</i> lighted a vast white linen lantern, which he +proceeded to carry in front of the two riders. He seemed to know where +he was going, for he led the way without a pause through long blank +silent streets of indescribable filth and smells. The gloom of them was +deepened by jutting balconies, and by innumerable <i>badgirs</i> that cut out +a strange black fretwork against amazing stars. At last the three +stopped in front of a gate in the vicinity of the citadel. This was not +one of the gateways that separate<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> the different quarters of Shuster, +but a door in a wall, recessed in a tall arch and ornamented with an +extraordinary variety of iron clamps, knobs, locks, and knockers.</p> + +<p>Of one of the latter the <i>charvadar</i> made repeated use until someone +shouted from inside. The horse-boy shouted back, and presently his +lantern caught a glitter of two eyes in a slit. The eyes belonged to a +cautious doorkeeper, who after satisfying himself that the visitors were +not enemies admitted the Brazilian and the Lur into a vaulted brick +vestibule. Then, having looked to his wards and bolts, he lighted Magin +through a corridor which turned into a low tunnel-like passage. This led +into a sort of cloister, where a covered ambulatory surrounded a dark +pool of stars. Thence another passage brought them out into a great open +court. Here an invisible jet of water made an illusion of coolness in +another, larger, pool, overlooked by a portico of tall slim pillars. +Between them Magin caught the glow of a cigar.</p> + +<p>"Good evening, Ganz," his bass voice called from the court.</p> + +<p>"Heaven! Is that you?" replied the smoker of the cigar. "What are you +doing here, in God's name? I imagined you at Mohamera, by this time, or +even in the Gulf." This remark, it may not be irrelevant to say, was in +German—as spoken in the trim town of Zurich.</p> + +<p>"And so I should have been," replied the polyglot Magin in the same +language, mounting the steps of the portico and shaking his friend's +hand, "but for—all sorts of things. If we ran aground once, we ran +aground three thousand times. I begin to wonder if we shall get through +the reefs at Ahwaz—with all the rubbish I have on board."</p> + +<p>"Ah, bah! You can manage, going down. But why do you waste your time in +Shuster, with all that is going on in Europe?"</p> + +<p>"H'm!" grunted Magin. "What is going on in Europe? A great family is +wearing well cut mourning, and a small family is beginning to turn +green! How does<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> that affect two quiet nomads in Elam—especially when +one of them is a Swiss and one a Brazilian?" He laughed, and lighted a +cigar the other offered him. "My dear Ganz, it is an enigma to me how a +man who can listen to such a fountain, and admire such stars, can +perpetually sigh after the absurdities of Europe! Which reminds me that +I met an Englishman this morning."</p> + +<p>"Well, what of that? Are Englishmen so rare?"</p> + +<p>"Alas, no—though I notice, my good Ganz, that you do your best to thin +them out! This specimen was too typical for me to be able to describe +him. Younger than usual, possibly; yellow hair, blue eyes, constrained +manner, everything to sample. He called himself Mark, or Matthew. Rather +their apostolic air, too—except that he was in the Oil Company's +motor-boat. But he gave me to understand that he was not in the Oil +Company."</p> + +<p>"Quite so."</p> + +<p>"I saw for myself that he knows nothing about archæology. Who is he? +Lynch? Bank? Telegraph?"</p> + +<p>"He's not Lynch, and he's not Bank, and he's not Telegraph. Neither is +he consul, or even that famous railroad. He's—English!" And Ganz let +out a chuckle at the success of his own characterization.</p> + +<p>"Ah! So?" exclaimed Magin elaborately. "I hear, by the way, that that +famous railroad is not marching so fast. The Lurs don't like it. But +sometimes even Englishmen," he added, "have reasons for doing what they +do. This one, at any rate, seemed more inclined to ask questions than to +answer them. I confess I don't know whether it was because he had +nothing to say or whether he preferred not to say it. Is he perhaps a +son of Papa, making the grand tour?"</p> + +<p>"More or less. Papa gave him no great letter of credit, though. He came +out to visit some of the Oil people. And he's been here long enough to +learn quite a lot of Persian."</p> + +<p>"So he starts this morning, I take it, from Sheleilieh. But why the +devil does he go to Dizful, by himself?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And why the devil shouldn't he? He's out here, and he wants to see the +sights—such as they are. So he's going to take a look at the ruins of +Susa, and at your wonderful unspoiled Dizful. Shir Ali Khan will be +delighted to get a few <i>tomans</i> for his empty house by the river. Then +the 21st, you know, is the coronation. So I gave him a letter to the +Father of Swords, who—"</p> + +<p>"Thunder and lightning!" Magin's heavy voice resounded in the portico +very like a bellow. "You, Ganz, sent this man to the Father of Swords? +He might be one of those lieutenants from India who go smelling around +in their holidays, so pink and innocent!"</p> + +<p>"What is that to me?" demanded the Swiss, raising his own voice. "Or to +you either? After all, Senhor Magin, are you the Emperor of Elam?"</p> + +<p>The Brazilian laughed.</p> + +<p>"Not yet! And naturally it's nothing to you, when you cash him checks +and sell him tinned cows and quinine. But for a man who perpetually +sighs after Europe, Herr Ganz, and for a Swiss of the north, you strike +me as betraying a singular lack of sensibility to certain larger +interests of your race. However—What concerns me is that you should +have confided to this young man, with such a roll of sentimental eyes as +I can imagine, that Dizful is still 'unspoiled'! If Dizful is unspoiled, +he might spoil it. I've found some very nice things up there, you know. +I was even fool enough to show him one or two."</p> + +<p>"Bah! He likes to play tennis and shoot! You know these English boys."</p> + +<p>Magin considered those English boys in silence for a moment.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know them. This one told me he liked a bit of a lark! I know +myself what a lark it is to navigate the Ab-i-Diz, at the end of July! +But what is most curious about these English boys is that when they go +out for a bit of a lark they come home with Egypt or India in their +pocket. Have you noticed that, Ganz? That's their idea of a bit of a +lark. And with it all they are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> still children. What can one do with +such people? A bit of a lark! Well, you will perhaps make me a little +annoyance, Mr. Adolf Ganz, by sending your English boy up to Dizful to +have a bit of a lark. However, he'll either give himself a sunstroke or +get himself bitten in two by a shark. He asked me about the channel, and +I had an inspiration. I told him he would have no trouble. So he'll go +full speed and we shall see what we shall see. Do you sell coffins, Mr. +Ganz, in addition to all your other valuable merchandise?"</p> + +<p>"Naturally, Mr. Magin," replied the Swiss. "Do you need one? But you +haven't explained to me yet why you give me the pain of saying good-bye +to you a second time."</p> + +<p>"Partly, Mr. Ganz, because I am tired of sleeping in an oven, and partly +because I—the Father of Swords has asked me to run up to Bala Bala +before I leave. But principally because I need a case or two more of +your excellent <i>vin de champagne</i>—manufactured out of Persian +petroleum, the water of the Karun, the nameless abominations of Shuster, +and the ever effervescing impudence of the Swiss Republic!"</p> + +<p>"What can I do?" smiled the flattered author of this concoction. "I have +to use what I can get, in this Godforsaken place."</p> + +<p>"And I suppose you will end by getting a million, eh?"</p> + +<p>"No such luck! But I'm getting a piano. Did I tell you? A Blüthner. It's +already on the way up from Mohamera."</p> + +<p>"A Blüthner! In Shuster! God in heaven! Why did you wait until I had +gone?"</p> + +<p>"Well, aren't you still here?" The fact of Magin's being still there, so +unexpectedly, hung in his mind. "By the way, speaking of the Father of +Swords, did you give him an order?"</p> + +<p>"I gave him an order. Didn't you pay it?"</p> + +<p>"I thought twice about it. For unless you have struck oil, up in that +country of yours where nobody goes, or gold—"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mr. Adolf Ganz," remarked the Brazilian with some pointedness, "all I +ask of you is to respect my signature and to keep closed that +many-tongued mouth of yours. I sometimes fear that in you the banker is +inclined to exchange confidences with the chemist—or even with the son +of Papa who cashes a check. Eh?"</p> + +<p>Ganz cleared his throat.</p> + +<p>"In that case," he rejoined, "all you have to do is to ask him, when you +meet him again at Bala Bala. And the English bank will no doubt be happy +to accept the transfer of your account."</p> + +<p>Magin began to chuckle.</p> + +<p>"We assert our dignity? Never mind, Adolf. As a matter of fact I have a +high opinion of your discretion—so high that when I found the Imperial +Bank of Elam I shall put you in charge of it! And you did me a real +service by sending that motor-boat across my bow this morning. For in it +I discovered just the chauffeur I have been looking for. I am getting +tired of my galley, you know. You will see something when I come back."</p> + +<p>"But," Ganz asked after a moment, "do you really expect to come back?"</p> + +<p>"But what else should I do? End my days sneezing and sniffling by some +polite lake of Zurich like you, my poor Ganz, when you find in your hand +the magic key that might unlock for you any door in the world? That, for +example, is not my idea of a lark, as your son of Papa would say! Men +are astounding animals, I admit. But I never could live in Europe, where +you can't turn around without stepping on some one else's toes. I want +room! I want air! I want light! And for a collector, you know, America +is after all a little bare. While here—!"</p> + +<p>"O God!" cried Adolf Ganz out of his dark Persian portico.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>As Gaston very truly observed, there are moments in Persia when even the +most experienced chauffeur<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> is capable of an emotion. And an unusual +number of such moments enlivened for Gaston and his companions their +journey up the Ab-i-Diz. Indeed Matthews asked himself more than once +why he had chosen so doubtful a road to Dizful, when he might so much +more easily have ridden there, and at night. It certainly was not +beautiful, that river of brass zigzagging out of sight of its empty +hinterland. Very seldom did anything so visible as a palm lift itself +against the blinding Persian blue. Konar trees were commoner, their +dense round masses sometimes shading a white-washed tomb or a black +tent. Once or twice at sight of the motor-boat a <i>bellam</i>, a native +canoe, took refuge at the mouth of one of the gullies that scarred the +bank like sun-cracks. Generally, however, there was nothing to be seen +between the water and the sky but two yellow walls of clay, topped by +endless thickets of tamarisk and nameless scrub. Matthews wondered, +disappointed, whether a jungle looked like that, and if some black-maned +lion walked more softly in it, or slept less soundly, hearing the pant +of the unknown creature in the river. But there was no lack of more +immediate lions in the path. The sun, for one thing, as the Brazilian +had predicted, proved a torment against which double awnings faced with +green were of small avail. Then the treacheries of a crooked and +constantly shallowing channel needed all the attention the travelers +could spare. And the rapids of Kaleh Bunder, where a rocky island +flanked by two reefs threatened to bar any further progress, afforded +the liveliest moments of their day.</p> + +<p>The end of that day, nevertheless, found our sight-seer smoking +cigarettes in Shir Ali Khan's garden at Dizful and listening to the +camel bells that jingled from the direction of certain tall black +pointed arches straddling the dark river. When Matthews looked at those +arches by sunlight, and at the queer old flat-topped yellow town visible +through them, he regretted that he had made up his mind to continue his +journey so soon. However, he was coming back. So he packed off Gaston +and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> Bakhtiari to Sheleilieh, where they and their motor-boat +belonged. And he himself, with his servant Abbas and the <i>charvadar</i> of +whom they hired horses, set out at nightfall for the mountain citadel of +Bala Bala. For there the great Salman Taki Khan, chieftain of the lower +Lurs, otherwise known as the Father of Swords, was to celebrate as +became a redoubtable vassal of a remote and youthful suzerain the +coronation of Ahmed Shah Kajar.</p> + +<p>It was nearly morning again when, after a last scramble up a trough of +rocks and gravel too steep for riding, the small cavalcade reached a +plateau in the shadow of still loftier elevations. Here they were +greeted by a furious barking of dogs. Indeed it quickly became necessary +to organize a defence of whips and stones against the guardians of that +high plateau. The uproar soon brought a shout out of the darkness. The +<i>charvadar</i> shouted back, and after a long-distance colloquy there +appeared a figure crowned by the tall <i>kola</i> of the Brazilian's boatmen, +who drove the dogs away. The dialect in which he spoke proved +incomprehensible to Matthews. Luckily it was not altogether so to Abbas, +that underling long resigned to the eccentricities of the <i>Firengi</i>, +whose accomplishments included even a sketchy knowledge of his master's +tongue. It appeared that the law of Bala Bala forbade the door of the +Father of Swords to open before sunrise. But the tall-hatted one offered +the visitor the provisional hospitality of a black tent, of a refreshing +drink of goats' buttermilk, and of a comfortable felt whereon to stretch +cramped legs.</p> + +<p>When Matthews returned to consciousness he first became aware of a +blinding oblong of light in the dark wall of the tent. He then made out +a circle of pontifical black hats, staring at him, his fair hair, and +his indecently close-fitting clothes, in the silence of unutterable +curiosity. It made him think, for a bewildered instant, that he was back +on the barge he had met in the river. As for the black hats, what +astonished them not least was the stranger's immediate demand for water, +and his evident<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> dissatisfaction with the quantity of it they brought +him. There happily proved to be no lack of this commodity, as Matthews' +ears had told him. He was not long in pursuing the sound into the open, +where he found himself at the edge of a village of black tents, pitched +in a grassy hollow between two heights. The nearer and lower was a +detached cone of rock, crowned by a rude castle. The other peak, not +quite so precipitous, afforded foothold for scattered scrub oaks and for +a host of slowly moving sheep and goats. Between them the plateau looked +down on two sides into two converging valleys. And the clear air was +full of the noise of a brook that cascaded between the scrub oaks of the +higher mountain, raced past the tents, and plunged out of sight in the +narrower gorge.</p> + +<p>"Ripping!" pronounced Matthews genially to his black-hatted gallery.</p> + +<p>He was less genial about the persistence of the gallery, rapidly +increased by recruits from the black tents, in dogging him through every +detail of his toilet. But he was rescued at last by Abbas and an old Lur +who, putting his two hands to the edge of his black cap, saluted him in +the name of the Father of Swords. The Lur then led the way to a trail +that zigzagged up the lower part of the rocky cone. He explained the +quantity of loose boulders obstructing the path by saying that they had +been left there to roll down on whomever should visit the Father of +Swords without an invitation. That such an enterprise would not be too +simple became more evident when the path turned into a cave. Here +another Lur was waiting with candles. He gave one each to the newcomers, +leading the way to a low door in the rock. This was opened by an +individual in a long red coat of ceremony, carrying a heavy silver mace, +who gave Matthews the customary salutation of peace and bowed him into +an irregular court. An infinity of doors opened out of it—chiefly of +the stables, the old man said, pointing out a big white mule or two of +the famous breed of Bala Bala. Thence the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> visitor was led up a steep +stone stair to a terrace giving entrance upon a corridor and another, +narrower stone stair. From its prodigiously high steps he emerged into a +hall, carpeted with felt. At this point, the Lurs took off their shoes. +Matthews followed suit, being then ushered into what was evidently a +room of state. It contained no furniture, to be sure, save for the +handsome rugs on the floor. The room did not look bare, however, for its +lines were broken by a deep alcove, and by a continuous succession of +niches. Between and about the niches the walls were decorated with +plaster reliefs of flowers and arabesques. Matthews wondered if the +black hats were capable of that! But what chiefly caught his eye was the +terrace opening out of the room, and the stupendous view.</p> + +<p>The terrace hung over a green chasm where the two converging gorges met +at the foot of the crag of Bala Bala. Matthews looked down as from the +prow of a ship into the tumbled country below him, through which a river +flashed sinuously toward the faraway haze of the plains. The sound of +water filling the still clear air, the brilliance of the morning light, +the wildness and remoteness of that mountain eyrie, so different from +anything he had yet seen, added a last strangeness to the impressions of +which the young man had been having so many.</p> + +<p>"What a pity to spoil it with a railroad!" he could not help thinking, +as he leaned over the parapet of the terrace.</p> + +<p>"Sahib!" suddenly whispered Abbas behind him.</p> + +<p>Matthews turned, and saw in the doorway of the terrace a personage who +could be none other than his host. In place of the <i>kola</i> of his people +this personage wore a great white turban, touched with gold. The loose +blue <i>aba</i> enveloping his ample figure was also embroidered with gold. +Not the least striking detail of his appearance however, was his beard, +which had a pronounced tendency toward scarlet. His nails were likewise +reddened with henna, reminding Matthews that the hands belonging to the +nails were rumored to bear even<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> more sinister stains. And the +bottomless black eyes peering out from under the white turban lent +surprising credibility to such rumors. But there was no lack of +graciousness in the gestures with which those famous hands saluted the +visitor and pointed him to a seat of honor on the rug beside the Father +of Swords. The Father of Swords furthermore pronounced his heart +uplifted to receive a friend of Ganz Sahib, that prince among the +merchants of Shuster. Yet he did not hesitate to express a certain +surprise at discovering in the friend of the prince among the merchants +of Shuster one still in the flower of youth, who at the same time +exhibited the features of good fortune and the lineaments of prudence. +And he inquired as to what sorrow had led one so young to fold the +carpet of enjoyment and wander so far from his parents.</p> + +<p>Matthews, disdaining the promptings of Abbas—who stood apart like a +statue of obsequiousness, each hand stuck into the sleeve of the +other—responded as best he might. In the meantime tea and candies were +served by a black hat on bended knee, who also produced a pair of ornate +pipes. The Father of Swords marvelled that Matthews should have +abandoned the delights of Shuster in order to witness his poor +celebrations of the morrow, in honor of the coronation. And had he felt +no fear of robbers, during his long night ride from Dizful? But what +robbers were there to fear, protested Matthews, in the very shadow of +Bala Bala? At that the Father of Swords began to make bitter complaint +of the afflictions Allah had laid upon him, taking his text from these +lines of Sadi: "If thou tellest the sorrows of thy heart, let it be to +him in whose countenance thou mayst be assured of prompt consolation." +The world, he declared, was fallen into disorder, like the hair of an +Ethiopian. Within the city wall was a people well disposed as angels; +without, a band of tigers. After which he asked if the young <i>Firengi</i> +were of the company of those who dug for the poisoned water of Bakhtiari +Land, or whether perchance he were of the People of the Chain.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span></p> + +<p>These figures of speech would have been incomprehensible to Matthews, if +Abbas had not hinted something about oil rigs. He accordingly confessed +that he had nothing to do with either of the two enterprises. The Father +of Swords then expatiated on those who caused the Lurs to seize the hand +of amazement with the teeth of chagrin, by dragging through their +valleys a long chain, as if they meant to take prisoners. These +unwelcome <i>Firengis</i> were also to be known by certain strange inventions +on three legs, into which they would gaze by the hour. Were they +warriors, threatening devastation? Or were they magicians, spying into +the future and laying a spell upon the people of Luristan? Their account +of themselves the Father of Swords found far from satisfactory, claiming +as they did that they proposed to build a road of iron, whereby it would +be possible for a man to go from Dizful to Khorremabad in one day. For +the rest, what business had the people of Dizful, too many of whom were +Arabs, in Khorremabad, a city of Lurs? Let the men of Dizful remain in +Dizful, and those of Khorremabad continue where they were born. As for +him, his white mules needed no road of iron to carry him about his +affairs.</p> + +<p>Matthews, recalling his own thoughts as he leaned over the parapet of +the terrace, spoke consolingly to the Father of Swords concerning the +People of the Chain. The Father of Swords listened to him, drawing +meditatively at his waterpipe. He thereupon inquired if Matthews were +acquainted with another friend of the prince among the merchants of +Shuster, himself a <i>Firengi</i> by birth, though recently persuaded of the +truths of Islam; and not like this visitor of good omen, in the bloom of +youth, but bearded and hardened in battles, bearing the scars of them on +his face.</p> + +<p>Matthews began to go over in his mind the short list of Europeans he had +met on the Karun, till suddenly he bethought him of that extraordinary +barge he had encountered—could it be only a couple of days ago?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Magin Sahib?" he asked. "I know him—if he is the one who travels in +the river in a <i>mehala</i> not like other <i>mehalas</i>, rowed by Lurs."</p> + +<p>"'That is a musk which discloses itself by its scent, and not what the +perfumers impose upon us,'" quoted the Father of Swords. "This man," he +continued, "our friend and the friend of our friend, warned me that they +of the chain are sons of oppression, destined to bring misfortune to the +Lurs. Surely my soul is tightened, not knowing whom I may believe."</p> + +<p>"Rum bounder!" said Matthews to himself, as his mind went back to the +already mythic barge, and its fantastic oarsmen from these very +mountains, and its antique-hunting, history-citing master from oversea, +who quoted the Book of Genesis and who carried mysterious passengers +with nose-jewels. But our not too articulate young man was less prompt +about what he should say aloud. He began to find more in this interview +than he had expected. He was tickled at his host's flowery forms of +speech, and after all rather sympathized with the suspicious old +ruffian, yet it was not for him to fail in loyalty toward the "People of +the Chain." Several of them he knew, as it happened, and they had +delighted him with their wild yarns of surveying in Luristan. So he +managed no more than to achieve an appearance of slightly offended +dignity.</p> + +<p>Considering which, out of those opaque eyes, the Father of Swords +clapped those famous hands and commanded a responsive black hat to bring +him his green chest. At that Matthews pricked up interested ears indeed. +The chest, however, when set down in front of the Father of Swords, +proved to be nothing at all like the one out of which the Brazilian had +taken his gold anklet. It was quite small and painted green, though +quaintly enough provided with triple locks of beaten iron. The Father of +Swords unlocked them deliberately, withdrew from an inner compartment a +round tin case, and from that a roll of parchment which he pressed to +his lips with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> infinite solemnity. He then handed it to Matthews.</p> + +<p>He was one, our not too articulate young man, to take things as they +came and not to require, even east of Suez, the spice of romance with +his daily bread. His last days, moreover, had been too crowded for him +to ruminate over their taste. But it was not every day that he squatted +on the same rug with a scarlet-bearded old cutthroat of a mountain +chief. So it was that his more or less casual lark visibly took on, from +the perspective of this castle in Luristan, as he unrolled a gaudy +emblazonment of eagles at the top of the parchment, a new and curious +color. For below the eagle he came upon what he darkly made out to be a +species of treaty, inscribed neither in the Arabic nor in the Roman but +in the German character, between the Father of Swords and a more +notorious War Lord. And below that was signed, sealed, and imposingly +paraphed the signature of one Julius Magin. Which was indeed a novel +aspect for a Brazilian, however versatile, to reveal.</p> + +<p>He permitted himself, did Guy Matthews, a smile.</p> + +<p>"You do not kiss it?" observed the Father of Swords.</p> + +<p>"In my country," Matthews began—</p> + +<p>"But it is, may I be your sacrifice," interrupted the Father of Swords, +"a letter from the Shah of the Shahs of the <i>Firengis</i>." It was evident +that he was both impressed and certain of impressing his hearer. "He has +promised eternal peace to me and to my people."</p> + +<p>The Englishman in Matthews permitted him a second smile.</p> + +<p>"The Father of Swords," he said, "speaks a word which I do not +understand. I am a <i>Firengi</i>, but I have never heard of a Shah of the +Shahs of the <i>Firengis</i>. In the house of Islam are there not many who +rule? In Tehran, for instance, there is the young Ahmed Shah. Then among +the Bakhtiaris there is an Ilkhani, at Mohamera there is the Sheikh of +the Cha'b, and in the valleys of Pusht-i-Kuh none is above the Father of +Swords. I do not forget, either, the Emirs of Mecca and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> Afghanistan, or +the Sultan in Stambul. And among them what <i>Firengi</i> shall say who is +the greatest? And so it is in <i>Firengistan</i>. Yet as for this paper, it +is written in the tongue of a king smaller than the one whose subject I +am, whose crown has been worn by few fathers. But the name at the bottom +of the paper is not his. It is not even a name known to the <i>Firengis</i> +when they speak among themselves of the great of their lands. Where did +you see him?"</p> + +<p>The Father of Swords stroked his scarlet beard, looking at his young +visitor with more of a gleam in the dull black of his eyes than Matthews +had yet noticed.</p> + +<p>"Truly is it said: 'Fix not thy heart on what is transitory, for the +Tigris will continue to flow through Baghdad after the race of Caliphs +is extinct!' You make it clear to me that you are of the People of the +Chain."</p> + +<p>"If I were of the People of the Chain," protested Matthews, "there is no +reason why I should hide it. The People of the Chain do not steal +secretly through the valleys of Pusht-i-Kuh, telling the Lurs lies and +giving them papers in the night. I am not one of the People of the +Chain. But the king of the People of the Chain is also my king. And he +is a great king, lord of many lands and many seas, who has no need of +secret messengers, hostlers and scullions of whom no one has heard, to +persuade strangers of his greatness."</p> + +<p>"Your words do not persuade me!" cried the Father of Swords. "A wise man +is like a jar in the house of the apothecary, silent but full of +virtues. If the king who sent me this letter has such hostlers and such +scullions, how great must be his khans and viziers! And why do the Turks +trust him? Why do the other <i>Firengis</i> allow his ships in Bushir and +Basra? Or why do not the People of the Chain better prove the character +of their lord? But the hand of liberality is stronger than the arm of +power. This king, against whom you speak, heard me draw the sigh of +affliction from the bosom of uncertainty.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> He deigned to regard me with +the eye of patronage, sending me good words and promises of peace and +friendship. He will not permit the house of Islam to be troubled. From +many we have heard it."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" exclaimed Matthews. "Now I understand why you have not kept your +promises to the People of the Chain!" And he rubbed his thumb against +his forefinger, in the gesture of the East that signifies the payment of +money.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" demanded the Father of Swords, angrily. "The duty of a king +is munificence. Or why should there be a way to pass through my +mountains? Has it ever been said of the Lur that he stepped back before +a stranger? That is for the Shah in Tehran, who has become the servant +of the Russian! Let the People of the Chain learn that my neck does not +know how to bow! And what guest are you to sprinkle my sore with the +salt of harsh words? A boy, who comes here no one knows why, on hired +horses, with only one follower to attend him!"</p> + +<p>Matthews flushed.</p> + +<p>"Salman Taki Khan," he retorted, "it is true that I come to you humbly, +and without a beard. And your beard is already white, and you can call +out thirty thousand men to follow you. Yet a piece of gold will make you +believe a lie. And I swear to you that whether I give you back this +paper to put in your chest, or whether I spit on it and tear it in +pieces and throw it to the wind of that valley, it is one."</p> + +<p>To which the Father of Swords made emphatic enough rejoinder by +snatching the parchment away, rising to his feet, and striding out of +the room without a word.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>The festivities in honor of the Shah's coronation took place at Bala +Bala with due solemnity. Among the black tents there was much plucking +of plaintive strings, there<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> was more stuffing of mutton and <i>pilau</i>, +and after dark many a little rockets, improvized out of gunpowder and +baked clay, traced brief arabesques of gold against the black of the +underlying gorges. The castle celebrated in the same simple way. The +stuffing, to be sure, was more prolonged and recondite, while dancers +imported from Dizful swayed and snapped their fingers, singing for the +pleasure of the Father of Swords. The eyes of that old man of the +mountain remained opaque as ever, save when he rebuked the almoner who +sat at meat with him for indecorously quoting the lines of Sadi, when he +says: "Such was this delicate crescent of the moon, and fascination of +the holy, this form of an angel, and decoration of a peacock, that let +them once behold her, and continence must cease to exist in the +constitutions of the chaste."</p> + +<p>This rebuke might have been called forth by the presence of another +guest at the board. Be that as it may, the eyes of the Father of Swords +glimmered perceptibly when they rested on the unannounced visitor for +whom he fished out, with his own henna'ed fingers, the fattest morsels +of mutton and the juiciest sweets. I hasten to add that the newcomer was +not the one whose earlier arrival and interview with the Father of +Swords has already been recorded. He was, nevertheless, a personage not +unknown to this record, whether as Senhor Magin of Brazil or as the +emissary of the Shah of the Shahs of <i>Firengistan</i>. For not only had he +felt impelled to bid good-by a second time to his friend Adolf Ganz, +prince among the merchants of Shustar. He had even postponed his voyage +down the Karun long enough to make one more journey overland to Bala +Bala. And he heard there, not without interest, the story of the short +visit and the sudden flight of the young Englishman he had accidentally +met on the river.</p> + +<p>As for Matthews, he celebrated the coronation at Dizful, in bed. And by +the time he had slept off his fag, Bala Bala and the Father of Swords +and the green chest<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> and the ingenious Magin looked to him more than +ever like figures of myth. He was too little of the timber out of which +journalists, romancers, or diplomats are made to take them very +seriously. The world he lived in, moreover, was too solid to be shaken +by any such flimsy device as the one of which he had happened to catch a +glimpse. What had been real to him was that he, Guy Matthews, had been +suspected of playing a part in story-book intrigues, and had been +treated rudely by an old barbarian of whom he expected the proverbial +hospitality of the East. His affair had therefore been to show Mr. +Scarlet Beard that if a Lur could turn his back, an Englishman could do +likewise. He now saw, to be sure, that he himself had not been +altogether the pattern of courtesy. But the old man of the mountain had +got what was coming to him. And Matthews regretted very little, after +all, missing what he had gone to see. For Dizful, peering at him through +the arches of the bridge, reminded that there was still something to +see.</p> + +<p>It must be said of him, however, that he showed no impatience to see the +neighboring ruins of Susa. He was not one, this young man who was out +for a bit of a lark, to sentimentalize about antiquity or the charm of +the unspoiled. Yet even such young men are capable of finding the +rumness of strange towns a passable enough lark, to say nothing of the +general unexpectedness of life. And Dizful turned out to be quite as +unexpected, in its way, as Bala Bala. Matthews found that out before he +had been three days in the place, when a sudden roar set all the loose +little panes tinkling in Shir Ali Khan's garden windows.</p> + +<p>Abbas explained that this was merely a cannon shot, announcing the new +moon of Ramazan. That loud call of the faith evidently made Dizful a +rummer place than it normally was. Matthews soon got used to the daily +repetitions of the sound, rumbling off at sunset and before dawn into +the silence of the plains. But the recurring explosion became for him +the voice of the particular<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> rumness of the fanatical old border +town—of fierce sun, terrific smells, snapping dogs, and scowling +people. When the stranger without the gate crossed his bridge of a +morning for a stroll in the town, he felt like a discoverer of some lost +desert city. He threaded alleys of blinding light, he explored dim +thatched bazaars, he studied tiled doorways in blank mud walls, he +investigated quaint water-mills by the river, and scarce a soul did he +see, unless a stork in its nest on top of a tall badgir or a naked +dervish lying in a scrap of shade asleep under a lion skin. It was as if +Dizful drowsed sullenly in that July blaze brewing something, like a +geyser, and burst out with it at the end of the unendurable day.</p> + +<p>The brew of the night, however, was a different mixture, quite the +rummiest compound of its kind Matthews had ever tasted. The bang of the +sunset gun instantly brought the deserted city back to life. Lights +began to twinkle—in tea houses, along the river, among the indigo +plantations—streets filled with ghostly costumes and jostling camels, +and everywhere voices would celebrate the happy return of dusk so +strangely and piercingly that they made Matthews think of "battles far +away." This was most so when he listened to them, out of sight of +unfriendly eyes, from his own garden. Above the extraordinary rumor that +drifted to him through the arches of the bridge he heard the wailing of +pipes, raucous blasts of cow horns, the thumping of drums; while dogs +barked incessantly, and all night long the caravans of Mesopotamia +jingled to and fro. Then the cannon would thunder out its climax, and +the city would fall anew under the spell of the sun.</p> + +<p>The moon of those Arabian nights was nearing its first quarter and +Matthews was waiting for it to become bright enough for him to fulfill +his true duty as a sightseer by riding to the mounds of Susa, when +Dizful treated Matthews to fresh discoveries as to what an unspoiled +town may contain. It contained, Abbas informed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> him with some mystery +after one of his prolonged visits to the bazaar, another <i>firengi</i>. This +<i>firengi's</i> servant, moreover, had given Abbas explicit directions as to +the whereabouts of the <i>firengi's</i> house, in order that Abbas might give +due warning, as is the custom of the country, of a call from Matthews. +Whereat Matthews made the surprising announcement that he had not come +to Dizful to call on <i>firengis</i>. The chief charm of Dizful for him, as a +matter of fact, was that there he felt himself free of the social +obligations under which he had lain rather longer than he liked. But if +Abbas was able to resign himself to this new proof of the eccentricity +of his master, the unknown <i>firengi</i> apparently was not. At all events, +Matthews soon made another discovery as to the possibilities of Dizful. +An evening or two later, as he loitered on the bridge watching a string +of loaded camels, a respectable-looking old gentleman in a black <i>aba</i> +addressed him in French. French in Dizful! And it appeared that this +remarkable Elamite was a Jew, who had picked up in Baghdad the idiom of +Paris! He went on to describe himself as the "agent" of a distinguished +foreign resident, who, the linguistic old gentleman gave Matthews to +understand, languished for a sight of the new-comer, and was unable to +understand why he had not already been favored with a call. His pain was +the deeper because the newcomer had recently enjoyed the hospitality of +this distinguished foreign resident on a little yacht on the river.</p> + +<p>"The unmitigated bounder!" exclaimed Matthews, unable to deliver himself +in French of that sentiment, and turning upon the stupefied old +gentleman a rude Anglo-Saxon back. "He has cheek enough for anything."</p> + +<p>He had enough, at any rate, to knock the next afternoon, unannounced, on +Matthews' gate, to follow Matthews' servant into the house without +waiting to hear whether Matthews would receive him, to present himself +at the door of the dim underground <i>serdab</i> where Matthews lounged in +his pajamas till it should be cool enough<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> to go out, to make Matthews +the most ceremonious of bows, and to give that young man a half-amused, +half-annoyed consciousness of being put at his ease. The advantage of +position, Matthews had good reason to feel, was with himself. He knew +more about the bounder than the bounder thought, and it was not he who +had knocked at the bounder's gate. Yet the sound of that knock, pealing +muffled through the hot silence, had been distinctly welcome. Nor could +our incipient connoisseur of rum towns pretend that the sight of Magin +bowing in the doorway was wholly unwelcome, so long had he been stewing +there in the sun by himself. What annoyed him, what amused him, what in +spite of himself impressed him, was to see how the bounder ignored +advantages of position. Matthews had forgotten, too, what an imposing +individual the bounder really was. And measuring his tall figure, +listening to his deep voice, looking at his light eyes and his two +sinister scars and the big shaved dome of a head which he this time +uncovered, our cool enough young man wondered whether there might be +something more than fantastic about this navigator of strange waters. It +was rather odd, at all events, how he kept bobbing up, and what a power +he had of quickening—what? A school-boyish sense of the romantic? Or +mere vulgar curiosity? For he suddenly found himself aware, Guy +Matthews, that what he knew about his visitor was less than what he +desired to know.</p> + +<p>The visitor made no haste, however, to volunteer any information. Nor +did he make of Matthews any but the most perfunctory inquiries.</p> + +<p>"And Monsieur—What was his name? Your Frenchman?" he continued.</p> + +<p>"Gaston. He's not my Frenchman, though," replied Matthews. "He went back +long ago."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" uttered Magin. He declined the refreshments which Abbas at that +point produced, even to the cigarette Matthews offered him. He merely +glanced at the make. Then he examined, with a flicker of amusement<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> in +his eyes, the bare white-washed room. A runnel of water trickled across +it in a stone channel that widened in the centre into a shallow pool. "A +bit of a lark, eh? I remember that <i>mot</i> of yours, Mr. Matthews. To sit +steaming, or perhaps I should say dreaming, in a sort of Turkish bath in +the bottom of Elam while over there in Europe—"</p> + +<p>"Is there anything new?" asked Matthews, recognizing his caller's habit +of finishing a sentence with a gesture. "Archdukes and that sort of +thing don't seem to matter much in Dizful. I have even lost track of the +date."</p> + +<p>"I would not have thought an Englishman so—<i>dolce far niente</i>," said +Magin. "It is perhaps because we archæologists feed on dates! I happen +to recollect, though, that we first met on the eighteenth of July. And +to-day, if you would like to know, is Saturday, the first of August, +1914." The flicker of amusement in his eyes became something more +inscrutable. "But there is a telegraph even in Elam," he went on. "A +little news trickles out of it now and then. Don't you ever catch, +perhaps, some echo of the trickle?"</p> + +<p>"That's not my idea of a lark," laughed Matthews.</p> + +<p>Magin regarded him a moment.</p> + +<p>"Well," he conceded, "Europe does take on a new perspective from the +point of view of Susa. I see you are a philosopher, sitting amidst the +ruins of empires and wisely preferring the trickle of your fountain to +the trickle of the telegraph. If Austria falls to pieces, if Serbia +reaches the Adriatic, what is that to us? Nothing but a story that in +Elam has been told too often to have any novelty! Eh?"</p> + +<p>"Why," asked Matthews, quickly, "is that on already?"</p> + +<p>Magin looked at him again a moment before answering.</p> + +<p>"Not yet! But why," he added, "do you say already?"</p> + +<p>His voice had a curious rumble in the dim stone room.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> Matthews wondered +whether it were because the acoustic properties of a <i>serdab</i> in Dizful +differ from those of a galley on the Karun, or whether there really were +something new about him.</p> + +<p>"Why, it's bound to come sooner or later, isn't it? If it's true that +all the way from Nish to Ragusa those chaps speak the same language and +belong to the same race, one can hardly blame them for wanting to do +what the Italians and the Germans have already done. And, as a +philosopher sitting amidst the ruins of empires, wouldn't you say +yourself that Austria has bitten off rather more than she can chew?"</p> + +<p>"Very likely I should." Magin took a cigar out of his pocket, snipped +off the end with a patent cutter, lighted it, and regarded the smoke +with a growing look of amusement. "But," he went on, "as a philosopher +sitting amidst the ruins of empires, I would hardly confine that +observation to Austria-Hungary. For instance, I have heard"—and his +look of amusement verged on a smile—"of an island in the Atlantic Ocean +not much larger than the land of Elam, an island of rains and fogs whose +people, feeling the need of a little more sunlight perhaps, or of +pin-money and elbow-room, sailed away and conquered for themselves two +entire continents, as well as a good part of a third. I have also heard +that the inhabitants of this island, not content with killing and +enslaving so many defenseless fellow-creatures, or with picking up any +lesser island, cape, or bay that happened to suit their fancy, took it +upon themselves to govern several hundred million unwilling individuals +of all colors and religions in other parts of the world. And, having +thus procured both sunlight and elbow-room, those enterprising islanders +assumed a virtuous air and pushed the high cries—as our friend Gaston +would say—if any of their neighbors ever showed the slightest symptom +of following their very successful example. Have you ever heard of such +an island? And would you not say—as a philosopher sitting amidst the +ruins<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> of empires—that it had also bitten off rather more than it could +chew?"</p> + +<p>Matthews, facing the question and the now open smile, felt that he +wanted to be cool, but that he did not altogether succeed.</p> + +<p>"I dare say that two or three hundred years ago we did things we +wouldn't do now. Times have changed in all sorts of ways. But we never +set out like a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Bismarck to invent an empire. It +all came about quite naturally. Anybody else could have done the same. +But nobody else thought of it—at the time. We simply got there first."</p> + +<p>"Ah?" Magin smiled more broadly. "It seems to me that I have heard of +another island, not so far from here, which is no more than a pin-point, +to be sure, but which happens to be the key of the Persian Gulf. I have +also heard that the Portuguese got there first, as you put it. But you +crushed Portugal, you crushed Spain, you crushed Holland, you crushed +France—or you meant to. And I must say it looks to me as if you would +not mind crushing Germany. Why do you go on building ships, building +ships, building ships, always two to Germany's one? Simply that you and +your friends can go on eating up Asia and Africa—and perhaps Germany +too!"</p> + +<p>Matthews noticed that the elder man ended, at any rate, not quite so +coolly as he began.</p> + +<p>"Nonsense! The thing's so simple it isn't worth repeating. We have to +have more ships than anybody else because our empire is bigger than +anybody else's—and more scattered. As for eating, it strikes me that +Germany has done more of that lately than any one. However, if you know +so much about islands, you must also know how we happened to go into +India—or Egypt. In the beginning it was pure accident. And you know +very well that if we left them to-morrow there would be the devil to +pay. Do we get a penny out of them?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!" laughed Magin. "You administer them<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> purely on altruistic +principles, for their own good and that of the world at large—like the +oil-wells of the Karun!"</p> + +<p>"Well, since you put it that way," laughed Matthews in turn, "perhaps we +do!"</p> + +<p>Magin shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Extraordinary people! Do you really think the rest of the world so +stupid? Or it is that the fog of your island has got into your brains? +You always talk about truth as if it were a patented British invention, +yet no one is less willing to call a spade a spade. Look at Cairo, where +you pretend to keep nothing but a consul-general, but where the ruler of +the country can't turn over in bed without his permission. A +consul-general! Look at your novels! Look at what you yourself are +saying to me!"</p> + +<p>Matthews lighted a pipe over it.</p> + +<p>"In a way, of course, you are right," he said. "But I am not sure that +we are altogether wrong. Spades exist, but there's no inherent virtue in +talking about them. In fact it's often better not to mention them at +all. There's something very funny about words, you know. They so often +turn out to mean more than you expected."</p> + +<p>At that Magin regarded his companion with a new interest.</p> + +<p>"I would not have thought you knew that, at your age! But after all, if +you will allow me to say so, it is a woman's point of view. A man ought +to say things out—and stick by them. He is less likely to get into +trouble afterward. For example, it would have been not only more honest +but more advantageous for your country if you had openly annexed Egypt +in the beginning. Now where are you? You continually have to explain, +and to watch very sharply lest some other consul-general tell the +Khedive to turn over in bed. And since you and the Russians intend to +eat up Persia, why on earth don't you do it frankly, instead of trying +not to frighten<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> the Persians, and talking vaguely about spheres of +influence, neutral zones, and what not? I'm afraid the truth is that +you're getting old and fat. What?" He glanced over his cigar at +Matthews, who was regarding the trickle of the water beside them. "Those +Russians, they are younger," he went on. "They have still to be reckoned +with. And they aren't so squeamish, either in novels or in life. Look at +what they have done in their 'sphere.' They have roads, they have +Cossacks, they have the Shah under their thumb. And whenever they choose +they shut the Baghdad train against your caravans—yours, with whom they +have an understanding! A famous understanding! You don't even understand +how to make the most of your own sphere. You have had the Karun in your +hands for three hundred years, and what have you done with it? Why, in +heaven's name, didn't you blast out that rock at Ahwaz long ago? Why +haven't you made a proper road to Isfahan? Why don't you build that +railroad to Khorremabad that you are always talking about, and finish it +before the Germans get to Baghdad? Ah! If they had been here in your +place you would have seen!"</p> + +<p>"It strikes me," retorted Matthews, with less coolness than he had yet +shown, "that you are here already—from what the Father of the Swords +told me." And he looked straight at the man who had told him that an +Englishman couldn't call a spade a spade. But he saw anew how that man +could ignore an advantage of position.</p> + +<p>Magin returned the look—frankly, humorously, quizzically. Then he said:</p> + +<p>"You remind me, by the way, of a question I came to ask you. Would you +object to telling me what you are up to here?"</p> + +<p>"What am I up to?" queried Matthews, in astonishment. The cheek of the +bounder was really beyond everything! "What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>Magin smiled.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I am not an Englishman. I mean what I say."</p> + +<p>"No you're not!" Matthews threw back at him. "No Englishman would try to +pass himself off for a Brazilian."</p> + +<p>Magin smiled again.</p> + +<p>"Nor would a German jump too hastily at conclusions. If I told you I was +from Brazil, I spoke the truth. I was born there, as were many +Englishmen I know. That makes them very little less English, and it has +perhaps made me more German. Who knows? As a philosopher sitting with +you amidst the ruins of empires I am at least inclined to believe that +we take our mother country more seriously than you do yours! But to +return to our point: what are you doing here?"</p> + +<p>"I'm attending to my business. Which seems to me more than you are +doing, Mr. Magin."</p> + +<p>Matthews noticed, from the reverberation of the room, that his voice +must have been unnecessarily loud. He busied himself with the bowl of +his pipe. As for Magin, he got up and began walking to and fro, drawing +at his cigar. The red of it showed how much darker the room had been +growing. It increased, too, the curious effect of his eyes. They looked +like two empty holes in a mask.</p> + +<p>"Eh, too bad!" sighed the visitor at last. "You disappoint me. Do you +know? You are, of course, much younger than I; but you made me hope that +you were perhaps—how shall I put it?—a spirit of the first class. I +hoped that without padding, without rancor, like true philosophers, we +might exchange our points of view. However—Since it suits you to stand +on your dignity, I must say that I am very distinctly attending to my +business. And I am obliged to add that it does not help my business, Mr. +Matthews, to have you sitting so mysteriously in Dizful—and refusing to +call on me, but occasionally calling on nomad chiefs. I confess that you +don't look to me like a spy. Spies are generally older men than you, +more cooked, as Gaston would say, more fluent in languages. It does not +seem<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> to me, either, that even an English spy would go about his affairs +quite as you have done. Still, I regret to have to repeat that I dislike +your idea of a lark. And not only because you upset nomad chiefs. You +upset other people as well. You might even end up by upsetting +yourself."</p> + +<p>"Who the devil are you?" demanded Matthews, hotly. "The Emperor of +Elam?"</p> + +<p>"Ha! I see you are acquainted with the excellent Adolf Ganz!" laughed +Magin. "No," he went on in another tone. "His viceroy, perhaps. But as I +was saying, it does not suit me to have you stopping here. I can see, +however, that you have reason to be surprised, possibly annoyed, at my +telling you so. I am willing to be reasonable about it. How much do you +want—for the expenses of your going away?"</p> + +<p>Matthews could hardly believe his ears. He got up in turn.</p> + +<p>"What in hell do you mean by that?"</p> + +<p>"I am sorry, Mr. Matthews," answered the other, slowly, "that my +knowledge of your language does not permit me to make myself clear to +you. Perhaps you will understand me better if I quote from yourself. I +got here first. Did you ever put your foot into this country until two +weeks ago? Did your countrymen ever trouble themselves about it, even +after Layard showed them the way? No! They expressly left it outside of +their famous 'sphere,' in that famous neutral zone. And all these +centuries it has been lying here in the sun, asleep, forgotten, +deserted, lost, given over to nomads and to lions—until I came. I am +the first European since Alexander the Great who has seen what it might +be. It is not so impossible that I might open again those choked-up +canals which once made these burnt plains a paradise. In those mountains +I have found—what I have found. What right have you to interfere with +me, who are only out for a lark? Or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> what right have your countrymen? +They have already, as you so gracefully express it, bitten off so much +more than they can chew. The Gulf, the Karun, the oil-wells—they are +yours. Take them. But Baghdad is ours: if not today, then tomorrow. And +if you will exercise that logical process of which your British mind +appears to be not altogether destitute, you can hardly help seeing that +this part of your famous neutral zone, if not the whole of it, falls +into the sphere of Baghdad. You know, too, that we do things more +thoroughly than you. Therefore I must very respectfully but very firmly +ask you, at your very earliest convenience, to leave Dizful. I am quite +willing to believe, however, that your interference with my arrangements +was accidental. And I dislike to put you to any unnecessary trouble. So +I shall be happy to compensate you, in marks, <i>tomans</i>, or pounds +sterling, for any disappointment you may feel in bringing this +particular lark to an end. Do you now understand me? How much do you +want?"</p> + +<p>He perceived, Guy Matthews, that his lark had indeed taken an unexpected +turn. He was destined, far sooner than he dreamed, to be asked of life, +and to answer, questions even more direct than this. But until now life +had chosen to confront him with no problem more pressing than one of +cricket or hunting. He was therefore troubled by an unwonted confusion +of feelings. For he felt that his ordinary vocabulary—made up of such +substantives as lark, cheek, and bounder, and the comprehensive +adjective "rum"—fell short of coping with this extraordinary speech. He +even felt that he might possibly have answered in a different way, but +for that unspeakable offer of money. And the rumble of Magin's bass in +the dark stone room somehow threw a light on the melancholy land +without, somehow gave him a dim sense that he did not answer for himself +alone—that he answered for the tradition of Layard and Rawlinson and +Morier and Sherley, of Clive and Kitchener, of Drake and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> Raleigh and +Nelson, of all the adventurous young men of that beloved foggy island at +which this pseudo-Brazilian jeered.</p> + +<p>"When I first met you in the river, Mr. Magin," he said, quietly, "I +confess I did not realize how much of the spoils of Susa you were +carrying away in your chests. And I didn't take your gold anklet as a +bribe, though I didn't take you for too much of a gentleman in offering +it to me. But all I have to say now is that I shall stay in Dizful as +long as I please—and that you had better clear out of this house unless +you want me to kick you out."</p> + +<p>"Heroics, eh? You obstinate little fool! I could choke you with one +hand!"</p> + +<p>"You'd better try!" shouted Matthews.</p> + +<p>He started in spite of himself when a muffled boom suddenly answered +him, jarring even the sunken walls of the room. Then he remembered that +voice of the drowsing city, bursting out with the pent-up brew of the +day.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" exclaimed Magin strangely—"The cannon speaks at last! You will +hear, beside your fountain, what it has to say. That, at any rate, you +will perhaps understand—you and the people of your island." He stopped +a moment. "But," he went on, "if some fasting dervish knocks you on the +head with his mace, or sticks his knife into your back, don't say I +didn't warn you!"</p> + +<p>And the echo of his receding stamp in the corridor drowned for a moment +the trickle of the invisible water.</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>The destiny of some men lies coiled within them, invisible as the blood +of their hearts or the stuff of their will, working darkly, day by day +and year after year, for their glory or for their destruction. The +destiny of other men is an accident, a god from the machine or an enemy +in ambush. Such was the destiny of Guy Matthews, as it was of how many +other unsuspecting young men of his time. It would have been +inconceivable to him, as he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> stood in his dark stone room listening to +Magin's receding stamp, that anything could make him do what Magin +demanded. Yet something did it—the last drop of the strange essence +Dizful had been brewing for him.</p> + +<p>The letter that accomplished this miracle came to him by the hand of a +Bakhtiari from Meidan-i-Naft. It said very little. It said so little, +and that little so briefly, that Matthews, still preoccupied with his +own quarrel, at first saw no reason why a stupid war on the Continent, +and the consequent impossibility of telegraphing home except by way of +India, should affect the oil-works, or why his friends should put him in +the position of showing Magin the white feather. But as he turned over +the Bakhtiari's scrap of paper the meaning of it grew, in the light of +the very circumstances that made him hesitate, so portentously that he +sent Abbas for horses. And before the Ramazan gun boomed again he was +well on his way back to Meidan-i-Naft.</p> + +<p>There was something unreal to him about that night ride eastward across +the dusty moonlit plain. He never forgot that night. The unexpectedness +of it was only a part of the unreality. What pulled him up short was a +new quality in the general unexpectedness of life. Life had always been, +like the trip from which he was returning, more or less of a lark. +Whereas it suddenly appeared that life might, perhaps, be very little of +a lark. So far as he had ever pictured life to himself he had seen it as +an extension of his ordered English countryside, beset by no hazard more +searching than a hawthorne hedge. But the plain across which he rode +gave him a new picture of it, lighted romantically enough by the moon, +yet offering a rider magnificent chances to break his neck in some +invisible nullah, if not to be waylaid by marauding Lurs or lions. It +even began to come to this not too articulate young man that romance and +reality might be the same thing, romance being what happens to the other +fellow and reality being what happens to you. He looked up at the moon +of war that had been heralded to him by cannon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> and tried to imagine +what, under that same moon far away in Europe, was happening to the +other fellow. For it was entirely on the cards that it might also happen +to him, Guy Matthews, who had gone up the Ab-i-Diz for a lark! That his +experience had an extraordinary air of having happened to some one else, +as he went back in his mind to his cruise on the river, his meeting with +the barge, his first glimpse of Dizful, the interlude of Bala Bala, the +return to Dizful, the cannon, Magin. Magin! He was extraordinary enough, +in all conscience, as Matthews tried to piece together, under his +romantic-realistic moon, the various unrelated fragments his memory +produced of that individual, connoisseur of Greek kylixes and Lur +nose-jewels, quoter of Scripture and secret agent.</p> + +<p>The bounder must have known, as he sat smoking his cigar and ironizing +on the ruins of empires, that the safe and settled little world to which +they both belonged was already in a blaze. Of course he had known +it—and he had said nothing about it! But not least extraordinary was +the way the bounder, whom after all Matthews had only seen twice, seemed +to color the whole adventure. In fact, he had been the first speck in +the blue, the forerunner—if Matthews had only seen it—of the more epic +adventure into which he was so quickly to be caught.</p> + +<p>At Shuster he broke his journey. There were still thirty miles to do, +and fresh horses were to be hired—of some fasting <i>charvadar</i> who would +never consent in Ramazan, Matthews very well knew, to start for +Meidan-i-Naft under the terrific August sun. But he was not ungrateful +for a chance to rest. He discovered in himself, too, a sudden interest +in all the trickle of the telegraph. And he was anxious to pick up what +news he could from the few Europeans in the town. Moreover, he needed to +see Ganz about the replenishing of his money-bag; for not the lightest +item of the traveler's pack in Persia is his load of silver <i>krans</i>.</p> + +<p>At the telegraph office Matthews ran into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> Ganz himself. The Swiss was a +short, fair, faded man, not too neat about his white clothes, with a +pensive mustache and an ambiguous blue eye that lighted at sight of the +young Englishman. The light, however, was not one to illuminate +Matthews' darkness in the matter of news. What news trickled out of the +local wire was very meager indeed. The Austrians were shelling Belgrade, +the Germans, the Russians, and the French had gone in. That was all. No, +not quite all; for the bank-rate in England had suddenly jumped +sky-high—higher, at any rate, than it had ever jumped before. And even +Shuster felt the distant commotion, in that the bazaar had already seen +fit to put up the price of sugar and petroleum. Not that Shuster showed +any outward sign of commotion as the two threaded their way toward +Ganz's house. The deserted streets reminded Matthews strangely of +Dizful. What was stranger was to find how they reminded him of a chapter +that is closed. He hardly noticed the blank walls, the archways of brick +and tile, the tall <i>badgirs</i>, even the filth and smells. But strangest +was it to listen to the hot silence, to look up at the brilliant stripe +of blue between the adobe walls, while over there—!</p> + +<p>The portentous uncertainty of what might be over there made his answers +to Ganz's questions about his journey curt and abstracted. He gave no +explanation of his failure to see the celebration at Bala Bala and the +ruins of Susa, which Ganz supposed to be the chief objects of his +excursion. Yet he found himself looking with a new eye at the anomalous +exile whom the Father of Swords called the prince among the merchants of +Shuster, noting the faded untidy air as he had never noted it before, +wondering why a man should bury himself in such a hole as this. Was one +now, he speculated, to look at everybody all over again? He was not the +kind of man, Ganz, to interest the Guy Matthews who had gone to Dizful. +But it was the Guy Matthews who came back from Dizful who didn't like +Ganz's name or Ganz's good enough accent. Nevertheless he yielded to +Ganz's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> insistence, when they reached the office and the money-bag had +been restored to its normal portliness, that the traveler should step +into the house to rest and cool off.</p> + +<p>"Do come!" urged the Swiss. "I so seldom see a civilized being. And I +have a new piano!" he threw in as an added inducement. "Do you play?"</p> + +<p>He had no parlor tricks, he told Ganz, and he told himself that he +wanted to get on. But Ganz had been very decent to him, after all. And +he began to perceive that he himself was extremely tired. So he followed +Ganz through the cloister of the pool to the court where the great basin +glittered in the sun, below the pillared portico.</p> + +<p>"Who is that?" exclaimed Ganz suddenly. "What a tone, eh? And what a +touch!"</p> + +<p>Matthews heard from Ganz's private quarters a welling of music so +different from the pipes and cow-horns of Dizful that it gave him a +sudden stab of homesickness.</p> + +<p>"I say," he said, brightening, "could it be any of the fellows from +Meidan-i-Naft?"</p> + +<p>The ambiguous blue eye brightened too.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps! It is the river music from <i>Rheingold</i>. But listen," Ganz +added with a smile. "There are sharks among the Rhine maidens!"</p> + +<p>They went on, up the steps of the portico, to the door which Ganz opened +softly, stepping aside for his visitor to pass in. The room was so dark, +after the blinding light of the court, that Matthews saw nothing at +first. He stepped forward eagerly, feeling his way among Ganz's tables +and chairs toward the end of the room from which the music came. They +gave him, the cluttering tables and chairs, after the empty rooms he had +been living in, a sharper renewal of his stab. And even a piano—! It +made him think of Kipling and the <i>Song of the Banjo</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I am memory and torment—I am Town!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am all that ever went with evening dress!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But what mute inglorious Paderewski of the restricted circle he had +moved in for the past months was capable<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> of such parlor tricks as this? +Then, suddenly, he saw. He saw, swaying back and forth against the dark +background of the piano, a domed shaven head that made him stop +short—that head full of so many astounding things! He saw, traveling +swiftly up and down the keys, rising above them to an extravagant height +and pouncing down upon them again, those predatory hands that had +pounced on the spoils of Susa! They began, in a moment, to flutter +lightly over the upper end of the keyboard. It was extraordinary what a +ripple poured as if out of those hands. Magin himself bent over to +listen to the ripple, partly showing his face as he turned his ear to +the keys. He showed, too, in the lessening gloom, a smile Matthews had +never seen before, more extraordinary than anything. Yet even as +Matthews watched it, in his stupefaction, the smile changed, broadened, +hardened. And Magin, sitting up straight again with his back to the +room, began to execute a series of crashing chords.</p> + +<p>After several minutes he stopped and swung around on the piano-stool. +Ganz clapped his hands, shouting "Bis! Bis!" At that Magin rose, bowed +elaborately, and kissed his hands right and left. He ended by pulling up +a table-cover near him, gazing intently under the table.</p> + +<p>"Have you lost something?" inquired Ganz.</p> + +<p>"I seem," answered Magin, "to have lost half my audience. What has +become of our elusive English friend? Am I so unfortunate as to have +been unable to satisfy his refined ear? Or can it be that his emotions +were too much for him?"</p> + +<p>"He was in a hurry," explained Ganz. "He is just back from Dizful, you +know."</p> + +<p>"Ah?" uttered Magin. "He is a very curious young man. He is always in a +hurry. He was in a hurry the first time I had the pleasure of meeting +him. He was in such a hurry at Bala Bala that he didn't wait to see the +celebration which you told me he went to see. He also left Dizful in a +surprising hurry, from what I hear.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> I happen to know that the telegraph +had nothing to do with it. I can only conclude that some one frightened +him away. Where do you suppose he hurries to? And do you think he will +arrive in time?"</p> + +<p>Ganz opened his mouth; but if he intended to say something, he decided +instead to draw his hand across his spare jaw. However, he did speak +after all.</p> + +<p>"I notice that you at least do not hurry, Majesty! Do you fiddle while +Rome burns?"</p> + +<p>"Ha!" laughed Magin. "It is not Rome that burns! And I notice, Mr. Ganz, +that you seem to be of a forgetful as well as of an inquiring +disposition. I would have been in Mohamera long ago if it had not been +for your son of Papa, with his interest in unspoiled towns. I will thank +you to issue no more letters to the Father of Swords without remembering +me. Do you wish to enrich the already overstocked British Museum at my +expense? But I do not mind revealing to you that I am now really on my +way to Mohamera."</p> + +<p>"H'm," let out Ganz slowly. "My dear fellow, haven't you heard that +there is a war in Europe?"</p> + +<p>"I must confess, my good Ganz, that I have. But what has Europe to do +with Mohamera?"</p> + +<p>"God knows," said Ganz. "I should think, however, since you are so far +from the Gulf, that you would prefer the route of Baghdad—now that +French and Russian cruisers are seeking whom they may devour."</p> + +<p>"You forget, Mr. Ganz, that I am so fortunate as to possess a number of +valuable objects of virtue. I would think twice before attempting to +carry those objects of virtue through the country of our excellent +friends the Beni Lam Arabs!"</p> + +<p>Ganz laughed.</p> + +<p>"Your objects of virtue could very well be left with me. What if the +English should go into the war?"</p> + +<p>"The English? Go into the war? Never fear! This is not their affair. And +if it were, what could they do? Sail their famous ships up the Rhine and +the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> Elbe? Besides, that treacherous memory of yours seems to fail you +again. This is Persia, not England."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," answered Ganz. "But the English are very funny people. There +is a rumor, you know, of pourparlers. What if you were to sail down to +the gulf and some little midshipman were to fire a shot across your +bow?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, bah! I am a neutral! And Britannia is a fat old woman! Also a rich +one, who doesn't put her hand into her pocket to please her neighbors. +Besides, I have a little affair with the Sheikh of Mohamera—objects of +virtue, indigo, who knows what? As you know, I am a versatile man." And +swinging around on his stool, Magin began to play again.</p> + +<p>"But even fat old women sometimes know how to bite," objected Ganz.</p> + +<p>"Not when their teeth have dropped out," Magin threw over his +shoulder—"or when strong young men plug their jaws!"</p> + + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p>Two days later, or not quite three days later, the galley and the +motor-boat whose accidental encounter brought about the events of this +narrative met again. This second meeting took place in the Karun, as +before, but at a point some fifty or sixty miles below Bund-i-Kir. And +now the moon, not the sun, cast its paler glitter between the high dark +banks of the stream. It was a keen-eared young Lur who first heard afar +the pant of the mysterious jinni. Before he or his companions descried +the motor-boat, however, Gaston, rounding a sharp curve above the island +of Umm-un-Nakhl, caught sight of the sweeps of the barge flashing in the +moonlight. The unexpected view of that flash was not disagreeable to +Gaston. For, as Gaston put it to himself, he was sad—despite the +efforts of his friend, the telegraph operator at Ahwaz, to cheer him up. +It is true that the operator,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> who was Irish and a man of heart, had +accorded him but a limited amount of cheer, together with hard words not +a few. Recalling them, Gaston picked up a knife that lay on the seat +beside him—an odd curved knife of the country, in a leather sheath. +There is no reason why I should conceal the fact that this knife was a +gift from Gaston's Bakhtiari henchman, who had presented it to Gaston, +with immense solemnity, on hearing that there was a war in Firengistan +and that the young men of the oil works were going to it. What had +become of that type of a Bakhtiari, Gaston wondered? Then, spying the +flash of those remembered oars, he bethought him of the seigneur of a +Brazilian whose hospitable yacht, he had reason to know, was not +destitute of cheer.</p> + +<p>When he was near enough the barge to make out the shadow of the high +beak on the moonlit water he cut off the motor. The sweeps forthwith +ceased to flash. Gaston then called out the customary salutation. It was +answered, as before, by the deep voice of the Brazilian. He stood at the +rail of the barge as the motor-boat glided alongside.</p> + +<p>"Ah, <i>mon vieux</i>, you are alone this time?" said Magin genially. "Where +are the others?"</p> + +<p>"I do not figure to myself," answered Gaston, "that you derange yourself +to inquire for my sacred devil of a Bakhtiari, who has taken the key of +the fields. As for Monsieur Guy, the Englishman you saw the other time, +whose name does not pronounce itself, he has gone to the war. I just +took him and three others to Ahwaz, where they meet more of their +friends and all go together on the steamer to Mohamera."</p> + +<p>"Really! And did you hear any news at Ahwaz?"</p> + +<p>"The latest is that England has declared war."</p> + +<p>"Tiens!" exclaimed Magin. His voice was extraordinarily loud and deep in +the stillness of the river. It impressed Gaston, who sat looking up at +the dark figure in front of the ghostly Lurs. What types, with their +black hats of a theater! He hoped the absence of M'sieu<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> Guy and the +Brazilian's evident surprise would not cloud the latter's hospitality. +He was accordingly gratified to hear the Brazilian say, after a moment: +"And they tell us that madness is not catching! But we, at least, have +not lost our heads. Eh? To prove it, Monsieur Gaston, will you not come +aboard a moment, if you are not in too much of a hurry, and drink a +little glass with me?"</p> + +<p>Gaston needed no urging. In a trice he had tied his boat to the barge +and was on the deck. The agreeable Brazilian was not too much of a +seigneur to shake his hand in welcome, or to lead him into the cabin +where a young Lur was in the act of lighting candles.</p> + +<p>"It is so hot, and so many strange beasts fly about this river," Magin +explained, "that I usually prefer to travel without a light. But we must +see the way to our mouths! What will you have? Beer? Bordeaux? +Champagne?"</p> + +<p>Gaston considered this serious question with attention.</p> + +<p>"Since Monsieur has the goodness to inquire, if Monsieur has any of that +<i>fine champagne</i> I tasted before—"</p> + +<p>"Ah yes! Certainly." And he gave a rapid order to the Lur. Then he stood +silent, his eyes fixed on the reed portière. Gaston was more impressed +than ever as he stood too, <i>béret</i> in hand, looking around the little +saloon, so oddly, yet so comfortably fitted out with rugs and skins. +Presently the Lur reappeared through the reed portière, which aroused +the Brazilian from his abstraction. He filled the two glasses himself, +waving his attendant out of the cabin, and handed one to Gaston. The +other he raised in the air, bowing to his guest. "To the victor!" he +said. "And sit down, won't you? There is more than one glass in that +bottle."</p> + +<p>Gaston was enchanted to sit down and to sip another cognac.</p> + +<p>"But, Monsieur," he exclaimed, looking about again, "you travel like an +emperor!"</p> + +<p>"Ho!" laughed Magin, with a quick glance at Gaston. "I am well enough +here. But there is one difficulty."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> He looked at his glass, holding it +up to the light. "I travel too slowly."</p> + +<p>Gaston smiled.</p> + +<p>"In Persia, who cares?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it happens that at this moment I do. I have affairs at Mohamera. +And in this tub it will take me three days more at the best—without +considering that I shall have to wait till daylight to get through the +rocks at Ahwaz." He lowered his glass and looked back at Gaston. "Tell +me: Why shouldn't you take me down, ahead of my tub? Eh? Or to Sablah, +if Mohamera is too far? It would not delay you so much, after all. You +can tell them any story you like at Sheleilieh. Otherwise I am sure we +can make a satisfactory arrangement." He put his hand suggestively into +his pocket.</p> + +<p>Gaston considered it between sips. It really was not much to do for this +uncle of America who had been so amiable. And others had suddenly become +so much less amiable than their wont. Moreover that Bakhtiari—he might +repent when he heard the motor again. At any rate one could say that one +had waited for him. And the Brazilian would no doubt show a gratitude so +handsome that one could afford to be a little independent. If those on +the steamer asked any questions when the motor-boat passed, surely the +Brazilian, who was more of a seigneur than any employee of an oil +company, would know how to answer.</p> + +<p>"<i>Allons!</i> Why not?" he said aloud.</p> + +<p>"Bravo!" cried the Brazilian, withdrawing his hand from his pocket. +"Take that as part of my ticket. And excuse me a moment while I make +arrangements."</p> + +<p>He disappeared through the reed portière, leaving Gaston to admire five +shining napoleons. It gave him an odd sensation to see, after so long, +those coins of his country. When Magin finally came back, it was through +the inner door.</p> + +<p>"Tell me: how much can you carry?" he asked. "I have four boxes I would +like to take with me, besides a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> few small things. These fools might +wreck themselves at Ahwaz and lose everything in the river. It would +annoy me very much—after all the trouble I have had to collect my +objects of virtue! Besides, the tub will get through more easily without +them. Come in and see."</p> + +<p>"<i>Mon Dieu</i>!" exclaimed Gaston, scratching his head, when he saw. "My +boat won't get through more easily with them, especially at night." He +looked curiously around the cozy stateroom.</p> + +<p>"But it will take them, eh? If necessary, we can land them at Ahwaz and +have them carried around the rapids."</p> + +<p>The thing took some manoeuvering; but the Lurs, with the help of much +fluent profanity from the master, finally accomplished it without +sinking the motor-boat. Gaston, sitting at the wheel to guard his +precious engine against some clumsiness of the black-hatted +mountaineers, looked on with humorous astonishment at this turn of +affairs. He was destined, it appeared, to be disappointed in his hope of +cheer. That cognac was really very good—if only one had had more of it. +Still, one at least had company now; and he was not the man to be +insensible to the fine champagne of the unexpected. Nor was he +unconscious that of many baroque scenes at which he had assisted, this +was not the least baroque.</p> + +<p>When the fourth chest had gingerly been lowered into place, Magin +vanished again. Presently he reappeared, followed by his majordomo, to +whom he gave instructions in a low voice. Then he stepped into the stern +of the boat. The majordomo, taking two portmanteaux and a rug from the +Lurs behind him, handed them down to Gaston. Having disposed of them, +Gaston stood up, his eyes on the Lurs who crowded the rail.</p> + +<p>"Well, my friend," said Magin gaily, "for whom are you waiting? We shall +yet have opportunities to admire the romantic scenery of the Karun!"</p> + +<p>"Ah! Monsieur takes no—other object of virtue with him?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Have you so much room?" laughed Magin. "It is a good thing there is no +wind to-night. Go ahead."</p> + +<p>Gaston cast off, backed a few feet, reversed, and described a wide +circle around the stern of the barge. It made a strange picture in the +moonlight, with its black-curved beak and its spectral crew. They +shifted to the other rail as the motor-boat came about, watching +silently.</p> + +<p>"To your oars!" shouted Magin at them. "Row, sons of burnt fathers! Will +you have me wait a month for you at Mohamera?"</p> + +<p>They scattered to their places, and Gaston caught the renewed flash of +the sweeps as he turned to steer for the bend. It was a good thing, he +told himself, that there was no wind to-night. The gunwale was nearer +the water than he or the boat cared for. She made nothing like her usual +speed. However, he said nothing. Neither did Magin—until the dark +shadow of Umm-un-Nakhl divided the glitter in front of them.</p> + +<p>"Take the narrower channel," he ordered then. And when they were in it +he added: "Stop, will you, and steer in there, under the shadow of the +shore? I think we would better fortify ourselves for the work of the +night. I at least did not forget the cognac, among my other objects of +virtue."</p> + +<p>They fortified themselves accordingly, the Brazilian producing cigars as +well. He certainly was an original, thought Gaston, now hopeful of +experiencing actual cheer. That originality proved itself anew when, +after a much longer period of refreshment than would suit most gentlemen +in a hurry, the familiar flash became visible in the river behind them.</p> + +<p>"Now be quiet," commanded the extraordinary uncle of America. "Whatever +happens we mustn't let them hear us. If they take this channel, we will +slip down, and run part way up the other. We shall give them a little +surprise."</p> + +<p>Nearer and nearer came the flash, which suddenly went<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> out behind the +island. A recurrent splash succeeded it, and a wild melancholy singing. +The singing and the recurrent splash grew louder, filled the silence of +the river, grew softer; and presently the receding oars flashed again, +below the island. But not until the last glint was lost in the shimmer +of the water, the last sound had died out of the summer night, did the +Brazilian begin to unfold his surprise.</p> + +<p>"<i>Que diable allait-on faire dans cette galère!</i>" he exclaimed. "It's +the first time I ever knew them to do the right thing! Let us drink one +more little glass to the good fortune of their voyage. And here, by the +way, is another part of my ticket." He handed Gaston five more +napoleons. "But now, my friend, we have some work. I see we shall never +get anywhere with all this load. Let us therefore consign our objects of +virtue to the safe keeping of the river. He will guard them better than +anybody. Is it deep enough here?"</p> + +<p>It was deep enough. But what an affair, getting those heavy chests +overboard! The last one nearly pulled Magin in with it. One of the +clamps caught in his clothes, threw him against the side of the boat, +and jerked something after it into the water. He sat down, swearing +softly to himself, to catch his breath and investigate the damage.</p> + +<p>"It was only my revolver," he announced. "And we have no need of that, +since we are not going to the war! Now, my good Gaston, I have changed +my mind. We will not go down the river, after all. We will go up."</p> + +<p>Gaston, this time, stared at him.</p> + +<p>"Up? But, Monsieur, the barge—"</p> + +<p>"What is my barge to you, dear Gaston? Besides, it is no longer mine. It +now belongs to the Sheikh of Mohamera—with whatever objects of virtue +it still contains. He has long teased me for it. And none of them can +read the note they are carrying to him! Didn't I tell you I was going to +give them a little surprise? Well,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> there it is. I am not a man, you +see, to be tied to objects of virtue. Which reminds me: where are my +portmanteaux?"</p> + +<p>"Here, on the tank."</p> + +<p>"Fi! And you a chauffeur! Give them to me. I will arrange myself a +little. As for you, turn around and see how quickly you can carry me to +the charming resort of Bund-i-Kir—where Antigonus fought Eumenes and +the Silver Shields for the spoils of Susa, and won them. Did you ever +hear, Gaston, of that interesting incident?"</p> + +<p>"Monsieur is too strong for me," replied Gaston, cryptically. He took +off his cap, wiped his face, and sat down at the wheel.</p> + +<p>"If a man is not strong, what is he?" rejoined Magin. "But you will not +find this cigar too strong," he added amicably.</p> + +<p>Gaston did not. What he found strong was the originality of his +passenger—and the way that cognac failed, in spite of its friendly +warmth, to cheer him. For he kept thinking of that absurd Bakhtiari, and +of the telegraph operator, and of M'sieu Guy, and the others, as he sped +northward on the silent moonlit river.</p> + +<p>"This is very well, eh, Gaston?" uttered the Brazilian at last. "We +march better without our objects of virtue." Gaston felt that he smiled +as he lay smoking on his rug in the bottom of the boat. "But tell me," +he went on presently, "how is it, if I may ask, that you didn't happen +to go in the steamer too, with your Monsieur Guy? You do not look to me +either old or incapable."</p> + +<p>There it was, the same question, which really seemed to need no answer +at first, but which somehow became harder to answer every time! Why was +it? And how could it spoil so good a cognac?</p> + +<p>"How is it?" repeated Gaston. "It is, Monsieur, that France is a great +lady who does not derange herself for a simple vagabond like Gaston, or +about whose liaisons or quarrels it is not for Gaston to concern +himself.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> This great lady has naturally not asked my opinion about this +quarrel. But if she had, I would have told her that it is very stupid +for everybody in Europe to begin shooting at each other. Why? Simply +because it pleases <i>ces messieurs</i> the Austrians to treat <i>ces +messieurs</i> the Serbs <i>de haut en bas</i>! What have I to do with that? +Besides, this great lady is very far away, and by the time I arrive she +will have arranged her affair. In the meantime there are many others, +younger and more capable than I, whose express business it is to arrange +such affairs. Will one <i>piou-piou</i> more or less change the result of one +battle? Of course not! And if I should lose my hand or my head, who +would buy me another? Not France! I have seen a little what France does +in such cases. My own father left his leg at Gravelotte, together with +his job and my mother's peace. I have seen what happened to her, and how +it is that I am a vagabond—about whom France has never troubled +herself." He shouted it over his shoulder, above the noise of the motor, +with an increasing loudness. "Also," he went on, "I have duties not so +far away as France. Up there, at Sheleilieh, there will perhaps be next +month a little Gaston. If I go away, who will feed him? I have not the +courage of Monsieur, who separates himself so easily from objects of +virtue. <i>Voilà!</i>"</p> + +<p>Magin said nothing for a moment. Then:</p> + +<p>"Courage, yes! One needs a little courage in this curious world." There +was a pause, as the boat cut around a dark curve. "But do not think, my +poor Gaston, that it is I who blame you. On the contrary, I find you +very reasonable—more reasonable than many ministers of state. If others +in Europe had been able to express themselves like you, Gaston, Monsieur +Guy and his friends would not have run away so suddenly. It takes +courage, too, not to run after them." He made a sound, as if changing +his position, and presently he began to sing softly to himself.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur would make a fortune in the <i>café-chantant</i>,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> commented +Gaston. He began to feel, at last, after the favorable reception of his +speech, a little cheered. He felt cooler, too, in this quiet rushing +moonlight of the river. "What is it that Monsieur sings? It seems to me +that I have heard that air."</p> + +<p>"Very likely you have, Gaston. It is a little song of sentiment, sung by +all the sentimental young ladies of the world. He who wrote it, however, +was far from sentimental. He was a fellow countryman of mine—and of the +late Abraham!—who loved your country so much that he lived in it and +died in it." And Magin sang again, more loudly, the first words of the +song:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dass ich so traurig bin;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Gaston listened with admiration, astonishment, and perplexity. It +suddenly came back to him how this original Brazilian had sworn when the +chest caught his clothes.</p> + +<p>"But, Monsieur, I thought—Are you, then, a German?"</p> + +<p>Magin, after a second, laughed.</p> + +<p>"But Gaston, am I then an enemy?"</p> + +<p>Gaston examined him in the moonlight.</p> + +<p>"Well," he answered slowly, "if your country and mine are at war—"</p> + +<p>"What has that to do with us, as you just now so truly said? You have +found that your country's quarrel was not cause enough for you to leave +Persia, and so have I. <i>Voilà tout!</i>" He examined Gaston in turn. "But I +thought you knew all the time. Such is fame! I flattered myself that +your Monsieur Guy would leave no one untold. Whereas he has left us the +pleasure of a situation more piquant, after all, than I supposed. We +enjoy the magnificent moonlight of the south, we admire a historic river +under its most successful aspect, and we do not exalt ourselves because +our countrymen, many<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> hundreds of miles away, have lost their heads." He +smiled over the piquancy of the situation. "Strength is good," he went +on in his impressive bass, "and courage is better. But reason, as you so +justly say, is best of all. For which reason," he added, "allow me to +recommend to you, my dear Gaston, that you look a little where you are +steering."</p> + +<p>Gaston looked. But he discovered that his moment of cheer had been all +too brief. A piquant situation, indeed! The piquancy of that situation +somehow complicated everything more darkly than before. If there were +reasons why he should not go away with the others, as they had all taken +it for granted that he would do, was that a reason why he, Gaston, whose +father had lost a leg at Gravelotte, should do this masquerading German +a service? All the German's amiability and originality did not change +that. Perhaps, indeed, that explained the originality and amiability. +The German, at any rate, did not seem to trouble himself about it. When +Gaston next looked over his shoulder, Magin was lying flat on his back +in the bottom of the boat, with his hands under his head and his eyes +closed. And so he continued to lie, silent and apparently asleep, while +his troubled companion, hand on wheel and <i>béret</i> on ear, steered +through the waning moonlight of the Karun.</p> + + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p>The moon was but a ghost of itself, and a faint rose was beginning to +tinge the pallor of the sky behind the Bakhtiari mountains, when the +motor began to miss fire. Gaston, stifling an exclamation, cut it off, +unscrewed the cap of the tank, and measured the gasolene. Then he +stepped softly forward to the place in the bow where he kept his reserve +cans. Magin, roused by the stopping of the boat, sat up, stretching.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tiens!</i>" he exclaimed. "Here we are!" He looked about at the high clay +banks enclosing the tawny basin<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> of the four rivers. In front of him the +konar trees of Bund-i-Kir showed their dark green. At the right, on top +of the bluff of the eastern shore, a solitary peasant stood white +against the sky. Near him a couple of oxen on an inclined plane worked +the rude mechanism that drew up water to the fields. The creak of the +pulleys and the splash of the dripping goatskins only made more intense +the early morning silence. "Do you remember, Gaston?" asked Magin. "It +was here we first had the good fortune to meet—not quite three weeks +ago."</p> + +<p>"I remember," answered Gaston, keeping his eye on the mouth of the tank +he was filling, "that I was the one who wished you peace, Monsieur; and +that no one asked who you were or where you were going."</p> + +<p>Magin yawned.</p> + +<p>"Well, you seem to have satisfied yourself now on those important +points. I might add, however, for your further information, that I think +I shall not go to Bund-i-Kir, which looks too peaceful to disturb at +this matinal hour, but there—on the western shore of the Ab-i-Shuteit. +And that reminds me. I still have to pay you the rest of my ticket."</p> + +<p>He reached forward and laid a little pile of gold on Gaston's seat. +Gaston, watching out of the corner of his eye as he poured gasolene, saw +that there were more than five napoleons in that pile. There were at +least ten.</p> + +<p>"What would you say, Monsieur," he asked slowly, emptying his tin, "if I +were to take you instead to Sheleilieh—where there are still a few of +the English?"</p> + +<p>"I would say, my good Gaston, that you had more courage than I thought. +By the way," he went on casually, "what is this?"</p> + +<p>He reached forward again toward Gaston's seat, where lay the Bakhtiari's +present. Gaston dropped his tin and made a snatch at it. But Magin was +too quick for him. He retreated to his place at the stern of the boat, +where he drew the knife out of its sheath.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Sharp, too!" he commented, with a smile at Gaston. "And my revolver is +gone!"</p> + +<p>Gaston, very pale, stepped to his seat.</p> + +<p>"That, Monsieur, was given me by my Bakhtiari brother-in-law—to take to +the war. When he found I had not the courage to go, he ran away from +me."</p> + +<p>"But you thought there might be more than one way to make war, eh? Well, +I at least am not an Apache. Perhaps the sharks will know what to do +with it." The blade glittered in the brightening air and splashed out of +sight. And Magin, folding his arms, smiled again at Gaston. "Another +object of virtue for the safe custody of the Karun!"</p> + +<p>"But not all!" cried Gaston thickly, seizing the little pile of gold +beside him and flinging it after the knife.</p> + +<p>Magin's smile broadened.</p> + +<p>"Have you not forgotten something, Gaston?"</p> + +<p>"But certainly not, Monsieur," he replied, putting his hand into his +pocket. The next moment a second shower of gold caught the light. And +where the little circles of ripples widened in the river, a sharp fin +suddenly cut the muddy water.</p> + +<p>"Oho! Mr. Shark loses no time!" cried Magin. He stopped smiling, and +turned back to Gaston. "But we do. Allow me to say, my friend, that you +show yourself really too romantic. This is no doubt an excellent comedy +which we are playing for the benefit of that gentleman on the bluff. But +even he begins to get tired of it. See? He starts to say his morning +prayer. So be so good as to show a little of the reason which you know +how to show, and start for shore. But first you might do well to screw +on the cap of your tank—if you do not mind a little friendly advice."</p> + +<p>Gaston looked around absent-mindedly, and took up the nickel cap. But he +suddenly turned back to Magin.</p> + +<p>"You speak too much about friends, Monsieur. I am not your friend. I am +your enemy. And I shall not take<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> you there, to the Ab-i-Shuteit. I +shall take you into the Ab-i-Gerger—to Sheleilieh and the English."</p> + +<p>Magin considered him, with a flicker in his lighted eyes.</p> + +<p>"You might perhaps have done it if you had not forgotten about your +gasolene—And you may yet. We shall see. But it seems to me, +my—enemy!—that you make a miscalculation. Let us suppose that you take +me to Sheleilieh. It is highly improbable, because you no longer have +your knife to assist you. I, it is true, no longer have my revolver to +assist me; but I have two arms, longer and I fancy stronger than yours. +However, let us make the supposition. And let us make the equally +improbable supposition that I fall into the hands of the English. What +can they do to me? The worst they can do is to give me free lodging and +nourishment till the end of the war! Whereas you, Gaston—you do not +seem to have reflected that life will not be so simple for you, after +this. There is a very unpleasant little word by which they name citizens +who do not respond to their country's call to arms. In other words, Mr. +Deserter, you have taken the road which, in war time, ends between a +firing-squad and a stone wall."</p> + +<p>Gaston, evidently, had not reflected on that. He stared at his nickel +cap, turning it around in his fingers.</p> + +<p>"You see?" continued Magin. "Well then, what about that little Gaston? I +do not know what has suddenly made you so much less reasonable than you +were last night; but I, at least, have not changed. And I see no reason +why that little Gaston should be left between two horns of a dilemma. In +fact I see excellent reasons not only why you should take me that short +distance to the shore, but why you should accompany me to Dizful. There +I am at home. I am, more than any one else, emperor. And I need a man +like you. I am going to have a car, I am going to have a boat, I am +going to have a place in the sun. There will be many changes in that +country after the war. You will see. It is not so far,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> either, from +here. It is evident that your heart, like mine, is in this part of the +world. So come with me. Eh, Gaston?"</p> + +<p>"Heart!" repeated Gaston, with a bitter smile. "It is you who speak of +the heart, and of—— But you do not speak of the little surprise with +which you might some day regale me, Mr. Enemy! Nor do you say what you +fear—that I might take it into my head to go fishing at Umm-un-Nakhl!"</p> + +<p>"Ah bah!" exclaimed Magin impatiently. "However, you are right. I am not +like you. I do not betray my country for a little savage with a jewel in +her nose! It is because of that small difference between us, Gaston, +between your people and my people, that you will see such changes here +after the war. But you will not see them unless you accept my offer. +After all, what else can you do?" He left Gaston to take it in as he +twirled his metal cap. "There is the sun already," Magin added +presently. "We shall have a hot journey."</p> + +<p>Gaston looked over his shoulder at the quivering rim of gold that surged +up behind the Bakhtiari mountains. How sharp and purple they were, +against what a deepening blue! On the bluff the white-clad peasant stood +with his back to the light, his hands folded in front of him, his head +bowed.</p> + +<p>"You look tired, Gaston," said Magin pleasantly. "Will you have this +cigar?"</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," replied Gaston. He felt in his own pockets, however, +first for a cigarette and then for a match. He was indeed tired, so +tired that he no longer remembered which pocket to fumble in or what he +held in his hand as he fumbled. Ah, that sacred tank! Then he suddenly +smiled again, looking at Magin. "There is something else I can do!"</p> + +<p>"What?" asked Magin as he lay at ease in the stern, enjoying the first +perfume of his cigar. "You can't go back to France, now, and I should +hardly advise you to go back to Sheleilieh. At least until after the +war. Then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> there will be no more English there to ask you troublesome +questions!"</p> + +<p>Gaston lighted his cigarette. And, keeping his eyes on Magin, he slowly +moved his hand, in which were both the nickel cap and the still-burning +match, toward the mouth of the tank.</p> + +<p>"This!" he answered.</p> + +<p>Magin watched him. He did not catch the connection at first. He saw it +quickly enough, however. In his pale translucent eyes there was +something very like a flare.</p> + +<p>"Look out—or we shall go together after all!"</p> + +<p>"We shall go together, after all," repeated Gaston. "And here is your +place in the sun!"</p> + +<p>Magin still watched, as the little flame flickered through the windless +air. But he did not move.</p> + +<p>"It will go out! And you have not the courage Apache!"</p> + +<p>"You will see, Prussian!" The match stopped, at last, above the open +hole; but the hand that held it trembled a little, and so did the +strange low voice that said: "This at least I can do—for that great +lady, far away."</p> + +<p>The peasant on the bluff, prostrated toward Mecca with his forehead in +the dust, was startled out of his prayer by a roar in the basin below +him. There where the trim-white jinn-boat of the <i>Firengi</i> had been was +now a blazing mass of wreckage, out of which came fierce cracklings, +hissings, sounds not to be named. As he stared at it the wreckage fell +apart, began to disappear in a cloud of smoke and steam that lengthened +toward the southern gateway of the basin. And in the turbid water, cut +by swift sharks' fins, he saw a sudden bright trail of red, redder than +any fire or sunrise. It paled gradually, the smoke melted after the +steam, the current caught the last charred fragments of wreckage and +drew them out of sight.</p> + +<p>The peasant watched it all silently, as if waiting for some new magic of +the <i>Firengi</i>, from his high bank of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> Karun—that snow-born river +bound for distant palms, that had seen so many generations of the faces +of men, so many of the barks to which men trust their hearts, their +hopes, their treasures, as it wound, century after century, from the +mountains to the sea. Then, at last, the peasant folded his hands anew +and bowed his head toward Mecca.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_GAY_OLD_DOG9" id="THE_GAY_OLD_DOG9"></a>THE GAY OLD DOG<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> EDNA FERBER</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Metropolitan Magazine</i></p> + + +<p>Those of you who have dwelt—or even lingered—in Chicago, Illinois +(this is not a humorous story), are familiar with the region known as +the Loop. For those others of you to whom Chicago is a transfer point +between New York and San Francisco there is presented this brief +explanation:</p> + +<p>The Loop is a clamorous, smoke-infested district embraced by the iron +arms of the elevated tracks. In a city boasting fewer millions, it would +be known familiarly as downtown. From Congress to Lake Street, from +Wabash almost to the river, those thunderous tracks make a complete +circle, or loop. Within it lie the retail shops, the commercial hotels, +the theaters, the restaurants. It is the Fifth Avenue (diluted) and the +Broadway (deleted) of Chicago. And he who frequents it by night in +search of amusement and cheer is known, vulgarly, as a loop-hound.</p> + +<p>Jo Hertz was a loop-hound. On the occasion of those sparse first nights +granted the metropolis of the Middle West he was always present, third +row, aisle, left. When a new loop café was opened, Jo's table always +commanded an unobstructed view of anything worth viewing. On entering he +was wont to say, "Hello, Gus," with careless cordiality to the +head-waiter, the while his eye roved expertly from table to table as he +removed his gloves. He ordered things under glass, so that his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> table, +at midnight or thereabouts, resembled a hot-bed that favors the bell +system. The waiters fought for him. He was the kind of man who mixes his +own salad dressing. He liked to call for a bowl, some cracked ice, +lemon, garlic, paprika, salt, pepper, vinegar and oil, and make a rite +of it. People at near-by tables would lay down their knives and forks to +watch, fascinated. The secret of it seemed to lie in using all the oil +in sight and calling for more.</p> + +<p>That was Jo—a plump and lonely bachelor of fifty. A plethoric, +roving-eyed and kindly man, clutching vainly at the garments of a youth +that had long slipped past him. Jo Hertz, in one of those pinch-waist +belted suits and a trench coat and a little green hat, walking up +Michigan Avenue of a bright winter's afternoon, trying to take the curb +with a jaunty youthfulness against which every one of his fat-encased +muscles rebelled, was a sight for mirth or pity, depending on one's +vision.</p> + +<p>The gay-dog business was a late phase in the life of Jo Hertz. He had +been a quite different sort of canine. The staid and harassed brother of +three unwed and selfish sisters is an under dog. The tale of how Jo +Hertz came to be a loop-hound should not be compressed within the limits +of a short story. It should be told as are the photoplays, with frequent +throw-backs and many cut-ins. To condense twenty-three years of a man's +life into some five or six thousand words requires a verbal economy +amounting to parsimony.</p> + +<p>At twenty-seven Jo had been the dutiful, hard-working son (in the +wholesale harness business) of a widowed and gummidging mother, who +called him Joey. If you had looked close you would have seen that now +and then a double wrinkle would appear between Jo's eyes—a wrinkle that +had no business there at twenty-seven. Then Jo's mother died, leaving +him handicapped by a death-bed promise, the three sisters and a +three-story-and-basement house on Calumet Avenue. Jo's wrinkle became a +fixture.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p> + +<p>Death-bed promises should be broken as lightly as they are seriously +made. The dead have no right to lay their clammy fingers upon the +living.</p> + +<p>"Joey," she had said, in her high, thin voice, "take care of the girls."</p> + +<p>"I will, ma," Jo had choked.</p> + +<p>"Joey," and the voice was weaker, "promise me you won't marry till the +girls are all provided for." Then as Jo had hesitated, appalled: "Joey, +it's my dying wish. Promise!"</p> + +<p>"I promise, ma," he had said.</p> + +<p>Whereupon his mother had died, comfortably, leaving him with a +completely ruined life.</p> + +<p>They were not bad-looking girls, and they had a certain style, too. That +is, Stell and Eva had. Carrie, the middle one, taught school over on the +West Side. In those days it took her almost two hours each way. She said +the kind of costume she required should have been corrugated steel. But +all three knew what was being worn, and they wore it—or fairly faithful +copies of it. Eva, the housekeeping sister, had a needle knack. She +could skim the State Street windows and come away with a mental +photograph of every separate tuck, hem, yoke, and ribbon. Heads of +departments showed her the things they kept in drawers, and she went +home and reproduced them with the aid of a two-dollar-a-day seamstress. +Stell, the youngest, was the beauty. They called her Babe. She wasn't +really a beauty, but some one had once told her that she looked like +Janice Meredith (it was when that work of fiction was at the height of +its popularity). For years afterward, whenever she went to parties, she +affected a single, fat curl over her right shoulder, with a rose stuck +through it.</p> + +<p>Twenty-three years ago one's sisters did not strain at the household +leash, nor crave a career. Carrie taught school, and hated it. Eva kept +house expertly and complainingly. Babe's profession was being the +family<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> beauty, and it took all her spare time. Eva always let her sleep +until ten.</p> + +<p>This was Jo's household, and he was the nominal head of it. But it was +an empty title. The three women dominated his life. They weren't +consciously selfish. If you had called them cruel they would have put +you down as mad. When you are the lone brother of three sisters, it +means that you must constantly be calling for, escorting, or dropping +one of them somewhere. Most men of Jo's age were standing before their +mirror of a Saturday night, whistling blithely and abstractedly while +they discarded a blue polka-dot for a maroon tie, whipped off the maroon +for a shot-silk, and at the last moment decided against the shot-silk in +favor of a plain black-and-white, because she had once said she +preferred quiet ties. Jo, when he should have been preening his feathers +for conquest, was saying:</p> + +<p>"Well, my God, I <i>am</i> hurrying! Give a man time, can't you? I just got +home. You girls have been laying around the house all day. No wonder +you're ready."</p> + +<p>He took a certain pride in seeing his sisters well dressed, at a time +when he should have been reveling in fancy waistcoats and brilliant-hued +socks, according to the style of that day, and the inalienable right of +any unwed male under thirty, in any day. On those rare occasions when +his business necessitated an out-of-town trip, he would spend half a day +floundering about the shops selecting handkerchiefs, or stockings, or +feathers, or fans, or gloves for the girls. They always turned out to be +the wrong kind, judging by their reception.</p> + +<p>From Carrie, "What in the world do I want of a fan!"</p> + +<p>"I thought you didn't have one," Jo would say.</p> + +<p>"I haven't. I never go to dances."</p> + +<p>Jo would pass a futile hand over the top of his head, as was his way +when disturbed. "I just thought you'd like one. I thought every girl +liked a fan. Just," feebly, "just to—to have."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, for pity's sake!"</p> + +<p>And from Eva or Babe, "I've <i>got</i> silk stockings, Jo." Or, "You brought +me handkerchiefs the last time."</p> + +<p>There was something selfish in his giving, as there always is in any +gift freely and joyfully made. They never suspected the exquisite +pleasure it gave him to select these things; these fine, soft, silken +things. There were many things about this slow-going, amiable brother of +theirs that they never suspected. If you had told them he was a dreamer +of dreams, for example, they would have been amused. Sometimes, +dead-tired by nine o'clock, after a hard day downtown, he would doze +over the evening paper. At intervals he would wake, red-eyed, to a +snatch of conversation such as, "Yes, but if you get a blue you can wear +it anywhere. It's dressy, and at the same time it's quiet, too." Eva, +the expert, wrestling with Carrie over the problem of the new spring +dress. They never guessed that the commonplace man in the frayed old +smoking-jacket had banished them all from the room long ago; had +banished himself, for that matter. In his place was a tall, debonair, +and rather dangerously handsome man to whom six o'clock spelled evening +clothes. The kind of a man who can lean up against a mantel, or propose +a toast, or give an order to a man-servant, or whisper a gallant speech +in a lady's ear with equal ease. The shabby old house on Calumet Avenue +was transformed into a brocaded and chandeliered rendezvous for the +brilliance of the city. Beauty was there, and wit. But none so beautiful +and witty as She. Mrs.—er—Jo Hertz. There was wine, of course; but no +vulgar display. There was music; the soft sheen of satin; laughter. And +he the gracious, tactful host, king of his own domain—</p> + +<p>"Jo, for heaven's sake, if you're going to snore go to bed!"</p> + +<p>"Why—did I fall asleep?"</p> + +<p>"You haven't been doing anything else all evening. A person would think +you were fifty instead of thirty."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p> + +<p>And Jo Hertz was again just the dull, gray, commonplace brother of three +well-meaning sisters.</p> + +<p>Babe used to say petulantly, "Jo, why don't you ever bring home any of +your men friends? A girl might as well not have any brother, all the +good you do."</p> + +<p>Jo, conscience-stricken, did his best to make amends. But a man who has +been petticoat-ridden for years loses the knack, somehow, of comradeship +with men. He acquires, too, a knowledge of women, and a distaste for +them, equaled only, perhaps, by that of an elevator-starter in a +department store.</p> + +<p>Which brings us to one Sunday in May. Jo came home from a late Sunday +afternoon walk to find company for supper. Carrie often had in one of +her school-teacher friends, or Babe one of her frivolous intimates, or +even Eva a staid guest of the old-girl type. There was always a Sunday +night supper of potato salad, and cold meat, and coffee, and perhaps a +fresh cake. Jo rather enjoyed it, being a hospitable soul. But he +regarded the guests with the undazzled eyes of a man to whom they were +just so many petticoats, timid of the night streets and requiring escort +home. If you had suggested to him that some of his sisters' popularity +was due to his own presence, or if you had hinted that the more +kittenish of these visitors were palpably making eyes at him, he would +have stared in amazement and unbelief.</p> + +<p>This Sunday night it turned out to be one of Carrie's friends.</p> + +<p>"Emily," said Carrie, "this is my brother, Jo." Jo had learned what +to expect in Carrie's friends. Drab-looking women in the late thirties, +whose facial lines all slanted downward.</p> + +<p>"Happy to meet you," said Jo, and looked down at a different sort +altogether. A most surprisingly different sort, for one of Carrie's +friends. This Emily person was very small, and fluffy, and blue-eyed, +and sort of—well, crinkly looking. You know. The corners of her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> mouth +when she smiled, and her eyes when she looked up at you, and her hair, +which was brown, but had the miraculous effect, somehow, of being +golden.</p> + +<p>Jo shook hands with her. Her hand was incredibly small, and soft, so +that you were afraid of crushing it, until you discovered she had a firm +little grip all her own. It surprised and amused you, that grip, as does +a baby's unexpected clutch on your patronizing forefinger. As Jo felt it +in his own big clasp, the strangest thing happened to him. Something +inside Jo Hertz stopped working for a moment, then lurched sickeningly, +then thumped like mad. It was his heart. He stood staring down at her, +and she up at him, until the others laughed. Then their hands fell +apart, lingeringly.</p> + +<p>"Are you a school-teacher, Emily?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Kindergarten. It's my first year. And don't call me Emily, please."</p> + +<p>"Why not? It's your name. I think it's the prettiest name in the world." +Which he hadn't meant to say at all. In fact, he was perfectly aghast to +find himself saying it. But he meant it.</p> + +<p>At supper he passed her things, and stared, until everybody laughed +again, and Eva said acidly, "Why don't you feed her?"</p> + +<p>It wasn't that Emily had an air of helplessness. She just made you feel +you wanted her to be helpless, so that you could help her.</p> + +<p>Jo took her home, and from that Sunday night he began to strain at the +leash. He took his sisters out, dutifully, but he would suggest, with a +carelessness that deceived no one, "Don't you want one of your girl +friends to come along? That little What's-her-name—Emily, or something. +So long's I've got three of you, I might as well have a full squad."</p> + +<p>For a long time he didn't know what was the matter with him. He only +knew he was miserable, and yet happy. Sometimes his heart seemed to ache +with an actual physical ache. He realized that he wanted to do<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> things +for Emily. He wanted to buy things for Emily—useless, pretty, expensive +things that he couldn't afford. He wanted to buy everything that Emily +needed, and everything that Emily desired. He wanted to marry Emily. +That was it. He discovered that one day, with a shock, in the midst of a +transaction in the harness business. He stared at the man with whom he +was dealing until that startled person grew uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter, Hertz?"</p> + +<p>"Matter?"</p> + +<p>"You look as if you'd seen a ghost or found a gold mine. I don't know +which."</p> + +<p>"Gold mine," said Jo. And then, "No. Ghost."</p> + +<p>For he remembered that high, thin voice, and his promise. And the +harness business was slithering downhill with dreadful rapidity, as the +automobile business began its amazing climb. Jo tried to stop it. But he +was not that kind of business man. It never occurred to him to jump out +of the down-going vehicle and catch the up-going one. He stayed on, +vainly applying brakes that refused to work.</p> + +<p>"You know, Emily, I couldn't support two households now. Not the way +things are. But if you'll wait. If you'll only wait. The girls +might—that is, Babe and Carrie—"</p> + +<p>She was a sensible little thing, Emily. "Of course I'll wait. But we +mustn't just sit back and let the years go by. We've got to help."</p> + +<p>She went about it as if she were already a little matchmaking matron. +She corraled all the men she had ever known and introduced them to Babe, +Carrie, and Eva separately, in pairs, and en masse. She arranged parties +at which Babe could display the curl. She got up picnics. She stayed +home while Jo took the three about. When she was present she tried to +look as plain and obscure as possible, so that the sisters should show +up to advantage. She schemed, and planned, and contrived, and hoped; and +smiled into Jo's despairing eyes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p> + +<p>And three years went by. Three precious years. Carrie still taught +school, and hated it. Eva kept house, more and more complainingly as +prices advanced and allowance retreated. Stell was still Babe, the +family beauty; but even she knew that the time was past for curls. +Emily's hair, somehow, lost its glint and began to look just plain +brown. Her crinkliness began to iron out.</p> + +<p>"Now, look here!" Jo argued, desperately, one night. "We could be happy, +anyway. There's plenty of room at the house. Lots of people begin that +way. Of course, I couldn't give you all I'd like to at first. But maybe, +after a while—"</p> + +<p>No dreams of salons, and brocade, and velvet-footed servitors, and satin +damask now. Just two rooms, all their own, all alone, and Emily to work +for. That was his dream. But it seemed less possible than that other +absurd one had been.</p> + +<p>You know that Emily was as practical a little thing as she looked +fluffy. She knew women. Especially did she know Eva, and Carrie, and +Babe. She tried to imagine herself taking the household affairs and the +housekeeping pocketbook out of Eva's expert hands. Eva had once +displayed to her a sheaf of aigrettes she had bought with what she saved +out of the housekeeping money. So then she tried to picture herself +allowing the reins of Jo's house to remain in Eva's hands. And +everything feminine and normal in her rebelled. Emily knew she'd want to +put away her own freshly laundered linen, and smooth it, and pat it. She +was that kind of woman. She knew she'd want to do her own delightful +haggling with butcher and vegetable peddler. She knew she'd want to muss +Jo's hair, and sit on his knee, and even quarrel with him, if necessary, +without the awareness of three ever-present pairs of maiden eyes and +ears.</p> + +<p>"No! No! We'd only be miserable. I know. Even if they didn't object. And +they would, Jo. Wouldn't they?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p> + +<p>His silence was miserable assent. Then, "But you do love me, don't you, +Emily?"</p> + +<p>"I do, Jo. I love you—and love you—and love you. But, Jo, I—can't."</p> + +<p>"I know it, dear. I knew it all the time, really. I just thought, maybe, +somehow—"</p> + +<p>The two sat staring for a moment into space, their hands clasped. Then +they both shut their eyes, with a little shudder, as though what they +saw was terrible to look upon. Emily's hand, the tiny hand that was so +unexpectedly firm, tightened its hold on his, and his crushed the absurd +fingers until she winced with pain.</p> + +<p>That was the beginning of the end, and they knew it.</p> + +<p>Emily wasn't the kind of girl who would be left to pine. There are too +many Jo's in the world whose hearts are prone to lurch and then thump at +the feel of a soft, fluttering, incredibly small hand in their grip. One +year later Emily was married to a young man whose father owned a large, +pie-shaped slice of the prosperous state of Michigan.</p> + +<p>That being safely accomplished, there was something grimly humorous in +the trend taken by affairs in the old house on Calumet. For Eva married. +Of all people, Eva! Married well, too, though he was a great deal older +than she. She went off in a hat she had copied from a French model at +Fields's, and a suit she had contrived with a home dressmaker, aided by +pressing on the part of the little tailor in the basement over on +Thirty-first Street. It was the last of that, though. The next time they +saw her, she had on a hat that even she would have despaired of copying, +and a suit that sort of melted into your gaze. She moved to the North +Side (trust Eva for that), and Babe assumed the management of the +household on Calumet Avenue. It was rather a pinched little household +now, for the harness business shrank and shrank.</p> + +<p>"I don't see how you can expect me to keep house decently on this!" Babe +would say contemptuously.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> Babe's nose, always a little inclined to +sharpness, had whittled down to a point of late. "If you knew what Ben +gives Eva."</p> + +<p>"It's the best I can do, Sis. Business is something rotten."</p> + +<p>"Ben says if you had the least bit of—" Ben was Eva's husband, and +quotable, as are all successful men.</p> + +<p>"I don't care what Ben says," shouted Jo, goaded into rage. "I'm sick of +your everlasting Ben. Go and get a Ben of your own, why don't you, if +you're so stuck on the way he does things."</p> + +<p>And Babe did. She made a last desperate drive, aided by Eva, and she +captured a rather surprised young man in the brokerage way, who had made +up his mind not to marry for years and years. Eva wanted to give her her +wedding things, but at that Jo broke into sudden rebellion.</p> + +<p>"No, sir! No Ben is going to buy my sister's wedding clothes, +understand? I guess I'm not broke—yet. I'll furnish the money for her +things, and there'll be enough of them, too."</p> + +<p>Babe had as useless a trousseau, and as filled with extravagant +pink-and-blue and lacy and frilly things as any daughter of doting +parents. Jo seemed to find a grim pleasure in providing them. But it +left him pretty well pinched. After Babe's marriage (she insisted that +they call her Estelle now) Jo sold the house on Calumet. He and Carrie +took one of those little flats that were springing up, seemingly over +night, all through Chicago's South Side.</p> + +<p>There was nothing domestic about Carrie. She had given up teaching two +years before, and had gone into Social Service work on the West Side. +She had what is known as a legal mind, hard, clear, orderly, and she +made a great success of it. Her dream was to live at the Settlement +House and give all her time to the work. Upon the little household she +bestowed a certain amount of grim, capable attention. It was the same +kind<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> of attention she would have given a piece of machinery whose +oiling and running had been entrusted to her care. She hated it, and +didn't hesitate to say so.</p> + +<p>Jo took to prowling about department store basements, and household +goods sections. He was always sending home a bargain in a ham, or a sack +of potatoes, or fifty pounds of sugar, or a window clamp, or a new kind +of paring knife. He was forever doing odd little jobs that the janitor +should have done. It was the domestic in him claiming its own.</p> + +<p>Then, one night, Carrie came home with a dull glow in her leathery +cheeks, and her eyes alight with resolve. They had what she called a +plain talk.</p> + +<p>"Listen, Jo. They've offered me the job of first assistant resident +worker. And I'm going to take it. Take it! I know fifty other girls +who'd give their ears for it. I go in next month."</p> + +<p>They were at dinner. Jo looked up from his plate, dully. Then he glanced +around the little dining-room, with its ugly tan walls and its heavy +dark furniture (the Calumet Street pieces fitted cumbersomely into the +five-room flat).</p> + +<p>"Away? Away from here, you mean—to live?"</p> + +<p>Carrie laid down her fork. "Well, really, Jo! After all that +explanation."</p> + +<p>"But to go over there to live! Why, that neighborhood's full of dirt, +and disease, and crime, and the Lord knows what all. I can't let you do +that, Carrie."</p> + +<p>Carrie's chin came up. She laughed a short little laugh. "Let me! That's +eighteenth-century talk, Jo. My life's my own to live. I'm going."</p> + +<p>And she went. Jo stayed on in the apartment until the lease was up. Then +he sold what furniture he could, stored or gave away the rest, and took +a room on Michigan Avenue in one of the old stone mansions whose decayed +splendor was being put to such purpose.</p> + +<p>Jo Hertz was his own master. Free to marry. Free to come and go. And he +found he didn't even think of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> marrying. He didn't even want to come or +go, particularly. A rather frumpy old bachelor, with thinning hair and a +thickening neck. Much has been written about the unwed, middle-aged +woman; her fussiness, her primness, her angularity of mind and body. In +the male that same fussiness develops, and a certain primness, too. But +he grows flabby where she grows lean.</p> + +<p>Every Thursday evening he took dinner at Eva's, and on Sunday noon at +Stell's. He tucked his napkin under his chin and openly enjoyed the +home-made soup and the well-cooked meats. After dinner he tried to talk +business with Eva's husband, or Stell's. His business talks were the +old-fashioned kind, beginning:</p> + +<p>"Well, now, looka here. Take, f'rinstance your raw hides and leathers."</p> + +<p>But Ben and George didn't want to take f'rinstance your raw hides and +leathers. They wanted, when they took anything at all, to take golf, or +politics, or stocks. They were the modern type of business man who +prefers to leave his work out of his play. Business, with them, was a +profession—a finely graded and balanced thing, differing from Jo's +clumsy, downhill style as completely as does the method of a great +criminal detective differ from that of a village constable. They would +listen, restively, and say, "Uh-uh," at intervals, and at the first +chance they would sort of fade out of the room, with a meaning glance at +their wives. Eva had two children now. Girls. They treated Uncle Jo with +good-natured tolerance. Stell had no children. Uncle Jo degenerated, by +almost imperceptible degrees, from the position of honored guest, who is +served with white meat, to that of one who is content with a leg and one +of those obscure and bony sections which, after much turning with a +bewildered and investigating knife and fork, leave one baffled and +unsatisfied.</p> + +<p>Eva and Stell got together and decided that Jo ought to marry.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It isn't natural," Eva told him. "I never saw a man who took so little +interest in women."</p> + +<p>"Me!" protested Jo, almost shyly. "Women!"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Of course. You act like a frightened school boy."</p> + +<p>So they had in for dinner certain friends and acquaintances of fitting +age. They spoke of them as "splendid girls." Between thirty-six and +forty. They talked awfully well, in a firm, clear way, about civics, and +classes, and politics, and economics, and boards. They rather terrified +Jo. He didn't understand much that they talked about, and he felt humbly +inferior, and yet a little resentful, as if something had passed him by. +He escorted them home, dutifully, though they told him not to bother, +and they evidently meant it. They seemed capable, not only of going home +quite unattended, but of delivering a pointed lecture to any highwayman +or brawler who might molest them.</p> + +<p>The following Thursday Eva would say, "How did you like her, Jo?"</p> + +<p>"Like who?" Jo would spar feebly.</p> + +<p>"Miss Matthews."</p> + +<p>"Who's she?"</p> + +<p>"Now, don't be funny, Jo. You know very well I mean the girl who was +here for dinner. The one who talked so well on the emigration question."</p> + +<p>"Oh, her! Why, I liked her, all right. Seems to be a smart woman."</p> + +<p>"Smart! She's a perfectly splendid girl."</p> + +<p>"Sure," Jo would agree cheerfully.</p> + +<p>"But didn't you like her?"</p> + +<p>"I can't say I did, Eve. And I can't say I didn't. She made me think a +lot of a teacher I had in the fifth reader. Name of Himes. As I recall +her, she must have been a fine woman. But I never thought of her as a +woman at all. She was just Teacher."</p> + +<p>"You make me tired," snapped Eva impatiently. "A<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> man of your age. You +don't expect to marry a girl, do you? A child!"</p> + +<p>"I don't expect to marry anybody," Jo had answered.</p> + +<p>And that was the truth, lonely though he often was.</p> + +<p>The following year Eva moved to Winnetka. Any one who got the meaning of +the Loop knows the significance of a move to a north shore suburb, and a +house. Eva's daughter, Ethel, was growing up, and her mother had an eye +on society.</p> + +<p>That did away with Jo's Thursday dinner. Then Stell's husband bought a +car. They went out into the country every Sunday. Stell said it was +getting so that maids objected to Sunday dinners, anyway. Besides, they +were unhealthy, old-fashioned things. They always meant to ask Jo to +come along, but by the time their friends were placed, and the lunch, +and the boxes, and sweaters, and George's camera, and everything, there +seemed to be no room for a man of Jo's bulk. So that eliminated the +Sunday dinners.</p> + +<p>"Just drop in any time during the week," Stell said, "for dinner. Except +Wednesday—that's our bridge night—and Saturday. And, of course, +Thursday. Cook is out that night. Don't wait for me to 'phone."</p> + +<p>And so Jo drifted into that sad-eyed, dyspeptic family made up of those +you see dining in second-rate restaurants, their paper propped up +against the bowl of oyster crackers, munching solemnly and with +indifference to the stare of the passer-by surveying them through the +brazen plate-glass window.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>And then came the War. The war that spelled death and destruction to +millions. The war that brought a fortune to Jo Hertz, and transformed +him, over night, from a baggy-kneed old bachelor whose business was a +failure to a prosperous manufacturer whose only trouble was the shortage +in hides for the making of his product—leather! The armies of Europe +called for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> it. Harnesses! More harnesses! Straps! Millions of straps! +More! More!</p> + +<p>The musty old harness business over on Lake Street was magically changed +from a dust-covered, dead-alive concern to an orderly hive that hummed +and glittered with success. Orders poured in. Jo Hertz had inside +information on the War. He knew about troops and horses. He talked with +French and English and Italian buyers—noblemen, many of +them—commissioned by their countries to get American-made supplies. And +now, when he said to Ben or George, "Take f'rinstance your raw hides and +leathers," they listened with respectful attention.</p> + +<p>And then began the gay dog business in the life of Jo Hertz. He +developed into a loop-hound, ever keen on the scent of fresh pleasure. +That side of Jo Hertz which had been repressed and crushed and ignored +began to bloom, unhealthily. At first he spent money on his rather +contemptuous nieces. He sent them gorgeous fans, and watch bracelets, +and velvet bags. He took two expensive rooms at a downtown hotel, and +there was something more tear-compelling than grotesque about the way he +gloated over the luxury of a separate ice-water tap in the bathroom. He +explained it.</p> + +<p>"Just turn it on. Ice-water! Any hour of the day or night."</p> + +<p>He bought a car. Naturally. A glittering affair; in color a bright blue, +with pale-blue leather straps and a great deal of gold fittings and wire +wheels. Eva said it was the kind of a thing a soubrette would use, +rather than an elderly business man. You saw him driving about in it, +red-faced and rather awkward at the wheel. You saw him, too, in the +Pompeiian room at the Congress Hotel of a Saturday afternoon when +doubtful and roving-eyed matrons in kolinsky capes are wont to +congregate to sip pale amber drinks. Actors grew to recognize the +semi-bald head and the shining, round, good-natured face looming out at +them from the dim well of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> parquet, and sometimes, in a musical +show, they directed a quip at him, and he liked it. He could pick out +the critics as they came down the aisle, and even had a nodding +acquaintance with two of them.</p> + +<p>"Kelly, of the <i>Herald</i>," he would say carelessly. "Bean, of the <i>Trib</i>. +They're all afraid of him."</p> + +<p>So he frolicked, ponderously. In New York he might have been called a +Man About Town.</p> + +<p>And he was lonesome. He was very lonesome. So he searched about in his +mind and brought from the dim past the memory of the luxuriously +furnished establishment of which he used to dream in the evenings when +he dozed over his paper in the old house on Calumet. So he rented an +apartment, many-roomed and expensive, with a man-servant in charge, and +furnished it in styles and periods ranging through all the Louis. The +living room was mostly rose color. It was like an unhealthy and bloated +boudoir. And yet there was nothing sybaritic or uncleanly in the sight +of this paunchy, middle-aged man sinking into the rosy-cushioned luxury +of his ridiculous home. It was a frank and naïve indulgence of +long-starved senses, and there was in it a great resemblance to the +rolling-eyed ecstasy of a school-boy smacking his lips over an all-day +sucker.</p> + +<p>The War went on, and on, and on. And the money continued to roll in—a +flood of it. Then, one afternoon, Eva, in town on shopping bent, entered +a small, exclusive, and expensive shop on Michigan Avenue. Exclusive, +that is, in price. Eva's weakness, you may remember, was hats. She was +seeking a hat now. She described what she sought with a languid +conciseness, and stood looking about her after the saleswoman had +vanished in quest of it. The room was becomingly rose-illumined and +somewhat dim, so that some minutes had passed before she realized that a +man seated on a raspberry brocade settee not five feet away—a man with +a walking stick, and yellow gloves, and tan spats, and a check suit—was +her brother Jo. From him Eva's wild-eyed glance leaped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> to the woman who +was trying on hats before one of the many long mirrors. She was seated, +and a saleswoman was exclaiming discreetly at her elbow.</p> + +<p>Eva turned sharply and encountered her own saleswoman returning, +hat-laden. "Not to-day," she gasped. "I'm feeling ill. Suddenly." And +almost ran from the room.</p> + +<p>That evening she told Stell, relating her news in that telephone +pidgin-English devised by every family of married sisters as protection +against the neighbors and Central. Translated, it ran thus:</p> + +<p>"He looked straight at me. My dear, I thought I'd die! But at least he +had sense enough not to speak. She was one of those limp, willowy +creatures with the greediest eyes that she tried to keep softened to a +baby stare, and couldn't, she was so crazy to get her hands on those +hats. I saw it all in one awful minute. You know the way I do. I suppose +some people would call her pretty. I don't. And her color! Well! And the +most expensive-looking hats. Aigrettes, and paradise, and feathers. Not +one of them under seventy-five. Isn't it disgusting! At his age! Suppose +Ethel had been with me!"</p> + +<p>The next time it was Stell who saw them. In a restaurant. She said it +spoiled her evening. And the third time it was Ethel. She was one of the +guests at a theater party given by Nicky Overton II. You know. The North +Shore Overtons. Lake Forest. They came in late, and occupied the entire +third row at the opening performance of "Believe Me!" And Ethel was +Nicky's partner. She was glowing like a rose. When the lights went up +after the first act Ethel saw that her uncle Jo was seated just ahead of +her with what she afterward described as a Blonde. Then her uncle had +turned around, and seeing her, had been surprised into a smile that +spread genially all over his plump and rubicund face. Then he had turned +to face forward again, quickly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Who's the old bird?" Nicky had asked. Ethel had pretended not to hear, +so he had asked again.</p> + +<p>"My uncle," Ethel answered, and flushed all over her delicate face, and +down to her throat. Nicky had looked at the Blonde, and his eyebrows had +gone up ever so slightly.</p> + +<p>It spoiled Ethel's evening. More than that, as she told her mother of it +later, weeping, she declared it had spoiled her life.</p> + +<p>Ethel talked it over with her husband in that intimate, kimonoed hour +that precedes bedtime. She gesticulated heatedly with her hair brush.</p> + +<p>"It's disgusting, that's what it is. Perfectly disgusting. There's no +fool like an old fool. Imagine! A creature like that. At his time of +life."</p> + +<p>There exists a strange and loyal kinship among men. "Well, I don't +know," Ben said now, and even grinned a little. "I suppose a boy's got +to sow his wild oats some time."</p> + +<p>"Don't be any more vulgar than you can help," Eva retorted. "And I think +you know, as well as I, what it means to have that Overton boy +interested in Ethel."</p> + +<p>"If he's interested in her," Ben blundered, "I guess the fact that +Ethel's uncle went to the theater with some one who wasn't Ethel's aunt +won't cause a shudder to run up and down his frail young frame, will +it?"</p> + +<p>"All right," Eva had retorted. "If you're not man enough to stop it, +I'll have to, that's all. I'm going up there with Stell this week."</p> + +<p>They did not notify Jo of their coming. Eva telephoned his apartment +when she knew he would be out, and asked his man if he expected his +master home to dinner that evening. The man had said yes. Eva arranged +to meet Stell in town. They would drive to Jo's apartment together, and +wait for him there.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>When she reached the city Eva found turmoil there. The first of the +American troops to be sent to France<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> were leaving. Michigan Boulevard +was a billowing, surging mass: Flags, pennants, bands, crowds. All the +elements that make for demonstration. And over the whole—quiet. No +holiday crowd, this. A solid, determined mass of people waiting patient +hours to see the khaki-clads go by. Three years of indefatigable reading +had brought them to a clear knowledge of what these boys were going to.</p> + +<p>"Isn't it dreadful!" Stell gasped.</p> + +<p>"Nicky Overton's only nineteen, thank goodness."</p> + +<p>Their car was caught in the jam. When they moved at all it was by +inches. When at last they reached Jo's apartment they were flushed, +nervous, apprehensive. But he had not yet come in. So they waited.</p> + +<p>No, they were not staying to dinner with their brother, they told the +relieved houseman. Jo's home has already been described to you. Stell +and Eva, sunk in rose-colored cushions, viewed it with disgust, and some +mirth. They rather avoided each other's eyes.</p> + +<p>"Carrie ought to be here," Eva said. They both smiled at the thought of +the austere Carrie in the midst of those rosy cushions, and hangings, +and lamps. Stell rose and began to walk about, restlessly. She picked up +a vase and laid it down; straightened a picture. Eva got up, too, and +wandered into the hall. She stood there a moment, listening. Then she +turned and passed into Jo's bedroom. And there you knew Jo for what he +was.</p> + +<p>This room was as bare as the other had been ornate. It was Jo, the +clean-minded and simple-hearted, in revolt against the cloying luxury +with which he had surrounded himself. The bedroom, of all rooms in any +house, reflects the personality of its occupant. True, the actual +furniture was paneled, cupid-surmounted, and ridiculous. It had been the +fruit of Jo's first orgy of the senses. But now it stood out in that +stark little room with an air as incongruous and ashamed as that of a +pink tarleton danseuse who finds herself in a monk's cell. None of those +wall-pictures with which bachelor bedrooms are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> reputed to be hung. No +satin slippers. No scented notes. Two plain-backed military brushes on +the chiffonier (and he so nearly hairless!). A little orderly stack of +books on the table near the bed. Eva fingered their titles and gave a +little gasp. One of them was on gardening. "Well, of all things!" +exclaimed Stell. A book on the War, by an Englishman. A detective story +of the lurid type that lulls us to sleep. His shoes ranged in a careful +row in the closet, with shoe-trees in every one of them. There was +something speaking about them. They looked so human. Eva shut the door +on them, quickly. Some bottles on the dresser. A jar of pomade. An +ointment such as a man uses who is growing bald and is panic-stricken +too late. An insurance calendar on the wall. Some rhubarb-and-soda +mixture on the shelf in the bathroom, and a little box of pepsin +tablets.</p> + +<p>"Eats all kinds of things at all hours of the night," Eva said, and +wandered out into the rose-colored front room again with the air of one +who is chagrined at her failure to find what she has sought. Stell +followed her, furtively.</p> + +<p>"Where do you suppose he can be?" she demanded. "It's—" she glanced at +her wrist, "why, it's after six!"</p> + +<p>And then there was a little click. The two women sat up, tense. The door +opened. Jo came in. He blinked a little. The two women in the rosy room +stood up.</p> + +<p>"Why—Eve! Why, Babe! Well! Why didn't you let me know?"</p> + +<p>"We were just about to leave. We thought you weren't coming home."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Jo came in, slowly. "I was in the jam on Michigan, watching the boys go +by." He sat down, heavily. The light from the window fell on him. And +you saw that his eyes were red.</p> + +<p>And you'll have to learn why. He had found himself one of the thousands +in the jam on Michigan Avenue, as he said. He had a place near the curb, +where his big<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> frame shut off the view of the unfortunates behind him. +He waited with the placid interest of one who has subscribed to all the +funds and societies to which a prosperous, middle-aged business man is +called upon to subscribe in war time. Then, just as he was about to +leave, impatient at the delay, the crowd had cried, with a queer +dramatic, exultant note in its voice, "Here they come! here come the +boys!"</p> + +<p>Just at that moment two little, futile, frenzied fists began to beat a +mad tattoo on Jo Hertz's broad back. Jo tried to turn in the crowd, all +indignant resentment. "Say, looka here!"</p> + +<p>The little fists kept up their frantic beating and pushing. And a +voice—a choked, high little voice—cried, "Let me by! I can't see! You +man, you! You big fat man! My boy's going by—to war—and I can't see! +Let me by!"</p> + +<p>Jo scrooged around, still keeping his place. He looked down. And +upturned to him in agonized appeal was the face of little Emily. They +stared at each other for what seemed a long, long time. It was really +only the fraction of a second. Then Jo put one great arm firmly around +Emily's waist and swung her around in front of him. His great bulk +protected her. Emily was clinging to his hand. She was breathing +rapidly, as if she had been running. Her eyes were straining up the +street.</p> + +<p>"Why, Emily, how in the world!—"</p> + +<p>"I ran away. Fred didn't want me to come. He said it would excite me too +much."</p> + +<p>"Fred?"</p> + +<p>"My husband. He made me promise to say good-by to Jo at home."</p> + +<p>"Jo's my boy. And he's going to war. So I ran away. I had to see him. I +had to see him go."</p> + +<p>She was dry-eyed. Her gaze was straining up the street.</p> + +<p>"Why, sure," said Jo. "Of course you want to see<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> him." And then the +crowd gave a great roar. There came over Jo a feeling of weakness. He +was trembling. The boys went marching by.</p> + +<p>"There he is," Emily shrilled, above the din. "There he is! There he is! +There he—" And waved a futile little hand. It wasn't so much a wave as +a clutching. A clutching after something beyond her reach.</p> + +<p>"Which one? Which one, Emily?"</p> + +<p>"The handsome one. The handsome one. There!" Her voice quavered and +died.</p> + +<p>Jo put a steady hand on her shoulder. "Point him out," he commanded. +"Show me." And the next instant. "Never mind. I see him."</p> + +<p>Somehow, miraculously, he had picked him from among the hundreds. Had +picked him as surely as his own father might have. It was Emily's boy. +He was marching by, rather stiffly. He was nineteen, and fun-loving, and +he had a girl, and he didn't particularly want to go to France and—to +go to France. But more than he had hated going, he had hated not to go. +So he marched by, looking straight ahead, his jaw set so that his chin +stuck out just a little. Emily's boy.</p> + +<p>Jo looked at him, and his face flushed purple. His eyes, the hard-boiled +eyes of a loop-hound, took on the look of a sad old man. And suddenly he +was no longer Jo, the sport; old J. Hertz, the gay dog. He was Jo Hertz, +thirty, in love with life, in love with Emily, and with the stinging +blood of young manhood coursing through his veins.</p> + +<p>Another minute and the boy had passed on up the broad street—the fine, +flag-bedecked street—just one of a hundred service-hats bobbing in +rhythmic motion like sandy waves lapping a shore and flowing on.</p> + +<p>Then he disappeared altogether.</p> + +<p>Emily was clinging to Jo. She was mumbling something over and over. "I +can't. I can't. Don't ask me to. I can't let him go. Like that. I +can't."</p> + +<p>Jo said a queer thing.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, Emily! We wouldn't have him stay home, would we? We wouldn't want +him to do anything different, would we? Not our boy. I'm glad he +volunteered. I'm proud of him. So are you, glad."</p> + +<p>Little by little he quieted her. He took her to the car that was +waiting, a worried chauffeur in charge. They said good-by, awkwardly. +Emily's face was a red, swollen mass.</p> + +<p>So it was that when Jo entered his own hallway half an hour later he +blinked, dazedly, and when the light from the window fell on him you saw +that his eyes were red.</p> + +<p>Eva was not one to beat about the bush. She sat forward in her chair, +clutching her bag rather nervously.</p> + +<p>"Now, look here, Jo. Stell and I are here for a reason. We're here to +tell you that this thing's got to stop."</p> + +<p>"Thing? Stop?"</p> + +<p>"You know very well what I mean. You saw me at the milliner's that day. +And night before last, Ethel. We're all disgusted. If you must go about +with people like that, please have some sense of decency."</p> + +<p>Something gathering in Jo's face should have warned her. But he was +slumped down in his chair in such a huddle, and he looked so old and fat +that she did not heed it. She went on. "You've got us to consider. Your +sisters. And your nieces. Not to speak of your own—"</p> + +<p>But he got to his feet then, shaking, and at what she saw in his face +even Eva faltered and stopped. It wasn't at all the face of a fat, +middle-aged sport. It was a face Jovian, terrible.</p> + +<p>"You!" he began, low-voiced, ominous. "You!" He raised a great fist +high. "You two murderers! You didn't consider me, twenty years ago. You +come to me with talk like that. Where's my boy! You killed him, you two, +twenty years ago. And now he belongs to somebody else. Where's my son +that should have gone marching by to-day?" He flung his arms out in a +great gesture of longing. The red veins stood out on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> his forehead. +"Where's my son! Answer me that, you two selfish, miserable women. +Where's my son!" Then as they huddled together, frightened, wild-eyed. +"Out of my house! Out of my house! Before I hurt you!"</p> + +<p>They fled, terrified. The door banged behind them.</p> + +<p>Jo stood, shaking, in the center of the room. Then he reached for a +chair, gropingly, and sat down. He passed one moist, flabby hand over +his forehead and it came away wet. The telephone rang. He sat still, it +sounded far away and unimportant, like something forgotten. I think he +did not even hear it with his conscious ear. But it rang and rang +insistently. Jo liked to answer his telephone when at home.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" He knew instantly the voice at the other end.</p> + +<p>"That you, Jo?" it said.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"How's my boy?"</p> + +<p>"I'm—all right."</p> + +<p>"Listen, Jo. The crowd's coming over to-night. I've fixed up a little +poker game for you. Just eight of us."</p> + +<p>"I can't come to-night, Gert."</p> + +<p>"Can't! Why not?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not feeling so good."</p> + +<p>"You just said you were all right."</p> + +<p>"I <i>am</i> all right. Just kind of tired."</p> + +<p>The voice took on a cooing note. "Is my Joey tired? Then he shall be all +comfy on the sofa, and he doesn't need to play if he don't want to. No, +sir."</p> + +<p>Jo stood staring at the black mouth-piece of the telephone. He was +seeing a procession go marching by. Boys, hundreds of boys, in khaki.</p> + +<p>"Hello! Hello!" the voice took on an anxious note. "Are you there?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," wearily.</p> + +<p>"Jo, there's something the matter. You're sick. I'm coming right over."</p> + +<p>"No!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why not? You sound as if you'd been sleeping. Look here—"</p> + +<p>"Leave me alone!" cried Jo, suddenly, and the receiver clacked onto the +hook. "Leave me alone. Leave me alone." Long after the connection had +been broken.</p> + +<p>He stood staring at the instrument with unseeing eyes. Then he turned +and walked into the front room. All the light had gone out of it. Dusk +had come on. All the light had gone out of everything. The zest had gone +out of life. The game was over—the game he had been playing against +loneliness and disappointment. And he was just a tired old man. A +lonely, tired old man in a ridiculous, rose-colored room that had grown, +all of a sudden, drab.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_KNIGHTS_MOVE10" id="THE_KNIGHTS_MOVE10"></a>THE KNIGHT'S MOVE<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> KATHARINE FULLERTON GEROULD</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i>.</p> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>Havelock the Dane settled himself back in his chair and set his feet +firmly on the oaken table. Chantry let him do it, though some +imperceptible inch of his body winced. For the oak of it was neither +fumed nor golden; it was English to its ancient core, and the table had +served in the refectory of monks before Henry VIII decided that monks +shocked him. Naturally Chantry did not want his friends' boots havocking +upon it. But more important than to possess the table was to possess it +nonchalantly. He let the big man dig his heel in. Any man but Havelock +the Dane would have known better. But Havelock did as he pleased, and +you either gave him up or bore it. Chantry did not want to give him up.</p> + +<p>Chantry was a feminist; a bit of an æsthete but canny at affairs; +good-looking, and temperate, and less hipped on the matter of sex than +feminist gentlemen are wont to be. That is to say, while he vaguely +wanted <i>l'homme moyen sensuel</i> to mend his ways, he did not expect him +to change fundamentally. He rather thought the women would manage all +that when they got the vote. You see, he was not a socialist: only a +feminist.</p> + +<p>Havelock the Dane, on the other hand, was by no means a feminist, but +was a socialist. What probably brought the two men together—apart from +their common<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> likableness—was that each, in his way, refused to "go the +whole hog." They sometimes threshed the thing out together, unable to +decide on a programme, but always united at last in their agreement that +things were wrong. Havelock trusted Labor, and Chantry trusted Woman; +the point was that neither trusted men like themselves, with a little +money and an inherited code of honor. Havelock wanted his money taken +away from him; Chantry desired his code to be trampled on by innumerable +feminine feet. But each was rather helpless, for both expected these +things to be done for them.</p> + +<p>Except for this tie of ineffectuality, they had nothing special in +common. Havelock's life had been adventurous in the good old-fashioned +sense: the bars down and a deal of wandering. Chantry had sown so many +crops of intellectual wild oats that even the people who came for +subscriptions might be forgiven for thinking him a mental libertine, +good for subscriptions and not much else. Between them, they boxed the +compass about once a week. Havelock had more of what is known as +"personality" than Chantry; Chantry more of what is known as "culture." +They dovetailed, on the whole, not badly.</p> + +<p>Havelock, this afternoon, was full of a story. Chantry wanted to listen, +though he knew that he could have listened better if Havelock's heel had +not been quite so ponderous on the sæcular oak. He took refuge in a +cosmic point of view. That was the only point of view from which +Havelock (it was, by the way, his physical type only that had caused him +to be nicknamed the Dane: his ancestors had come over from England in +great discomfort two centuries since), in his blonde hugeness, became +negligible. You had to climb very high to see him small.</p> + +<p>"You never did the man justice," Havelock was saying.</p> + +<p>"Justice be hanged!" replied Chantry.</p> + +<p>"Quite so: the feminist slogan."</p> + +<p>"A socialist can't afford to throw stones."</p> + +<p>The retorts were spoken sharply, on both sides. Then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> both men laughed. +They had too often had it out seriously to mind; these little insults +were mere convention.</p> + +<p>"Get at your story," resumed Chantry. "I suppose there's a woman in it: +a nasty cat invented by your own prejudices. There usually is."</p> + +<p>"Never a woman at all. If there were, I shouldn't be asking for your +opinion. My opinion, of course, is merely the rational one. I don't +side-step the truth because a little drama gets in. I am appealing to +you because you are the average man who hasn't seen the light. I +honestly want to know what you think. There's a reason."</p> + +<p>"What's the reason?"</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you that later. Now, I'll tell you the story." Havelock +screwed his tawny eyebrows together for a moment before plunging in. +"Humph!" he ejaculated at last. "Much good anybody is in a case like +this—What did you say you thought of Ferguson?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't think anything of Ferguson—except that he had a big brain for +biology. He was a loss."</p> + +<p>"No personal opinion?"</p> + +<p>"I never like people who think so well of themselves as all that."</p> + +<p>"No opinion about his death?"</p> + +<p>"Accidental, as they said, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Oh, 'they said'! It was suicide, I tell you."</p> + +<p>"Suicide? Really?" Chantry's brown eyes lighted for an instant. "Oh, +poor chap; I'm sorry."</p> + +<p>It did not occur to him immediately to ask how Havelock knew. He trusted +a plain statement from Havelock.</p> + +<p>"I'm not. Or—yes, I am. I hate to have a man inconsistent."</p> + +<p>"It's inconsistent for any one to kill himself. But it's frequently +done."</p> + +<p>Havelock, hemming and hawing like this, was more nearly a bore than +Chantry had ever known him.</p> + +<p>"Not for Ferguson."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, well, never mind Ferguson," Chantry yawned. "Tell me some anecdote +out of your tapestried past."</p> + +<p>"I won't."</p> + +<p>Havelock dug his heel in harder. Chantry all but told him to take his +feet down, but stopped himself just in time.</p> + +<p>"Well, go on, then," he said, "but it doesn't sound interesting. I hate +all tales of suicide. And there isn't even a woman in it," he sighed +maliciously.</p> + +<p>"Oh, if it comes to that, there is."</p> + +<p>"But you said—"</p> + +<p>"Not in it exactly, unless you go in for <i>post hoc, propter hoc</i>."</p> + +<p>"Oh, drive on." Chantry was pettish.</p> + +<p>But at that point Havelock the Dane removed his feet from the refectory +table. He will probably never know why Chantry, just then, began to be +amiable.</p> + +<p>"Excuse me, Havelock. Of course, whatever drove a man like Ferguson to +suicide is interesting. And I may say he managed it awfully well. Not a +hint, anywhere."</p> + +<p>"Well, a scientist ought to get something out of it for himself. +Ferguson certainly knew how. Can't you imagine him sitting up there, +cocking his hair" (an odd phrase, but Chantry understood), "and deciding +just how to circumvent the coroner? I can."</p> + +<p>"Ferguson hadn't much imagination."</p> + +<p>"A coroner doesn't take imagination. He takes a little hard, expert +knowledge."</p> + +<p>"I dare say." But Chantry's mind was wandering through other defiles. +"Odd, that he should have snatched his life out of the very jaws of +what-do-you-call-it, once, only to give it up at last, politely, of his +own volition."</p> + +<p>"You may well say it." Havelock spoke with more earnestness than he had +done. "If you're not a socialist when I get through with you, Chantry, +my boy—"</p> + +<p>"Lord, Lord! don't tell me your beastly socialism is mixed up with it +all! I never took to Ferguson, but he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> was no syndicalist. In life <i>or</i> +in death, I'd swear to that."</p> + +<p>"Ah, no. If he had been! But all I mean is that, in a properly regulated +state, Ferguson's tragedy would not have occurred."</p> + +<p>"So it was a tragedy?"</p> + +<p>"He was a loss to the state, God knows."</p> + +<p>Had they been speaking of anything less dignified than death and genius, +Havelock might have sounded a little austere and silly. As it +was—Chantry bit back, and swallowed, his censure.</p> + +<p>"That's why I want to know what you think," went on Havelock, +irrelevantly. "Whether your damned code of honor is worth Ferguson."</p> + +<p>"It's not my damned code any more than yours," broke in Chantry.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is. Or, at least, we break it down at different +points—theoretically. Actually, we walk all round it every day to be +sure it's intact. Let's be honest."</p> + +<p>"Honest as you like, if you'll only come to the point. Whew, but it's +hot! Let's have a gin-fizz."</p> + +<p>"You aren't serious."</p> + +<p>Havelock seemed to try to lash himself into a rage. But he was so big +that he could never have got all of himself into a rage at once. You +felt that only part of him was angry—his toes, perhaps, or his +complexion.</p> + +<p>Chantry rang for ice and lemon, and took gin, sugar, and a siphon out of +a carved cabinet.</p> + +<p>"Go slow," he said. He himself was going very slow, with a beautiful +crystal decanter which he set lovingly on the oaken table. "Go slow," he +repeated, more easily, when he had set it down. "I can think just as +well with a gin-fizz as without one. And I didn't know Ferguson well; +and I didn't like him at all. I read his books, and I admired him. But +he looked like the devil—<i>the</i> devil, you'll notice, not <i>a</i> devil. +With a dash of Charles I by Van Dyck. The one standing by a horse. As +you say, he cocked his hair. It went into little horns, above each +eyebrow. I'm sorry he's lost to the world, but it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> doesn't get me. He +may have been a saint, for all I know; but there you are—I never cared +particularly to know. I am serious. Only, somehow, it doesn't touch me."</p> + +<p>And he proceeded to make use of crushed ice and lemon juice.</p> + +<p>"Oh, blow all that," said Havelock the Dane finally, over the top of his +glass. "I'm going to tell you, anyhow. Only I wish you would forget your +prejudices. I want an opinion."</p> + +<p>"Go on."</p> + +<p>Chantry made himself comfortable.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>"You remember the time when Ferguson didn't go down on the <i>Argentina</i>?"</p> + +<p>"I do. Ferguson just wouldn't go down, you know. He'd turn up smiling, +without even a chill, and meanwhile lots of good fellows would be at the +bottom of the sea."</p> + +<p>"Prejudice again," barked Havelock. "Yet in point of fact, it's +perfectly true. And you would have preferred him to drown."</p> + +<p>"I was very glad he was saved." Chantry said it in a stilted manner.</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because his life was really important to the world."</p> + +<p>Chantry might have been distributing tracts. His very voice sounded +falsetto.</p> + +<p>"Exactly. Well, that is what Ferguson thought."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?"</p> + +<p>"He told me."</p> + +<p>"You must have known him well. Thank heaven, I never did."</p> + +<p>Havelock flung out a huge hand. "Oh, get off that ridiculous animal +you're riding, Chantry, and come to the point. You mean you don't think +Ferguson should have admitted it?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p> + +<p>Chantry's tone changed. "Well, one doesn't."</p> + +<p>The huge hand, clenched into a fist, came down on the table. The crystal +bottle was too heavy to rock, but the glasses jingled and a spoon slid +over the edge of its saucer.</p> + +<p>"There it is—what I was looking for."</p> + +<p>"What were you looking for?" Chantry's wonder was not feigned.</p> + +<p>"For your hydra-headed prejudice. Makes me want to play Hercules."</p> + +<p>"Oh, drop your metaphors, Havelock. Get into the game. What is it?"</p> + +<p>"It's this: that you don't think—or affect not to think—that it's +decent for a man to recognize his own worth."</p> + +<p>Chantry did not retort. He dropped his chin on his chest and thought for +a moment. Then he spoke, very quietly and apologetically.</p> + +<p>"Well—I don't see you telling another man how wonderful you are. It +isn't immoral, it simply isn't manners. And if Ferguson boasted to you +that he was saved when so many went down, it was worse than bad manners. +He ought to have been kicked for it. It's the kind of phenomenal luck +that it would have been decent to regret."</p> + +<p>Havelock set his massive lips firmly together. You could not say that he +pursed that Cyclopean mouth.</p> + +<p>"Ferguson did not boast. He merely told me. He was, I think, a modest +man."</p> + +<p>Incredulity beyond any power of laughter to express settled on Chantry's +countenance. "Modest? And he <i>told</i> you?"</p> + +<p>"The whole thing." Havelock's voice was heavy enough for tragedy. +"Listen. Don't interrupt me once. Ferguson told me that, when the +explosion came, he looked round—considered, for fully a minute, his +duty. He never lost control of himself once, he said, and I believe him. +The <i>Argentina</i> was a small boat, making a winter passage. There were +very few cabin passengers.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> No second cabin, but plenty of steerage. She +sailed, you remember, from Naples. He had been doing some work, some +very important work, in the Aquarium. The only other person of +consequence—I am speaking in the most literal and un-snobbish sense—in +the first cabin, was Benson. No" (with a lifted hand), "<i>don't interrupt +me</i>. Benson, as we all know, was an international figure. But Benson was +getting old. His son could be trusted to carry on the House of Benson. +In fact, every one suspected that the son had become more important than +the old man. He had put through the last big loan while his father was +taking a rest-cure in Italy. That is how Benson <i>père</i> happened to be on +the <i>Argentina</i>. The newspapers never sufficiently accounted for that. A +private deck on the <i>Schrecklichkeit</i> would have been more his size. +Ferguson made it out: the old man got wild, suddenly, at the notion of +their putting anything through without him. He trusted his gouty bones +to the <i>Argentina</i>."</p> + +<p>"Sounds plausible, but—" Chantry broke in.</p> + +<p>"If you interrupt again," said Havelock, "I'll hit you, with all the +strength I've got."</p> + +<p>Chantry grunted. You had to take Havelock the Dane as you found him.</p> + +<p>"Ferguson saw the whole thing clear. Old Benson had just gone into the +smoking-room. Ferguson was on the deck outside his own stateroom. The +only person on board who could possibly be considered as important as +Ferguson was Benson; and he had good reason to believe that every one +would get on well enough without Benson. He had just time, then, to put +on a life-preserver, melt into his stateroom, and get a little pile of +notes, very important ones, and drop into a boat. No, don't interrupt. I +know what you are going to say. 'Women and children.' What do you +suppose a lot of Neapolitan peasants meant to Ferguson—or to you and +me, either? He didn't do anything outrageous; he just dropped into a +boat. As a result, we had the big book a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> year later. No" (again +crushing down a gesture of Chantry's), "don't say anything about the +instincts of a gentleman. If Ferguson hadn't been perfectly cool, his +instincts would have governed him. He would have dashed about trying to +save people, and then met the waves with a noble gesture. He had time to +be reasonable; not instinctive. The world was the gainer, as he jolly +well knew it would be—or where would have been the reasonableness? I +don't believe Ferguson cared a hang about keeping his individual machine +going for its own sake. But he knew he was a valuable person. His mind +was a Kohinoor among minds. It stands to reason that you save the +Kohinoor and let the little stones go. Well, that's not the story. Only +I wanted to get that out of the way first, or the story wouldn't have +meant anything. Did you wish," he finished graciously, "to ask a +question?"</p> + +<p>Chantry made a violent gesture of denial. "Ask a question about a hog +like that? God forbid!"</p> + +<p>"Um-m-m." Havelock seemed to muse within himself. "You will admit that +if a jury of impartial men of sense could have sat, just then, on that +slanting deck, they would have agreed that Ferguson's life was worth +more to the world than all the rest of the boiling put together?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but—"</p> + +<p>"Well, there wasn't any jury. Ferguson had to be it. I am perfectly sure +that if there had been a super-Ferguson on board, our Ferguson would +have turned his hand to saving him first. In fact, I honestly believe he +was sorry there hadn't been a super-Ferguson. For he had all the +instincts of a gentleman; and it's never a pleasant job making your +reason inhibit your instincts. You can't look at this thing perfectly +straight, probably. But if you can't, who can? I don't happen to want an +enlightened opinion; I've got one, right here at home. You don't care +about the State: you want to put it into white petticoats and see it +cross a muddy street."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't wonder the socialists won't have anything to do with you."</p> + +<p>"Because I'm not a feminist? I know. Just as the feminists won't have +anything to do with you because you're so reactionary. We're both out of +it. Fifty years ago; either of us could have been a real prophet, for +the price of a hall and cleaning the rotten eggs off our clothes. Now +we're too timid for any use. But this is a digression."</p> + +<p>"Distinctly. Is there anything more about Ferguson?"</p> + +<p>"I should say there was. About a year ago, he became engaged. She's a +very nice girl, and I am sure you never heard of her. The engagement +wasn't to be announced until just before the marriage, for family +reasons of some sort—cockering the older generation somehow. I've +forgotten; it's not important. But they would have been married by now, +if Ferguson hadn't stepped out."</p> + +<p>"You seem to have been very intimate with Ferguson."</p> + +<p>"He talked to me once—just once. The girl was a distant connection of +my own. I think that was why. Now I've got some more things to tell you. +I've let you interrupt a good lot, and if you're through, I'd like to +start in on the next lap. It isn't easy for me to tell this thing in +bits. It's an effort."</p> + +<p>Havelock the Dane set down his second emptied glass and drew a long +breath. He proceeded, with quickened pace.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>"He didn't see the girl very often. She lives at some little distance. +He was busy,—you know how he worked,—and she was chained at home, more +or less. Occasionally he slipped away for a week-end, to see her. One +time—the last time, about two months ago—he managed to get in a whole +week. It was as near happiness as Ferguson ever got, I imagine; for they +were able<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> to fix a date. Good heaven, how he loved that girl! Just +before he went, he told me of the engagement. I barely knew her, but, as +I said, she's some sort of kin. Then, after he came back, he sent for me +to come and see him. I didn't like his cheek, but I went as though I had +been a laboratory boy. I'm not like you. Ferguson always did get me. He +wanted the greatest good of the greatest number. Nothing petty about +him. He was a big man.</p> + +<p>"I went, as I say. And Ferguson told me, the very first thing, that the +engagement was off. He began by cocking his hair a good deal. But he +almost lost control of himself. He didn't cock it long: he ruffled it +instead, with his hands. I thought he was in a queer state, for he +seemed to want to give me, with his beautiful scientific precision—as +if he'd been preparing a slide—the details of a country walk he and she +had taken the day before he left. It began with grade-crossings, and I +simply couldn't imagine what he was getting at. It wasn't his business +to fight grade-crossings—though they might be a very pretty symbol for +the kind of thing he was fighting, tooth and nail, all the time. I +couldn't seem to see it, at first; but finally it came out. There was a +grade-crossing, with a 'Look out for the Engine' sign, and there was a +tow-headed infant in rags. They had noticed the infant before. It had +bandy legs and granulated eyelids, and seemed to be dumb. It had started +them off on eugenics. She was very keen on the subject; Ferguson, being +a big scientist, had some reserves. It was a real argument.</p> + +<p>"Then everything happened at once. Tow-head with the sore eyes rocked +onto the track simultaneously with the whistle. They were about fifty +yards off. Ferguson sprinted back down the hill, the girl screaming +pointlessly meanwhile. There was just time—you'll have to take my word +for this; Ferguson explained it all to me in the most meticulous detail, +but I can't repeat that masterpiece of exposition—for Ferguson to +decide. To decide<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> again, you understand, precisely as he had decided on +the <i>Argentina</i>. Rotten luck, wasn't it? He could just have flung +tow-head out of the way by getting under the engine himself. He grabbed +for tow-head, but he didn't roll onto the track. So tow-head was killed. +If he had got there ten seconds earlier, he could have done the trick. +He was ten seconds too late to save both Ferguson and tow-head. So—once +more—he saved Ferguson. Do you get the situation?"</p> + +<p>"I should say I did!" shouted Chantry. "Twice in a man's life—good +Lord! I hope you walked out of his house at that point."</p> + +<p>"I didn't. I was very much interested. And by the way, Chantry, if +Ferguson had given his life for tow-head, you would have been the first +man to write a pleasant little article for some damned highbrow review, +to prove that it was utterly wrong that Ferguson should have exchanged +his life for that of a little Polish defective. I can even see you +talking about the greatest good of the greatest number. You would have +loved the paradox of it; the mistaken martyr, self-preservation the +greatest altruism, and all the rest of it. But because Ferguson did +exactly what you would have said in your article that he ought to have +done, you are in a state of virtuous chill."</p> + +<p>"I should have written no such article. I don't see how you can be so +flippant."</p> + +<p>"Flippant—I? Have I the figure of a flippant man? Can't you +see—honestly, now, can't you see?—that it was a hideous misfortune for +that situation to come to Ferguson twice? Can't you see that it was +about as hard luck as a man ever had? Look at it just once from his +point of view."</p> + +<p>"I can't," said Chantry frankly. "I can understand a man's being a +coward, saving his own skin because he wants to. But to save his own +skin on principle—humph! Talk of paradoxes: there's one for you. +There's not a principle on earth that tells you to save<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> your own life +at some one's else expense. If he thought it was principle, he was the +bigger defective of the two. Of course it would have been a pity; of +course we should all have regretted it; but there's not a human being in +this town, high or low, who wouldn't have applauded, with whatever +regret—who wouldn't have said he did the only thing a self-respecting +man could do. Of course it's a shame; but that is the only way the race +has ever got on: by the strong, because they were strong, going under +for the weak, because they were weak. Otherwise we'd all be living, to +this day, in hell."</p> + +<p>"I know; I know." Havelock's voice was touched with emotion. "That's the +convention—invented by individualists, for individualists. All sorts of +people would see it that way, still. But you've got more sense than +most; and I will make you at least see the other point of view. Suppose +Ferguson to have been a good Catholic—or a soldier in the ranks. If his +confessor or his commanding officer had told him to save his own skin, +you'd consider Ferguson justified; you might even consider the priest or +the officer justified. The one thing you can't stand is the man's giving +himself those orders. But let's not argue over it now—let's go back to +the story. I'll make you 'get' Ferguson, anyhow—even if I can't make +him 'get' you.</p> + +<p>"Well, here comes in the girl."</p> + +<p>"And you said there was no girl in it!"</p> + +<p>Chantry could not resist that. He believed that Havelock's assertion had +been made only because he didn't want the girl in it—resented her being +there.</p> + +<p>"There isn't, as I see it," replied Havelock the Dane quietly. "From my +point of view, the story is over. Ferguson's decision: that is the whole +thing—made more interesting, more valuable, because the repetition of +the thing proves beyond a doubt that he acted on principle, not on +impulse. If he had flung himself into the life-boat because he was a +coward, he would have been ashamed of it; and whatever he might have +done afterwards,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> he would never have done that thing again. He would +have been sensitive: not saving his own life would have turned into an +obsession with him. But there is left, I admit, the murder. And murders +always take the public. So I'll give you the murder—though it throws no +light on Ferguson, who is the only thing in the whole accursed affair +that really counts."</p> + +<p>"The murder? I don't see—unless you mean the murdering of the +tow-headed child."</p> + +<p>"I mean the murder of Ferguson by the girl he loved."</p> + +<p>"You said 'suicide' a little while ago," panted Chantry.</p> + +<p>"Technically, yes. She was a hundred miles away when it happened. But +she did it just the same. Oh, I suppose I've got to tell you, as +Ferguson told me."</p> + +<p>"Did he tell you he was going to kill himself?" Chantry's voice was +sharp.</p> + +<p>"He did not. Ferguson wasn't a fool. But it was plain as day to me after +it happened, that he had done it himself."</p> + +<p>"How—"</p> + +<p>"I'm telling you this, am I not? Let me tell it, then. The thing +happened in no time, of course. The girl got over screaming, and ran +down to the track, frightened out of her wits. The train managed to +stop, about twice its own length farther down, round a bend in the +track, and the conductor and brakeman came running back. The mother came +out of her hovel, carrying twins. The—the—thing was on the track, +across the rails. It was a beastly mess, and Ferguson got the girl away; +set her down to cry in a pasture, and then went back and helped out, and +gave his testimony, and left money, a lot of it, with the mother, +and—all the rest. You can imagine it. No one there considered that +Ferguson ought to have saved the child; no one but Ferguson dreamed that +he could have. Indeed, an ordinary man, in Ferguson's place, wouldn't +have supposed he could. It was only that brain, working like lightning, +working as no plain<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> man's could, that had made the calculation and +<i>seen</i>. There were no preliminary seconds lost in surprise or shock, you +see. Ferguson's mind hadn't been jarred from its pace for an instant. +The thing had happened too quickly for any one—except Ferguson—to +understand what was going on. Therefore he ought to have laid that +super-normal brain under the wheels, of course!</p> + +<p>"Ferguson was so sane, himself, that he couldn't understand, even after +he had been engaged six months, our little everyday madnesses. It never +occurred to him, when he got back to the girl and she began all sorts of +hysterical questions, not to answer them straight. It was by way of +describing the event simply, that he informed her that he would just +have had time to pull the creature out, but not enough to pull himself +back afterwards. Ferguson was used to calculating things in millionths +of an inch; she wasn't. I dare say the single second that had given +Ferguson time to turn round in his mind, she conceived of as a minute, +at least. It would have taken her a week to turn round in her own mind, +no doubt—a month, a year, perhaps. How do I know? But she got the +essential fact: that Ferguson had made a choice. Then she rounded on +him. It would have killed her to lose him, but she would rather have +lost him than to see him standing before her, etc., etc. Ferguson quoted +a lot of her talk straight to me, and I can remember it; but you needn't +ask me to soil my mouth with it. 'And half an hour before, she had been +saying with a good deal of heat that that little runt ought never to +have been born, and that if we had decent laws it never would have been +allowed to live." Ferguson said that to me, with a kind of bewilderment. +You see, he had made the mistake of taking that little fool seriously. +Well, he loved her. You can't go below that: that's rock-bottom. +Ferguson couldn't dig any deeper down for his way out. There <i>was</i> no +deeper down.</p> + +<p>"Apparently Ferguson still thought he could argue it out with her. She +so believed in eugenics, you see—a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> very radical, compared with +Ferguson. It was she who had had no doubt about tow-head. And the +love-part of it seemed to him fixed: it didn't occur to him that that +was debatable. So he stuck to something that could be discussed. +Then—and this was his moment of exceeding folly—he caught at the old +episode of the <i>Argentina</i>. <i>That</i> had nothing to do with her present +state of shock. She had seen tow-head; but she hadn't seen the sprinkled +Mediterranean. And she had accepted that. At least, she had spoken of +his survival as though it had been one of the few times when God had +done precisely the right thing. So he took that to explain with. The +fool! The reasonable fool!</p> + +<p>"Then—oh, then she went wild. (Yet she must have known there were a +thousand chances on the <i>Argentina</i> for him to throw his life away, and +precious few to save it.) She backed up against a tree and stretched her +arms out like this"—Havelock made a clumsy stage-gesture of aversion +from Chantry, the villain. "And for an instant he thought she was afraid +of a Jersey cow that had come up to take part in the discussion. So he +threw a twig at its nose."</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>Chantry's wonder grew, swelled, and burst.</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to say that that safety-deposit vault of a Ferguson told +you all this?"</p> + +<p>"As I am telling it to you. Only much more detail, of course—and much, +much faster. It wasn't like a story at all: it was like—like a +hemorrhage. I didn't interrupt him as you've been interrupting me. Well, +the upshot of it was that she spurned him quite in the grand manner. She +found the opposites of all the nice things she had been saying for six +months, and said them. And Ferguson—your cocky Ferguson—stood and +listened, until she had talked herself out, and then went away. He never +saw her again; and when he sent for me, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> had made up his mind that +she never intended to take any of it back. So he stepped out, I tell +you."</p> + +<p>"As hard hit as that," Chantry mused.</p> + +<p>"Just as hard hit as that. Ferguson had had no previous affairs; she was +very literally the one woman; and he managed, at forty, to combine the +illusions of the boy of twenty and the man of sixty."</p> + +<p>"But if he thought he was so precious to the world, wasn't it more than +ever his duty to preserve his existence? He could see other people die +in his place, but he couldn't see himself bucking up against a broken +heart. Isn't that what the strong man does? Lives out his life when he +doesn't at all like the look of it? Say what you like, he was a coward, +Havelock—at the last, anyhow."</p> + +<p>"I won't ask for your opinion just yet, thank you. Perhaps if Ferguson +had been sure he would ever do good work again, he wouldn't have taken +himself off. That might have held him. He might have stuck by on the +chance. But I doubt it. Don't you see? He loved the girl too much."</p> + +<p>"Thought he couldn't live without her," snorted Chantry.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no—not that. But if she was right, he was the meanest skunk alive. +He owed the world at least two deaths, so to speak. The only approach +you can make to dying twice is to die in your prime, of your own +volition." Havelock spoke very slowly. "At least, that's the way I've +worked it out. He didn't say so. He was careful as a cat."</p> + +<p>"You think"—Chantry leaned forward, very eager at last—"that he +decided she was right? That I'm right—that we're all of us right?"</p> + +<p>Havelock the Dane bowed his head in his huge hands. "No. If you ask me, +I think he kept his own opinion untarnished to the end. When I told him +I thought he was right, he just nodded, as if one took that for granted. +But it didn't matter to him. I am pretty sure that he cared only what +<i>she</i> thought."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span></p> + +<p>"If he didn't agree with her? And if she had treated him like a +criminal? He must have despised her, in that case."</p> + +<p>"He never said one word of her—bar quoting some of <i>her</i> words—that +wasn't utterly gentle. You could see that he loved her with his whole +soul. And—it's my belief—he gave her the benefit of the doubt. In +killing himself, he acted on the hypothesis that she had been right. It +was the one thing he could do for her."</p> + +<p>"But if no one except you thinks it was suicide—and you can't prove +it—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, he had to take that chance—the chance of her never knowing—or +else create a scandal. And that would have been very hard on her and on +his family. But there were straws she could easily clutch at—as I have +clutched at them. The perfect order in which everything happened to be +left—even the last notes he had made. His laboratory was a scientist's +paradise, they tell me. And the will, made after she threw him over, +leaving everything to her. Not a letter unanswered, all little bills +paid, and little debts liquidated. He came as near suggesting it as he +could, in decency. But I dare say she will never guess it."</p> + +<p>"Then what did it profit him?"</p> + +<p>"It didn't profit him, in your sense. He took a very long chance on her +guessing. That wasn't what concerned him."</p> + +<p>"I hope she will never guess, anyhow. It would ruin her life, to no good +end."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no." Havelock was firm. "I doubt if she would take it that way. If +she grasped it at all, she'd believe he thought her right. And if he +thought her right, of course he wouldn't want to live, would he? She +would never think he killed himself simply for love of her."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Well, she wouldn't? She wouldn't be able to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> conceive of Ferguson's +killing himself merely for that—with <i>his</i> notions about survival."</p> + +<p>"As he did."</p> + +<p>"As he did—and didn't."</p> + +<p>"Ah, she'd scarcely refine on it as you are doing, Havelock. You're +amazing."</p> + +<p>"Well, he certainly never expected her to know that he did it himself. +If he had been the sort of weakling that dies because he can't have a +particular woman, he'd have been also the sort of weakling that leaves a +letter explaining."</p> + +<p>"What then did he die for? You'll have to explain to me. Not because he +couldn't have her; not because he felt guilty. Why, then? You haven't +left him a motive."</p> + +<p>"Oh, haven't I? The most beautiful motive in the whole world, my dear +fellow. A motive that puts all your little simple motives in the shade."</p> + +<p>"Well, what?"</p> + +<p>"Don't you see? Why, I told you. He simply assumed, for all practical +purposes, that she had been right. He gave himself the fate he knew she +considered him to deserve. He preferred—loving her as he did—to do +what she would have had him do. He knew she was wrong; but he knew also +that she was made that way, that she would never be right. And he took +her for what she was, and loved her as she was. His love—don't you +see?—was too big. He couldn't revolt from her: she had the whole of +him—except, perhaps, his excellent judgment. He couldn't drag about a +life which she felt that way about. He destroyed it, as he would have +destroyed anything she found loathsome. He was merely justifying himself +to his love. He couldn't hope she would know. Nor, I believe, could he +have lied to her. That is, he couldn't have admitted in words that she +was right, when he felt her so absolutely wrong; but he could make that +magnificent silent act of faith."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p> + +<p>Chantry still held out. "I don't believe he did it. I hold with the +coroner."</p> + +<p>"I don't. He came as near telling me as he could without making me an +accessory before the fact. There were none of the loose ends that the +most orderly man would leave if he died suddenly. Take my word for it, +old man."</p> + +<p>A long look passed between them. Each seemed to be trying to find out +with his eyes something that words had not helped him to.</p> + +<p>Finally Chantry protested once more. "But Ferguson couldn't love like +that."</p> + +<p>Havelock the Dane laid one hand on the arm of Chantry's chair and spoke +sternly. "He not only could, but did. And there I am a better authority +than you. Think what you please, but I will not have that fact +challenged. Perhaps you could count up on your fingers the women who are +loved like that; but, anyhow, she was. My second cousin once removed, +damn her!" He ended with a vicious twang.</p> + +<p>"And now"—Havelock rose—"I'd like your opinion."</p> + +<p>"About what?"</p> + +<p>"Well, can't you see the beautiful sanity of Ferguson?"</p> + +<p>"No, I can't," snapped Chantry. "I think he was wrong, both in the +beginning and in the end. But I will admit he was not a coward. I +respect him, but I do not think, at any point, he was right—except +perhaps in 'doing' the coroner."</p> + +<p>"That settles it, then," said Havelock. And he started towards the door.</p> + +<p>"Settles what, in heaven's name?"</p> + +<p>"What I came to have settled. I shan't tell her. If I could have got one +other decent citizen—and I confess you were my only chance—to agree +with me that Ferguson was right,—right about his fellow passengers on +the <i>Argentina</i>, right about tow-head on the track,—I'd have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> gone to +her, I think. I'd rather like to ruin her life, if I could."</p> + +<p>A great conviction approached Chantry just then. He felt the rush of it +through his brain.</p> + +<p>"No," he cried. "Ferguson loved her too much. He wouldn't like that—not +as you'd put it to her."</p> + +<p>Havelock thought a moment. "No," he said in turn; but his "no" was very +humble. "He wouldn't. I shall never do it. But, my God, how I wanted +to!"</p> + +<p>"And I'll tell you another thing, too." Chantry's tone was curious. "You +may agree with Ferguson all you like; you may admire him as much as you +say; but you, Havelock, would never have done what he did. Not even"—he +lifted a hand against interruption—"if you knew you had the brain you +think Ferguson had. You'd have been at the bottom of the sea, or under +the engine wheels, and you know it."</p> + +<p>He folded his arms with a hint of truculence.</p> + +<p>But Havelock the Dane, to Chantry's surprise, was meek. "Yes," he said, +"I know it. Now let me out of here."</p> + +<p>"Well, then,"—Chantry's voice rang out triumphant,—"what does that +prove?"</p> + +<p>"Prove?" Havelock's great fist crashed down on the table. "It proves +that Ferguson's a better man than either of us. I can think straight, +but he had the sand to act straight. You haven't even the sand to think +straight. You and your reactionary rot! The world's moving, Chantry. +Ferguson was ahead of it, beckoning. You're an ant that got caught in +the machinery, I shouldn't wonder."</p> + +<p>"Oh, stow the rhetoric! We simply don't agree. It's happened before." +Chantry laughed scornfully. "I tell you I respect him; but God Almighty +wouldn't make me agree with him."</p> + +<p>"You're too mediæval by half," Havelock mused. "Now, Ferguson was a +knight of the future—a knight of Humanity."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Don't!" shouted Chantry. His nerves were beginning to feel the strain. +"Leave chivalry out of it. The <i>Argentina</i> business may or may not have +been wisdom, but it certainly wasn't cricket."</p> + +<p>"No," said Havelock. "Chess, rather. The game where chance hasn't a +show—the game of the intelligent future. That very irregular and +disconcerting move of his.... And he got taken, you might say. She's an +irresponsible beast, your queen."</p> + +<p>"Drop it, will you!" Then Chantry pulled himself together, a little +ashamed. "It's fearfully late. Better stop and dine."</p> + +<p>"No, thanks." The big man opened the door of the room and rested a foot +on the threshold. "I feel like dining with some one who appreciates +Ferguson."</p> + +<p>"I don't know where you'll find him." Chantry smiled and shook hands.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I carry him about with me. Good-night," said Havelock the Dane.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="A_JURY_OF_HER_PEERS11" id="A_JURY_OF_HER_PEERS11"></a>A JURY OF HER PEERS<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> SUSAN GLASPELL</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>Every Week</i></p> + + +<p>When Martha Hale opened the storm-door and got a cut of the north wind, +she ran back for her big woolen scarf. As she hurriedly wound that round +her head her eye made a scandalized sweep of her kitchen. It was no +ordinary thing that called her away—it was probably farther from +ordinary than anything that had ever happened in Dickson County. But +what her eye took in was that her kitchen was in no shape for leaving: +her bread all ready for mixing, half the flour sifted and half unsifted.</p> + +<p>She hated to see things half done; but she had been at that when the +team from town stopped to get Mr. Hale, and then the sheriff came +running in to say his wife wished Mrs. Hale would come too—adding, with +a grin, that he guessed she was getting scarey and wanted another woman +along. So she had dropped everything right where it was.</p> + +<p>"Martha!" now came her husband's impatient voice. "Don't keep folks +waiting out here in the cold."</p> + +<p>She again opened the storm-door, and this time joined the three men and +the one woman waiting for her in the big two-seated buggy.</p> + +<p>After she had the robes tucked around her she took another look at the +woman who sat beside her on the back seat. She had met Mrs. Peters the +year before at the county fair, and the thing she remembered about<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> her +was that she didn't seem like a sheriff's wife. She was small and thin +and didn't have a strong voice. Mrs. Gorman, sheriff's wife before +Gorman went out and Peters came in, had a voice that somehow seemed to +be backing up the law with every word. But if Mrs. Peters didn't look +like a sheriff's wife, Peters made it up in looking like a sheriff. He +was to a dot the kind of man who could get himself elected sheriff—a +heavy man with a big voice, who was particularly genial with the +law-abiding, as if to make it plain that he knew the difference between +criminals and non-criminals. And right there it came into Mrs. Hale's +mind, with a stab, that this man who was so pleasant and lively with all +of them was going to the Wrights' now as a sheriff.</p> + +<p>"The country's not very pleasant this time of year," Mrs. Peters at last +ventured, as if she felt they ought to be talking as well as the men.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale scarcely finished her reply, for they had gone up a little +hill and could see the Wright place now, and seeing it did not make her +feel like talking. It looked very lonesome this cold March morning. It +had always been a lonesome-looking place. It was down in a hollow, and +the poplar trees around it were lonesome-looking trees. The men were +looking at it and talking about what had happened. The county attorney +was bending to one side of the buggy, and kept looking steadily at the +place as they drew up to it.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad you came with me," Mrs. Peters said nervously, as the two +women were about to follow the men in through the kitchen door.</p> + +<p>Even after she had her foot on the door-step, her hand on the knob, +Martha Hale had a moment of feeling she could not cross that threshold. +And the reason it seemed she couldn't cross it now was simply because +she hadn't crossed it before. Time and time again it had been in her +mind, "I ought to go over and see Minnie Foster"—she still thought of +her as Minnie Foster, though for twenty years she had been Mrs. Wright. +And then there<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> was always something to do and Minnie Foster would go +from her mind. But <i>now</i> she could come.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The men went over to the stove. The women stood close together by the +door. Young Henderson, the county attorney, turned around and said, +"Come up to the fire, ladies."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Peters took a step forward, then stopped. "I'm not—cold," she +said.</p> + +<p>And so the two women stood by the door, at first not even so much as +looking around the kitchen.</p> + +<p>The men talked for a minute about what a good thing it was the sheriff +had sent his deputy out that morning to make a fire for them, and then +Sheriff Peters stepped back from the stove, unbuttoned his outer coat, +and leaned his hands on the kitchen table in a way that seemed to mark +the beginning of official business. "Now, Mr. Hale," he said in a sort +of semi-official voice, "before we move things about, you tell Mr. +Henderson just what it was you saw when you came here yesterday +morning."</p> + +<p>The county attorney was looking around the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"By the way," he said, "has anything been moved?" He turned to the +sheriff. "Are things just as you left them yesterday?"</p> + +<p>Peters looked from cupboard to sink; from that to a small worn rocker a +little to one side of the kitchen table.</p> + +<p>"It's just the same."</p> + +<p>"Somebody should have been left here yesterday," said the county +attorney.</p> + +<p>"Oh—yesterday," returned the sheriff, with a little gesture as of +yesterday having been more than he could bear to think of. "When I had +to send Frank to Morris Center for that man who went crazy—let me tell +you, I had my hands full <i>yesterday</i>. I knew you could get back from +Omaha by to-day, George, and as long as I went over everything here +myself—"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, Mr. Hale," said the county attorney, in a way of letting what was +past and gone go, "tell just what happened when you came here yesterday +morning."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale, still leaning against the door, had that sinking feeling of +the mother whose child is about to speak a piece. Lewis often wandered +along and got things mixed up in a story. She hoped he would tell this +straight and plain, and not say unnecessary things that would just make +things harder for Minnie Foster. He didn't begin at once, and she +noticed that he looked queer—as if standing in that kitchen and having +to tell what he had seen there yesterday morning made him almost sick.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mr. Hale?" the county attorney reminded.</p> + +<p>"Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes," Mrs. Hale's +husband began.</p> + +<p>Harry was Mrs. Hale's oldest boy. He wasn't with them now, for the very +good reason that those potatoes never got to town yesterday and he was +taking them this morning, so he hadn't been home when the sheriff +stopped to say he wanted Mr. Hale to come over to the Wright place and +tell the county attorney his story there, where he could point it all +out. With all Mrs. Hale's other emotions came the fear now that maybe +Harry wasn't dressed warm enough—they hadn't any of them realized how +that north wind did bite.</p> + +<p>"We come along this road," Hale was going on, with a motion of his hand +to the road over which they had just come, "and as we got in sight of +the house I says to Harry, 'I'm goin' to see if I can't get John Wright +to take a telephone.' You see," he explained to Henderson, "unless I can +get somebody to go in with me they won't come out this branch road +except for a price <i>I</i> can't pay. I'd spoke to Wright about it once +before; but he put me off, saying folks talked too much anyway, and all +he asked was peace and quiet—guess you know about how much he talked +himself. But I thought maybe if I went to the house and talked about it +before his wife,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> and said all the women-folks liked the telephones, and +that in this lonesome stretch of road it would be a good thing—well, I +said to Harry that that was what I was going to say—though I said at +the same time that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made much +difference to John—"</p> + +<p>Now, there he was!—saying things he didn't need to say. Mrs. Hale tried +to catch her husband's eye, but fortunately the county attorney +interrupted with:</p> + +<p>"Let's talk about that a little later, Mr. Hale. I do want to talk about +that, but I'm anxious now to get along to just what happened when you +got here."</p> + +<p>When he began this time, it was very deliberately and carefully:</p> + +<p>"I didn't see or hear anything. I knocked at the door. And still it was +all quiet inside. I knew they must be up—it was past eight o'clock. So +I knocked again, louder, and I thought I heard somebody say, 'Come in.' +I wasn't sure—I'm not sure yet. But I opened the door—this door," +jerking a hand toward the door by which the two women stood, "and there, +in that rocker"—pointing to it—"sat Mrs. Wright."</p> + +<p>Every one in the kitchen looked at the rocker. It came into Mrs. Hale's +mind that that rocker didn't look in the least like Minnie Foster—the +Minnie Foster of twenty years before. It was a dingy red, with wooden +rungs up the back, and the middle rung was gone, and the chair sagged to +one side.</p> + +<p>"How did she—look?" the county attorney was inquiring.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Hale, "she looked—queer."</p> + +<p>"How do you mean—queer?"</p> + +<p>As he asked it he took out a note-book and pencil. Mrs. Hale did not +like the sight of that pencil. She kept her eye fixed on her husband, as +if to keep him from saying unnecessary things that would go into that +note-book and make trouble.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span></p> + +<p>Hale did speak guardedly, as if the pencil had affected him too.</p> + +<p>"Well, as if she didn't know what she was going to do next. And kind +of—done up."</p> + +<p>"How did she seem to feel about your coming?"</p> + +<p>"Why, I don't think she minded—one way or other. She didn't pay much +attention. I said, 'Ho' do, Mrs. Wright? It's cold, ain't it?' And she +said, 'Is it?'—and went on pleatin' at her apron.</p> + +<p>"Well, I was surprised. She didn't ask me to come up to the stove, or to +sit down, but just set there, not even lookin' at me. And so I said: 'I +want to see John.'</p> + +<p>"And then she—laughed. I guess you would call it a laugh.</p> + +<p>"I thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said, a little sharp, +'Can I see John?' 'No,' says she—kind of dull like. 'Ain't he home?' +says I. Then she looked at me. 'Yes,' says she, 'he's home.' 'Then why +can't I see him?' I asked her, out of patience with her now. ''Cause +he's dead,' says she, just as quiet and dull—and fell to pleatin' her +apron. 'Dead?' says I, like you do when you can't take in what you've +heard.</p> + +<p>"She just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rockin' back +and forth.</p> + +<p>"'Why—where is he?' says I, not knowing <i>what</i> to say.</p> + +<p>"She just pointed upstairs—like this"—pointing to the room above.</p> + +<p>"I got up, with the idea of going up there myself. By this time +I—didn't know what to do. I walked from there to here; then I says: +'Why, what did he die of?'</p> + +<p>"'He died of a rope round his neck,' says she; and just went on pleatin' +at her apron."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Hale stopped speaking, and stood staring at the rocker, as if he were +still seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before. Nobody +spoke; it was as if every one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> were seeing the woman who had sat there +the morning before.</p> + +<p>"And what did you do then?" the county attorney at last broke the +silence.</p> + +<p>"I went out and called Harry. I thought I might—need help. I got Harry +in, and we went upstairs." His voice fell almost to a whisper. "There he +was—lying over the—"</p> + +<p>"I think I'd rather have you go into that upstairs," the county attorney +interrupted, "where you can point it all out. Just go on now with the +rest of the story."</p> + +<p>"Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked—"</p> + +<p>He stopped, his face twitching.</p> + +<p>"But Harry, he went up to him, and he said, 'No, he's dead all right, +and we'd better not touch anything.' So we went downstairs.</p> + +<p>"She was still sitting that same way. 'Has anybody been notified?' I +asked. 'No,' says she, unconcerned.</p> + +<p>"'Who did this, Mrs. Wright?' said Harry. He said it businesslike, and +she stopped pleatin' at her apron. 'I don't know,' she says. 'You don't +<i>know</i>?' says Harry. 'Weren't you sleepin' in the bed with him?' 'Yes,' +says she, 'but I was on the inside.' 'Somebody slipped a rope round his +neck and strangled him, and you didn't wake up?' says Harry. 'I didn't +wake up,' she said after him.</p> + +<p>"We may have looked as if we didn't see how that could be, for after a +minute she said, 'I sleep sound.'</p> + +<p>"Harry was going to ask her more questions, but I said maybe that +weren't our business; maybe we ought to let her tell her story first to +the coroner or the sheriff. So Harry went fast as he could over to High +Road—the Rivers' place, where there's a telephone."</p> + +<p>"And what did she do when she knew you had gone for the coroner?" The +attorney got his pencil in his hand all ready for writing.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She moved from that chair to this one over here"—Hale pointed to a +small chair in the corner—"and just sat there with her hands held +together and looking down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some +conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to put in a +telephone; and at that she started to laugh, and then she stopped and +looked at me—scared."</p> + +<p>At sound of a moving pencil the man who was telling the story looked up.</p> + +<p>"I dunno—maybe it wasn't scared," he hastened; "I wouldn't like to say +it was. Soon Harry got back, and then Dr. Lloyd came, and you, Mr. +Peters, and so I guess that's all I know that you don't."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>He said that last with relief, and moved a little, as if relaxing. Every +one moved a little. The county attorney walked toward the stair door.</p> + +<p>"I guess we'll go upstairs first—then out to the barn and around +there."</p> + +<p>He paused and looked around the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"You're convinced there was nothing important here?" he asked the +sheriff. "Nothing that would—point to any motive?"</p> + +<p>The sheriff too looked all around, as if to re-convince himself.</p> + +<p>"Nothing here but kitchen things," he said, with a little laugh for the +insignificance of kitchen things.</p> + +<p>The county attorney was looking at the cupboard—a peculiar, ungainly +structure, half closet and half cupboard, the upper part of it being +built in the wall, and the lower part just the old-fashioned kitchen +cupboard. As if its queerness attracted him, he got a chair and opened +the upper part and looked in. After a moment he drew his hand away +sticky.</p> + +<p>"Here's a nice mess," he said resentfully.</p> + +<p>The two women had drawn nearer, and now the sheriff's wife spoke.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh—her fruit," she said, looking to Mrs. Hale for sympathetic +understanding. She turned back to the county attorney and explained: +"She worried about that when it turned so cold last night. She said the +fire would go out and her jars might burst."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Peters' husband broke into a laugh.</p> + +<p>"Well, can you beat the women! Held for murder and worrying about her +preserves!"</p> + +<p>The young attorney set his lips.</p> + +<p>"I guess before we're through with her she may have something more +serious than preserves to worry about."</p> + +<p>"Oh, well," said Mrs. Hale's husband, with good-natured superiority, +"women are used to worrying over trifles."</p> + +<p>The two women moved a little closer together. Neither of them spoke. The +county attorney seemed suddenly to remember his manners—and think of +his future.</p> + +<p>"And yet," said he, with the gallantry of a young politician, "for all +their worries, what would we do without the ladies?"</p> + +<p>The women did not speak, did not unbend. He went to the sink and began +washing his hands. He turned to wipe them on the roller towel—whirled +it for a cleaner place.</p> + +<p>"Dirty towels! Not much of a housekeeper, would you say, ladies?"</p> + +<p>He kicked his foot against some dirty pans under the sink.</p> + +<p>"There's a great deal of work to be done on a farm," said Mrs. Hale +stiffly.</p> + +<p>"To be sure. And yet"—with a little bow to her—"I know there are some +Dickson County farm-houses that do not have such roller towels." He gave +it a pull to expose its full length again.</p> + +<p>"Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men's hands aren't always as clean +as they might be."</p> + +<p>"Ah, loyal to your sex, I see," he laughed. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> stopped and gave her a +keen look. "But you and Mrs. Wright were neighbors. I suppose you were +friends, too."</p> + +<p>Martha Hale shook her head.</p> + +<p>"I've seen little enough of her of late years. I've not been in this +house—it's more than a year."</p> + +<p>"And why was that? You didn't like her?"</p> + +<p>"I liked her well enough," she replied with spirit. "Farmers' wives have +their hands full, Mr. Henderson. And then—" She looked around the +kitchen.</p> + +<p>"Yes?" he encouraged.</p> + +<p>"It never seemed a very cheerful place," said she, more to herself than +to him.</p> + +<p>"No," he agreed; "I don't think any one would call it cheerful. I +shouldn't say she had the home-making instinct."</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't know as Wright had, either," she muttered.</p> + +<p>"You mean they didn't get on very well?" he was quick to ask.</p> + +<p>"No; I don't mean anything," she answered, with decision. As she turned +a little away from him, she added: "But I don't think a place would be +any the cheerfuler for John Wright's bein' in it."</p> + +<p>"I'd like to talk to you about that a little later, Mrs. Hale," he said. +"I'm anxious to get the lay of things upstairs now."</p> + +<p>He moved toward the stair door, followed by the two men.</p> + +<p>"I suppose anything Mrs. Peters does'll be all right?" the sheriff +inquired. "She was to take in some clothes for her, you know—and a few +little things. We left in such a hurry yesterday."</p> + +<p>The county attorney looked at the two women whom they were leaving alone +there among the kitchen things.</p> + +<p>"Yes—Mrs. Peters," he said, his glance resting on the woman who was not +Mrs. Peters, the big farmer woman who stood behind the sheriff's wife. +"Of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> course Mrs. Peters is one of us," he said, in a manner of +entrusting responsibility. "And keep your eye out Mrs. Peters, for +anything that might be of use. No telling; you women might come upon a +clue to the motive—and that's the thing we need."</p> + +<p>Mr. Hale rubbed his face after the fashion of a show man getting ready +for a pleasantry.</p> + +<p>"But would the women know a clue if they did come upon it?" he said; +and, having delivered himself of this, he followed the others through +the stair door.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The women stood motionless and silent, listening to the footsteps, first +upon the stairs, then in the room above them.</p> + +<p>Then, as if releasing herself from something strange, Mrs. Hale began to +arrange the dirty pans under the sink, which the county attorney's +disdainful push of the foot had deranged.</p> + +<p>"I'd hate to have men comin' into my kitchen," she said +testily—"snoopin' round and criticizin'."</p> + +<p>"Of course it's no more than their duty," said the sheriff's wife, in +her manner of timid acquiescence.</p> + +<p>"Duty's all right," replied Mrs. Hale bluffly; "but I guess that deputy +sheriff that come out to make the fire might have got a little of this +on." She gave the roller towel a pull. "Wish I'd thought of that sooner! +Seems mean to talk about her for not having things slicked up, when she +had to come away in such a hurry."</p> + +<p>She looked around the kitchen. Certainly it was not "slicked up." Her +eye was held by a bucket of sugar on a low shelf. The cover was off the +wooden bucket, and beside it was a paper bag—half full.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale moved toward it.</p> + +<p>"She was putting this in there," she said to herself—slowly.</p> + +<p>She thought of the flour in her kitchen at home—half sifted, half not +sifted. She had been interrupted, and had left things half done. What +had interrupted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> Minnie Foster? Why had that work been left half done? +She made a move as if to finish it,—unfinished things always bothered +her,—and then she glanced around and saw that Mrs. Peters was watching +her—and she didn't want Mrs. Peters to get that feeling she had got of +work begun and then—for some reason—not finished.</p> + +<p>"It's a shame about her fruit," she said, and walked toward the cupboard +that the county attorney had opened, and got on the chair, murmuring: "I +wonder if it's all gone."</p> + +<p>It was a sorry enough looking sight, but "Here's one that's all right," +she said at last. She held it toward the light. "This is cherries, too." +She looked again. "I declare I believe that's the only one."</p> + +<p>With a sigh, she got down from the chair, went to the sink, and wiped +off the bottle.</p> + +<p>"She'll feel awful bad, after all her hard work in the hot weather. I +remember the afternoon I put up my cherries last summer."</p> + +<p>She set the bottle on the table, and, with another sigh, started to sit +down in the rocker. But she did not sit down. Something kept her from +sitting down in that chair. She straightened—stepped back, and, half +turned away, stood looking at it, seeing the woman who had sat there +"pleatin' at her apron."</p> + +<p>The thin voice of the sheriff's wife broke in upon her: "I must be +getting those things from the front room closet." She opened the door +into the other room, started in, stepped back. "You coming with me, Mrs. +Hale?" she asked nervously. "You—you could help me get them."</p> + +<p>They were soon back—the stark coldness of that shut-up room was not a +thing to linger in.</p> + +<p>"My!" said Mrs. Peters, dropping the things on the table and hurrying to +the stove.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale stood examining the clothes the woman who was being detained +in town had said she wanted.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Wright was close!" she exclaimed, holding up a shabby black skirt that +bore the marks of much making over. "I think maybe that's why she kept +so much to herself. I s'pose she felt she couldn't do her part; and +then, you don't enjoy things when you feel shabby. She used to wear +pretty clothes and be lively—when she was Minnie Foster, one of the +town girls, singing in the choir. But that—oh, that was twenty years +ago."</p> + +<p>With a carefulness in which there was something tender, she folded the +shabby clothes and piled them at one corner of the table. She looked up +at Mrs. Peters and there was something in the other woman's look that +irritated her.</p> + +<p>"She don't care," she said to herself. "Much difference it makes to her +whether Minnie Foster had pretty clothes when she was a girl."</p> + +<p>Then she looked again, and she wasn't so sure; in fact, she hadn't at +any time been perfectly sure about Mrs. Peters. She had that shrinking +manner, and yet her eyes looked as if they could see a long way into +things.</p> + +<p>"This all you was to take in?" asked Mrs. Hale.</p> + +<p>"No," said the sheriff's wife; "she said she wanted an apron. Funny +thing to want," she ventured in her nervous little way, "for there's not +much to get you dirty in jail, goodness knows. But I suppose just to +make her feel more natural. If you're used to wearing an apron—. She +said they were in the bottom drawer of this cupboard. Yes—here they +are. And then her little shawl that always hung on the stair door."</p> + +<p>She took the small gray shawl from behind the door leading upstairs, and +stood a minute looking at it.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Mrs. Hale took a quick step toward the other woman.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Peters!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mrs. Hale?"</p> + +<p>"Do you think she—did it?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p> + +<p>A frightened look blurred the other thing in Mrs. Peters' eyes.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know," she said, in a voice that seemed to shrink away from +the subject.</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't think she did," affirmed Mrs. Hale stoutly. "Asking for +an apron, and her little shawl. Worryin' about her fruit."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Peters says—." Footsteps were heard in the room above; she +stopped, looked up, then went on in a lowered voice: "Mr. Peters +says—it looks bad for her. Mr. Henderson is awful sarcastic in a +speech, and he's going to make fun of her saying she didn't—wake up."</p> + +<p>For a moment Mrs. Hale had no answer. Then, "Well, I guess John Wright +didn't wake up—when they was slippin' that rope under his neck," she +muttered.</p> + +<p>"No, it's <i>strange</i>," breathed Mrs. Peters. "They think it was such +a—funny way to kill a man."</p> + +<p>She began to laugh; at sound of the laugh, abruptly stopped.</p> + +<p>"That's just what Mr. Hale said," said Mrs. Hale, in a resolutely +natural voice. "There was a gun in the house. He says that's what he +can't understand."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Henderson said, coming out, that what was needed for the case was a +motive. Something to show anger—or sudden feeling."</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't see any signs of anger around here," said Mrs. Hale. "I +don't—"</p> + +<p>She stopped. It was as if her mind tripped on something. Her eye was +caught by a dish-towel in the middle of the kitchen table. Slowly she +moved toward the table. One half of it was wiped clean, the other half +messy. Her eyes made a slow, almost unwilling turn to the bucket of +sugar and the half empty bag beside it. Things begun—and not finished.</p> + +<p>After a moment she stepped back, and said, in that manner of releasing +herself:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Wonder how they're finding things upstairs? I hope she had it a little +more red up up there. You know,"—she paused, and feeling gathered,—"it +seems kind of <i>sneaking</i>: locking her up in town and coming out here to +get her own house to turn against her!"</p> + +<p>"But, Mrs. Hale," said the sheriff's wife, "the law is the law."</p> + +<p>"I s'pose 'tis," answered Mrs. Hale shortly.</p> + +<p>She turned to the stove, saying something about that fire not being much +to brag of. She worked with it a minute, and when she straightened up +she said aggressively:</p> + +<p>"The law is the law—and a bad stove is a bad stove. How'd you like to +cook on this?"—pointing with the poker to the broken lining. She opened +the oven door and started to express her opinion of the oven; but she +was swept into her own thoughts, thinking of what it would mean, year +after year, to have that stove to wrestle with. The thought of Minnie +Foster trying to bake in that oven—and the thought of her never going +over to see Minnie Foster—.</p> + +<p>She was startled by hearing Mrs. Peters say: "A person gets +discouraged—and loses heart."</p> + +<p>The sheriff's wife had looked from the stove to the sink—to the pail of +water which had been carried in from outside. The two women stood there +silent, above them the footsteps of the men who were looking for +evidence against the woman who had worked in that kitchen. That look of +seeing into things, of seeing through a thing to something else, was in +the eyes of the sheriff's wife now. When Mrs. Hale next spoke to her, it +was gently:</p> + +<p>"Better loosen up your things, Mrs. Peters. We'll not feel them when we +go out."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Peters went to the back of the room to hang up the fur tippet she +was wearing. A moment later she exclaimed, "Why, she was piecing a +quilt," and held up a large sewing basket piled high with quilt pieces.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale spread some of the blocks out on the table.</p> + +<p>"It's log-cabin pattern," she said, putting several of them together. +"Pretty, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>They were so engaged with the quilt that they did not hear the footsteps +on the stairs. Just as the stair door opened Mrs. Hale was saying:</p> + +<p>"Do you suppose she was going to quilt it or just knot it?"</p> + +<p>The sheriff threw up his hands.</p> + +<p>"They wonder whether she was going to quilt it or just knot it!"</p> + +<p>There was a laugh for the ways of women, a warming of hands over the +stove, and then the county attorney said briskly:</p> + +<p>"Well, let's go right out to the barn and get that cleared up."</p> + +<p>"I don't see as there's anything so strange," Mrs. Hale said +resentfully, after the outside door had closed on the three men—"our +taking up our time with little things while we're waiting for them to +get the evidence. I don't see as it's anything to laugh about."</p> + +<p>"Of course they've got awful important things on their minds," said the +sheriff's wife apologetically.</p> + +<p>They returned to an inspection of the block for the quilt. Mrs. Hale was +looking at the fine, even sewing, and preoccupied with thoughts of the +woman who had done that sewing, when she heard the sheriff's wife say, +in a queer tone:</p> + +<p>"Why, look at this one."</p> + +<p>She turned to take the block held out to her.</p> + +<p>"The sewing," said Mrs. Peters, in a troubled way. "All the rest of them +have been so nice and even—but—this one. Why, it looks as if she +didn't know what she was about!"</p> + +<p>Their eyes met—something flashed to life, passed between them; then, as +if with an effort, they seemed to pull away from each other. A moment +Mrs. Hale sat her hands folded over that sewing which was so<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> unlike all +the rest of the sewing. Then she had pulled a knot and drawn the +threads.</p> + +<p>"Oh, what are you doing, Mrs. Hale?" asked the sheriff's wife, startled.</p> + +<p>"Just pulling out a stitch or two that's not sewed very good," said Mrs. +Hale mildly.</p> + +<p>"I don't think we ought to touch things," Mrs. Peters said, a little +helplessly.</p> + +<p>"I'll just finish up this end," answered Mrs. Hale, still in that mild, +matter-of-fact fashion.</p> + +<p>She threaded a needle and started to replace bad sewing with good. For a +little while she sewed in silence. Then, in that thin, timid voice, she +heard:</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Hale!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mrs. Peters?"</p> + +<p>"What do you suppose she was so—nervous about?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>I</i> don't know," said Mrs. Hale, as if dismissing a thing not +important enough to spend much time on. "I don't know as she +was—nervous. I sew awful queer sometimes when I'm just tired."</p> + +<p>She cut a thread, and out of the corner of her eye looked up at Mrs. +Peters. The small, lean face of the sheriff's wife seemed to have +tightened up. Her eyes had that look of peering into something. But next +moment she moved, and said in her thin, indecisive way:</p> + +<p>"Well, I must get those clothes wrapped. They may be through sooner than +we think. I wonder where I could find a piece of paper—and string."</p> + +<p>"In that cupboard, maybe," suggested Mrs. Hale, after a glance around.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>One piece of the crazy sewing remained unripped. Mrs. Peters' back +turned, Martha Hale now scrutinized that piece, compared it with the +dainty, accurate sewing of the other blocks. The difference was +startling. Holding this block made her feel queer, as if the distracted +thoughts of the woman who had perhaps turned<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> to it to try and quiet +herself were communicating themselves to her.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Peters' voice roused her.</p> + +<p>"Here's a bird-cage," she said. "Did she have a bird, Mrs. Hale?"</p> + +<p>"Why, I don't know whether she did or not." She turned to look at the +cage Mrs. Peter was holding up. "I've not been here in so long." She +sighed. "There was a man round last year selling canaries cheap—but I +don't know as she took one. Maybe she did. She used to sing real pretty +herself."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Peters looked around the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"Seems kind of funny to think of a bird here." She half laughed—an +attempt to put up a barrier. "But she must have had one—or why would +she have a cage? I wonder what happened to it."</p> + +<p>"I suppose maybe the cat got it," suggested Mrs. Hale, resuming her +sewing.</p> + +<p>"No; she didn't have a cat. She's got that feeling some people have +about cats—being afraid of them. When they brought her to our house +yesterday, my cat got in the room, and she was real upset and asked me +to take it out."</p> + +<p>"My sister Bessie was like that," laughed Mrs. Hale.</p> + +<p>The sheriff's wife did not reply. The silence made Mrs. Hale turn round. +Mrs. Peters was examining the bird-cage.</p> + +<p>"Look at this door," she said slowly. "It's broke. One hinge has been +pulled apart."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale came nearer.</p> + +<p>"Looks as if some one must have been—rough with it."</p> + +<p>Again their eyes met—startled, questioning, apprehensive. For a moment +neither spoke nor stirred. Then Mrs. Hale, turning away, said brusquely:</p> + +<p>"If they're going to find any evidence, I wish they'd be about it. I +don't like this place."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But I'm awful glad you came with me, Mrs. Hale," Mrs. Peters put the +bird-cage on the table and sat down. "It would be lonesome for +me—sitting here alone."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it would, wouldn't it?" agreed Mrs. Hale, a certain determined +naturalness in her voice. She had picked up the sewing, but now it +dropped in her lap, and she murmured in a different voice: "But I tell +you what I <i>do</i> wish, Mrs. Peters. I wish I had come over sometimes when +she was here. I wish—I had."</p> + +<p>"But of course you were awful busy, Mrs. Hale. Your house—and your +children."</p> + +<p>"I could've come," retorted Mrs. Hale shortly. "I stayed away because it +weren't cheerful—and that's why I ought to have come. I"—she looked +around—"I've never liked this place. Maybe because it's down in a +hollow and you don't see the road. I don't know what it is, but it's a +lonesome place, and always was. I wish I had come over to see Minnie +Foster sometimes. I can see now—" She did not put it into words.</p> + +<p>"Well, you mustn't reproach yourself," counseled Mrs. Peters. "Somehow, +we just don't see how it is with other folks till—something comes up."</p> + +<p>"Not having children makes less work," mused Mrs. Hale, after a silence, +"but it makes a quiet house—and Wright out to work all day—and no +company when he did come in. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters?"</p> + +<p>"Not to know him. I've seen him in town. They say he was a good man."</p> + +<p>"Yes—good," conceded John Wright's neighbor grimly. "He didn't drink, +and kept his word as well as most, I guess, and paid his debts. But he +was a hard man, Mrs. Peters. Just to pass the time of day with him—." +She stopped, shivered a little. "Like a raw wind that gets to the bone." +Her eye fell upon the cage on the table before her, and she added, +almost bitterly: "I should think she would've wanted a bird!"</p> + +<p>Suddenly she leaned forward, looking intently at the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> cage. "But what do +you s'pose went wrong with it?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," returned Mrs. Peters; "unless it got sick and died."</p> + +<p>But after she said it she reached over and swung the broken door. Both +women watched it as if somehow held by it.</p> + +<p>"You didn't know—her?" Mrs. Hale asked, a gentler note in her voice.</p> + +<p>"Not till they brought her yesterday," said the sheriff's wife.</p> + +<p>"She—come to think of it, she was kind of like a bird herself. Real +sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and—fluttery. +How—she—did—change."</p> + +<p>That held her for a long time. Finally, as if struck with a happy +thought and relieved to get back to every-day things, she exclaimed:</p> + +<p>"Tell you what, Mrs. Peters, why don't you take the quilt in with you? +It might take up her mind."</p> + +<p>"Why, I think that's a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale," agreed the sheriff's +wife, as if she too were glad to come into the atmosphere of a simple +kindness. "There couldn't possibly be any objection to that, could +there? Now, just what will I take? I wonder if her patches are in +here—and her things."</p> + +<p>They turned to the sewing basket.</p> + +<p>"Here's some red," said Mrs. Hale, bringing out a roll of cloth. +Underneath that was a box. "Here, maybe her scissors are in here—and +her things." She held it up. "What a pretty box! I'll warrant that was +something she had a long time ago—when she was a girl."</p> + +<p>She held it in her hand a moment; then, with a little sigh, opened it.</p> + +<p>Instantly her hand went to her nose.</p> + +<p>"Why—!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Peters drew nearer—then turned away.</p> + +<p>"There's something wrapped up in this piece of silk," faltered Mrs. +Hale.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span></p> + +<p>"This isn't her scissors," said Mrs. Peters, in a shrinking voice.</p> + +<p>Her hand not steady, Mrs. Hale raised the piece of silk. "Oh, Mrs. +Peters!" she cried. "It's—"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Peters bent closer.</p> + +<p>"It's the bird," she whispered.</p> + +<p>"But, Mrs. Peters!" cried Mrs. Hale. "<i>Look</i> at it! Its <i>neck</i>—look at +its neck! It's all—other side <i>to</i>."</p> + +<p>She held the box away from her.</p> + +<p>The sheriff's wife again bent closer.</p> + +<p>"Somebody wrung its neck," said she, in a voice that was slow and deep.</p> + +<p>And then again the eyes of the two women met—this time clung together +in a look of dawning comprehension, of growing horror. Mrs. Peters +looked from the dead bird to the broken door of the cage. Again their +eyes met. And just then there was a sound at the outside door.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale slipped the box under the quilt pieces in the basket, and sank +into the chair before it. Mrs. Peters stood holding to the table. The +county attorney and the sheriff came in from outside.</p> + +<p>"Well, ladies," said the county attorney, as one turning from serious +things to little pleasantries, "have you decided whether she was going +to quilt it or knot it?"</p> + +<p>"We think," began the sheriff's wife in a flurried voice, "that she was +going to—knot it."</p> + +<p>He was too preoccupied to notice the change that came in her voice on +that last.</p> + +<p>"Well, that's very interesting, I'm sure," he said tolerantly. He caught +sight of the bird-cage. "Has the bird flown?"</p> + +<p>"We think the cat got it," said Mrs. Hale in a voice curiously even.</p> + +<p>He was walking up and down, as if thinking something out.</p> + +<p>"Is there a cat?" he asked absently.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale shot a look up at the sheriff's wife.</p> + +<p>"Well, not <i>now</i>," said Mrs. Peters. "They're superstitious, you know; +they leave."</p> + +<p>She sank into her chair.</p> + +<p>The county attorney did not heed her. "No sign at all of any one having +come in from the outside," he said to Peters, in the manner of +continuing an interrupted conversation. "Their own rope. Now let's go +upstairs again and go over it, piece by piece. It would have to have +been some one who knew just the—"</p> + +<p>The stair door closed behind them and their voices were lost.</p> + +<p>The two women sat motionless, not looking at each other, but as if +peering into something and at the same time holding back. When they +spoke now it was as if they were afraid of what they were saying, but as +if they could not help saying it.</p> + +<p>"She liked the bird," said Martha Hale, low and slowly. "She was going +to bury it in that pretty box."</p> + +<p>"When I was a girl," said Mrs. Peters, under her breath, "my +kitten—there was a boy took a hatchet, and before my eyes—before I +could get there—" She covered her face an instant. "If they hadn't held +me back I would have"—she caught herself, looked upstairs where +footsteps were heard, and finished weakly—"hurt him."</p> + +<p>Then they sat without speaking or moving.</p> + +<p>"I wonder how it would seem," Mrs. Hale at last began, as if feeling her +way over strange ground—"never to have had any children around?" Her +eyes made a slow sweep of the kitchen, as if seeing what that kitchen +had meant through all the years. "No, Wright wouldn't like the bird," +she said after that—"a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed +that too." Her voice tightened.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Peters moved uneasily.</p> + +<p>"Of course we don't know who killed the bird."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I knew John Wright," was Mrs. Hale's answer.</p> + +<p>"It was an awful thing was done in this house that night, Mrs. Hale," +said the sheriff's wife. "Killing a man while he slept—slipping a thing +round his neck that choked the life out of him."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale's hand went out to the bird-cage.</p> + +<p>"His neck. Choked the life out of him."</p> + +<p>"We don't <i>know</i> who killed him," whispered Mrs. Peters wildly. "We +don't <i>know</i>."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale had not moved. "If there had been years and years of—nothing, +then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful—still—after the bird was +still."</p> + +<p>It was as if something within her not herself had spoken, and it found +in Mrs. Peters something she did not know as herself.</p> + +<p>"I know what stillness is," she said, in a queer, monotonous voice. +"When we homesteaded in Dakota, and my first baby died—after he was two +years old—and me with no other then—"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale stirred.</p> + +<p>"How soon do you suppose they'll be through looking for the evidence?"</p> + +<p>"I know what stillness is," repeated Mrs. Peters, in just that same way. +Then she too pulled back. "The law has got to punish crime, Mrs. Hale," +she said in her tight little way.</p> + +<p>"I wish you'd seen Minnie Foster," was the answer, "when she wore a +white dress with blue ribbons, and stood up there in the choir and +sang."</p> + +<p>The picture of that girl, the fact that she had lived neighbor to that +girl for twenty years, and had let her die for lack of life, was +suddenly more than she could bear.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I <i>wish</i> I'd come over here once in a while!" she cried. "That was +a crime! That was a crime! Who's going to punish that?"</p> + +<p>"We mustn't take on," said Mrs. Peters, with a frightened look toward +the stairs.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I might 'a' <i>known</i> she needed help! I tell you, it's <i>queer</i>, Mrs. +Peters. We live close together, and we live far apart. We all go through +the same things—it's all just a different kind of the same thing! If it +weren't—why do you and I <i>understand</i>? Why do we <i>know</i>—what we know +this minute?"</p> + +<p>She dashed her hand across her eyes. Then, seeing the jar of fruit on +the table, she reached for it and choked out:</p> + +<p>"If I was you I wouldn't <i>tell</i> her her fruit was gone! Tell her it +<i>ain't</i>. Tell her it's all right—all of it. Here—take this in to prove +it to her! She—she may never know whether it was broke or not."</p> + +<p>She turned away.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Peters reached out for the bottle of fruit as if she were glad to +take it—as if touching a familiar thing, having something to do, could +keep her from something else. She got up, looked about for something to +wrap the fruit in, took a petticoat from the pile of clothes she had +brought from the front room, and nervously started winding that round +the bottle.</p> + +<p>"My!" she began, in a high, false voice, "it's a good thing the men +couldn't hear us! Getting all stirred up over a little thing like +a—dead canary." She hurried over that. "As if that could have anything +to do with—with—My, wouldn't they <i>laugh</i>?"</p> + +<p>Footsteps were heard on the stairs.</p> + +<p>"Maybe they would," muttered Mrs. Hale—"maybe they wouldn't."</p> + +<p>"No, Peters," said the county attorney incisively; "it's all perfectly +clear, except the reason for doing it. But you know juries when it comes +to women. If there was some definite thing—something to show. Something +to make a story about. A thing that would connect up with this clumsy +way of doing it."</p> + +<p>In a covert way Mrs. Hale looked at Mrs. Peters. Mrs. Peters was looking +at her. Quickly they looked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> away from each other. The outer door opened +and Mr. Hale came in.</p> + +<p>"I've got the team round now," he said. "Pretty cold out there."</p> + +<p>"I'm going to stay here awhile by myself," the county attorney suddenly +announced. "You can send Frank out for me, can't you?" he asked the +sheriff. "I want to go over everything. I'm not satisfied we can't do +better."</p> + +<p>Again, for one brief moment, the two women's eyes found one another.</p> + +<p>The sheriff came up to the table.</p> + +<p>"Did you want to see what Mrs. Peters was going to take in?"</p> + +<p>The county attorney picked up the apron. He laughed.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I guess they're not very dangerous things the ladies have picked +out."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale's hand was on the sewing basket in which the box was +concealed. She felt that she ought to take her hand off the basket. She +did not seem able to. He picked up one of the quilt blocks which she had +piled on to cover the box. Her eyes felt like fire. She had a feeling +that if he took up the basket she would snatch it from him.</p> + +<p>But he did not take it up. With another little laugh, he turned away, +saying:</p> + +<p>"No; Mrs. Peters doesn't need supervising. For that matter, a sheriff's +wife is married to the law. Ever think of it that way, Mrs. Peters?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Peters was standing beside the table. Mrs. Hale shot a look up at +her; but she could not see her face. Mrs. Peters had turned away. When +she spoke, her voice was muffled.</p> + +<p>"Not—just that way," she said.</p> + +<p>"Married to the law!" chuckled Mrs. Peters' husband. He moved toward the +door into the front room, and said to the county attorney:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to take a +look at these windows."</p> + +<p>"Oh—windows," said the county attorney scoffingly.</p> + +<p>"We'll be right out, Mr. Hale," said the sheriff to the farmer, who was +still waiting by the door.</p> + +<p>Hale went to look after the horses. The sheriff followed the county +attorney into the other room. Again—for one final moment—the two women +were alone in that kitchen.</p> + +<p>Martha Hale sprang up, her hands tight together, looking at that other +woman, with whom it rested. At first she could not see her eyes, for the +sheriff's wife had not turned back since she turned away at that +suggestion of being married to the law. But now Mrs. Hale made her turn +back. Her eyes made her turn back. Slowly, unwillingly, Mrs. Peters +turned her head until her eyes met the eyes of the other woman. There +was a moment when they held each other in a steady, burning look in +which there was no evasion nor flinching. Then Martha Hale's eyes +pointed the way to the basket in which was hidden the thing that would +make certain the conviction of the other woman—that woman who was not +there and yet who had been there with them all through that hour.</p> + +<p>For a moment Mrs. Peters did not move. And then she did it. With a rush +forward, she threw back the quilt pieces, got the box, tried to put it +in her handbag. It was too big. Desperately she opened it, started to +take the bird out. But there she broke—she could not touch the bird. +She stood there helpless, foolish.</p> + +<p>There was the sound of a knob turning in the inner door. Martha Hale +snatched the box from the sheriff's wife, and got it in the pocket of +her big coat just as the sheriff and the county attorney came back into +the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"Well, Henry," said the county attorney facetiously, "at least we found +out that she was not going to quilt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> it. She was going to—what is it +you call it, ladies?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hale's hand was against the pocket of her coat.</p> + +<p>"We call it—knot it, Mr. Henderson."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_BUNKER_MOUSE12" id="THE_BUNKER_MOUSE12"></a>THE BUNKER MOUSE<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></h2> + +<p class="c">By FREDERICK STUART GREENE</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Century Magazine</i></p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Larry Walsh</span> slowly climbed the stairs of a house near the waterfront, in +a run-down quarter of old New York. He halted on the top floor, blinking +in the dim light that struggled through the grime-coated window of the +hallway. After a time he knocked timidly on the door before him.</p> + +<p>There was nothing in the pleasant "Come in" to alarm the small man; he +started to retreat, but stopped when the door was thrown wide.</p> + +<p>"Then it's yourself, Mouse! It's good for the eyes just to look at you."</p> + +<p>The woman who greeted Walsh was in striking contrast to her shabby +surroundings. Everything about the old-fashioned house, one floor of +which was her home, spoke of neglected age. This girl, from the heavy, +black braids encircling her head to the soles of her shoes, vibrated +youth. Her cheeks glowed with the color of splendid health; her blue +Irish eyes were bright with it. Friendliness had rung in the tones of +her rich brogue, and showed now in her smile as she waited for her +visitor to answer.</p> + +<p>Larry stood before her too shy to speak.</p> + +<p>"Is it word from Dan you're bringin' me?" she encouraged. "But there, +now, I'm forgettin' me manners! Come in, an' I'll be makin' you a cup of +tea." She took<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> his arm impulsively, with the frank comradeship of a +young woman for a man much older than herself, and led him to a chair.</p> + +<p>Larry sat ready for flight, his cap held stiffly across his knees. He +watched every movement of the girl, a look of pathetic meekness in his +eyes.</p> + +<p>"You're right, Mrs. Sullivan," he said after an effort; "Dan was askin' +me to step in on my way to the ship."</p> + +<p>She turned quickly from the stove.</p> + +<p>"You're not tellin' me now Dan ain't comin' himself, an' the boat +leavin' this night?"</p> + +<p>Larry was plainly uneasy.</p> + +<p>"Well, you see—it's—now it's just like I'm tellin' you, Mrs. Sullivan; +he's that important to the chief, is Dan, they can't get on without him +to-day at all."</p> + +<p>"Then bad luck, I say, to the chief! Look at the grand supper I'm after +fixin' for Dan!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mary—Mrs. Sullivan, don't be speakin' disrespectful' of the chief, +an' him thinkin' so highly of Dan!"</p> + +<p>Mary's blue eyes flashed.</p> + +<p>"An' why wouldn't he! It's not every day he'll find the likes of Dan, +with the strong arms an' the great legs of him, not to mention his grand +looks." She crossed to Larry, her face aglow. "Rest easy now while you +drink your tea," she urged kindly, "an' tell me what the chief be +wantin' him for."</p> + +<p>She drew her chair close to Larry, but the small man turned shyly from +her searching gaze.</p> + +<p>"Well, you see, Mrs.—"</p> + +<p>"Call me Mary. It's a year an' more now since the first time you brought +Dan home to me." A sudden smile lighted her face. "Well I remember how +frightened you looked when first you set eyes on me. Was you thinkin' to +find Dan's wife a slip of a girl?"</p> + +<p>"No; he told me you was a fine, big lass." He looked from Mary to the +picture of an older woman that hung above the mantel. "That'll be your +mother, I'm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> thinkin'." Then, with abrupt change, "When did you leave +the old country, Mary?"</p> + +<p>"A little more'n a year before I married Dan. But tell me, Mouse, about +the chief wantin' him."</p> + +<p>"We'll you see, Dan's that handy-like—"</p> + +<p>"That's the blessed truth you're speakin'," she interupted, her face +lovely with its flush of pride. "But tell me more, that's a darlin'."</p> + +<p>Larry thought rapidly before he spoke again.</p> + +<p>"Only the last trip I was hearin' the chief say: 'Dan,' says he, 'it's +not long now you'll be swingin' the shovel. I'll be makin' you +water-tender soon.'"</p> + +<p>Mary leaned nearer, and caught both of Larry's hands in hers.</p> + +<p>"Them's grand words you're sayin'; they fair makes my heart jump." She +paused; the gladness faded quickly from her look. "Then the chief don't +know Dan sometimes takes a drop?"</p> + +<p>"Ain't the chief Irish himself? Every man on the boilers takes his +dram." Her wistful eyes spurred him on. "Sure's I'm sittin' here, Dan's +the soberest of the lot."</p> + +<p>Mary shook her head sadly.</p> + +<p>"Good reason I have to fear the drink; 't was that spoiled my mother's +life."</p> + +<p>Larry rose quickly.</p> + +<p>"Your mother never drank!"</p> + +<p>"No; the saints preserve us!" She looked up in surprise at Larry's +startled face. "It was my father. I don't remember only what mother told +me; he left her one night, ravin' drunk, an' never come back."</p> + +<p>Larry hastily took up his cap.</p> + +<p>"I must be goin' back to the ship now," he said abruptly. "An' thank +you, Mary, for the tea." He hurried from the room.</p> + +<p>When Larry reached the ground floor he heard Mary's door open again.</p> + +<p>"Can I be troublin' you, Mouse, to take something to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> Dan?" She came +down the stairs, carrying a dinner-pail. "I'd thought to be eatin' this +supper along with him," Mary said, disappointment in her tone. She +followed Larry to the outer landing. "It's the true word you was sayin', +he'll be makin' Dan water-tender?"</p> + +<p>Larry forced himself to look into her anxious eyes.</p> + +<p>"Sure; it's just as I said, Mary."</p> + +<p>"Then I'll pray this night to the Mother of God for that chief; for +soon"—Mary hesitated; a light came to her face that lifted the girl +high above her squalid surroundings—"the extra pay'll be comin' handy +soon," she ended, her voice as soft as a Killarney breeze.</p> + +<p>Larry, as he looked at the young wife standing between the scarred +columns of the old doorway, was stirred to the farthest corner of his +heart.</p> + +<p>"They only smile like that to the angels," he thought. Then aloud: "Bad +cess to me! I was forgettin' entirely! Dan said to leave this with you." +He pushed crumpled, coal-soiled money into her hand, and fled down the +steps.</p> + +<p>When Larry heard the door close creakily behind him, he looked back to +where Mary had stood, his eyes blinking rapidly. After some moments he +walked slowly on toward the wharves. In the distance before him the +spars and funnels of ships loomed through the dusk, their outlines +rapidly fading into the sky beyond—a late September sky, now fast +turning to a burned-out sheet of dull gray.</p> + +<p>Larry went aboard his ship, and, going to the forecastle, peered into an +upper bunk.</p> + +<p>"Your baby's not to home, Mouse," a voice jeered. "I saw him over to +Flanagan's awhile ago."</p> + +<p>A hopeless look crossed Larry's face.</p> + +<p>"Give me a hand up the side, like a good lad, Jim, when I come aboard +again."</p> + +<p>A few minutes later the little man was making his way back to the +steamer, every step of his journey harassed by derisive shouts as he +dodged between the lines<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> of belated trucks that jammed West Street from +curb to string-piece. He pushed a wheelbarrow before him, his knees +bending under the load it held. Across the barrow, legs and head +dangling over the sides, lay an unconscious heap that when sober +answered to the name of Dan Sullivan.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Larry Walsh, stoker on the coastwise freighter <i>San Gardo</i>, was the butt +of the ship; every man of the crew imposed on his good nature. He was +one of those persons "just fool enough to do what he's told to do." For +thirty of his fifty years he had been a seaman, and the marks of a +sailor's life were stamped hard on his face. His weathered cheeks were +plowed by wrinkles that stretched, deep furrowed, from his red-gray hair +to the corners of his mouth. From under scant brows he peered out on the +world with near-sighted eyes; but whenever a smile broadened his wide +mouth, his eyes would shine with a kindly light.</p> + +<p>Larry's defective sight had led to his banishment as a sailor from the +decks. During a storm off Hatteras a stoker had fallen and died on the +boiler-room plates.</p> + +<p>"It don't take no eyes at all to see clean to the back of a Scotch +boiler," the boatswain had told the chief engineer. "I can give you that +little squint-eyed feller." So, at the age of forty or thereabouts, +Larry left the cool, wind-swept deck to take up work new to him in the +superheated, gas-stifling air of the fire-room. Though entered on the +ship's papers as a sailor, he had gone without complaint down the +straight ladders to the very bottom of the hull. Bidden to take the dead +stoker's place, "he was just fool enough to do what he was told to do."</p> + +<p>Larry was made the coal-passer of that watch, and began at once the +back-breaking task of shoveling fuel from the bunkers to the floor +outside, ready for the stokers to heave into the boilers. He had been +passing less than an hour during his first watch when the coal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> ran +short in the lower bunker. He speared with a slice-bar in the bunker +above. The fuel rested at a steeper angle than his weak eyes could see, +and his bar dislodged a wedged lump; an instant later the new passer was +half buried under a heap of sliding coal. Bewildered, but unhurt, he +crawled to the boiler-room, shaking the coal from his back and +shoulders. Through dust-filled ears he heard the general laugh at his +plight.</p> + +<p>"Look at the nigger Irishman!" a stoker called.</p> + +<p>"Irishman!" came the answer. "It's no man at all; it's a mouse you're +seein'—a bunker mouse."</p> + +<p>From that moment the name Larry Walsh was forgotten.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The <i>San Gardo</i> was late getting away that night; two bells of the +evening watch had sounded when at last she backed from her pier into the +North River and began the first mile of her trip to Galveston. Though +she showed a full six inches of the red paint below her water-line, the +loading of her freight had caused the delay. In the hold lay many parts +of sawmill machinery. When the last of this clumsy cargo had settled to +its allotted place, there was left an unusual void of empty blackness +below the deck hatches.</p> + +<p>"It's up to you now, Matie," the stevedore had said to the impatient +first officer. "My job's done right, but she'll roll her sticks out if +it's rough outside."</p> + +<p>"That's nice; hand me all the cheerful news you have when you know they +hung out storm-warnings at noon," the officer had growled as the +stevedore went ashore.</p> + +<p>Signs that both the Government and the stevedore had predicted correctly +began to show as soon as the vessel cleared the Hook. The wind was +blowing half a gale from the southeast and had already kicked up a +troublesome sea. The ship, resenting her half-filled hold, pitched with +a viciousness new to the crew.</p> + +<p>There was unusual activity on board the <i>San Gardo</i> that night. Long +after the last hatch-cover had been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> placed the boatswain continued to +inspect, going over the deck from bow to stern to see that every movable +thing was lashed fast.</p> + +<p>In the engine-room as well, extra precautions were taken. It was Robert +Neville's watch below; he was the first of the three assistant +engineers. Neville, a young man, was unique in that most undemocratic +institution, a ship's crew, for he apparently considered the stokers +under him as human beings. For one of his fire-room force he had an +actual liking.</p> + +<p>"Why do you keep that fellow they call Bunker Mouse in your watch?" the +chief once asked.</p> + +<p>"Because he's willing and the handiest man I have," Neville answered +promptly.</p> + +<p>"Well, suit yourself; but that brute Sullivan will kill him some day, I +hear."</p> + +<p>"I don't know about that, Chief. The Mouse is game."</p> + +<p>"So's a trout; but it's got a damn poor show against a shark," the chief +had added with a shrug.</p> + +<p>Neville's watch went on duty shortly after the twin lights above Sandy +Hook had dropped astern. The ship was then rolling heavily enough to +make walking difficult on the oily floor of the engine-room; in the +boiler-room, lower by three feet, to stand steady even for a moment was +impossible. Here, in this badly lighted quarter of the ship, ill humor +hung in the air thicker than the coal-gas.</p> + +<p>Dan Sullivan, partly sobered, fired his boiler, showing ugly readiness +for a fight. Larry, stoking next to him, kept a weather-eye constantly +on his fellow-laborer.</p> + +<p>Neville's men had been on duty only a few minutes when the engineer came +to the end of the passage and called Larry.</p> + +<p>"That's right," Dan growled; "run along, you engineer's pet, leavin' +your work for me to do!"</p> + +<p>Larry gave him no answer as he hurried away.</p> + +<p>"Make fast any loose thing you see here," Neville ordered.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span></p> + +<p>Larry went about the machinery-crowded room securing every object that a +lurching ship might send flying from its place. When he returned to the +fire-room he heard the water-tender shouting:</p> + +<p>"Sullivan, you're loafin' on your job! Get more fire under that boiler!"</p> + +<p>"An' ain't I doin' double work, with that damn Mouse forever sneakin' up +to the engine-room?"</p> + +<p>Larry, giving no sign that he had heard Dan's growling answer, drove his +scoop into the coal, and with a swinging thrust spread its heaped load +evenly over the glowing bed in the fire-box. He closed the fire-door +with a quick slam, for in a pitching boiler-room burning coal can fall +from an open furnace as suddenly as new coal can be thrown into it.</p> + +<p>"So, you're back," Dan sneered. "It's a wonder you wouldn't stay the +watch up there with your betters."</p> + +<p>Larry went silently on with his work.</p> + +<p>"Soft, ain't it, you jellyfish, havin' me do your job? You eel, you—." +Dan poured out a stream of abusive oaths.</p> + +<p>Still Larry did not answer.</p> + +<p>"Dan's ravin' mad," a man on the port boilers said. "Will he soak the +Mouse to-night, I wonder."</p> + +<p>"Sure," the stoker beside him answered. "An' it's a dirty shame for a +big devil like him to smash the little un."</p> + +<p>"You're new on this ship; you don't know 'em. The Mouse is a regular +mother to that booze-fighter, an' small thanks he gets. But wait, an' +you'll see somethin' in a minute."</p> + +<p>Dan's temper, however, was not yet at fighting heat. He glared a moment +longer at Larry, then turned sullenly to his boiler. He was none too +steady on his legs, and this, with the lurching of the ship, made his +work ragged. After a few slipshod passes he struck the door-frame +squarely with his scoop, spilling the coal to the floor.</p> + +<p>"Damn your squint eyes!" he yelled. "You done<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> that, Mouse! You shoved +ag'in' me. Now scrape it all up, an' be quick about it!"</p> + +<p>Without a word, while his tormentor jeered and cursed him, Larry did as +he was told.</p> + +<p>"Ain't you got no fight at all in your shriveled-up body?" Dan taunted +as Larry finished. "You're a disgrace to Ireland, that's what you are."</p> + +<p>Larry, still patient, turned away. Dan sprang to him and spun the little +man about.</p> + +<p>"Where's the tongue in your ugly mouth?" Dan was shaking with rage. +"I'll not be havin' the likes of you followin' me from ship to ship, an' +sniffin' at my heels ashore. I won't stand for it no longer, do you +hear? Do you think I need a nurse? Now say you'll leave this ship when +we makes port, or I'll break every bone in you."</p> + +<p>Dan towered above Larry, his arm drawn back ready to strike. Every man +in the room stopped work to watch the outcome of the row.</p> + +<p>At the beginning of the tirade Larry's thin shoulders had straightened; +he raised his head; his lower jaw, undershot, was set hard. The light +from the boiler showed his near-sighted eyes steady on Sullivan, +unafraid.</p> + +<p>"Get on with your work, an' don't be a fool, Dan," he said quietly.</p> + +<p>"A fool, am I!"</p> + +<p>Dan's knotted fist flashed to within an inch of Larry's jaw. The Bunker +Mouse did not flinch. For a moment the big stoker's arm quivered to +strike, then slowly fell.</p> + +<p>"You ain't worth smashin'," Sullivan snarled, and turned away.</p> + +<p>"Well, what d'yer know about that!" the new stoker cried.</p> + +<p>"It's that way all the time," he was answered; "there ain't a trip Dan +don't ball the Mouse out to a fare-you-well; but he never lays hand to +'im. None of us knows why."</p> + +<p>"You don't? Well, I do. The big slob's yeller, an'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> I'll show 'im up." +The stoker crossed to Sullivan. "See here, Bo, why don't you take on a +man your size?" He thrust his face close to Dan's and shouted the answer +to his question: "I'll tell you why. You ain't got sand enough."</p> + +<p>Dan's teeth snapped closed, then parted to grin at his challenger.</p> + +<p>"Do you think you're big enough?" The joy of battle was in his growl.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do." The man put up his hands.</p> + +<p>Instantly Dan's left broke down the guard; his right fist landed +squarely on the stoker's jaw, sending him reeling to the bunker wall, +where he fell. It was a clean knock-out.</p> + +<p>"Go douse your friend with a pail of water, Mouse." Dan, still grinning, +picked up his shovel and went to work.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>When Neville's watch went off duty, Larry found the sea no rougher than +on countless other runs he had made along the Atlantic coast. The wind +had freshened to a strong gale, but he reached the forecastle with no +great difficulty.</p> + +<p>Without marked change the <i>San Gardo</i> carried the same heavy weather +from Barnegat Light to the Virginia capes. Beyond Cape Henry the blow +began to stiffen and increased every hour as the freighter plowed +steadily southward. Bucking head seas every mile of the way, she picked +up Diamond Shoals four hours behind schedule. As she plunged past the +tossing light-ship, Larry, squinting through a forecastle port, wondered +how long its anchor chains would hold. The <i>San Gardo</i> was off Jupiter +by noon the third day out, running down the Florida coast; the wind-bent +palms showed faintly through the driving spray.</p> + +<p>Neville's watch went on duty that night at eight. As his men left the +forecastle a driving rain beat against their backs, and seas broke over +the port bow at every<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> downward plunge of the ship. To gain the +fire-room door, they clung to rail or stanchion to save themselves from +being swept overboard. They held on desperately as each wave flooded the +deck, watched their chance, then sprang for the next support. On +freighters no cargo space is wasted below decks in passageways for the +crew.</p> + +<p>When Larry reached the fire-room there was not a dry inch of cloth +covering his wiry body. He and his fellow-stokers took up immediately +the work of the men they had relieved, and during the first hours of +their watch fired the boilers with no more difficulty than is usual in +heavy weather.</p> + +<p>At eleven o'clock the speaking-tube whistled, and a moment later Neville +came to the end of the passage.</p> + +<p>"What are you carrying?" he shouted to the water-tender. "We've got to +keep a full head of steam on her to-night."</p> + +<p>"We've got it, Mr. Neville—one hundred and sixty, an' we've held +between that and sixty-five ever since I've been on."</p> + +<p>"The captain says we've made Tortugas. We lost three hours on the run +from Jupiter," Neville answered, and went back to his engine.</p> + +<p>During the next hour no one on deck had to tell these men, toiling far +below the water-line, that wind and sea had risen. They had warnings +enough. Within their steel-incased quarters every bolt and rivet sounded +the overstrain forced upon it. In the engine-room the oiler could no +longer move from the throttle. Every few minutes now, despite his +watchfulness, a jarring shiver spread through the hull as the propeller, +thrown high, raced wildly in mid-air before he could shut off steam.</p> + +<p>At eleven-thirty the indicator clanged, and its arrow jumped to +half-speed ahead. A moment later the men below decks "felt the rudder" +as the <i>San Gardo</i>, abandoning further attempts to hold her course, +swung about to meet the seas head on.</p> + +<p>Eight bells—midnight—struck, marking the end of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> the shift; but no one +came down the ladders to relieve Neville's watch. The growls of the +tired men rose above the noise in the fire-room. Again Neville came +through the passage.</p> + +<p>"The tube to the bridge is out of commission," he called, "but I can +raise the chief. He says no man can live on deck; one's gone overboard +already. The second watch can't get out of the forecastle. It's up to +us, men, to keep this ship afloat, and steam's the only thing that'll do +it."</p> + +<p>For the next hour and the next the fire-room force and the two men in +the engine-room stuck doggedly to their work. They knew that the <i>San +Gardo</i> was making a desperate struggle, that it was touch and go whether +the ship would live out the hurricane or sink to the bottom. They knew +also, to the last man of them, that if for a moment the ship fell off +broadside to the seas, the giant waves would roll her over and over like +an empty barrel in a mill-race. The groaning of every rib and plate in +the hull, the crash of seas against the sides, the thunder of waves +breaking on deck, drowned the usual noises below.</p> + +<p>The color of the men's courage began to show. Some kept grimly at their +work, dumb from fear. Others covered fright with profanity, cursing the +storm, the ship, their mates, cursing themselves. Larry, as he threw +coal steadily through his fire-doors, hummed a broken tune. He gave no +heed to Dan, who grew more savage as the slow hours of overtoil dragged +by.</p> + +<p>About four in the morning Neville called Larry to the engine-room. On +his return Dan blazed out at him:</p> + +<p>"Boot-lickin' Neville ag'in, was you? I'd lay you out, you shrimp, only +I want you to do your work."</p> + +<p>Larry took up his shovel; as usual his silence enraged Sullivan.</p> + +<p>"You chicken-livered wharf-rat, ain't you got no spunk to answer wid?" +Dan jerked a slice-bar from the fire and hurled it to the floor at +Larry's feet. The little man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> leaped in the air; the white-hot end of +the bar, bounding from the floor, missed his legs by an inch.</p> + +<p>Larry's jaw shot out; he turned on Sullivan, all meekness gone.</p> + +<p>"Dan," he cried shrilly, "if you try that again—"</p> + +<p>"Great God! what's that!"</p> + +<p>Dan's eyes were staring; panic showed on every face in the room. The +sound of an explosion had come from the forward hold. Another followed, +and another, a broadside of deafening reports. The terrifying sounds +came racing aft. They reached the bulkhead nearest them, and tore +through the fire-room, bringing unmasked fear to every man of the watch. +The crew stood for a moment awed, then broke, and, rushing for the +ladder, fought for a chance to escape this new, unknown madness of the +storm.</p> + +<p>Only Larry kept his head.</p> + +<p>"Stop! Come back!" His shrill voice carried above the terrifying noise. +"It's the plates bucklin' between the ribs."</p> + +<p>"Plates! Hell! she's breakin' up!"</p> + +<p>Neville rushed in from the engine-room.</p> + +<p>"Back to your fires, men, or we'll all drown! Steam, keep up—" He was +shouting at full-lung power, but his cries were cut short. Again the +deafening reports started at the bows. Again, crash after crash, the +sounds came tearing aft as if a machine-gun were raking the vessel from +bow to stern. At any time these noises would bring terror to men locked +below decks; but now, in the half-filled cargo spaces, each crashing +report was like the bursting of a ten-inch shell.</p> + +<p>Neville went among the watch, urging, commanding, assuring them that +these sounds meant no real danger to the ship. He finally ended the +panic by beating the more frightened ones back to their boilers.</p> + +<p>Then for hours, at every plunge of the ship, the deafening boom of +buckling plates continued until the watch was crazed by the sound.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span></p> + +<p>This new terror began between four and five in the morning, when the men +had served double time under the grueling strain. At sunrise another +misery was added to their torture: the rain increased suddenly, and fell +a steady cataract to the decks. This deluge and the flying spray sent +gallons of water down the stack; striking the breeching-plates, it was +instantly turned to steam and boiling water. As the fagged stokers bent +before the boilers, the hot water, dripping from the breeching, washed +scalding channels through the coal-dust down their bare backs. They +hailed this new torment with louder curses, but continued to endure it +for hours, while outside the hurricane raged, no end, no limit, to its +power.</p> + +<p>Since the beginning of the watch the bilge-pumps had had all they could +do to handle the leakage coming from the seams of the strained hull. +Twice Neville had taken the throttle and sent his oiler to clear the +suctions. The violent lurching of the ship had churned up every ounce of +sediment that had lain undisturbed beneath the floor-plates since the +vessel's launching. Sometime between seven and eight all the bilge-pumps +clogged at the same moment, and the water began rising at a rate that +threatened the fires. It became a question of minutes between life and +death for all hands. Neville, working frantically to clear the pumps, +yelled to the oiler to leave the throttle and come to him. The water, +gaining fast, showed him that their combined efforts were hopeless. He +ran to the boiler-room for more aid. Here the water had risen almost to +the fires; as the ship rolled, it slushed up between the floor-plates +and ran in oily streams about the men's feet. Again panic seized the +crew.</p> + +<p>"Come on, lads!" Sullivan shouted above the infernal din. "We'll be +drowned in this hell-hole!"</p> + +<p>In the next second he was half-way up the ladder, below him, clinging to +the rungs like frightened apes, hung other stokers.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Come back, you fool!" Neville shouted. "Open that deck-door, and you'll +swamp the ship!"</p> + +<p>Dan continued to climb.</p> + +<p>"Come down or I'll fire!"</p> + +<p>"Shoot an' be damned to you!" Dan called back.</p> + +<p>The report of Neville's revolver was lost in the noise; but the bullet, +purposely sent high, spattered against the steel plate above Dan's head. +He looked down. Neville, swaying with the pitching floor, was aiming +true for his second shot. Cursing at the top of his voice, Dan scrambled +down the ladder, pushing the men below him to the floor.</p> + +<p>"Back to your boilers!" Neville ordered; but the stokers, huddled in a +frightened group, refused to leave the ladder.</p> + +<p>It was only a matter of seconds now before the fires would be drenched. +Bilge-water was splashing against the under boiler-plates, filling the +room with dense steam. Neville left the men and raced for the +engine-room. He found Larry and the oiler working desperately at the +valve-wheel of the circulating pump. Neville grasped the wheel, and gave +the best he had to open the valve. This manifold, connecting the pump +with the bilges, was intended only for emergency use. It had not been +opened for months, and was now rusted tight. The three men, straining +every muscle, failed to budge the wheel. After the third hopeless +attempt, Larry let go, and without a word bolted through the passage to +the fire-room.</p> + +<p>"You miserable quitter!" Neville screamed after him, and bent again to +the wheel.</p> + +<p>As he looked up, despairing of any chance to loosen the rusted valve, +Larry came back on the run, carrying a coal-pick handle. He thrust it +between the spokes of the wheel.</p> + +<p>"Now, Mr. Neville, all together!" His Celtic jaw was set hard.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span></p> + +<p>All three threw their weight against the handle. The wheel stirred.</p> + +<p>As they straightened for another effort, a louder noise of hissing steam +sounded from the boilers, and the fire-room force, mad with fright, came +crowding through the passage to the higher floor of the engine-room.</p> + +<p>"Quick! Together!" Neville gasped.</p> + +<p>The wheel moved an inch.</p> + +<p>"Once more! <i>Now!</i>"</p> + +<p>The wheel turned and did not stop. The three men dropped the lever, +seized the wheel, and threw the valve wide open.</p> + +<p>"Good work, men!" Neville cried, and fell back exhausted.</p> + +<p>The centrifugal pump was thrown in at the last desperate moment. When +the rusted valve finally opened, water had risen to the lower grate-bars +under every boiler in the fire-room. But once in action, the twelve-inch +suction of the giant pump did its work with magic swiftness. In less +than thirty seconds the last gallon of water in the bilges had been +lifted and sent, rushing through the discharge, overboard.</p> + +<p>Neville faced the boiler-room crew sternly.</p> + +<p>"Now, you cowards, get to your fires!" he said.</p> + +<p>As the men slunk back through the passage Dan growled:</p> + +<p>"May that man some day burn in hell!"</p> + +<p>"Don't be wishin' him no such luck," an angry voice answered; "wish him +down here wid us."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The morning dragged past; noon came, marking the sixteenth hour that the +men, imprisoned below the sea-swept decks, had struggled to save the +ship. Sundown followed, and the second night of their unbroken toil +began. They stuck to it, stood up somehow under the racking grind, their +nerves quivering, their bodies craving food, their eyes gritty from the +urge of sleep, while always the hideous noises of the gale screamed in +their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> ears. The machine-gun roar of buckling plates, raking battered +hull, never ceased.</p> + +<p>With each crawling minute the men grew more silent, more desperate. Dan +Sullivan let no chance pass to vent his spleen on Larry. Twice during +the day his fellow-stokers, watching the familiar scene, saw the big man +reach the point of crushing the small one; but the ever-expected blow +did not fall.</p> + +<p>Shortly after midnight the first hope came to the exhausted men that +their fight might not be in vain. Though the buckling plates still +thundered, though the floor under their feet still pitched at crazy +angles, there was a "feel" in the fire-room that ribs and beams and +rivets were not so near the breaking-point.</p> + +<p>Neville came to the end of the passage.</p> + +<p>"The hurricane's blowing itself to death," he shouted. "Stick to it, +boys, for an hour longer; the second watch can reach us by then."</p> + +<p>The hour passed, but no relief came. The wind had lost some force, but +the seas still broke over the bows, pouring tons of water to the deck. +The vessel pitched as high, rolled as deep, as before.</p> + +<p>As the men fired their boilers they rested the filled scoops on the +floor and waited for the ship to roll down. Then a quick jerk of the +fire-door chain, a quick heave of the shovel, and the door was snapped +shut before the floor rolled up again. Making one of these hurried +passes, Larry swayed on tired legs. He managed the toss and was able to +close the door before he fell hard against Dan. His sullen enemy +instantly launched a new tirade, fiercer, more blasphemous, than any +before. He ended a stream of oaths, and rested the scoop ready for his +throw.</p> + +<p>"I'll learn yuh, yuh snivelin'—" The ship rolled deep. Dan jerked the +fire-door open—"yuh snivelin' shrimp!" He glared at Larry as he made +the pass. He missed the opening. His shovel struck hard against the +boiler front. The jar knocked Dan to the floor, pitched that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> moment at +its steepest angle. He clutched desperately to gain a hold on the +smooth-worn steel plates, his face distorted by fear as he slid down to +the fire.</p> + +<p>Larry, crying a shrill warning, sprang between Sullivan and the open +furnace. He stooped, and with all the strength he could gather shoved +the big stoker from danger. Then above the crashing sounds a shriek tore +the steam-clouded air of the fire-room. Larry had fallen!</p> + +<p>As his feet struck the ash-door, the ship rolled up. A cascade falling +from Dan's fire had buried Larry's legs to the knees under a bed of +white-hot coals. He shrieked again the cry of the mortally hurt as Dan +dragged him too late from before the open door.</p> + +<p>"Mouse! Mouse!" Horror throbbed in Sullivan's voice. "You're hurted +bad!" He knelt, holding Larry in his arms, while others threw water on +the blazing coals.</p> + +<p>"Speak, lad!" Dan pleaded. "Speak to me!"</p> + +<p>The fire-room force stood over them silenced. Accident, death even, they +always expected; but to see Dan Sullivan show pity for any living thing, +and above all, for the Bunker Mouse—</p> + +<p>The lines of Larry's tortured face eased.</p> + +<p>"It's the last hurt I'll be havin', Dan," he said before he fainted.</p> + +<p>"Don't speak the word, Mouse, an' you just after savin' me life!" Then +the men in the fire-room saw a miracle: tears filled the big stoker's +eyes.</p> + +<p>Neville had heard Larry's cry and rushed to the boiler-room.</p> + +<p>"For God's sake! what's happened now?"</p> + +<p>Dan pointed a shaking finger. Neville looked once at what only a moment +before had been the legs and feet of a man. As he turned quickly from +the sight the engineer's face was like chalk.</p> + +<p>"Here, two of you," he called unsteadily, "carry him to the +engine-room."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span></p> + +<p>Dan threw the men roughly aside.</p> + +<p>"Leave him be," he growled. "Don't a one of you put hand on him!" He +lifted Larry gently and, careful of each step, crossed the swaying +floor.</p> + +<p>"Lay him there by the dynamo," Neville ordered when they had reached the +engine-room.</p> + +<p>Dan hesitated.</p> + +<p>"'T ain't fittin', sir, an' him so bad' hurt. Let me be takin' him to +the store-room."</p> + +<p>Neville looked doubtfully up the narrow stairs.</p> + +<p>"We can't get him there with this sea running."</p> + +<p>Sullivan spread his legs wide, took both of Larry's wrists in one hand, +and swung the unconscious man across his back. He strode to the iron +stairs and began to climb. As he reached the first grating Larry +groaned. Dan stopped dead; near him the great cross-heads were plunging +steadily up and down.</p> + +<p>"God, Mr. Neville, did he hit ag'in' somethin'?" The sweat of strain and +fear covered his face.</p> + +<p>The vessel leaped to the crest of a wave, and dropped sheer into the +trough beyond.</p> + +<p>"No; but for God's sake, man, go on! You'll pitch with him to the floor +if she does that again!"</p> + +<p>Dan, clinging to the rail with his free hand, began climbing the second +flight.</p> + +<p>At the top grating Neville sprang past him to the store-room door.</p> + +<p>"Hold him a second longer," he called, and spread an armful of cotton +waste on the vise bench.</p> + +<p>Dan laid Larry on the bench. He straightened his own great body for a +moment, then sat down on the floor and cried.</p> + +<p>Neville, pretending not to see Dan's distress, brought more waste. As he +placed it beneath his head Larry groaned. Dan, still on the floor, wrung +his hands, calling on the saints and the Virgin to lighten the pain of +this man it had been his joy to torture.</p> + +<p>Neville turned to him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Get up from there!" he cried sharply. "Go see what you can find to help +him."</p> + +<p>Dan left the room, rubbing his red-flanneled arm across his eyes. He +returned quickly with a can of cylinder oil, and poured it slowly over +the horribly burned limbs.</p> + +<p>"There ain't no bandages, sir; only this." He held out a shirt belonging +to the engineer; his eyes pleaded his question. Neville nodded, and Dan +tore the shirt in strips. When he finished the task, strange to his +clumsy hands, Larry had regained consciousness and lay trying pitifully +to stifle his moans.</p> + +<p>"Does it make you feel aisier, Mouse?" Dan leaned close to the quivering +lips to catch the answer.</p> + +<p>"It helps fine," Larry answered, and fainted again.</p> + +<p>"You'll be leavin' me stay wid him, sir?" Dan begged. "'T was for me +he's come to this."</p> + +<p>Neville gave consent and left the two men together.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Between four and five in the morning, when Neville's watch had lived +through thirty-three unbroken hours of the fearful grind, a shout that +ended in a screaming laugh ran through the fire-room. High above the +toil-crazed men a door had opened and closed. A form, seen dimly through +the smoke and steam, was moving backward down the ladder. Again the door +opened; another man came through. Every shovel in the room fell to the +steel floor; every man in the room shouted or laughed or cried.</p> + +<p>The engine-room door, too, had opened, admitting the chief and his +assistant. Not until he had examined each mechanical tragedy below did +the chief give time to the human one above.</p> + +<p>"Where's that man that's hurt?" he asked as he came, slowly, from an +inspection of the burned-out bearings down the shaft alley.</p> + +<p>Neville went with him to the store-room.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> Dan, sagging under fatigue, +clung to the bench where Larry lay moaning.</p> + +<p>"You can go now, Sullivan," Neville told him.</p> + +<p>Dan raised his head, remorse, entreaty, stubbornness in his look.</p> + +<p>"Let me be! I'll not leave him!"</p> + +<p>The chief turned to Neville.</p> + +<p>"What's come over that drunk?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Ever since the Mouse got hurt, Sullivan's acted queer, just like a +woman."</p> + +<p>"Get to your quarters, Sullivan," the chief ordered. "We'll take care of +this man."</p> + +<p>Dan's hands closed; for an instant he glared rebellion from blood-shot +eyes. Then the iron law of sea discipline conquering, he turned to +Larry.</p> + +<p>"The Blessed Virgin aise you, poor Mouse!" he mumbled huskily and +slouched out through the door.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>At midday the <i>San Gardo's</i> captain got a shot at the sun. Though his +vessel had been headed steadily northeast for more than thirty hours, +the observation showed that she had made twenty-eight miles sternway to +the southwest. By two in the afternoon the wind had dropped to half a +gale, making a change of course possible. The captain signaled full +speed ahead, and the ship, swinging about, began limping across the +gulf, headed once more toward Galveston.</p> + +<p>Neville, who had slept like a stone, came on deck just before sunset. +The piled-up seas, racing along the side, had lost their breaking +crests; the ship rose and fell with some degree of regularity. He called +the boatswain and went to the store-room.</p> + +<p>They found Larry in one of his conscious moments.</p> + +<p>"Well, Mouse, we're going to fix you in a better place," the engineer +called with what heart he could show.</p> + +<p>"Thank you kindly, sir," Larry managed to answer;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> "but 't is my last +voyage, Mr. Neville." And the grit that lay hidden in the man's soul +showed in his pain-twisted smile.</p> + +<p>They carried him up the last flight of iron stairs to the deck. Clear of +the engine-room, the boatswain turned toward the bow.</p> + +<p>"No. The other way, Boson," Neville ordered.</p> + +<p>The chief, passing them, stopped.</p> + +<p>"Where are you taking him, Mr. Neville?"</p> + +<p>"The poor fellow's dying, sir," Neville answered in a low voice.</p> + +<p>"Well, where are you taking him?" the chief persisted.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to put him in my room, sir."</p> + +<p>"A stoker in officers' quarters!" The chief frowned. "Sunday-school +discipline!" He disappeared through the engine-room door, slamming it +after him.</p> + +<p>They did what they could, these seamen, for the injured man; on +freighters one of the crew has no business to get hurt. They laid Larry +in Neville's berth and went out, leaving a sailor to watch over him.</p> + +<p>The sun rose the next day in a cloudless sky, and shone on a brilliant +sea of tumbling, white-capped waves. Far off the starboard bow floated a +thin line of smoke from a tug's funnel, the first sign to the crew since +the hurricane that the world was not swept clean of ships. Two hours +later the tug was standing by, her captain hailing the <i>San Gardo</i> +through a megaphone.</p> + +<p>"Run in to New Orleans!" he shouted.</p> + +<p>"I cleared for Galveston, and I'm going there," the <i>San Gardo's</i> +captain called back.</p> + +<p>"No, you ain't neither."</p> + +<p>"I'd like to know why, I won't."</p> + +<p>"Because you can't,"—the answer carried distinctly across the +waves,—"there ain't no such place. It's been washed clean off the +earth."</p> + +<p>The <i>San Gardo</i> swung farther to the west and with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> her engine pounding +at every stroke, limped on toward the Mississippi.</p> + +<p>At five o'clock a Port Eads pilot climbed over the side, and taking the +vessel through South Pass, straightened her in the smooth, yellow waters +of the great river for the hundred-mile run to New Orleans.</p> + +<p>When the sun hung low over the sugar plantations that stretch in flat +miles to the east and west beyond the levees, when all was quiet on land +and water and ship, Neville walked slowly to the forecastle.</p> + +<p>"Sullivan," he called, "come with me."</p> + +<p>Dan climbed down from his bunk and came to the door; the big stoker +searched Neville's face with a changed, sobered look.</p> + +<p>"I've been wantin' all this time to go to 'im. How's he now, sir?"</p> + +<p>"He's dying, Sullivan, and has asked for you."</p> + +<p>Outside Neville's quarters Dan took off his cap and went quietly into +the room.</p> + +<p>Larry lay with closed eyes, his face ominously white.</p> + +<p>Dan crept clumsily to the berth and put his big hand on Larry's +shoulder.</p> + +<p>"It's me, Mouse. They wouldn't leave me come no sooner."</p> + +<p>Larry's head moved slightly; his faded eyes opened.</p> + +<p>Dan stooped in awkward embarrassment until his face was close to Larry.</p> + +<p>"I come to ask you—" Dan stopped. The muscles of his thick neck moved +jerkily—"to ask you, Mouse, before—to forgit the damn mean things—I +done to you, Mouse."</p> + +<p>Larry made no answer; he kept his failing sight fixed on Dan.</p> + +<p>After a long wait Sullivan spoke again.</p> + +<p>"An' to think you done it, Mouse, for me!"</p> + +<p>A light sprang to Larry's eyes, flooding his near-sighted gaze with +sudden anger.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span></p> + +<p>"For you!" The cry came from his narrow chest with jarring force. "You! +<i>You!</i>" he repeated in rising voice. "It's always of yourself you're +thinkin', Dan Sullivan!" He stopped, his face twitching in pain; then +with both hands clenched he went on, his breast heaving at each word +hurled at Dan:</p> + +<p>"Do you think I followed you from ship to ship, dragged you out of every +rum-hole in every port, for your own sake!"</p> + +<p>He lay back exhausted, his chest rising and falling painfully, his +eyelids fluttering over his burning eyes.</p> + +<p>Dan stepped back, and, silenced, stared at the dying man.</p> + +<p>Larry clung to his last moments of life, fighting for strength to +finish. He struggled, and raised himself on one elbow.</p> + +<p>"For you!" he screamed. "No, for Mary! For Mary, my own flesh and +blood—Mary, the child of the woman I beat when I was drunk an' left to +starve when I got ready!"</p> + +<p>Through the stateroom door the sun's flat rays struck full on Larry's +inspired face. He swayed on his elbow; his head fell forward. By a final +effort he steadied himself. His last words came in ringing command.</p> + +<p>"Go back! Go—" he faltered, gasping for breath—"go home sober to Mary +an' the child that's comin'!"</p> + +<p>The fire of anger drifted slowly from Larry's dying gaze. The little man +fell back. The Bunker Mouse went out, all man, big at the end.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="TEARAINBOW_PETE" id="TEARAINBOW_PETE"></a>RAINBOW PETE<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> RICHARD MATTHEWS HALLET</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Pictorial Review</i></p> + + +<p>In pursuance of a policy to detain us on the island at Sick Dog until +the arrival of his daughter, Papa Isbister thought fit to tell us the +fate of Rainbow Pete, of whose physical deformity and thirst for gold we +knew something already. Rainbow Pete had come to Mushrat Portage, +playing his flute, at a time when preparations were being made to blast +a road-bed through the wilderness for the railroad.</p> + +<p>Mushrat Portage had been but recently a willow clump, and a black rock +ledge hanging over a precipitous valley: the hand of the Indian could be +seen one day parting the leaves of the trail, and on the next, drills +came and tins of black powder, and hordes of greedy men, blind with a +burning zeal for "monkeying with powder" as our host of Sick Dog said. +They were strange men, hoarse men, unreasonable men who cast +sheep's-eyes at the dark woman from Regina, whose shack, rented of +Scarecrow Charlie, crowned the high point of the ledge. She was the only +woman on Mushrat, and at a time just before the blasting began, when +Rainbow Pete sauntered over the trail with his pick and his flute and +his dirty bag of rock specimens, she was hungrily watched and waited on +by the new inhabitants of that ancient portage—Mushrat, whose destinies +were soon to be so splendid, and whose skies were to be rocked and rent +by the thunders of men struggling with reluctant nature, monkeying with +powder.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span></p> + +<p>When Pete laid down his tools and guns on the table at Scarecrow +Charlie's, where the woman was employed, had he in his heart some +foreshadowing presentiment of the peril he was in, of the sharp +destroying fire of a resolute woman's eyes, which he was subjecting +himself to, in including her in his universal caress? Who knows? Perhaps +his flute had whispered tidings to him. He was, said Papa Isbister, +immensely proud of his plaything, this huge gaunt sailor, who had been +bent into the shape of a rainbow—the foot of a rainbow—by a chance +shot, which shattered his hip and gave him an impressive forward cant, +which appeared to women, it seemed—I quote my old friend—in the light +of an endearing droop.</p> + +<p>The romantic visitation of this musical sailorman made the efforts of +all Mushrat as nothing. But Rainbow Pete seemed unaware of the fiery +jealousies glowing in the night on all sides of him when he fixed his +eyes on her for the first time—with that mellow assurance of a careless +master of the hearts and whims of women.</p> + +<p>"What's this he said to her?" said our old friend. "It was skilful; it +was put like a notable question if she took it so."</p> + +<p>"You don't want to go out to-night," he said to her, with his guns on +the table.</p> + +<p>"No, I do not," she said to the man.</p> + +<p>"There you will be taking the words out of my mouth to suit your heart," +he went on saying to her. "Mark this, I'm making this a command to you. +You don't want to go out to-night. Do not do it."</p> + +<p>This he told her was on account of stray bullets, because he was meaning +to shoot up that place.</p> + +<p>Heh! It was a trick of his, to trap her into denying him when he had +made no offer.</p> + +<p>Old Isbister laughed heartily at this picture of Pete in the days of his +triumph.</p> + +<p>He was a captivating man, it appeared. He was tattooed. On his arms were +snakes and the like of that, daggers and the like of that, dragons and +the like of that.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> This was a romantic skin to the man; and his blue +eyes were like the diamond drills they were bringing to Mushrat.</p> + +<p>"Oh my," said the woman, leaning at his table, "this is what will be +keeping me from mass, I shouldn't wonder."</p> + +<p>This was a prairie woman from Regina; now mark, it was whispered to be +no credit to human nature that she had had to leave that town. No. She +was a full woman, very deep, with burning eyes. It was hard talking with +her, because of her lingering speech. Oh, she was a massive woman, for +the small shoes she wore. She was tall, as high as Rainbow Pete's +shoulder. She purchased scent for her hair. This I know, having seen it +standing in the bottles. She was a prairie woman.</p> + +<p>This was a wild night we spent on Mushrat, after Pete's reproving the +woman there in Scarecrow Charlie's place. Smash McGregor, the little +doctor, was sitting between us in his yellow skull-cap; and Willis +Countryman was reading and drinking in one corner, listening to the +laughing men there. They were laughing, thinking of the fortunes there +would be here when blasting begun.</p> + +<p>But Rainbow Pete was not one of the rockmen. No. He told them strange +tales of gold. Heh! He was athirst for gold. Strange tales he told of +gold. Once how in Australia he had hold of a lump of it as big as poor +McGregor's skull, but isn't it a perishing pity, oh my, this was just a +desert where he was, there was no water, he grew faint carrying the +nugget. Our mouths were open when the man told us he had dropped it in +the desert, with his name carved on it.</p> + +<p>"There it is to this day, sinking in the sands," he said. Oh, the proud +woman from Regina. There she turned her dark eyes over our heads, never +looking at the plausible man at all; but she had heard him.</p> + +<p>"Gold?" said Smash McGregor. "Why, there's gold enough in the world."</p> + +<p>"Ay, there's comfort too, if you know where to take<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> it," said Rainbow +Pete, twirling here at his mustache and looking at the woman.</p> + +<p>"There's gold," said McGregor, "for any man."</p> + +<p>"Yes, my hearty," said Pete, "it's twinkling in the river-beds, it +shines in the sands under your feet, but still it's hard to get in your +two fisties."</p> + +<p>"Why," said Smash McGregor, "did you never hear there's a pot of gold at +the foot of every rainbow?"</p> + +<p>Oh, my friend, as he went mentioning the rainbow, there was a +thunder-cap on the brow of that great sailor.</p> + +<p>"So they call me—Rainbow Pete," he said.</p> + +<p>"Look then," said McGregor, "take the pick, and strike the ground at +your feet."</p> + +<p>Rainbow Pete was not hearing them.</p> + +<p>"This is a man I have been following on many trails," he muttered, "This +man who made a rainbow of me. Mark this, he shall thirst, if I meet him. +Ay! He shall burn with these fingers at his throat. He shall have gold +poured into him like liquid, however."</p> + +<p>It was plain he had no love for this man who had fashioned him in the +form of a rainbow.</p> + +<p>"What is this man called?" said the little doctor.</p> + +<p>"It's a dark man wearing a red cap, called Pal Yachy," said Rainbow +Pete. "He spends his time escaping me. Look, where he shot me in the +hip."</p> + +<p>Now we shielded him, and he drew out his shirt showing the wound in the +thigh which made a rainbow of him; but stop, didn't McGregor discover +the strange business on his spine?</p> + +<p>"What's this, however?" he said.</p> + +<p>"This is a palm-tree," said the man. "Stand close about me."</p> + +<p>Oh my, we stood close, watching the man twisting up his shirt, and here +we saw the palm-tree going up his spine, and every joint of his spine +was used for a joint of the tree, like; and the long blue leaves were +waving on his shoulder-blade when he would be rippling the skin. This +was a fine broad back like satin to be putting a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> palm-tree on. Look, as +I am lifting my head, here I see the dark woman silent at the bar, +burning up with curiosity at what we are hiding here. Listen, it's the +man's voice, under his shirt.</p> + +<p>"This was done in the South Seas, when I was young," he said to us, "and +the bigger I grow, the bigger the tree is. And now what next?" Then he +put his shirt back, and stood up to be fixing an eye on the woman from +Regina.</p> + +<p>He was first to be waited on at Scarecrow Charlie's. Yes, he was first. +This was a mystery of a man to that dark woman from Regina.</p> + +<p>Now in these days before blasting began, they were fond of talking +marriage on Mushrat, thinking of this woman from Regina, who was at the +disposal of no man there. They were full of doubts and wonderments, when +they would be idling together in Scarecrow Charlie's. But now one +morning when they were idling there, Shoepack Sam must be yawning and +saying to them,</p> + +<p>"Oh, my, this is the time now, before the sun is up, I'm glad I am not +married. It's a pleasure to be a single man at this hour."</p> + +<p>Heh! Heh! As a usual thing we are not gratified at all for this favor of +heaven. A single man, Shoepack Sam was saying, would not have to be +looking at the wreck of his wife in the morning; and this is when women +were caught unawares in the gill-nets time is lowering for them.</p> + +<p>"They are pale about the gills then," he said. "They are just drowned +fish. They have stayed in the nets too long."</p> + +<p>"No, it's not certain," said Rainbow Pete. "She might be +pleasant-looking on the pillow with her hair adrift."</p> + +<p>Then Shoepack told him that the salt water had leaked into his brains, +what with his voyages.</p> + +<p>"Still, this is a beautiful cheek," said Pete, speaking low, because she +was moving about beyond the boards.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span></p> + +<p>"These things are purchased," said Shoepack, scraping his feet together +in yellow moosehides. "Listen to me, I have seen them in a long line, on +her shelf, with many odors."</p> + +<p>So they were talking together, and Rainbow Pete was putting his fingers +to the flute and staring down the valley, where Throat River was +twisting like a rag.</p> + +<p>"I could have had a wife for speaking at Kicking Horse," he said.</p> + +<p>"There is one for speaking now," said Shoepack.</p> + +<p>"In a few days I go North," Rainbow Pete went muttering. "There is gold +at Dungeon Creek. I have seen samples of this vein."</p> + +<p>"She will be the less trouble to you then, if you are not satisfied on +this question," said Shoepack Sam.</p> + +<p>Then Rainbow Pete said he was not so certain of her, on questioning +himself. He was a modest man.</p> + +<p>"This palm-tree and the other designs you have not been speaking about +will be enticing her," said Shoepack Sam. "But do not speak to her of +going away at the time of asking her."</p> + +<p>"This is wisdom," said Rainbow Pete, and he put his lips to the flute, +to be giving us a touch of music.</p> + +<p>This was a light reason for marriage, disn't it seem? This was what +Willis Countryman called a marriage of convenience, in the fashion of +frogs. Ay! It was convenient to them to be married. He was a great +reader—Willis.</p> + +<p>So they were married, I'm telling you, but it's impossible to know what +he said to her in speaking about it. They were married by the man called +Justice of the Peace on Mushrat. This was before the blasting, and it +was the first marriage on Mushrat.</p> + +<p>Then they lived together in the little house she had chosen, sitting on +the black ledge above Scarecrow Charlie's eating-place. Now it was a +wonderment to Mushrat, to hear the sound of Rainbow Pete's old flute +dropping from the dark ledge, by night, when they were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> taking their +opinion of matrimony up there together, with a candle at the window.</p> + +<p>But now look here, when Shoepack Sam came plucking him at the elbow, +saying, "Was I right or was I wrong?" then Rainbow Pete stared at him +with his eyes like drills, and he said to him, "You were curious and +nothing more." Oh my, isn't this the perversity of married men.</p> + +<p>They bore him a grudge on Mushrat, for his silence, because, disn't it +seem, this was like a general marriage satisfying all men's souls. It +was treasonable. Oh my, it was sailor's mischief to be living on that +ledge, and dropping nothing but notes from his greasy flute. These are +sweet but they are hard to be turning into language.</p> + +<p>Now one morning, when I saw him coming from the ledge with his bag of +specimens over his shoulder, I saw without speaking to him that he was +parching with his thirst for gold. He was going away into the bush, +thinking no more of his new wife. Oh, he was a casual man.</p> + +<p>"How is this?" I said. "Can she be left alone on the ledge?"</p> + +<p>"Can she not?" said Rainbow Pete. "Old fellow, this is a substantial +woman. She was alone before I came."</p> + +<p>"This is not the same thing," I said.</p> + +<p>"It is the same woman," said Rainbow Pete, "she will be missing nothing +but the flute."</p> + +<p>Oh my, wasn't the flute a little thing to reckon with. He went North, +dreaming of gold, and here the matter they were thinking about was +locked in his heart. They were angry with the man on Mushrat. This was +not what they were looking for between friends. They were hoping to +learn the result of the experiment; but this was vain.</p> + +<p>When he was gone, I saw her looking down into the valley, where the +first shots were being fired in the rock. Ay, the sun was dazzling her +eyes, but she dis not move,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> sitting as if her arms have been chopped +from the shoulders.</p> + +<p>Now it was not many days after this that the blasting was begun on +Mushrat. Men came with instruments stamped by the government; these they +pointed down the trail and drove stakes into the ground. These were +great days on Mushrat. Oh yes, numbers of Swedes and Italians were in a +desperate way monkeying with powder. It's a fetching business. In a +week, look here, Scarecrow Charlie left his eating-place to go monkeying +with powder like the others, and disn't he get a bolt of iron through +his brain one morning? Oh, it's very much as if some one had pushed a +broom-handle through his skull.</p> + +<p>That dark woman from Regina was not dismayed. She ran the eating-place +herself. This was a famous place: they heard of this as far West as +Regina and they came here to work and eat, attracted by her. She was +valuable to the contractors, bringing labor here. Disn't it seem an +achievement for a married woman? Still, Rainbow Pete was not remembered +after a time; and she was a dark beauty, with a reputation for not +saying much.</p> + +<p>My, my, these were golden days for Smash McGregor. I ponder over them, +thinking what a business he had. He was paid by the contractors to be +sorting out arms and legs, putting the short ones together in one box, +and the long ones in another, marked with charcoal to be shipped. Oh, +they were just gathering up parts of mortals in packing cases, +dispatching them to Throat River Landing; and blood was leaking on the +decks every way in little lines. They were unlikely consignments.</p> + +<p>Then, my friend, there came one night a dark man wearing a red cap and +here under his arm he had the instrument with strings. This was the +Chief Contractor under the Government in this region. He was rich; at +Winnipeg he had stabled many blood horses. Then they were clustering +about him at Scarecrow Charlie's, asking him his name. This, he said, +was Pal Yachy.</p> + +<p>Oh my, now we knew him. This was the man who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> had given Pete his shape +of a rainbow. Disn't it seem an unfortunate thing for him to be coming +here? Still he did not know at first that this dark woman standing there +was the wife of Rainbow Pete.</p> + +<p>He went flashing at her with his teeth, the dark musician. Ay, he was +better with the music than Rainbow Pete's old flute. He sang, plucking +this instrument, with a jolly face. Heh! Heh! She leaned over the bar, +looking at him, and dreaming of the prairies.</p> + +<p>Then they told him that this woman was the wife of Rainbow Pete.</p> + +<p>"Aha," he said, "but, my friends, a rainbow is not for very long. It is +beautiful, but look, it vanishes in air."</p> + +<p>Was he afraid, without saying so? That I can not tell you. Still he +stayed on Mushrat. He was the destroyer of his countrymen. They blew +themselves to pieces in his service, coming in great numbers when he +crooked his finger.</p> + +<p>Then my friend, he made himself noticeable to that dark woman. He took +his instrument to the ledge and sang to her.</p> + +<p>This I know from Willis Countryman who lived near that place. He told me +that the man sang in the night a soft song and that the woman listened. +Ay, she listened in the window, looking down into the valley where +Throat River went roaring and the great Falls were like rags waving in +the dark. Ay, she sat watching the River come out of the North, where +Rainbow Pete was cruising after gold.</p> + +<p>This Willis Countryman I'm telling you about was a fine man in his old +age for reading. Oh, it was not easy talking to the man, with his +muttering and muttering and his chin down firm intil the book. When he +had his shack on Mouse Island the fire jumped over from the wind-rows +they were burning in a right of way. What next? Disn't he put his furs +in a canoe to sink in the lee of the island, and there he went on +reading in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> night with his chin out of water, and the light from his +house blazing and lighting up the book in his fist. Oh my, he was great +for reading, Willis.</p> + +<p>Well, here, one night he came telling me about some queer women on a +beach, singing. "Ay! It was impossible to keep away from them while they +were at it. What is their name again?"</p> + +<p>He made a prolonged effort to remember, sighed painfully, fixed his +gaze. I brought him back as if from a fit of epilepsy by the +interjection of the word, "Siren."</p> + +<p>"Ay," he said, slowly and sadly. "The men put wax in their ears—" Now +mark this. The day after I was hearing this of Willis, the woman put her +hand on my arm as I was passing the ledge.</p> + +<p>"You are a friend of my husband's," she whispered to me.</p> + +<p>"What now?" I said.</p> + +<p>"Will he come back to me, I wonder?" she said, looking in the valley.</p> + +<p>"This is a long business, searching for gold," I went muttering.</p> + +<p>"No man can say I have been unfaithful to him," she said to me, the +fierce woman, breathing through her teeth. "I have been speaking to no +man."</p> + +<p>"This is certain," I said to her.</p> + +<p>"If he dis not come according to my dream I am a lost woman, by this way +of going on," she said to me.</p> + +<p>How is this? There were tears flowing on the face, while she was telling +me she was bewitched by the singing of Pal Yachy.</p> + +<p>Oh, at first she would just lie listening there, but now the man with +his sweet voice was drawing her from her bed, to come putting aside the +scented bottles and leaning in the window.</p> + +<p>Now I said, "My good woman, I am an old man with knowledge of the world. +This man is a—what's this again—siren. He has a fatal voice. You must +simply put wax in your ears not to hear it when he comes."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span></p> + +<p>What next? Disn't she confess to me that she has listened to him too +many times to be deaf to him. No, she must watch the valley when he +comes singing his rich song; her cheeks were wet then, and the wind went +shaking her. No, this was not a moment for wax. I was an old man. She +prevailed upon me to sit outside her window in a chair, watching for +him.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I am afraid," she whispered to me, "being alone so high out of the +valley."</p> + +<p>There I sat by night, hearing sounds of thunder below this crag. Pebbles +came rattling on the window, the rapid was choked with flying rock. They +were growing rich, these madmen monkeying with powder. The government +sent them gold in sacks, to pay those who were left for the lives that +had been lost.</p> + +<p>They were mad; they tumbled champagne out of bottles into tubs, frisking +about in it. They had heard that this was done with money.</p> + +<p>But Pal Yachy was more foolish. He came singing; oh my, this was a +powerful song, ringing against the ledges. This was a fantastic Italian, +singing like an angel to the deserted woman. Her eyes were dark; the +breast heaved. Oh, these sweet notes were never lost on her.</p> + +<p>Now at this time, too, Pal Yachy offered a great prize for the first +child to be born on Mushrat. He came grinning under his red cap, saying +to us, "There are so many dying, should there not be a prize offered for +new life?"</p> + +<p>He had learned what manner the woman had of surprising Rainbow Pete. It +was a great prize he offered. When the child was born, he stopped the +monkeying with powder in the valley for that day, though this too was a +great loss in money. The woman pleased him.</p> + +<p>Then, my friend, on the night of the day when this child was born, +Rainbow Pete came back into the valley. Oh my, it's plain to us, looking +at the man under the stars, he has been toughing it. Ay! His beard was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> +tangled, the great bones were rising on his bare chest, his fingers +twitched as he was drooping over us. Now I'm telling you his eyes were +dim, and the sun had bleached his mustache the color of a lemon. There +he stood before us, holding the bag over his shoulder, while he went +scratching his bold nose like the picture of a pirate. Still he was +gentle in the eye; he was mild in misfortune. Oh, this sailorman was +just used to toughing it.</p> + +<p>Look here, there he stopped, in the shadow of this great rock I'm +speaking of, and these men of Mushrat came asking him if he had made the +grade. They were fresh from dipping their carcasses in champagne. They +were sparkling men, not accountable to themselves.</p> + +<p>"Have you made the grade?" they went bawling to him. This is to say, had +he struck gold?</p> + +<p>"Oh, there's gold enough," Pete went rumbling at them, "but it's too far +to the North, mate. There's no taickle made for getting purchase on it."</p> + +<p>"So I am thinking," said the little medicine-man, McGregor. "It lies +still at the foot of the rainbow."</p> + +<p>"Ay," said Rainbow Pete; but with this word we went thinking of Pal +Yachy. Still we did not speak the name of that Italian. No, this would +be stronger in the ear of that sailorman than gunpowder in the valley.</p> + +<p>"Look you here," said Rainbow Pete. "I am starving. I have not eaten in +two days. This is the curse falling on me for hunting gold."</p> + +<p>Then they laughed, these mad rockmen, mocking him with their eyes. Their +eyes were twitching; there was powder in the corners of them.</p> + +<p>"Are you not master of the eating-place?" they howled at him. "Look, +there it stands; is not your wife alone in it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh my, oh my, he stood looking at them with a ghastly face. Disn't he +seem the casual man? It's as if he had forgotten that woman. He had no +memories at all.</p> + +<p>"My wife," said the rainbow-man.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Look," said Shoepack Sam—oh, he remembered treason well—"he is +forgetful that he has a wife on Mushrat."</p> + +<p>This was so appearedly. There he stood in the blue star-shine, fingering +his flute to bring her back to mind. Now, I thought, he will be asking +what description of wife is this answering to my name on Mushrat? Oh, +man is careless in appointing himself among various women.</p> + +<p>Now, my friend, Rainbow Pete, blew a note on his flute to settle the +thing clear in his mind. Oh, he was not too brisk in looking up at the +black ledge, with the candle in the window. Now he was taken by the +knees. This is not the convenient part of a marriage of convenience. No. +But Shoepack Sam was waving a hand to us to be telling the man nothing +of destiny at that moment.</p> + +<p>"Come," he said, "the flute is nothing now. There must be more song than +this, by what is going on."</p> + +<p>Here he took Rainbow by the elbow, telling him to come and eat at +Scarecrow Charlie's, for he will need his strength.</p> + +<p>"I am in charge here for the day," said Shoepack.</p> + +<p>"How is this?" said Rainbow, whispering.</p> + +<p>They went laughing on all sides of him. Oh the demons, they were +cackling while he sat devouring a great moose joint, until he was close +to braining them with the yellow ball of the joint. He went eating like +a timber-wolf from Great Bear.</p> + +<p>"This is the palm-tree man," they sang in his ear. "Oh, why is it he +grew no cocoanuts stumbling on that lost trail? Isn't it convenient for +the man he is married this night?"</p> + +<p>Oh, they were full of mischief with him, remembering the secret face he +had for them in the days of his experiment.</p> + +<p>"Drink this," said Shoepack Sam. There he put champagne in a glass +before him. Oh, they were careful of the man.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Here, take my hand, and let me see if strength is coming back," said +Shoepack. "What is a rainbow without colors?"</p> + +<p>Then the little medicine-man took his pulse, kneeling on the floor +beside him. Oh, the great sailor was puzzled. Still he drank what was in +the glass before him and after this he put his mustache into his mouth, +sipping it by chance.</p> + +<p>"What is this you are preparing?" he said, pointing his bold nose to +them. Oh, the eyes were like a dreamer's: he was a child to appearances.</p> + +<p>Then they went speaking to him of the stringed instrument they had heard +humming on the ledge, speaking another language than his own.</p> + +<p>"This is a wife to be defended," said Shoepack Sam, padding there with +his yellow shoepacks bringing another drink. But still there was no word +of Pal Yachy. That black Italian was not popular at Throat River.</p> + +<p>"Now I see you are speaking of another man," said Rainbow Pete. Then +Shoepack Sam went roaring, it was time for honest men to speak, when an +honest woman was being taken by a voice.</p> + +<p>"Wait," said Rainbow Pete, with his thumb in the foam, "this is unlikely +she will want me cruising in, with another man singing in her ear."</p> + +<p>Oh my, he was a considerate man, he was a natural husband, thinking of +his wife's feelings.</p> + +<p>"Are you a man?" said Smash McGregor. "Here she has fed you when you +were starving—this is her food you have been eating. Will you pass this +ledge, leaving her to fortune?"</p> + +<p>Rainbow Pete went putting the edge of the cruiser's ax to his twisted +thumb.</p> + +<p>"I come to her in my shoes only," he said. "This is not what she will be +wanting. I have no gold."</p> + +<p>They were shouting to him to have no thought of that, those mad rockmen. +There would be gold in plenty. There would be gold. Only go up on the +ledge.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Heard you nothing of the prize?" they bawled to him, the mischief +makers. "Oh, there will be no lack of money."</p> + +<p>"How is this?" said Rainbow Pete. But they would not be answering him. +No! No! They went tumbling him out of Scarecrow Charlie's place, and +making for the ledge with him. Oh my, the mystified man. This was a +great shameface he had behind his mustache.</p> + +<p>"I am much altered for the worse," he went muttering to us. "She will +think nothing of me now."</p> + +<p>"There is still time for constancy," said Shoepack Sam. "Do not lose +hope."</p> + +<p>Then he told them to be quiet, looking up at the dark ledge where the +woman lay.</p> + +<p>"Old Greyback," said Rainbow Pete, whispering to me, "I am mistrustful +of this moment."</p> + +<p>"Hist!" said McGregor, "that was the sound of his string. He will be +beginning now."</p> + +<p>Ay, the voice began. We were wooden men, in rows, listening to this +Italian singing here a golden dream between his teeth.</p> + +<p>"Who is this man?" said Rainbow Pete. Heh! Heh! Had he not heard this +voice before? We were dumb. Oh, this was wild, this was sweet, the long +cry of the man over the deep valley. He sang in his throat, saying to +the woman there would be no returning. The night was blue. I'm telling +you. He was a cunning beggar, Pal Yachy, for making the stars burn in +their sockets.</p> + +<p>Now I saw him lift his arm to his head, the wicked sailor, listening to +the tune of his enemy. Ay, this was the man who had fashioned him in the +form of a rainbow. Still he did not know it, dreaming on his feet. He +went swaying like a poplar.</p> + +<p>Look, I am an old man, but I stood thinking of my airly days. Yes, yes. +My brain was heavy. Oh, it was a sweet dagger here twisting in the soul +of man. I went picturing the deep snow to me, and the dark spruces of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> +the North; oh, the roses are speaking to me again from this cheek that +has been gone from me so long.</p> + +<p>Heh! Heh! I should not be speaking of this. It was a sorrowful harp, the +voice of that fiend. It was like the wind following the eddy into +Lookout Cavern. Now it went choking that great sailor at the throat; +look, he was mild, he was a simple man for crying. The tears rolled in +his cheek, they sparkled there like the champagne.</p> + +<p>Oh my, the song was done.</p> + +<p>He was dumb, the great sailor, twisting his mustache.</p> + +<p>"Come now," said McGregor, "quick, he will be going into the house."</p> + +<p>They were gulls for diving at the ledge; but Rainbow Pete held out his +arm, stopping them.</p> + +<p>"Stand away," he said, "I will be going into my house with old Greyback +here and no other."</p> + +<p>This arm was not yet withered he had. No! They stayed in their tracks, +as we were going up the ledge.</p> + +<p>The door was open of that house; the stringed instrument was laid +against it. Ay, the strings were humming still, the song was spinning +round like a leaf in the cavern of it; but the black Italian was inside.</p> + +<p>Yes, he had gone before into the chamber where she was lying, with his +beautiful smile.</p> + +<p>The door here was open. Look, by candle-light I saw her lying in a red +blanket, staring at the notable singer. Yes, I saw the bottles +containing odors standing in a row. There was scent in the room. Now she +closed her eyes, this prairie woman, lying under him like death. My +friend, there is no doubt she was beautiful upon the pillow without the +aid of scented bottles.</p> + +<p>Heh! I felt him quiver, this great sailor, when he saw Pal Yachy +standing there, but I put my arms about him whispering to him to wait. +It was dark where we were, there was a light from the stove only.</p> + +<p>Oh my, there the dark Italian was glittering and heaving; he went +holding in his fist a canvas sack stamped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> by the Government, containing +the proper weight of gold.</p> + +<p>"This is his weight in gold," he said, and there he laid it at her +knees. Still her eyes were closed against that demon of a singer, as he +went saying, "But now my dear one, there must be no more talk of +husbands. Ha! ha! they are like smoke, these husbands. When it has +drifted, there must be new fire. So they say in my country."</p> + +<p>She lay, not speaking to him, with the sack of gold heavy against her +knees.</p> + +<p>"Is this plain?" said that Italian. Look now, Rainbow Pete is in his +very shadow. Ay, in the shadow of this man who had fashioned him like a +rainbow.</p> + +<p>"This is a great sum," said Pal Yachy, never looking behind him. "To +this must be added the silence of one day in the valley."</p> + +<p>"The silence," she went whispering, "the silence."</p> + +<p>Ha! ha! this was not so dangerous as song. She was leaning on her elbow, +clutching the red blanket to her throat, with her long fingers twisting +at the bag. Now my heart stumbled. Oh now, I thought, the gold is heavy +against her; this is a misfortunate time to be forsaking her husband, +isn't it? Look, the shadow was deeper in the cheek of this sailor. He +saw nothing, I fancied, but the gold lying on the blanket.</p> + +<p>What next I knew? Here was McGregor in his yellow skull, whispering,</p> + +<p>"Is this the gold then at the foot of the rainbow? This is fool's gold +where the heart is concerned."</p> + +<p>Then, my friend, she threw it clear of the bed. Ay! I heard it falling +on the ledge there, but at this time she did not know that Rainbow Pete +was in the room.</p> + +<p>When she had thrown it, then she saw him, standing behind that demon of +a singer. Her eyes were strange then. By the expression of her eyes Pal +Yachy saw that he was doomed. He was like a frozen man.</p> + +<p>"Wait now," said Rainbow Pete, "am I in my house here?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Am I not your wife?" cried the dark woman from Regina.</p> + +<p>Oh, the pleasant sailor. The song had touched him.</p> + +<p>"Look now," he said to Pal Yachy, "you made a rainbow of me in the +beginning. Do you bring gold here now to plant at my feet, generous +man?"</p> + +<p>My, my, this fantastic Italian knew that words were wasted now. He was +like a snake with his sting. But Rainbow Pete was not an easy man. He +broke the arm with one twist, look, the knife went spinning on the +ledge. And at this moment the blasting in the rock began again below the +ledge. They were at it again, monkeying with powder. Oh, it was death +they were speaking to down there. It was like a battle between giants +going on, there were thunders and red gleams in the black valley; and +the candle-flame went shivering with the great noises.</p> + +<p>"Here," said Rainbow Pete, "I will scatter you like the rocks of the +valley."</p> + +<p>Oh, the righteous man. Isn't it a strange consideration, the voice of +Pal Yachy moving this crooked sailor to good deeds? Ay! He was a noble +man, hurling the Italian from the house by his ears. Oh, it's a +circumstance to be puzzling over. He threw the gold after him. Ay, the +gold after—like dirt; and here the clothes hung loose on his own body +where he had been starving in the search for bags like that.</p> + +<p>Now, as he went kneeling by his wife, he discovered his son, by the +crowing under the blanket.</p> + +<p>"Look here at the little nipper, old Greyback," he said, "come a little +way into the room. Look now, at the fat back for putting a little +palm-tree on, while he is young. This is truth, old fellow, here is true +gold lying at the foot of the rainbow, according to the prophecy."</p> + +<p>Our old friend stopped to breathe and blink.</p> + +<p>"He had staked this claim but he had never worked it," he said solemnly. +But isn't it strange, the same man who had been fashioning him like a +rainbow, should be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> pointing out the gold to him. Oh, there's no doubt +Pal Yachy was defeated in the end by his own voice—</p> + +<p>He went away that night, leaving all to the sub-contractors. Heh! He was +not seen on Mushrat again. Still he had a remarkable voice. Many times +afterward I have heard Rainbow Pete playing on his flute—this is in the +evening when the ledge is quiet—but this is not the same thing. No, no, +he could never bewitch her with his music, she must love him for his +intention only, to be charming her. Ay! This is safer.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="GET_READY_THE_WREATHS14" id="GET_READY_THE_WREATHS14"></a>GET READY THE WREATHS<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> FANNIE HURST</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Cosmopolitan Magazine</i></p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Where</span> St. Louis begins to peter out into brick-and limestone-kilns and +great scars of unworked and overworked quarries, the first and more +unpretentious of its suburbs take up—Benson, Maplehurst, and Ridgeway +Heights intervening with one-story brick cottages and two-story +packing-cases—between the smoke of the city and the carefully parked +Queen Anne quietude of Glenwood and Croton Grove.</p> + +<p>Over Benson hangs a white haze of limestone, gritty with train and +foundry smoke. At night, the lime-kilns, spotted with white deposits, +burn redly, showing through their open doors like great, inflamed +diphtheretic throats, tongues of flame bursting and licking-out.</p> + +<p>Winchester Road, which runs out from the heart of the city to string +these towns together, is paved with brick, and its traffic, for the most +part, is the great tin-tired dump-carts of the quarries and steel +interurban electric cars, which hum so heavily that even the windows of +outlying cottages titillate.</p> + +<p>For blocks, from Benson to Maplehurst and from Maplehurst to Ridgeway +Heights, Winchester Road repeats itself in terms of the butcher, the +baker, the corner saloon. A feed store. A monument-and stone-cutter. A +confectioner. A general-merchandise store, with a glass case of men's +collars outside the entrance. The butcher, the baker, the corner saloon.</p> + +<p>At Benson, where this highway cuts through, the city,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> wreathed in +smoke, and a great oceanic stretch of roofs are in easy view, and at +closer range, an outlying section of public asylums for the city's +discard of its debility and its senility.</p> + +<p>Jutting a story above the one-storied march of Winchester Road, The +Convenience Merchandise Corner, Benson, overlooks, from the southeast +up-stairs window, a remote view of the City Hospital, the Ferris wheel +of an amusement-park, and on clear days, the oceanic waves of roof. +Below, within the store, that view is entirely obliterated by a brace of +shelves built across the corresponding window and brilliantly stacked +with ribbons of a score of colors and as many widths. A considerable +flow of daylight thus diverted, The Convenience Merchandise Corner, even +of early afternoon, fades out into half-discernible corners; a rear-wall +display of overalls and striped denim coats crowded back into +indefinitude, the haberdashery counter, with a giant gilt shirt-stud +suspended above, hardly more outstanding.</p> + +<p>Even the notions and dry-goods, flanking the right wall in stacks and +bolts, merge into blur, the outline of a white-sateen and corseted +woman's torso surmounting the top-most of the shelves with bold +curvature.</p> + +<p>With spring sunshine even hot against the steel rails of Winchester +Road, and awnings drawn against its inroads into the window display, +Mrs. Shila Coblenz, routing gloom, reached up tiptoe across the +haberdashery counter for the suspended chain of a cluster of bulbs, the +red of exertion rising up the taut line of throat and lifted chin.</p> + +<p>"A little light on the subject, Milt."</p> + +<p>"Let me, Mrs. C."</p> + +<p>Facing her from the outer side of the counter, Mr. Milton Bauer +stretched also, his well-pressed, pin-checked coat crawling up.</p> + +<p>All things swam out into the glow. The great suspended stud; the +background of shelves and boxes; the scissors-like overalls against the +wall; a clothes-line of children's factory-made print frocks; a +center-bin of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> women's untrimmed hats; a headless dummy beside the door, +enveloped in a long-sleeved gingham apron.</p> + +<p>Beneath the dome of the wooden stud, Mrs. Shila Coblenz, of not too +fulsome but the hour-glass proportions of two decades ago, smiled, her +black eyes, ever so quick to dart, receding slightly as the cheeks +lifted.</p> + +<p>"Two twenty-five, Milt, for those ribbed assorted sizes and reenforced +heels. Leave or take. Bergdorff & Sloan will quote me the whole mill at +that price."</p> + +<p>With his chest across the counter and legs out violently behind, Mr. +Bauer flung up a glance from his order-pad.</p> + +<p>"Have a heart, Mrs. C. I'm getting two forty for that stocking from +every house in town. The factory can't turn out the orders fast enough +at that price. An up-to-date woman like you mustn't make a noise like +before the war."</p> + +<p>"Leave or take."</p> + +<p>"You could shave an egg," he said.</p> + +<p>"And rush up those printed lawns. There was two in this morning, +sniffing around for spring dimities."</p> + +<p>"Any cotton goods? Next month this time, you'll be paying an advance of +four cents on percales."</p> + +<p>"Stocked."</p> + +<p>"Can't tempt you with them wash silks, Mrs. C.? Neatest little article +on the market to-day."</p> + +<p>"No demand. They finger it up, and then buy the cotton stuffs. Every +time I forget my trade hacks rock instead of clips bonds for its +spending-money, I get stung."</p> + +<p>"This here wash silk, Mrs. C., would—"</p> + +<p>"Send me up a dress-pattern off this coral-pink sample for Selene."</p> + +<p>"This here dark mulberry, Mrs. C., would suit you something immense."</p> + +<p>"That'll be about all."</p> + +<p>He flopped shut his book, snapping a rubber band about it and inserting +it in an inner coat pocket.</p> + +<p>"You ought to stick to them dark, winy shades,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> Mrs. C. With your +coloring and black hair and eyes, they bring you out like a Gipsy. Never +seen you look better than at the Y. M. H. A. entertainment."</p> + +<p>Quick color flowed down her open throat and into her shirtwaist. It was +as if the platitude merged with the very corpuscles of a blush that sank +down into thirsty soil.</p> + +<p>"You boys," she said, "come out here and throw in a jolly with every +bill of goods. I'll take a good fat discount instead."</p> + +<p>"Fact. Never seen you look better. When you got out on the floor in that +stamp-your-foot kind of dance with old man Shulof, your hand on your hip +and your head jerking it up, there wasn't a girl on the floor, your own +daughter included, could touch you, and I'm giving it to you straight."</p> + +<p>"That old thing! It's a Russian folk-dance my mother taught me the first +year we were in this country. I was three years old then, and, when she +got just crazy with homesickness, we used to dance it to each other +evenings on the kitchen floor."</p> + +<p>"Say, have you heard the news?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Guess."</p> + +<p>"Can't."</p> + +<p>"Hammerstein is bringing over the crowned heads of Europe for +vaudeville."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Coblenz moved back a step, her mouth falling open.</p> + +<p>"Why—Milton Bauer—in the old country a man could be strung up for +saying less than that!"</p> + +<p>"That didn't get across. Try another. A Frenchman and his wife were +traveling in Russia, and—"</p> + +<p>"If—if you had an old mother like mine upstairs, Milton, eating out her +heart and her days and her weeks and her months over a husband's grave +somewhere in Siberia and a son's grave somewhere in Kishinef, you +wouldn't see the joke, neither."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. Bauer executed a self-administered pat sharply against the back of +his hand.</p> + +<p>"Keeper," he said, "put me in the brain-ward. I—I'm sorry, Mrs. C., so +help me! Didn't mean to. How is your mother, Mrs. C.? Seems to me, at +the dance the other night, Selene said she was fine and dandy."</p> + +<p>"Selene ain't the best judge of her poor old grandmother. It's hard for +a young girl to have patience for old age sitting and chewing all day +over the past. It's right pitiful the way her grandmother knows it, too, +and makes herself talk English all the time to please the child and +tries to perk up for her. Selene, thank God, ain't suffered, and can't +sympathize!"</p> + +<p>"What's ailing her, Mrs. C.? I kinda miss seeing the old lady sitting +down here in the store."</p> + +<p>"It's the last year or so, Milt. Just like all of a sudden, a woman as +active as mamma always was, her health and—her mind kind of went off +with a pop."</p> + +<p>"Thu! Thu!"</p> + +<p>"Doctor says with care she can live for years, but—but it seems +terrible the way her—poor mind keeps skipping back. Past all these +thirty years in America to—even weeks before I was born. The night +they—took my father off to Siberia, with his bare feet in the snow—for +distributing papers they found on him—papers that used the word +'<i>svoboda</i>'—'freedom.' And the time, ten years later—they shot down my +brother right in front of her for—the same reason. She keeps living it +over—living it over till I—could die."</p> + +<p>"Say, ain't that just a shame, though!"</p> + +<p>"Living it, and living it, and living it! The night with me, a heavy +three-year-old, in her arms that she got us to the border, dragging a +pack of linens with her! The night my father's feet were bleeding in the +snow, when they took him! How with me a kid in the crib, my—my +brother's face was crushed in—with a heel and a spur—all night, +sometimes, she cries in her sleep—begging to go back to find the +graves. All day she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span> sits making raffia wreaths to take back—making +wreaths—making wreaths!"</p> + +<p>"Say, ain't that tough!"</p> + +<p>"It's a godsend she's got the eyes to do it. It's wonderful the way she +reads—in English, too. There ain't a daily she misses. Without them and +the wreaths—I dunno—I just dunno. Is—is it any wonder, Milt, I—I +can't see the joke?"</p> + +<p>"My God, no!"</p> + +<p>"I'll get her back, though."</p> + +<p>"Why, you—she can't get back there, Mrs. C."</p> + +<p>"There's a way. Nobody can tell me there's not. Before the war—before +she got like this, seven hundred dollars would have done it for both of +us—and it will again, after the war. She's got the bank-book, and every +week that I can squeeze out above expenses, she sees the entry for +herself. I'll get her back. There's a way lying around somewhere. God +knows why she should eat out her heart to go back—but she wants it. +God, how she wants it!"</p> + +<p>"Poor old dame!"</p> + +<p>"You boys guy me with my close-fisted buying these last two years. It's +up to me, Milt, to squeeze this old shebang dry. There's not much more +than a living in it at best, and now with Selene grown up and naturally +wanting to have it like other girls, it ain't always easy to see my way +clear. But I'll do it, if I got to trust the store for a year to a child +like Selene. I'll get her back."</p> + +<p>"You can call on me, Mrs. C., to keep my eye on things while you're +gone."</p> + +<p>"You boys are one crowd of true blues, all right. There ain't a city +salesman comes out here I wouldn't trust to the limit."</p> + +<p>"You just try me out."</p> + +<p>"Why, just to show you how a woman don't know many real friends she has +got, why—even Mark Haas, of the Mound City Silk Company, a firm I don't +do two hundred dollars' worth of business with a year,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> I wish you could +have heard him the other night at the Y. M. H. A., a man you know for +yourself just comes here to be sociable with the trade."</p> + +<p>"Fine fellow, Mark Haas!"</p> + +<p>"'When the time comes, Mrs. Coblenz,' he says, 'that you want to make +that trip, just you let me know. Before the war there wasn't a year I +didn't cross the water twice, maybe three times, for the firm. I don't +know there's much I can do; it ain't so easy to arrange for Russia, but, +just the same, you let me know when you're ready to make that trip.' +Just like that he said it. That from Mark Haas!"</p> + +<p>"And a man like Haas don't talk that way if he don't mean it."</p> + +<p>"Mind you, not a hundred dollars a year business with him. I haven't got +the demands for silks."</p> + +<p>"That wash silk I'm telling you about though, Mrs. C., does up like a—"</p> + +<p>"There's ma thumping with the poker on the upstairs floor. When it's +closing-time, she begins to get restless. I—I wish Selene would come +in. She went out with Lester Goldmark in his little flivver, and I get +nervous about automobiles."</p> + +<p>Mr. Bauer slid an open-face watch from his waistcoat.</p> + +<p>"Good Lord, five-forty, and I've just got time to sell the Maplehurst +Emporium a bill of goods!"</p> + +<p>"Good-night, Milt; and mind you put up that order of assorted neckwear +yourself. Greens in ready-tieds are good sellers for this time of the +year, and put in some reds and purples for the teamsters."</p> + +<p>"No sooner said than done."</p> + +<p>"And come out for supper some Sunday night, Milt. It does mamma good to +have young people around."</p> + +<p>"I'm yours."</p> + +<p>"Good-night, Milt."</p> + +<p>He reached across the counter, placing his hand over hers.</p> + +<p>"Good-night, Mrs. C.," he said, a note lower in his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span> throat; "and +remember, that call-on-me stuff wasn't just conversation."</p> + +<p>"Good-night, Milt," said Mrs. Coblenz, a coating of husk over her own +voice and sliding her hand out from beneath, to top his. "You—you're +all right!"</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Upstairs, in a too tufted and too crowded room directly over the frontal +half of the store, the window overlooking the remote sea of city was +turning taupe, the dusk of early spring, which is faintly tinged with +violet, invading. Beside the stove, a base-burner with faint fire +showing through its mica, the identity of her figure merged with the fat +upholstery of the chair, except where the faint pink through the mica +lighted up old flesh, Mrs. Miriam Horowitz, full of years and senile +with them, wove with grasses, the écru of her own skin, wreaths that had +mounted to a great stack in a bedroom cupboard.</p> + +<p>A clock, with a little wheeze and burring attached to each chime, rang +six, and upon it, Mrs. Coblenz, breathing from a climb, opened the door.</p> + +<p>"Ma, why didn't you rap for Katie to come up and light the gas? You'll +ruin your eyes, dearie."</p> + +<p>She found out a match, immediately lighting two jets of a +center-chandelier, turning them down from singing, drawing the shades of +the two front and the southeast windows, stooping over the upholstered +chair to imprint a light kiss.</p> + +<p>"A fine day, mamma. There'll be an entry this week. Fifty dollars and +thirteen cents and another call for garden implements. I think I'll lay +in a hardware line after we—we get back. I can use the lower shelf of +the china-table, eh, ma?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Horowitz, whose face, the color of old linen in the yellowing, +emerged rather startling from the still black hair strained back from +it, lay back in her chair, turning her profile against the upholstered +back, half a wreath and a trail of raffia sliding to the floor. It was +as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span> if age had sapped from beneath the skin, so that every curve had +collapsed to bagginess, the cheeks and the underchin sagging with too +much skin. Even the hands were crinkled like too large gloves, a wide, +curiously etched marriage band hanging loosely from the third finger.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Coblenz stooped, recovering the wreath.</p> + +<p>"Say, mamma, this one is a beauty! That's a new weave, ain't it? Here, +work some more, dearie—till Selene comes with your evening papers."</p> + +<p>With her profile still to the chair-back, a tear oozed down the +corrugated surface of Mrs. Horowitz's cheek. Another.</p> + +<p>"Now, mamma! Now, mamma!"</p> + +<p>"I got a heaviness—here—inside. I got a heaviness—"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Coblenz slid down to her knees beside the chair.</p> + +<p>"Now, mamma; shame on my little mamma! Is that the way to act when Shila +comes up after a good day? Ain't we got just lots to be thankful for, +the business growing and the bank-book growing, and our Selene on top? +Shame on mamma!"</p> + +<p>"I got a heaviness—here—inside—here."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Coblenz reached up for the old hand, patting it.</p> + +<p>"It's nothing, mamma—a little nervousness."</p> + +<p>"I'm an old woman. I—"</p> + +<p>"And just think, Shila's mamma, Mark Haas is going to get us letters and +passports and—"</p> + +<p>"My son—my boy—his father before him—"</p> + +<p>"Mamma—mamma, please don't let a spell come on! It's all right. Shila's +going to fix it. Any day now, maybe—"</p> + +<p>"You'm a good girl. You'm a good girl, Shila." Tears were coursing down +to a mouth that was constantly wry with the taste of them.</p> + +<p>"And you're a good mother, mamma. Nobody knows better than me how good."</p> + +<p>"You'm a good girl, Shila."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I was thinking last night, mamma, waiting up for Selene—just thinking +how all the good you've done ought to keep your mind off the spells, +dearie."</p> + +<p>"My son—"</p> + +<p>"Why, a woman with as much good to remember as you've got oughtn't to +have time for spells. I got to thinking about Coblenz to-day, mamma, +how—you never did want him, and when I—I went and did it anyway, and +made my mistake, you stood by me to—to the day he died. Never throwing +anything up to me! Never nothing but my good little mother, working her +hands to the bone after he got us out here to help meet the debts he +left us. Ain't that a satisfaction for you to be able to sit and think, +mamma, how you helped—"</p> + +<p>"His feet—blood from my heart in the snow—blood from my heart!"</p> + +<p>"The past is gone, darling. What's the use tearing yourself to pieces +with it? Them years in New York, when it was a fight even for bread, and +them years here trying to raise Selene and get the business on a +footing, you didn't have time to brood then, mamma. That's why, dearie, +if only you'll keep yourself busy with something—the wreaths—the—"</p> + +<p>"His feet—blood from my—"</p> + +<p>"But I'm going to take you back, mamma. To papa's grave. To Aylorff's. +But don't eat your heart out until it comes, darling. I'm going to take +you back, mamma, with every wreath in the stack; only, you mustn't eat +out your heart in spells. You mustn't, mamma; you mustn't."</p> + +<p>Sobs rumbled up through Mrs. Horowitz, which her hand to her mouth tried +to constrict.</p> + +<p>"For his people he died. The papers—I begged he should burn them—he +couldn't—I begged he should keep in his hate—he couldn't—in the +square he talked it—the soldiers—he died for his people—they got +him—the soldiers—his feet in the snow when they took him—the blood in +the snow—O my God—my—God!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mamma, darling, please don't go over it all again. What's the use +making yourself sick? Please!"</p> + +<p>She was well forward in her chair now, winding her dry hands one over +the other with a small rotary motion.</p> + +<p>"I was rocking—Shila-baby in my lap—stirring on the fire black lentils +for my boy—black lentils—he—"</p> + +<p>"Mamma!"</p> + +<p>"My boy. Like his father before him. My—"</p> + +<p>"Mamma, please! Selene is coming any minute now. You know how she hates +it. Don't let yourself think back, mamma. A little will-power, the +doctor says, is all you need. Think of to-morrow, mamma; maybe, if you +want, you can come down and sit in the store awhile and—"</p> + +<p>"I was rocking. O my God, I was rocking, and—"</p> + +<p>"Don't get to it—mamma, please! Don't rock yourself that way! You'll +get yourself dizzy. Don't, ma; don't!"</p> + +<p>"Outside—my boy—the holler—O God, in my ears all my life! My boy—the +papers—the swords—Aylorff—Aylorff—"</p> + +<p>"Shh-h-h—mamma—"</p> + +<p>"It came through his heart out the back—a blade with two sides—out the +back when I opened the door—the spur in his face when he +fell—Shila—the spur in his face—the beautiful face of my boy—my +Aylorff—my husband before him—that died to make free!" And fell back, +bathed in the sweat of the terrific hiccoughing of sobs.</p> + +<p>"Mamma, mamma—my God! What shall we do? These spells! You'll kill +yourself, darling. I'm going to take you back, dearie—ain't that +enough? I promise. I promise. You mustn't, mamma! These spells—- they +ain't good for a young girl like Selene to hear. Mamma, ain't you got +your own Shila—your own Selene? Ain't that something? Ain't it? Ain't +it?"</p> + +<p>Large drops of sweat had come out and a state<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> of exhaustion that swept +completely over, prostrating the huddled form in the chair.</p> + +<p>With her arms twined about the immediately supporting form of her +daughter, her entire weight relaxed, and footsteps that dragged without +lift, one after the other, Mrs. Horowitz groped out, one hand feeling in +advance, into the gloom of a room adjoining.</p> + +<p>"Rest! O my God, rest!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, mamma; lean on me."</p> + +<p>"My—bed."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, darling."</p> + +<p>"Bed."</p> + +<p>Her voice had died now to a whimper that lay on the room after she had +passed out of it.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>When Selene Coblenz, with a gust that swept the room, sucking the lace +curtains back against the panes, flung open the door upon that chromatic +scene, the two jets of gas were singing softly into its silence, and, +within the nickel-trimmed base-burner, the pink mica had cooled to gray. +Sweeping open that door, she closed it softly, standing for the moment +against it, her hand crossed in back and on the knob. It was as if +standing there with her head cocked and beneath a shadowy blue +sailor-hat, a smile coming out, something within her was playing, +sweetly insistent to be heard. Philomela, at the first sound of her +nightingale self, must have stood thus, trembling with melody. Opposite +her, above the crowded mantelpiece and surmounted by a raffia wreath, +the enlarged-crayon gaze of her deceased maternal grandparent, abetted +by a horrible device of photography, followed her, his eyes focusing the +entire room at a glance. Impervious to that scrutiny, Miss Coblenz moved +a tiptoe step or two further into the room, lifting off her hat, staring +and smiling through a three-shelved cabinet of knick-knacks at what she +saw far beyond. Beneath the two jets, high lights in her hair came out, +bronze showing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span> through the brown waves and the patches of curls brought +out over her cheeks.</p> + +<p>In her dark-blue dress with the row of silver buttons down what was hip +before the hipless age, the chest sufficiently concave and the +silhouette a mere stroke of hard pencil, Miss Selene Coblenz measured up +and down to America's Venus de Milo, whose chief curvature is of the +spine. Slim-etched, and that slimness enhanced by a conscious kind of +collapse beneath the blue-silk girdle that reached up halfway to her +throat, hers were those proportions which strong women, eschewing the +sweetmeat, would earn by the sweat of the Turkish bath.</p> + +<p>When Miss Coblenz caught her eye in the square of mirror above the +mantelpiece, her hands flew to her cheeks to feel of their redness. They +were soft cheeks, smooth with the pollen of youth, and hands still +casing them, she moved another step toward the portièred door.</p> + +<p>"Mamma!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Coblenz emerged immediately, finger up for silence, kissing her +daughter on the little spray of cheek-curls.</p> + +<p>"Shh-h-h! Gramaw just had a terrible spell."</p> + +<p>She dropped down into the upholstered chair beside the base-burner, the +pink and moisture of exertion out in her face, took to fanning herself +with the end of a face-towel flung across her arm.</p> + +<p>"Poor gramaw!" she said. "Poor gramaw!"</p> + +<p>Miss Coblenz sat down on the edge of a slim, home-gilded chair, and took +to gathering the blue-silk dress into little plaits at her knee.</p> + +<p>"Of course—if you don't want to know where I've been—or anything—"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Coblenz jerked herself to the moment.</p> + +<p>"Did mamma's girl have a good time? Look at your dress all dusty! You +oughtn't to wear you best in that little flivver."</p> + +<p>Suddenly Miss Coblenz raised her eyes, her red mouth bunched, her eyes +all iris.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Of course—if you don't want to know—anything."</p> + +<p>At that large, brilliant gaze, Mrs. Coblenz leaned forward, quickened.</p> + +<p>"Why, Selene!"</p> + +<p>"Well, why—why don't you ask me something?"</p> + +<p>"Why I—I dunno, honey, did—did you and Lester have a nice ride?"</p> + +<p>There hung a slight pause, and then a swift moving and crumpling-up of +Miss Coblenz on the floor beside her mother's knee.</p> + +<p>"You know—only, you won't ask."</p> + +<p>With her hand light upon her daughter's hair, Mrs. Coblenz leaned +forward, her bosom rising to faster breathing.</p> + +<p>"Why—Selene—I why—"</p> + +<p>"We—we were speeding along and—all of a sudden—out of a clear +sky—he—he popped. He wants it in June—so we can make it our honeymoon +to his new territory out in Oklahoma. He knew he was going to pop, he +said, ever since the first night he saw me at the Y. M. H. A. He says to +his uncle Mark, the very next day in the store, he says to him, 'Uncle +Mark,' he says, 'I've met <i>the</i> little girl.' He says he thinks more of +my little finger than all of his regular crowd of girls in town put +together. He wants to live in one of the built-in-bed flats on Wasserman +Avenue, like all the swell young marrieds. He's making twenty-six +hundred now, mamma, and if he makes good in the new Oklahoma territory, +his uncle Mark is—is going to take care of him better. Ain't it like a +dream, mamma—your little Selene all of a sudden in with—the +somebodys?"</p> + +<p>Immediately tears were already finding staggering procession down Mrs. +Coblenz' face, her hovering arms completely encircling the slight figure +at her feet.</p> + +<p>"My little girl! My little Selene! My all!"</p> + +<p>"I'll be marrying into one of the best families in town, ma. A girl who +marries a nephew of Mark Haas can<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span> hold up her head with the best of +them. There's not a boy in town with a better future than Lester. Like +Lester says, everything his uncle Mark touches turns to gold, and he's +already touched Lester. One of the best known men on Washington Avenue +for his blood-uncle, and on his poor dead father's side related to the +Katz & Harberger Harbergers. Was I right, mamma, when I said if you'd +only let me stop school, I'd show you? Was I right, momsie?"</p> + +<p>"My baby! It's like I can't realize it. So young!"</p> + +<p>"He took the measure of my finger, mamma, with a piece of string. A +diamond, he says, not too flashy, but neat."</p> + +<p>"We have 'em, and we suffer for 'em, and we lose 'em."</p> + +<p>"He's going to trade in the flivver for a chummy roadster, and—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, darling, it's like I can't bear it!"</p> + +<p>At that, Miss Coblenz sat back on her tall wooden heels, mauve spats +crinkling.</p> + +<p>"Well, you're a merry little future mother-in-law, momsie."</p> + +<p>"It ain't that, baby. I'm happy that my girl has got herself up in the +world with a fine upright boy like Lester; only—you can't understand, +babe, till you've got something of your own flesh and blood that belongs +to you, that I—I couldn't feel anything except that a piece of my heart +was going if—if it was a king you was marrying."</p> + +<p>"Now, momsie, it's not like I was moving a thousand miles away. You can +be glad I don't have to go far, to New York or to Cleveland, like Alma +Yawitz."</p> + +<p>"I am! I am!"</p> + +<p>"Uncle—Uncle Mark, I guess, will furnish us up like he did Leon and +Irma—only, I don't want mahogany—I want Circassian walnut. He gave +them their flat-silver, too, Puritan design, for an engagement present. +Think of it, mamma, me having that stuck-up Irma<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span> Sinsheimer for a +relation! It always made her sore when I got chums with Amy at school +and got my nose in it with the Acme crowd, and—and she'll change her +tune now, I guess, me marrying her husband's second cousin."</p> + +<p>"Didn't Lester want to—to come in for a while, Selene, to—to see—me?"</p> + +<p>Sitting there on her heels, Miss Coblenz looked away, answering with her +face in profile.</p> + +<p>"Yes; only—I—well if you want to know it, mamma, it's no fun for a +girl to bring a boy like Lester up here in—in this crazy room all hung +up with gramaw's wreaths and half the time her sitting out there in the +dark looking in at us through the door and talking to herself."</p> + +<p>"Gramaw's an old—"</p> + +<p>"Is—it any wonder I'm down at Amy's half the time. How—do you think a +girl feels to have gramaw keep hanging onto that old black wig of hers +and not letting me take the crayons or wreaths down off the wall. In +Lester's crowd, they don't know—nothing about Revolutionary stuff +and—and persecutions. Amy's grandmother don't even talk with an accent, +and Lester says his grandmother came from Alsace-Lorraine. That's +French. They think only tailors and old-clothes men and—"</p> + +<p>"Selene!"</p> + +<p>"Well, they do. You—you're all right, mamma, as up to date as any of +them, but how do you think a girl feels with gramaw always harping right +in front of everybody the—the way granpa was a revolutionist and +was—was hustled off barefooted to Siberia like—like a tramp. And the +way she was cooking black beans when—my uncle—died. Other girls' +grandmothers don't tell everything they know. Alma Yawitz's grandmother +wears lorgnettes, and you told me yourself they came from nearly the +same part of the Pale as gramaw. But you don't hear them remembering it. +Alma Yawitz says she's Alsace-Lorraine on both sides. People +don't—tell<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span> everything they know. Anyway—where a girl's got herself as +far as I have."</p> + +<p>Through sobs that rocked her, Mrs. Coblenz looked down upon her +daughter.</p> + +<p>"Your poor old grandmother don't deserve that from you! In her day, she +worked her hands to the bone for you. With—the kind of father you had, +we—we might have died in the gutter but—for how she helped to keep us +out, you ungrateful girl—your poor old grandmother that's suffered so +terrible!"</p> + +<p>"I know it, mamma, but so have other people suffered."</p> + +<p>"She's old, Selene—old."</p> + +<p>"I tell you it's the way you indulge her, mamma. I've seen her sitting +here as perk as you please, and the minute you come in the room, down +goes her head like—like she was dying."</p> + +<p>"It's her mind, Selene—that's going. That's why I feel if I could only +get her back. She ain't old, gramaw ain't. If I could only get her back +where she—could see for herself—the graves—is all she needs. All old +people think of—the grave. It's eating her—eating her mind. Mark Haas +is going to fix it for me after the war—maybe before—if he can. That's +the only way poor gramaw can live—or die—happy, Selene. Now—now that +my—my little girl ain't any longer my responsibility, I—I'm going to +take her back—my little—girl"—her hand reached out, caressing the +smooth head, her face projected forward and the eyes yearning down—"my +all."</p> + +<p>"It's you will be my responsibility now, ma."</p> + +<p>"No! No!"</p> + +<p>"The first thing Lester says was a flat on Wasserman and a spare room +for mother Coblenz when she wants to come down. Wasn't it sweet for him +to put it that way right off, ma. 'Mother Coblenz,' he says."</p> + +<p>"He's a good boy, Selene. It'll be a proud day for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span> me and gramaw. +Gramaw mustn't miss none of it. He's a good boy and a fine family."</p> + +<p>"That's why, mamma, we—got to—to do it up right."</p> + +<p>"Lester knows, child, he's not marrying a rich girl."</p> + +<p>"A girl don't have to—be rich to get married right."</p> + +<p>"You'll have as good as mamma can afford to give it to her girl."</p> + +<p>"It—it would be different if Lester's uncle and all wasn't in the Acme +Club crowd, and if I hadn't got in with all that bunch. It's the last +expense I'll ever be to you, mamma."</p> + +<p>"Oh, baby, don't say that!"</p> + +<p>"I—me and Lester—Lester and me were talking, mamma—when the +engagement's announced next week—a reception—"</p> + +<p>"We can clear out this room, move the bed out of gramaw's room into +ours, and serve the ice-cream and cake in—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, mamma, I don't mean—that!"</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"Who ever heard of having a reception <i>here</i>! People won't come from +town way out to this old—cabbage patch. Even Gertie Wolf with their big +house on West Pine Boulevard had her reception at the Walsingham Hotel. +You—we—can't expect Mark Haas and all the relations—the +Sinsheimers—and—all to come out here. I'd rather not have any."</p> + +<p>"But, Selene, everybody knows we ain't millionaires, and that you got in +with that crowd through being friends at school with Amy Rosen. All the +city salesmen and the boys on Washington Avenue, even Mark Haas himself, +that time he was in the store with Lester, knows the way we live. You +don't need to be ashamed of your little home, Selene, even if it ain't +on West Pine Boulevard."</p> + +<p>"It'll be—your last expense, mamma. The Walsingham,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span> that's where the +girl that Lester Goldmark marries is expected to have her reception."</p> + +<p>"But, Selene, mamma can't afford nothing like that."</p> + +<p>Pink swam up into Miss Coblenz's face, and above the sheer-white collar +there was a little beating movement at the throat, as if something were +fluttering within.</p> + +<p>"I—I'd just as soon not get married as—as not to have it like other +girls."</p> + +<p>"But, Selene—"</p> + +<p>"If I—can't have a trousseau like other girls and the things that go +with marrying into a—a family like Lester's—I—then—there's no use. +I—I can't! I—wouldn't!"</p> + +<p>She was fumbling now for a handkerchief against tears that were +imminent.</p> + +<p>"Why, baby, a girl couldn't have a finer trousseau than the old linens +back yet from Russia that me and gramaw got saved up for our girl—linen +that can't be bought these days. Bed-sheets that gramaw herself carried +to the border, and—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know. I knew you'd try to dump that stuff on me. That old +worm-eaten stuff in gramaw's chest."</p> + +<p>"It's hand-woven, Selene, with—"</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't have that yellow old stuff—that old-fashioned junk—if I +didn't have any trousseau. If I can't afford monogrammed up-to-date +linens, like even Alma Yawitz, and a—a pussy-willow-taffeta reception +dress, I wouldn't have any. I wouldn't." Her voice crowded with passion +and tears rose to the crest of a sob. "I—I'd die first!"</p> + +<p>"Selene, Selene, mamma ain't got the money. If she had it, wouldn't she +be willing to take the very last penny to give her girl the kind of a +wedding she wants? A trousseau like Alma's cost a thousand dollars if it +cost a cent. Her table-napkins alone they say cost thirty-six dollars a +dozen, unmonogrammed. A reception at the Walsingham costs two hundred +dollars if it costs a cent.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span> Selene, mamma will make for you every +sacrifice she can afford, but she ain't got the money."</p> + +<p>"You—have got the money!"</p> + +<p>"So help me God, Selene! You know, with the quarries shut down, what +business has been. You know how—sometimes even to make ends meet, it is +a pinch. You're an ungrateful girl, Selene, to ask what I ain't able to +do for you. A child like you that's been indulged, that I ain't even +asked ever in her life to help a day down in the store. If I had the +money, God knows you should be married in real lace, with the finest +trousseau a girl ever had. But I ain't got the money—I ain't got the +money."</p> + +<p>"You have got the money! The book in gramaw's drawer is seven hundred +and forty. I guess I ain't blind. I know a thing or two."</p> + +<p>"Why Selene—that's gramaw's—to go back—"</p> + +<p>"You mean the bank-book's hers?"</p> + +<p>"That's gramaw's to go back—home on. That's the money for me to take +gramaw and her wreaths back home on."</p> + +<p>"There you go—talking loony."</p> + +<p>"Selene!"</p> + +<p>"Well, I'd like to know what else you'd call it, kidding yourself along +like that."</p> + +<p>"You—"</p> + +<p>"All right. If you think gramaw, with her life all lived, comes first +before me, with all my life to live—all right!"</p> + +<p>"Your poor old—"</p> + +<p>"It's always been gramaw first in this house, anyway. I couldn't even +have company since I'm grown up because the way she's always allowed +around. Nobody can say I ain't good to gramaw; Lester say it's beautiful +the way I am with her, remembering always to bring the newspapers and +all, but just the same I know when right's right and wrong's wrong. If +my life ain't more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span> important than gramaw's, with hers all lived, all +right. Go ahead!"</p> + +<p>"Selene, Selene, ain't it coming to gramaw, after all her years' hard +work helping us that—she should be entitled to go back with her wreaths +for the graves? Ain't she entitled to die with that off her poor old +mind? You bad, ungrateful girl, you, it's coming to a poor old woman +that's suffered as terrible as gramaw that I should find a way to take +her back."</p> + +<p>"Take her back. Where—to jail? To prison in Siberia herself—"</p> + +<p>"There's a way—"</p> + +<p>"You know gramaw's too old to take a trip like that. You know in your +own heart she won't ever see that day. Even before the war, much less +now, there wasn't a chance for her to get passports back there. I don't +say it ain't all right to kid her along, but when it comes to—to +keeping me out of the—the biggest thing that can happen to a girl—when +gramaw wouldn't know the difference if you keep showing her the +bank-book—it ain't right. That's what it ain't. It ain't right!"</p> + +<p>In the smallest possible compass, Miss Coblenz crouched now upon the +floor, head down somewhere in her knees, and her curving back racked +with rising sobs.</p> + +<p>"Selene—but some day—"</p> + +<p>"Some day nothing! A woman like gramaw can't do much more than go +down-town once a year, and then you talk about taking her to Russia! You +can't get in there, I—tell you—no way you try to fix it after—the way +gramaw—had—to leave. Even before the war, Ray Letsky's father couldn't +get back on business. There's nothing for her there even after she gets +there. In thirty years do you think you can find those graves? Do you +know the size of Siberia? No! But I got to pay—I got to pay for +gramaw's nonsense. But I won't. I won't go to Lester, if I can't go +right. I—"</p> + +<p>"Baby, don't cry so—for God's sake don't cry so!</p> + +<p>"I wish I was dead."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Sh-h-h—you'll wake gramaw."</p> + +<p>"I do!"</p> + +<p>"O God, help me to do the right thing!"</p> + +<p>"If gramaw could understand, she'd be the first one to tell you the +right thing. Anybody would."</p> + +<p>"No! No! That little bank-book and its entries are her life—her life."</p> + +<p>"She don't need to know, mamma. I'm not asking that. That's the way they +always do with old people to keep them satisfied. Just humor 'em. Ain't +I the one with life before me—ain't I, mamma?"</p> + +<p>"O God, show me the way!"</p> + +<p>"If there was a chance, you think I'd be spoiling things for gramaw? But +there ain't, mamma—not one."</p> + +<p>"I keep hoping if not before, then after the war. With the help of Mark +Haas—"</p> + +<p>"With the book in her drawer like always, and the entries changed once +in a while, she'll never know the difference. I swear to God she'll +never know the difference, mamma!"</p> + +<p>"Poor gramaw!"</p> + +<p>"Mamma, promise me—your little Selene. Promise me?"</p> + +<p>"Selene, Selene, can we keep it from her?"</p> + +<p>"I swear we can, mamma."</p> + +<p>"Poor, poor gramaw!"</p> + +<p>"Mamma? Mamma darling?"</p> + +<p>"O God, show me the way!"</p> + +<p>"Ain't it me that's got life before me? My whole life?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—Selene."</p> + +<p>"Then, mamma, please—you will—you will—darling?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Selene."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>In a large, all-frescoed, seventy-five dollars an evening with lights +and cloak-room service ballroom of the Hotel Walsingham, a family +hostelry in that family circle of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span> St. Louis known as its West End, the +city holds not a few of its charity-whists and benefit musicales; on a +dais which can be carried in for the purpose, morning readings of +"Little Moments from Little Plays," and with the introduction of a +throne-chair, the monthly lodge-meetings of the Lady Mahadharatas of +America. For weddings and receptions, a lane of red carpet leads up to +the slight dais; and, lined about the brocade and paneled walls, +gilt-and-brocade chairs, with the crest of Walsingham in padded +embroidery on the backs. Crystal chandeliers, icicles of dripping light, +glow down upon a scene of parquet floor, draped velours, and mirrors +wreathed in gilt.</p> + +<p>At Miss Selene Coblenz's engagement reception, an event properly +festooned with smilax and properly jostled with the elbowing figures of +waiters tilting their plates of dark-meat chicken salad, two olives, and +a finger-roll in among the crowd, a stringed three-piece orchestra, +faintly seen and still more faintly heard, played into the babel.</p> + +<p>Light, glitteringly filtered through the glass prisms, flowed down upon +the dais; upon Miss Selene Coblenz, in a taffeta that wrapped her flat +waist and chest like a calyx and suddenly bloomed into the full inverted +petals of a skirt; upon Mr. Lester Goldmark, his long body barely +knitted yet to man's estate, and his complexion almost clear, standing +omnivorous, omnipotent, omnipresent, his hair so well brushed that it +lay like black japanning, a white carnation at his silk lapel, and his +smile slightly projected by a rush of very white teeth to the very +front. Next in line, Mrs. Coblenz, the red of a fervent moment high in +her face, beneath the maroon-net bodice the swell of her bosom fast, and +her white-gloved hands constantly at the opening and shutting of a +lace-and-spangled fan. Back, and well out of the picture, a potted +hydrangea beside the Louis Quinze armchair, her hands in silk mitts laid +out along the gold-chair sides, her head quavering in a kind of mild +palsy, Mrs. Miriam Horowitz, smiling and quivering her state of +bewilderment.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span></p> + +<p>With an unfailing propensity to lay hold of to whomsoever he spake, Mr. +Lester Goldmark placed his white-gloved hand upon the white-gloved arm +of Mrs. Coblenz.</p> + +<p>"Say, mother Coblenz, ain't it about time this little girl of mine was +resting her pink-satin double A's? She's been on duty up here from four +to seven. No wonder uncle Mark bucked."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Coblenz threw her glance out over the crowded room, surging with a +wave of plumes and clipped heads like a swaying bucket of water which +crowds but does not lap over its sides.</p> + +<p>"I guess the crowd is finished coming in by now. You tired, Selene?"</p> + +<p>Miss Coblenz turned her glowing glance.</p> + +<p>"Tired! This is the swellest engagement-party I ever had."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Coblenz shifted her weight from one slipper to the other, her +maroon-net skirts lying in a swirl around them.</p> + +<p>"Just look at gramaw, too! She holds up her head with the best of them. +I wouldn't have had her miss this, not for the world."</p> + +<p>"Sure one fine old lady! Ought to have seen her shake my hand, mother +Coblenz. I nearly had to holler, 'Ouch!'"</p> + +<p>"Mamma, here comes Sara Suss and her mother. Take my arm, Lester honey. +People mamma used to know." Miss Coblenz leaned forward beyond the dais +with the frail curve of a reed.</p> + +<p>"Howdado, Mrs. Suss.... Thank you. Thanks. Howdado, Sara. Meet my +<i>fiancé</i>, Lester Haas Goldmark; Mrs. Suss and Sara Suss, my <i>fiancé</i>.... +That's right; better late than never. There's plenty left.... We think +he is, Mrs. Suss. Aw, Lester honey, quit! Mamma, here's Mrs. Suss and +Sadie."</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Suss! Say—if you hadn't come, I was going to lay it up against +you. If my new ones can come on a day like this, it's a pity my old +friends can't come, too.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, Sadie, it's your turn next, eh?... I know better than that. With +them pink cheeks and black eyes, I wish I had a dime for every chance." +(<i>Sotto.</i>) "Do you like it, Mrs. Suss? Pussy-willow taffeta.... Say, it +ought to be. An estimate dress from Madame Murphy—sixty-five with +findings. I'm so mad, Sara, you and your mamma couldn't come to the +house that night to see her things. If I say so myself, Mrs. Suss, +everybody who seen it says Jacob Sinsheimer's daughter herself didn't +have a finer. Maybe not so much, but every stitch, Mrs. Suss, made by +the same sisters in the same convent that made hers.... Towels! I tell +her it's a shame to expose them to the light, much less wipe on them. +Ain't it?... The goodness looks out from his face. And such a love-pair! +Lunatics, I call them. He can't keep his hands off. It ain't nice, I +tell him.... Me? Come close. I dyed the net myself. Ten cents' worth of +maroon color. Don't it warm your heart, Mrs. Suss? This morning, after +we got her in Lester's uncle Mark's big automobile, I says to her, I +says, 'Mamma, you sure it ain't too much.' Like her old self for a +minute, Mrs. Suss, she hit me on the arm. 'Go 'way,' she said, 'on my +grandchild's engagement-day anything should be too much? Here, waiter, +get these two ladies some salad. Good measure, too. Over there by the +window, Mrs. Suss. Help yourselves."</p> + +<p>"Mamma, sh-h-h, the waiters know what to do."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Coblenz turned back, the flush warm to her face.</p> + +<p>"Say, for an old friend, I can be my own self."</p> + +<p>"Can we break the receiving-line now, Lester honey, and go down with +everybody? The Sinsheimers and their crowd over there by themselves, we +ought to show we appreciate their coming."</p> + +<p>Mr. Goldmark twisted high in his collar, cupping her small bare elbow in +his hand.</p> + +<p>"That's what I say, lovey; let's break. Come, mother Coblenz, let's step +down on high society's corns."</p> + +<p>"Lester!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You and Selene go down with the crowd, Lester. I want to take gramaw to +rest for a while before we go home. The manager says we can have room +fifty-six by the elevator for her to rest in."</p> + +<p>"Get her some newspapers, ma, and I brought her a wreath down to keep +her quiet. It's wrapped in her shawl."</p> + +<p>Her skirts delicately lifted, Miss Coblenz stepped down off the dais. +With her cloud of gauze scarf enveloping her, she was like a +tulle-clouded "Springtime," done in the key of Botticelli.</p> + +<p>"Oop-si-lah, lovey-dovey!" said Mr. Goldmark, tilting her elbow for the +downward step.</p> + +<p>"Oop-si-lay, dovey-lovey!" said Miss Coblenz, relaxing to the support.</p> + +<p>Gathering up her plentiful skirts, Mrs. Coblenz stepped off, too, but +back toward the secluded chair beside the potted hydrangea. A fine line +of pain, like a cord tightening, was binding her head, and she put up +two fingers to each temple, pressing down the throb.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Coblenz, see what I got for you!" She turned, smiling. "You don't +look like you need salad and green ice-cream. You look like you needed +what I wanted—a cup of coffee."</p> + +<p>"Aw, Mr. Haas—now where in the world—aw, Mr. Haas!"</p> + +<p>With a steaming cup outheld and carefully out of collision with the +crowd, Mr. Haas unflapped a napkin with his free hand, inserting his +foot in the rung of a chair and dragging it toward her.</p> + +<p>"Now," he cried, "sit and watch me take care of you!"</p> + +<p>There comes a tide in the affairs of men when the years lap softly, +leaving no particular inundations on the celebrated sands of time. +Between forty and fifty, that span of years which begin the first slight +gradations from the apex of life, the gray hair, upstanding like a +thick-bristled brush off Mr. Haas's brow, had not so much as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span> whitened, +or the slight paunchiness enhanced even the moving-over of a button. +When Mr. Haas smiled, his mustache, which ended in a slight but not +waxed flourish, lifted to reveal a white-and-gold smile of the artistry +of careful dentistry, and when, upon occasion, he threw back his head to +laugh, the roof of his mouth was his own.</p> + +<p>He smiled now, peering through gold-rimmed spectacles attached by a +chain to a wire-encircled left ear.</p> + +<p>"Sit," he cried, "and let me serve you!"</p> + +<p>Standing there with a diffidence which she could not crowd down, Mrs. +Coblenz smiled through closed lips that would pull at the corners.</p> + +<p>"The idea, Mr. Haas—going to all that trouble!"</p> + +<p>"'Trouble,' she says! After two hours hand-shaking in a swallowtail, a +man knows what real trouble is!"</p> + +<p>She stirred around and around the cup, supping up spoonfuls gratefully.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure much obliged. It touches the right spot."</p> + +<p>He pressed her down to the chair, seating himself on the low edge of the +dais.</p> + +<p>"Now you sit right here and rest your bones."</p> + +<p>"But my mother, Mr. Haas. Before it's time for the ride home, she must +rest in a quiet place."</p> + +<p>"My car'll be here and waiting five minutes after I telephone."</p> + +<p>"You—sure have been grand, Mr. Haas!"</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't be grand yet to my—let's see what relation is it I am to +you?"</p> + +<p>"Honest, you're a case, Mr. Haas—always making fun!"</p> + +<p>"My poor dead sister's son marries your daughter. That makes you +my—nothing-in-law."</p> + +<p>"Honest, Mr. Haas, if I was around you, I'd get fat laughing."</p> + +<p>"I wish you was."</p> + +<p>"Selene would have fits. 'Never get fat, mamma,' <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span>she says, 'if you +don't want——'"</p> + +<p>"I don't mean that."</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"I mean I wish you was around me."</p> + +<p>She struck him then with her fan, but the color rose up into the mound +of her carefully piled hair.</p> + +<p>"I always say I can see where Lester gets his comical ways. Like his +uncle, that boy keeps us all laughing."</p> + +<p>"Gad, look at her blush! I know women your age would give fifty dollars +a blush to do it that way."</p> + +<p>She was looking away again, shoulders heaving to silent laughter, the +blush still stinging.</p> + +<p>"It's been so—so long, Mr. Haas, since I had compliments made to +me—you make me feel so—silly."</p> + +<p>"I know it, you nice, fine woman, you, and it's a darn shame!"</p> + +<p>"Mr.—Haas!"</p> + +<p>"I mean it. I hate to see a fine woman not get her dues. Anyways, when +she's the finest woman of them all!"</p> + +<p>"I—the woman that lives to see a day like this—her daughter the +happiest girl in the world with the finest boy in the world—is getting +her dues all right, Mr. Haas."</p> + +<p>"She's a fine girl, but she ain't worth her mother's little finger +nail."</p> + +<p>"Mr.—Haas!"</p> + +<p>"No, sir-ee!"</p> + +<p>"I must be going now, Mr. Haas—my mother—"</p> + +<p>"That's right. The minute a man tries to break the ice with this little +lady, it's a freeze-out. Now, what did I say so bad? In business, too. +Never seen the like. It's like trying to swat a fly to come down on you +at the right minute. But now, with you for a nothing-in-law, I got +rights."</p> + +<p>"If—you ain't the limit, Mr. Haas!"</p> + +<p>"Don't mind saying it, Mrs. C., and, for a bachelor, they tell me I'm +not the worst judge in the world, but there's not a woman on the floor +stacks up like you do."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well—of all things!"</p> + +<p>"Mean it."</p> + +<p>"My mother, Mr. Haas, she—"</p> + +<p>"And if anybody should ask you if I've got you on my mind or not, well +I've already got the letters out on that little matter of the passports +you spoke to me about. If there's a way to fix that up for you, and +leave it to me to find it, I—"</p> + +<p>She sprang now, trembling, to her feet, all the red of the moment +receding.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Haas, I—I must go now. My—mother—"</p> + +<p>He took her arm, winding her in and out among crowded-out chairs behind +the dais.</p> + +<p>"I wish it to every mother to have a daughter like you, Mrs. C."</p> + +<p>"No! No!" she said, stumbling rather wildly through the chairs. "No! No! +No!"</p> + +<p>He forged ahead, clearing her path of them.</p> + +<p>Beside the potted hydrangea, well back and yet within an easy view, Mrs. +Horowitz, her gilt armchair well cushioned for the occasion, and her +black grenadine spread decently about her, looked out upon the scene, +her slightly palsied head well forward.</p> + +<p>"Mamma, you got enough? You wouldn't have missed it, eh? A crowd of +people we can be proud to entertain, not? Come; sit quiet in another +room for a while, and then Mr. Haas, with his nice big car, will drive +us all home again. You know Mr. Haas, dearie—Lester's uncle that had us +drove so careful in his fine big car. You remember, dearie—Lester's +uncle?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Horowitz looked up, her old face cracking to smile.</p> + +<p>"My grandchild! My grandchild! She'm a fine one. Not? My grandchild! My +grandchild!"</p> + +<p>"You—mustn't mind, Mr. Haas. That's—the way she's done since—since +she's—sick. Keeps repeating—"</p> + +<p>"My grandchild! From a good mother and a bad<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span> father comes a good +grandchild. My grandchild! She'm a good one. My—"</p> + +<p>"Mamma, dearie, Mr. Haas is in a hurry. He's come to help me walk you +into a little room to rest before we go home in Mr. Haas's big fine +auto. Where you can go and rest, mamma, and read the newspapers. Come."</p> + +<p>"My back—<i>ach</i>—my back!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, mamma; we'll fix it. Up! So—la!"</p> + +<p>They raised her by the crook of each arm, gently.</p> + +<p>"So! Please, Mr. Haas, the pillows. Shawl. There!"</p> + +<p>Around a rear hallway, they were almost immediately into a blank, +staring hotel bedroom, fresh towels on the furniture-tops only enhancing +its staleness.</p> + +<p>"Here we are. Sit her here, Mr. Haas, in this rocker."</p> + +<p>They lowered her almost inch by inch, sliding down pillows against the +chair-back.</p> + +<p>"Now, Shila's little mamma, want to sleep?"</p> + +<p>"I got—no rest—no rest."</p> + +<p>"You're too excited, honey, that's all."</p> + +<p>"No rest."</p> + +<p>"Here—here's a brand-new hotel Bible on the table, dearie. Shall Shila +read it to you?"</p> + +<p>"Aylorff—"</p> + +<p>"Now, now, mamma. Now, now; you mustn't! Didn't you promise Shila? Look! +See, here's a wreath wrapped in your shawl for Shila's little mamma to +work on. Plenty of wreaths for us to take back. Work awhile, dearie, and +then we'll get Selene and Lester, and, after all the nice company goes +away, we'll go home in the auto."</p> + +<p>"I begged he should keep in his hate—his feet in the——"</p> + +<p>"I know! The papers. That's what little mamma wants. Mr. Haas, that's +what she likes better than anything—the evening papers."</p> + +<p>"I'll go down and send 'em right up with a boy, and telephone for the +car. The crowd's beginning to pour<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span> out now. Just hold your horses +there, Mrs. C., and I'll have those papers up here in a jiffy."</p> + +<p>He was already closing the door after him, letting in and shutting out a +flare of music.</p> + +<p>"See, mamma, nice Mr. Haas is getting us the papers. Nice evening papers +for Shila's mamma." She leaned down into the recesses of the black +grenadine, withdrawing from one of the pockets a pair of silver-rimmed +spectacles, adjusting them with some difficulty to the nodding head. +"Shila's—little mamma! Shila's mamma!"</p> + +<p>"Aylorff, the littlest wreath for—Aylorff—<i>Meine Kräntze</i>—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes."</p> + +<p>"<i>Mein Mann. Mein Sühn.</i>"</p> + +<p>"Ssh-h-h, dearie!"</p> + +<p>"Aylorff—<i>der klenste Kranz far ihm</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Ssh-h-h, dearie—talk English, like Selene wants. Wait till we get on +the ship—the beautiful ship to take us back. Mamma, see out the window! +Look! That's the beautiful Forest Park, and this is the fine Hotel +Walsingham just across—see out—Selene is going to have a flat on—"</p> + +<p>"<i>Sey hoben gestorben far Freiheit. Sey hoben</i>—"</p> + +<p>"There, that's the papers!"</p> + +<p>To a succession of quick knocks, she flew to the door, returning with +the folded evening editions under her arm.</p> + +<p>"Now," she cried, unfolding and inserting the first of them into the +quivering hands, "now, a shawl over my little mamma's knees and we're +fixed!"</p> + +<p>With a series of rapid movements, she flung open one of the +black-cashmere shawls across the bed, folding it back into a triangle. +Beside the table, bare except for the formal, unthumbed Bible, Mrs. +Horowitz rattled out her paper, her near-sighted eyes traveling back and +forth across the page.</p> + +<p>Music from the ferned-in orchestra came in drifts, faint, not so faint. +From somewhere, then immediately<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span> from everywhere, beyond, below, +without, the fast shouts of newsboys mingling.</p> + +<p>Suddenly and of her own volition, and with a cry that shot up through +the room, rending it like a gash, Mrs. Horowitz, who moved by inches, +sprang to her supreme height, her arms, the crooks forced out, flung up.</p> + +<p>"My darlings—what died—for it! My darlings what died for it—my +darlings—Aylorff—my husband!" There was a wail rose up off her words, +like the smoke of incense curling, circling around her. "My darlings +what died to make free!"</p> + +<p>"Mamma—darling—mamma—Mr. Haas! Help! Mamma! My God!"</p> + +<p>"Aylorff—my husband—I paid with my blood to make free—my blood—my +son—my—own—" Immovable there, her arms flung up and tears so heavy +that they rolled whole from her face down to the black grenadine, she +was as sonorous as the tragic meter of an Alexandrian line; she was like +Ruth, ancestress of heroes and progenitor of kings. "My boy—my +own—they died for it! <i>Mein Mann! Mein Sühn!</i>"</p> + +<p>On her knees, frantic to press her down once more into the chair, +terrified at the rigid immobility of the upright figure, Mrs. Coblenz +paused then, too, her clasp falling away, and leaned forward to the open +sheet of the newspaper, its black headlines facing her:</p> + +<p class="c">RUSSIA FREE</p> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">bans down<br /> +100,000 siberian prisoners liberated</span> +</p> + +<p>In her ears a ringing silence, as if a great steel disk had clattered +down into the depths of her consciousness. There on her knees, trembling +seized her, and she hugged herself against it, leaning forward to +corroborate her gaze.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span></p> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">most rigid autocracy in the world<br /> +overthrown</span></p> + +<p class="c">RUSSIA REJOICES</p> + +<p>"Mamma! Mamma! My God, Mamma!"</p> + +<p>"Home, Shila; home! My husband who died for it—Aylorff! Home now, +quick! My wreaths! My wreaths!"</p> + +<p>"O my God, Mamma!"</p> + +<p>"Home!"</p> + +<p>"Yes—darling—yes—"</p> + +<p>"My wreaths!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, darling; your wreaths. Let—let me think. Freedom!—O my God, +help me to find a way! O my God!"</p> + +<p>"My wreaths!"</p> + +<p>"Here—darling—here!"</p> + +<p>From the floor beside her, the raffia wreath half in the making, Mrs. +Coblenz reached up, pressing it flat to the heaving old bosom.</p> + +<p>"There, darling, there!"</p> + +<p>"I paid with my blood—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, mamma; you—paid with your blood. Mamma—sit, please. Sit +and—let's try to think. Take it slow, darling—it's like we can't take +it in all at once. I—we—sit down, darling. You'll make yourself +terrible sick. Sit down, darling, you—you're slipping."</p> + +<p>"My wreaths—"</p> + +<p>Heavily, the arm at the waist gently sustaining, Mrs. Horowitz sank +rather softly down, her eyelids fluttering for the moment. A smile had +come out on her face, and, as her head sank back against the rest, the +eyes resting at the downward flutter, she gave out a long breath, not +taking it in again.</p> + +<p>"Mamma! You're fainting!" She leaned to her, shaking the relaxed figure +by the elbows, her face almost touching the tallowlike one with the +smile lying so deeply<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span> into it. "Mamma! My God, darling, wake up! I'll +take you back. I'll find a way to take you. I'm a bad girl, darling, but +I'll find a way to take you. I'll take you if—if I kill for it. I +promise before God I'll take you. To-morrow—now—nobody can keep me +from taking you. The wreaths, mamma! Get ready the wreaths! Mamma, +darling, wake up. Get ready the wreaths! The wreaths!" Shaking at that +quiet form, sobs that were full of voice, tearing raw from her throat, +she fell to kissing the sunken face, enclosing it, stroking it, holding +her streaming gaze closely and burningly against the closed lids. +"Mamma, I swear to God I'll take you! Answer me, mamma! The +bank-book—you've got it! Why don't you wake up—mamma? Help!"</p> + +<p>Upon that scene, the quiet of the room so raucously lacerated, burst Mr. +Haas, too breathless for voice.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Haas my mother—help—my mother! It's a faint, ain't it? A faint?"</p> + +<p>He was beside her at two bounds, feeling of the limp wrists, laying his +ear to the grenadine bosom, lifting the reluctant lids, touching the +flesh that yielded so to touch.</p> + +<p>"It's a faint, ain't it, Mr. Haas? Tell her I'll take her back. Wake her +up, Mr. Haas! Tell her I'm a bad girl, but I—I'm going to take her +back. Now! Tell her! Tell her, Mr. Haas, I've got the bank-book. Please! +Please! O my God!"</p> + +<p>He turned to her, his face working to keep down compassion.</p> + +<p>"We must get a doctor, little lady."</p> + +<p>She threw out an arm.</p> + +<p>"No! No! I see! My old mother—my old mother—all her life a nobody—she +helped—she gave it to them—my mother—a poor little widow nobody—she +bought with her blood that freedom—she—"</p> + +<p>"God, I just heard it downstairs—it's the tenth wonder of the world. +It's too big to take in. I was afraid—"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mamma darling, I tell you, wake up! I'm a bad girl, but I'll take you +back. Tell her, Mr. Haas, I'll take her back. Wake up, darling! I swear +to God—I'll take you!"</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Coblenz, my—poor little lady—your mother don't need you to take +her back. She's gone back where—where she wants to be. Look at her +face, little lady; can't you see she's gone back?"</p> + +<p>"No! No! Let me go. Let me touch her. No! No! Mamma darling!"</p> + +<p>"Why, there wasn't a way, little lady, you could have fixed it for that +poor—old body. She's beyond any of the poor fixings we could do for +her. You never saw her face like that before. Look!"</p> + +<p>"The wreaths—- the wreaths!"</p> + +<p>He picked up the raffia circle, placing it back again against the quiet +bosom.</p> + +<p>"Poor little lady!" he said. "Shila—that's left for us to do. You and +me, Shila—we'll take the wreaths back for her."</p> + +<p>"My darling—my darling mother! I'll take them back for you! I'll take +them back for you!"</p> + +<p>"<i>We'll</i> take them back for her—Shila."</p> + +<p>"I'll—"</p> + +<p>"<i>We'll</i> take them back for her—Shila."</p> + +<p>"<i>We'll</i> take them back for you, mamma. We'll take them back for you, +darling!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_STRANGE-LOOKING_MAN15" id="THE_STRANGE-LOOKING_MAN15"></a>THE STRANGE-LOOKING MAN<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Pagan</i></p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">A tiny</span> village lay among the mountains of a country from which for four +years the men had gone forth to fight. First the best men had gone, then +the older men, then the youths, and lastly the school boys. It will be +seen that no men could have been left in the village except the very +aged, and the bodily incapacitated, who soon died, owing to the war +policy of the Government which was to let the useless perish that there +might be more food for the useful.</p> + +<p>Now it chanced that while all the men went away, save those left to die +of slow starvation, only a few returned, and these few were crippled and +disfigured in various ways. One young man had only part of a face, and +had to wear a painted tin mask, like a holiday-maker. Another had two +legs but no arms, and another two arms but no legs. One man could +scarcely be looked at by his own mother, having had his eyes burned out +of his head until he stared like Death. One had neither arms nor legs, +and was mad of his misery besides, and lay all day in a cradle like a +baby. And there was a quite old man who strangled night and day from +having sucked in poison-gas; and another, a mere boy, who shook, like a +leaf in a high wind, from shell-shock, and screamed at a sound. And he +too had lost a hand, and part of his face, though not enough to warrant +the expense of a mask for him.</p> + +<p>All these men, except he who had been crazed by horror of himself, had +been furnished with ingenious appliances to enable them to be partly +self-supporting, and to earn enough to pay their share of the taxes +which burdened their defeated nation.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span></p> + +<p>To go through that village after the war was something like going +through a life-sized toy-village with all the mechanical figures wound +up and clicking. Only instead of the figures being new, and gay, and +pretty, they were battered and grotesque and inhuman.</p> + +<p>There would be the windmill, and the smithy, and the public house. There +would be the row of cottages, the village church, the sparkling +waterfall, the parti-colored fields spread out like bright kerchiefs on +the hillsides, the parading fowl, the goats and cows,—though not many +of these last. There would be the women, and with them some children; +very few, however, for the women had been getting reasonable, and were +now refusing to have sons who might one day be sent back to them +limbless and mad, to be rocked in cradles—for many years, perhaps.</p> + +<p>Still the younger women, softer creatures of impulse, had borne a child +or two. One of these, born the second year of the war, was a very blonde +and bullet-headed rascal of three, with a bullying air, and of a roving +disposition. But such traits appear engaging in children of sufficiently +tender years, and he was a sort of village plaything, here, there, and +everywhere, on the most familiar terms with the wrecks of the war which +the Government of that country had made.</p> + +<p>He tried on the tin mask and played with the baker's mechanical leg, so +indulgent were they of his caprices; and it amused him excessively to +rock the cradle of the man who had no limbs, and who was his father.</p> + +<p>In and out he ran, and was humored to his bent. To one he seemed the son +he had lost, to another the son he might have had, had the world gone +differently. To others he served as a brief escape from the shadow of a +future without hope; to others yet, the diversion of an hour. This last +was especially true of the blind man who sat at the door of his old +mother's cottage binding brooms. The presence of the child seemed to him +like a warm ray of sunshine falling across his hand, and he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span> would lure +him to linger by letting him try on the great blue goggles which he +found it best to wear in public. But no disfigurement or deformity +appeared to frighten the little fellow. These had been his playthings +from earliest infancy.</p> + +<p>One morning, his mother, being busy washing clothes, had left him alone, +confident that he would soon seek out some friendly fragment of soldier, +and entertain himself till noon and hunger-time. But occasionally +children have odd notions, and do the exact opposite of what one +supposes.</p> + +<p>On this brilliant summer morning the child fancied a solitary ramble +along the bank of the mountain-stream. Vaguely he meant to seek a pool +higher up, and to cast stones in it. He wandered slowly straying now and +then into small valleys, or chasing wayside ducks. It was past ten +before he gained the green-gleaming and foam-whitened pool, sunk in the +shadow of a tall gray rock over whose flat top three pine-trees swayed +in the fresh breeze. Under them, looking to the child like a white cloud +in a green sky, stood a beautiful young man, poised on the sheer brink +for a dive. A single instant he stood there, clad only in shadow and +sunshine, the next he had dived so expertly that he scarcely splashed up +the water around him. Then his dark, dripping head rose in sight, his +glittering arm thrust up, and he swam vigorously to shore. He climbed +the rock for another dive. These actions he repeated in pure sport and +joy in life so often that his little spectator became dizzy with +watching.</p> + +<p>At length he had enough of it and stooped for his discarded garments. +These he carried to a more sheltered spot and rapidly put on, the child +still wide-eyed and wondering, for indeed he had much to occupy his +attention.</p> + +<p>He had two arms, two legs, a whole face with eyes, nose, mouth, chin, +and ears, complete. He could see, for he had glanced about him as he +dressed. He could speak, for he sang loudly. He could hear, for he had +turned quickly at the whir of pigeon-wings behind him. His<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</a></span> skin was +smooth all over, and nowhere on it were the dark scarlet maps which the +child found so interesting on the arms, face, and breast of the burned +man. He did not strangle every little while, or shiver madly, and scream +at a sound. It was truly inexplicable, and therefore terrifying.</p> + +<p>The child was beginning to whimper, to tremble, to look wildly about for +his mother, when the young man observed him.</p> + +<p>"<i>Hullo!</i>" he cried eagerly, "if it isn't a child!"</p> + +<p>He came forward across the foot-bridge with a most ingratiating smile, +for this was the first time that day he had seen a child and he had been +thinking it remarkable that there should be so few children in a valley, +where, when he had travelled that way five years before, there had been +so many he had scarcely been able to find pennies for them. So he cried +"Hullo," quite joyously, and searched in his pockets.</p> + +<p>But, to his amazement, the bullet-headed little blond boy screamed out +in terror, and fled for protection into the arms of a hurriedly +approaching young woman. She embraced him with evident relief, and was +lavishing on him terms of scolding and endearment in the same breath, +when the traveler came up, looking as if his feelings were hurt.</p> + +<p>"I assure you, Madam," said he, "that I only meant to give your little +boy these pennies." He examined himself with an air of wonder. "What on +earth is there about me to frighten a child?" he queried plaintively.</p> + +<p>The young peasant-woman smiled indulgently on them both, on the child +now sobbing, his face buried in her skirt, and on the boyish, perplexed, +and beautiful young man.</p> + +<p>"It is because he finds the Herr Traveler so strange-looking," she said, +curtsying. "He is quite small," she showed his smallness with a gesture, +"and it is the first time he has even seen a whole man."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_CALLER_IN_THE_NIGHT16" id="THE_CALLER_IN_THE_NIGHT16"></a>THE CALLER IN THE NIGHT<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> BURTON KLINE</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Stratford Journal</i></p> + + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> the side of a road which wanders in company of a stream across a +region of Pennsylvania farmland that is called "Paradise" because of its +beauty, you may still mark the ruins of a small brick cabin in the +depths of a grove. In summertime ivy drapes its jagged fragments and the +pile might be lost to notice but that at dusk the trembling leaves of +the vine have a way of whispering to the nerves of your horse and +setting them too in a tremble. And the people in the village beyond have +a belief that three troubled human beings lie buried under those ruins, +and that at night, or in a storm, they sometimes cry aloud in their +unrest.</p> + +<p>The village is Bustlebury, and its people have a legend that on a +memorable night there was once disclosed to a former inhabitant the +secret of that ivied sepulchre.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>All the afternoon the two young women had chattered in the parlor, +cooled by the shade of the portico, and lost to the heat of the day, to +the few sounds of the village, to the passing hours themselves. Then of +a sudden Mrs. Pollard was recalled to herself at the necessity of +closing her front windows against a gust of wind that blew the curtains, +like flapping flags, into the room.</p> + +<p>"Sallie, we're going to get it again," she said, pausing for a glance at +the horizon before she lowered the sash.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Get what?" Her visitor walked to the other front window and stooped to +peer out.</p> + +<p>Early evening clouds were drawing a black cap over the fair face of the +land.</p> + +<p>"I think we're going to have some more of Old Screamer Moll this +evening. I knew we should, after this hot—"</p> + +<p>"There! Margie, that was the expression I've been trying to remember all +afternoon. You used it this morning. Where did you get such a poetic +nickname for a thunder—O-oh!"</p> + +<p>For a second, noon had returned to the two women. From their feet two +long streaks of black shadow darted back into the room, and vanished. +Overhead an octopus of lightning snatched the whole heavens in its +grasp, shook them, and disappeared.</p> + +<p>The two women screamed, and threw themselves on the sofa. Yet in a +minute it was clear that the world still rolled on, and each looked at +the other and laughed at her fright—till the prospect of an evening of +storm sobered them both.</p> + +<p>"Mercy!" Mrs. Pollard breathed in discouragement. "We're in for another +night of it. We've had this sort of thing for a week. And to-night of +all nights, when I wanted you to see this wonderful country under the +moon!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Pollard, followed by her guest, Mrs. Reeves, ventured to the window +timidly again, to challenge what part of the sky they could see from +under the great portico outside, and learn its portent for the night.</p> + +<p>An evil visage it wore—a swift change from a noon-day of beaming calm. +Now it was curtained completely with blue-black cloud, which sent out +mutterings, and then long brooding silences more ominous still in their +very concealment of the night's intentions.</p> + +<p>There was no defence against it but to draw down the blinds and shut out +this angry gloom in the glow of the lamps within. And, with a half hour +of such glow to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</a></span> cozen them, the two women were soon merry again over +their reminiscences, Mrs. Pollard at her embroidery, Mrs. Reeves at the +piano, strumming something from Chopin in the intervals of their +chatter.</p> + +<p>"The girl" fetched them their tea. "Five already!" Mrs. Pollard verified +the punctuality of her servant with a glance at the clock. "Then John +will be away for another night. I do hope he won't try to get back this +time. Night before last he left his assistant with a case, and raced his +horse ten miles in the dead of the night to get home," Mrs. Pollard +proudly reported, "for fear I'd be afraid in the storm."</p> + +<p>"And married four years!" Mrs. Reeves smilingly shook her head in +indulgence of such long-lived romance.</p> + +<p>In the midst of their cakes and tea the bell announced an impatient hand +at the door.</p> + +<p>"Well, 'speak of angels!'" Mrs. Pollard quoted, and flew to greet her +husband. But she opened the door upon smiling old Mr. Barber, instead, +from the precincts across the village street.</p> + +<p>Mr. Barber seemed to be embarrassed. "I—I rather thought you mought be +wanting something," he said in words. By intention he was making apology +for the night. "I saw the doctor drive away, but I haven't seen him come +back. So I—I thought I'd just run over and see—see if there wasn't +something you wanted." He laughed uneasily.</p> + +<p>Mr. Barber's transparent diplomacy having been rewarded with tea, they +all came at once to direct speech. "It ain't going to amount to much," +Mr. Barber insisted. "Better come out, you ladies, and have a look +around. It may rain a bit, but you'll feel easier if you come and get +acquainted with things, so to say." And gathering their resolution the +two women followed him out on the portico.</p> + +<p>They shuddered at what they saw.</p> + +<p>Night was at hand, two hours before its time. Nothing stirred, not a +vocal chord of hungry, puzzled,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</a></span> frightened chicken or cow. The whole +region seemed to have caught its breath, to be smothered under a pall of +stillness, unbroken except for some occasional distant earthquake of +thunder from the inverted Switzerland of cloud that hung pendant from +the sky.</p> + +<p>Mr. Barber's emotions finally ordered themselves into speech as he +watched. "Ain't it grand!" he said.</p> + +<p>The two women made no reply. They sat on the steps to the portico, their +arms entwined. The scene beat their more sophisticated intelligences +back into silence. Some minutes they all sat there together, and then +again Mr. Barber broke the spell.</p> + +<p>"It do look fearful, like. But you needn't be afraid. It's better to be +friends with it, you might say. And then go to bed and fergit it."</p> + +<p>They thanked him for his goodness, bade him good-by, and he clinked down +the flags of the walk and started across the street.</p> + +<p>He had got midway across when they all heard a startling sound, an +unearthly cry.</p> + +<p>It came out of the distance, and struck the stillness like a blow.</p> + +<p>"What is it? What is it, Margie?" Mrs. Reeves whispered excitedly.</p> + +<p>Faint and quavering at its beginning, the cry grew louder and more +shrill, and then died away, as the breath that made it ebbed and was +spent. It seemed as if this unusual night had found at last a voice +suited to its mood. Twice the cry was given, and then all was still as +before.</p> + +<p>At its first notes the muscles in Mrs. Pollard's arm had tightened. But +Mr. Barber had hastened back at once with reassurance.</p> + +<p>"I guess Mrs. Pollard knows what that is," he called to them from the +gate. "It's only our old friend Moll, that lives down there in the +notch. She gets lonesome, every thunderstorm, and let's it off like +that. It's only her rheumatiz, I reckon. We wouldn't feel easy ourselves +without them few kind words from old Moll!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</a></span></p> + +<p>The two women applauded as they could his effort toward humor. Then, +"Come on, Sallie, quick!" Mrs. Pollard cried to her guest, and the two +women bolted up the steps of the portico and flew like girls through the +door, which they quickly locked between themselves and the disquieting +night.</p> + +<p>Once safe within, relief from their nerves came at the simple effort of +laughter, and an hour later, when it was clear that the stars still held +to their courses, the two ladies were at their ease again, beneath the +lamp on the table, with speech and conversation to provide an escape +from thought. The night seemed to cool its high temper as the hours wore +on, and gradually the storm allowed itself to be forgotten.</p> + +<p>Together, at bed time, the two made their tour of the house, locking the +windows and doors, and visiting the pantry on the way for an apple. +Outside all was truly calm and still, as, with mock and exaggerated +caution, they peered through one last open window. A periodic, lazy +flash from the far distance was all that the sky could muster of its +earlier wrath. And they tripped upstairs and to bed, with that hilarity +which always attends the feminine pursuit of repose.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>But in the night they were awakened.</p> + +<p>Not for nothing, after all, had the skies marshalled that afternoon +array of their forces. Now they were as terribly vociferous as they had +been terrifyingly still before. Leaves, that had drooped melancholy and +motionless in the afternoon, were whipped from their branches at the +snatch of the wind. The rain came down in a solid cataract. The thunder +was a steady bombardment, and the frolic powers above, that had toyed +and practised with soundless flashes in the afternoon, had grown wanton +at their sport, and hurled their electric shots at earth in appallingly +accurate marksmanship. Between the flashes from the sky, the steady +glare of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[Pg 370]</a></span> burning barn here and there reddened the blackness. The +village dead, under the pelted sod, must have shuddered at the din. Even +the moments of lull were saturate with terrors. In them rose audible the +roar of waters, the clatter of frightened animals, the rattle of gates, +the shouts of voices, the click of heels on the flags of the streets, as +the villagers hurried to the succor of neighbors fighting fires out on +the hills. For long afterward the tempest of that night was remembered. +For hours while it lasted, trees were toppled over, and houses rocked to +the blast.</p> + +<p>And for as long as it would, the rain beat in through an open window and +wetted the two women where they lay in their bed, afraid to stir, even +to help themselves, gripped in a paralysis of terror.</p> + +<p>Their nerves were not the more disposed to peace, either, by another +token of the storm. All through the night, since their waking, in +moments of stillness sufficient for it to be heard, they had caught that +cry of the late afternoon. Doggedly it asserted itself against the +uproar. It insisted upon being heard. It too wished to shriek +relievingly, like the inanimate night, and publish its sickness abroad. +They heard it far off, at first. But it moved, and came nearer. Once the +two women quaked when it came to them, shrill and clear, from a point +close at hand. But they bore its invasion along with the wind and the +rain, and lay shameless and numb in the rude arms of the night.</p> + +<p>They lay so till deliverance from the hideous spell came at last, in a +vigorous pounding at the front door.</p> + +<p>"It's John!" Mrs. Pollard cried in her joy. "And through such a storm!"</p> + +<p>She slipped from the bed, threw a damp blanket about her, and groped her +way out of the room and down the stair, her guest stumbling after. They +scarcely could fly fast enough down the dark steps. At the bottom Mrs. +Pollard turned brighter the dimly burning entry lamp,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[Pg 371]</a></span> shot back the +bolt with fingers barely able to grasp it in their eagerness, and threw +open the door.</p> + +<p>"John!" she cried.</p> + +<p>But there moved into the house the tall and thin but heavily framed +figure of an old woman, who peered about in confusion.</p> + +<p>In a flash of recognition Mrs. Pollard hurled herself against the +intruder to thrust her out.</p> + +<p>"No!" the woman said. "No, you will not, on such a night!" And the +apparition herself, looking with feverish curiosity at her unwilling +hostesses, slowly closed the door and leaned against it.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Pollard and her friend turned to fly, in a mad instinct to be +anywhere behind a locked door. Yet before the instinct could reach their +muscles, the unbidden visitor stopped them again.</p> + +<p>"No!" she said. "I am dying. Help me!"</p> + +<p>The two women turned, as if hypnotically obedient to her command. Their +tongues lay thick and dead in their mouths. They fell into each other's +arms, and their caller stood looking them over, with the same fevered +curiosity. Then she turned her deliberate scrutiny to the house itself.</p> + +<p>In a moment she almost reassured them with a first token of being human +and feminine. On the table by the stairs lay a book, and she went and +picked it up. "Fine!" she mused. Then her eye travelled over the +pictures on the walls. "Fine!" she said. "So this is the inside of a +fine house!" But suddenly, as her peering gaze returned to the two +women, she was recalled to herself. "But you wanted to put me out—on a +night like this! Hear it!"</p> + +<p>For a moment she looked at them in frank hatred. And on an impulse she +revenged herself upon them by sounding, in their very ears, the shrill +cry they had heard in the afternoon, and through the night, that had +mystified the villagers for years from the grove. The house<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[Pg 372]</a></span> rang with +it, and with the hard peal of laughter that finished it.</p> + +<p>All three of them stood there, for an instant, viewing each other. But +at the end of it the weakest of them was the partly sibylline, partly +mountebank intruder. She swayed back against the wall. Her head rolled +limply to one side, and she moaned, "O God, how tired I am to-night!"</p> + +<p>Frightened as they still were, their runaway hearts beating a tattoo +that was almost audible, the two other women made a move to support her. +But she waved them back with a suddenly returning air of command. "No!" +she said. "You wanted to put me out!"</p> + +<p>The creature wore some sort of thin skirt whose color had vanished in +the blue-black of its wetness. Over her head and shoulders was thrown a +ragged piece of shawl. From under it dangled strands of grizzled gray +hair. Her dark eyes were hidden in the shadows of her impromptu hood. +The hollows of her cheeks looked deeper in its shadows.</p> + +<p>She loosed the shawl from her head, and it dropped to the floor, +disclosing a face like one of the Fates. She folded her arms, and there +was a rude majesty in the massive figure and its bearing as she tried to +command herself and speak.</p> + +<p>"I come here—in this storm. Hear it! Hear that! I want shelter. I want +comfort. And what do you say to me!... Well, then I take comfort from +you. You thought I was your husband. You called his name. Well, I saw +him this afternoon. He drove out. I called to him from the roadside. +'Let me tell your fortune! Only fifty cent!' But he whipped up his horse +and drove away. You are all alike. But I see him now—in Woodman's +Narrows. It rains there, same as here. Thunder and lightning, same as +here. Trees fall. The wind blows. The wind blows!"</p> + +<p>The woman had tilted her head and fixed her eyes,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[Pg 373]</a></span> shining and eager, as +if on some invisible scene, and she half intoned her words as if in a +trance.</p> + +<p>"I see your husband now. His wagon is smashed by a tree. The horse is +dead. Your husband lies very still. He does not move. There!"—she +turned to them alert again to their presence—"there is the husband that +you want. If you don't believe me, all I say is, wait! He is there. You +will see!"</p> + +<p>She ended in a peal of laughter, which itself ended in a weary moan. +"Oh, why can't you help me!" She came toward them, her arms +outstretched. "<i>Don't</i> be afraid of me. I want a woman to know me—to +comfort me. I die to-night. It's calling me, outside. Don't you hear?...</p> + +<p>"Listen to me, you women!" she went on, and tried to smile, to gain +their favor. "I lied to you, to get even with you. You want your +husband. Well, I lied. He isn't dead. For all you tried to shut me out. +Do you never pity? Do you never help? O-oh—"</p> + +<p>Her hand traveled over her brow, and her eyes wandered.</p> + +<p>"No one knows what I need now! I got to tell it, I got to tell it! Hear +that?" There had been a louder and nearer crash outside. "That's my +warning. That says I got to tell it, before it's too late. No storm like +this for forty years—not since one night forty years ago. My God, that +night!" Another heavy rumble interrupted her. "Yes, yes!" she turned and +called. "I'll tell it! I promise!"</p> + +<p>She came toward her audience and said pleadingly, "Listen—even if it +frightens you. You've got to listen. That night, forty years ago"—she +peered about her cautiously—"I think—I think I hurt two people—hurt +them very bad. And ever since that night—"</p> + +<p>The two women had once again tried to fly away, but again she halted +them. "Listen! You have no right to run away. You got to comfort me! You +hear? Please, please, don't go."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[Pg 374]</a></span></p> + +<p>She smiled, and so seemed less ugly. What could her two auditors do but +cling to each other and hear her through, dumb and helpless beneath her +spell?</p> + +<p>"Only wait. I'll tell you quickly. Oh, I was not always like this. Once +I could talk—elegant too. I've almost forgotten now. But I never looked +like this then. I was not always ugly—no teeth—gray hair. Once I was +beautiful too. You laugh? But yes! Ah, I was young, and tall, and had +long black hair. I was Mollie, then. Mollie Morgan. That's the first +time I've said my name for years. But that's who I was. Ask Bruce—he +knows."</p> + +<p>She had fallen back against the wall again, her eyes roaming as she +remembered. Here she laughed. "But Bruce is dead these many years. He +was my dog." A long pause. "We played together. Among the flowers—in +the pretty cottage—under the vines. Not far from here. But all gone +now, all gone. Even the woods are gone—the woods where Bruce and I +hunted berries. And my mother!"</p> + +<p>Again the restless hands sought the face and covered it.</p> + +<p>"My mother! Almost as young as I. And how <i>she</i> could talk! A fine lady. +As fine as you. And oh, we had good times together. Nearly always. +Sometimes mother got angry—in a rage. She'd strike me, and say I was an +idiot like my father. The next minute she'd hug me, and cry, and beg me +to forgive her. It all comes back to me. Those were the days when she'd +bake a cake for supper—the days when she cried, and put on a black +dress. But mostly she wore the fine dresses—all bright, and soft, and +full of flowers. Oh, how she would dance about in those, sometimes. And +always laughed when I stared at her. And say I was Ned's girl to my +finger-tips. I never understood what she meant—then."</p> + +<p>The shrill speaker of a moment before had softened suddenly. The +creature of the woods sniffed eagerly this atmosphere of the house, and +faint vestiges of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[Pg 375]</a></span> former personage returned to her, summoned along +with the scene she had set herself to recall.</p> + +<p>"But oh, how good she was to me! And read to me. And taught me to read. +And careful of me? Ha! Never let me go alone to the village. Said I was +too good for such a place. Some day we would go back to the +world—whatever she meant by that. Said people there would clap the +hands when they saw me—more than they had clapped the hands for her. +Once she saw a young man walk along the road with me. Oh, how she beat +my head when I came home! Nearly killed me, she was so angry. Said I +mustn't waste myself on such trash. My mother—I never understood her +then.</p> + +<p>"She used to tell me stories—about New York, and Phil'delph. Many big +cities. There they applaud, and clap the hands, when my mother was a +queen, or a beggar girl, in the theatre, and make love and kill and +fight. Have grand supper in hotel afterward. And I'd ask my mother how +soon I too may be a queen. And she'd give me to learn the words they +say, and I'd say them. Then she'd clap me on the head again and tell me, +'Oh, you're Ned's girl. You're a blockhead, just like your father!' And +I'd say, 'Where is my father? Why does he never come?' And after that my +mother would always sit quiet, and never answer when I talked.</p> + +<p>"And then she'd be kind again, and make me proud, and tell me I'm a very +fine lady, and have fine blood. And she'd talk about the day when we'd +go back to the world, and she'd buy me pretty things to wear. But I +thought it was fine where we were—there in the cottage, I with the +flowers, and Bruce. In those days, yes," the woman sighed, and left them +to silence for a space,—for silent seemed the wind and rain, on the +breaking of her speech.</p> + +<p>A rumble from without started her on again.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes! I'm telling! I'll hurry. Then I grow big. Seventeen. My +mother call me her little giantess,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[Pg 376]</a></span> her handsome darling, her conceited +fool, all at the same time. I never understood my mother—then.</p> + +<p>"But then, one day, it came!"</p> + +<p>The woman pressed her fingers against her eyes, as if to shut out the +vision her mind was preparing.</p> + +<p>"Everything changed then. Everything was different. No more nights with +stories and books. No more about New York and Phil'delph. Never again.</p> + +<p>"I was out in the yard one day, on my knees, with the flowers. It was +Springtime, and I was digging and fixing. And I heard a horse's hoofs on +the road. A runaway, I thought at first. I stood up to look, and—" She +faltered, and then choked out, "I stood up to look, and the man came!" +And with the words came a crash that rocked the house.</p> + +<p>"Hear that!" the woman almost shrieked. "That's him—that's the man. I +hear him in every storm!...</p> + +<p>"He came," she went, more rapidly. "A tall man—fine—dressed in fine +clothes—brown hair—brown eyes! Oh, I often see those brown eyes. I +know what they are like. He came riding along the bye-road. When he +caught sight of my mother he almost fell from his horse. The horse +nearly fell, the man pulled him in so sharp. 'Good God!' the man said. +'Fanny! Is this where you are! Curse you, old girl, is this where you +are!' Funny, how I remember his words. And then he came in.</p> + +<p>"And he talked to my mother a long time. Then he looked round and said, +'So this is where you've crawled to!' And he petted Bruce. And then he +came to me, and looked into my face a long time, and said, 'So this is +his girl, eh? Fanny junior, down to the last eyelash! Come here, puss!' +he said. And I made a face at him. And he put his hands to his sides and +laughed and laughed at me. And he turned to my mother and said, 'Fanny, +Fanny, what a queen!' I thought he meant be a queen in the theatre. But +he meant something else. He came to me again, and squeezed me and +pressed his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[Pg 377]</a></span> face against mine. And my mother ran and snatched him away. +And I ran behind the house.</p> + +<p>"And by-and-by my mother came to find me, and said, 'Oho, my little +giantess! So here you are! What are you trembling for!' And she kicked +me. 'Take that!' she said.</p> + +<p>"And I didn't understand—not then. But I understand now.</p> + +<p>"Next day the man came again, and talked to my mother. But I saw him +look and look at me. And by-and-by he reached for my hand. And my mother +said, 'Stop that! None of that, my little George! One at a time, if you +please!' And he laughed and let me go. And they went out and sat on a +bench in the yard. And the man stroked my mother's hair. And I watched +and listened. They talked a long time till it was night. And I heard +George say, 'Well, Fanny, old girl, we did for him, all right, didn't +we?' I've always remembered it. And they laughed and they laughed. Then +the man said, 'God, how it does scare me, sometimes!' And my mother +laughed at him for that. And George said, 'Look what I've had to give +up. And you penned up here! But never mind. It will blow over. Then +we'll crawl back to the old world, eh, Fanny?'"</p> + +<p>All this the woman had rattled off like a child with a recitation, as +something learned long ago and long rehearsed against just this last +contingency of confession.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I remember it!" she said, as if her volubility needed an +explanation. "It took me a long time to understand. But one day I +understood.</p> + +<p>"He came often, then—George did. And I was not afraid of him any more. +He was fine, like my mother. Every time I saw him come my stomach would +give a jump. And I liked to have him put his face against mine, the way +I'd seen him do to mother. And every time he went away I'd watch him +from the hilltop till I couldn't see him any more. And at night I +couldn't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[Pg 378]</a></span> sleep. And George came very often—to see me, he told me, and +not my mother.</p> + +<p>"And my mother was changed then. She never hit me again, because George +said he'd kill her if she did. But she acted very strange when he told +her that, and looked and looked at me. And didn't speak to me for days +and days. But I didn't mind—I could talk to George. And we'd go for +long walks, and he'd tell me more about New York and Phil'delph—more +than my mother could tell. Oh, I loved to hear him talk. And he said +such nice things to me—such nice things to me! Bruce—I forgot all +about Bruce. Oh, I was happy!... But that was because I knew nothing....</p> + +<p>"Yes, I pleased George. But by-and-by he changed too. Then I couldn't +say anything that he liked. 'Stupid child!' he called me. I tried, ever +so hard, to please him. But it was like walking against a wind, that you +can't push aside. You women, you just guess how I felt then! You just +guess! You want your husband. It was the same with me. I want George. +But he wouldn't listen to me no more."</p> + +<p>The woman seemed to sink, to shrivel, under the weight of her +recollection. Finding her not a monster but a woman after all, her two +hearers were moved to another slight token of sympathy. They were +"guessing," as she commanded. But still, with a kind of weary +magnanimity, she waved them back, away from the things she had yet to +make clear.</p> + +<p>"But one day I saw it. One day I saw something. I came home with my +berries, and George was there. His breath was funny, and he talked +funny, and walked funny. I'd seen people in the village that way. +But—my mother was that way, too. She looked funny—had very red cheeks, +and talked very fast. Very foolish. And her breath was the same as +George's. And she laughed and laughed at me, and made fun of me.</p> + +<p>"I said nothing. But I didn't sleep that night. I wondered what would +happen. Many days I thought of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[Pg 379]</a></span> what was happening. Then I knew. My +mother was trying to get George away from me. That was what had +happened.</p> + +<p>"Another day I came back with my berries, and my mother was not there. +Neither was George there. So! She had taken George away. My George. +Well! I set out to look. No rest for me till I find them. I knew pretty +well where they might be. I started for George's little brick house down +in the hollow. That's where he had taken to living—hunting and fishing. +It was late—the brick house was far away—I was very tired. But I went. +And—"</p> + +<p>She had been speaking more rapidly. Here she stopped to breathe, to +swallow, to collect herself for the final plunge.</p> + +<p>"I heard a runaway horse. 'George's horse!' I said. 'George is coming +back to me, after all! George is coming back to me! She can't keep him!' +And, yes, it was George's horse. But nobody on him. I was so scared I +could hardly stand. Something had happened to George. Only then did I +know how much I wanted him—when something had happened to him. I almost +fell down in the road, but I crawled on. And presently I came to him, to +George. He was walking in the road, limping and stumbling and +rolling—all muddy—singing to himself. He didn't know me at first. I +ran to him—to my George. And he grabbed me, and stumbled, and fell. And +he grabbed my ankle. 'Come to me, li'l' one!' he said. 'Damn the old +hag!' he said. 'It's the girl I want—Ned's own!' he said. 'Come here to +me, Ned's own. I want you!' And he pinched me. He bit my hand. And—and +I—all of a sudden I was afraid.</p> + +<p>"And I snatched myself loose. 'George!' I screamed. 'No!' I said—I +don't know why. I was very scared. I was wild. I kicked away—and +ran—ran, ran—away—I don't know where—to the woods. And oh, a long +time I heard George laugh at me. 'Just like the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[Pg 380]</a></span> very old Ned!' I heard +him shout. But I ran, till I fell down tired. And there I sat and +thought.</p> + +<p>"And all of a sudden I understood. All at once I knew many things. I +knew then what my mother had said about Ned sometimes. He was my father. +He was dead. Somebody had killed him, I knew—I knew it from what they +said. George knew my father, then, too. What did he know? That was it! +He—he was the man that killed my father. He was after my mother +then—he had been after her before, and made her breathe funny, made a +fool of her. That was why my beautiful mother was so strange to me +sometimes. That's why there was no more New York and Phil'delph. George +did that—spoiled everything. Now he was back—making a fool of her +again—my mother! And wanted to make a fool of me. Oh, then I knew! That +man! And I had liked him. His brown hair, his brown eyes! But oh, I +understood, I understood.</p> + +<p>"I got up from the ground. Everything reeled and fell apart. There was +nothing more for me. Everything spoiled. Our pretty cottage—the +stories—all gone. Spoiled. So I ran back. Maybe I could bring my mother +back. Maybe I could save something. Oh, I was sick. The trees, they bent +and rolled the way George walked. The wind bent them double. They held +their stomachs, as if they were George, laughing at me. They seemed to +holler 'Ned's girl!' at me. I was dizzy, and the wind nearly blew me +over. But I had to hurry home.</p> + +<p>"I got near. No one there. Not even George. But I had to find my +beautiful little mother. All round I ran. The brambles threw me down. I +fell over a stump and struck my face. I could feel the blood running +down over my cheeks. It was warmer than the rain. No matter, I had to +find my mother. My poor little mother.</p> + +<p>"Bruce growled at me when I got to the house. He didn't know me. That's +how I looked! But there was a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[Pg 381]</a></span> light in the house. Yes, my mother was +there! But George was there, too. That man! They had bundles all ready +to go away. They weren't glad to see me. I got there too soon. George +said, 'Damn her soul! Always that girl of Ned's! I'll show her!' And he +kicked me.</p> + +<p>"George kicked me!...</p> + +<p>"But my mother—she didn't laugh when she saw me. She was very scared. +She shook George, and said, 'George! Come away, quick! Look at her face! +Look at her eyes!' she said.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my mother, my little mother. She thought I would hurt her. Even +when she'd been such a fool. I was the one that had to take care of her, +then. But she wanted to go away—with that man! That made me wild.</p> + +<p>"'You, George!' I said, 'You've got to go! You've—you've done too much +to us!' I said. 'You go!' And 'Mother!' I said. 'You've got to leave +him! He's done too much to us!' I said.</p> + +<p>"She only answered, 'George, come, quick!' And she dragged George toward +the door. And George laughed at me. Laughed and laughed—till he saw my +eyes. He didn't laugh then. Nor my mother. My mother screamed when she +saw my eyes. 'Shut up, George!' she screamed. 'She's not Ned's girl +now!' And George said, 'No, by God! She's <i>your</i> brat now, all right! +She's the devil's own!'</p> + +<p>"And they ran for the door. I tried to get there first, to catch my +little mother. My mother only screamed, as if she were wild. And they +got out—out in the dark. 'Mother!' I cried. 'Mother! Come back, come +back!' No answer. My mother was gone.</p> + +<p>"Oh, that made me feel, somehow, very strong. 'I'll bring you back!' I +shouted. 'You, George! I'll send you away. Wait and see!' They never +answered. Maybe they never heard. The wind was blowing, like to-night.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[Pg 382]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But I knew where I could find them. I knew where to go to find George. +And I ran to my loft, for my knife. But, O my God, when I saw poor +Mollie in the glass! Teeth gone. I wasn't beautiful any more. And my +eyes!—they came out of the glass at me, like two big dogs jumping a +fence. I ran from them. I didn't know myself. I ran out of the door, in +the night. I went after that man. He had done too much. That storm—the +lightning that night! Awful! But no storm kept me back. Rain—hail—but +I kept on. Trees fell—but I went on. I called out. I laughed then, +myself. I'll get him! I say, 'Look out for Ned's girl! Look out for +Ned's girl!' I say...."</p> + +<p>Unconsciously the woman was re-enacting every gesture, repeating every +phrase and accent of her journey through the night, that excursion out +of the world, from which there had been no return for her. "Look out for +Ned's girl!"—the house rang with the cry. But this second journey, of +the memory, ended in a moan and a faint.</p> + +<p>"I said I would tell it! Help me!" she said.</p> + +<p>In some fashion they worked her heavy bulk out of its crazy wrappings +and into a bed. John arrived, to help them. Morning peered timidly over +the eastern hills, as if fearful of beholding what the night had +wrought. In its smiling calm the noise of the storm was already done +away. But the storm in the troubled mind raged on.</p> + +<p>For days it raged, in fever and delirium. Then they buried the rude +minister of justice in the place where she commanded—under the pile of +broken stones and bricks among the trees in the hollow. And it is said +that the inquisitive villagers who had a part in the simple ceremonies +stirred about till they made the discovery of two skeletons under the +ruins. And to this day there are persons in Bustlebury with a belief +that at night, or in a storm, they sometimes hear a long-drawn cry +issuing from that lonely little hollow.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[Pg 383]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_INTERVAL" id="THE_INTERVAL"></a>THE INTERVAL<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> VINCENT O'SULLIVAN</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Boston Evening Transcript</i></p> + + +<p>Mrs. Wilton passed through a little alley leading from one of the gates +which are around Regent's Park, and came out on the wide and quiet +street. She walked along slowly, peering anxiously from side to side so +as not to overlook the number. She pulled her furs closer round her; +after her years in India this London damp seemed very harsh. Still, it +was not a fog to-day. A dense haze, gray and tinged ruddy, lay between +the houses, sometimes blowing with a little wet kiss against the face. +Mrs. Wilton's hair and eyelashes and her furs were powdered with tiny +drops. But there was nothing in the weather to blur the sight; she could +see the faces of people some distance off and read the signs on the +shops.</p> + +<p>Before the door of a dealer in antiques and second-hand furniture she +paused and looked through the shabby uncleaned window at an unassorted +heap of things, many of them of great value. She read the Polish name +fastened on the pane in white letters.</p> + +<p>"Yes; this is the place."</p> + +<p>She opened the door, which met her entrance with an ill-tempered jangle. +From somewhere in the black depths of the shop the dealer came forward. +He had a clammy white face, with a sparse black beard, and wore a skull +cap and spectacles. Mrs. Wilton spoke to him in a low voice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[Pg 384]</a></span></p> + +<p>A look of complicity, of cunning, perhaps of irony, passed through the +dealer's cynical and sad eyes. But he bowed gravely and respectfully.</p> + +<p>"Yes, she is here, madam. Whether she will see you or not I do not know. +She is not always well; she has her moods. And then, we have to be so +careful. The police—Not that they would touch a lady like you. But the +poor alien has not much chance these days."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Wilton followed him to the back of the shop, where there was a +winding staircase. She knocked over a few things in her passage and +stooped to pick them up, but the dealer kept muttering, "It does not +matter—surely it does not matter." He lit a candle.</p> + +<p>"You must go up these stairs. They are very dark; be careful. When you +come to a door, open it and go straight in."</p> + +<p>He stood at the foot of the stairs holding the light high above his head +as she ascended.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The room was not very large, and it seemed very ordinary. There were +some flimsy, uncomfortable chairs in gilt and red. Two large palms were +in corners. Under a glass cover on the table was a view of Rome. The +room had not a business-like look, thought Mrs. Wilton; there was no +suggestion of the office or waiting-room where people came and went all +day; yet you would not say that it was a private room which was lived +in. There were no books or papers about; every chair was in the place it +had been placed when the room was last swept; there was no fire and it +was very cold.</p> + +<p>To the right of the window was a door covered with a plush curtain. Mrs. +Wilton sat down near the table and watched this door. She thought it +must be through it that the soothsayer would come forth. She laid her +hands listlessly one on top of the other on the table. This must be the +tenth seer she had consulted since Hugh had been killed. She thought +them over. No, this must<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[Pg 385]</a></span> be the eleventh. She had forgotten that +frightening man in Paris who said he had been a priest. Yet of them all +it was only he who had told her anything definite. But even he could do +no more than tell the past. He told of her marriage; he even had the +duration of it right—twenty-one months. He told too of their time in +India—at least, he knew that her husband had been a soldier, and said +he had been on service in the "colonies." On the whole, though, he had +been as unsatisfactory as the others. None of them had given her the +consolation she sought. She did not want to be told of the past. If Hugh +was gone forever, then with him had gone all her love of living, her +courage, all her better self. She wanted to be lifted out of the +despair, the dazed aimless drifting from day to day, longing at night +for the morning, and in the morning for the fall of night, which had +been her life since his death. If somebody could assure her that it was +not all over, that he was somewhere, not too far away, unchanged from +what he had been here, with his crisp hair and rather slow smile and +lean brown face, that he saw her sometimes, that he had not forgotten +her....</p> + +<p>"Oh, Hugh, darling!"</p> + +<p>When she looked up again the woman was sitting there before her. Mrs. +Wilton had not heard her come in. With her experience, wide enough now, +of seers and fortune-tellers of all kinds, she saw at once that this +woman was different from the others. She was used to the quick +appraising look, the attempts, sometimes clumsy, but often cleverly +disguised, to collect some fragments of information whereupon to erect a +plausible vision. But this woman looked as if she took it out of +herself.</p> + +<p>Not that her appearance suggested intercourse with the spiritual world +more than the others had done; it suggested that, in fact, considerably +less. Some of the others were frail, yearning, evaporated creatures, and +the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[Pg 386]</a></span> ex-priest in Paris had something terrible and condemned in his +look. He might well sup with the devil, that man, and probably did in +some way or other.</p> + +<p>But this was a little fat, weary-faced woman about fifty, who only did +not look like a cook because she looked more like a sempstress. Her +black dress was all covered with white threads. Mrs. Wilton looked at +her with some embarrassment. It seemed more reasonable to be asking a +woman like this about altering a gown than about intercourse with the +dead. That seemed even absurd in such a very commonplace presence. The +woman seemed timid and oppressed; she breathed heavily and kept rubbing +her dingy hands, which looked moist, one over the other; she was always +wetting her lips, and coughed with a little dry cough. But in her these +signs of nervous exhaustion suggested overwork in a close atmosphere, +bending too close over the sewing-machine. Her uninteresting hair, like +a rat's pelt, was eked out with a false addition of another color. Some +threads had got into her hair too.</p> + +<p>Her harried, uneasy look caused Mrs. Wilton to ask compassionately: "Are +you much worried by the police?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, the police! Why don't they leave us alone? You never know who comes +to see you. Why don't they leave me alone? I'm a good woman. I only +think. What I do is no harm to any one."...</p> + +<p>She continued in an uneven querulous voice, always rubbing her hands +together nervously. She seemed to the visitor to be talking at random, +just gabbling, like children do sometimes before they fall asleep.</p> + +<p>"I wanted to explain—" hesitated Mrs. Wilton.</p> + +<p>But the woman, with her head pressed close against the back of the +chair, was staring beyond her at the wall. Her face had lost whatever +little expression it had; it was blank and stupid. When she spoke it was +very slowly and her voice was guttural.</p> + +<p>"Can't you see him? It seems strange to me that you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[Pg 387]</a></span> can't see him. He +is so near you. He is passing his arm round your shoulders."</p> + +<p>This was a frequent gesture of Hugh's. And indeed at that moment she +felt that somebody was very near her, bending over her. She was +enveloped in tenderness. Only a very thin veil, she felt, prevented her +from seeing. But the woman saw. She was describing Hugh minutely, even +the little things like the burn on his right hand.</p> + +<p>"Is he happy? Oh, ask him does he love me?"</p> + +<p>The result was so far beyond anything she had hoped for that she was +stunned. She could only stammer the first thing that came into her head. +"Does he love me?"</p> + +<p>"He loves you. He won't answer, but he loves you. He wants me to make +you see him; he is disappointed, I think, because I can't. But I can't +unless you do it yourself."</p> + +<p>After a while she said:</p> + +<p>"I think you will see him again. You think of nothing else. He is very +close to us now."</p> + +<p>Then she collapsed, and fell into a heavy sleep and lay there +motionless, hardly breathing. Mrs. Wilton put some notes on the table +and stole out on tip-toe.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>She seemed to remember that downstairs in the dark shop the dealer with +the waxen face detained her to shew some old silver and jewellery and +such like. But she did not come to herself, she had no precise +recollection of anything, till she found herself entering a church near +Portland Place. It was an unlikely act in her normal moments. Why did +she go in there? She acted like one walking in her sleep.</p> + +<p>The church was old and dim, with high black pews. There was nobody +there. Mrs. Wilton sat down in one of the pews and bent forward with her +face in her hands.</p> + +<p>After a few minutes she saw that a soldier had come in noiselessly and +placed himself about half-a-dozen<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[Pg 388]</a></span> rows ahead of her. He never turned +round; but presently she was struck by something familiar in the figure. +First she thought vaguely that the soldier looked like her Hugh. Then, +when he put up his hand, she saw who it was.</p> + +<p>She hurried out of the pew and ran towards him. "Oh, Hugh, Hugh, have +you come back?"</p> + +<p>He looked round with a smile. He had not been killed. It was all a +mistake. He was going to speak....</p> + +<p>Footsteps sounded hollow in the empty church. She turned and glanced +down the dim aisle.</p> + +<p>It was an old sexton or verger who approached. "I thought I heard you +call," he said.</p> + +<p>"I was speaking to my husband." But Hugh was nowhere to be seen.</p> + +<p>"He was here a moment ago." She looked about in anguish. "He must have +gone to the door."</p> + +<p>"There's nobody here," said the old man gently. "Only you and me. Ladies +are often taken funny since the war. There was one in here yesterday +afternoon said she was married in this church and her husband had +promised to meet her here. Perhaps you were married here?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Mrs. Wilton, desolately. "I was married in India."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>It might have been two or three days after that, when she went into a +small Italian restaurant in the Bayswater district. She often went out +for her meals now: she had developed an exhausting cough, and she found +that it somehow became less troublesome when she was in a public place +looking at strange faces. In her flat there were all the things that +Hugh had used; the trunks and bags still had his name on them with the +labels of places where they had been together. They were like stabs. In +the restaurant, people came and went, many soldiers too among them, just +glancing at her in her corner.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[Pg 389]</a></span></p> + +<p>This day, as it chanced, she was rather late and there was nobody there. She +was very tired. She nibbled at the food they brought her. She could +almost have cried from tiredness and loneliness and the ache in her +heart.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly he was before her, sitting there opposite at the table. It +was as it was in the days of their engagement, when they used sometimes +to lunch at restaurants. He was not in uniform. He smiled at her and +urged her to eat, just as he used in those days....</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I met her that afternoon as she was crossing Kensington Gardens, and she +told me about it.</p> + +<p>"I have been with Hugh." She seemed most happy.</p> + +<p>"Did he say anything?"</p> + +<p>"N-no. Yes. I think he did, but I could not quite hear. My head was so +very tired. The next time——"</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I did not see her for some time after that. She found, I think, that by +going to places where she had once seen him—the old church, the little +restaurant—she was more certain to see him again. She never saw him at +home. But in the street or the park he would often walk along beside +her. Once he saved her from being run over. She said she actually felt +his hand grabbing her arm, suddenly, when the car was nearly upon her.</p> + +<p>She had given me the address of the clairvoyant; and it is through that +strange woman that I know—or seem to know—what followed.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Wilton was not exactly ill last winter, not so ill, at least, as to +keep to her bedroom. But she was very thin, and her great handsome eyes +always seemed to be staring at some point beyond, searching. There was a +look in them that seamen's eyes sometimes have when they are drawing on +a coast of which they are not very certain. She lived almost in +solitude: she hardly ever saw anybody except when they sought her out. +To<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[Pg 390]</a></span> those who were anxious about her she laughed and said she was very +well.</p> + +<p>One sunny morning she was lying awake, waiting for the maid to bring her +tea. The shy London sunlight peeped through the blinds. The room had a +fresh and happy look.</p> + +<p>When she heard the door open she thought that the maid had come in. Then +she saw that Hugh was standing at the foot of the bed. He was in uniform +this time, and looked as he had looked the day he went away.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Hugh, speak to me! Will you not say just one word?"</p> + +<p>He smiled and threw back his head, just as he used to in the old days at +her mother's house when he wanted to call her out of the room without +attracting the attention of the others. He moved towards the door, still +signing to her to follow him. He picked up her slippers on his way and +held them out to her as if he wanted her to put them on. She slipped out +of bed hastily....</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>It is strange that when they came to look through her things after her +death the slippers could never be found.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[Pg 391]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="A_CERTAIN_RICH_MAN_mdash18" id="A_CERTAIN_RICH_MAN_mdash18"></a>"A CERTAIN RICH MAN——"<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> LAWRENCE PERRY</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>Scribner's Magazine.</i></p> + + +<p>Evelyn Colcord glanced up the table with the appraising eye of a young +hostess who had already established a reputation for her dinners. The +room had been decorated with a happy effect of national colors, merged +with those of the allied nations, and neither in the table nor its +appointments was a flaw revealed—while the low, contented murmur of +conversation and light laughter attending completion of the first course +afforded assurance that the company was well chosen and the atmosphere +assertive in qualities that made for equanimity and good cheer.</p> + +<p>She smiled slightly, nodding at the butler, who had been watching her +anxiously, and then glanced out the corner of her eye at Professor +Simec, seated at her right. She had entertained doubts concerning him, +had, in fact, resented the business necessity which had brought him +thither as guest of honor, not through any emotion approximating +inhospitality but wholly because of her mistrust as to the effect of +this alien note upon her dinner, which was quite impromptu, having been +arranged at the eleventh hour in deference to the wishes of Jerry Dane, +a partner of Colcord's, who was handling the firm's foreign war patents.</p> + +<p>She had done the best she could as to guests, had done exceedingly well, +as it chanced, fortune having favored her especially in the cases of +several of those who sat about the table. And now Simec was fully +involved in conversation with Bessie Dane, who seemed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[Pg 392]</a></span> deeply +interested. As for the man, weazened and attenuate, she could catch only +his profile—the bulging, hairless brow, and beard curling outward from +the tip, forming sort of a crescent, which she found hardly less +sinister than the cynical twist where grizzled whiskers and mustaches +conjoined and the cold, level white eyes that she had noted as dominant +characteristics when he was presented.</p> + +<p>Simec was a laboratory recluse who had found his <i>métier</i> in the war. +Rumor credited to him at least one of the deadliest chemical +combinations employed by the allied armies. But it was merely rumor; +nothing definite was known. These are things of which little is hinted +and less said. None the less, intangible as were his practical +achievements—whatever they might be—his reputation was substantial, +enhanced, small doubt, by the very vagueness of his endeavors. The +element of mystery, which his physical appearance tended not to allay, +invested him, as it were, with a thaumaturgic veil through which was +dimly revealed the man. It was as though his personality was merely a +nexus to the things he stood for and had done, so that he appeared to +Evelyn less a human entity than a symbol. But at least Bessie Dane was +interested and the fine atmosphere of the table was without a taint.</p> + +<p>Shrugging almost imperceptibly, she withdrew her eyes and looked across +the table with an expression which Nicholas Colcord could have +interpreted had he not been engrossed with Sybil Latham. Evelyn studied +him with admiring tenderness as he lounged in his chair, toying idly +with a fork, smiling at something his partner was saying, while her mind +ran lovingly over the dominant traits of a personality which was so +strong, so keenly alive, so sensitive to decent, manly things, so +perfectly balanced.</p> + +<p>Failing to catch his eye, Evelyn turned to her plate filled with a +subtle melancholy. When would there be another dinner like this? Not, at +all events, until the war was over. Nick had spoken about this—very<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[Pg 393]</a></span> +definitely; there would be no more entertaining. She had agreed with +him, of course, not, however, escaping the conviction that her husband's +viewpoint was more or less in keeping with a certain unusual sombreness +which she had caught creeping into his mood in the past year or so.</p> + +<p>Still, everybody who amounted to anything was pulling up on the bit and +doing something or talking of doing something or other for the country. +It was already assured that the season would be insufferably dull—from +a social standpoint at least. Evelyn could not suppress a certain +resentment. She was not one of those who had found an element of thrill +in the suddenly altered perspectives. Her plans for the spring season +had been laid; engagements had been accepted or declined, as functions +promised to be worth while or uninteresting; all the delicate +interlocking machinery of the life in which Evelyn Colcord moved, +somewhat prominently, was in motion—then the sudden checking of the +wheels: war.</p> + +<p>Now there were memories of her husband's sober words; now there was +young Jeffery Latham at her elbow—he had been almost shot to pieces in +France—now there was Simec, the genius of diabolical achievement.... +What were things coming to? Even the weather had gone wrong. Outside, an +unseasonable cold rain, lashed by a northeast gale, was driving against +the panes of the French windows, and the sizzling effulgence of an +arc-lamp revealed pools of water lying on the asphalt of the avenue....</p> + +<p>The dry, softly modulated voice of Captain Latham at her left lifted +Evelyn from her trend of sombre revery.</p> + +<p>"Nick is looking uncommonly fit—he'll go in for the cavalry, I +suppose."</p> + +<p>The young British officer spoke more with a half-humorous effort at +conversation than any other motive, but she turned to him with a gesture +of appeal.</p> + +<p>"Jeffery," she said, "you make me shiver!"</p> + +<p>The man stared at her curiously.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[Pg 394]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, I—I'm sorry. I'm sure I didn't—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course," she interrupted, "I know you didn't. Don't be silly. As +for me, I'm perfectly foolish, don't you know. Only"—she paused—"I +detest war talk. It's so fearfully upsetting. It seems only yesterday +that it was a subject to drag in when conversation lagged. But now—"</p> + +<p>Latham's quizzical reply was almost upon his lips, when, evidently +changing his mind, he spoke dryly.</p> + +<p>"No doubt you'll become used to it in time.... By the by, I was in fun +about old Nick. His objection to grouse coverts and deer-stalking—I +can't fancy him in war."</p> + +<p>As she didn't reply he picked up his fork, adding: "Yet he's a +tremendous athlete—polo and all that sort of thing. Do you know, I +suspect that when the real pull comes he won't object to potting at +Germans.... Did you do these menu cards, Evelyn? They're awfully well +done."</p> + +<p>She nodded, eying him eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I painted them this afternoon. You see, it was a rush order.... As +to Nick, I don't think it will come to his enlisting. I've never +considered it, really. He's awfully mixed up in government finances, +don't you know. We all tell him he's more valuable where he is."</p> + +<p>Latham smiled faintly.</p> + +<p>"What does Nick say to that?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know." She shrugged. "Nothing very definite. War has been a +taboo subject with him—I mean from the first when you all went in. I +know he has strong feelings about it, terribly strong. But he never +talks about them."</p> + +<p>"He went in strong on the financial end, didn't he?" asked the +Englishman. "Some one in London told me he'd made a lot of oof."</p> + +<p>She nodded, coloring.</p> + +<p>"Yes, oceans of money.... Not that we needed it," Evelyn added, a trifle +defensively.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">[Pg 395]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I know; it just came," was Latham's comment. "Well, it all helped us +out of a nasty mess."</p> + +<p>Evelyn was thinking and did not reply immediately. When she did speak it +was apparent that in changing the subject she had followed a natural +impulse without intention or design.</p> + +<p>"Jeffery," she said, "do you know I haven't been able to make you out +since you arrived here—nor Sybil either," she added, nodding toward +Latham's wife, whose classic, flaxen-haired profile was turned toward +them.</p> + +<p>The man was smiling curiously.</p> + +<p>"I didn't realize we had changed so."</p> + +<p>"Well, you have, both of you. You talk the same and act the same—except +a—a sort of reserve; something; I don't know just what.... Somehow, +you, and Sybil, too, seem as though you felt strange, aloof, out of +place. You used to be so absolutely—well, natural and at home with us +all—"</p> + +<p>"My word!" Latham laughed but made no further comment.</p> + +<p>"Of course," Evelyn went on, "you've been through a lot, I can +appreciate that. When I got Sybil's letter I simply wept: twenty-four +hours in a muddy shell-hole; invalided for good, with an arm you can't +raise above your shoulder; a horrid scar down your face...."</p> + +<p>"It does make rather a poor face to look at, doesn't it?" Latham flushed +and hurried on. "Well, I've no complaint."</p> + +<p>She glanced at the cross on his olive-drab coat.</p> + +<p>"Of course not! How absurd, Jeffery! But how did Sybil ever stand it? +How did she <i>live</i> through it? I mean the parting, the months of +suspense, word that you were missing, then mortally wounded?... Her +brother killed by gas?"</p> + +<p>Latham glanced at his wife, a soft light in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Poor Sybil," he replied. "She was a brick, Evelyn—a perfect brick. I +don't know how she got through it. But one does, you know."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">[Pg 396]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, one does, I suppose." Evelyn sighed. "But how? <i>I</i> couldn't; I +simply couldn't. Why, Jeffery, I can't bear even to think of it."</p> + +<p>Latham shook his head negatively at the footman, who stood at his side, +and then turned smiling to Evelyn. "Oh, come! Of course you could. You +don't understand now, but you will. There's a sort of grace given, I +fancy."</p> + +<p>"Jeffery, I don't want to understand, and I don't want any grace, and I +think you're horrid and unsympathetic." She tapped him admonishingly on +the arm, laughing lightly. But the gloom was still in her dark-gray +eyes. "But, after all, you are right. We <i>are</i> in for it, just as you +have been.... God grant there are women more Spartan than I."</p> + +<p>Latham grimaced and was raising a deprecating hand when she caught it +impulsively.</p> + +<p>"Please let's talk about something else."</p> + +<p>"Very well." He smiled mockingly and lowered his voice. "Your friend at +your right there—curious beggar, don't you think?"</p> + +<p>Evelyn glanced at Simec, turning again to Latham.</p> + +<p>"He gives me the creeps," she confessed. "It seems absurd, but he does."</p> + +<p>"Really!" The Englishman stared at the man a moment. "Do you know," he +resumed, "he does seem a bit uncanny. Where'd Nick pick him up?"</p> + +<p>"It was Jerry Dane," she replied. "He's done some tremendous things on +the other side. Jerry met him in Washington the other day and seems to +regard him as a find. He has no business sense and has given away +practically everything. Now we are going to capitalize him; I believe +that's the word. I never saw him before tonight"—her voice sank to a +whisper—"and, do you know, I hope I never shall again." She shrugged. +"Listen to him."</p> + +<p>Several of the guests were already doing that. His toneless voice rose +and fell monotonously,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">[Pg 397]</a></span> and he appeared so detached from what he was +saying that as Evelyn gazed at him she seemed to find difficulty in +relating words that were said to the speaker; only the slight movement +of the lips and an occasional formless gesture made the association +definite.</p> + +<p>"Doctor Allison," he was saying, "has missed the distinction between +<i>hostia honoraria</i> and <i>hostia piacularis</i>. In the former case the deity +accepts the gift of a life; in the latter he demands it."</p> + +<p>"What in the world are you all talking about now?" asked Evelyn +plaintively. "Not war—?"</p> + +<p>"Sacrifice, Mrs. Colcord." Simec inclined his head slightly in her +direction.</p> + +<p>"I was saying," explained Doctor Allison, "that we do well if we send +our young men to battle in the spirit of privileged sacrifice, as—as +something that is our—our—yes—our proud privilege, as I say, to do."</p> + +<p>Simec shook his head in thoughtful negation.</p> + +<p>"That is sentiment, excellent sentiment; unfortunately, it doesn't stand +assay. Reaction comes. We do better if we make our gift of blood as a +matter of unalterable necessity. We make too much of it all, in any +event. The vast evil of extended peace is the attachment of too great +value to luxuries and to human life—trite, but true. We know, of +course, that the world has progressed chiefly over the dead bodies of +men and, yes, women and children."</p> + +<p>Some new element had entered into the voice. Whether it was herself or +whether it was Simec, Evelyn was in no mood to determine.... She was +aware only of a certain metallic cadence which beat cruelly upon her +nerves. Silence had followed, but not of the same sort as before. As +though seeking complete withdrawal, Evelyn turned her eyes out of the +window. A wayfarer, head down, was struggling through the nimbus of +watery electric light; a horse-drawn vehicle was plodding by. Colcord's +voice brought her back; it was strained.</p> + +<p>"I don't feel as Allison does," he said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">[Pg 398]</a></span> "And I certainly have no +sympathy with Simec." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "You +see," he went on, "I—I—well, maybe, I'm a product of extended peace, +as Simec puts it. No doubt I'm soft. But this war—I've never talked nor +let myself think much about the war—but this whole thing of sacrifice +got under me from the very first.... Young men, thousands, hundreds of +thousands of them, yes, millions, torn from their homes, from their +mothers, their fathers—their wives, for what? To be blown into +shapeless, unrecognizable clay, to be maimed, made useless for life. My +God! It has kept me awake nights!"</p> + +<p>"Colcord"—Simec's white eyes rested professionally upon the host—"let +us get to the root of your state of mind; your brief is for the +individual as against the common good, is it not?"</p> + +<p>Colcord frowned.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I haven't any brief, Simec; I've never reasoned about the thing, +that is, in a cold, scientific way. It's a matter of heart, I +suppose—of instinct. I just can't seem to stand the calculating, sordid +wastage of young life and all that it involves. Now, of course, it has +come closer home. And it's terrible."</p> + +<p>"You never would shoot anything for sport, would you, old fellow?" said +Latham, sympathetically, "not even pheasants."</p> + +<p>Colcord tossed his beautifully modelled head.</p> + +<p>"Latham, I tell you, I'm soft; I'm the ultimate product of peace and +civilization."</p> + +<p>"Yes, you're soft, terribly so," smiled Dane. "I ought to know; I played +opposite you at tackle for two years."</p> + +<p>"Stuff! You understand what I mean, Jerry; I guess you all do. I've +never talked this way before; as I say, I've always kept the war in the +background, tried to gloss it over, forget it. But I couldn't; I've done +a heap of thinking." He sat bolt upright, his clinched fist upon the +table. "All these young chaps herded together and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">[Pg 399]</a></span> suddenly turned loose +from all they've known and done and thought—I tell you I can't duck it +any more."</p> + +<p>"I know, old chap." Arnold Bates, who wrote light society novels, spoke +soothingly. "It is—rotten. But what are you going to do about it?"</p> + +<p>Colcord's fine brow was wrinkled painfully.</p> + +<p>"Nothing, Arnold, nothing. That's the trouble; you have to sit still and +watch this wrecking of civilization or else get out and take a hack at +the thing yourself. I can't do that; not unless I have to." He paused. +"I've had a good time in this life; things have always come easily—"</p> + +<p>Sybil Latham was regarding him contemplatively.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she murmured, "I don't know a man who has impressed me as so +thoroughly enjoying life as you, Nick—"</p> + +<p>Colcord stared at her a moment.</p> + +<p>"Well, I do," he replied at length. "But I want to say this right here: +if some person or presence, some supernatural being, say, should come +here to-night, at this table, and tell me that by giving up my life +right now I would, through that act, bring an end to—"</p> + +<p>"Nick!" Evelyn Colcord's voice was poignantly sharp.</p> + +<p>"If through that little sacrifice the blood glut in Europe would end, +I'd do it cheerfully, joyfully, in a minute."</p> + +<p>Simec was gazing at the speaker with half-closed eyes; the others, in +thrall of his words, were staring at the table or at one another.</p> + +<p>"What a thought!" Mrs. Allison glanced at him curiously. "Coming from +you, of all men, Nick!"</p> + +<p>"I wonder if I could say that?" Jerry Dane sank down in his chair, put +his hands in his pockets, and gazed sombrely up at the ceiling. "By +George! I wish I could—but I can't."</p> + +<p>Bates shifted uneasily. He shrugged.</p> + +<p>"It's too hypothetical. And yet—of course<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">[Pg 400]</a></span> it's absurd—yet if the +thing <i>could</i> happen, I think I'd stick with Colcord."</p> + +<p>"In other words"—Simec's voice now had a sibilant hiss—"if you could +end war through your death you'd be willing to die—now, or at any +specified time?"</p> + +<p>"If you're talking to me," said Colcord, "I'm on record. Those who know +me well know I don't have to say a thing twice."</p> + +<p>"I was talking to Mr. Bates," replied the inventor. "He seemed +doubtful."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm not now," retorted the writer sharply. "I'm with Nick +absolutely."</p> + +<p>Doctor Allison was shaking his head.</p> + +<p>"Theoretically, I would make the same assertion," he confessed, "but I +wish to be honest; I don't know whether I could do it or not."</p> + +<p>"Neither do I," said Dane. "A certainty like that and taking a chance on +the battlefield are two different things. What do you say, Latham; +you've been through the mill?"</p> + +<p>"Well, you know," shrugged the soldier, "I fancy I'm a bit hardened. I'd +like to see the thing through now. We've gone so far, don't you know."</p> + +<p>There was a momentary silence broken only by the soft movements of the +butler and footman. One of the windows rattled in a gust of wind and +rain. Under the flickering candle-lights the company seemed to draw +to-gether in a fellowship that was not the bond of gustatory +cheer—which Evelyn could so infallibly establish at her table—but a +communion of sympathetic feeling as of one drawing to another in the +common thrall of subdued emotion. The prevailing mood impressed Evelyn +Colcord strongly, and, glancing down the table, she started at her +accuracy in divining the cause. Simec's place was vacant. She recalled +now that but a moment before he had been summoned to the telephone. She +had noted his temporary departure only as one notices the lifting of a +saffron mist.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">[Pg 401]</a></span></p> + +<p>Unquestionably, the absorbing topic had gripped the imagination of all. +It was sufficiently theoretical, so absolutely hypothetical, in fact, so +utterly impossible, that Evelyn's alert intellect found pleasure in +grappling with it.</p> + +<p>"I wonder—!" Her elbows were on the table, her chin upon her hands. "Of +course, it's awfully easy to say; but I wonder how it would be if we +really faced such a question. Just consider, Arnold,"—she was smiling +at Bates—"the superhuman firing squad is outside the door; the +superhuman agent stands at your side ready to push the button and end +the war as the shots ring out. You picture it, of course, with your +imagination. Well, sir, what do you say?"</p> + +<p>Bates grimaced, twisting the stem of his wine-glass in his fingers.</p> + +<p>"Well, one can say only what he <i>thinks</i> he would do. It's so absurd +that I can't visualize your picture—not even with my imagination. But +it seems to me—it <i>seems</i> that I would gladly make the sacrifice."</p> + +<p>Doctor Allison, who had been scowling at the ceiling, passing his +fingers thoughtfully through his sparse gray hair, sighed deeply.</p> + +<p>"That's just it; how could one possibly tell? The mind adapts itself to +situations, I suppose; in fact, of course it does. It's altogether +difficult, sitting at this table with its food and color and light and +excellent company, to place yourself in the position Nicholas has +devised. It's simply flying from the very comfortable and congenial and +normal present into a dark limbo that is deucedly uncomfortable, +uncongenial, and abnormal. I can't go beyond what I've already said; I +don't know whether I'd do it or not."</p> + +<p>"You'd like to, of course," suggested Mrs. Dane.</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course I'd <i>like</i> to," was the reply. "The point I make is +whether I could or not; I don't <i>know</i>."</p> + +<p>"Well"—the young woman paused—"I'm not going<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">[Pg 402]</a></span> to put the question to +my husband because I wouldn't let Jerry do it, even if he were willing."</p> + +<p>"Oh, come now, Bess!" grinned Dane.</p> + +<p>"Well, I wouldn't, and I imagine I'd have some rights in the matter."</p> + +<p>"Now we're getting back to Simec's <i>hostia honoraria</i> and <i>hostia +piacularis</i>," laughed Bates.</p> + +<p>"It is a new viewpoint," sighed Evelyn. "Curiously, I hadn't thought of +<i>that</i>."</p> + +<p>She smiled across the table at her husband, but he was slouched in his +chair, his eyes staring vacantly over her head.</p> + +<p>"Of course you'd all do it, every one," he said presently. "The trouble +now is that you are attempting to visualize the tragic part of it and +not considering the humanitarian side—the great good that would come of +the sacrifice. When you look at it that way you would be willing to do +it—and think it a mighty darn cheap exchange."</p> + +<p>"Well, perhaps so," grumbled Allison. "But I can't help thinking I'm +glad I don't have to face the alternative."</p> + +<p>Evelyn turned swiftly toward Sybil Latham, under the impression that she +had made some little exclamation or that she had checked one. But her +face was hard and inscrutable.</p> + +<p>"Let's change the subject." Evelyn laughed self-consciously. "It's so +far-fetched; it's getting a bit on my nerves."</p> + +<p>Even as she spoke she knew that Simec had resumed his seat, although he +had made no sound and her eyes were upon her husband. She was thus not +surprised to hear his voice.</p> + +<p>"I gather, then," he said, as though picking up a conversational thread, +"that there are two of you who would be willing to make the gift of +sacrifice—Colcord and Bates."</p> + +<p>His manner was such as to draw them all from their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">[Pg 403]</a></span> mood of idle, +comfortable speculation to rigidity. Turning to him, searching him, they +saw, as it seemed to them, a new being divested of vagueness—dominant, +commanding, remorseless. Sitting rigid, his thin, hairy neck stretched +outward, he suggested some sinister bird of prey. Thus poised for an +instant he regarded the two men whom he had named.</p> + +<p>"Suppose," he proceeded, "that I could make this absurd condition—as +Bates terms it—exist. Would you gentlemen still hold your position? +Believe me, I ask this in the utmost good faith—"</p> + +<p>Evelyn Colcord spoke before either man could make reply.</p> + +<p>"Nick, this is getting a bit unpleasant, really." She laughed nervously. +"Don't you think we could turn to something more cheerful? I adore a +joke—"</p> + +<p>"But this is not a joke, Mrs. Colcord," rejoined Simec gravely.</p> + +<p>"Well, in any event—" began Evelyn, but her husband interrupted.</p> + +<p>"I told you I was on record, Simec," he said. "You show me a way to end +this carnival of murder—and I'm your man."</p> + +<p>"I, too." Bates chuckled. "Perhaps, after all, we've been dining closer +to the supernatural than we realized. Well, I'm game. Life, after all, +is only a few more summers and a few more winters, even if we live it +out. Go to it, Simec." There was sort of a reckless ring in the writer's +voice which was taken as a sign that he was seriously impressed. But +Bates would be; he had imagination and was temperamental.</p> + +<p>"I wish you all would stop." Bessie Dane's voice was childishly +plaintive.</p> + +<p>"Nick, please!" cried Evelyn. "This is not at all funny."</p> + +<p>"I don't see the joke, I must confess," grumbled Allison.</p> + +<p>Evelyn wished that Latham or his wife would add<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">[Pg 404]</a></span> weight to the protest, +but they remained silent, staring curiously at the inventor, as, indeed, +they had throughout. Now she thought of it, she realized that the two +had remained practically aloof from the discussion that had preceded +Simec's <i>dénouement</i>.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid, Simec," said Colcord crisply, "that we're getting a bit +unpopular. We'd better drop the subject. It was rather a cheap play, +I'll admit, stacking myself up as a martyr in a wholly impossible +situation. You called me—and Bates there—rather cleverly.... The +drinks are on us.... At the same time I meant what I said, even if it +was far-fetched; I mean I was sincere."</p> + +<p>Simec threw out his arm in a long, bony gesture.</p> + +<p>"I am perfectly convinced of that. That is why I am going to ask you to +make your offer good."</p> + +<p>Had it come from any one else there would have been derisive laughter. +But Simec, a man to whom had been credited so much of mystery and +achievement, was speaking. In the soft crimson glow of the table he +stood, reducing to practical application the very situation which they +had found so attractive, only because of its utter grotesque +impossibility. It was startling, grimly thrilling. There was the sense +among some about the table of struggling mentally to break the spell +which this coldly unemotional creature of science had cast. At length +Dane spoke as though by sheer physical effort.</p> + +<p>"Simec—we—we all know you're a genius. But just now you don't quite +get over."</p> + +<p>The inventor turned his head slowly toward the speaker.</p> + +<p>"I don't think I quite understand."</p> + +<p>"Rats," said Dane roughly. "Here Nick says he'd give up his life if the +war could be stopped and you bob up and tell him to make good, throwing +sort of a Faust effect over the whole dinner. All right for Nick and +Arnold Bates—but how about you, Simec? How will you stop the war if +they shuffle off? I'll bite once on anything; how will you do it?" There +was a general<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">[Pg 405]</a></span> movement of the diners. Dane's wife laughed a trifle +hysterically.</p> + +<p>Simec arose and stood leaning forward, his hands upon the table.</p> + +<p>"The situation which Colcord devised, as it happens, is not so +impossible as you think. In fact, it may prove to be quite feasible—" +He paused, but no voice rose to break the silence. The candle-lights +were flickering softly in an entering breath of wind. Evelyn looked +appealingly at her husband, who grimaced and shrugged slightly.</p> + +<p>"I imagine I have some sort of a reputation in the way of physical +formula as applied to war," Simec went on presently. "Dane is about to +handle a rather extraordinary gun of mine in the foreign market. But one +gun differs from another only inasmuch as it is somewhat more +deadly—its destructiveness is not total." He raised a thin forefinger +and levelled it along the table.</p> + +<p>"Let us assume," he said, "that there has been devised and perfected an +apparatus which will release a destructive energy through the medium of +ether waves. If you understand anything about the wireless telegraph you +will grasp what I mean; in itself the wireless, of course, involves +transmitted power. Let us transform and amplify that power and we +encompass—destruction. The air is filled with energy. A sun-ray is +energy; you will recall that Archimedes concentrated it through immense +burning-glasses which set fire to Roman ships."</p> + +<p>His voice had grown clear and strong, as though he was lecturing to a +class of students.</p> + +<p>"Now, then, assume an instrument such as I have roughly described be +placed in the hands of our allied nations, an instrument which releases +and propels against the enemy energy so incomprehensibly enormous that +it destroys matter instantaneously, whether organic or inorganic; assume +that in a few hours it could lay the greatest host the world ever saw in +death, whether they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">[Pg 406]</a></span> were concealed in the earth or were in the air, or +wherever they were; assume it could level a great city. Assuming all +this, can you conceive that the nations holding this mighty force in +their hands could bring about peace which would not only be instant but +would be permanent?"</p> + +<p>There was silence for a moment. The footman, obeying a significant +glance from the butler, withdrew; the butler himself went softly out of +the room. Latham looked up with the expression of a man emerging from a +trance.</p> + +<p>"I don't fancy any one could doubt that," he said.</p> + +<p>"No, indeed. Certainly not." Allison gestured in playful salute. "Let me +congratulate you upon a fine flight of imagination, Professor Simec."</p> + +<p>"Thank you—but it isn't imagination, Doctor Allison." The man's voice +had again become flat and unemotional, with the effect of withdrawal of +personality. "I have reason to think I have perfected some such +device.... At least I believe I now possess the means of destroying +human life on a wholesale scale. There is yet more to do before we may +successfully assail inorganic matter. The waves penetrate but do not as +yet destroy, so that while we should easily bring dissolution to human +beings we cannot yet disintegrate the walls behind which they lurk. +That, however, is a detail—"</p> + +<p>"Just like that, eh?" No one smiled at Jerry Dane's comment. Bates +leaned forward.</p> + +<p>"Where do Colcord and I come in?"</p> + +<p>Simec, who had resumed his seat, turned to him.</p> + +<p>"Of course—I beg your pardon. I should have explained at the outset +that the discovery has never had adequate practical test. One of my +assistants lost his life a month or so ago, to be sure; an extremely +promising man. The incident was of value in demonstrating practically a +theoretical deadliness; unfortunately, it proved also that the power +energized ether waves in all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">[Pg 407]</a></span> directions, whereas obviously it should be +within the power of the operator to send it only in a given direction."</p> + +<p>"Otherwise," remarked Latham, "it would be as fatal to the side using it +as to the army against whom it was directed."</p> + +<p>"Precisely." Simec lifted his wine-glass and sipped slowly. "For a +time," he went on, "this drawback seemed insuperable, just as it has +been in wireless telegraphy. Within the past week, however, I am +convinced that a solution of that difficulty has been reached. In theory +and in tests on a minor scale it certainly has. My assistants, however, +refuse to serve in the demonstrations at full power—which, of course, +are vitally necessary—even though I engage to share a part, but not, of +course, the major part, of the risk. I have been equally unfortunate in +enlisting others, to whom, naturally, I was in duty bound to designate +possible—in fact, extremely probable—dangers."</p> + +<p>"In more precise words," snapped Bates, "if your invention is what you +think it is your assistants are bound to die."</p> + +<p>Simec hesitated a moment, his gleaming brow wrinkled thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"Well, not precisely," he said at length. "That is, not necessarily. +There is, of course, as I have said, that possi—that probability. I +cannot be certain. Assuming the more serious outcome materializes, there +will be no further danger for those who operate; I shall have learned +all that it is necessary to know." He paused. "Then war will cease; +either before or immediately after the initial field application."</p> + +<p>"But this is absurd." Allison smote the table in agitation. "Why don't +you secure condemned convicts?"</p> + +<p>"Even were that possible, I should not care to proceed in that way. +Again, I must have one or more men of keen intelligence."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">[Pg 408]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But neither +Colcord nor Bates is a scientist!"</p> + +<p>"That is not at all necessary," was the composed reply. "I am the +scientist."</p> + +<p>"And Nick the victim," flashed Evelyn Colcord. "Well, I most decidedly +and unalterably object, Professor Simec."</p> + +<p>"Your husband and Mr. Bates, inspired by humanitarian motives, named a +condition under which they would <i>give</i>—not risk—their lives. I meet +their condition, at least so far as it lies within human agency to +do.... Of course they can withdraw their offer—"</p> + +<p>Bates, who had left his seat and was walking up and down the room, +turned suddenly, standing over the scientist with upraised hand.</p> + +<p>"Simec, I withdraw right here. I'm no fool. The whole spirit of +this—this situation is not in keeping with the original idea. Not at +all. Whether you are joking, serious, or simply insane, I'm out. Try it +on yourself."</p> + +<p>"I have already assumed great risks. In furtherance of my device—which, +as you may imagine, will have far-reaching effects—I must survive, if I +can."</p> + +<p>Evelyn, who had suppressed an exclamation of approval of Arnold Bates's +stanch words, turned to her husband. His jaws were bulging at the +corners, his eyes alight. In a species of panic she tried to speak but +could not.</p> + +<p>"And you, Colcord?" Simec's colorless delivered question came as from +afar.</p> + +<p>Colcord had arisen and was staring at the inventor with the face of one +exalted.</p> + +<p>"If you have what you say you have, Simec, you meet my condition to the +letter. At the very least, it will be a most important asset to the +cause of my country. In either case the least I can give to help it +along is my life—if that proves necessary.... When do you want me?"</p> + +<p>In the silence that followed Evelyn Colcord, sitting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_409" id="Page_409">[Pg 409]</a></span> like a statue, +unable to move nor to speak, passed through a limbo of nameless emotion. +Through her mind swept a flashing filament of despair, hope, craven +fear, and sturdy resolution. Tortured in the human alembic, she was at +length resolved, seeing with a vision that pierced all her horizons. And +then, trembling, tense, there came—a thought? A vision? She knew not +what it was, nor was she conscious of attempting to ascertain. She knew +only that for a fleeting instant the veil had been lifted and that she +had gazed upon serenity and that all was well. Further, she had no +inclination to know. Not that she feared complete revelation; for that +matter, some subconscious conviction that all would be well illumined +her senses. This she spurned, or rather ignored, in a greater if +nameless exaltation. Stern with the real fibre of her womanhood, she +lifted her head in pride.</p> + +<p>Then, moved by initiative not her own, her face turned, not to her +husband, but to her guests, each in turn. Arnold Bates was crushing a +napkin in his sensitive fingers, flushed, angry, rebellious, perhaps a +trifle discomfited. Dane was smiling foolishly; Bessie was leaning +forward on the table, dead white, inert. Doctor Allison's head was +shaking; he was clicking his tongue and his wife was twisting her stout +fingers one around another. So her gaze wandered, and then, as though +emerging from a dream, revivified, calm, she studied each intently. She +knew not why, but something akin to contempt crept into her mind.</p> + +<p>It was as though seeking relief that her eyes rested upon Sybil Latham. +The Englishwoman's face was turned to Colcord; her color was heightened +only slightly, but in her blue eyes was the light of serene stars, and +about her lips those new lines of self-sacrifice, anxiety, sorrow, which +Evelyn had resented as marring the woman's delicate beauty, now imparted +to her face vast strength, ineffable dignity, nobility.</p> + +<p>Evelyn Colcord's throat clicked; for a moment she did not breathe, while +a vivid flash of jealous<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_410" id="Page_410">[Pg 410]</a></span> emotion departed, leaving in its place a great +peace, an exaltation born of sudden knowing. Instinctively seeking +further confirmation, her eyes, now wide and big and flaming, swept to +Latham. His face, too, was turned toward her husband. It was the grimly +triumphant visage of the fighter who knows his own kind, of the friend +and believer whose faith, suddenly justified, has made him proud.</p> + +<p>Evelyn rose and stood erect, staring into vacancy. Here were two who +<i>knew</i>, who understood—who had been through hell and found it worth +while.</p> + +<p>Voices, expostulatory voices, roused her. Allison was at her side and +Dane, whose wife, weeping, was pulling at her bare arm. Colcord and +Simec stood to one side, aloof, as though already detached from the +world.</p> + +<p>"Evelyn!" Allison's voice was peremptory. "I command you! You're the +only one who has the right to check this damn foolishness. I command you +to speak."</p> + +<p>"Evelyn—" Dane's voice trailed into nothingness.</p> + +<p>Again her eyes turned to Sybil Latham, and then, rigidly as an +automaton, she walked swiftly to her husband's side. For a moment the +two stood facing each other, eye riveted to eye. Her beautiful bare arms +flew out swiftly, resting upon his shoulders, not encircling his neck.</p> + +<p>"Nick—" Her voice was low, guttural. "I—I didn't help you much, did I, +dear heart? I didn't understand. They've been saying it would all come +home to us. But I didn't think so quickly—nor to us. I—I wasn't ready. +I am now. I want to help; I—I—" Her fingers clutched his shoulders +convulsively. "When—when do you go?"</p> + +<p>Colcord stood a moment, his eyes smouldering upon her.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow morning at seven," he replied. "That was the hour, Professor +Simec?" he added with a side-wise inclination of his head.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_411" id="Page_411">[Pg 411]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes." The scientist looked away, hesitated, and then joined in the +little procession to the dimly lighted hall. Evelyn started as she felt +her fingers locked together in a firm hand.</p> + +<p>"You <i>know</i>, dear girl, don't you?" There was a mist in Latham's eyes.</p> + +<p>But Evelyn's face was light.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Jeffery," she said proudly, "I know now."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_412" id="Page_412">[Pg 412]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_PATH_OF_GLORY19" id="THE_PATH_OF_GLORY19"></a>THE PATH OF GLORY<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> MARY BRECHT PULVER</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i>.</p> + + +<p>It was so poor a place—a bitten-off morsel "at the beyond end of +nowhere"—that when a February gale came driving down out of a steel sky +and shut up the little lane road and covered the house with snow a +passer-by might have mistaken it all, peeping through its icy fleece, +for just a huddle of the brown bowlders so common to the country +thereabouts.</p> + +<p>And even when there was no snow it was as bad—worse, almost, Luke +thought. When everything else went brave and young with new greenery; +when the alders were laced with the yellow haze of leaf bud, and the +brooks got out of prison again, and arbutus and violet and buttercup +went through their rotation of bloom up in the rock pastures and maple +bush—the farm buildings seemed only the bleaker and barer.</p> + +<p>That forlorn unpainted little house, with its sagging blinds! It +squatted there through the year like a one-eyed beggar without a +friend—lost in its venerable white-beard winters, or contemplating an +untidy welter of rusty farm machinery through the summers.</p> + +<p>When Luke brought his one scraggy little cow up the lane he always +turned away his head. The place made him think of the old man who let +the birds build nests in his whiskers. He preferred, instead, to look at +the glories of Bald Mountain or one of the other hills. There was +nothing wrong with the back drop in the home stage-set; it was only home +itself that hurt one's feelings.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_413" id="Page_413">[Pg 413]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was no cheer inside, either. The sagging old floors, though +scrubbed and spotless, were uncarpeted; the furniture meager. A pine +table, a few old chairs, a shabby scratched settle covered by a thin +horse blanket as innocent of nap as a Mexican hairless—these for +essentials; and for embellishment a shadeless glass lamp on the table, +about six-candle power, where you might make shift to read the +<i>Biweekly</i>—times when there was enough money to have a Biweekly—if you +were so minded; and window shelves full of corn and tomato cans, still +wearing their horticultural labels, where scrawny one-legged geraniums +and yellowing coleus and begonia contrived an existence of sorts.</p> + +<p>And then, of course, the mantelpiece with the black-edged funeral notice +and shiny coffin plate, relics of Grampaw Peel's taking-off; and the +pink mug with the purple pansy and "Woodstock, N.Y.," on it; the +photograph of a forgotten cousin in Iowa, with long antennæ-shaped +mustaches; the Bible with the little china knobs on the corners; and the +pile of medicine testimonials and seed catalogues—all these contributed +something.</p> + +<p>If it was not a beautiful place within, it was, also, not even a +pleasant place spiritually. What with the open door into his father's +room, whence you could hear the thin frettings made by the man who had +lain these ten years with chronic rheumatism, and the untuneful +whistlings of whittling Tom, the big brother, the shapely supple giant +whose mind had never grown since the fall from the barn room when he was +eight years old, and the acrid complaints of the tall gaunt mother, +stepping about getting their inadequate supper, in her gray wrapper, +with the ugly little blue shawl pinned round her shoulders, it was as +bad a place as you might find in a year's journeying for anyone to keep +bright and "chirk up" in.</p> + +<p>Not that anyone in particular expected "them poor Hayneses" to keep +bright or "chirk up." As far back as he could remember, Luke had +realized that the hand of God was laid on his family. Dragging his bad +leg up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_414" id="Page_414">[Pg 414]</a></span> the hill pastures after the cow, day in and day out, he had +evolved a sort of patient philosophy about it. It was just inevitable, +like a lot of things known in that rock-ribbed and fatalistic region—as +immutably decreed by heaven as foreordination and the damnation of +unbaptized babes. The Hayneses had just "got it hard."</p> + +<p>Yet there were times, now he was come to a gangling fourteen, when +Luke's philosophy threatened to fail him. It wasn't fair—so it wasn't! +They weren't bad folks; they'd done nothing wicked. His mother worked +like a dog—"no fair for her," any way you looked at it. There were +times when the boy drank in bitterly every detail of the miserable place +he called home and knew the depths of an utter despair.</p> + +<p>If there was only some way to better it all! But there was no chance. +His father had been a failure at everything he touched in early life, +and now he was a hopeless invalid. Tom was an idiot—or almost—and +himself a cripple. And Nat! Well, Nat "wa'n't willin'"—not that one +should blame him. Times like these, a lump like a roc's egg would rise +in the boy's throat. He had to spit—and spit hard—to conquer it.</p> + +<p>"If we hain't the gosh-awfulest lot!" he would gulp.</p> + +<p>To-day, as he came up the lane, June was in the land. She'd done her +best to be kind to the farm. All the old heterogeneous rosebushes in the +wood-yard and front "lawn" were pied with fragrant bloom. Usually Luke +would have lingered to sniff it all, but he saw only one thing now with +a sudden skipping at his heart—an automobile standing beside the front +porch.</p> + +<p>It was not the type of car to cause cardiac disturbance in a +connoisseur. It was, in fact, of an early vintage, high-set, chunky, +brassily æsthetic, and given to asthmatic choking on occasion; but Luke +did not know this. He knew only that it spelled luxury beyond all +dreams. It belonged, in short, to his Uncle Clem Cheesman, the rich +butcher who lived in the village twelve miles away; and its presence +here signaled the fact that Uncle Clem and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_415" id="Page_415">[Pg 415]</a></span> Aunt Mollie had come to pay +one of their detestable quarterly visits to their poor relations. They +had come while he was out, and Maw was in there now, bearing it all +alone.</p> + +<p>Luke limped into the house hastily. He was not mistaken. There was a +company air in the room, a stiff hostile-polite taint in the atmosphere. +Three visitors sat in the kitchen, and a large hamper, its contents +partly disgorged, stood on the table. Luke knew that it contained +gifts—the hateful, merciful, nauseating charity of the better-off.</p> + +<p>Aunt Mollie was speaking as he entered—a large, high-colored, +pouter-pigeon-chested woman, with a great many rings with bright stones, +and a nodding pink plume in her hat. She was holding up a bifurcated +crimson garment, and greeted Luke absently.</p> + +<p>"Three pair o' them underdrawers, Delia—an' not a break in one of 'em! +I sez, as soon as I see Clem layin' 'em aside this spring, 'Them +things'll be jest right fur Delia's Jere, layin' there with the +rheumatiz.' They may come a little loose; but, of course, you can't be +choicey. I've b'en at Clem fur five years to buy him union suits; but +he's always b'en so stuck on red flannen. But now he's got two +aut'mobiles, countin' the new delivery, I guess he's gotta be more tony; +so he made out to spare 'em. And now that hat, Delia—it ain't a mite +wore out, an' fur all you'll need one it's plenty good enough. I only +had it two years and I guess folks won't remember; an' what if they +do—they all know you get my things. Same way with that collarette. It's +a little moth-eaten, but it won't matter fur you.... The gray suit you +can easy cut down fur Luke, there—"</p> + +<p>She droned on, the other woman making dry automatic sounds of assent. +She looked cool—Maw—Luke thought; but she wasn't. Not by a darn sight! +There was a spot of pink in each cheek and she stared hard every little +bit at Grampaw Peel's funeral plate on the mantel. Luke knew what she +was thinking of—poor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_416" id="Page_416">[Pg 416]</a></span> Maw! She was burning in a fire of her own +lighting. She had brought it all on herself—on the whole of them.</p> + +<p>Years ago she had been just like Aunt Mollie. The daughters of a +prosperous village carpenter, they had shared beads, beaux and bangles +until Maw, in a moment's madness, had chucked it all away to marry poor +Paw. Now she had made her bed, she must lie in it. Must sit and say +"Thank you!" for Aunt Mollie's leavings, precious scraps she dared not +refuse—Maw, who had a pride as fierce and keen as any! It was devilish! +Oh, it was kind of Aunt Mollie to give; it was the taking that came so +bitter hard. And then they weren't genteel about their giving. There was +always that air of superiority, that conscious patronage, as now, when +Uncle Clem, breaking off his conversation with the invalid in the next +room about the price of mutton on the hoof and the chances of the +Democrats' getting in again, stopped fiddling with his thick plated +watch chain and grinned across at big Tom to fling his undeviating +flower of wit:</p> + +<p>"Runnin' all to beef, hain't ye, Tom, boy? Come on down to the market +an' we'll git some A-1 sirloins outen ye, anyway. Do your folks that +much good."</p> + +<p>It was things like this that made Luke want to burn, poison, or shoot +Uncle Clem. He was not a bad man, Uncle Clem—a thick sandy chunk of a +fellow, given to bright neckties and a jocosity that took no account of +feelings. Shaped a little like a log, he was—back of his head and back +of his neck—all of a width. Little lively green eyes and bristling red +mustaches. A complexion a society bud might have envied. Why was it a +butcher got so pink and white and sleek? Pork, that's what Uncle Clem +resembled, Luke thought—a nice, smooth, pale-fleshed pig, ready to be +skinned.</p> + +<p>His turn next! When crops and politics failed and the joke at poor +Tom—Tom always giggled inordinately at it, too—had come off, there was +sure to be the one about himself and the lame duck next. To divert +himself of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_417" id="Page_417">[Pg 417]</a></span> bored expectation, Luke turned to stare at his cousin, +S'norta.</p> + +<p>S'norta, sitting quietly in a chair across the room, was seldom known to +be emotional. Indeed, there were times when Luke wondered whether she +had not died in her chair. One had that feeling about S'norta, so +motionless was she, so uncompromising of glance. She was very +prosperous-looking, as became the heiress to the Cheesman meat +business—a fat little girl of twelve, dressed with a profusion of +ruffles, glass pearls, gilt buckles, and thick tawny curls that might +have come straight from the sausage hook in her papa's shop.</p> + +<p>S'norta had been consecrated early in life to the unusual. Even her name +was not ordinary. Her romantic mother, immersed in the prenatal period +in the hair-lifting adventures of one Señorita Carmena, could think of +no lovelier appellation when her darling came than the first portion of +that sloe-eyed and restless lady's title, which she conceived to be +baptismal; and in due course she had conferred it, together with her own +pronunciation, on her child. A bold man stopping in at Uncle Clem's +market, as Luke knew, had once tried to pronounce and expound the +cognomen in a very different fashion; but he had been hustled +unceremoniously from the place, and S'norta remained in undisturbed +possession of her honors.</p> + +<p>Now Luke was recalled from his contemplation by his uncle's voice again. +A lull had fallen and out of it broke the question Luke always dreaded.</p> + +<p>"Nat, now!" said Uncle Clem, leaning forward, his thick fingers +clutching his fat knees. "You ain't had any news of him since quite a +while ago, have you?" The wit that was so preponderate a feature of +Uncle Clem's nature bubbled to the surface. "Dunno but he's landed in +jail a spell back and can't git out again!" The lively little eyes +twinkled appreciatively.</p> + +<p>Nobody answered. It set Maw's mouth in a thin, hard line. You wouldn't +get a rise out of old Maw with such<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_418" id="Page_418">[Pg 418]</a></span> tactics—Maw, who believed in Nat, +soul and body. Into Luke's mind flashed suddenly a formless half prayer: +"Don't let 'em nag her now—make 'em talk other things!"</p> + +<p>The Lord, in the guise of Aunt Mollie, answered him. For once, Nat and +Nat's character and failings did not hold her. She drew a deep breath +and voiced something that claimed her interest:</p> + +<p>"Well, Delia, I see you wasn't out at the Bisbee's funeral. Though I +don't s'pose anyone really expected you, knowin' how things goes with +you. Time was, when you was a girl, you counted in as big as any and +traveled with the best; but now"—she paused delicately, and coughed +politely with an appreciative glance round the poor room—"they ain't +anyone hereabouts but's talkin' about it. My land, it was swell! I +couldn't ask no better for my own. Fourteen cabs, and the hearse sent +over from Rockville—all pale gray, with mottled gray horses. It was +what I call tasty.</p> + +<p>"Matty wasn't what you'd call well-off—not as lucky as some I could +mention; but she certainly went off grand! The whole Methodist choir was +out, with three numbers in broken time; and her cousin's brother-in-law +from out West—some kind of bishop—to preach. Honest, it was one of the +grandest sermons I ever heard! Wasn't it, Clem?"</p> + +<p>Uncle Clem cleared his throat thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"Humiliatin'!—that's what I'd call it. A strong maur'l sermon all +round. A man couldn't hear it 'thout bein' humiliated more ways'n one." +He was back at the watch-chain again.</p> + +<p>"It's a pity you couldn't of gone, Delia—you an' Matty always was so +intimate too. You certainly missed a grand treat, I can tell you; +though, if you hadn't the right clothes—"</p> + +<p>"Well, I haven't," Maw spoke dryly. "I don't go nowheres, as you +know—not even church."</p> + +<p>"I s'pose not. Time was it was different, though,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_419" id="Page_419">[Pg 419]</a></span> Delia. Ain't nobody +but talks how bad off you are. Ann Chester said she seen you in town a +while back and wouldn't of knowed it was you if it hadn't of b'en you +was wearin' my old brown cape, an' she reconnized it. Her an' me got 'em +both alike to the same store in Rockville. You was so changed, she said +she couldn't hardly believe it was you at all."</p> + +<p>"Sometimes I wonder myself if it is," said Maw grimly.</p> + +<p>"Well, 's I was sayin', it was a grand funeral. None better! They even +had engraved invites, over a hundred printed—and they had folks from +all over the state. They give Clem, here, the contract fur the supper +meat—"</p> + +<p>"The best of everything!" Uncle Clem broke in. "None o' your cheap +graft. Gimme a free hand. Jim Bisbee tole me himself. 'I want the best +ye got,' he sez; an' I give it. Spring lamb and prime ribs, fancy hotel +style—"</p> + +<p>"An' Em Carson baked the cakes fur 'em, sixteen of 'em; an' Dickison the +undertaker's tellin' all over they got the best quality shroud he +carries. Well, you'll find it all in the <i>Biweekly</i>, under Death's Busy +Sickle. Jim Bisbee shore set a store by Matty oncet she was dead. It was +a grand affair, Delia. Not but what we've had some good ones in our time +too."</p> + +<p>It was Aunt Mollie's turn to stare pridefully at the Peel plate on the +chimney shelf.</p> + +<p>"A thing like that sets a family up, sorta."</p> + +<p>Uncle Clem had taken out a fat black cigar with a red-white-and-blue +band. He bit off the end and alternately thrust it between his lips or +felt of its thickness with a fondling thumb and finger. Luke, watching, +felt a sudden compassion for the cigar. It looked so harried.</p> + +<p>"I always say," Aunt Mollie droned on, "a person shows up what he really +is at the last—what him and his family stands fur. It's what kind of a +funeral you've got that counts—who comes out an' all. An' that was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_420" id="Page_420">[Pg 420]</a></span> +true with Matty. There wa'n't a soul worth namin' that wasn't out to +hers."</p> + +<p>How Aunt Molly could gouge—even amicably! And funerals! What a subject, +even in a countryside where a funeral is a social event and the manner +of its furniture marks a definite social status! Would they never go? +But it seemed at last they would. Incredibly, somehow, they were taking +their leave, Aunt Mollie kissing Maw good-by, with the usual remark +about "hopin' the things would help some," and about being "glad to +spare somethin' from my great plenty."</p> + +<p>She and Señorita were presently packed into the car and Tom had gone out +to goggle at Uncle Clem cranking up, the cold cigar still between his +lips. Now they were off—choking and snorting their way out of the +wood-yard and down the lane. Aunt Mollie's pink feather streamed into +the breeze like a pennon of triumph.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Maw was standing by the stove, a queer look in her eyes; so queer that +Luke didn't speak at once. He limped over to finger the spilled +treasures on the table.</p> + +<p>"Gee! Lookit, Maw! More o' them prunes we liked so; an' a bag o' early +peaches; an' fresh soup meat fur a week—"</p> + +<p>A queer trembling had seized his mother. She was so white he was +frightened.</p> + +<p>"Did you sense what it meant, Luke—what Aunt Molly told us about Matty +Bisbee? We was left out deliberate—that's what it meant. Her an' me +that was raised together an' went to school and picnics all our girlhood +together! Never could see one 'thout the other when we was growin' +up—Jim Bisbee knew that too! But"—her voice wavered miserably—"I +didn't get no invite to her funeral. I don't count no more, Lukey. None +of us, anywheres.... We're jest them poor Gawd-forsaken Hayneses."</p> + +<p>She slipped down suddenly into a chair and covered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_421" id="Page_421">[Pg 421]</a></span> her face, her thin +shoulders shaking. Luke went and touched her awkwardly. Times he would +have liked to put his arms round Maw—now more than ever; but he didn't +dare.</p> + +<p>"Don't take on, Maw! Don't!"</p> + +<p>"Who's takin' on?" She lifted a fierce, sallow, tear-wet face. "Hain't +no use makin' a fuss. All's left's to work—to work, an' die after a +while."</p> + +<p>"I hate 'em! Uncle Clem an' her, I mean."</p> + +<p>"They mean kindness—their way." But her tears started afresh.</p> + +<p>"I hate 'em!" Luke's voice grew shriller. "I'd like—I'd like—Oh, damn +'em!"</p> + +<p>"Don't swear, boy!"</p> + +<p>It was Tom who broke in on them. "It's a letter from Rural Free +Delivery. He jest dropped it."</p> + +<p>He came up, grinning, with the missive. The mother's fingers closed on +it nervously.</p> + +<p>"From Nat, mebbe—he ain't wrote in months."</p> + +<p>But it wasn't from Nat. It was a bill for a last payment on the "new +harrow," bought three years before.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>One of the earliest memories Luke could recall was the big blurred +impression of Nat's face bending over his crib of an evening. At first +flat, indefinite, remote as the moon, it grew with time to more human, +intimate proportions. It became the face of "brother," the black-haired, +blue-eyed big boy who rollicked on the floor with or danced him on his +knee to—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This is the way the lady rides!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tritty-trot-trot; tritty-trot-trot!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Or who, returning from school and meeting his faltering feet in the +lane, would toss him up on his shoulder and canter him home with mad, +merry scamperings.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_422" id="Page_422">[Pg 422]</a></span></p> + +<p>Not that school and Nat ever had much in common. Even as a little shaver +Luke had realized that. Nat was the family wilding, the migratory bird +that yearned for other climes. There were the times when he sulked long +days by the fire, and the springs and autumns when he played an unending +round of hookey. There were the days when he was sent home from school +in disgrace; when protesting notes, and sometimes even teacher, arrived.</p> + +<p>"It's not that Nat's a bad boy, Mrs. Haynes," he remembered one teacher +saying; "but he's so active, so full of restless animal spirits. How are +we ever going to tame him?"</p> + +<p>Maw didn't know the answer—that was sure. She loved Nat best—Luke had +guessed it long ago, by the tone of her voice when she spoke to him, by +the touch of her hand on his head, or the size of his apple turnover, so +much bigger than the others'. Maw must have built heavily on her hopes +of Nat those days—her one perfect child. She was so proud of him! In +the face of all ominous prediction she would fling her head high.</p> + +<p>"My Nat's a Peel!" she would say. "Can't never tell how he'll turn out."</p> + +<p>The farmers thereabouts thought they could tell her. Nat was into one +scrape after another—nothing especially wicked; but a compound of the +bubbling mischief in a too ardent life—robbed orchards, broken windows, +practical jokes, Halloween jinks, vagrant whimsies of an active +imagination.</p> + +<p>It was just that Nat's quarters were too small for him, chiefly. Even he +realized this presently. Luke would never forget the sloppy March +morning when Nat went away. He was wakened by a flare of candle in the +room he shared with his brothers. Tom, the twelve-year-old, lay sound +asleep; but Nat, the big man of fifteen, was up, dressed, bending over +something he was writing on a paper at the bureau. There was a fat +little bundle beside him, done up in a blue-and-white bandanna.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_423" id="Page_423">[Pg 423]</a></span></p> + +<p>Day was still far off. The window showed black; there was the sound of a +thaw running off the eaves; the white-washed wall was painted with +grotesque leaping shadows by the candle flame. At the first murmur, Nat +had come and put his arms about him.</p> + +<p>"Don't ye holler, little un; don't ye do it! 'Tain't nothin'—on'y +Natty's goin' away a spell; quite a spell, little un. Now kiss Natty.... +That's right!... An' you lay still there an' don't holler. An' listen +here, too: Natty's goin' to bring ye somethin'—a grand red ball, +mebbe—if you're good. You wait an' see!"</p> + +<p>But Natty hadn't brought the ball. Two years had passed without a scrap +of news of him; and then—he was back. Slipped into the village on a +freighter at dusk one evening. A forlorn scarecrow Nat was; so tattered +of garment, so smeared of coal dust, you scarcely knew him. So full of +strange sophistications, too, and new trails of thought—so oddly rich +of experience. He gave them his story. The tale of an exigent life in a +great city; a piecework life made of such flotsam labors as he could +pick up, of spells of loafing, of odd incredible associates, of months +tagging a circus, picking up a task here and there, of long journeyings +through the country, "riding the bumpers"—even of alms asked at back +doors!</p> + +<p>"Oh, not a tramp, Nat!"</p> + +<p>The hurt had quivered all through Maw.</p> + +<p>But Nat only laughed.</p> + +<p>"Jiminy Christmas, it was great!"</p> + +<p>He had thrown back his head, laughing. That was Nat all through—sipping +of life generously, no matter in what form.</p> + +<p>He had stayed just three weeks. He had spent them chiefly defeating +Maw's plans to keep him. Wanderlust kept him longer the next time. That +was eight years ago. Since then he had been back home three times. Never +so poor and shabby as at first—indeed, Nat's wanderings had prospered +more or less—but still remote,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_424" id="Page_424">[Pg 424]</a></span> somewhat mysterious, touched by new +habits of life, new ways of speech.</p> + +<p>The countryside, remembering the manner of his first return, shook its +head darkly. A tramp—a burglar, even. God knew what! When, on his third +visit home, he brought an air of extreme opulence, plenty of money, and +a sartorial perfection undreamed of locally, the heads wagged even +harder. A gambler probably; a ne'er-do-well certainly; and one to break +his mother's heart in the end.</p> + +<p>But none of this was true, as Luke knew. It was just that Nat hated +farming; that he liked to rove and take a floater's fortune. He had a +taste for the mechanical and followed incomprehensible quests. San +Francisco had known him; the big races at Cincinnati; the hangars of +Mineola. He was restless—Nat; but he was respectable. No one could look +into his merry blue eyes and not know it. If his labors were uncertain +and sporadic, and his address that of a nomad, it all sufficed, at least +for himself.</p> + +<p>If at times Luke felt a stirring doubt that Nat was not acquitting +himself of his family duty, he quenched it fiercely. Nat was different. +He was born free; you could tell it in his talk, in his way of thinking. +He was like an eagle and hated to be bound by earthly ties. He cared for +them all in his own way. Times when he was back he helped Maw all he +could. If he brought money he gave of it freely; if he had none, just +the look of his eye or the ready jest on his lip helped.</p> + +<p>Upstairs in a drawer of the old pine bureau lay some of Nat's discarded +clothing—incredible garments to Luke. The lame boy, going to them +sometimes, fingered them, pondering, reconstructing for himself the +fabric of Nat's adventures, his life. The ice-cream pants of a bygone +day; the pointed, shriveled yellow Oxfords! the silk-front shirt; the +odd cuff link or stud—they were like a genie-in-a-bottle, these poor +clothes! You rubbed them and a whole Arabian Night's dream unfurled from +them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_425" id="Page_425">[Pg 425]</a></span></p> + +<p>And Nat lived it all! But people—dull stodgy people like Uncle Clem and +Aunt Mollie, and old Beckonridge down at the store, and a dozen +others—these criticized him for not "workin' reg'lar" and giving a full +account of himself.</p> + +<p>Luke, thinking of all this, would flush with impotent anger.</p> + +<p>"Oh, let 'em talk, though! He'll show 'em some day! They dunno Nat. +He'll do somethin' big fur us all some day."</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Midsummer came to trim the old farm with her wreaths. It was the time +Luke loved best of all—the long, sweet, loam-scented evenings with Maw +and Tom on the old porch; and sometimes—when there was no fog—Paw's +cot, wheeled out in the stillness. But Maw was not herself this summer. +Something had fretted and eaten into her heart like an acid ever since +Aunt Mollie's visit and the news of Matty Bisbee's funeral.</p> + +<p>When, one by one, the early summer festivities of the neighborhood had +slipped by, with no inclusion of the Hayneses, she had fallen to +brooding deeply,—to feeling more bitterly than ever the ignominy and +wretchedness of their position.</p> + +<p>Luke tried to comfort her; to point out that this summer was like any +other; that they "never had mattered much to folks." But Maw continued +to brood; to allude vaguely and insistently to "the straw that broke the +camel's back." It was bitter hard to have Maw like that—home was bad +enough, anyway. Sometimes on clear, soft nights, when the moon came out +all splendid and the "peepers" sang so plaintively in the Hollow, the +boy's heart would fill and grow enormous in his chest with the +intolerable sadness he felt.</p> + +<p>Then Maw's mood lifted—pierced by a ray of heavenly sunlight—for Nat +came home!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_426" id="Page_426">[Pg 426]</a></span></p> + +<p>Luke saw him first—heard him, rather; for Nat came up the lane—oh, +miraculous!—driving a motor car. It was not a car like Uncle +Clem's—not even a stepbrother to it. It was low and almost noiseless, +and shaped like one of those queer torpedoes they were fighting with +across the water. It was colored a soft dust-gray and trimmed with +nickel; and, huge and powerful though it was, it swung to a mere touch +of Nat's hand.</p> + +<p>Nat stood before them, clad in black leather Norfolk and visored cap and +leggings.</p> + +<p>"Look like a fancy brand of chauffeur, don't I?" he laughed, with the +easy resumption of a long-broken relation that was so characteristically +Nat.</p> + +<p>But Nat was not a chauffeur. Something much bigger and grander. The news +he brought them on top of it all took their breaths away. Nat was a +special demonstrator, out on a brand-new high-class job for a house +handling a special line of high-priced goods. And he was to go to Europe +in another week—did they get it straight? Europe! Jiminy! He and +another fellow were taking cars over to France and England.</p> + +<p>No; they didn't quite get it. They could not grasp its significance, but +clung humbly, instead, to the mere glorious fact of his presence.</p> + +<p>He stayed two days and a night; and summer was never lovelier. Maw was +like a girl, and there was such a killing of pullets and extravagance +with new-laid eggs as they had never known before. At the last he gave +them all presents.</p> + +<p>"Tell the truth," he laughed, "I'm stony broke. 'Tisn't mine, all this +stuff you see. I got some kale in advance—not much, but enough to swing +me; but of course, the outfit's the company's. But I'll tell you one +thing: I'm going to bring some long green home with me, you can bet! And +when I do"—Nat had given Maw a prodigious nudge in the ribs—"when I +do—I ain't goin' to stay an old bachelor forever! Do you get that?"</p> + +<p>Maw's smile had faded for a moment. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_427" id="Page_427">[Pg 427]</a></span> the presents were fine—a new +knife for Tom, a book for Luke, and twenty whole round dollars for Maw, +enough to pay that old grocery bill down at Beckonridge's and Paw's new +invoice of patent medicine.</p> + +<p>They all stood on the porch and watched him as far they could see; and +Maw's black mood didn't return for a whole week.</p> + +<p>Evenings now they had something different to talk about—journeys in +seagoing craft; foreign countries and the progress of the "Ee-ropean" +war, and Nat's likelihood—he had laughed at this—of touching even its +fringe. They worked it all up from the boiler-plate war news in the +<i>Bi-weekly</i> and Luke's school geography. Yes; for a little space the +blackness was lifted.</p> + +<p>Then came the August morning when Paw died. This was an unexpected and +unsettling contingency. One doesn't look for a "chronic's" doing +anything so unscheduled and foreign to routine; but Paw spoiled all +precedent. They found him that morning with his heart quite still, and +Luke knew they stood in the presence of imminent tragedy.</p> + +<p>It's all very well to peck along, hand-to-mouth fashion. You can manage +a living of sorts; and farm produce, even scanty, unskillfully +contrived, and the charity of relatives, and the patience of tradesmen, +will see you through. But a funeral—that's different! Undertaker—that +means money. Was it possible that the sordid epic of their lives must be +capped by the crowning insult, the Poormaster and the Pauper's Field? If +only poor Paw could have waited a little before he claimed the +spotlight—until prices fell a little or Nat got back with that "long +green"!</p> + +<p>Maw swallowed her bitter pill.</p> + +<p>She went to see Uncle Clem and ask! And Uncle Clem was kind.</p> + +<p>"He'll buy a casket—he's willin' fur that—an' send a wreath and pay +fur notices, an' even half on a buryin' lot; but he said he couldn't do +no more. The high cost<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_428" id="Page_428">[Pg 428]</a></span> has hit him too.... An' where are we to git the +rest? He said—at the last—it might be better all round fur us to take +what Ellick Flick would gimme outen the Poor Fund—" Maw hadn't been +able to go on for a spell.</p> + +<p>A pauper's burial for Paw! Surely Maw would manage better than that! She +tried to find a better way that very night.</p> + +<p>"This farm's mortgaged to the neck; but I calculate Ben Travis won't +care if I'm a mind to put Paw in the south field. It hain't no mortal +good fur anything else, anyhow; an' he can lay there if we want. It's a +real pleasant place. An' I can git the preacher myself—I'll give him +the rest o' the broilers; an' they's seasoned hickory plankin' in the +lean-to. Tom, you come along with me."</p> + +<p>All night Luke had lain and listened to the sound of big Tom's saw and +hammer. Tom was real handy if you told him how—and Maw would be showing +him just how to shape it all out. Each hammer blow struck deep on the +boy's heart.</p> + +<p>Maw lined the home-made box herself with soft old quilts, and washed and +dressed her dead herself in his faded outlawed wedding clothes. And on a +morning soft and sweet, with a hint of rain in the air, they rode down +in the farm wagon to the south field together—Paw and Maw and +Luke—with big Tom walking beside the aged knobby horse's head.</p> + +<p>Abel Gazzam, a neighbor, had seen to the grave; and in due course the +little cavalcade reached the appointed spot inside the snake fence—a +quiet place in a corner, under a graybeard elm. As Maw had said, it was +"a pleasant place for Paw to lay in."</p> + +<p>There were some old neighbors out in their own rigs, and Uncle Clem had +brought his family up in his car, with a proper wreath; and Reverend +Kearns came up and—declining all lien on the broilers—read the burial +service, and spoke a little about poor Paw. But it wasn't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_429" id="Page_429">[Pg 429]</a></span> a funeral, no +how. No supper; no condolence; no viewing "the remains"—not even a +handshake! Maw didn't even look at her old friends, riding back home +between Tom and Luke, with her head fiercely high in the air.</p> + +<p>A dull depression settled on Luke's heart. It was all up with the +Hayneses now. They had saved Paw from charity with their home-made +burial; but what had it availed? They might as well have gone the whole +figure. Everybody knew! There wasn't any comeback for a thing like this. +They were just nobodies—the social pariahs of the district.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>Somehow, after the fashion of other years, they got their meager crops +in—turnips, potatoes and Hubbard squashes put up in the vegetable +cellar; oats cradled; corn husked; the buckwheat ready for the mill; +even Tom's crooked furrows for the spring sowings made. Somehow, Maw +helping like a man and Tom obeying like a docile child, they took toll +of their summer. And suddenly September was at their heels—and then the +equinox.</p> + +<p>It seemed to Luke that it had never rained so much before. Brown vapor +rose eternally from the valley flats; the hilltops lay lost entirely in +clotted murk. By periods hard rains, like showers of steel darts, beat +on the soaking earth. Gypsy gales of wind went ricocheting among the +farm buildings, setting the shingles to snapping and singing; the +windows moaned and rattled. The sourest weather the boy could remember!</p> + +<p>And on the worst day of all they got the news. Out of the mail box in +the lane Luke got it—going down under an old rubber cape in a steady +blinding pour. It got all damp—the letter, foreign postmark, stamp and +all—by the time he put it into Maw's hand.</p> + +<p>It was a double letter—or so one judged, first opening it. There was +another inside, complete, sealed, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_430" id="Page_430">[Pg 430]</a></span> addressed in Nat's hand; but one +must read the paper inclosed with it first—that was obvious. It was +just a strip, queer, official looking, with a few lines typed upon it +and a black heading that sprang out at one strangely. They read it +together—or tried to. At first they got no sense from it. Paris—from +clear off in France—and then the words below—and Maw's name at the +top, just like the address on the newspaper:</p> + +<p class="f"> +<span class="smcap">Mrs. Jere Haynes</span>,<br /> +Stony Brook, New York.<br /> +</p> + +<p>It was for Maw all right. Then quite suddenly the words came clear +through the blur:</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p class="e"> +<span class="smcap">Mrs. Jere Haynes</span>,<br /> +Stony Brook, New York.<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Dear Madam</i>: We regret to inform you that the official <i>communiqué</i> for +September sixth contains the tidings that the writer of the enclosed +letter, Nathaniel Haynes, of Stony Brook, New York, U. S. A., was killed +while on duty as an ambulance driver in the Sector of Verdun, and has +been buried in that region. Further details will follow.</p> + +<p class="r"> +The American Ambulance, Paris.<br /> +</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Even when she realized, Maw never cried out. She sat wetting her lips +oddly, looking at the words that had come like evil birds across the +wide spaces of earth. It was Luke who remembered the other letter:</p> + +<p>"<i>My dear kind folks—Father, Mother and Brothers</i>: I guess I dare call +you that when I get far enough away from you. Perhaps you won't mind +when I tell you my news.</p> + +<p>"Well we came over from England last Thursday and struck into our +contract here. Things was going pretty<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_431" id="Page_431">[Pg 431]</a></span> good; but you might guess yours +truly couldn't stand the dead end of things. I bet Maw's guessed +already. Well sir it's that roving streak in me I guess. Never could +stick to nothing steady. It got me bad when I got here any how.</p> + +<p>"To cut it short I throwed up my job with the firm yesterday and have +volunteered as an Ambulance driver. Nothing but glory; but I'm going to +like it fine! They're short-handed anyhow and a fellow likes to help +what he can. Wish I could send a little money; but it took all I had to +outfit me. Had to cough up eight bucks for a suit of underclothes. What +do you know about that?</p> + +<p>"You can write me in care of the Ambulance, Paris.</p> + +<p>"Now Maw don't worry! I'm not going to fight. I did try to get into the +Foreign Legion but had no chance. I'm all right. Think of me as a nice +little Red Cross boy and the Wise Willie on the gas wagon. And won't I +have the hot stuff to make old Luke's eyes pop out! Hope Paw's legs are +better. And Maw have a kiss on me. Mebbe you folks think I don't +appreciate you. If I was any good at writing I'd tell you different.</p> + +<p class="f"> +"Your Son and Brother,<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Nat Haynes</span>."<br /> +</p> + +<p>The worst of it all was about Maw's not crying—just sitting there +staring at the fire, or where the fire had been when the wood had died +out of neglect. It's not in reason that a woman shouldn't cry, Luke +felt. He tried some words of comfort:</p> + +<p>"He's safe, anyhow, Maw—'member that! That's a whole lot too. Didn't +always know that, times he was rollin' round so over here. You worried a +whole lot about him, you know."</p> + +<p>But Maw didn't answer. She seldom spoke at all—moved about as little as +possible. When she had put out food for him and Tom she always went back +to her corner and stared into the fire. Luke had to bring a plate to her +and coax her to eat. Even the day Uncle Clem<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_432" id="Page_432">[Pg 432]</a></span> and Aunt Mollie came up +she did not notice them. Only once she spoke of Nat to Luke.</p> + +<p>"You loved him the most, didn't ye, Maw?" he asked timidly one dreary +evening.</p> + +<p>She answered in a sort of dull surprise.</p> + +<p>"Why, lad, he was my first!" she said; and after a bit as though to +herself: "His head was that round and shiny when he was a little fellow +it was like to a little round apple. I mind, before he ever come, I +bought me a cap fur him over to Rockville, with a blue bow onto it. He +looked awful smart an' pretty in it."</p> + +<p>Sometimes in the night Luke, sleeping ill and thinking long, lay and +listened for possible sounds from Maw's room. Perhaps she cried in the +nights. If she only would—it would help break the tension for them all. +But he never heard anything but the rain—steadily, miserably beating on +the sodden shingles overhead.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>It was only Luke who watched the mail box now. One morning his journey +to it bore fruit. No sting any longer; no fear in the thick foreign +letter he carried.</p> + +<p>"It'll tell ye all's to it, I bet!" he said eagerly.</p> + +<p>Maw seemed scarcely interested. It was Luke who broke the seal and read +it aloud.</p> + +<p>It was written from the Ambulance Headquarters, in Paris—written by a +man of rare insight, of fine and delicate perception. All that Nat's +family might have wished to learn he sought to tell them. He had himself +investigated Nat's story and he gave it all fully and freely. He spoke +in praise of Nat; of his friendly associations with the Ambulance men; +of his good nature and cheerful spirits; his popularity and ready +willingness to serve. People, one felt, had loved Nat over there.</p> + +<p>He wrote of the preliminary duties in Paris, the preparations—of Nat's +final going to join one of the three sections working round Verdun. It +wasn't easy work that waited for Nat there. It was a stiff contract +guiding the little ambulance over the shell-rutted roads, with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_433" id="Page_433">[Pg 433]</a></span> deftness +and precision, to those distant dressing stations where the hurt +soldiers waited for him. It was a picture that thrilled Luke and made +his pulses tingle—the blackness of the nights; the rumble of moving +artillery and troops; the flash of starlights; the distant crackling of +rifle fire; the steady thunder of heavy guns.</p> + +<p>And the shells! It was mighty close they swept to a fellow, whistling, +shrieking, low overhead; falling to tear out great gouges in the earth. +It was enough to wreck one's nerve utterly; but the fellows that drove +were all nerve. Just part of the day's work to them! And that was Nat +too. Nat hadn't known what fear was—he'd eaten it alive. The adventurer +in him had gone out to meet it joyously.</p> + +<p>Nat was only on his third trip when tragedy had come to him. He and a +companion were seeking a dressing station in the cellar of a little +ruined house in an obscure French village, when a shell had burst right +at their feet, so to speak. That was all. Simple as that. Nat was dead +instantly and his companion—oh, Nat was really the lucky one....</p> + +<p>Luke had to stop for a little time. One couldn't go on at once before a +thing like that.... When he did, it was to leave behind the darkness, +the shell-torn houses, the bruised earth, the racked and mutilated +humans.... Reading on, it was like emerging from Hades into a great +Peace.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>"I wish it were possible to convey to you, my dear Mrs. Haynes, some +impression of the moving and beautiful ceremony with which your son was +laid to rest on the morning of September ninth, in the little village of +Aucourt. Imagine a warm, sunny, late-summer day, and a village street +sloping up a hillside, filled with soldiers in faded, dusty blue, and +American Ambulance drivers in khaki.</p> + +<p>"In the open door of one of the houses, the front of which was covered +with the tri-color of France, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_434" id="Page_434">[Pg 434]</a></span> coffin was placed, wrapped in a great +French flag, and covered with flowers and wreaths sent by the various +American sections. At the head a small American flag was placed, on +which was pinned the <i>Croix de Guerre</i>—a gold star on a red-and-green +ribbon—a tribute from the army general to the boy who gave his life for +France.</p> + +<p>"A priest, with six soldier attendants, led the procession from the +courtyard. Six more soldiers bore the coffin, the Americans and +representatives of the army branches following, bearing wreaths. After +these came the General of the Army Corps, with a group of officers, and +a detachment of soldiers with arms reversed. At the foot of the hill a +second detachment fell in and joined them....</p> + +<p>"The scene was unforgettable, beautiful and impressive. In the little +church a choir of soldiers sang and a soldier-priest played the organ, +while the Chaplain of the Army Division held the burial service. The +chaplain's sermon I have asked to have reproduced and sent to you, +together with other effects of your son's....</p> + +<p>"The chaplain spoke most beautifully and at length, telling very +tenderly what it meant to the French people that an American should give +his life while trying to help them in the hour of their extremity. The +name of this chaplain is Henri Deligny, <i>Aumônier Militaire</i>, Ambulance +16-27, Sector 112; and he was assisted by the permanent curé of the +little church, Abbé Blondelle, who wishes me to assure you that he will +guard most reverently your son's grave, and be there to receive you when +the day may come that you shall wish to visit it.</p> + +<p>"After leaving the church the procession marched to the military +cemetery, where your son's body was laid beside the hundreds of others +who have died for France. Both the lieutenant and general here paid +tributes of appreciation, which I will have sent to you. The general, +various officers of the army, and ambulance assisted in the last +rites....<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_435" id="Page_435">[Pg 435]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I have brought back and will send you the <i>Croix de Guerre</i>...."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Oh, but you couldn't read any further—for the great lump of pride in +your throat, the thick mist of tears in your eyes. A sob escaped the +boy. He looked over at Maw and saw the miraculous. Maw was awake at last +and crying—a new-fledged pulsating Maw emerged from the brown chrysalis +of her sorrows.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Maw!... Our Nat!... All that—that—funeral!... Some funeral, Maw!" +The boy choked.</p> + +<p>"My Nat!" Maw was saying. "Buried like a king!... Like a King o' +France!" She clasped her hands tightly.</p> + +<p>It was like some beautiful fantasy. A Haynes—the despised and rejected +of earth—borne to his last home with such pomp and ceremony!</p> + +<p>"There never was nothin' like it heard of round here, Maw.... If folks +could only know—"</p> + +<p>She lifted her head as at a challenge.</p> + +<p>"Why, they're goin' to know, Luke—for I'm goin' to tell 'em. Folks that +have talked behind Nat's back—folks that have pitied us—when they see +this—like a King o' France!" she repeated softly. "I'm goin' down to +town to-day, Luke."</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>It was dusk when Maw came back; dusk of a clear day, with a rosy sunset +off behind the hills. Luke opened the door for her and he saw that she +had brought some of the sun along in with her—its colors in her worn +face; its peace in her eyes. She was the same, yet somehow new. Even the +tilt of her crazy old bonnet could not detract from a strange new +dignity that clothed her.</p> + +<p>She did not speak at once, going over to warm her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_436" id="Page_436">[Pg 436]</a></span> gloveless hands at +the stove, and staring up at the Grampaw Peel plate; then:</p> + +<p>"When it comes—my Nat's medal—it's goin' to set right up here, 'stead +o' this old thing—an' the letters and the sermons in my shell box I got +on my weddin' trip.... Lawyer Ritchie told me to-day what it means, the +name o' that medal—Cross o' War! It's a decoration fur soldiers and +earned by bravery."</p> + +<p>She paused; then broke out suddenly:</p> + +<p>"I b'en a fool, settin' here grievin'. My Nat was a hero, an' I never +knew it!... A hero's folks hadn't ought to cry. It's a thing too big for +that. Come here, you little Luke! Maw hain't b'en real good to you an' +Tommy lately. You're gittin' all white an' peaked. Too much frettin' +'bout Nat. You an' me's got to stop it, I tell you. Folks round here +ain't goin' to let us fret—"</p> + +<p>"Folks! Maw!" The words burst from the boy's heart. "Did they find +out?... You showed it to 'em? Uncle Clem—"</p> + +<p>Maw sniffed.</p> + +<p>"Clem! Oh, he was real took aback; but he don't count in on this—not +big enough." Then triumph hastened her story. "It's the big ones that's +mixin' into this, Lukey. Seems like they'd heard somethin' a spell back +in one o' the county papers, an' we didn't know.... Anyhow, when I first +got into town I met Judge Geer. He had me right into his office in +Masonic Hall 'fore I could git my breath almost—had me settin' in his +private room, an' sent his stenugifer out fur a cup o' cawfee fur me. He +had me give him the letter to read, an' asked dare he make some copies. +The stenugifer took 'em like lightnin', right there.</p> + +<p>"The judge had a hard time of it, coughin' an' blowin' over that letter. +He's goin' to send some copies to the New York papers right off. He took +me acrost the hall and interduced me to Lawyer Ritchie. Lawyer Ritchie, +he read the letter too. 'A hero!' they called Nat; an' me 'A hero's +mother!'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_437" id="Page_437">[Pg 437]</a></span></p> + +<p>"'We ain't goin' to forgit this, Mis' Haynes,' Lawyer Ritchie said. +'This here whole town's proud o' your Nat.'... My land! I couldn't sense +it all!... Me, Delia Haynes, gettin' her hand wrung, 'count o' anything +Nat'd b'en doin', by the big bugs round town! Judge Geer, he fetched 'em +all out o' their offices—Slade, the supervisor, and Fuller Brothers, +and old Sumner Pratt—an' all! An' Ben Watson asked could he have a copy +to put in the <i>Bi-weekly</i>. It's goin' to take the whole front page, with +an editor'al inside. He said the Rockville Center News'd most likely +copy it too.</p> + +<p>"I was like in a dream!... All I'd aimed to do was to let some o' them +folks know that those people acrost the ocean had thought well of our +Nat, an' here they was breakin' their necks to git in on it too!... +Goin' down the street they was more of it. Lu Shiffer run right out o' +the hardware store an' left the nails he was weighin' to shake hands +with me; and Jem Brand came; and Lan'lord Peters come out o' the Valley +House an' spoke to me.... I felt awful public. An' Jim Beckonridge come +out of the Emporium to shake too.</p> + +<p>"'I ain't seen you down in town fur quite a spell,' he sez. 'How are you +all up there to the farm?... Want to say I'm real proud o' Nat—a boy +from round here!' he sez.... Old Beckonridge, that was always wantin' to +arrest Nat fur takin' his chestnuts or foolin' down in the store!</p> + +<p>"I just let 'em drift—seein' they had it all fixed fur me. All along +the street they come an' spoke to me. Mame Parmlee, that ain't b'en able +to see me fur three years, left off sweepin' her porch an' come down an' +shook my hand, an' cried about it; an' that stylish Mis' Willowby, +that's president o' the Civil Club, followed me all over the Square and +asked dare she read a copy o' the letter an' tell about Nat to the +schoolhouse next Wednesday.</p> + +<p>"It seems Judge Geer had gone out an' spread it broadcast that I was in +town, for they followed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_438" id="Page_438">[Pg 438]</a></span> me everywhere. Next thing I run into Reverend +Kearns and Reverend Higby, huntin' me hard. They both had one idee.</p> + +<p>"'We wanted to have a memor'al service to the churches 'bout Nat,' they +sez; 'then it come over us that it was the town's affair really. So, +Mis' Haynes,' they sez, 'we want you should share this thing with us. +You mustn't be selfish. You gotta give us a little part in it too. Are +you willin'?'"</p> + +<p>"It knocked me dumb—me givin' anybody anything! Well, to finish, they's +to be a big public service in the Town Hall on Friday. They'll have it +all flags—French ones, an' our'n too. An' the ministers'll preach; an' +Judge Geer'll tell Nat's story an' speak about him; an' the Ladies' +Guild'll serve a big hot supper, because they'll probably be hundreds +out; an' they'll read the letters an' have prayers for our Nat!" She +faltered a moment. "An' we'll be there too—you an' me an' Tom—settin' +in the seat o' honor, right up front!... It'll be the greatest funeral +service this town's ever seen, Luke."</p> + +<p>Maw's face was crimson with emotion.</p> + +<p>"An' Uncle Clem an' Aunt Mollie—"</p> + +<p>"Oh—them!" Maw came back to earth and smiled tolerantly. "They was real +sharp to be in it too. Mollie took me into the parlor an' fetched a +glass o' wine to stren'then me up." Maw mused a moment; then spoke with +a touch of patronage: "I'm goin' to knit Clem some new socks this +winter. He says he can't git none like the oldtime wool ones; an' the +market floors are cold. Clem's done what he could, an' I'll be real glad +to help him out.... Oh, I asked 'em to come an' set with us at the +service—S'norta too. I allowed we could manage to spare 'em the room."</p> + +<p>She dreamed again, launched on a sea of glory; then roused to her final +triumph:</p> + +<p>"But that's only part, Luke. The best's comin'. Jim Beckonridge wants +you to go down an' see him. 'That lame boy o' yours,' he sez, 'was in +here a spell ago with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_439" id="Page_439">[Pg 439]</a></span> some notion about raisin' bees an' buckwheat +together, an' gittin' a city market fur buckwheat honey. Slipped my +mind,' he sez, 'till I heard what Nat'd done; an' then it all come back. +City party this summer had the same notion an' was lookin' out for a +likely place to invest some cash in. You send that boy down an' we'll +talk it over. Shouldn't wonder if he'd get some backin'. I calculate I +might help him, myself,' he sez, 'I b'en thinkin' of it too.'... Don't +seem like it could hardly be true."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Maw!" Luke's pulses were leaping wildly. Buckwheat honey was the +dear dream of many a long hour's wistful meditation. "If we could—I +could study up about it an' send away fur printed books. We could make +some money—"</p> + +<p>But Maw had not yet finished.</p> + +<p>"An' they's some about Tom, too, Luke! That young Doctor Wells down +there—he's on'y b'en there a year—he come right up, an' spoke to me, +in the midst of several. 'I want to talk about your boy,' he sez. 'I've +wanted to fur some time, but didn't like to make bold; but now seem's as +good a time as any.' 'They're all talkin' of him,' I sez. 'Well,' he +sez, 'I don't mean the dead, but the livin' boy—the one folks calls Big +Tom. I've heard his story, an' I got a good look over him down here in +the store a while ago. Woman'—he sez it jest like that—'if that big +boy o' your'n had a little operation, he'd be as good as any.'</p> + +<p>"I answered him patient, an' told him what ailed Tom an' why he couldn't +be no different—jest what old Doc Andrews told us—that they was a +little piece o' bone druv deep into his skull that time he fell. He +spoke real vi'lent then. 'But—my Lord!—woman,' he sez, 'that's what +I'm talkin' about. If we jack up that bone'—trepannin', he called it +too—'his brains'd git to be like anybody else's.' Told me he wants fur +us to let him look after it. Won't cost anything unless we want. They's +a hospital to Rockville would tend to it, an' glad to—when we git +ready.... My poor Tommy!... Don't seem's if it could be true."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_440" id="Page_440">[Pg 440]</a></span></p> + +<p>Her face softened, and she broke up suddenly.</p> + +<p>"I got good boys all round," she wept. "I always said it; an' now folks +know."</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Luke lay on the old settle, thinking. In the air-tight stove the hickory +fagots crackled, with jeweled color-play. On the other side Tom sat +whittling silently—Tom, who would presently whittle no more, but rise +to be a man.</p> + +<p>It was incredible! Incredible that the old place might some day shake +off its shackles of poverty and be organized for a decent struggle with +life! Incredible that Maw—stepping briskly about getting the +supper—should be singing!</p> + +<p>Already the room seemed filled and warmed with the odors of prosperity +and self-respect. Maw had put a red geranium on the table; there was the +crispy fragrance of frying salt pork and soda biscuit in the air.</p> + +<p>These the Hayneses! These people, with hope and self-esteem once more in +their hearts! These people, with a new, a unique place in the +community's respect! It was all like a beautiful miracle; and, thinking +of its maker, Luke choked suddenly and gulped.</p> + +<p>There was a moist spot on the old Mexican hairless right under his eyes; +but it had been made by tears of pride, not sorrow. Maw was right! A +hero's folks hadn't ought to cry. And he wouldn't. Nat was better off +than ever—safe and honored. He had trod the path of glory. A line out +of the boy's old Reader sprang to his mind: "The paths of glory lead but +to the grave." Oh, but it wasn't true! Nat's path led to life—to hope; +to help for all of them, for Nat's own. In his death, if not in his +life, he had rehabilitated them. And Nat—who loved them—would look +down and call it good.</p> + +<p>In spite of himself the boy sobbed, visioning his brother's face.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Nat!" he whispered. "I knew you'd do it! I always said you'd do +somethin' big for us all."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_441" id="Page_441">[Pg 441]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHING_CHING_BOYS_CHINAMAN" id="CHING_CHING_BOYS_CHINAMAN"></a>CHING, CHING, CHINAMAN<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> WILBUR DANIEL STEELE</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>The Pictorial Review</i></p> + + +<p>How gaily we used to chant it over Yen Sin's scow when I was a boy on +Urkey water-front, and how unfailingly it brought the minister charging +down upon us. I can see him now, just as he used to burst upon our +vision from the wharf lane, face paper-white, eyes warm with a holy +wrath, lips moving uncontrollably. And I can hear his voice trembling at +our heels as we scuttled off:</p> + +<p>"For shame, lads! Christ died for him, lads! For shame! Shame!"</p> + +<p>And looking back I can see him there on the wharf above the scow, hands +hanging, shoulders falling together, brooding over the unredeemed.</p> + +<p>Minister Malden had seen "the field" in a day of his surging youth—seen +it, and no more. He had seen it from the deck of the steamer by which he +had come out, and by which he had now to return, since his seminary +bride had fallen sick on the voyage. He perceived the teeming harbor +clogged with junks and house-boats, the muddy river, an artery out of +the heart of darkness, the fantastic, colored shore-lines, the vast, +dull drone of heathendom stirring in his ears, the temple gongs calling +blindly to the blind, the alluring and incomprehensible accents of the +boatmen's tongue which he was to have made his own and lightened with +the fierce sweet name of the Cross—and now could not.</p> + +<p>Poor young Minister Malden, he turned his face away.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_442" id="Page_442">[Pg 442]</a></span> He gave up "the +field" for the bride, and when the bride went out in mid-ocean, he had +neither bride nor field. He drifted back to New England, somehow or +other, and found Yen Sin.</p> + +<p>He found another bride too; Minister Malden was human. It was a mercy of +justice, folks said, when Widow Gibbs got a man like Minister Malden. +Heaven knows she had had bad enough luck with Gibbs, a sallow devil of a +whaler who never did a fine act in his life till he went down with his +vessel and all hands in the Arctic one year and left Sympathy Gibbs +sitting alone in the Pillar House on Lovett's Court, pretty, plump, and +rather well-to-do as Urkey goes.</p> + +<p>Everybody in the island was glad enough when those two undertook to mend +each other's blasted life—everybody but Mate Snow. He had been thinking +of Sympathy Gibbs himself, they said; and they said he stood behind the +prescription screen in his drug-store far into the night, after the +betrothal was given out in Center Church, his eyes half-closed, his thin +lips bluish white, and hell-fire smouldering out of sight in him. And +they said Mate was the kind that never forget. That was what made it so +queer.</p> + +<p>It seems to me that I must remember the time when the minister lived in +the Pillar House with Sympathy Gibbs.</p> + +<p>Back there in the mists of youth I seem to see them walking home +together after the Sunday morning preaching, arm in arm and full of a +sedate joy; turning in between the tubbed box-trees at Lovett's Court, +loitering for a moment to gaze out over the smooth harbor and nod to the +stragglers of the congregation before they entered the big green door +flanked by the lilac panes.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was told me. There can be no question, though, that I +remember the night when Minister Malden came home from the Infield +Conference, a father of two days' standing. Urkey village made a +festival of that homecoming to the tiny daughter he had never seen,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_443" id="Page_443">[Pg 443]</a></span> and +to Sympathy Gibbs, weak and waiting and radiant. Yes, I remember.</p> + +<p>We were all at the landing, making a racket. The minister looked ill +when he came over the packet's side, followed by Mate Snow, who had gone +to Conference with him as lay delegate from Center Church. Our welcome +touched him in a strange and shocking way; he staggered and would have +fallen had it not been for Mate's quick hand. He had not a word to say +to us; he walked up the shore street between the wondering lines till he +came to the Pillar House, and there he stood for a moment, silhouetted +against the open door, a drooping, hunted figure, afraid to go in.</p> + +<p>We saw his shadow later, moving uncertainly across the shades in the +upper chamber where Sympathy Gibbs lay with her baby, his hand lifted +once with the fingers crooked in mysterious agony. Some one started a +hymn in the street below and people took it up, bawling desperately for +comfort to their souls. Mate Snow didn't sing. He stood motionless +between the box-trees, staring up at the lighted window shades, as if +waiting. By-and-by Minister Malden came down the steps, and moving away +beside him like a drunken man, went to live in the two rooms over the +drugstore. And that was the beginning of it.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Folks said Mate Snow was not the kind to forget an injury, and yet it +was Mate who stood behind the minister through those first days of shock +and scandal, who out-faced the congregation with his stubborn, tight +lips, and who shut off the whisperings of the Dorcas Guild with the +sentence which was destined to become a sort of formula on his tongue +through the ensuing years:</p> + +<p>"You don't know what's wrong, and neither do I; but we can all see the +man's a saint, can't we?"</p> + +<p>"But the woman?" some still persisted.</p> + +<p>"Sympathy Gibbs? You ought to know Sympathy Gibbs by this time."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_444" id="Page_444">[Pg 444]</a></span></p> + +<p>And if there was a faint curling at the corners of his lips, they were +all too dull to wonder at it. As for me, the boy, I took the changing +phenomena of life pretty well for granted, and wasted little of my +golden time speculating about such things. But as I look back now on the +blunt end of those Urkey days, I seem to see Minister Malden growing +smaller as he comes nearer, and Mate Snow growing larger—Mate Snow +browbeating the congregation with a more and more menacing +righteousness—Minister Malden, in his protecting shadow, leaner, +grayer, his eyes burning with an ever fiercer zeal, escaping Center +Church and slipping away to redeem the Chinaman.</p> + +<p>"There is more joy in heaven over one sinner," was his inspiration, his +justification, and, I suspect, his blessed opiate.</p> + +<p>But it must have been hard on Yen Sin. I remember him now, a +steam-blurred silhouette, earlier than the earliest, later than the +latest, swaying over his tubs and sad-irons in the shanty on the +stranded scow by Pickett's wharf, dreaming perhaps of the populous +rivers of his birth, or of the rats he ate, or of the opium he smoked at +dead of night, or of those weird, heathen idols before which he bowed +down his shining head—familiar and inscrutable alien.</p> + +<p>An evening comes back to me when I sat in Yen Sin's shop and waited for +my first "stand up" collar to be ironed, listening with a kind of awe to +the tide making up the flats, muffled and unfamiliar, and inhaling the +perfume compounded of steam, soap, hot linen, rats, opium, tea, idols +and what-not peculiar to Yen Sin's shop and to a thousand lone shops in +a thousand lone villages scattered across the mainland. When the +precious collar was at last in my hands, still limp and hot from its +ordeal, Yen Sin hung over me in the yellow nimbus of the lamp, smiling +at my wonder. I stared with a growing distrust at the flock of tiny +bird-scratches inked on the band.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_445" id="Page_445">[Pg 445]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What," I demanded suspiciously, "is <i>that</i>?"</p> + +<p>"Lat's Mista You," he said, nodding his head and summoning another +hundred of wrinkles to his damp, polished face.</p> + +<p>"That ain't my name. You don't know my name," I accused him.</p> + +<p>"Mista Yen Sin gottee name, allee light."</p> + +<p>The thing fascinated me, like a serpent.</p> + +<p>"Whose name is <i>that</i>, then?" I demanded, pointing to a collar on the +counter between us. The band was half-covered with the cryptic +characters, done finely and as if with the loving hand of an artist.</p> + +<p>Yen Sin held it up before his eyes in the full glow of the lamp. His +face seemed incredibly old; not senile, like our white-beards mumbling +on the wharves, but as if it had been a long, long time in the making +and was still young. I thought he had forgotten me, he was so engrossed +in his handiwork.</p> + +<p>"Lat colla?" he mused by-and-by. "Lat's Mista Minista, boy."</p> + +<p>"Mister Minister <i>Malden</i>?"</p> + +<p>And there both of us stared a little, for there was a voice at the door.</p> + +<p>"Yes? Yes? What is it?"</p> + +<p>Minister Malden stood with his head and shoulders bent, wary of the low +door-frame, and his eyes blinking in the new light. I am sure he did not +see me on the bench; he was looking at Yen Sin.</p> + +<p>"How is it with you to-night, my brother?"</p> + +<p>The Chinaman straightened up and faced him, grave, watchful.</p> + +<p>"Fine," he said. "Mista Yen Sin fine. Mista Minista fine, yes?"</p> + +<p>He bowed and motioned his visitor to a rocker, upholstered with a worn +piece of Axminster and a bit of yellow silk with half a dragon on it. +The ceremony, one could see, was not new. Vanishing into the further +mysteries of the rear, he brought out a bowl of tea,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_446" id="Page_446">[Pg 446]</a></span> steaming, a small +dish of heathenish things, nuts perhaps, or preserves, deposited the +offering on the minister's pointed knees, and retired behind the counter +to watch and wait.</p> + +<p>An amazing change came over the minister. Accustomed to seeing him +gentle, shrinking, illusively non-resisting, I scarcely knew this white +flame of a man, burning over the tea-bowl!</p> + +<p>"You are kind to me," he cried, "and yet your heart is not touched. I +would give up my life gladly, brother, if I could only go up to the +Throne and say to Jesus, 'Behold, Lord, Thy son, Yen Sin, kneeling at +the foot of the Cross. Thou gavest me the power, Lord, and the glory is +thine!' If I could say that, brother, I—I—"</p> + +<p>His voice trailed off, though his lips continued to move uncertainly. +His face was transfigured, his eyes filmed with dreams. He was looking +beyond Yen Sin now, and on the lost yellow millions. The tea, untasted, +smoked upward into his face, an insidious, narcotic cloud. I can think +of him now as he sat there, wresting out of his easeless years one +moment of those seminary dreams; the color of far-away, the sweet shock +of the alien and the bizarre, the enormous odds, the Game. The walls of +Yen Sin's shop were the margins of the world, and for a moment the +missionary lived.</p> + +<p>"He would soften your heart," he murmured. "In a wondrous way. Have you +never thought, Yen Sin, 'I would like to be a good man'?"</p> + +<p>The other spread his right hand across his breast.</p> + +<p>"Mista Yen Sin velly humble dog. Mista Yen Sin no good. Mista Yen Sin's +head on le glound. Mista Yen Sin velly good man. Washy colla fine."</p> + +<p>It was evidently an old point, an established score for the heathen.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I must say, you do do your work. I've brought you that collar for +five years now, and it still seems new." The minister's face fell a +little. Yen Sin continued grave and alert.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_447" id="Page_447">[Pg 447]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And Mista Matee Snow, yes? His colla allee same like new, yes?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I must say!" The other shook himself. "But it's not that, brother. +We're all of us wicked, Yen Sin, and unless we—"</p> + +<p>"Mista Minista wickee?"</p> + +<p>For a moment the minister's eyes seemed fascinated by the Chinaman's; +pain whitened his face.</p> + +<p>"All of us," he murmured uncertainly, "are weak. The best among us sins +in a day enough to blacken eternity. And unless we believe, and have +faith in the Divine Mercy of the Father, and confess—confession—" His +voice grew stronger and into it crept the rapt note of one whose auditor +is within. "Confession! A sin confessed is no longer a sin. The word +spoken out of the broken and contrite heart makes all things right. If +one but had faith in that! If—if one had Faith!"</p> + +<p>The life went out of his voice, the fire died in his eyes, his fingers +drooped on the tea-bowl. The Chinaman's clock was striking the half +after seven. He stared at the floor, haggard with guilt.</p> + +<p>"Dear me, I'm late for prayer-meeting again. Snow will be looking for +me."</p> + +<p>I slipped out behind him, glad enough of Urkey's raw air after that +close chamber of mysteries. I avoided the wharf-lane, however, more than +a little scared by this sudden new aspect of the Minister, and got +myself out to the shore street by Miah White's yard and the grocery +porch, and there I found myself face to face with Mate Snow. That +frightened me still more, for the light from Henny's Notions' window was +shining oddly in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"You're lookin' for the minister," I stammered, ducking my head.</p> + +<p>He stopped and stared down at me, tapping a sole on the cobbles.</p> + +<p>"What's this? What's this?"</p> + +<p>"He—he says you'd be lookin' for 'im, an' I seen 'im<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_448" id="Page_448">[Pg 448]</a></span> to the Chinaman's +an' he's comin' right there, honest he is, Mr. Snow."</p> + +<p>"Oh! So? I'd be looking for him, would I?"</p> + +<p>"Y—y—yessir."</p> + +<p>I sank down on the grocery steps and studied my toes.</p> + +<p>"He was <i>there</i>, though!" I protested in desperation, when we had been +waiting in vain for a long quarter-hour. The dark monitor lifted his +chin from his collar and looked at his watch.</p> + +<p>"It's hard," I heard him sigh, as he turned away down Lovett's Court, +where Center Church blossomed with its prayer-meeting lamps. Shadows of +the uneasy flock moved across the windows; Emsy Nickerson, in his +trustee's black, peered out of the door into the dubious night, and +beyond him in the bright vestry Aunt Nickerson made a little spot of +color, agitated, nursing formless despairs, an artist in vague dreads.</p> + +<p>I was near enough, at the church steps, to hear what Mate told them.</p> + +<p>"I'll lead to-night. He's gone out in the back-country to pray alone."</p> + +<p>Aunt Nickerson wept quietly, peeping from the corners of her eyes. +Reverent awe struggled with an old rebellion in Emsy's face, and in +others as they came crowding. The trustee broke out bitterly:</p> + +<p>"Miah White's took to the bottle again, along o' him. If only he'd do +his prayin' at Miah's house a spell, 'stead o' the back-country—"</p> + +<p>"There was a back-country in Judea," Mate cried him down. "And some one +prayed there, not one night, but forty nights and days!"</p> + +<p>What a far cry it was from the thwarted lover behind the prescription +screen, fanning the flames of hell-fire through the night, to the Seer +thundering in the vestry—had there been any there with heads enough to +wonder at it.</p> + +<p>It happened from time to time, this mysterious retreat<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_449" id="Page_449">[Pg 449]</a></span> into the moors, +more frequently as the Infield Conference drew on and the hollows +deepened in the minister's cheeks and his eyes shone brighter with +foreboding. Nor was this the first time the back-country had been +mentioned in the same breath with the Wilderness of Judea. I can +remember our Miss Beedie, in Sunday School, lifting her eyes and sighing +at the first verse of the fourth chapter of the Book of Luke.</p> + +<p>And to-night, while I crept off tingling through the dark of Lovett's +Court, he was in the Wilderness again, and I had seen him last.</p> + +<p>I brought up by one of the tubbed box-trees and peered in at the Pillar +House with a new wonder. I was so used to it there, dead on the outside +and living on the inside, that I had never learned to think of it as a +strange thing. Perhaps a dozen times I had seen little Hope Gibbs (they +still said "Gibbs") playing quietly among the lilacs in the back yard. +It was always at dusk when the shadows were long there, and she a shadow +among them, so unobtrusive and far away. As for her mother, no one ever +saw Sympathy Gibbs.</p> + +<p>Crouching by the box-tree, I found myself wondering what they were doing +in there, Sympathy Gibbs and the little girl; whether they were +sleeping, or whether they were sitting in the dark, thinking, or +whispering about the husband and father who was neither husband nor +father, or whether, in some remote chamber, there might not be a lamp or +a candle burning.</p> + +<p>The dead hush of the place oppressed me. I turned my head to look back +at the comfortable, bumbling devotion of Center Church, and this is what +I saw there.</p> + +<p>The door was still open, a blank, bright rectangle giving into the +deserted vestry, and it was against this mat of light that I spied +Minister Malden's head and shoulders thrust furtively, as he peeped in +and seemed to harken to the muffled unison of the prayer.</p> + +<p>You may imagine me startled enough at that, but what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_450" id="Page_450">[Pg 450]</a></span> of my emotion +when, having peeped and listened and reassured himself for a dozen +seconds, Minister Malden turned and came softly down the Court toward +the gate and the box-trees and me, a furtive silhouette against the +door-light, his face turned back over one shoulder.</p> + +<p>I couldn't bolt; he was too close for that. The wonder was that he +failed to see me, for he stopped within two yards of where I cowered in +the shadow and stood for a long time gazing in between the trees at the +pillared porch, and I could hear his breathing, uneven and laborious, as +though he had been running or fighting. Once I thought he struck out at +something with a vicious fist. Then his trouble was gone, between two +winks, and he was gone too, up the walk and up the steps, without any +to-do about it. I don't know whether he tapped on the door or not. It +was open directly. I caught a passing glimpse of Sympathy Gibbs in the +black aperture; the door closed on them both, and the Pillar House was +dead again.</p> + +<p>Now this was an odd way for Minister Malden to fast and pray in the +Wilderness—odd enough, one would say, to keep me waiting there a while +to see what would come of it all. But it didn't. I had had enough of +mysteries for one Summer's night, or at any rate I had enough by the +time I got my short legs, full tilt, into the shore street. For I had +caught a fleeting glimpse, on the way, of a watcher in the shadow behind +the <i>other</i> box-tree—Yen Sin, the heathen, with a surprised eyeball +slanting at me over one shoulder.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Among the most impressive of the phenomena of life, as noted in my +thirteenth year, is the amazing way in which a community can change +while one is away from it a month. Urkey village at the beginning of my +'teens seemed to me much the same Urkey village upon which I had first +opened my eyes. And then I went to make a visit with my uncle Orville +Means in Gillyport, just across the Sound, and when I came back on the +packet<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_451" id="Page_451">[Pg 451]</a></span> I could assure myself with all the somber satisfaction of the +returning exile that I would scarcely have known the old place.</p> + +<p>Gramma Pilot's cow had been poisoned. There had been a fire in the +Selectmen's room at Town Hall. Amber Matheson had left Mrs. Wharf's +Millinery and set up for herself, opposite the Eastern School. And Mate +Snow, all of a sudden, had bought the old Pons house, on the hill +hanging high over the town, and gone to live there. With a leap, and as +it were behind my back, he sat there dominating the village and the +harbor and the island—our Great Man.</p> + +<p>He took Minister Malden with him, naturally, out of the two rooms over +the store, into one room in the third story of the house on the +hill—where Sympathy Gibbs could see him if she chose to look that way, +as frankly and ignominiously a dependent as any baron's chaplain in the +Golden Days.</p> + +<p>"She'd have done better with Mate, after all," folks began to say.</p> + +<p>But of all the changes in the village, the most momentous to me was the +change in Yen Sin. I don't know why it should have been I, out of all +the Urkey youth, who went to the Chinaman's; perhaps it was the +spiritual itch left from that first adventure on the scow. At any rate, +I had fallen into a habit of dropping in at the cabin, and not always +with a collar to do.</p> + +<p>I had succeeded in worming out of him the meaning of that first set of +bird-scratches on my collar-band—"The boy who throws clam-shells"—and +of a second and more elaborate writing—"The boy who is courageous in +the face of all the water of the ocean, yet trembles before so much of +it as may be poured in a wash-basin." There came a third inscription in +time, but of that he would not tell me, nor of Mate Snow's, nor the +minister's. It was a queer library he had, those fine-written collars of +Urkey village.</p> + +<p>He had been growing feebler so long and so gradually<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_452" id="Page_452">[Pg 452]</a></span> that I had made +nothing of it. Once, I remember, it struck me queer that he wasn't +working so hard as he had used to. Still earliest of all and latest of +all, he would sometimes leave his iron cooling on the board now and +stand for minutes of the precious day, dreaming out of the harbor +window. When the sun was sinking, the shaft through the window bathed +his head and his lean neck with a quality almost barbaric, and for a +moment in the gloom made by the bright pencil, the new, raw things of +Urkey faded out, leaving him alone in his ancient and ordered +civilization, a little wistful, I think, and perhaps a little +frightened, as a child waking from a long, dreaming sleep, to find his +mother gone.</p> + +<p>He had begun to talk about China, too, and the river where he was born. +And I made nothing of it, it came on so gradually, day by day. Then I +went away, as I have said, and came back again. I dropped in at the scow +the second day after the packet brought me home.</p> + +<p>"Hello, there!" I cried, peeping over the counter, "I got a collar for +you to—to—" I began to stumble. "Mr. Yen Sin, dear me, what's the +matter of you?"</p> + +<p>"Mista Yen Sin fine," he said in a strengthless voice, smiling and +nodding from the couch where he lay, half propped up by a gorgeous, +faded cushion. "Mista Yen Sin go back China way pletty quick now, yes."</p> + +<p>"Honest?"</p> + +<p>He made no further answer, but took up the collar I had brought.</p> + +<p>"You been gone Gillypo't, yes? You take colla China boy, yes?"</p> + +<p>"Yessir!"</p> + +<p>"He pletty nice man, Sam Low, yes?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you know him, then? Oh, he's all right, Yen Sin."</p> + +<p>It was growing dark outside, and colder, with a rising wind from +landward to seaward against the tide. A sense of something odd and wrong +came over me; it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_453" id="Page_453">[Pg 453]</a></span> a moment before I could make it out. The fire was +dead in the stove for the first time in memory and the Vestal irons were +cold. Yen Sin asked me to light the lamp. In the waxing yellow glow he +turned his eyes to mine, and mine were big.</p> + +<p>"You know Mista God?" he questioned.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," I answered soberly. "Yes, indeed."</p> + +<p>"Mista God allee same like Mista Yen Sin, yes?"</p> + +<p>I felt myself paling at his blasphemy, and thought of lightning.</p> + +<p>"Mista God," he went on in the same speculative tone, "Mista God know +allee bad things, allee same like Mista Yen Sin, yes?"</p> + +<p>"Where is the minister?" I demanded in desperation.</p> + +<p>"Mista Yen Sin likee see Mista Minista." When he added, with a +transparent hand fluttering over his heart: "Like see pletty quick now," +I seemed to fathom for the first time what was happening to him.</p> + +<p>"Wait," I cried, too full of awe to know what I said. "Wait, wait, Yen +Sin. I'll fetch 'im."</p> + +<p>It was dark outside, the sky overcast, and the wind beginning to moan a +high note across the roofs as it swept in from the moors and out again +over the graying waters. In the shore street my eyes chanced upon the +light of Center Church, and I remembered that it was meeting-night.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>There was only a handful of worshippers that evening, but a thousand +could have had no more eyes it seemed to me as I tiptoed down the aisle +with the scandalized pad-pad of Emsy Nickerson's pursuing soles behind +my back. Confusion seized me; I started to run, and had come almost up +to Mister Malden before I had wit enough to discover that it wasn't +Minister Malden at all, but Mate Snow in the pulpit, standing with an +open hymn-book in one hand and staring down at me with grim, inquiring +eyes. After a time I managed to stammer:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_454" id="Page_454">[Pg 454]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The Chinaman, you know—he's goin' to die—the minister—"</p> + +<p>Then I fled, dodging Emsy's legs. Confused voices followed me; Aunt +Nickerson's full of a nameless horror; Mate Snow's, thundering: "Brother +Hemans, you will please continue the meeting. I will go and see what I +can do. But your prayers are needed here."</p> + +<p>Poor Minister Malden! His hour had struck—the hour so long awaited—and +now it was Mate Snow who should go to answer it. Perhaps the night had +something to do with it, and the melancholy disaster of the wind. +Perhaps it was the look of Mate Snow's back as he passed me, panting on +the steps, his head bowed with his solemn and triumphant stewardship. +But all of a sudden I hated him, this righteous man. He had so many +things, and Minister Malden had nothing—nothing but the Chinaman's +soul—and he was going to try and get that too.</p> + +<p>I had to find Minister Malden, and right away. But where <i>was</i> he, and +on prayer-meeting night too? My mind skipped back. The "Wilderness."</p> + +<p>I was already ducking along the Court to reconnoiter the Pillar House, +black and silent beyond the box-trees. And then I put my hands in my +pockets, my ardor dimmed by the look of that vacant, staring face. What +was I, a boy of thirteen, against that house? I could knock at the door, +to be sure, as the minister had done that other night. Yes; but when I +stood, soft-footed, on the porch, the thought that Sympathy Gibbs might +open it suddenly and find me there sent the hands back again into the +sanctuary of my pockets. What did I know of her? What did any one know +of her? To be confronted by her, suddenly, in the dark behind a green +door—I tiptoed down the steps.</p> + +<p>If only there were a cranny of light somewhere in the dead place! I +began to prowl around the yard, feeling adventurous enough, you may +believe, for no boy had ever scouted that bit of Urkey land before. And +I did<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_455" id="Page_455">[Pg 455]</a></span> find a light, beneath a drawn shade in the rear. Approaching as +stealthily as a red Indian, I put one large, round eye to the aperture.</p> + +<p>If I had expected a melodramatic tableau, I was disappointed. I had +always figured the inside of the Pillar House as full of treasures, for +they told tales of the old whaler's wealth. My prying eyes found it +bare, like a deserted house gutted by seasons of tramps. A little fire +of twigs and a broken butter-box on the hearth made a pathetic shift at +domestic cheer. Minister Malden sat at one side of it, his back to me, +his face half-buried in his hands. Little Hope Gibbs played quietly on +the floor, building pig-pens with a box of matches, a sober, fire-lined +shade. Sympathy Gibbs was not in the picture, but I heard her voice +after a moment, coming out from an invisible corner.</p> + +<p>"How much do you want this time, Will?"</p> + +<p>"Want?" There was an anguished protest in the man's cry.</p> + +<p>"Need, then." The voice was softer.</p> + +<p>The minister's face dropped back in his hands, and after a moment the +words came out between his tight fingers, hardly to be heard.</p> + +<p>"Five hundred dollars, Sympathy."</p> + +<p>I thought there was a gasp from the corner, suppressed. I caught the +sound of a drawer pulled open and the vague rustling of skirts as the +woman moved about. Her voice was as even as death itself.</p> + +<p>"Here it is, Will. It brings us to the end, Will. God knows where it +will come from next time."</p> + +<p>"It—it—you mean—" An indefinable horror ran though the minister's +voice, and I could see the cords shining on the hands which gripped the +chair-arms. "Next time—next year—" His eyes were fixed on the child at +his feet. "God knows where it will come from. Perhaps—before another +time—something will happen. Dear little Hope—little girl!"</p> + +<p>The child's eyes turned with a preoccupied wonder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_456" id="Page_456">[Pg 456]</a></span> as the man's hand +touched her hair; then went back to the alluring pattern of the matches.</p> + +<p>Sympathy Gibbs spoke once more.</p> + +<p>"I've found out who holds the mortgage, Will. Mr. Dow told me."</p> + +<p>His hand slid from Hope's hair and hung in the air. During the momentary +hush his head, half-turned, seemed to wait in a praying suspense.</p> + +<p>"It's Mate Snow," the voice went on. The man covered his face.</p> + +<p>"Thank God!" he said. I thought he shivered. "Then it's all—all right," +he sighed after a moment. "I was afraid it might be somebody who +would—who might make trouble." He took out a handkerchief and touched +his forehead with it. "Thank—God!"</p> + +<p>"Why do you thank God?" A weariness, like anger, touched her words.</p> + +<p>"Why? Why do I thank God?" He faced her, wondering. "Because he has +given me a strong man to be my friend and stand behind me. Because Mate +Snow, who might have hated me, has—"</p> + +<p>"Has sucked the life out of you!" It came out of the corner like a +blade. "Yes, yes, he has sucked the life out of you in his hate, and +thrown the dry shell of you to me; and that makes him feel good on his +hill there. No, no, no; I'm going to say it now. Has he ever tried to +find out what was wrong with us? No. He didn't need to. Why? Because no +matter what it was, we were given over into his hands, body and soul. +And now it's Mate Snow who is the big man of this island, and it's the +minister that eats the crumbs that fall from his table, and folks pity +you and honor him because he's so good to you, and—"</p> + +<p><i>And this was Urkey village, and night, and Yen Sin was dying.</i></p> + +<p>"And he's down to the Chinaman's <i>now</i>!" I screamed, walking out of my +dream. "An'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_457" id="Page_457">[Pg 457]</a></span> the Chinaman's dyin' an' wants the minister, an' Mate Snow +he got there first."</p> + +<p>The light went out in the room; I heard a chair knocked over, and then +Minister Malden's voice: "God forgive me! God forgive me!"</p> + +<p>I ran, sprawling headlong through the shrubs.</p> + +<p>Out in the dark of Lovett's Court I found people all about me, the +congregation, let out, hobbling and skipping and jostling shoreward, a +curious rout. Others were there, not of the church; Kibby Baker, the +atheist, who had heard the news through the church window where he +peeped at the worshipers; Miah White's brother, the ship-calker, +summoned by his sister; a score of others, herding down the dark wind. +At the shore street, folks were coming from the Westward. It was strange +to see them all and to think it was only a heathen dying.</p> + +<p>Or, perhaps, it wasn't so strange, when one remembered Minister Malden +coming down the years with that light in his eyes, building his slow +edifice, like one in Israel prophesying the coming of the Messiah.</p> + +<p>I shall never forget the picture I saw that night from the deck of the +Chinaman's scow. The water here in the lee was as smooth as black glass, +save for the little ground-swell that rocked the outer end of the craft. +The tide was rising; the grounded end would soon be swimming. There were +others on the deck with me, and more on the dock overhead, their faces +picked out against the sky by the faint irradiations from the lighted +shanty beneath. And over and behind it all ran the tumult of the +elements; behind it the sea, where it picked up on the Bight out there +beyond our eyes; above it the wind, scouring the channels of the crowded +roofs and flinging out to meet the waters, like a ravening and +disastrous bride.</p> + +<p>Mate Snow stood by the counter in the little cabin, his close-cropped +head almost to the beams, his voice, dry austere, summoning the Chinaman +to repentance.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_458" id="Page_458">[Pg 458]</a></span> "Verily, if a man be not born again, he shall not enter +into the Kingdom of Heaven." His eyes skipped to the door.</p> + +<p>"And to be born again," he went on with a hint of haste, "you must +confess, Yen Sin, and have faith. That is enough. The outer and inner +manifestations—confession and faith."</p> + +<p>"Me, Mista Yen Sin—confessee?"</p> + +<p>A curious and shocking change had come over the Chinaman in the little +time I had been away. He lay quite motionless on his couch, with a bit +of silken tapestry behind his head, like a heathen halo protecting him +at last. He was more alive than he had been, precisely because the life +had gone out of him, and he was no longer bothered with it. His face was +a mask, transparent and curiously luminous, and there for the first time +I saw the emotion of humor, which is another name for perception.</p> + +<p>His unclouded eyes found me by the door and he moved a hand in a vague +gesture. I went, walking stiff-legged, awe mingling with +self-importance.</p> + +<p>"Mista Boy, please," he whispered in my ear. "The collas on the shelf +theah. Led paypah—"</p> + +<p>Wondering, I took them down and piled them on the couch beside him, one +after another, little bundles done up carefully in flaring tissue with +black characters inked on them.</p> + +<p>"That one!" he whispered, and I undid the one under his finger, +discovering half a dozen collars, coiled with their long imprisonment.</p> + +<p>"And that one, and that one—"</p> + +<p>They covered his legs and rose about his thin shoulders, those treasured +soiled collars of his, gleaming under the lamp like the funeral-pyre of +some fantastic potentate. Nothing was heard in the room save the faint +crackling of the paper, and after a moment Lem Pigeon murmuring in +amazement to his neighbor, over in a corner.</p> + +<p>"Look a-there, will ye? He's got my collar with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_459" id="Page_459">[Pg 459]</a></span> blood spot onto it +where the Lisbon woman's husband hit me that time down to New Bedford. +What ye make o' that now?"</p> + +<p>Yen Sin lifted his eyes to Mate Snow's hanging over him in wonder.</p> + +<p>"Mista Matee Snow confessee, yes?"</p> + +<p>There was a moment of shocked silence while our great man stared at Yen +Sin. He took his weight from the counter and stood up straight.</p> + +<p>"I confess my sins to God," he said.</p> + +<p>The other moved a fluttering hand over his collars. "Mista Yen Sin allee +same like Mista God, yes."</p> + +<p>In the hush I heard news of the blasphemy whispering from lip to lip, +out the door and up the awe-struck dock. Mate Snow lifted a hand.</p> + +<p>"Stop!" he cried. "Yen Sin, you are standing in the Valley of the Shadow +of Death—"</p> + +<p>"Mista Matee Snow wickee man? No? Yes? Mista Matee Snow confessee?"</p> + +<p>The Chinaman was making a game of his death-bed, and even the dullest +caught the challenge. Mate Snow understood. The yellow man had asked him +with the divine clarity of the last day either to play the game or not +to play the game. And Mate Snow wanted something enough to play.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he murmured, "I am weak. All flesh is weak." He faltered, and his +brow was corded with the labor of memory. It is hard for a good man to +summon up sins enough to make a decent confession; nearly always they +fall back in the end upon the same worn and respectable category.</p> + +<p>"I confess to the sin of pride," he pronounced slowly. "And to good +deeds and kind acts undone; to moments of harshness and impatience—"</p> + +<p>"Mista Matee Snow confessee?" Yen Sin shook a weary protest at the +cheater wasting the precious moments with words. Mate Snow lifted his +eyes, and I saw his face whiten and a pearl of sweat form on his +forehead.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_460" id="Page_460">[Pg 460]</a></span> A hush filled the close cave of light, a waiting silence, +oppressive and struck with a new expectancy. Little sounds on the dock +above became important—young Gilman Pilot's voice, cautioning: "Here, +best take my hand on that ladder, Mr. Malden. Last rung's carried away."</p> + +<p>It was curious to see Mate Snow's face at that; it was as if one read +the moving history of years in it as he leaned over the counter and +touched the dying man's breast with a passion strange in him.</p> + +<p>"I will tell you how wicked I am, Yen Sin. Three years ago I did Ginny +Silva out of seventy dollars wages in the bogs; and if he's here tonight +I'll pay him the last cent of it. And—and—" He appealed for mercy to +the Chinaman's unshaken eyes. Then, hearing the minister on the deck +behind, he cast in the desperate sop of truth. "And—<i>and I have coveted +my neighbor's wife</i>!"</p> + +<p>It was now that Minister Malden cried from the doorway: "That is +nothing, Yen Sin—<i>nothing</i>—when you think of <i>me</i>!"</p> + +<p>You may laugh. But just then, in that rocking death-chamber, with the +sea and the dark and the wind, no one laughed. Except Yen Sin, perhaps; +he may have smiled, though the mask of his features did not move. +Minister Malden stepped into the room, and his face was like new ivory.</p> + +<p>"Look at me! I have wanted to bring your soul to Christ before I died. +That is white, but all the rest of me is black. I have lived a lie; I +have broken a law of God; to cover that I have broken another, +another—"</p> + +<p>His voice hung in the air, filled with a strange horror of itself. The +Chinaman fingered his collars. Without our consent or our understanding, +he had done the thing which had so shocked us when he said it with his +lips; the heathen sat in judgment, weighing the sins of our little +world.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_461" id="Page_461">[Pg 461]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes?" he seemed to murmur. "And then?"</p> + +<p>The minister's eyes widened; pain lifted him on his toes.</p> + +<p>"I am an adulterer," he cried. "And my child is a—a—bastard. Her +mother's husband, Joshua Gibbs, didn't go down with his vessel after +all. He was alive when I married her. He is alive today, a wanderer. He +learned of things and sent me a letter; it found me at the Infield +Conference the day before I came home that time to see my baby. Since +that day it has seemed to me that I would suffer the eternity of the +damned rather than that that stain should mar my child's life, and in +the blackness of my heart I have believed that it wouldn't if it weren't +known. I have kept him quiet; I have hushed up the truth. I have paid +him money, leaving it for him where he wrote me to leave it. I have gone +hungry and ragged to satisfy him. I have begged my living of a friend. I +have drained the life of the woman I love. And yet he is never content. +And I have betrayed even <i>him</i>. For he forbade me to see his wife ever +again, or even to know the child I had begotten, and I have gone to +them, in secret, by night. I have sinned not alone against God, but +against the devil. I have sinned against—<i>everything</i>!"</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The fire which had swept him on left him now of a sudden, his arms hung +down at his sides, his head drooped. It was Mate Snow who broke the +silence, falling back a step, as if he had been struck.</p> + +<p>"God forgive me," he said in awe. "And <i>I</i> have kept you here. <i>You</i>! To +preach the word of God to these people. God forgive me!"</p> + +<p>"I think Mista God laugh, yes."</p> + +<p>Yen Sin wasn't laughing himself; he was looking at his collars. Mate +Snow shrugged his shoulders fiercely, impatient of the interruption.</p> + +<p>"I have kept you here," he pursued bitterly, "for the good of my own +soul, which would have liked to drive<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_462" id="Page_462">[Pg 462]</a></span> you away. I have kept you here, +even when you wanted to go away—"</p> + +<p>"Little mousie want to go away. Little cat say, 'no—no.'" Yen Sin's +head turned slowly and he spoke on to the bit of yellow silk, his words +clear and powerless as a voice in a dream. "No—no, Mousie, stay with +little cat. Good little cat. Like see little mousie jump. Little cat!"</p> + +<p>Mate Snow wheeled on him, and I saw a queer sight on his face for an +instant; the gray wrinkles of age. My cousin Duncan was there, constable +of Urkey village, and he saw it too and came a step out of his corner. +It was all over in a wink; Mate Snow lifted his shoulders with a sigh, +as much as to say: "You can see how far gone the poor fellow is."</p> + +<p>The Chinaman, careless of the little by-play, went on.</p> + +<p>"Mista Sam Kow nice China fella. Mista Minista go to Mista Sam Kow in +Infield, washy colla. Mista Yen Sin lite a letta to Mista Sam Kow, on +Mista Minista colla-band. See? Mista Sam Kow lite a letta back on +colla-band. See?"</p> + +<p>We saw—that the yellow man was no longer talking at random, but slowly, +with his eyes on the collar he held in his hand, like a scholar in his +closet, perusing the occult pages of a chronicle.</p> + +<p>"Mista Sam Kow say: 'This man go night-time in Chestnut Stleet; pickee +out letta undah sidewalk, stickee money-bag undah sidewalk, cly, shivah, +makee allee same like sick fella. Walkee all lound town allee night. +Allee same like Chlistian dlunk man. No sleepee. That's all—Sam Kow.' +Mista Yen Sin keepee colla when Mista Minista come back; give new colla: +one, two, five, seven time; Mista Minista say: 'You washy colla fine, +Yen Sin: this colla, allee same like new.' Mista Matee Snow, his colla +allee same like new, too—"</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Something happened so suddenly that none of us knew what was going on. +But there was my cousin Duncan<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_463" id="Page_463">[Pg 463]</a></span> standing by the counter, his arm and +shoulder still thrust forward with the blow he had given; and there was +our great man of the hill flung back against the wall with a haggard +grimace set on his face.</p> + +<p>"No, you don't!" Duncan growled, his voice shivering a little with +excitement. "No, you don't, Mate!"</p> + +<p>Mate Snow screamed, and his curse was like the end of the world in Urkey +island.</p> + +<p>"Curse you! The man's a thief, I tell you. He's stolen my property! I +demand my property—those collars there in his hand now. You're +constable, you say. Well, I want my—"</p> + +<p>He let himself down on the bench, as if the strength had left his knees.</p> + +<p>"He's going to tell you lies," he cried. "He's making fools of you all +with his—his—Duncan, boy! Don't listen to the black liar. He's going +to try and make out 'twas <i>me</i> put the letter under the walk in Chestnut +Street, up there to Infield; that it was <i>me</i>, all these years, that +went back and got out money he put there. <i>Me! Mate Snow.</i> Duncan, boy; +he's going to tell you a low, black-hearted lie!"</p> + +<p>"<i>How do you know?</i>" That was all my cousin Duncan said.</p> + +<p>To the dying man, nothing made much difference. It was as if he had only +paused to gather his failing breath, and when he spoke his tone was the +same, detached, dispassionate, with a ghost of humor running through it.</p> + +<p>"How many times?" He counted the collars with a finger tip. "One two, +tlee, six, seven time. Seven yeahs. Too bad. Any time Mista Minista +wantee confessee, Mista God makee allee light. Mista Yen Sin allee same +like Mista God. Wait. Wait. Wait. Laugh. Cly inside!"</p> + +<p>Mate Snow was leaning forward on the bench in a queer, lazy attitude, +his face buried in his hands and his elbows propped on his knees. But no +one looked at him, for Minister Malden was speaking in the voice of one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_464" id="Page_464">[Pg 464]</a></span> +risen from the dead, his eyes blinking at the Chinaman's lamp.</p> + +<p>"Then you mean—you mean that he—isn't alive? After all? That he wasn't +alive—<i>then</i>? You mean it was all a—a kind of a—<i>joke</i>? I—I—Oh, +Mate! <i>Mate Snow!</i>"</p> + +<p>It was queer to see him turning with his news to his traditional +protector. It had been too sudden; his brain had been so taken up with +the naked miracle that Gibbs was not alive that all the rest of it, the +drawn-out and devious revenge of the druggist, had somehow failed to get +into him as yet.</p> + +<p>"Mate Snow!" he cried, running over to the sagging figure. "Did you +hear, Mate? Eh? It isn't true! It was all a—a joke, Mate!" He shook +Snow's shoulder with a pleading ecstasy. "It's been a mistake, Mate, and +I am—she is—little Hope is—"</p> + +<p>He fell back a step, letting the man lop over suddenly on his doubled +knees, and stared blankly at a tiny drug-phial, uncorked and empty, +rolling away across the floor. He passed a slow hand across his eyes. +"Why—why—I—I'm afraid Mate is—isn't very—well."</p> + +<p>Urkey had held its tongue too long. Now it was that the dam gave way and +the torrent came whirling down and a hundred voices were lifted. Crowds +and shadows distracted the light. One cried. "The man's dead, you fools; +can't you see?" A dozen took it up and it ran out and away along the +rumbling dock. "Doctor!" another bawled. "He's drank poison! Where's the +doctor at?" And that, too, went out, and a faint shout answered from +somewhere shoreward that the doctor was out at Si Pilot's place and Miah +White was after him, astraddle of the tar-wagon horse. Through it all I +can remember Aunt Nickerson's wail continuing, undaunted and +unquenchable, "God save our souls! God save our souls!"</p> + +<p>And then, following the instinct of the frightened pack, they were all +gone of a sudden, carrying the dead man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_465" id="Page_465">[Pg 465]</a></span> to meet the doctor. I would +have gone, too, and I had gotten as far as the door at their heels, when +I paused to look back at the Chinaman.</p> + +<p>He lay so still over there on the couch—the thought came to me that he, +too, was dead. And of a sudden, leaning there on the door-frame, the +phantom years trooped back to me, and I saw the man for the first time +moving through them—a lone, far outpost of the thing he knew, one +yellow man against ten thousand whites, unshaken, unappalled, facing the +odds, working so early, so late, day after day and year after year, and +smiling a little, perhaps, as he peeped behind the scenes of the thing +which we call civilization. Yes, cry as he might inside, he must have +smiled outside, sometimes, through those years of terror, at the sight +of Minister Malden shrinking at the shadow of the ghost of something +that was nothing, to vanish at a touch of light.</p> + +<p>And now his foreign service was ended; his post was to be relieved; and +he could go wherever he wanted to go.</p> + +<p>Not quite yet. He had been dreaming, that was all. His eyes opened, and +rested, not on me, but to the right of me. Then I saw for the first time +that I wasn't alone in the room with him after all, but that Minister +Malden was standing there, where he had stood through all the din like a +little boy struck dumb before a sudden Christmas tree.</p> + +<p>And like a little boy, he went red and white and began to stammer.</p> + +<p>"I—I—Yen Sin—" He held his breath a moment. Then it came out all +together. "<i>I'll run and fetch them—both!</i>" With that he was past me, +out of the door and up the ladder, and I heard his light feet drumming +on the dock, bearing such news as never was.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The Chinaman's eyes had come to me now, and there was a queer light in +them that I couldn't understand. An adventure beyond my little +comprehension was taking shape behind them, and all I knew enough to do +was to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_466" id="Page_466">[Pg 466]</a></span> sneak around behind the counter and take hold of one of his +fingers and shake it up and down, like one man taking a day's leave of +another. His eyes thanked me for my violence; then they were back again +to their mysterious speculations. An overweening excitement gathered in +them. He frightened me. Quite abruptly, as if an unexpected reservoir of +energy had been tapped, the dying man lifted on an elbow and slid one +leg over the edge of the couch. Then he glanced at me with an air almost +furtive.</p> + +<p>"Boy," he whispered. "Run quick gettee Mista Minista, yes."</p> + +<p>"But he's coming <i>himself</i>," I protested. "You better lay back."</p> + +<p>"Mista Yen Sin askee <i>please</i>! Please, boy."</p> + +<p>What was there for me to do? I ran. Once on the dock above, misgivings +assailed me. I was too young, and the night was too appalling. I had +forgotten the wind, down in the cabin, but in the open here I felt its +weight. It grew all the while; its voice drowned the world now, and +there was spindrift through it, picked from the back shore of the island +and flung all the way across. Objects were lost in it; ghostly things, +shore lights, fish-houses, piers, strained seaward. I heard the packet's +singing masts at the next wharf, but I saw no packet. The ponderous scow +below me became a thing of life and light, an eager bird fluttering at +its bonds and calling to the wide spaces. To my bewildered eyes it +seemed to move—it <i>was</i> moving, shaking off the heavy hands of bondage, +joining itself with the wind. I got down on my knees of a sudden and +peered at the deck.</p> + +<p>"<i>Yen Sin!</i>" I screamed. "<i>What you doin' out there?</i>"</p> + +<p>I saw him dimly in the open air outside his door, fumbling and fumbling +at something. This was his great adventure, the thing that had gleamed +in his eyes and had tapped that unguessed reservoir of strength. His +voice crept back to me, harassed by the wind,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_467" id="Page_467">[Pg 467]</a></span></p> + +<p>"This velly funny countly, Mista Boy. Mista Yen Sin go back China way."</p> + +<p>His bow-line was fast to an iron ring on the wharf. I wanted to hold him +back, and I clutched at the rope with my hands as if my little strength +were something against that freed thing. The line came up to me easily, +cast off from the scow at the other end.</p> + +<p>He was waning. His window and door and the little fan-light before the +door were all I could see now, and even that pattern blurred and became +uncertain and ghostly on the mat of the night. He was clear of the +wharves now, and the wind had him—sailing China way—so peaceful, so +dreamless, surrounded by his tell-tale cargo of Urkey's unwashed +collars.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I don't know how long it was I crouched there on the timbers, staring +out into the havoc of that black night, and listening to the hungry +clamor of the Bight. I must have been crying for the minister, over and +over, without knowing it, for when my cousin Duncan's hand fell on my +shoulder and I started up half out of my wits, he pointed a finger +toward the outer edge of the wharf.</p> + +<p>And there they were in a little close group, Sympathy Gibbs standing +straight with the child in her arms, and Minister Malden down on his +knees. There were many people on the pier, all with their eyes to sea, +all except Sympathy Gibbs; hers were up-shore, where Mate Snow lay in +state on his own counter, all his sweet revenge behind him and gone.</p> + +<p>I thought little Hope was asleep in the swathing shawl, till I saw the +dark round spots of her eyes. If it was a strange night for the others, +it was stranger still to her.</p> + +<p>The wind and the rain beat on Minister Malden's bended back. He loved it +that way. The missionary was praying for the soul of the heathen.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_468" id="Page_468">[Pg 468]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="NONE_SO_BLIND21" id="NONE_SO_BLIND21"></a>NONE SO BLIND<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a></h2> + +<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> MARY SYNON</p> + +<p class="c">From <i>Harper's Magazine</i>.</p> + + +<p>We were listening to Leila Burton's music—her husband, and Dick +Allport, and I—with the throb of London beating under us like the surge +of an ocean in anger, when there rose above the smooth harmonies of the +piano and the pulsing roar of the night a sound more poignant than them +both, the quavering melody of a street girl's song.</p> + +<p>Through the purpling twilight of that St. John's Eve I had been drifting +in dreams while Leila had gone from golden splendors of chords which +reflected the glow on westward-fronting windows into somber symphonies +which had seemed to make vocal the turbulent soul of the city—for Dick +Allport and I were topping the structure of that house of life that was +to shelter the love we had long been cherishing. With Leila playing in +that art which had dowered her with fame, I was visioning the glory of +such love as she and Standish Burton gave each other while I watched +Dick, sensing rather than seeing the dearness of him as he gave to the +mounting climaxes the tense interest he always tendered to Leila's +music.</p> + +<p>I had known, before I came to love Dick Allport, other loves and other +lovers. Because I had followed will-o'-the-wisps of fancy through +marshes of sentiment I could appreciate the more the truth of that flame +which he and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_469" id="Page_469">[Pg 469]</a></span> I had lighted for our guidance on the road. A moody boy he +had been when I first met him, full of a boy's high chivalry and of a +boy's dark despairs. A moody man he had become in the years that had +denied him the material success toward which he had striven; but +something in the patience of his efforts, something in the fineness of +his struggle had endeared him to me as no triumph could have done. +Because he needed me, because I had come to believe that I meant to him +belief in the ultimate good of living, as well as belief in womanhood, I +cherished in my soul that love of him which yearned over him even as it +longed for him.</p> + +<p>Watching him in the dusk while he lounged in that concentrated quiet of +attention, I went on piling the bricks of that wide house of happiness +we should enter together; and, although I could see him but dimly, so +well did I know every line of his face that I could fancy the little +smile that quivered around his lips and that shone from the depths of +his eyes as Leila played the measures we both loved. I must have been +smiling in answer when the song of the girl outside rose high.</p> + +<p>Not until that alien sound struck athwart the power and beauty of the +spell did I come to know how high I had builded my castles; but the +knocking at the gate toppled down the dreams as Leila swept a discord +over the keyboard and crossed to the open window.</p> + +<p>In the dusk, as she flung back the heavy curtains, I could see the bulk +of Brompton Oratory set behind the houses like the looming back-drop of +a painted scene. Nearer, in front of a tall house across the way, stood +the singer, a thin girl whose shadowy presence seemed animated by a +curious bravery. In a nasal, plaintive voice she was singing the words +of a ballad of love and of loving that London, as only London can, had +made curiously its own that season. The insistence of her plea—for she +sang as if she cried out her life's longing, sang as if she called on +the passing crowd not for alms, but for understanding—made her for the +moment, before she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_470" id="Page_470">[Pg 470]</a></span> faded back into oblivion, an artist, voicing the +heartache and the heartbreak of womankind; and the artist in Leila +Burton responded to the thrill.</p> + +<p>Until the ending of the song she stood silent in front of the window, +unconscious of the fact that she, and not the scene beyond her, held the +center of the stage. Not for her beauty, although at times Leila Burton +gave the impression of being exquisitely lovely, was she remarkable, but +rather for that receptive attitude that made her an inspired listener. +In me, who had known her for but a little while, she awakened my deepest +and drowsiest ambition, the desire to express in pictures the light and +the shade of the London I knew. With her I could feel the power, and the +glory, and the fear, and the terror of the city as I never did at other +times. It was not alone that she was all things to all men; it was that +she led men and women who knew her to the summits of their aspirations.</p> + +<p>Even Standish Burton, big, sullen man that he was, immersed in his +engineering problems, responded to his wife's spiritual charm with a +readiness that always aroused in Dick and myself an admiration for him +that our other knowledge of him did not justify. He was, aside from his +relationship to Leila, a man whose hardness suggested a bitter knowledge +of dark ways of life. Now, crouched down in the depths of his chair, he +kept watching Leila with a gaze of smouldering adoration, revealing that +love for her which had been strong enough to break down those barriers +which she had erected in the years while he had worked for her in +Jacob's bondage. In her he seemed to be discovering, all over again, the +vestal to tend the fires of his faith.</p> + +<p>Dick Allport, too, bending forward over the table on which his hands +fell clenched, was studying Leila with an inscrutable stare that seemed +to be of query. I was wondering what it meant, wondering the more +because my failure to understand its meaning hung another veil between +my vision and my shrine of belief in the fullness<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_471" id="Page_471">[Pg 471]</a></span> of love, when the +song outside came to an end and Leila turned back to us.</p> + +<p>Her look, winging its way to Standish, lighted her face even beyond the +glow from the lamps which she switched on. For an instant his heavy +countenance flared into brightness. Dick Allport sighed almost +imperceptibly as he turned to me. I had a feeling that such a fire as +the Burtons kindled for each other should have sprung up in the moment +between Dick and me, for we had fought and labored and struggled for our +love as Standish and Leila had never needed to battle. Because of our +constancy I expected something better than the serene affectionateness +that shone in Dick's smile. I wanted such stormy passion of devotion as +Burton gave to Leila, such love as I, remembering a night of years ago, +knew that Dick could give. It was the old desire of earth, spoken in the +street girl's song, that surged in me until I could have cried out in my +longing for the soul of the sacrament whose substance I had been given; +but the knowledge that we were, the four of us, conventional people in a +conventional setting locked my heart as it locked my lips until I could +mirror the ease with which Leila bore herself.</p> + +<p>"I have been thinking," she said, lightly, "that I should like to be a +street singer for a night. If only a piano were not so cumbersome, I +should go out and play into the ears of the city the thing that girl put +into her song."</p> + +<p>"Why not?" I asked her, "It would be an adventure, and life has too few +adventures."</p> + +<p>"It might have too many," Dick said.</p> + +<p>"Not for Leila," Standish declared. "Life's for her a quest of joy."</p> + +<p>"That's it," Dick interposed. "Her adventures have all been joyous."</p> + +<p>"But they haven't," Leila insisted. "I'm no spoiled darling of the gods. +I've been poor, poor as that girl out there. I've had heartaches, and +disappointments, and misfortunes."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_472" id="Page_472">[Pg 472]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not vital ones," Dick declared. "You've never had a knock-out blow."</p> + +<p>"She doesn't know what one is," Standish laughed, but there sounded a +ruefulness in his laughter that told of the kind of blow he must once +have suffered to bring that note in his voice. Standish Burton took life +lightly, except where Leila was concerned. His manner now indicated, +almost mysteriously, that something threatened his harbor of peace, but +the regard Leila gave to him proved that the threat of impending danger +had not come to her.</p> + +<p>"Oh, but I do know," she persisted.</p> + +<p>"Vicariously," I suggested. "All artists do."</p> + +<p>"No, actually," she said.</p> + +<p>"You're wrong," said Standish. "You're the sort of woman whom the world +saves from its own cruelties."</p> + +<p>There was something so essentially true in his appraisal of his wife +that the certainty covered the banality of his statement and kept Dick +and myself in agreement with him. Leila Burton, exquisitely remote from +all things commonplace, was unquestionably a woman to be protected. +Without envy—since my own way had its compensations in full measure—I +admitted it.</p> + +<p>"I think that you must have forgotten, if you ever knew," she said, "how +I struggled here in London for the little recognition I have won."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that!" Dick Allport deprecated. "That isn't what Stan means. Every +one in the world worth talking about goes through that sort of struggle. +He means the flinging down from a high mountain after you've seen the +glories, not of this world, but of another, the casting out from +paradise after you've learned what paradise may mean. He spoke with an +odd timbre of emotion in his voice, a quality that puzzled me for the +moment.</p> + +<p>"That's it," said Standish, gratefully. "Those are the knock-out blows."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, I don't know them"—Leila admitted her defeat—"and I hope +that I shall not."</p> + +<p>Softly she began to play the music of an accompaniment.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_473" id="Page_473">[Pg 473]</a></span> There was a +familiar hauntingness in its strains that puzzled me until I associated +them with the song that Burton used to whistle so often in the times +when Leila was in Paris and he had turned for companionship to Dick and +to me.</p> + +<p>"I've heard Stan murder that often enough to be able to try it myself," +I told her.</p> + +<p>"I didn't know he knew it," she said. "I heard it for the first time the +other day. A girl—I didn't hear her name—sang it for an encore at the +concert of the Musicians' Club. She sang it well, too. She was a queer +girl," Leila laughed, "a little bit of a thing, with all the air of a +tragedy queen. And you should have heard how she sang that! You know the +words?"—she asked me over her shoulder:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And because I, too, am a lover,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And my love is far from me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hated the two on the sands there,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the moon, and the sands, and the sea."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"And the moon, and the sands, and the sea," Dick repeated. He rose, +going to the window where Leila had stood, and looking outward. When he +faced us again he must have seen the worry in my eyes, for he smiled at +me with the old, endearing fondness and touched my hair lightly as he +passed.</p> + +<p>"What was she like—the girl?" Standish asked, lighting another +cigarette.</p> + +<p>"Oh, just ordinary and rather pretty. Big brown eyes that seemed to be +forever asking a question that no one could answer, and a little pointed +chin that she flung up when she sang." Dick Allport looked quickly +across at Burton, but Stan gave him no answering glance. He was staring +at Leila as she went on: "I don't believe I should have noticed her at +all if she hadn't come to me as I was leaving the hall. 'Are you Mrs. +Standish Burton?' she asked me. When I told her that I was, she stared +me full in the face, then walked off<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_474" id="Page_474">[Pg 474]</a></span> without another word. I wish that +I could describe to you, though, the scorn and contempt that blazed in +her eyes. If I had been a singer who had robbed her of her chance at +Covent Garden, I could have understood. But I'd never seen her before, +and my singing wouldn't rouse the envy of a crow!" She laughed +light-heartedly over the recollection, then her face clouded. "Do you +know," she mused, "that I thought just now, when the girl was singing on +the street, that I should like to know that other girl? There was +something about her that I can't forget. She was the sort that tries, +and fails, and sinks. Some day, I'm afraid, she'll be singing on the +streets, and, if I ever hear her, I shall have a terrible thought that I +might have saved her from it, if only I had tried!"</p> + +<p>"Better let her sort alone," Burton said, shortly. He struck a match and +relit his cigarette with a gesture of savage annoyance. Leila looked at +him in amazement, and Dick gave him a glance that seemed to counsel +silence. There was a hostility about the mood into which Standish +relapsed that seemed to bring in upon us some of the urgent sorrows of +the city outside, as if he had drawn aside a curtain to show us a world +alien to the place of beauty and of the making of beauty through which +Leila moved. Even she must have felt the import of his mood, for she let +her hands fall on the keys while Dick and I stared at each other before +the shock of this crackle that seemed to threaten the perfection of +their happiness.</p> + +<p>From Brompton came the boom of the bell for evensong. Down Piccadilly +ran the roar of the night traffic, wending a blithesome way to places of +pleasure. It was the hour when London was wont to awaken to the thrill +of its greatness, its power, its vastness, its strength, and its glory, +and to send down luminous lanes its carnival crowd of men and women. It +was the time when weltering misery shrank shrouded into merciful gloom; +when the East End lay far from our hearts; when poverty and sin and +shame went skulking into byways where we need never follow; when painted +women held back in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_475" id="Page_475">[Pg 475]</a></span> shadows; when the pall of night rested like a +velvet carpet over the spaces of that floor that, by daylight, gave +glimpses into loathsome cellars of humanity. It was, as it had been so +often of late, an hour of serene beauty, that first hour of darkness in +a June night with the season coming to an end, an hour of dusk to be +remembered in exile or in age.</p> + +<p>There should have come to us then the strains of an orchestra floating +in with the fragrance of gardenias from a vendor's basket, symbols of +life's call to us, luring us out beneath stars of joy. But, instead, the +bell of Brompton pealed out warningly over our souls, and, when its +clanging died, there drifted in the sound of a preaching voice.</p> + +<p>Only phrases clattering across the darkness were the words from +beyond—resonant through the open windows: "The Cross is always ready, +and everywhere awaiteth thee.... Turn thyself upward, or turn thyself +downward; turn thyself inward, or turn thyself outward; everywhere thou +shalt find the Cross;... if thou fling away one Cross thou wilt find +another, and perhaps a heavier."</p> + +<p>Like sibylline prophecy the voice of the unseen preacher struck down on +us. We moved uneasily, the four of us, as he cried out challenge to the +passing world before his voice went down before the surge of a hymn. +Then, just as the gay whirl of cars and omnibuses beat once more upon +the pavements, and London swung joyously into our hearts again, the bell +of the telephone in the hall rang out with a quivering jangle that +brought Leila to her feet even as Standish jumped to answer its summons.</p> + +<p>She stood beside the piano as he gave answer to the call, watching him +as if she expected evil news. Dick, who had moved back into the shadow +from a lamp on the table, was staring with that same searching gaze he +had bestowed on her when she had lingered beside the window. I was +looking at him, when a queer cry from Standish whirled me around.</p> + +<p>In the dim light of the hall he was standing with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_476" id="Page_476">[Pg 476]</a></span> instrument in his +hands, clutching it with the stupidity of a man who has been struck by +an unexpected and unexplainable missile. His face had gone to a grayish +white, and his hands trembled as he set the receiver on the hook. His +eyes were bulging from emotion and he kept wetting his lips as he stood +in the doorway.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" Leila cried. "What's happened, Stan? Can't you tell me? +What is it?"</p> + +<p>Not to her, but to Dick Allport, he made answer. "Bessie Lowe is dead!"</p> + +<p>I saw Dick Allport's thunderstruck surprise before he arose. I saw his +glance go from Standish to Leila with a questioning that overrode all +other possible emotion in him. Then I saw him look at Burton as if he +doubted his sanity. His voice, level as ever, rang sharply across the +other man's distraction.</p> + +<p>"When did she die?" he asked him.</p> + +<p>"Just now." He ran his hand over his hair, gazing at Dick as if Leila +and I were not there. "She—she killed herself down in the Hotel +Meynard."</p> + +<p>"Why?" Leila's voice, hard with terror, snapped off the word.</p> + +<p>"She—she—I don't know." He stared at his wife as if he had just become +conscious of her presence. The grayness in his face deepened, and his +lips grew livid. Like a man condemned to death, he stared at the world +he was losing.</p> + +<p>"Who is Bessie Lowe?" Leila questioned. "And why have they called you to +tell of her?" Her eyes blazed with a fire that seemed about to singe +pretense from his soul.</p> + +<p>His hand went to his throat, and I saw Leila whiten. Her hand, resting +on the piano, trembled, but her face held immobile, although I knew that +all the happiness of the rest of her life hung upon his answer. On what +Standish Burton would tell her depended the years to come. In that +moment I knew that she loved him even as I loved Dick, even as women +have always loved and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_477" id="Page_477">[Pg 477]</a></span> will always love the men whom fate had marked for +their caring; and in a sudden flash of vision I knew, too, that Burton, +no matter what Bessie Lowe or any other girl had ever been to him, +worshiped his wife with an intensity of devotion that would make all his +days one long reparation for whatever wrong he might have done her. I +knew, though, that, if he had done the wrong, she would never again be +able to give him the eager love he desired, and I, too, an unwilling +spectator, waited on his words for his future, and Leila's; but his +voice did not make answer. It was Dick Allport who spoke.</p> + +<p>"Bessie Lowe is a girl I used to care for," he said. "She is the girl +who sang at the Musicians' Club, the girl who spoke to you. She heard +that I was going to be married. She wanted me to come back to her. I +refused."</p> + +<p>He was standing in the shadow, looking neither at Leila nor at me, but +at Standish Burton. Burton turned to him.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he muttered thickly, "they told me to tell you. They knew you'd +be here."</p> + +<p>"I see," said Leila. She looked at Standish and then at Dick Allport, +and there came into her eyes a queer, glazed stare that filmed their +brightness. "I am sorry that I asked questions, Mr. Allport, about +something that was nothing to me. Will you forgive me?"</p> + +<p>"There is nothing to be forgiven," he said. He turned to her and smiled +a little. She tried to answer his smile, but a gasp came from her +instead.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, "so sorry for her!"</p> + +<p>It was Standish's gaze that brought to me sudden realization that I, +too, had a part in the drama. Until I found his steady stare on me I had +felt apart from the play that he and Dick and Leila were going through, +but with his urgent glare I awoke into knowledge that the message he had +taken for Dick held for me the same significance that Leila had thought +it bore for her. Like a stab from a knife came the thought that this +girl—whoever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_478" id="Page_478">[Pg 478]</a></span> she was—had, in her dying, done what she had not done in +life, taken Dick Allport from me. There went over me numbing waves of a +great sense of loss, bearing me out on an ocean of oblivion. Against +these I fought desperately to hold myself somewhere near the shore of +sensibility. As if I were beholding him from a great distance, I could +see Dick standing in the lamplight in front of Leila Burton. +Understanding of how dear he was to me, of how vitally part of me he had +grown in the years through which I had loved him—sometimes lightly, +sometimes stormily, but always faithfully—beaconed me inshore; and the +plank of faith in him, faith that held in itself something of forgiving +charity, floated out to succor my drowning soul. I moved across the room +while Standish Burton kept his unwinking gaze upon me, and Leila never +looked up from the piano. I had come beside Dick before he heard me.</p> + +<p>He looked at me as if he had only just then remembered that I was there. +Into his eyes flashed a look of poignant remorse. He shrank back from me +a little as I touched his hand, and I turned to Leila, who had not +stirred from the place where she had listened to Standish's cry when he +took the fateful message. "We are going," I said, "to do what we +can—for her."</p> + +<p>She moved then to look at me, and I saw that her eyes held not the +compassion I had feared, but a strange speculativeness, as if she +questioned what I knew rather than what I felt. Their contemplating +quiet somehow disturbed me more than had her husband's flashlight +scrutiny, and with eyes suddenly blinded and throat drawn tight with +terror I took my way beside Dick Allport out from the soft lights of the +Burtons' house into the darkness of the night.</p> + +<p>Outside we paused a moment, waiting for a cab. For the first time since +he had told Leila of Bessie Lowe, Dick spoke to me. "I think," he said, +"that it would be just as well if you didn't come."</p> + +<p>"I must," I told him, "It isn't curiosity.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_479" id="Page_479">[Pg 479]</a></span> You understand that, don't +you? It is simply that this is the time for me to stand by you, if ever +I shall do it, Dick."</p> + +<p>"I don't deserve it." There was a break in his voice. "But I shall try +to, my dear. I can't promise you much, but I can promise you that."</p> + +<p>Down the brightness of Piccadilly into the fuller glow of Regent Street +we rode without speech. Somewhere below the Circus we turned aside and +went through dim cañons of houses that opened a way past the Museum and +let us into Bloomsbury. There in a wilderness of cheap hotels and +lodging-houses we found the Meynard.</p> + +<p>A gas lamp was flaring in the hall when the porter admitted us. At a +desk set under the stairway a pale-faced clerk awaited us with staring +insolence that shifted to annoyance when Dick asked him if we might go +to Bessie Lowe's room. "No," he said, abruptly. "The officers won't let +any one in there. They've taken her to the undertaker's."</p> + +<p>He gave us the location of the place with a scorn that sent us out in +haste. I, at least, felt a sense of relief that I did not have to go up +to the place where this unknown girl had thrown away the greatest gift. +As we walked through the poorly lighted streets toward the Tottenham +Court Road I felt for the first time a surge of that emotion that Leila +Burton had voiced, a pity for the dead girl. And yet, stealing a look at +Dick as he walked onward quietly, sadly, but with a dignity that lifted +him above the sordidness of the circumstances, I felt that I could not +blame him as I should. It was London, I thought, and life that had +tightened the rope on the girl.</p> + +<p>Strangely I felt a lightness of relief in the realization that the +catastrophe having come, was not really as terrible as it had seemed +back there in Leila's room. It was an old story that many women had +conned, and since, after all, Dick Allport was yet young, and my own, I +condoned the sin for the sake of the sinner; and yet, even as I held the +thought close to my aching heart, I felt that I was somehow letting slip +from my shoulders the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_480" id="Page_480">[Pg 480]</a></span> cross that had been laid upon them, the cross +that I should have borne, the burden of shame and sorrow for the wrong +that the man I loved had done to the girl who had died for love of him.</p> + +<p>The place where she lay, a gruesome establishment set in behind that +highway of reeking cheapness, the Tottenham Court Road, was very quiet +when we entered. A black-garbed man came to meet us from a room in which +we saw two tall candles burning. Dick spoke to him sharply, asking if +any one had come to look after the dead girl.</p> + +<p>"No one with authority," the man whined—"just a girl as lived with her +off and on."</p> + +<p>He stood, rubbing his hands together as Dick went into hurried details +with him, and I went past them into the room where the candles burned. +For an instant, as I stood at the door, I had the desire to run away +from it all, but I pulled myself together and went over to the place +where lay the girl they had called Bessie Lowe.</p> + +<p>I had drawn back the sheet and was standing looking down at the white +face when I heard a sob in the room. I replaced the covering and turned +to see in the corner the shadowy form of a woman whose eyes blazed at me +out of the dark. While I hesitated, wondering if this were the girl who +had lived occasionally with Bessie Lowe, she came closer, staring at me +with scornful hate. Miserably thin, wretchedly nervous as she was, she +had donned for the nonce a mantle of dignity that she seemed to be +trailing as she approached, glaring at me with furious resentment. "So +you thought as how you'd come here," she demanded of me, her crimsoned +face close to my own, "to see what she was like, to see what sort of a +girl had him before you took him away from her? Well, I'll tell you +something, and you can forget it or remember it, as you like. Bessie +Lowe was a good girl until she ran into him, and she'd have stayed good, +I tell you, if he'd let her alone. She was a fool, though, and she +thought that he'd marry her some day—and all the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_481" id="Page_481">[Pg 481]</a></span> time he was only +waiting until you'd take him! You never think of our kind, do you, when +you're living out your lives, wondering if you care enough to marry the +men who're worshipping you while they're playing with us? Well, perhaps +it won't be anything to you, but, all the same, there's some kind of a +God, and if He's just He'll punish you when He punishes Standish +Burton!"</p> + +<p>"But I—" I gasped. "Did you think that I—?"</p> + +<p>"Aren't you his wife?" She came near to me, peering at me in the +flickering candle-light. "Aren't you Standish Burton's wife?"</p> + +<p>"No," I said.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well"—she shrugged—"you're her sort, and it'll come to the same +thing in the end."</p> + +<p>She slouched back to the corner, all anger gone from her. Outside I +heard Dick's voice, low, decisive. Swiftly I followed the girl. "You +must tell me," I pleaded with her, "if she did it because of Standish +Burton."</p> + +<p>"I thought everybody knew that," she said, "even his wife. What's it to +you, if you're not that?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," I replied, but I knew, as I stood where she kept vigil with +Bessie Lowe, that I lied. For I saw the truth in a lightning-flash; and +I knew, as I had not known when Dick perjured himself in Leila's +music-room, that I had come to the place of ultimate understanding, for +I realized that not a dead girl, but a living woman, had come between +us. Not Bessie Lowe, but Leila Burton, lifted the sword at the gateway +of my paradise.</p> + +<p>With the poignancy of a poisoned arrow reality came to me. Because Dick +had loved Leila Burton he had laid his bond with me on the altar of his +chivalry. For her sake he had sacrificed me to the hurt to which +Standish would not sacrifice her. And the joke of it—the pity of it was +that she hadn't believed them! But because she was Burton's wife, +because it was too late for facing of the truth, she had pretended to +believe Dick; and she had known, she must have known, that he had lied +to her because he loved her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_482" id="Page_482">[Pg 482]</a></span></p> + +<p>The humiliation of that knowledge beat down on me, battering me with +such blows as I had not felt in my belief that Dick had not been true to +me in his affair with this poor girl. Her rivalry, living or dead, I +could have endured and overcome—for no Bessie Lowe could ever have won +from Dick, as she could never have given to him, that thing which was +mine. But against Leila Burton I could not stand, for she was of my +world, of my own people, and the crown a man would give to her was the +one he must take from me.</p> + +<p>There in that shabby place I buried my idols. Not I, but a power beyond +me, held the stone on which was written commandment for me. By the light +of the candles above Bessie Lowe I knew that I should not marry Dick +Allport.</p> + +<p>I found him waiting for me at the doorway. I think that he knew then +that the light of our guiding lantern had flickered out, but he said +nothing. We crossed the garishly bright road and went in silence through +quiet streets. Like children afraid of the dark we went through the +strange ways of the city, two lonely stragglers from the procession of +love, who, with our own dreams ended, saw clearer the world's wild +pursuit of the fleeing vision.</p> + +<p>We had wandered back into our own land when, in front of the darkened +Oratory and almost under the shadow of Leila Burton's home, there came +to us through the soft darkness the ominous plea that heralds summer +into town. Out of the shadows an old woman, bent and shriveled, leaned +toward us. "Get yer lavender tonight," she pleaded. "'Tis the first of +the crop, m'lidy."</p> + +<p>"That means—" Dick Allport began as I paused to buy.</p> + +<p>I fastened the sprigs at my belt, then looked up at the distant stars, +since I could not yet bear to look at him. "It means the end of the +season," I said, "when the lavender comes to London."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_483" id="Page_483">[Pg 483]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_YEARBOOK_OF_THE_AMERICAN_SHORT_STORY_FOR_1917" id="THE_YEARBOOK_OF_THE_AMERICAN_SHORT_STORY_FOR_1917"></a>THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY FOR 1917</h2> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_484" id="Page_484">[Pg 484]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ADDRESSES_OF_AMERICAN_MAGAZINES_PUBLISHING_SHORT_STORIES" id="ADDRESSES_OF_AMERICAN_MAGAZINES_PUBLISHING_SHORT_STORIES"></a>ADDRESSES OF AMERICAN MAGAZINES PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES</h2> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p><span class="smcap">Note.</span> <i>This address list does not aim to be complete, but is based +simply on the magazines which I have considered for this volume.</i></p> +</div> +<p class="n"> +Ainslee's Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City.<br /> +All-Story Weekly, 8 West 40th Street, New York City.<br /> +American Magazine, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Art World, 2 West 45th Street, New York City.<br /> +Atlantic Monthly, 3 Park Street, Boston, Mass.<br /> +Bellman, 118 South 6th Street, Minneapolis, Minn.<br /> +Black Cat, Salem, Mass.<br /> +Bookman, 443 Fourth Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Boston Evening Transcript, 324 Washington Street, Boston, Mass.<br /> +Century Magazine, 353 Fourth Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Collier's Weekly, 416 West 13th Street, New York City.<br /> +Cosmopolitan Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.<br /> +Delineator, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.<br /> +Detective Story Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Everybody's Magazine, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.<br /> +Every Week, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Forum, 286 Fifth Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Good Housekeeping, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.<br /> +Harper's Bazar, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.<br /> +Harper's Magazine, Franklin Square, New York City.<br /> +Hearst's Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.<br /> +Illustrated Sunday Magazine, 193 Main Street, Buffalo, N. Y.<br /> +Ladies' Home Journal, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.<br /> +Live Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City.<br /> +McCall's Magazine, 236 West 37th Street, New York City.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_485" id="Page_485">[Pg 485]</a></span>McClure's Magazine, 251 Fourth Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Metropolitan Magazine, 432 Fourth Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Midland, Moorhead, Minn.<br /> +Milestones, Akron, Ohio.<br /> +Munsey's Magazine, 8 West 40th Street, New York City.<br /> +Outlook, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Pagan, 174 Centre Street, New York City.<br /> +Parisienne, Printing Crafts Building, 461 Eighth Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Pearson's Magazine, 34 Union Square, New York City.<br /> +Pictorial Review, 216 West 39th Street, New York City.<br /> +Queen's Work, 3200 Russell Avenue, St. Louis, Mo.<br /> +Reedy's Mirror, Syndicate Trust Building, St. Louis, Mo.<br /> +Saturday Evening Post, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.<br /> +Scribner's Magazine, 597 Fifth Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Short Stories, Garden City, Long Island, N. Y.<br /> +Smart Set, Printing Crafts Building, New York City.<br /> +Snappy Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City.<br /> +Southern Woman's Magazine, American Building, Nashville, Tenn.<br /> +Stratford Journal, 32 Oliver Street, Boston, Mass.<br /> +Sunset Magazine, 460 Fourth Street, San Francisco, Cal.<br /> +To-day's Housewife, 461 Fourth Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Top-Notch Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Touchstone, 118 East 30th Street, New York City.<br /> +Woman's Home Companion, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.<br /> +Woman's World, 107 So. Clinton Street, Chicago, Ill.<br /> +Youth's Companion, St. Paul Street, Boston, Mass.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_486" id="Page_486">[Pg 486]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_BIOGRAPHICAL_ROLL_OF_HONOR_OF_AMERICAN_SHORT_STORIES_FOR_1917" id="THE_BIOGRAPHICAL_ROLL_OF_HONOR_OF_AMERICAN_SHORT_STORIES_FOR_1917"></a>THE BIOGRAPHICAL ROLL OF HONOR OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES FOR 1917</h2> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p><span class="smcap">Note.</span> <i>Only stories by American authors are listed. The best sixty-three +stories are indicated by an asterisk before the title of the story. The +index figures 1, 2, and 3 prefixed to the name of the author indicate +that his work has been included in the Rolls of Honor for 1914, 1915, +and 1916 respectively.</i></p> +</div> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">"Amid, John.</span>" (<span class="smcap">M. M. Stearns.</span>) Born at West Hartford, Conn., 1884. Lived +in New England at Hartford, South Dartmouth, Mass., and Randolph, N. H., +until 1903, with the exception of two years abroad. Threatened with +blindness when fifteen years old, and gave up school work, but later +resumed studies, graduating from Stanford University, 1906. Has been +active in newspaper work in Los Angeles. Has since developed water, +broken horses, and set out lemon trees. Married. Three children. Good +mechanic. Musical. Fond of boating and chess. Authority on turkey +raising. At present associate scenario editor of the American Film +Company, Santa Barbara, Cal.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Professor, A.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">Anderson, Sherwood.</span> Born in Camden, Ohio. Primary school education. +Newsboy until he became strong enough to work; then a day laborer. With +American army in Cuban campaign. Studied for a few months at college, +Springfield, Ohio. Now an advertising writer. Author of "Windy +McPherson's Son" and "Marching Men." Has three novels, three books of +short stories, and book of songs unpublished. First short story +published, "The Rabbit-pen," Harper's Magazine, July, 1914. Lives in +Chicago.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Mother."</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thinker, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Untold Lie, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">Andrews, Mary Raymond Shipman.</span> Born at Mobile, Ala. While still a +baby, moved with her parents to Lexington, Ky., where she lived until +about 1880. Married W. S. Andrews,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_487" id="Page_487">[Pg 487]</a></span> 1884, now Justice Supreme Court of +New York. Chief interests: horseback riding, shooting, and fishing. +Author of "The Marshal," "The Enchanted Forest," "The Three Things," +"The Good Samaritan," "The Perfect Tribute," "Bob and the Guides," "The +Militants," "The Eternal Feminine," "The Eternal Masculine," "The +Courage of the Commonplace," "The Lifted Bandage," "Counsel Assigned," +"Better Treasure," and "Old Glory." First short story, "Crowned with +Glory and Honor," Scribner's Magazine, February, 1902. Resides in +Syracuse, N. Y.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blood Brothers.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Return of K. of K., The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">Babcock, Edwina Stanton</span>. Born at Nyack, N. Y. One of eleven +children. Academic experience up to age of twenty-three, one year in +private school. Attended extension classes in English, Teachers' +College, Columbia University. Author "Greek Wayfarers," a volume of +verse. First short story, "The Diary of a Cat," Harper's Magazine, +August, 1904. Her deepest enthusiasms are children, the mountains of +Greece, the French Theatre, and the Irish imagination. She lives at +Nyack, N. Y., and Nantucket, Mass.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Excursion, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Barnard, Floy Tolbert</span>. Born in Hunter, Ohio, 1879. High school education +in Perry, Iowa. Married Dr. Leslie O. Barnard, 1902. Went West, 1905. +Descendant of Rouget de Lisle, author of the "Marseillaise," through her +mother. Her great-grandfather dropped the "de" to please a Quaker girl, +who would not otherwise marry him, so opposed was she to the French, and +to a name so associated with war. Her first story, "—Nor the Smell of +Fire," appeared in Young's Magazine February, 1915. Lives in Seattle, +Wash.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Surprise in Perspective, A.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Beer, Thomas</span>. Born in 1889, Council Bluffs, Iowa. Educated at MacKenzie +School, Dobbs Ferry, N. Y., Yale College (1911), Columbia Law School. +Now in National army. First story, "The Brothers," Century, February, +1917. Chief interest: the theatre. Lives at Yonkers, N. Y.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Brothers, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Onnie.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">Bottome, Phyllis</span>. Born of American parents. Now resident in England. +Author of "The Derelict," "The Second Fiddle," and "The Dark Tower."</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Ironstone.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_488" id="Page_488">[Pg 488]</a></span></p> + +<p class="g">"<span class="smcap">Breck, John</span>." (<span class="smcap">Elizabeth C. A. Smith</span>.) Lives in Grosse Isle, Mich.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*From Hungary.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">Brooks, Alden</span>. Author of "The Fighting Men." Lives in Paris. Now in +the American army in France.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Three Slavs, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(23) <span class="smcap">Brown, Alice</span>. Born at Hampton Falls, N. H., 1857. Graduated from +Robinson Seminary, Exeter, N. H., 1876. Author "Fools of Nature," +"Meadow-Grass," "The Road to Castaly," "The Day of His Youth," "Tiverton +Tales," "King's End," "Margaret Warrener," "The Mannerings," "High +Noon," "Paradise," "The County Road," "The Court of Love," "Rose +MacLeod," "The Story of Thyrza," "Country Neighbors," "John +Winterbourne's Family," "The One-Footed Fairy," "The Secret of the +Clan," "Vanishing Points," "Robin Hood's Barn," "My Love and I," +"Children of Earth," "The Prisoner," "Bromley Neighbourhood," and other +books. Lives in Boston.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Flying Teuton, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nemesis.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(1) <span class="smcap">Burt, Maxwell Struthers</span>. Born in Philadelphia, 1882. Educated at +Princeton, 1904, and at Merton College, Oxford. Author of "In the High +Hills." Instructor of English at Princeton for two years. Then went +West, settling in Jackson Hole, Wyo., where he is senior partner of a +cattle ranch. He is now in the Signal Corps, Aviation Section, U. S. +Army. First story, "The Water-Hole," Scribner's Magazine, July, 1915 +(reprinted in "The Best Short Stories of 1915").</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Closed Doors.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Cup of Tea, A.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Glory of the Wild Green Earth, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">John O'May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Le Panache.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(13) <span class="smcap">Buzzell, Francis</span>. Born in Romeo, Mich., 1882. His father was editor +of the Romeo Hydrant, which Mr. Buzzell mentions in his Almont stories +as the "Almont Hydrant." Moved when he was seven years old to Port +Huron, Mich. Backward student. Educated in private school, and one year +in Port Huron High School and Business College. Worked in railroad +yards, and at age of nineteen as reporter on Port Huron Herald. At +twenty-one became Chicago newspaper reporter, and later, associate +editor, Popular Mechanics. In 1912 began literary career by publishing +two poems in Poetry. Went to New York determined to become a great poet, +and stayed there nine<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_489" id="Page_489">[Pg 489]</a></span> months. Married Miriam Kiper and returned to +Chicago. Now a chief petty officer, U. S. N., and associate editor of +Great Lakes Recruit. Lives in Lake Bluff, Ill.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Lonely Places.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Long Vacation, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">Campbell, Fleta</span>. (<i>See Roll of Honor for 1916 under</i> <span class="smcap">Springer, Fleta +Campbell</span>.) Born in Newton, Kan., 1886, moved to Oklahoma, 1889. Educated +in common schools of the frontier, no high school, and a year and a half +preparatory school, University of Oklahoma. Lived in Texas and +California. First story, "Solitude," Harper's Magazine, March, 1912. +Lives in New York City.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mistress, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Cederschiöld, Gunnar</span>.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Foundling, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Chamberlain, George Agnew</span>. Born of American parents, São Paulo, Brazil, +1879. Educated Lawrenceville School, N. J., and Princeton. Unmarried. In +consular service since 1904. Now American Consul at Lourenço Marquez, +Portuguese East Africa.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Man Who Went Back, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Cleghorn, Sarah Norcliffe</span>. Born at Norfolk, Va., 1876. Educated at Burr +and Burton Seminary, Manchester, Vt., an old country co-educational +school; and one year at Radcliffe. Writer and tutor by profession. Chief +interests are anti-vivisection, socialism, and above all, pacifism of +the "extreme" kind. She likes best of everything in the world to go on a +picnic with plenty of children. First short story, "The Mellen +Idolatry," Delineator, about 1900. Author of "A Turnpike Lady," "The +Spinster," "Fellow Captains" (with Dorothy Canfield), and "Portraits and +Protests." Lives in Manchester, Vt.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Mr. Charles Raleigh Rawdon, Ma'am."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(23) <span class="smcap">Cobb, Irvin Shrewsbury</span>. Born at Paducah, Ky., 1876. Education +limited to attendance of public and private schools up to age of +sixteen. Reporter and cartoonist for several years; magazine contributor +since 1910. Chief interests, outdoor life and travel. First short story, +"The Escape of Mr. Trimm," Saturday Evening Post, November, 1910. Author +of "Back Home," "Cobb's Anatomy," "The Escape of Mr. Trimm," "Cobb's +Bill of Fare," "Roughing It de Luxe," "Europe Revised," "Paths of +Glory," "Speaking of Operations," "Local Color," "Fibble, D. D.," "Old +Judge Priest," "Speaking of Prussians," "Those<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_490" id="Page_490">[Pg 490]</a></span> Times and These," and +"'Twixt the Bluff and the Sound." Lives within commuting distance of New +York City.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Boys Will Be Boys.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Cinnamon Seed and Sandy Bottom.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Family Tree, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Quality Folks.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">Connolly, James Brendan</span>. Born at South Boston, Mass. Education, +parochial and public schools of Boston and a few months in Harvard. +Married Elizabeth F. Hurley, 1904. Clerk, inspector, and surveyor with +U. S. Engineering Corps, Savannah, 1892-95. Won first Olympic +championship of modern times at Athens, 1896. Served in Cuban campaign +and in U. S. Navy, 1907-08. Progressive candidate for Congress, 1912. +Member National Institute of Arts and Letters. Author "Jeb Hutton," "Out +of Gloucester," "The Seiners," "The Deep Sea's Toll," "The Crested +Seas," "An Olympic Victor," "Open Water," "Wide Courses," "Sonnie Boy's +People," "The Trawler," "Head Winds," and "Running Free." Lives in +Boston.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Breath o' Dawn.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(2) <span class="smcap">Cowdery, Alice</span>. Born in San Francisco. Graduate of Leland Stanford +University. First short story, "Gallant Age," Harper's Magazine, +September, 1914. Lives in California.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Robert.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Crabbe, Bertha Helen</span>. Born in 1887 in Coxsackie, N. Y. Her father moved +his family to Rockaway Beach, L. I., in 1888, when it was little more +than an isolated fishing-station. It was her good fortune to live among +the novel conditions attending the rapid growth of this pioneer village, +and to be surrounded by those interesting and widely varying types of +people who are drawn to a city-in-the-making. Educated in public schools +of the Rockaways, and at a boarding school in Tarrytown, N. Y. Student +of painting. First story published in 1913 in a magazine of the Munsey +group. Lives in Far Rockaway.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Once in a Lifetime.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Dobie, Charles Caldwell</span>. Born in San Francisco, 1881. Education; grammar +school and seventeen years' supplementary schooling in University of +Hard Knocks. In fire insurance business for nearly twenty years. First +story, "An Invasion," San Francisco Argonaut, Oct. 8, 1910. Gave up +business, 1916, to devote himself to literature. Lives in San Francisco.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Empty Pistol, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gifts, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Laughter.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Our Dog.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_491" id="Page_491">[Pg 491]</a></span></p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Dodge, Mabel</span>.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Farmhands.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(23) <span class="smcap">Duncan, Norman</span>. Born at Brantford, Ont., 1871. Educated University +of Toronto. On staff New York Evening Post, 1897-01; professor rhetoric, +Washington and Jefferson College, 1902-06; adjunct professor English +literature, University Of Kansas, 1908-10. Travelled widely in +Newfoundland, Labrador, Asia, and Australasia. Died 1916. Author: "The +Soul of the Street," "The Way of the Sea," "Dr. Luke of the Labrador," +"Dr. Grenfell's Parish," "The Mother," "The Adventures of Billy +Topsail," "The Cruise of the Shining Light," "Every Man for Himself," +"Going Down from Jerusalem," "The Suitable Child," "Higgins," "Billy +Topsail & Company," "The Measure of a Man," "The Best of a Bad Job," "A +God in Israel," "The Bird-Store Man," "Australian Byways," and "Billy +Topsail, M.D."</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Little Nipper of Hide-an'-Seek Harbor, A.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(13) <span class="smcap">Dwight, H. G.</span> Born in Constantinople, 1875. Educated at St. +Johnsbury Academy, St. Johnsbury, Vt., and Amherst College. Chief +interests: gardening and sailing. He remembers neither the title nor the +date of his first published story. This because he was his own first +editor and publisher. "First real story," "The Bathers," Scribner's +Magazine, December, 1903. Author of "Constantinople," "Stamboul Nights," +and "Persian Miniatures." Lives in Roselle, N. J. Is now an army field +clerk in France.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Emperor of Elam, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Ferber, Edna</span>. Born in Kalamazoo, Mich., 1887. Educated in public and +high schools, Appleton, Wis. Began as reporter on Appleton Daily +Crescent at seventeen. Employed on Milwaukee Journal and Chicago +Tribune; contributor to magazines since 1910. First short story, "The +Homely Heroine," Everybody's Magazine, November, 1910. Jewish religion. +Author of "Dawn O'Hara," "Buttered Side Down," "Roast Beef Medium," +"Personality Plus," "Emma McChesney & Co.," and "Fanny Herself." +Co-author with George V. Hobart of "Our Mrs. McChesney." Lives in New +York City.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Gay Old Dog, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Folsom, Elizabeth Irons</span>. Born at Peoria, Ill., 1876. Grandfather and +father were both writers. For a number of years member of editorial +staff of The Pantagraph at Bloomington, Ill., doing the court work there +and reading law at the same time. Left newspaper in 1916 to devote +herself to fiction.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_492" id="Page_492">[Pg 492]</a></span> First short story, "The Scheming of Letitia," +Munsey's Magazine, April, 1914. Lives in New York City.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Kamerad.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Frank, Waldo</span>. Born in 1800, Long Branch, N. J. Educated in New York +public schools and at Yale. (B.A., M.A., and Honorary Fellowship.) While +still at college, wrote regular signed column of dramatic criticism in +New Haven Journal-Courier. Two years' newspaper work in New York. Went +to Europe, devoting himself to study of French and German theater. One +of the founders and associate editor of the Seven Arts Magazine. Chief +interests: fiction, drama, criticism of American literary standards, and +strengthening of relations between America and contemporary European +(non-English) cultures. First story, "The Fruit of Misadventure," Smart +Set, July, 1915. Author of "The Unwelcome Man." Lives in New York City.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Bread-Crumbs.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Candles of Romance, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rudd.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(123) <span class="smcap">Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins</span>. Born at Randolph, Mass., 1862. Educated +at Randolph and Mt. Holyoke. Married Dr. Charles M. Freeman, 1902. +Author of "A Humble Romance," "A New England Nun," "Young Lucretia," +"Jane Field," "Giles Corey," "Pembroke," "Madelon," "Jerome," "Silence," +"Evelina's Garden," "The Love of Parson Lord," "The Heart's Highway," +"The Portion of Labor," "Understudies," "Six Trees," "The Wind In the +Rose Bush," "The Givers," "Doc Gordon," "By the Light of the Soul," +"Shoulders of Atlas," "The Winning Lady," "Green Door," "Butterfly +House," "The Yates Pride," "Copy-Cat," and other books. Lives in +Metuchen, N. J.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Boomerang, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cloak Also, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ring with the Green Stone, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Geer, Cornelia Throop</span>, is an instructor in Bryn Mawr College.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pearls Before Swine.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(123) <span class="smcap">Gerould, Katharine Fullerton</span>. Born in Brockton, Mass., 1879. +Graduate of Radcliffe College. Married, 1910. Reader in English, Bryn +Mawr, 1901-10. Author: "Vain Oblations," "The Great Tradition," +"Hawaii," and "A Change of Air." Lives in New Jersey.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*East of Eden.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Hand of Jim Fane, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Knight's Move, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Wax Doll, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*What They Seem.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_493" id="Page_493">[Pg 493]</a></span></p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Glasgow, Ellen.</span> Born in Richmond, Va., 1874. Educated at home, but this +has been supplemented by a wide range of reading, and travel both abroad +and in this country. Her first short story was "A Point in Morals," +Harper's Magazine, about 1897. Author of "The Descendant," "Some Phases +of an Inferior Planet," "The Voice of the People," "The Freeman and +Other Poems," "The Battleground," "The Deliverance," "The Wheel of +Life," "The Ancient Law," "The Romance of a Plain Man," "The Miller of +Old Church," "Virginia," "Life and Gabriella." She lives in Richmond, +Va.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Dare's Gift.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Glaspell, Susan.</span> (Mrs. George Cram Cook.) Born in Davenport, Iowa, 1882. +Graduate Drake University. Reporter in Des Moines for several years. The +idea for "A Jury of Her Peers" came from a murder trial which she +reported. Chief interest: the little theater. Associated with the +Provincetown Players. Married George Cram Cook, 1913. First story, "In +the Face of His Constituents," Harper's Magazine, October 1903. Author +of "The Glory of the Conquered," "The Visioning," "Lifted Masks," +"Fidelity," several one-act plays: "Trifles," "Suppressed Desires" (in +collaboration with George Cram Cook), "The People," and "Close the +Book." Lives in Provincetown and New York City.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Hearing Ear, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Jury of Her Peers, A.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Matter of Gesture, A.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(13) <span class="smcap">Gordon, Armistead Churchill.</span> Born in Albemarle County, Va., 1855. +Educated at classical academy in Warrenton, N. C., and Charlottesville, +Va., and at University of Virginia. Lawyer in Staunton, Va., since 1879. +First story, "Envion," South Atlantic Magazine, July, 1880. Of this +story his friend, Thomas Nelson Page, wrote in a preface to a volume of +Mr. Gordon's stories, printed in 1899, but never published, entitled +"Envion and Other Tales of Old and New Virginia": "To one of these +sketches the writer is personally indebted for the idea of a tragic love +affair during the war, an idea which he employed in his story 'Marse +Chan,' and also for the method which he adopted of telling the story +through the medium of a faithful servant." Author of "Befo' de War: +Echoes in Negro Dialect" (with Thomas Nelson Page), "Congressional +Currency," "For Truth and Freedom: Poems of Commemoration," "The Gay +Gordons," "The Gift of the Morning Star," "The Ivory Gate," "Robin +Aroon: A Comedy of Manners," "William Fitzhugh Gordon, a Virginian of +the Old School," "J. L. M. Curry"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_494" id="Page_494">[Pg 494]</a></span> (with E. A. Alderman), "Maje, a Love +Story," and "Ommirandy." Lives in Staunton, Va.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*His Father's Flag.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">Greene, Frederick Stuart.</span> Born in Rappahannock County, Va., 1870. +Graduated from Virginia Military Institute, 1890. Civil engineer until +May 14, 1917. Now commanding officer of Company "B," 302d Engineers, +National Army, Camp Upton, N. Y. His chief interests are to see this war +to a successful conclusion, and to devote himself thereafter to writing. +First story, "Stictuit," Saturday Evening Post, April 5, 1913. Editor of +"The Grim 13." Lives on Long Island, N. Y.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Bunker Mouse, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Molly McGuire, Fourteen."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">Hallet, Richard Matthews.</span> Born in Yarmouthport, Mass. Author of "The +Lady Aft" and "Trial By Fire."</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Rainbow Pete.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Harris, Corra May.</span> Born at Farm Hill, Ga. 1869. Married Rev. Lundy +Howard Harris, 1887. Methodist. Began writing for the Independent, 1899. +Author: "The Jessica Letters" (with Paul Elmer More), "A Circuit Rider's +Wife," "Eve's Second Husband," "The Recording Angel," "In Search of a +Husband," and "Co-Citizens." Lives in Rydal, Ga.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Other Soldiers in France, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Hartman, Lee Foster.</span> Born in Fort Wayne, Ind., 1879. Graduate of +Wesleyan University. Engaged in newspaper and magazine work in New York +City since 1901. Now assistant editor of Harper's Magazine. First story, +"My Lady's Bracelet," Munsey's Magazine, October, 1904. Author of "The +White Sapphire." Lives in New York City.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Frazee.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Hemenway, Hetty Lawrence.</span> (<span class="smcap">Mrs. Auguste Richard.</span>) Born in Boston, 1890. +Educated in private schools in her home city. She has always been fond +of outdoor life and devoted to animals, especially dogs and horses. +Married Lieut. Auguste Richard, 1917. First story, "Four Days," Atlantic +Monthly, May, 1917, since reprinted in book form.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Four Days.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Hunt, Edward Eyre.</span> Graduate of Harvard. Associated with American Relief +Commission in Belgium. Author of "War-Bread."</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ghosts.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Saint Dympna's Miracle.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_495" id="Page_495">[Pg 495]</a></span></p> + +<p class="g">(23) <span class="smcap">Hurst, Fannie.</span> Born in Hamilton, Ohio, 1889, but spent the first +nineteen years of her life in St. Louis, Mo. An only child, and +consequently forced into much solitude and a precocious amount of +reading. Educated at home and in public schools of St. Louis. Graduate +of Washington University. Two years' graduate work at Columbia. After +vacillating between writing and the stage, the pen finally conquered, +and between 1909 and 1912 just thirty-three manuscripts were submitted +to and rejected by one publication alone,—a publication which later +came to feature her work. First short story published in Reedy's Mirror, +1909; second story in Smith's Magazine, 1912. Lives in New York City. +Active in women's suffrage, tennis and single tax; but her chief +interest is her writing, her work-day being six hours long. Has made +personal studies of the life she interprets, having at various times +apprenticed herself as waitress, saleswoman, and factory-girl. Author of +"Just Around the Corner," "Every Soul Hath Its Song," "Gaslight +Sonatas."</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Get Ready the Wreaths.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Solitary Reaper.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Hutchison, Percy Adams.</span> Graduate of, and for some years instructor at, +Harvard University.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Journey's End.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">Johnson, Fanny Kemble.</span> (<span class="smcap">Mrs. Vincent Costello.</span>) Born in Rockbridge +County, Va., and educated in private schools. Moved to Charleston, W. +Va., 1897. Married Vincent Costello, 1899. Has lived in Wheeling, W. +Va., since 1907. Her chief interests are her four children, her writing, +and contemporary history as it is made from day to day. "The Pathway +Round," Atlantic Monthly, August, 1900, marked her entrance into the +professional magazines. Author of "The Beloved Son."</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Strange-Looking Man, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Jones, E. Clement.</span> Born in Boston, 1890. First short story in verse, +"Country Breath and the Ungoverned Brother," London Nation, 1911. +Contributor to The New Republic and The Seven Arts. Lives in Concord, +Mass.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Sea-Turn, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Kauffman, Reginald Wright.</span> Born at Columbia, Pa., 1877. Educated at St. +Paul's School, Concord, and at Harvard. Married, 1909. In newspaper work +since 1897. Associate editor Saturday Evening Post, 1904-07; later +associate editor Delineator, and managing editor Hampton's Magazine. +Author of "Jarvis of Harvard," "The Things That Are Cæsar's," "The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_496" id="Page_496">[Pg 496]</a></span> +Chasm," "Miss Frances Baird, Detective," "The Bachelor's Guide to +Matrimony," "What is Socialism?", "My Heart and Stephanie," "The House +of Bondage," "The Girl That Goes Wrong," "The Way of Peace," "The +Sentence of Silence," "The Latter Day Saints" (with Ruth Kauffman), +"Running Sands," "The Spider's Web," "Little Old Belgium," "In a Moment +of Time," "Jim," and "The Silver Spoon." Lives in Columbia, Pa.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lonely House, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Kline, Burton.</span> Born at Williamsport, Pa., 1877. Educated at Dickinson +Seminary, Williamsport, and at Harvard. Married, 1909. Newspaper man. +Magazine editor Boston Transcript. Republican. Lutheran. Author of +"Struck by Lightning" and "The End of the Flight." Lives in Arlington, +Mass.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Caller in the Night, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Krysto, Christina.</span> Born in Batum, Russia, 1887. Her early education was +thoroughly Russian. She was taught at home and given unrestricted +freedom in a really fine library. Emigrated to California when nine +years old. Studied at University of California. Now engaged in ranch +work and the endeavor to arrange her life so that there will be room in +it for writing. "Babanchik" is her first story. She lives in Alta Loma, +Cal.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Babanchik.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Lee, Jennette.</span> Born at Bristol, Conn., 1860. Attended Bristol schools. +Began teaching, 1876. Graduated from Smith College, 1886. First story, +"Bufiddle," published in the Independent, 1886. Taught English at +Vassar, Western Reserve College for Women, and Smith College. Her +special interest is relating education to life. Resigned professorship +in English at Smith College, 1913. Married Gerald Stanley Lee, 1896. +Author of "Kate Wetherell," "A Pillar of Salt," "The Son of a Fiddler," +"Uncle William," "The Ibsen Secret," "Simeon Tetlow's Shadow," "Happy +Island," "Mr. Achilles," "The Taste of Apples," "The Woman in the +Alcove," "Aunt Jane," "The Symphony Play," "Unfinished Portraits," and +"The Green Jacket." She lives in Northampton, Mass.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">John Fairchild's Mirror.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Lewis, Addison.</span> Born in Minneapolis, 1889. Educated in public schools. +Graduated from University of Minnesota in 1912. Regards as a liberal +share of his education a very brief circus career, and five years spent +as assistant managing editor of The Bellman and the Northwestern Miller. +His professions are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_497" id="Page_497">[Pg 497]</a></span> journalism and advertising; is bothered mostly with +the necessity of getting the nebulous idea for a story on paper, +freshwater sailing, and the problem of improving his game of golf. First +story, "The End of the Lane," Reedy's Mirror, Feb. 2, 1917. He lives in +Minneapolis.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*When Did You Write Your Mother Last?</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">London, Jack.</span> Born at San Francisco, 1876. Educated at University of +California. Married Bessie Maddern, 1900; Charmian Kittredge, 1905. Went +to the Klondike instead of graduating from college; went to sea before +the mast; traveled as a tramp through the United States and Canada; war +correspondent during the Russo-Japanese War; and navigated his yacht +"Snark" in the South Seas, 1907-09. Socialist. Author of "The Son of the +Wolf," "The God of His Fathers," "A Daughter of the Snows," "The +Children of the Frost," "The Cruise of the Dazzler," "The People of the +Abyss," "Kempton-Wace Letters," "The Call of the Wild," "The Faith of +Men," "The Sea Wolf," "The Game," "War of the Classes," "Tales of the +Fish Patrol," "Moon-Face," "Scorn of Women," "White Fang," "Before +Adam," "Love of Life," "The Iron Heel," "The Road," "Martin Eden," "Lost +Face," "Revolution," "Burning Daylight," "Theft," "When God Laughs," +"Adventure," "The Cruise of the Snark," "South Sea Tales," "Smoke Bellew +Tales," "The House of Pride," "A Son of the Sun," "The Night-Born," "The +Abysmal Brute," "John Barleycorn," "The Valley of the Moon," "The +Strength of the Strong," "The Mutiny of the Elsinore," "The Scarlet +Plague," "The Star Rover," "The Little Lady of the Big House," "Jerry," +and "Michael, the Brother of Jerry." He died in 1916.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like Argus of the Ancient Time.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">Marshall, Edison.</span> Born in Rensselaer, Ind. Moved to Medford, Ore., +in 1907. Educated at University of Oregon. In newspaper work till 1916. +Now writing for the magazines. Unmarried. Chief interests: hunting and +fishing. His first story was, "The Sacred Fire," Argosy, April, 1915. +Age, twenty-four. Principal ambition is to get to France. Lives in +Medford, Ore.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Man that Was in Him, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Masters, Edgar Lee.</span> Born at Garnett, Kan., 1868. Educated at high school +and Knox College. Studied law in his father's office. Admitted to the +bar, 1891. Married, 1898. Democrat. Author of "A Book of Verses," +"Maximilian," "The New Star Chamber and Other Essays," "Blood of the +Prophets,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_498" id="Page_498">[Pg 498]</a></span> "Althea," "The Trifler," "Spoon River Anthology," "Songs and +Satires," and "The Great Valley." His first story was published in the +Peoria Call in 1886 or 1887, and in 1889 he published several short +stories in the Waverly Magazine. Lives in Chicago.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Boyhood Friends.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Widow La Rue.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Morton, Johnson.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Understudy, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Nafe, Gertrude.</span> Born in Grand Island, Neb., 1883. Graduate of University +of Colorado. Teaches English in East Denver High School. Her chief +interest in life is revolution. Her first contribution was "The Woman +Who Stood in the Market Place," published in Mother Earth in February, +1914. Lives in Denver, Colo.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">One Hundred Dollars.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Nicholson, Meredith.</span> Born at Crawfordsville, Ind., 1866. Educated in +Indianapolis public schools. Married, 1896. Member of National Institute +of Arts and Letters. Author of "Short Flights," "The Hoosiers," "The +Main Chance," "Zelda Dameron," "The House of a Thousand Candles," +"Poems," "The Port of Missing Men," "Rosalind at Red Gate," "The Little +Brown Jug at Kildare," "The Lords of High Decision," "The Siege of the +Seven Suitors," "The Hoosier Chronicle," "The Provincial American," +"Otherwise Phyllis," "The Poet," "The Proof of the Pudding," "The +Madness of May," and "A Reversible Santa Claus."</p> + +<p class="g">"My first literary tinklings were in verse; you will note two volumes of +poems in my list. Finding at fifteen that the schools within my reach +did not meet my requirements, I went to work and began educating myself +along lines of least resistance. My occupations were various: worked in +printing offices, learned shorthand, became stenographer in a law +office; was in newspaper work for twelve years; at thirty was auditor +and treasurer of a coal-mining corporation in Colorado; after three +years of business became a writer of books. When I was eighteen I wrote +three short stories which were published, and after that wrote no +fiction till I was thirty-two. I haven't thought of it before, but it +was odd that I wrote no short stories and had no interest in that form +until about five years ago. Since then I have done a number every year. +Without being a politician, I have dabbled somewhat in political +matters, making speeches at times, and abusing my fellow partisans (I am +a Democrat) when they needed chastisement. I have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_499" id="Page_499">[Pg 499]</a></span> been defeated for +nominations and have declined nominations, and I once refused a foreign +appointment of considerable dignity that was very kindly offered me by a +President. When it comes to 'interests' I have, I suppose, a +journalistic mind. Anything that is of contemporaneous human interest +interests me—even free verse, which I despise, but read." Mr. Nicholson +lives in Indianapolis.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Heart of Life, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Norton, Roy.</span> Born at Kewanee, Ill., 1869. High school education. Studied +law, mining, and languages. Married, 1894. Practiced law at Ogden, 1892. +In newspaper work for some years. Democrat. Roman Catholic. Mason. +Author of "Guilty" (with William Hallowell), "The Vanishing Fleets," +"The Toll of the Sea," "Mary Jane's Pa," "The Garden of Fate," "The +Plunderer," "Captains Three," "The Mediator," "The Moccasins of Gold," +"The Boomers," and "The Man of Peace." Lives in New Jersey.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Aunt Seliny.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(2) <span class="smcap">O'Brien, Seumas.</span> Born at Glenbrook, County Cork, Ireland, April 26, +1880,—three days and three hundred and sixteen years (?) after Mr. +William Shakespeare of Stratford-on-Avon. Education: none or very +little, and less German than French. Profession: pessimist. Chief +interests: Russian Jewesses and American dollars. In more sober truth, +education: Presentation Brothers Schools, Cork School of Art, Cork +School of Music, Metropolitan School of Art, Dublin, and Royal College +of Art, London. Profession: sculptor and dramatist. Chief interests: +literature, art, and music. First magazine to publish his work, The +Tatler. Author of "The Whale and the Grasshopper," "Duty, and Other +Irish Comedies," and "The Knowledgeable Man." Lives in Brooklyn, N. Y.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Murder?</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">O'Higgins, Harvey J.</span> Born in London, Ont., 1876. Educated at public +schools and Toronto University. In newspaper work from 1897 to 1902. +First short story, "Not for Publication," in Youth's Companion, March, +1902. Chief interests: those of a publicist, aiding social and political +reforms. Author of "The Smoke Eaters," "Don-a-Dreams," "A Grand Army +Man," "Old Clinkers," "The Beast and the Jungle" (with Judge Ben B. +Lindsey), "Under the Prophet in Utah" (with Frank J. Cannon), "The +Argyle Case" (with Harriet Ford), "The Dummy," "Polygamy," "Silent Sam" +(with Harriet Ford), and "Adventures of Detective Barney." He lives in +New Jersey.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">From the Life: Thomas Wales Warren.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_500" id="Page_500">[Pg 500]</a></span></p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">O'Sullivan, Vincent.</span> Born in New York, 1872. Graduate of Oxford. +Author of "The Good Girl," "Sentiment," "Of Human Affairs," and many +other books. Lives in Brooklyn, N. Y.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Interval, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Pangborn, Georgia Wood.</span> Born at Malone, N. Y., 1872. Educated at +Franklin Academy, Malone; Packer Institute, Brooklyn, and Smith College. +Married, 1894. First short story, "The Grek Collie," Scribner's +Magazine, July, 1903. Author of "Roman Biznet" and "Interventions." +Lives in New York City.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Bixby's Bridge.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Perry, Lawrence.</span> Born in Newark, N. J., 1875. Educated in public and +private schools. He had a choice between college and the New York Sun +(Charles A. Dana, then editor) as a medium of higher education. Has +always regarded his decision in favor of the Sun as wise, considering an +ambition to learn life and then write about it. On staff of Sun and +Evening Sun, 1897-1905. Went to Evening Post, 1906; there organized and +edited "Yachting" until 1909. Has since concentrated on inter-collegiate +sport and fiction. His first story, "Joe Lewis," in Frank Leslie's +Popular Monthly, September, 1902. Author of "Dan Merrithew," "Prince or +Chauffeur," "Holton," and "The Fullback." Lives in New York City.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Certain Rich Man, A.—"</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Portor, Laura Spencer.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Boy's Mother, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Idealist, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Pottle, Emery.</span> Is a poet and short-story writer of distinction, now with +the Aviation Corps in France, specializing in Observation Balloon work.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Breach in the Wall, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Portrait, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Prouty, Olive Higgins.</span> Born in Worcester, Mass., 1882. Educated in +public schools. Graduated from Smith College, 1904. Post-graduate work +at Simmons College and Radcliffe. Chief interests: home and her +children's development and education. Married in 1907. First story, +"When Elise Came," American Magazine, April, 1909. Author of "Bobbie, +General Manager," and "The Fifth Wheel." Lives in Brookline, Mass.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">New England War Bride, A.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_501" id="Page_501">[Pg 501]</a></span></p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Pulver, Mary Brecht.</span> Born in Mount Joy, Pa., 1883. Educated in public +schools, normal school, and Philadelphia School of Applied Art. Married, +1906. Chief interests: music, painting, and literature. Author of "The +Spring Lady." Lives in Binghamton, N. Y.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Path of Glory, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Raisin, Ovro'om</span>, is a distinguished Yiddish writer of fiction now living +in New York City.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ascetic, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Richardson, Norval.</span> Born at Vicksburg, Miss., 1877. Educated at +Lawrenceville School, N. J., and Southwestern Presbyterian University. +Secretary and treasurer Lee Richardson & Company. In diplomatic service +since 1909 at Havana, Copenhagen, and Rome. Author of "The Heart of +Hope," "The Lead of Honour," "George Thorne," and "The Honey Pot." Is +now connected with the American Embassy, Rome, Italy.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Miss Fothergill.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(23) <span class="smcap">Rosenblatt, Benjamin.</span> Born on New Year's Eve, 1880, in a tiny +Russian village named Resoska. When he was ten, his parents brought him +to New York, where he was set to work in a shop at once. Later he sold +newspapers. At the age of seventeen his first story in Yiddish, entitled +"She Laughed," appeared in Vörwarts. At that time he studied English +diligently, and prepared himself for college. For a number of years he +was a frequent contributor to the Jewish press. His first English story, +entitled "Free," appeared in The Outlook, July 4, 1903. After leaving +the normal training school he taught English to foreigners, opening a +preparatory school. His story "Zelig," in my opinion, was the best +American short story in 1915. He is now attending New York University, +and is an insurance agent. He lives in Brooklyn, N. Y.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Madonna, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Schneider, Herman.</span> Born at Summit Hill, Pa., 1872. Graduated from Lehigh +University in science, 1894. Now Dean of the College of Engineering, +University of Cincinnati. Profession: civil engineer. Chief interests: +advancing technical education, promoting scientific research, and +planning methods to give free outlook to the creative genius of the +country in science, art, music, literature, and every other phase of +human endeavor. Author of "Education for Industrial Workers." First +short story, "Arthur McQuaid, American," Outlook, May 23, 1917. At +present, living in Washington, working in the Ordnance Department on +industrial service problems.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shaft of Light, A.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_502" id="Page_502">[Pg 502]</a></span></p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Shepherd, William Gunn</span>, is a war correspondent in Europe, who was with +Richard Harding Davis at Salonika when the incident occurred which +suggested to Davis the idea for his short story, "The Deserter."</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Scar that Tripled, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Showerman, Grant.</span> Born in Brookfield, Wis., 1870, of Dutch and English +stock, his grandfather, Luther Parker, having in 1836 driven the entire +distance from Indian Stream, N. H., to Wisconsin, where he was the first +permanent settler in his township. Educated in Brookfield district +school, Carroll College, and University of Wisconsin. Fellow in the +American School of Classical Studies at Rome, 1898-1900. Married, 1900. +Now professor of classics, University of Wisconsin. Interested chiefly +in literature and finds his diversion on the Four Lakes. First short +story, "Italia Liberata," Scribner's Magazine, January, 1908. Author of +"With the Professor," a translation of Ovid's "Heroides" and "Amores," +"The Indian Stream Republic and Luther Parker," "A Country Chronicle," +and "A Country Child." Lives in Madison, Wis.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Country Christmas, A.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(123) <span class="smcap">Singmaster, Elsie.</span> (<span class="smcap">Mrs. Harold Lewars.</span>) Born at Schuylkill Haven, +Pa., 1879. Graduate of Radcliffe College. Her first story, "The Lése +Majesté of Hans Heckendorn," Scribner's Magazine, November, 1905. Author +of "When Sarah Saved the Day," "When Sarah Went to School," +"Gettysburg," "Katy Gaumer," "Emmeline," "The Long Journey," "Martin +Luther: the Story of His Life," and "History of Lutheran Missions." +Lives in Gettysburg, Pa.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Christmas Angel, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Flag of Eliphalet, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Smith, Elizabeth C. A.</span> (<i>See</i> "<span class="smcap">Breck, John.</span>")</p> + +<p class="g">(23) <span class="smcap">Smith, Gordon Arthur</span>, was born in Rochester, N. Y., 1886. Educated +at Harvard. Studied architecture in Paris for four years. Now a writer +by profession. Chief interests: aviation, architecture, and music. First +published story, "The Bottom of the Sea," in Black Cat at age of +sixteen. Author of "Mascarose" and "The Crown of Life." Now an ensign in +the U. S. Navy Flying Forces, "somewhere in France." Home: Rochester, N. +Y.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*End of the Road, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Friend of the People, A.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_503" id="Page_503">[Pg 503]</a></span></p> + +<p class="g">(23) <span class="smcap">Sneddon, Robert W.</span> Born in 1880 at Beith, Ayrshire, Scotland, the +son of a doctor. Studied arts and law at Glasgow University, and served +law apprenticeship at Glasgow and Edinburgh. Lived in London and Paris, +and since 1909 has lived in New York. First short story, "Little Golden +Shoes," The Forum, August, 1912. Author of "The Might-Have-Beens." Fond +of outdoors and fireside. Chief interest: reaching the heart of the +public. Chief sport: hunting for a publisher for three volumes of short +stories and for producers for his plays.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Mirror! Mirror! Tell Me True!"</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">"<span class="smcap">Star, Mark</span>," is the pseudonym of a lady who prefers to remain unknown.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Garden of Sleep, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(23) <span class="smcap">Steele, Wilbur Daniel</span>. Born in Greensboro, N. C., 1886. Educated at +University of Denver. Studied art in Denver, Boston, and Paris. First +short story, "On the Ebb Tide," Success, 1910. Author of "Storm." Lives +in Provincetown, Mass.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Ching, Ching, Chinaman.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Devil of a Fellow, A.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Free.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Ked's Hand.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Point of Honor, A.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*White Hands.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*The Woman at Seven Brothers.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Steffens, (Joseph) Lincoln.</span> Born at San Francisco, 1866. Educated at +University of California, Berlin, Heidelberg, Leipzig, Paris, and +Sorbonne. Married, 1891. In newspaper work, 1892-1902. Since then +managing and associate editor at different times of McClure's Magazine, +American Magazine, and Everybody's Magazine. Author of "The Shame of the +Cities," "The Struggle for Self Government," "Upbuilders," and "The +Least of These." He lives in New York City.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bunk.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great Lost Moment, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Sullivan, Alan</span>, is a Canadian author.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Only Time He Smiled, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(123) <span class="smcap">Synon, Mary</span>. Born in Chicago, 1881. Educated at St. Jarlath's +School, West Division High School, and University of Chicago. In +newspaper work since 1900. Chosen by Gaelic League in 1912 to write for +American newspapers a series of articles on the Irish situation. First +story, "The Boy Who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_504" id="Page_504">[Pg 504]</a></span> Went Back to the Bush," Scribner's Magazine, +November, 1909. For three years secretary of the Woman's Auxiliary of +the Catholic Church Extension Society; now executive secretary of the +Woman's Liberty Loan Committee. Author of "The Fleet Goes By." Lives in +Wilmette, Ill.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Clay-Shattered Doors.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">End of the Underground, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*None So Blind.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Taber, Elizabeth Stead.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Scar, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(3) <span class="smcap">Vorse, Mary Heaton.</span> (<span class="smcap">Mary Heaton Vorse O'Brien.</span>) Born in New York. +Never went properly to school because her family traveled widely, but +studied art in Paris at several academies. She is most interested in +radical thought, especially as expressed in the radical wing of the +labor movement. Married Albert W. Vorse, 1898; Joseph O'Brien, 1912. +First story, "The Boy Who Didn't Catch Things," Everybody's Magazine, +June, 1904. Author of "The Breaking in of a Yachtsman's Wife," "The Very +Little Person," "The Autobiography of an Elderly Woman," "The Heart's +Country," and "The Ninth Man." Lives in Provincetown, Mass., and New +York City.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great God, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pavilion of Saint Merci, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="g">(23) <span class="smcap">Weston, George.</span> Born in New York, 1880. High school education. +Studied law and founded the Western Engineering Company. On editorial +staff of New York Evening Sun from 1900. Retired to farm in Connecticut, +1912. An enthusiastic sportsman, farmer, and motorist. Single, white, an +ardent Republican, a staunch admirer of Mr. Charles Chaplin, an +accomplished listener to the violin, a Latin versifier, a connoisseur of +roses, a fancier of fox-terriers, a lover of shad-roe and bacon, and a +never-swerving champion of woman's suffrage. First short story, "After +Many Years," Harper's Magazine, 1910. Author of "Oh, Mary, Be Careful!" +Lives in Packer, Conn.</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Perfect Gentleman, A.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_505" id="Page_505">[Pg 505]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_ROLL_OF_HONOR_OF_FOREIGN_SHORT_STORIES_IN_AMERICAN_MAGAZINES_FOR" id="THE_ROLL_OF_HONOR_OF_FOREIGN_SHORT_STORIES_IN_AMERICAN_MAGAZINES_FOR"></a>THE ROLL OF HONOR OF FOREIGN SHORT STORIES IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES FOR 1917</h2> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Note.</span> <i>Stories of special excellence are indicated by an asterisk. The +index figures 1, 2, and 3 prefixed to the name of the author indicate +that his work has been included in the Rolls of Honor for 1914, 1915, +and 1916 respectively.</i></p> +</div> + +<p class="s">I. <span class="smcap">English and Irish Authors</span></p> + +<p class="n">(23) <span class="smcap">Aumonier, Stacy.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*In the Way of Business.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Packet, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Them Others.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n">(3) <span class="smcap">Beresford, J. D.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Escape, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Little Town, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Powers of the Air.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n">(13) <span class="smcap">Conrad, Joseph.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Warrior's Soul, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Dudeney, Mrs. Henry.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Feather-bed, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Dunsany, Lord.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*How the Gods Avenged Meoul Ki Ning.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n">(123) <span class="smcap">Galsworthy, John.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Defeat.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flotsam and Jetsam.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Juryman, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">George, W. L.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Interlude.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*News, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Hamilton, Cosmo.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ladder Leaning on a Cloud, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Houseman, Laurence.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Inside-out.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_506" id="Page_506">[Pg 506]</a></span></p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Lawrence, D. H.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*England, My England.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mortal Coil, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Thimble, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Le Gallienne, Richard.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bugler of the Immortals, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Machen, Arthur.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Coming of the Terror, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">MacManus, Seumas.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mad Man, the Dead Man, and the Devil, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Mordaunt, Elinor.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Gold Fish, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Pertwee, Roland.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Camouflage.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Red and White.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n">(3) <span class="smcap">Soutar, Andrew.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Behind the Veil.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Thomas, Edward.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Passing of Pan, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n">(3) <span class="smcap">Wylie, I. A. R.</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Holy Fire.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*'Melia No-Good.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Return, The.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<p class="s">II. <span class="smcap">Translations</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Andreyev, Leonid Nikolaevich.</span> (<i>Russian.</i>)</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Lazarus.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Anonymous.</span> (<i>German.</i>)</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Evocation, The.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Huppdiwupp."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Bazin, René.</span> (<i>French.</i>)</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mathurine's Eyes.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Boutet, Frederic.</span> (<i>French.</i>)</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Medallion, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Chekhov, Anton.</span> (<i>Russian.</i>) (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Tchekhov, Anton.</span>)</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Chirikov, Evgeniy.</span> (<i>Russian.</i>)</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Past, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Delarue-Madrus, Lucie.</span> (<i>French.</i>)</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Death of the Dead, The.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Heine, Anselma.</span> (<i>German.</i>)</p> + +<p class="n"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Vision, The.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_507" id="Page_507">[Pg 507]</a></span></p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Le Braz, Anatole.</span> (<i>French.</i>)<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Christmas Treasure, The.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lev, Bernard.</span> (<i>Bohemian.</i>)<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bert, the Scamp.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Marfa's Assumption.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Madeiros e Albuquerque, José de.</span> (<i>Brazilian.</i>)<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Vengeance of Felix, The.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Netto, Coelho.</span> (<i>Brazilian.</i>)<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pigeons, The.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Philippe, Charles-Louis.</span> (<i>French.</i>)<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Meeting, The.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rinck, C. A.</span> (<i>German.</i>)<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Song, The.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Saltykov, M. Y.</span> ("<span class="smcap">N. Schedrin.</span>") (<i>Russian.</i>)<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Hungry Officials and the Accommodating Muzhik, The.</span><br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Skitalets.</span>" (<i>Russian.</i>)<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"And the Forest Burned."</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tchekhov, Anton.</span> (<i>Russian.</i>)<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dushitchka.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Old Age.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_508" id="Page_508">[Pg 508]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_BEST_BOOKS_OF_SHORT_STORIES_OF_1917_A_CRITICAL_ANALYSIS" id="THE_BEST_BOOKS_OF_SHORT_STORIES_OF_1917_A_CRITICAL_ANALYSIS"></a>THE BEST BOOKS OF SHORT STORIES OF 1917: A CRITICAL ANALYSIS</h2> + + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Christmas Tales of Flanders</span>, illustrated by <i>Jean de Bosschere</i> (Dodd, +Mead & Co.). If you like Andersen's Fairy Tales, here is a book which +comes as truly from the heart of a people. Many old folk legends are +here set down just as they came from the lips of old people in Flanders, +and as they have never grown old in that countryside let us hope that +they will take root equally well here. The volume is superbly +illustrated with many pictures from the whimsical fancy of Jean de +Bosschere. These pictures are indescribable, but they will rejoice the +heart of any child, old or young.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">From Death to Life</span> by <i>A. Apukhtin</i>, translated by <i>R. Frank</i> and <i>E. +Huybers</i> (R. Frank). This story, which so happily inaugurates a series +of translations from Russian literature, is a poetic study in life after +death, chronicling the experiences of a soul between death and rebirth. +The translators have succeeded in reflecting successfully the fine +imaginative style of this prose poem, which deserves to be widely known. +It tempts us to wish that other stories by Apukhtin may soon find an +English translator.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Tales of the Revolution</span> by <i>Michael Artzibashev</i>, translated by <i>Percy +Pinkerton</i>. (B. W. Huebsch.) The five tales by Artzibashev included in +this volume all have the same quality of bitter irony and mordant +self-analysis. The psychological revelation of the mind that has made +the later phases of the present Russian Revolution possible is complete, +and I know of no book that presents more clearly and truthfully the +rudderless pessimism of these particular spiritual reactions. Such +courageous dissection of the diseased mind has never been undertaken in +American or English fiction, and though its realism is appalling, it is +healthful in its naked frankness.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Friends</span> by <i>Stacy Aumonier</i> (The Century Co.). When "The Friends" +was published two years ago in The Century Magazine, it was evident at +once that an important new short-story writer had arrived. The homely +humanity of his characterization was but the evidence of a rich +imaginative talent that found self-expression in the more quiet ways of +life. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_509" id="Page_509">[Pg 509]</a></span> said at the time that I believed "The Friends" to be one the +two best short stories of 1915, and others felt it to be the best story +of the year. To "The Friends" have now been added in this volume two +other stories of almost equal distinction,—"The Packet" and "'In the +Way of Business.'" While Mr. Aumonier has a certain didactic intention +in these stories, he has kept it entirely subordinate to the artistry of +his exposition, and it is the few characters which he has added to +English fiction that we remember after his somewhat obvious moral has +been conveyed. His short stories have the same flavor of belated +Victorianism that one enjoys in the novels of William De Morgan, and he +is equally noteworthy in his chosen field.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Irish Idylls</span> by <i>Jane Barlow</i> (Dodd, Mead & Co.). This new edition of +"Irish Idylls" should introduce the admirable studies of Miss Barlow to +a new audience that may not be familiar with what was a pioneer volume +in its day. Published in 1893, it almost marked the beginning of the +Irish literary movement, and so many fine writers followed Miss Barlow +that she has been most unfairly concealed by their shadows. Her studies +of the lives and deaths, joys and sorrows, of Connemara peasants are +none the less real because they are the product of observation by one +who did not live among them. They show, as Miss Barlow says, that "there +are plenty of things beside turf to be found in a bog." It is true that +they represent a slight spirit of condescension, entirely absent from +the work of Padraic Colum, for instance, but they approach far more +closely to the heart of the Irish fishermen and farmers than the work of +any other English type of mind; and although Miss Barlow is best known +today by her poetry, I have always felt that she conveyed more poetry +into "Irish Idylls" than into any other of her books. The volume is a +necessary and permanent edition to any small collection of modern Irish +literature.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Day and Night Stories</span> by <i>Algernon Blackwood</i> (E. P. Dutton & Co.). In +these fifteen short stories Mr. Blackwood has adequately maintained the +quality of his best previous animistic work. To those who found a new +imaginative world in "The Centaur" and "Pan's Garden," the old familiar +magic still has power in many of these stories,—almost completely in +"The Touch of Pan" and "Initiation." Hardly inferior to these stories +for their passionate reality are "The Other Wing," "The Occupant of the +Room," "The Tryst," and "H. S. H." There is no story in this volume +which would not have made the reputation of a new writer, and I can +hardly find a better introduction than "Day and Night Stories" to the +beauty of Mr. Blackwood's imaginative life. He serves the same altar of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_510" id="Page_510">[Pg 510]</a></span> +beauty in our day that John Keats served a century ago, and I cannot but +believe that his magic will gain greater poignancy as generations pass.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Derelict</span> by <i>Phyllis Bottome</i> (The Century Co.). This collection of +Miss Bottome's short stories, many of which have previously appeared in +the Century Magazine during the past two years, gives a more complete +revelation of her talent than either of her novels. I suspect that the +short story is her true literary medium, and certainly there are at +least six of these eight short stories which I should be compelled to +list with three stars in my annual Roll of Honor. In subject and mood +they range from tragedy to social comedy. Elsewhere in this volume I +have discussed "'Ironstone,'" which seems to me the best of these +stories. A subtle irony pervades them, but it is so definitely concealed +that its insistence is never evident.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Old Christmas, and Other Kentucky Tales in Verse</span> by <i>William Aspenwall +Bradley</i> (The Houghton-Mifflin Co.). In this series of vignettes in +verse Mr. Bradley has presented the Kentucky mountaineer as +imaginatively as Robert Frost has presented the farmer-folk of New +Hampshire in "North of Boston" and "Mountain Interval." The racy humor +of these narratives is thoroughly indigenous, and Mr. Bradley's work has +a vivid dramatic power which challenges successfully a comparison with +the stories of John Fox, Jr. These poems prove Mr. Bradley's rightful +claim to be the first adequate imaginative interpreter of the people who +live in the Cumberland Mountains.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Fighting Men</span> by <i>Alden Brooks</i> (Charles Scribner's Sons). Of these +six stories four have been published in Collier's Weekly during the past +two years, and elsewhere I have had occasion to comment upon their +excellence. These narratives may be regarded as separate cantos of a war +epic, which is fairly comparable for its vividness of portrayal to +Stephen Crane's masterpiece, "The Red Badge of Courage." Few writers, +other than these two, have been able to portray the naked ugliness of +warfare, and the passions which warfare engenders, with more brutal +power. Time alone will tell whether these stories have a chance of +permanence, but I am disposed to rank them with that other portrait of +the mercilessness of war, "Under Fire," by Henri Barbusse.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Limehouse Nights</span> by <i>Thomas Burke</i> (Robert M. McBride & Co.). These +colorful stories of life in London's Chinatown are in my humble belief +destined never to grow old. This volume is the most important volume of +short stories by a new English writer to appear during 1917, and is only +surpassed by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_511" id="Page_511">[Pg 511]</a></span> Daniel Corkery's volume "A Munster Twilight." Such +patterned prose in fiction has not been known since the days of Walter +Pater, and Mr. Burke's sense of the almost intolerable beauty of ugly +things has a persuasive fascination for the reader who may have a strong +prejudice against his subjects. Such horror as Mr. Burke has imagined is +almost impossible to portray convincingly, yet the author has softened +its starkness into patterns of gracious beauty and musical rhythmic +speech.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Rinconete and Cortadillo</span> by <i>Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra</i>, translated +from the Spanish by <i>Mariano J. Lorente</i>, with a preface by <i>R. B. +Cunninghame Graham</i> (The Four Seas Co.). This is an excellent +translation by a Spanish man of letters of what is perhaps the best +exemplary Novel by Cervantes. As Mr. Cunninghame Graham points out in +his delightful introduction, "Rinconete and Cortadillo" is perhaps the +best sketch of Spanish low-life that has come down to us. It is highly +amoral, despite its sub-title, and all the more delightful perhaps on +that account. I hope that the translator may be persuaded, if the volume +goes into the second edition it so richly deserves, to omit his very +contentious preface, which can be of interest only to himself and two +other people. Then our delight in this volume would be complete.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Duel</span> (Macmillan), <span class="smcap">The House with the Mezzanine</span> (Scribner), <span class="smcap">The Lady +with the Dog</span> (Macmillan), <span class="smcap">The Party</span> (Macmillan), and <span class="smcap">Rothschild's Fiddle</span> +(Boni and Liveright) by <i>Anton Chekhov</i>. <span class="smcap">To The Darling</span>, which was the +first volume, so far as I know, of Chekhov, to be presented to the +American public, five new collections of Chekhov's tales have been added +during the past year in excellent English renderings. Three of these +volumes are translated by Constance Garnett, whose superb translations +of Turgenieff and Dostoievsky are well known to American readers. +Because Chekhov ranks with Poe and De Maupassant as one of the three +supreme masters of the short story, it is a matter of signal importance +that these translations should appear, and in them every mood of Russian +life is reflected with subtle artistry and a passionate reality of +creative vision. Chekhov is destined to exert greater and greater +influence on the American short story as the translations of his work +increase, and these five volumes prove him to be fully equal to +Dostoievsky in sustained and varied spiritual observation. These stories +range through the entire gamut of human emotion from sublime tragedy to +the richest and most golden comedy. If I were to choose a single author +of short stories for my library on a desert island, my choice would +inevitably turn to these volumes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_512" id="Page_512">[Pg 512]</a></span></p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Those Times and These</span> by <i>Irvin S. Cobb</i> (George H. Doran Co.). This is +quite the best volume of short stories that Mr. Cobb has yet published. +Since "The Escape of Mr. Trimm," which was his first short story, was +printed in the Saturday Evening Post seven years ago, Mr. Cobb's +literary development has been rapid, if not sure; but he may now with +this volume lay claim fairly to the mantle of Mark Twain for the rich +humanity with which he has endowed his substance and the inimitable +humor of his characterizations. In "The Family Tree" and "Cinnamon Seed +and Sandy Bottom" Mr. Cobb has added two stories of permanent value to +American literature, and in "Mr. Felsburg Gets Even" and "And There Was +Light" Mr. Cobb's literary art is almost as well sustained. My only +quarrel with him in this book is for the inclusion of "A Kiss for +Kindness," where a fine short-story possibility seems to have been +entirely missed by the author, perhaps because, as he ingenuously +confessed shortly afterward, he had just become an abandoned farmer.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Running Free</span> by <i>James B. Connolly</i> (Charles Scribner's Sons). Of the +ten short stories included by Mr. Connolly in this collection, four are +among the best he has ever written: "Breath O' Dawn," "The Sea-Birds," +"The Medicine Ship," and "One Wireless Night." With the simplicity of +speech which characterizes all of Mr. Connolly's work, he relates his +story for the story's sake. Because he is an Irishman he is an +incorrigible romanticist, and I suspect that characterization interests +him for the story's sake rather than for itself alone. But now that +Richard Harding Davis is dead, I suppose that James B. Connolly may +fairly take his place as our best born yarner, with all a yarner's +privileges.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Teepee Neighbors</span> by <i>Grace Coolidge</i> (The Four Seas Co.). This quiet +little book of narratives and Indian portraits by Miss Coolidge deserves +more attention than it has yet received, and for its qualities of quiet +pathos and sympathetic insight into the Indian character I associate it +as of equal value with Margaret Prescott Montague's stories of blind +children in West Virginia.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">A Munster Twilight</span> by <i>Daniel Corkery</i> (Frederick A. Stokes Co.). I have +never read a new volume of short stories with such a sense of discovery +as I felt when these tales came to my hand. Because the volume appears +to have attracted absolutely no attention as yet in this country, I wish +to emphasize my firm belief that this is the most memorable volume of +short stories published in English within the past five years. It makes +us eager to read Mr. Corkery's new novel, "The Threshold of Quiet," in +order that we may see if such a glorious imaginative sweep can be +maintained in a novel as the reader will find in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_513" id="Page_513">[Pg 513]</a></span> any single short story +of this volume. Here you will find the very heart of Ireland's spiritual +adventure revealed in folk speech of inevitable beauty. There is not a +story in the book which does not disclose new aspects after repeated +readings. A craftsmanship so fine and vigorous is seldom related with +such artistic humility. "A Munster Twilight" proves that there are still +great men in Ireland.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Brought Forward, Faith, Hope, Charity, Progress</span>, and <span class="smcap">Success</span> by <i>R. B. +Cunninghame Graham</i> (Frederick A. Stokes Co.). It is an extraordinary +fact that a short-story writer so deservedly well-known in England as +Mr. Cunninghame Graham, whose sketches of life in many parts of the +globe have been published at frequent intervals through the past decade, +is yet entirely unknown in this country. To be sure, such has been the +fate of W. H. Hudson until very recently. These six volumes certainly +rank, by virtue of the quality of their style and the imaginative +reality of their substance, with the best work of Mr. Hudson, and the +parallel is the more complete because both writers have made the +vanished life of the South American plains real to the English mind. Mr. +Cunninghame Graham is one of the great travel writers, and ranks with +Borrow and Ford, but he is more impartially interested in character than +either Borrow or Ford, and has a far more vivid feeling for the +spiritual values of landscape. It may be that these stories are for the +few only, but I am loth to believe it. The life of the pampas and the +life of the Moroccan desert live in these pages with an actuality as +great as the life of the American plains lives in the work of Hamlin +Garland, and there is an epic sweep in Mr. Cunninghame Graham's vision +that I find in no other contemporary English writer.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Echo of Voices</span> by <i>Richard Curle</i> (Alfred A. Knopf). It is very +rarely that a disciple as faithful as Mr. Curle publishes a volume which +his master would be proud to sign, but I think that the reader will +detect in this book the authentic voice of Joseph Conrad. Mr. Conrad's +own personal enthusiasm for the book is an ingratiating introduction to +the reader, but in these eight stories Mr. Curle can certainly afford to +stand alone. Preoccupied as he is with the mystery of human existence, +and the effect of circumstance upon the character, he portrays eight +widely different human types, almost all of them with a certain pathetic +futility of aspect, so surely and finely that they live before us. It is +an interesting fact that the three best short story books in English of +1917 come from the other side of the water. "Limehouse Nights," "A +Munster Twilight," and "The Echo of Voices" make this year so memorable +in fiction that later years may well prove disappointing.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_514" id="Page_514">[Pg 514]</a></span></p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Eternal Husband and Other Stories</span> and <span class="smcap">The Gambler and Other Stories</span> +by <i>Fyodor Dostoievsky</i> (The Macmillan Co.). These two new volumes +continue the complete English edition of Dostoievsky which is being +translated by Constance Garnett. The renderings have the same qualities +of idiomatic speech and subtly rendered nuance which is always to be +found in this translator's work, and although both of these volumes +represent the minor work of Dostoievsky, his minor work is finer than +our major work, and characterized by a passionate curiosity about the +human soul and a deep insight into its mysteries. It is idle to argue as +to whether these narratives are short stories or brief novels. However +we classify them, they are profound revelations of human relationship, +and place their author among the great masters of the world's +literature. Nor is it pertinent to discuss their technique or lack of +it. Their technique is sufficient for the author's purpose, and he has +achieved his will nobly in a manner inevitable to him.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Billy Topsail, M.D.</span>, by <i>Norman Duncan</i> (Fleming H. Revell Co.). In this +posthumous volume Norman Duncan has woven together a selection of his +later short stories, in which further adventures of Doctor Luke of the +Labrador are chronicled. They represent the very best of his later work, +and in them the stern physical conditions with which nature surrounds +the life of man provide an admirably rendered background for the +portrayal of character developed by circumstance. Norman Duncan can +never have a successor, and in "Billy Topsail, M.D." the reader will +find him very nearly at his best.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">My People</span> by <i>Caradoc Evans</i> (Duffield & Co.). "My People" is a record +of the peasantry of West Wales, and these chronicles are set down with a +biblical economy of speech that makes for a noteworthy literary style. I +refuse to believe that they are a truthful portrait of the folk of whom +Mr. Evans writes, but I believe that he has created a real subjective +world of his own that is thoroughly convincing. H. G. Wells has written +eulogistically of the book and also of the author's novel, "Capel Sion." +I appreciate the qualities in the book that have won Mr. Wells' esteem, +and the book is indeed memorable. But I believe that its excellence is +an artificial excellence, and I commend it to the reader as a work of +incomparable artifice rather than as a faithful reflection of life.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">In Happy Valley</span> by <i>John Fox, Jr.</i> (Charles Scribner's Sons). Of these +ten new chronicles of the Kentucky mountains, gathered from the pages of +Scribner's Magazine during the past year for the most part, "His Last +Christmas Gift" is the most memorable. But all the stories are brief and +vivid vignettes of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_515" id="Page_515">[Pg 515]</a></span> the countryside which Mr. Fox knows so well, told +with the utmost economy of speech and with a fine sense of atmospheric +values. These stories are a happy illustration of the better regionalism +that is characteristic of contemporary American fiction, and like +"Ommirandy" will prove valuable records to a later generation of a life +that even now is rapidly passing away.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The War, Madame</span>, by <i>Paul Géraldy</i> (Charles Scribner's Sons). The +delicate fantasy of this little story only enhances the poignant tragedy +that it discloses. Somehow it suggests a comparison with "Four Days" by +Hetty Hemenway, although it is told with greater deftness and a more +subtle irony. In these pages pulses the very heart of France, and it is +compact of the spirit that has made France a mistress to die for. The +translation is admirable.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Collected Poems</span> by <i>Wilfrid Wilson Gibson</i> (The Macmillan Co.). In these +noble studies of English social life among the laboring classes Mr. +Gibson has collected all of his stories in verse which he wishes to +retain in his collected works. He has already become an influence on the +work of many of his contemporaries, and the qualities of incisive +observation, warm humanity, and subtle art which characterize his best +work are adequately disclosed in his poems. I am sure that the reader of +short stories will find them as fascinating as any volume of prose +published this year, and the sum of all these poems is an English +<i>Comédie Humaine</i> which portrays every type of English labor in rich +imaginative speech. The dramatic quality of these stories is achieved by +virtue of a constant economy of selection, and a nervous singing speech +as authentic as that of Synge.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Ommirandy</span> by <i>Armistead C. Gordon</i> (Charles Scribner's Sons). In this +collection Mr. Gordon, whose name is so happily associated with that of +Thomas Nelson Page, has collected from the files of Scribner's Magazine +the deft and insinuating chronicles of negro life on a Virginia +plantation which have attracted so much favorable comment in recent +years. This collection places Mr. Gordon in the same rank as the author +of "Marse' Chan," as a literary artist of the vanished South. These +transcripts from the folk life of the people are told very quietly in a +persuasive style that reveals a rich poetic sense of human values. The +mellow atmosphere of these stories is particularly noteworthy, and Mr. +Gordon's instinctive sympathy with his subject has saved him from that +spirit of condescension which has been the weakness of so much American +folk writing in the past. "Ommirandy" will long remain a happy and +honorable tradition in American literature.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Grim 13</span>, edited by <i>Frederick Stuart Greene</i> (Dodd, Mead & Co.), is +a collection of thirteen stories of literary value which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_516" id="Page_516">[Pg 516]</a></span> have been +declined with enthusiastic praise by the editors of American magazines +because of their grim quality, or because they have an extremely unhappy +ending. The collection was gathered as a test of the public interest, in +order to remove if possible what the editor believed to be a false +editorial policy. It is interesting to examine these stories, and to +pretend that one is an editor. The experiment has been extremely +successful and has produced at least one story by an American author +("The Abigail Sheriff Memorial" by Vincent O'Sullivan) and one story by +an English author ("Old Fags" by Stacy Aumonier), which are permanent in +their literary value.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Four Days: the Story of a War Marriage</span>, by <i>Hetty Hemenway</i> (Little, +Brown & Co.). Of this story I have spoken elsewhere in this volume, I +shall only add here that it is one of the most significant spiritual +studies in fiction that the war has produced, and that it is directly +told in a style of sensitive beauty.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">A Diversity of Creatures</span> by <i>Rudyard Kipling</i> (Doubleday, Page & Co.) is +the first collection of Mr. Kipling's short stories published in several +years. I must confess frankly that there is but one story in the volume +which seems to me a completely realized rendering of the substance which +Mr. Kipling has chosen, and that is the incomparable satire on publicity +entitled "The Village That Voted the Earth Was Flat." In this volume you +will find many stories in many moods, and some of them are postscripts +to earlier volumes of Mr. Kipling. I cannot believe that his war stories +deserve as high praise as they have been accorded. This volume presents +Mr. Kipling as the most consummate living master of technique in the +English tongue, but his inspiration has failed him except for the single +exception which I have chronicled. The volume is a memory rather than an +actuality, and it has the pathos of a forgotten dream.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Bracelet of Garnets and Other Stories</span> by <i>Alexander Kuprin</i>, +translated by <i>Leo Pasvolsky</i>, with an Introduction by <i>William Lyon +Phelps</i> (Charles Scribner's Sons). This collection of stories is based +on the author's own selection for this purpose, and although the +translation is not thoroughly idiomatic, the sheer poetry of Kuprin's +imagination shines through the veil of an alien speech and captures the +imagination of the reader. Kuprin's pictorial sense is curiously similar +to that of Wilbur Daniel Steele, and it is interesting to study the +reactions of similar temperaments on widely different substances and +backgrounds. Kuprin achieves a chiselled finality of utterance which is +as evident in his tragedy as in his comedy, and in some of these pieces +a fine allegorical beauty shines prismatically through a carefully +economized brilliance of narrative.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_517" id="Page_517">[Pg 517]</a></span></p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Prussian Officer and Other Stories</span> by <i>D. H. Lawrence</i> (B. W. +Huebsch). The twelve short stories collected in this volume are full of +the same warm color that one always associates with Mr. Lawrence's best +work, and the nervous complaining beauty of his style makes him the +English compeer of Gabriele d'Annunzio. The warm lush fragrance of many +European countrysides pervades these stories and a certain poignant +sensual disillusionment is insistently stressed by the characters who +flit through the shadowy foreground. It is the definitely realized and +concrete sense of landscape that Mr. Lawrence has achieved which is his +finest artistic attribute, and the sensitive response to light which is +so characteristic an element in his vision bathes all the pictures he +presents in a rich glow, whose gradations of light and shadow respond +finely to the emotional reactions of his characters. He is the most +sophisticated of the contemporary English realists, and has the sense of +poetry to a high degree which is conspicuously absent in the work of +other English novelists.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">A Designer of Dawns and Other Tales</span> by <i>Gertrude Russell Lewis</i> (Pilgrim +Press). I set this volume of allegories beside "Flame and the +Shadow-Eater" by Henrietta Weaver as one of the two best books of +allegories published in 1917. These seven little tales have a quiet +imaginative glow that is very appealing and I find in them a folk +quality that is almost Scandinavian in its naïvete.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Terror: A Mystery</span>, by <i>Arthur Machen</i> (Robert M. McBride & Co.). +When this story was first published in the Century Magazine in 1917, +under the title of "The Coming of the Terror," it was at once hailed by +discriminating readers as the best short story by an English writer +published in an American magazine since "The Friends" by Stacy Aumonier. +It is now published in its complete form as originally written, and +although it is as long as a short novel, it has an essential unity of +incident which justifies us in claiming it as a short story. I suppose +that Algernon Blackwood is the only other English writer who has the +same gift for making strange spiritual adventures completely real to the +imagination, and the author of "The Bowmen" has surpassed even that fine +story in this description of how a mysterious terror overran England +during the last years of the great war and how the mystery of its +passing was finally revealed. The emotional tension of the reader is +enhanced by the quiet matter-of-fact air with which the story is +presented. The volume is one of the best five or six books of short +stories which England has produced during the past year.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_518" id="Page_518">[Pg 518]</a></span></p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Second Odd Number: Thirteen Tales</span>, by <i>Guy de Maupassant</i>, the +translation by <i>Charles Henry White</i>, an Introduction by <i>William Dean +Howells</i> (Harper & Brothers). It is reported in some volume of French +literary memoirs that Guy de Maupassant regarded the first series of +"The Odd Number" as better than the original. Be this as it may, the +thirteen stories which make up this volume are admirably rendered with a +careful reflection of the slightest nuances. As Mr. Howells states in +his introduction to the volume: "The range of these stories is not very +great; the effect they make is greater than the range." But this +selection has been admirably chosen with a view to making the range as +wide as possible, and I can only hope that it will serve to influence +some of our younger writers toward a greater descriptive and emotional +economy.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Girl and the Faun</span> by <i>Eden Phillpotts</i> (J. B. Lippincott Co.). These +eight idylls of the four seasons are graceful Greek legends told with a +modern touch in poetic prose. They have a quality of quiet beauty which +will commend them to many readers to whom the more realistic work of Mr. +Phillpotts does not appeal, and the admirable illustrations by Frank +Brangwyn are a felicitous accompaniment to the modulated prose of Mr. +Phillpotts.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Barbed Wire and Other Poems</span> by <i>Edwin Ford Piper</i> (The Midland Press, +Moorhead, Minn.). As Grant Showerman's "A Country Chronicle" is an +admirable rendering of the farm life of Wisconsin in the seventies, so +these poems are a fine imaginative record of the pioneer life of +Nebraska a little later. I believe this volume to contain quite as fine +poetry as Robert Frost's "North of Boston." Here you will meet many men +and women struggling against the loneliness of prairie life, and winning +spiritual as well as material conquests out of nature. The greater part +of this volume is composed of a series of narrative poems entitled "The +Neighborhood." Their lack of literary sophistication is part of their +charm, and the calculated ruggedness of the author's style is a faithful +reflection of his barren physical background.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Best Russian Short Stories</span>, compiled and edited by <i>Thomas Seltzer</i> +(Boni and Liveright). This is the first anthology of Russian short +stories which has yet been published in English, and the selections are +excellent. There is a wide range of literary art represented in this +volume, and the translations are extremely smooth and idiomatic. As is +only fitting, the work of Tolstoi, Dostoievsky, Turgenev, and other +Russians, whose work is already well known to the American reader, are +only represented lightly in the collection, and greater space<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_519" id="Page_519">[Pg 519]</a></span> is +devoted to the stories of Chekhov and other writers less familiar to the +American public. Nineteen stories are translated from the work of +Pushkin, Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoievsky, Tolstoi, Saltykov, Korolenko, +Garshin, Chekhov, Sologub, Potapenko, Semyonov, Gorky, Andreyev, +Artzybashev, and Kuprin, and the volume is prefixed with an excellent +critical introduction by the editor.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">A Country Child</span> by <i>Grant Showerman</i> (The Century Co.). This is a sequel +to Professor Showerman's earlier volume, "A Country Chronicle." The book +is an epic of what a little boy saw and felt and dreamed on a farm in +Wisconsin forty years ago, told just as a little boy would tell it. It +will help you to remember how you went to the circus and how you stayed +up late on your birthday. You will also recall the ball game the day you +didn't go home from school, and how you went in swimming, and about that +fight with Bill, and ever so many other things which you thought that +you had forgotten. I think all the boys and girls that used to write to +James Whitcomb Riley should send a birthday letter this year to Grant +Showerman, so that he will get it on the 9th of January. Let's start a +movement in Wisconsin to have a Showerman Day.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">Flame and the Shadow-eater</span> by <i>Henrietta Weaver</i> (Henry Holt & Co.). In +these fifteen short allegorical tales Henrietta Weaver has introduced +with considerable skill much Persian philosophy, and presented it to the +American reader so attractively that it is thoroughly persuasive. Akin +in a measure to certain similar stories by Jeannette Marks, they have +the same prismatic quality of brilliance and impermanence. I do not +believe that the reader who enjoys the poetry of the mind will find +these allegories specially esoteric, but I may commend them frankly for +their story value, irrespective of the symbols which the author has +chosen to attach to them.</p> + +<p class="g"><span class="smcap">The Great Modern French Stories</span> edited by <i>Willard Huntington Wright</i> +(Boni and Liveright), <span class="smcap">Married</span> by <i>August Strindberg</i> (Boni and +Liveright), and <span class="smcap">Visions</span> by <i>Count Ilya Tolstoy</i> (James B. Pond) have +reached me too late for extended review. I list them here as three +volumes of permanent literary value.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_520" id="Page_520">[Pg 520]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="VOLUMES_OF_SHORT_STORIES_PUBLISHED_DURING_1917" id="VOLUMES_OF_SHORT_STORIES_PUBLISHED_DURING_1917"></a>VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED DURING 1917</h2> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Note.</span> <i>An asterisk before a title indicates distinction. This list +includes single short stories, collections of short stories, and a few +continuous narratives based on short stories previously published in +magazines.</i></p> +</div> + +<p class="s">I. <span class="smcap">American Authors</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Adams, Samuel Hopkins.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Our Square and the People In It. Houghton-Mifflin.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bain, R. Nisbet.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Cossack Fairy Tales. Stokes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bangs, John Kendrick.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Half Hours With the Idiot. Little, Brown.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bassett, Wilbur.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wander-Ships. Open Court Pub. Co.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Beach, Rex.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Laughing Bill Hyde. Harper.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bend, Rev. John J.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stranger than Fiction. Sheehan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bottome, Phyllis.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Derelict, The. Century.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bradley, William Aspenwall.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Old Christmas, and Other Kentucky Tales in Verse. Houghton-Mifflin.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brady, Cyrus Townsend.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Little Book for Christmas, A. Putnam.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brooks, Alden.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Fighting Men, The. Scribner.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brown, Katharine Holland.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Wages of Honor, The. Scribner.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brubaker, Howard.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ranny. Harper.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brunton, F. Carmichael.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_521" id="Page_521">[Pg 521]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Enchanted Lochan, The. Crowell.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bunner, H. C.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*More "Short Sixes." Scribner.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Short Sixes." Scribner.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bunts, Frederick Emory.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Soul of Henry Harrington, The. Cleveland: privately printed.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Butler, Ellis Parker.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dominie Dean. Revell.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Carmichael, M. H.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pioneer Days. Duffield.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Carter, Charles Franklin.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stories of the Old Missions of California. Elder.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Chambers, Robert W.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Barbarians. Appleton.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cobb, Irvin S.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Those Times and These. Doran.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Coffin, Julia H.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Vendor of Dreams, The. Dodd, Mead.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Collier's, Prize Stories From.</span> 5 v. Collier.<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Connolly, James B.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Running Free. Scribner.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Coolidge, Grace.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Teepee Neighbors. Four Seas.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Crownfield, Gertrude.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Little Tailor of the Winding Way, The. Macmillan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Davis, Charles Belmont.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her Own Sort and Others. Scribner.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Davis, Richard Harding.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Boy Scout, The, and Other Stories. Scribner.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Deserter, The. Scribner.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Duncan, Norman.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Billy Topsail, M.D. Revell.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Eells, Elsie Spicer.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Fairy Tales from Brazil. Dodd, Mead.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Fisher, Fred B.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gifts from the Desert. Abington Press.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Foote, John Taintor.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dumb-bell of Brookfield. Appleton.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ford, Sewell.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wilt Thou Torchy. Clode.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_522" id="Page_522">[Pg 522]</a></span><span class="smcap">For France.</span> Doubleday, Page.<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Fox, Edward Lyell.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">New Gethsemane, The. McBride.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Fox, John, Jr.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*In Happy Valley. Scribner.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Futrelle, Jacques.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Problem of Cell 13, The. Dodd, Mead.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gordon, Armistead C.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Ommirandy. Scribner.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Greene, Frederick Stuart</span>, <i>Editor</i>.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Grim Thirteen, The. Dodd, Mead.</span><br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Hall, Holworthy.</span>"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dormie One. Century.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hanshew, T. W.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cleek's Government Cases. Doubleday, Page.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hemenway, Hetty.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Four Days. Little, Brown.</span><br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Henry, O.</span>"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Waifs and Strays. Doubleday, Page.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hines, Jack.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blue Streak, The. Doran.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Holmes, Mary Caroline.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Who Follows in Their Train?" Revell.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hough, Lynn Harold.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Little Old Lady, The.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hughes, Rupert.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In a Little Town. Harper.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ingram, Eleanor M.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Twice American, The. Lippincott.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Irwin, Wallace.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pilgrims Into Folly. Doran.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Jefferson, Charles E.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Land of Enough, The. Crowell.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Johnston, Mary.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Wanderers, The. Houghton-Mifflin.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Johnston, William.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Limpy." Little, Brown.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Karr, Louise.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Trouble. Himebaugh and Browne.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kellerhouse, Lucy Charlton.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Forest Fancies. Duffield.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kirk, R. G.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_523" id="Page_523">[Pg 523]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">White Monarch and the Gas-House Pup. Little, Brown.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kirkland, Winifred.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*My Little Town. Dutton.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lait, Jack.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gus the Bus and Evelyn, the Exquisite Checker. Doubleday, Page.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lardner, Ring W.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gullible's Travels. Bobbs-Merrill.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Leacock, Stephen.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Frenzied Fiction. Lane.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lewis, Gertrude Russell.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Designer of Dawns, A. Pilgrim Press.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">McClung, Nellie L.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Next of Kin, The. Houghton-Mifflin.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Mackay, Helen.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Journal of Small Things. Duffield.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Meirovitz, Joseph M.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Path of Error, The. Four Seas Co.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Merwin, Samuel.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Temperamental Henry. Bobbs-Merrill.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Newton, Alma.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Memories. Duffield.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Noble, Edward.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Outposts of the Fleet. Houghton-Mifflin.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">O'Brien, Edward J.</span>, <i>Editor</i>.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Best Short Stories of 1916. Small, Maynard.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Osborn, E. B.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Maid with Wings, The. Lane.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Paine, Albert Bigelow.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mr. Crow and the Whitewash. Harper.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mr. Rabbit's Wedding. Harper.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mr. Turtle's Flying Adventure. Harper.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Paine, Ralph D.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sons of Eli. Scribner.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Perkins, J. R.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thin Volume, A. Saalfield.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Perry, Montanye.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where It Touches the Ground. Abingdon Press.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Zerah. Abingdon Press.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Piper, Edwin Ford.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Barbed Wire and Other Poems. Midland Press.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Putnam, Nina Wilcox.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_524" id="Page_524">[Pg 524]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the Highbrow Joined the Outfit. Duffield.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Reeve, Arthur B.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ear in the Wall, The. Hearst.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Treasure Train, The. Harper.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Richmond, Grace S.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whistling Mother, The. Doubleday, Page.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rinehart, Mary Roberts.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bab: A Sub-deb. Doran.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rodeheaver, Homer.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Song Stories of the Sawdust Trail. Moffat, Yard.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rosenbach, A. S. W.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unpublishable Memoirs, The. Kennerley.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ryder, Arthur W.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Twenty-two Goblins. Dutton.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Sabin, Edwin L.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How Are You Feeling Now? Little, Brown.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Schayer, E. Richard.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Good Loser, The. McKay.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Scott, Leroy.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mary Regan. Houghton-Mifflin.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Showerman, Grant.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Country Child, A. Century.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Steiner, Edward A.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My Doctor Dog. Revell.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Stern, Gertrude.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My Mother and I. Macmillan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Stitzer, Daniel Ahrens.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stories of the Occult. Badger.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Stuart, Florence Partello.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Piang, the Moro Jungle Boy. Century.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Taber, Susan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Optimist, The. Duffield.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">"Thanet, Octave."</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Captain Entered. Bobbs-Merrill.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Thomson, Edward William.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Old Man Savarin Stories. Doran.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tompkins, Juliet Wilbor.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At the Sign of the Oldest House. Bobbs-Merrill.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Turpin, Edna.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Peggy of Roundabout Lane. Macmillan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tuttle, Florence Guertin.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_525" id="Page_525">[Pg 525]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Give My Love to Maria. Abingdon Press.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Van Loan, Charles E.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Old Man Curry. Doran.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Weaver, Henrietta.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Flame and the Shadow-Eater. Holt.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Willsie, Honoré.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Benefits Forgot. Stokes.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<p class="s">II. <span class="smcap">English and Irish Authors</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Aumonier, Stacy.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Friends, The, and Two Other Stories. Century.</span><br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Ayscough, John.</span>"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*French Windows. Longmans.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Barlow, Jane.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Irish Idylls. Dodd, Mead.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bell, J. J.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cupid in Oilskins. Revell.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Kiddies. Stokes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Benson, Edward Frederic.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Freaks of Mayfair, The. Doran.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Blackwood, Algernon.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Day and Night Stories. Dutton.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Burke, Thomas.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Limehouse Nights. McBride.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Corkery, Daniel.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Munster Twilight, A. Stokes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cunninghame Graham, R. B.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Brought Forward. Stokes.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Charity. Stokes.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Faith. Stokes.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Hope. Stokes.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Progress. Stokes.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Success. Stokes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Curle, Richard.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Echo of Voices. Knopf.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dawson, Coningsby.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Seventh Christmas, The. Holt.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dell, Ethel M.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Safety Curtain, The. Putnam.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_526" id="Page_526">[Pg 526]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">His Last Bow. Doran.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dunsany, Lord.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Dreamer's Tales, A. Boni and Liveright.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Fifty-one Tales. Little, Brown.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Evans, Caradoc.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*My People. Duffield.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gate, Ethel M.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Broom Fairies, The. Yale Univ. Press.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Collected Poems. Macmillan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hall, Mordaunt.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Some Naval Yarns. Doran.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Harrison, Cuthbert Woodville.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Magic of Malaya, The. Lane.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Howard, Keble.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Smiths in War Time, The. Lane.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Jerome, Jerome K.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Street of the Blank Wall, The. Dodd, Mead.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kipling, Rudyard.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Diversity of Creatures, A. Doubleday, Page.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Machen, Arthur.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Terror, The. McBride.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Mason, A. E. W.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Four Corners of the World, The. Scribner.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Newbolt, Sir Henry.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Happy Warrior, The. Longmans, Green.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tales of the Great War. Longmans, Green.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Peacocke, E. M.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dicky, Knight-Errant. McBride.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Phillpotts, Eden.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Girl and the Faun, The. Lippincott.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ransome, Arthur.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Old Peter's Russian Tales. Stokes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rendall, Vernon Horace.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">London Nights of Belsize, The. Lane.</span><br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Rohmer, Sax.</span>"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hand of Fu-Manchu, The. McBride.</span><br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Sapper.</span>"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*No Man's Land. Doran.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Stacpoole, H. De Vere.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sea Plunder. Lane.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Swinton, Lieut.-Col. E. D.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_527" id="Page_527">[Pg 527]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great Tab Dope, The. Doubleday, Page.</span><br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Taffrail.</span>"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sea Spray and Spindrift. Lippincott.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tree, Sir Herbert Beerbohm.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nothing Matters. Houghton-Mifflin.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wren, Percival C.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Young Stagers. Longmans, Green.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<p class="s">III. <span class="smcap">Translations</span></p> + +<p class="n"><span class="smcap">Apukhtin, A.</span> (<i>Russian.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*From Death to Life. Frank.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Artzibashev, Michael Mikhailovich.</span> (<i>Russian.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Tales of the Revolution. Huebsch.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cervantes, Miguel de.</span> (<i>Spanish.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Rinconete and Cortadillo. Four Seas.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Chekhov, Anton.</span> (<i>Russian.</i>) (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Tchekhov, Anton.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Christmas Tales of Flanders.</span> (<i>Belgian.</i>) Dodd, Mead.<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dostoevsky, Fyodor Mikhailovich.</span> (<i>Russian.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Eternal Husband, The. Macmillan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Gambler, and Other Stories, The. Macmillan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">France, Anatole.</span> (<i>French.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Girls and Boys. Duffield.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Our Children. Duffield.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Géraldy, Paul.</span> (<i>French.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*The War, Madame. Scribner.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ispirescu, Petre.</span> (<i>Rumanian.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Foundling Prince, The. Houghton-Mifflin.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kuprin, Alexander Ivanovich.</span> (<i>Russian.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Bracelet of Garnets, The. Scribner.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Maupassant, Guy de.</span> (<i>French.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mademoiselle Fifi. Boni and Liveright.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Second Odd Number, The. Harper.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Seltzer, Thomas</span>, <i>Editor.</i> (<i>Russian.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Best Russian Short Stories, The. Boni and Liveright.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Shield, The.</span> (<i>Russian.</i>) Knopf.<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Strindberg, August.</span> (<i>Swedish.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Married. Boni and Liveright.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Sudermann, Hermann.</span> (<i>German.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_528" id="Page_528">[Pg 528]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Dame Care. Boni and Liveright.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tchekhov, Anton.</span> (<i>Russian.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Duel, The. Macmillan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*House with the Mezzanine, The. Scribner.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Lady with the Dog, The. Macmillan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Party, The. Macmillan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Rothschild's Fiddle. Boni and Liveright.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Will o' the Wisp. International Authors' Association.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tolstoi, Ilya, Count.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Visions. Pond.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wright, Willard Huntington</span>, <i>Editor.</i> (<i>French.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Great Modern French Stories, The. Boni and Liveright.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_529" id="Page_529">[Pg 529]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_BEST_SIXTY-THREE_AMERICAN_SHORT_STORIES_OF_1917" id="THE_BEST_SIXTY-THREE_AMERICAN_SHORT_STORIES_OF_1917"></a>THE BEST SIXTY-THREE AMERICAN SHORT STORIES OF 1917</h2> + + +<p><i>The sixty-three short stories published in the American magazines +during 1917 which I shall discuss in this article are chosen from a +larger group of about one hundred and twenty-five stories, whose +literary excellence justified me in including them in my annual "Roll of +Honor." The stories, which are included in this Roll of Honor have been +chosen from the stories published in about sixty-five American +periodicals during 1917. In selecting them, I have sought to accept the +author's point of view and manner of treatment, and to measure simply +the degree of success he had in doing what he set out to achieve. But I +must confess that it has been difficult to eliminate personal admiration +completely in the further winnowing which has resulted in this selection +of sixty-three stories. Below are set forth the particular qualities +which have seemed to me to justify in each case the inclusion of a story +in this list.</i></p> + +<p>1. <span class="smcap">The Excursion</span> by <i>Edwina Stanton Babcock</i> (The Pictorial Review) is +in my belief one of the best five American short stories of the year. It +is significant because of its faithful and imaginative rendering of +American folk-life, because of its subtle characterization, and the +successful manner in which it reveals the essentially racy humor of the +American countryside with the utmost economy of means. The +characterization is achieved almost entirely through dialogue, and the +portraiture of the characters is rendered inimitably in a phrase or two. +In this story, as well as in "The Band," Miss Babcock has earned the +right to a place beside Francis Buzzell as a regional story writer, +fairly comparable to John Trevena's renderings of Dartmoor.</p> + +<p>2. <span class="smcap">The Brothers</span> by <i>Thomas Beer</i> (The Century Magazine) will remind the +reader in some respects of Frederick Stuart Greene's story, "The Black +Pool," published in "The Grim 13." But apart from a superficial +resemblance in the substance with which both writers deal, the two +stories are more notable in their differences than in their +resemblances. If "The Brothers" is less inevitable than "The Black +Pool," it is perhaps a more sophisticated work of art, and I am not sure +but that its conclusion and the resolution of character that it involves +is not more artistically convincing than the end of "The Black Pool." It +is certainly a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_530" id="Page_530">[Pg 530]</a></span> memorable first story by a new writer and would of +itself be enough to make a reputation. Mr. Beer is the most original new +talent that the Century Magazine has discovered since Stacy Aumonier.</p> + +<p>3. <span class="smcap">Onnie</span> by <i>Thomas Beer</i> (The Century Magazine) has a certain stark +faithfulness which makes of somewhat obvious material an extremely vivid +and freshly felt rendering of life. There is a certain quality of +observation in the story which we are accustomed to think of as a Gallic +rather than an American trait. I think that Mr. Beer has slightly +broadened his canvas where greater restraint and less cautious use of +suggestion would have better answered his purpose. But "Onnie" is a +better story than "The Brothers" to my mind, and Mr. Beer, by virtue of +these two stories, is one of the two or three most interesting new +talents of the year.</p> + +<p>4. <span class="smcap">Ironstone</span> by <i>Phyllis Bottome</i> (The Century Magazine). To those who +have enjoyed in recent years the admirable social comedy and deft +handling of English character to which Miss Bottome has accustomed us, +"Ironstone" must have come as a surprise in its revelation of a new +aspect in the author's talent, akin to the kind of tale which is found +at its best as a "middle" in the London Nation. It compresses the +emotion of a Greek drama into a space of perhaps four thousand words. I +find that the closing dialogue in this story is as certain in its march +as the closing pages of "Riders to the Sea," and the <i>katharsis</i> is +timeless in its final solution.</p> + +<p>5. <span class="smcap">From Hungary</span> by "<i>John Breck</i>" (The Bookman) is perhaps not to be +classified as a short story, but the academic limitations of the short +story have never interested me greatly, and in its own field this short +fiction sketch is memorable. Its secret is the secret of atmosphere +rather than speech, but atmosphere here becomes human in its reality and +the resultant effect is not unlike that of "When Hannah Var Eight Yar +Old" by Miss Girling, which appeared in the Atlantic Monthly a few years +ago. "John Breck," or Elizabeth C. A. Smith, to reveal her authorship, +has found complete embodiment for her conception in this story for the +first time, and it is a promise for a vivid and interesting future.</p> + +<p>6. <span class="smcap">The Flying Teuton</span> by <i>Alice Brown</i> (Harper's Magazine) is the best +short story that has come out of this war as yet in either English or +American magazines. Accepting the old legend of the Flying Dutchman, +Miss Brown has imagined it reëmbodied in a modern setting, and out of +the ironies of this situation a most dramatic story results with a sure +and true message for the American people. It is in my opinion one of the +five best short stories of the year, and I am happy to say that it will +soon be accessible to the public once more in book form.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_531" id="Page_531">[Pg 531]</a></span></p> + +<p>7. <span class="smcap">Closed Doors</span>, and 8. <span class="smcap">A Cup of Tea</span> by <i>Maxwell Struthers Burt</i> (both +in Scribner's Magazine). In these two stories, and in "The Glory of the +Wild Green Earth," "John O'May," and "Le Panache," all of which appeared +in Scribner's Magazine during the past year, a place is made for the +author among American short story writers beside that of Mrs. Gerould, +Wilbur Daniel Steele, and H. G. Dwight. Two years ago I had the pleasure +of reprinting his first short story, "The Water-Hole," in "The Best +Short Stories of 1915." I thought at that time that Mr. Burt would +eventually do fine things, but I never suspected that, in the short +period of two years, he would win for himself so important a place in +contemporary American letters. Mr. Burt's technique is still a trifle +over-sophisticated, but I suppose this is a fault on virtue's side. A +collection of Mr. Burt's short stories in book form should be anxiously +awaited by the American public.</p> + +<p>9. <span class="smcap">Lonely Places</span>, and 10. <span class="smcap">The Long Vacation</span> by <i>Francis Buzzell</i> (The +Pictorial Review). The attentive reader of American fiction must have +already noted two memorable stories by Francis Buzzell published in +previous years, "Addie Erb and Her Girl Lottie" and "Ma's Pretties." +These two stories won for Mr. Buzzell an important position as an +American folk-writer, and this position is amply sustained by the two +fine stories which he has published during the past year. His +imaginative realism weaves poignant beauty out of the simplest and most +dusty elements in life, and it is my belief that it is along the lines +of his method and that of Miss Babcock that America is most likely +eventually to contribute something distinctively national to the world's +literary culture.</p> + +<p>11. <span class="smcap">The Mistress</span> by <i>Fleta Campbell</i> (Harper's Bazar) is a most highly +polished and sharply outlined story of the war. It makes an art out of +coldness in narration which serves to emphasize and bring out by +contrast the human warmth of the story's substance.</p> + +<p>12. <span class="smcap">The Foundling</span> by <i>Gunnar Cederschiöld</i> (Collier's Weekly). Readers +who recall the fine series of stories by Alden Brooks published during +the past two years in Collier's Weekly and the Century Magazine will +find in "The Foundling" a story equally memorable as a ruthless +portrayal of the effects of war. Whether one approves or disapproves in +general of the ending is irrelevant in this case. This story must take +its place as one of the best dozen stories of the war.</p> + +<p>13. <span class="smcap">Boys Will Be Boys</span>, 14. <span class="smcap">The Family Tree</span>, and 15. <span class="smcap">Quality Folks</span> by +<i>Irvin S. Cobb</i> (all in the Saturday Evening Post). It is seven years +since Irvin Cobb published his first short story, "The Escape of Mr. +Trimm," in the Saturday Evening Post. During that short period he has +passed from the position of an<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_532" id="Page_532">[Pg 532]</a></span> excellent journalist to that of +America's most representative humorist, in the truer meaning of that +word. Upon him the mantle of Mark Twain has descended, and with that +mantle he has inherited the artistic virtues and the utter inability to +criticize his own work that was so characteristic of Mr. Clemens. But +the very gusto of his creative work has been shaping his style during +the past two years to a point where he may now fairly claim to have +mastered his material, and to have found the most effective human +persuasiveness in its presentation. Our grandchildren will read these +three stories, and thank God that there was a man named Cobb once born +in Paducah, Kentucky.</p> + +<p>16. <span class="smcap">Laughter</span> (Harper's Magazine), and 17. <span class="smcap">Our Dog</span> (Pictorial Review) by +<i>Charles Caldwell Dobie</i>. The rapid rise of Mr. Dobie in less than two +years from the date when his first short story was published challenges +comparison with the similar career of Maxwell Struthers Burt. As Mr. +Burt's art has its analogies with that of Mrs. Gerould, so Mr. Dobie's +art has its analogies with that of Wilbur Daniel Steele. I am not +certain that Mr. Dobie's talent is not essentially that of a +novel-writer, but certainly at least four of the short stories which he +has published during the past year are notable artistic achievements in +widely different moods. If tragedy prevails, it is purified by a fine +spiritual idealism, which takes symbols and makes of them something more +human than a mere allegory. If an American publisher were courageous +enough to start publishing a series of volumes of short stories by +contemporary American writers, he could not do better than to begin with +a selection of Mr. Dobie's tales.</p> + +<p>18. <span class="smcap">A Little Nipper of Hide-an'-Seek Harbor</span> by <i>Norman Duncan</i> +(Pictorial Review). This story has a melancholy interest, because it was +the last story sold by its author before his sudden death last year. But +it would have been remembered for its own sake as the last and not the +least important of the long series of Newfoundland sagas which Mr. +Duncan has given us. It shows that Norman Duncan kept his artistic vigor +to the last, and those who know Newfoundland can testify that such +stories as these will always remain its most permanent literary record.</p> + +<p>19. <span class="smcap">The Emperor of Elam</span> by <i>H. G. Dwight</i> (The Century Magazine). Those +who have read Mr. Dwight's volume of short stories entitled "Stamboul +Nights" do not need to be told that Mr. Dwight is the one American short +story writer whom we may confidently set beside Joseph Conrad as a +master in a similar literary field. American editors have been diffident +about publishing his stories for reasons which cast more discredit on +the American editor than on Mr. Dwight, and accordingly it is a genuine +pleasure to encounter "The Emperor of Elam," and to chronicle the +hardihood of the editor of the Century Magazine.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_533" id="Page_533">[Pg 533]</a></span> The story is a modern +odyssey of adventure, set as usual in the Turkish background with which +Mr. Dwight is most familiar. In it atmosphere is realized completely for +its own sake, and as a motive power urging the lives of his characters +to their inevitable end.</p> + +<p>20. <span class="smcap">The Gay Old Dog</span> by <i>Edna Ferber</i> (Metropolitan Magazine) is in my +opinion the big story which "The Eldest" was not. It is my belief that +Edna Ferber is a novelist first and a short story writer afterwards, but +in "The Gay Old Dog" she has accepted a theme which can best be handled +in the short story form and has made the most of it artistically, much +as Fannie Hurst has done in all of her better stories. Miss Ferber has +not sentimentalized her substance as she does most often, but has let it +remain at its true valuation.</p> + +<p>21. <span class="smcap">Bread-Crumbs</span> by <i>Waldo Frank</i> (Seven Arts Magazine). I cannot help +feeling that this is an extremely well written and honestly conceived +story whose substance is essentially false, but the author has +apparently persuaded himself of its truth and presents it almost +convincingly to the reader. Be this as it may, Mr. Frank has not failed +to make his two characters real for us, and the poignancy of their final +revelation is certainly genuine. Mr. Frank, however, should save such +material as this for longer fiction, as his method is essentially that +of a novelist.</p> + +<p>22. <span class="smcap">Pearls Before Swine</span> by <i>Cornelia Throop Geer</i> (Atlantic Monthly). +With a quiet and somewhat reticent art, the author of this story has +succeeded in deftly conveying to her readers a delicate pastoral scene +of innocence reflecting the dreams of two little Irish children. It was +a difficult feat to attempt, as few can safely reproduce the atmosphere +of an alien race successfully, and, even to Irish-Americans, Ireland +cannot be sufficiently realized for creative embodiment. I am told that +a volume of Irish stories is promised from the pen of Miss Geer, and it +should take its place with the better folk stories of modern Irish life. +Miss Geer's method is the result of identification with, rather than +condescension toward, her subject.</p> + +<p>23. <span class="smcap">East of Eden</span> (Harper's Magazine), 24. <span class="smcap">The Hand of Jim Fane</span> (Harper's +Magazine), 25. <span class="smcap">The Knight's Move</span> (Atlantic Monthly), 26. <span class="smcap">The Wax Doll</span> +(Scribner's Magazine), and 27. <span class="smcap">What They Seem</span> (Harper's Magazine) by +<i>Katharine Fullerton Gerould</i>. In these five short stories Mrs. Gerould +amply sustains her claim to rank as one of the three most distinguished +contemporary writers of the American short story. Preoccupied as she is +with the subtle rendering of abnormal psychological situations, her work +is in the great traditional line whose last completely adequate exponent +was Henry James. One and all, these stories have the fascination of +strange spiritual adventure, and the persuasiveness of her exposition +conceals inimitably the closely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_534" id="Page_534">[Pg 534]</a></span> woven craftsmanship of her work. Of +these five stories, "The Knight's Move" and "East of Eden" surely +represent a development in her art which it will be almost impossible +for her to surpass.</p> + +<p>28. <span class="smcap">Dare's Gift</span> by <i>Ellen Glasgow</i> (Harper's Magazine). I prefer to beg +the question whether this is a short story or a very short novel. It +certainly has the unity of a well-defined spiritual incident, and if one +recalls its substance, it is only to view it as a completely rounded +whole. As such it is surely as fine a study of the influence of place as +Mrs. Wharton's "Kerfol" or Mrs. Pangborn's "Bixby's Bridge." The +brooding atmosphere of a house mindful of its past and reacting upon +successive inmates morally, or perhaps immorally, has seldom been more +faithfully rendered.</p> + +<p>29. <span class="smcap">The Hearing Ear</span> (Harper's Magazine), and 30. <span class="smcap">A Jury of Her Peers</span> +(Every Week) by <i>Susan Glaspell</i>. It is always interesting to study the +achievement of a novelist who has won distinction deservedly in that +field, when that novelist attempts the very different technique of the +short story. It is particularly interesting in the case of Susan +Glaspell, because with these two stories she convinces the reader that +her future really lies in the short story rather than in the novel. Few +American writers have such a natural dramatic story sense, and to this +Susan Glaspell has added an increasing reticence in the portrayal of her +characters. In these two stories you will not find the slightest +sentimentalization of her subject matter, nor is it keyed so tightly as +some of her previous work. "A Jury of Her Peers" is one of the better +folk stories of the year, sharing that distinction with "The Excursion" +by Miss Babcock and the two stories by Francis Buzzell, of which I have +spoken above.</p> + +<p>31. <span class="smcap">His Father's Flag</span> by <i>Armistead C. Gordon</i> (Scribner's Magazine). +The many readers who have revelled in Mr. Gordon's admirable portraits +of Virginia negro plantation life will be surprised and gratified at Mr. +Gordon's venture in this story into a new field. This story has all the +infectious emotional feeling of memory recalling glorious things, and I +can only compare it for its spiritual fidelity toward a cause to the +stories by Elsie Singmaster which she has gathered into her volume about +Gettysburg, and particularly to that fine story, "The Survivors."</p> + +<p>32. <span class="smcap">The Bunker Mouse</span>, and 33. "<span class="smcap">Molly McGuire, Fourteen</span>" by <i>Frederick +Stuart Greene</i> (The Century Magazine). Captain Greene's story "The Cat +of the Cane-Brake" attracted so much attention at the time of its +publication in the Metropolitan Magazine a year ago that it is +interesting to find him achieving high distinction in other imaginative +fields. Captain Greene's natural gift of narrative is the result of a +strong impulse toward creative expression, which molds its form a little +self-consciously, but convincingly, for the most part. I think that he +is at his best<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_535" id="Page_535">[Pg 535]</a></span> in these two stories rather than in "The Cat of the +Cane-Brake" and "The Black Pool," because they are based upon a more +direct apprehension and experience of life. "Molly McGuire, Fourteen" +adds one more tradition to those of the Virginia Military Institute.</p> + +<p>34. <span class="smcap">Rainbow Pete</span> by <i>Richard Matthews Hallet</i> (The Pictorial Review) +reveals the author in his most incorrigibly romantic mood. Mr. Hallet +casts glamour over his creations, partly through his detached and +pictorial perception of life, and partly through the magic of his words. +He has been compared to Conrad, and in a lesser way he has much in +common with the author of "Lord Jim," but his artistic method is +essentially different and quite as individual.</p> + +<p>35. <span class="smcap">Frazee</span> by <i>Lee Foster Hartman</i> (Harper's Magazine). Mr. Hartman has +been a good friend to other story writers for so long that we had begun +to forget how fine an artist he can be himself. In "Frazee" he has taken +a subject which would have fascinated Mrs. Gerould and handled it with +reserve and power. It is pitched in a quieter key than is usual in such +a story, and the result is that character merges with atmosphere almost +imperceptibly. I regard the story as almost a model of construction for +students of short story writing.</p> + +<p>36. <span class="smcap">Four Days</span> by <i>Hetty Hemenway</i> (Atlantic Monthly). This remarkable +story of the spiritual effect of the war upon two young people was so +widely commented upon, not only after its appearance in the Atlantic +Monthly, but later when it was republished in book form, that I shall +only commend it to the reader here as an artistically woven study in war +psychology.</p> + +<p>37. <span class="smcap">Get Ready the Wreaths</span> by <i>Fannie Hurst</i> (Cosmopolitan Magazine). The +artistic qualities in Miss Hurst's work which have commended themselves +to such disinterested critics as Mr. Howells are revealed once more in +this story, in which Miss Hurst accepts the shoddiness of background +which characterizes her literary types, and reveals the fine human +current that runs beneath it all. I am not sure that Miss Hurst has not +diluted her substance a little too much during the past year, and in any +case that danger is implicit in her method. But in "Get Ready the +Wreaths" the emotional validity of her substance is absolutely +unimpeachable and her handling of the situation it presents is adequate +and fine.</p> + +<p>38. <span class="smcap">Journey's End</span> by <i>Percy Adams Hutchison</i> (Harper's Magazine). An +attentive reader of the American short stories during the past few years +may have observed with interest at rare intervals the work of Mr. +Hutchison. In it there was always a promise of an achievement not unlike +that of Perceval Gibbon, but a certain looseness of texture prevented +Mr. Hutchison from being completely persuasive. In "Journey's End," +however, it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_536" id="Page_536">[Pg 536]</a></span> must be confessed that he has written a memorable sea story +that is certainly equal at least to the better stories in Mr. Kipling's +latest volume.</p> + +<p>39. <span class="smcap">The Strange-Looking Man</span> by <i>Fanny Kemble Johnson</i> (The Pagan). I +suppose that this story is to be regarded as a sketch rather than a +short story, but in any case it is a vividly rendered picture of war's +effects portrayed with subtle irony and quiet art. I associate it with +"Chautonville" by Will Levington Comfort, and "The Flying Teuton" by +Alice Brown, as one of the three stories with the most authentic +spiritual message in American fiction that the war has produced.</p> + +<p>40. <span class="smcap">The Sea-Turn</span> by <i>E. Clement James</i> (The Seven Arts). In this study +of the spiritual reactions of a starved environment upon an imaginative +mind, Mrs. Jones has added a convincing character portrait to American +letters which ranks with the better short stories of J. D. Beresford in +a similar <i>genre</i>. The story is in the same tradition as that of the +younger English realists, but it is an essential contribution to our +nationalism, and as such helps to point the way toward the future in +which a true national literature must find its only and inevitable +realization.</p> + +<p>41. <span class="smcap">The Caller in the Night</span> by <i>Burton Kline</i> (The Stratford Journal). I +believe that Mr. Kline has completely realized in this story a fine +imaginative situation and has presented a folk story with a significant +legendary quality. It is in the tradition of Hawthorne, but the +substance with which Mr. Kline deals is the substance of his own people, +and consequently that in which his creative impulse has found the freest +scope. It may be compared to its own advantage with "The Lost Phoebe" by +Theodore Dreiser, which was equally memorable among the folk-stories of +1916, and the comparison suggests that in both cases the author's +training as a novelist has not been to his disadvantage as a short-story +teller.</p> + +<p>42. <span class="smcap">When Did You Write Your Mother Last?</span> by <i>Addison Lewis</i> (Reedy's +Mirror). This is the only story I have read in three years in which it +seemed to me that I found the authentic voice of "O. Henry" speaking. +Mr. Lewis has been publishing a series of these "Tales While You Wait" +in Reedy's Mirror during the past few months, and I should much prefer +them to those of Jack Lait for the complete success with which he has +achieved his aims. Imitation of "O. Henry" has been the curse of +American story-telling for the past ten years, because "O. Henry" is +practically inimitable. Mr. Lewis is not an imitator, but he may well +prove before very long to be "O. Henry's" successor. In the words of +Padna Dan and Micus Pat, "Here's the chance for some one to make a +discovery."</p> + +<p>43. <span class="smcap">Widow La Rue</span> by <i>Edgar Lee Masters</i> (Reedy's Mirror). This is the +best short story in verse that the year has produced,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_537" id="Page_537">[Pg 537]</a></span> and as literature +it realizes in my belief even greater imaginative fulfilment than "Spoon +River Anthology." I should have most certainly wished to include it in +"The Best Short Stories of 1917" had it been in prose, and it adds one +more unforgettable legend to our folk imagination.</p> + +<p>44. <span class="smcap">The Understudy</span> by <i>Johnson Morton</i> (Harper's Magazine) is an ironic +character study developed with much finesse in the tradition of Henry +James. Its defect is a certain conventional atmosphere which demands an +artificial attitude on the part of the reader. Its admirable distinction +is its faithful rendering of a personality not unlike the "Tante" of +Anne Douglas Sedgwick, if a novel portrait and a short story portrait +may fittingly be compared. If the portraiture is unpleasant, it is at +any rate rendered with incisive kindliness.</p> + +<p>45. <span class="smcap">The Heart of Life</span> by <i>Meredith Nicholson</i> (Scribner's Magazine). Mr. +Nicholson has treated an old theme freshly in "The Heart of Life" and +discovered in it new values of contrasting character. Among his short +stories it stands out as notably as "A Hoosier Chronicle" among his +novels. It is in such work as this that Mr. Nicholson justifies his +calling, and it is by them that he has most hope of remembrance in +American literature.</p> + +<p>46. <span class="smcap">Murder?</span> by <i>Seumas O'Brien</i> (The Illustrated Sunday Magazine). With +something of Hardy's stark rendering of atmosphere, Mr. O'Brien has +portrayed a grim situation unforgettably. Woven out of the simplest +elements, and with an entire lack of literary sophistication, his story +is fairly comparable to the work of Daniel Corkery, whose volume, "A +Munster Twilight," has interested me more than any other volume of short +stories published in America this year. The story is of particular +interest because Mr. O'Brien's reputation as an artist has been based +solely upon his work as a satirist and Irish fabulist.</p> + +<p>47. <span class="smcap">The Interval</span> by <i>Vincent O'Sullivan</i> (Boston Evening Transcript). It +is odd to reflect that a literary artist of Mr. O'Sullivan's distinction +is not represented in American magazines during 1917 at all, and that it +has been left to a daily newspaper to publish his work. In "The +Interval," Mr. O'Sullivan has sought to suggest the spiritual effect of +the war upon a certain type of mind. He has rendered with faithful +subtleness the newly aroused longing for religious belief or some form +of concrete spiritual expression that bereavement brings. This state has +a pathos of its own that the author adequately realizes in his story, +and his irony in portraying it is Gallic in its quality.</p> + +<p>48. <span class="smcap">Bixby's Bridge</span> by <i>Georgia Wood Pangborn</i> (Harper's Magazine). Mrs. +Pangborn is well known for her artistic stories of the supernatural, and +this will rank among the very best of them. She shares with Algernon +Blackwood that gift<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_538" id="Page_538">[Pg 538]</a></span> for making spiritual illusion real which is so rare +in contemporary work. What is specially distinctive is her gift of +selection, by which she brings out the most illusive psychological +contrasts.</p> + +<p>49. "<span class="smcap">A Certain Rich Man</span>—," by <i>Lawrence Perry</i> (Scribner's Magazine). I +find in this story an emotional quality keyed up as tightly, but as +surely, as in the best short stories by Mary Synon. Remote as its +substance may seem, superficially, it touches the very heart of the +experience that the war has brought to us all, and reveals the naked +stuff out of which our war psychology has emerged.</p> + +<p>50. <span class="smcap">The Portrait</span> by <i>Emery Pottle</i> (The Touchstone). This study in +Italian backgrounds is by another disciple of Henry James, who portrays +with deft sure touches the nostalgia of an American girl unhappily +married to an Italian nobleman. It just fails of complete persuasiveness +because it is a trifle overstrung, but nevertheless it is memorable for +its artistic sincerity.</p> + +<p>51. <span class="smcap">The Path of Glory</span> by <i>Mary Brecht Pulver</i> (Saturday Evening Post). +This story of how distinction came to a poor family in the mountains +through the death of their son in the French army is simply told with a +quiet, unassuming earnestness that makes it very real. It marks a new +phase of Mrs. Pulver's talent, and one which promises her a richer +fulfilment in the future than her other stories have suggested. Time and +time again I have been impressed this year by the folk quality that is +manifest in our younger writers, and what is most encouraging is that, +when they write of the poor and the lowly, there is less of that +condescension toward their subject than has been characteristic of +American folk-writing in the past.</p> + +<p>52. <span class="smcap">Miss Fothergill</span> by <i>Norval Richardson</i> (Scribner's Magazine). The +tradition in English fiction, which is most signally marked by "Pride +and Prejudice," "Cranford," and "Barchester Towers," and which was so +pleasantly continued by the late Dr. S. Weir Mitchell and by Margaret +Deland, is admirably embodied in the work of this writer, whose work +should be better known. The quiet blending of humor and pathos in "Miss +Fothergill" is unusual.</p> + +<p>53. <span class="smcap">The Scar That Tripled</span> by <i>William Gunn Shepherd</i> (Metropolitan +Magazine) is none the less truly a remarkable short story because it +happens to be based on fact. "The Deserter" was the last fine short +story written by the late Richard Harding Davis, and "The Scar That +Tripled" is the engrossing narrative of the adventure which suggested +that story. Personally, I regard it as superior to "The Deserter."</p> + +<p>54. <span class="smcap">A Country Christmas</span> by <i>Grant Showerman</i> (Century Magazine). +Professor Showerman's country chronicles are now well known to American +readers, and this is quite the best of them. These sketches rank with +those of Hamlin Garland as a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_539" id="Page_539">[Pg 539]</a></span> permanent and delightful record of a +pioneer life that has passed away for ever. Their deliberate homeliness +and consistent reflection of a small boy's attitude toward life have no +equal to my knowledge.</p> + +<p>55. <span class="smcap">The Christmas Angel</span> (The Pictorial Review), and 56. <span class="smcap">The Flag of +Eliphalet</span> (Boston Evening Transcript) by <i>Elsie Singmaster</i> add two more +portraits to the pleasant gallery of Elsie Singmaster's vivid creations. +Although her vein is a narrow one, no one is more competent than she in +its expression, and few surpass her in the faithful rendering of homely +but none the less real spiritual circumstance.</p> + +<p>57. <span class="smcap">The End of the Road</span> by <i>Gordon Arthur Smith</i> (Scribner's Magazine) +is a sequel to "Feet of Gold" and chronicles the further love adventures +of Ferdinand Taillandy, and their tragic conclusion. In these two +stories Mr. Smith has proven his literary kinship with Leonard Merrick, +and these stories surely rank with the chronicles of Tricotrin and +Pitou.</p> + +<p>58. <span class="smcap">Ching, Ching, Chinaman</span> (Pictorial Review), 59. <span class="smcap">Ked's Hand</span> (Harper's +Magazine), 60. <span class="smcap">White Hands</span> (Pictorial Review), and 61. <span class="smcap">The Woman at +Seven Brothers</span> (Harper's Magazine) by <i>Wilbur Daniel Steele</i>. With these +four stories, together with "A Devil of a Fellow," "Free," and "A Point +of Honor," Mr. Steele assumes his rightful place with Katharine +Fullerton Gerould and H. G. Dwight as a leader in American fiction. +"Ching, Ching, Chinaman," "White Hands," and "The Woman at Seven +Brothers" are, in my belief, the three best short stories that were +published in 1917, by an American author, and I may safely predict their +literary permanence. Mr. Steele's extraordinary gift for presenting +action and spiritual conflict pictorially is unrivalled, and his sense +of human mystery has a rich tragic humor akin to that of Thomas Hardy, +though his philosophy of life is infinitely more hopeful.</p> + +<p>62. <span class="smcap">None so Blind</span> by <i>Mary Synon</i> (Harper's Magazine) is a study in +tragic circumstance, the more powerful because it is so reticently +handled. It is Miss Synon's first profound study in feminine psychology, +and reveals an unusual sense of emotional values. Few backgrounds have +been more subtly rendered in their influence upon character, and the +action of the story is inevitable despite its character of surprise.</p> + +<p>63. <span class="smcap">The Scar</span> by <i>Elisabeth Stead Taber</i> (The Seven Arts). The brutal +realism of this story may repel the reader, but its power and convincing +quality cannot be gainsaid. So many writers have followed John Fox's +example in writing about the mountaineers of the Alleghanies, that it is +gratifying to chronicle so exceptional a story as this. It is as +inevitable in its ugliness as "The Cat of the Cane-Brake" by Frederick +Stuart Greene, and psychologically it is far more convincing.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_540" id="Page_540">[Pg 540]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="MAGAZINE_AVERAGES_FOR_1917" id="MAGAZINE_AVERAGES_FOR_1917"></a>MAGAZINE AVERAGES FOR 1917</h2> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p><i>The following table includes the averages of American periodicals +published during 1917. One, two, and three asterisks are employed to +indicate relative distinction. "Three-asterisk stories" are of somewhat +permanent literary value. The list excludes reprints.</i></p> +</div> + + +<table summary="periodicals" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="5" style="border-top: 3px double black;border-bottom: 3px double black;"> +<tr><td align="center">PERIODICALS </td> +<td align="center" style="border-left: 1px solid black;">NO. OF<br />STORIES<br />PUBLISHED</td> +<td colspan="3" align="center" style="border-left: 1px solid black;border-right: 1px solid black;border-bottom: 1px solid black;">NO. OF<br />DISTINCTIVE<br />STORIES<br />PUBLISHED</td> +<td colspan="3" align="center" style="border-bottom: 1px solid black;">PERCENTAGE OF<br />DISTINCTIVE<br />STORIES<br />PUBLISHED</td></tr> + +<tr><td style="border-bottom: 1px solid black;"> </td><td style="border-bottom: 1px solid black; border-left: 1px solid black;"> </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;border-bottom: 1px solid black;">*</td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;border-bottom: 1px solid black;">* *</td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;border-bottom: 1px solid black;">* * *</td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;border-bottom: 1px solid black;"> * </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;border-bottom: 1px solid black;"> * * </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;border-bottom: 1px solid black;">* * *</td></tr> +<tr><td>American Magazine </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 54 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 25 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 3 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 1 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 46 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 6 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 2</td></tr> +<tr><td>Atlantic Monthly </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 20 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 17 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 11 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 5 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 85 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 55 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 25</td></tr> +<tr><td>Bellman </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 47 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 34 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 17 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 2 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 72 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 36 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 4</td></tr> +<tr><td>Bookman </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 5 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 5 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 4 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 1 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 100 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 80 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 20</td></tr> +<tr><td>Boston Evening Transcript </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 6 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 6 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 6 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 2 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 100 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 100 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 33</td></tr> +<tr><td>Century </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 50 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 40 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 29 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 17 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 80 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 58 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 34</td></tr> +<tr><td>Collier's Weekly </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 108 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 51 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 22 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 3 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 47 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 20 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 3</td></tr> +<tr><td>Delineator </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 46 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 18 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 5 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 2 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 39 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 11 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 4</td></tr> +<tr><td>Everybody's Magazine </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 45 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 26 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 7 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 3 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 58 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 15 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 7</td></tr> +<tr><td>Every Week </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 87 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 18 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 5 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 2 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 21 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 6 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 2</td></tr> +<tr><td>Forum </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 6 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 4 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 1 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 1 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 67 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 17 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 17</td></tr> +<tr><td>Good Housekeeping </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 40 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 12 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 9 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 5 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 30 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 23 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 13</td></tr> +<tr><td>Harper's Magazine </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 80 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 64 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 39 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 27 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 80 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 49 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 34</td></tr> +<tr><td>Illustrated Sunday Magazine </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 25 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 10 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 4 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 1 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 40 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 16 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 4</td></tr> +<tr><td>Ladies' Home Journal </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 33 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 11 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 4 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 1 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 33 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 12 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 3</td></tr> +<tr><td>Masses (except Oct. and Nov.) </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 11 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 6 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 3 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 0 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 54 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 27 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 0</td></tr> +<tr><td>McClure's Magazine </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 45 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 9 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 4 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 2 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 20 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 9 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 4</td></tr> +<tr><td>Metropolitan </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 43 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 16 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 8 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 5 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 37 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 19 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 12</td></tr> +<tr><td>Midland </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 22 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 21 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 17 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 2 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 95 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 77 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 9</td></tr> +<tr><td>New Republic </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 5 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 5 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 2 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 1 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 100 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 40 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 20</td></tr> +<tr><td>New York Tribune </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 30 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 22 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 7 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 4 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 73 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 23 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 13</td></tr> +<tr><td>Outlook </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 18 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 10 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 8 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 1 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 56 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 44 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 6</td></tr> +<tr><td>Pagan </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 11 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 8 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 8 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 4 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 72 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 72 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 36</td></tr> +<tr><td>Pictorial Review </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 42 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 26 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 18 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 14 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 62 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 43 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 33</td></tr> +<tr><td>Reedy's Mirror </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 32 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 18 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 10 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 3 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 56 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 31 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 9</td></tr> +<tr><td>Saturday Evening Post </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 235 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 62 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 25 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 7 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 21 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 11 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 3</td></tr> +<tr><td>Scribner's Magazine </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 65 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 52 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 31 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 16 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 80 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 48 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 25</td></tr> +<tr><td>Seven Arts </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 23 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 22 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 19 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 14 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 96 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 83 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 69</td></tr> +<tr><td>Smart Set </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 107 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 22 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 12 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 3 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 20 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 11 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 3</td></tr> +<tr><td>Stratford Journal </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 10 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 10 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 10 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 9 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 100 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 100 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 90</td></tr> +<tr><td>Sunset Magazine </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 32 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 6 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 0 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 0 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 19 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 0 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 0</td></tr> +<tr><td>Touchstone </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 15 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 15 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 10 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 2 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 100 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 67 </td><td align="right" style="border-left: 1px solid black;"> 13</td></tr> +</table> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_541" id="Page_541">[Pg 541]</a></span></p> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p><i>The following tables indicate the rank, during 1917, by number and +percentage of distinctive stories published, of the nineteen periodicals +coming within the scope of my examination which have published during +the past year over twenty-five stories and which have exceeded an +average of 15% in stories of distinction. The lists exclude reprints.</i></p> +</div> + +<table summary="stories" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="5"> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3" align="center">BY PERCENTAGE OF DISTINCTIVE STORIES</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">1.</td><td> Harper's Magazine </td><td align="right">80%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">2.</td><td> Scribner's Magazine </td><td align="right">80%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">3.</td><td> Century Magazine </td><td align="right">80%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">4.</td><td> New York Tribune </td><td align="right">73%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">5.</td><td> Bellman </td><td align="right">72%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">6.</td><td> Pictorial Review </td><td align="right">62%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">7.</td><td> Everybody's Magazine</td><td align="right">58%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">8.</td><td> Reedy's Mirror </td><td align="right">56%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">9.</td><td> Collier's Weekly </td><td align="right">47%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">10.</td><td>American Magazine </td><td align="right">46%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">11.</td><td>Delineator </td><td align="right">39%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">12.</td><td>Metropolitan Magazine </td><td align="right"> 37%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">13.</td><td>Ladies' Home Journal</td><td align="right">33%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">14.</td><td>Good Housekeeping </td><td align="right">30%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">15.</td><td>Saturday Evening Post </td><td align="right"> 21%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">16.</td><td>Every Week </td><td align="right">21%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">17.</td><td>Smart Set </td><td align="right">20%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">18.</td><td>McClure's Magazine </td><td align="right">20%</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">19.</td><td>Sunset Magazine </td><td align="right">19%</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3" align="center">BY NUMBER OF DISTINCTIVE STORIES</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">1.</td><td> Harper's Magazine </td><td align="right">64</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">2.</td><td> Saturday Evening Post </td><td align="right">62</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">3.</td><td> Scribner's Magazine </td><td align="right">52</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">4.</td><td> Collier's Weekly </td><td align="right">51</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">5.</td><td> Century Magazine </td><td align="right">40</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">6.</td><td> Bellman </td><td align="right">34</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">7.</td><td> Everybody's Magazine </td><td align="right">26</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">8.</td><td> Pictorial Review </td><td align="right">26</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">9.</td><td> American Magazine </td><td align="right">25</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">10.</td><td>New York Tribune </td><td align="right">22</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">11.</td><td>Smart Set </td><td align="right">22</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">12.</td><td>Reedy's Mirror </td><td align="right">18</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">13.</td><td>Delineator </td><td align="right">18</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">14.</td><td>Every Week </td><td align="right">18</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">15.</td><td>Metropolitan Magazine </td><td align="right">16</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">16.</td><td>Good Housekeeping </td><td align="right">12</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">17.</td><td>Ladies' Home Journal </td><td align="right">11</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">18.</td><td>McClure's Magazine </td><td align="right">9</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">19.</td><td>Sunset Magazine </td><td align="right">6</td></tr> +</table> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_542" id="Page_542">[Pg 542]</a></span></p> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p><i>The following periodicals have published during 1917 ten or more +"two-asterisk stories." The list excludes reprints. Periodicals +represented in this list during 1915 as well are indicated by an +asterisk. Periodicals represented in this list during 1916 are indicated +by a dagger.</i></p> +</div> + +<table summary="stories" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="5"> +<tr><td align="right">1.</td><td>*†Harper's Magazine </td><td align="right">39</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">2.</td><td>*†Scribner's Magazine </td><td align="right">31</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">3.</td><td>*†Century Magazine </td><td align="right">29</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">4.</td><td>*†Saturday Evening Post</td><td align="right">25</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">5.</td><td>*†Collier's Weekly </td><td align="right">20</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">6.</td><td>Seven Arts </td><td align="right">19</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">7.</td><td>†Pictorial Review </td><td align="right">18</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">8.</td><td>Midland </td><td align="right">17</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">9.</td><td>*†Bellman </td><td align="right">17</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">10.</td><td>*†Smart Set </td><td align="right">12</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">11.</td><td>Atlantic Monthly </td><td align="right">11</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">12.</td><td>Touchstone </td><td align="right">10</td></tr> +</table> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p><i>The following periodicals have published during 1917 five or more +"three-asterisk stories." The list excludes reprints. Periodicals +represented in this list during 1915 as well are indicated by an +asterisk. Periodicals represented in this list during 1916 are indicated +by a dagger.</i></p> +</div> + +<table summary="stories" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="5"> +<tr><td align="right">1.</td><td>*†Harper's Magazine </td><td align="right">27</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">2.</td><td>*†Century Magazine </td><td align="right">17</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">3.</td><td>*†Scribner's Magazine </td><td align="right">16</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">4.</td><td>Seven Arts </td><td align="right">14</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">5.</td><td>†Pictorial Review </td><td align="right">14</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">6.</td><td>Stratford Journal </td><td align="right">9</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">7.</td><td>*†Saturday Evening Post </td><td align="right">7</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">8.</td><td>Atlantic Monthly </td><td align="right">5</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">9.</td><td>*Metropolitan </td><td align="right">5</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">10.</td><td>Good Housekeeping </td><td align="right">5</td></tr> +</table> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p class="n"><i>Ties in the above lists have been decided by taking relative rank in +other lists into account.</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_543" id="Page_543">[Pg 543]</a></span></p> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="INDEX_OF_SHORT_STORIES_FOR_1917" id="INDEX_OF_SHORT_STORIES_FOR_1917"></a>INDEX OF SHORT STORIES FOR 1917</h2> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p><i>All short stories published in the following magazines and newspapers +during 1917 are indexed.</i></p> +</div> + + +<p class="n">American Magazine<br /> +Atlantic Monthly<br /> +Bellman<br /> +Bookman<br /> +Boston Evening Transcript<br /> +Century<br /> +Collier's Weekly<br /> +Current Opinion<br /> +Delineator<br /> +Everybody's Magazine<br /> +Every Week<br /> +Forum<br /> +Harper's Magazine<br /> +Illustrated Sunday Magazine<br /> +Ladies' Home Journal<br /> +Little Review (except Oct.)<br /> +Masses (Jan.-Sept.)<br /> +McClure's Magazine<br /> +Metropolitan<br /> +Midland<br /> +New Republic<br /> +New York Tribune<br /> +Outlook<br /> +Pictorial Review<br /> +Poetry<br /> +Pagan<br /> +Reedy's Mirror<br /> +Russian Review (Jan.-July)<br /> +Saturday Evening Post<br /> +Scribner's Magazine<br /> +Seven Arts<br /> +Stratford Journal<br /> +Sunset Magazine<br /> +Touchstone<br /> +Yale Review<br /> +</p> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p><i>The October and November issues of the Masses are not listed, as they +were not procurable through ordinary channels. The October issue of the +Russian Review was not yet published when this book went to press. The +October issue of the Little Review was withdrawn from circulation before +it could come to my notice.</i></p> + +<p><i>Short stories, of distinction only, published in the following +magazines and newspapers during 1917 are indexed.</i></p> +</div> + +<p class="n">Black Cat<br /> +Boston Herald<br /> +Colonnade<br /> +Cosmopolitan<br /> +Good Housekeeping<br /> +Harper's Bazar<br /> +Hearst's Magazine<br /> +Live Stories<br /> +McCall's Magazine<br /> +Milestones<br /> +Munsey's Magazine<br /> +Parisienne<br /> +Pearson's Magazine<br /> +Short Stories<br /> +Smart Set<br /> +Snappy Stories<br /> +Southern Woman's Magazine<br /> +To-day's Housewife<br /> +Woman's Home Companion<br /> +Youth's Companion<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_544" id="Page_544">[Pg 544]</a></span></p> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p><i>Certain stories of distinction published in the following magazines and +newspapers during 1917 are indexed, because they have been called to my +attention by authors or readers.</i></p> +</div> + +<p class="n">All-Story Weekly<br /> +Art World<br /> +Ainslee's Magazine<br /> +Dernier Cri<br /> +Detective Story Magazine<br /> +Los Angeles Times<br /> +Queen's Work<br /> +Saucy Stories<br /> +Top-Notch Magazine<br /> +Woman's World<br /> +Young's Magazine<br /> +</p> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p><i>The Red Book Magazine is not represented in these lists, in deference +to the wishes of its editor, who sent me the following telegram: "We +prefer not to be listed."</i></p> + +<p><i>One, two, or three asterisks are prefixed to the titles of stories to +indicate distinction. Three asterisks prefixed to a title indicate the +more or less permanent literary value of a story, and entitle it to a +place on the annual "Rolls of Honor." An asterisk before the name of an +author indicates that he is not an American.</i></p> + +<p><i>The following abbreviations are used in the index:—</i></p> +</div> + +<table summary="stories" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" style="margin-left: 2%;"> +<tr><td><i>Ain.</i></td><td>Ainslee's Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>All.</i></td><td>All-Story Weekly</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Am.</i></td><td>American Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Atl.</i></td><td>Atlantic Monthly</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Art W.</i></td><td>Art World</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>B. C.</i></td><td>Black Cat</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Bel.</i></td><td>Bellman</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>B. E. T.</i></td><td>Boston Evening Transcript</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>B. Her.</i></td><td>Boston Herald</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Cen.</i></td><td>Century</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>C. O.</i></td><td>Current Opinion</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Col.</i></td><td>Collier's Weekly</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Colon.</i></td><td>Colonnade</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Cos.</i></td><td>Cosmopolitan</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Del.</i></td><td>Delineator</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Det.</i></td><td>Detective Story Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Ev.</i></td><td>Everybody's Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>E. W.</i></td><td>Every Week</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>For.</i></td><td>Forum</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>G. H.</i></td><td>Good Housekeeping</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Harp. B.</i></td><td>Harper's Bazar</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Harp. M.</i></td><td>Harper's Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Hear.</i></td><td>Hearst's Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>I. S. M.</i></td><td>Illustrated Sunday Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>L. A. Times.</i></td><td>Los Angeles Times</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>L. H. J.</i></td><td>Ladies' Home Journal</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Lit. R.</i></td><td>Little Review</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>L. St.</i></td><td>Live Stories</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>McC.</i></td><td>McClure's Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>McCall</i></td><td>McCall's Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Met.</i></td><td>Metropolitan</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Mid.</i></td><td>Midland</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Mir.</i></td><td>Reedy's Mirror</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Mun.</i></td><td>Munsey's Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>N. Rep.</i></td><td>New Republic</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>N. Y. Trib.</i></td><td>New York Tribune</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Outl.</i></td><td>Outlook</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Pag.</i></td><td>Pagan</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Par.</i></td><td>Parisienne</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Pear.</i></td><td>Pearson's Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Pict. R.</i></td><td>Pictorial Review</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Q. W.</i></td><td>Queen's Work</td></tr> +<tr><td>(<i>R.</i>)</td><td>(Reprint)</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Rus. R.</i></td><td>Russian Review</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Sau. St.</i></td><td>Saucy Stories</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Scr.</i></td><td>Scribner's Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>S. E. P.</i></td><td>Saturday Evening Post</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Sev. A.</i></td><td>Seven Arts</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Sh. St.</i></td><td>Short Stories</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Sn. St.</i></td><td>Snappy Stories</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>So. Wo. M.</i></td><td>Southern Woman's Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>S. S.</i></td><td>Smart Set</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Strat. J.</i></td><td>Stratford Journal</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Sun.</i></td><td>Sunset Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>To-day</i></td><td>To-day's Housewife</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Top-Notch</i></td><td>Top-Notch Magazine</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Touch.</i></td><td>Touchstone</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>W. H. C.</i></td><td>Woman's Home Companion</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Wom. W.</i></td><td>Woman's World</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Yale</i></td><td>Yale Review</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Y. C.</i></td><td>Youth's Companion</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Young</i></td><td>Young's Magazine</td></tr> +</table> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_545" id="Page_545">[Pg 545]</a></span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p class="n">A<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Abbott, Frances C.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Memorial Window, The. Del. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mrs. Bodkin's Début. Del. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Abdullah, Achmed.</span> (<span class="smcap">Achmend Abdullah Nadir Khan el-Durani<br /> +el-Iddrissyeh.</span>) ("<span class="smcap">A. A. Nadir.</span>") (1881- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(<i>See also</i> <span class="smcap">Uzzell</span>, <span class="smcap">Thomas H.</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Abdullah,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_546" id="Page_546">[Pg 546]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Achmed.</span>)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*As He Reaped. Ain. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Consider the Oath of M'Taga. All. March 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Disappointment. All. May 19.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*East or West? Top-Notch. April 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Five-Dollar Gold-Piece, The. Sn. St. Dec. 18.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Gamut, The. S. S. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Gentlemen of the Old Régime, A. S. S. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Guerdon, The. S. S. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Home-Coming, The. Harp. M. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Letter, The. S. S. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Silence. All. April 21.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Adams, Katharine.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Silent Brown." So. Wo. M. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Adams, Minnie Barbour.</span> (<i>See</i> 1916.)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Half a Boy. Pict. R. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Adams, Samuel Hopkins.</span> (1871- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916</i>.)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Letter to Nowhere, A. E. W. Feb. 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Little Red Doctor of Our Square, The. Col Aug. 25.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Meanest Man in Our Square, The. Col. March 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Paula of the Housetop. Col. July 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Room "12 A." Ev. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">"Wamble: His Day Out." Col. Jan. 13.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Adler, Henry.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Coward, The. Pag. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Aicard, Jean.</span> (1848- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mariette's Gift. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 18.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Alexander, Mary.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ashamed of Her Parents. Del. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Girl Who Is Not Popular, The. Del. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How Can I Meet the Right Sort of Men? Del. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Out of Touch With Life. Del. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Too Sure of Herself. Del. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When She Runs After the Boys. Del. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Allen, Frederick Lewis.</span> (<i>See 1915</i>.)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Big Game. Cen. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fixing Up the Balkans. Cen. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Small Talk. Cen. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Allen, Loraine Anderson.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Going of Agnes, The. Touch. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Allendorf, Anna Stahl.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Dallying of Celia May, The. G. H. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Leavening of St. Rupert, The. G. H. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">"<span class="smcap">Amid, John.</span>" (<span class="smcap">M. M. Stearns.</span>) (<i>See 1915 and 1916</i>.)</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_547" id="Page_547">[Pg 547]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Alone. Det. Sept. 25.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Busted Poor. All. Dec. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Freeze, The. Mid. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Interlude. Young. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Prem Singh. Bel. Dec. 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Professor, A. Mid. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Strachan's Hindu. Bel. Oct. 27.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Anderson, Sherwood.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***"Mother." Sev. A. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Thinker, The. Sev. A. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Untold Lie, The. Sev. A. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Anderson, William Ashley.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Unwrit Dogma, The. Ev. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Andrade, Cipriano, Jr.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Applied Hydraulics. S. E. P. Aug. 25.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Andres, Mary Raymond Shipman.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Blood Brothers. Scr. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Return of K. of K., The. McC. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Russian, The. Milestones. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Andreyev, Leonid Nikolaevich.</span> (1871- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Lazarus. Strat. J. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Anonymous.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Apparition, The. N. Y. Trib. Nov. 11.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Coeur de Lion. N. Y. Trib. July 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Evocation, The. N. Y. Trib. April 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eyes of the Soul, The. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 25.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fools. Mir. Sept. 28.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***"Huppdiwupp." Lit. R. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pipe, The. N. Y. Trib. Nov. 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Poilu's Dream on Christmas Eve, The. B. Her. Dec. 23.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Rendezvous, The. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 30.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Slacker with a Soul, A. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 16.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Spirit of Alsace, The. N. Y. Trib. May 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Voice of the Church Bell, The. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">War Against War. McC. April-May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When Lulu Made Trouble. Mir. May 18.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Arbuckle, Mary.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Freedom and Robbie May. Sun. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Armstrong, William.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cupid in High Finance. Del. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ashe, Elizabeth.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Appraisement. Atl. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Assis, Machado de.</span> (1839-1908.) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_548" id="Page_548">[Pg 548]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Attendant's Confession, The. (<i>R.</i>) Strat. J. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Auernheimer, Raoul.</span> (1876- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Demonstrating That War Is War. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 28.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Aumonier, Stacy.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***In the Way of Business. Pict. R. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Packet, The. Col. May 26.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***"Them Others." Cen. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Austin, F. Britten.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Zu Befehl! S. E. P. Dec. 1.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +B<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Babcock, Edwina Stanton.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Excursion, The. Pict. R. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bacon, Josephine Daskam.</span> (1876- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Comrades in Arms. S. E. P. Oct. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Entrances and Exits. Del. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ghost of Rosy Taylor, The. S. E. P. Nov. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Magic Casements. Del. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Square Peggy. S. E. P. Dec. 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Year of Cousin Quartus, A. Del. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bailey (Irene) Temple.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Red Candle, The. Scr. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Baker, Katharine.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fifty-Cent Kind, The. Atl. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ball, William David.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Man Who Paid, The. E. W. April 2.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Balmer, Edwin.</span> (1883- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Madcap. Col. Jan. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">S. Orton, Stockholder. E. W. May 28.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Telegraph Trail, The. Col. March 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thing That He Did, The. L. H. J. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With Sealed Hood. Col. Sept. 22.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Banks, Helen Ward.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mrs. Pepper Passes. Y. C. April 5.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Barbusse, Henri.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Paradis Polishes the Boots. (<i>R.</i>) C. O. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Barnard, Floy Tolbert.</span> (1879- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Surprise in Perspective, A. Harp. M. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Barry, Richard.</span> (1881- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Legacy, The. Del. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bartlett, Frederick Orin.</span> (1876- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_549" id="Page_549">[Pg 549]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Time to Go to Newport. E. W. July 23.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bartley, Nalbro.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Benedict & Company. S. E. P. Oct. 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Briggles "Goes West." S. E. P. March 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Have a Heart! S. E. P. April 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Reel True. S. E. P. Nov. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Total Bewitcher, The. S. E. P. June 16.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Town Mouse, The. S. E. P. April 21.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bassett, Willard Kenneth.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*End of the Line, The. S. S. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bates, Sylvia Chatfield.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Let Nothing You Dismay. W. H. C. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Light from the Holy Hill. Wom. W. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Bazin, René.</span> (1853- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Mathurine's Eyes. Strat. J. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Beach, Roy.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cline's Injunction. Sun. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Beatty, Jerome.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Attaboy!" McC. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gee-Whiz Guy, The. McC. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Take 'Im Out!" McC. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bechdolt, Frederick R.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pecos Kid, The. Col. Jan. 6.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bechdolt, Jack.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Black Widow's Mercy, The. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Feb. 16.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Beer, Thomas.</span> (1889- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Brothers, The. Cen. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Onnie. Cen. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Rescuer, The. S. E. P. Aug. 11.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Behrman, S. N.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Coming of the Lord, The. Touch. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Song of Ariel. Sev. A. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Beith, Ian Hay.</span> (<i>See</i> "<span class="smcap">Hay, Ian.</span>")<br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Bell, J(ohn) J(oy).</span> (1871- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Wanted—A Pussy-Mew. Bel. March 3.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bell, Lilian</span> (<span class="smcap">Lida</span>). (1867- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mrs. Galloway Goes Shopping. Del. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mrs. Galloway Tries to Reduce. Del. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Benefield, Barry.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Simply Sugar Pie. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. April 29.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Benét, William Rose.</span> (1886- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Once a Year. Cen. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_550" id="Page_550">[Pg 550]</a></span><span class="smcap">Bennet-Thompson, Lillian.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Thompson, Lillian Bennet-</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Benson, Edward Frederic.</span> (1867- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Through." Cen. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Benson, Ramsey.</span> (1866- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Shad's Windfall. B. C. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Beresford, John Davys.</span> (1873- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Escape, The. Sev. A. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Little Town, The. Sev. A. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Powers of the Air. Sev. A. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Berry, John.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Clod, The. B. C. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Betts, Thomas Jeffries.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Alone. Scr. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Biggers, Earl Derr.</span> (1884- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Each According to His Gifts. S. E. P. April 14.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Same Old Circle. S. E. P. April 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Soap and Sophocles. McC. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +*"<span class="smcap">Birmingham, George A.</span>" (<span class="smcap">Canon James O. Hannay.</span>) (1865- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Von Edelstein's Mistake. McC. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Blair, Gertrude.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Water-Witch, The. Scr. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bledsoe, Joe.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Fuzz. B. C. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Blythe, Samuel G.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Der Tag for Us. S. E. P. Dec. 22.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Boggs, Russell A.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Boomer from the West, The. S. E. P. April 28.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Booth, Frederick.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Cloud-Ring, The. Sev. A. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bottome, Phyllis.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***"Ironstone." Cen. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bourne, Randolph.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Ernest, or Parent for a Day. Atl. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Boutet, Frederic.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Convalescent's Return, The. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 30.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Medallion, The. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 28.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Messenger, The. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Promise, The. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 2.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bower, B. M.</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Connor, Buck.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Go-Between, The. McC. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Red Ride, The. McC. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Boyer, Wilbur S.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_551" id="Page_551">[Pg 551]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Bum Throwers. Ev. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Getting Even with Geo'gia. Ev. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*One Week of Kelly. Ev. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*There's Many a Slip. Ev. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Boyes, Dan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lilium Giganteum. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Feb. 16.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Boykin, Nancy Gunter.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Christmas Medley, A. Met. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Leavings. E. W. Dec. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Retta Rosemary. E. W. July 16.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brady, Elizabeth.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Ladislav Saves the Day. Q. W. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brady, Mariel.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thermopylæ. Bel. Oct. 6.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Braley, Berton.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stuff of Dreams, The. Del. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Braz, Anatole Le.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Le Braz, Anatole</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Breck, John.</span>" (<span class="smcap">Elizabeth C. A. Smith.</span>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***From Hungary. Bookman. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Man Who was Afraid, The. Ev. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brooks, Alden.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Man From America, The. Cen. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Three Slavs, The. Col. May 5.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brown, Alice.</span> (1857- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Flying Teuton, The. Harp. M. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Nemesis, Harp. M. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Preaching Peony, The. Harp. M. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brown, Bernice.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Last of the Line, The. E. W. Nov. 5.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brown, Katharine Holland.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Millicent: Maker of History. Scr. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**On a Brief Text from Isaiah. Scr. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brown, Marion Francis.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Husks and Hawthorn. So. Wo. M. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brown, Phyllis Wyatt.</span> (<span class="smcap">Phyllis Wyatt.</span>) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Checked Trousers, The. Masses. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Extra Chop, The. Cen. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brown, Royal.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Seventy Times Seven. McCall. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brownell, Agnes Mary.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Fifer, The. Y. C. June 28.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Brubaker, Howard.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Baby's Place, A. Harp. M. Jan.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_552" id="Page_552">[Pg 552]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cabbages and Queens. Harp. M. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Greeks Bearing Gifts. Harp. M. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Ranny and the Higher Life. Harp. M. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bruckman, Clyde A.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Joe Gum. S. E. P. May 5.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bryson, Lyman.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Under a Roof. Mid. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bulger, Bozeman.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Heart of the System, The. S. E. P. Jan. 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Queen's Mistake, The. S. E. P. March 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Skin Deep. Ev. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bunner, Anne.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Road to Arcady, The. Ev. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Burnet, Dana.</span> (1888- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Christmas Fight of X 157. L. H. J. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Dub, The. S. E. P. March 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Fog. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. April 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Genevieve and Alonzo. L. H. J. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Sadie Goes to Heaven. G. H. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Sponge, The. Am. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Burnett, Frances Hodgson.</span> (1849- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**White People, The. Harp. M. Dec., '16-Jan., '17.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Burrow, C. Kennett.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Café de la Paix, The. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Sept 21.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Burt, Jean Brooke.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Way of the West, The. Sun. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Burt, Maxwell Struthers.</span> (1882- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Closed Doors. Scr. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Cup of Tea, A. Scr. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Glory of the Wild Green Earth, The. Scr. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***John O'May. Scr. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Panache, Le. Scr. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Busbey, Katherine Graves.</span> (1872- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Senator's Son, The. Harp. M. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Buss, Kate</span> (<span class="smcap">Meldram</span>).<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Medals. Mid. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Butler, Ellis Parker.</span> (1869- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Markley's "Size-Up" of Dix. Am. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mutual Spurs, Limited. S. E. P. July 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Red Avengers, The. Am. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Scratch-Cat. E. W. Feb. 26.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Temporary Receiver, The. Am. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Trouble with Martha, The. Harp. M. Dec.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_553" id="Page_553">[Pg 553]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Wasted Effort. Am. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Buzzell, Francis.</span> (1882- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Lonely Places. Pict. R. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Long Vacation, The. Pict. R. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Byrne, Donn.</span>" (<span class="smcap">Bryan Oswald Donn-Byrne.</span>) (1888- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Day After Tomorrow. McC. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gryphon, The. S. E. P. April 28.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Prodigal in Utopia, The. S. E. P. Sept. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Sound of Millstones, The. S. E. P. March 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Treasure Upon Earth, A. S. E. P. Nov. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Woman in the House, A. S. E. P. March 3.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +C<br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Caine, William.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Spanish Pride. Cen. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cameron, Anne.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sadie's Opportunity. Am. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cameron, Margaret.</span> (<span class="smcap">Margaret Cameron Lewis.</span>) (1867- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dolliver's Devil. Harp. M. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Camp (Charles) Wadsworth.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Veiled Woman, The. Col. Nov. 17.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Campbell, Fleta.</span> (1886- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916 under</i> <span class="smcap">Springer, Fleta Campbell.</span>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Incompetent, Irrelevant, and Immaterial. Harp. M. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Millward. Harp. M. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Mistress, The. Harp. B. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Campbell, Jay.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Jim. Scr. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Campen, Helen Van.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Van Campen, Helen.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Carlton, Augustus.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Lady from Ah-high-ah, The. Mir. Aug. 31.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Carruth, Gorton Veeder.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Chivalry at Goldenbridge. Y. C. Aug. 30.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Carver, Ada Jack.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Joyous Coast, The." So. Wo. M. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Casey, Patrick</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Terence.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Kid Brother, The. Col. May 19.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Castle, Egerton.</span> (1858- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Guinea Smuggler, The. Bel. June 16.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Castle, Everett Rhodes.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_554" id="Page_554">[Pg 554]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Coats Is In. S. E. P. Nov. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dark-Brown Liquid, The. S. E. P. Dec. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Harvest Gloom. S. E. P. Dec. 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the Movies They Do It. S. E. P. Dec. 29.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cather, Willa Sibert.</span> (1875- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Gold Slipper, A. Harp. M. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cederschiöld, Gunnar.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Foundling, The. Col. Oct. 27.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Chamberlain, George Agnew.</span> (1879- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Man Who Went Back, The. L. H. J. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Neutrality and Siamese Cats. S. E. P. June 30.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Chamberlain, Lucia.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Under Side, The. S. E. P. Aug. 11.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Chambers, Robert William.</span> (1865- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Brabançonne, La. Hear. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Channing, Grace Ellery.</span> (<span class="smcap">Grace Ellery Channing Stetson.</span>) (1862- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Out of the Earth. S. E. P. Aug. 18.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Chekhov, Anton.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Tchekov, Anton Pavlovitch.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Chenault, Fletcher.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Strategy Wins. Col. March 31.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Young Man from Texas, The. Col. June 23.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Chester, George Randolph.</span> (1869- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Heavenly Spat, The. Ev. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Child, Richard Washburn.</span> (1881- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Chasm, The. S. E. P. Dec. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eagle Shannon Assists Mr. Sleed. Col. May 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eagle Shannon Deals a Blow at Progress. Col. June 16.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eagle Shannon Gives a Treatment. Col. Feb. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eagle Shannon Meets the Ivory Woman. Col. April 14.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Faith. E. W. Dec. 31.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Forever and Ever. Pict. R. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">God's Laugh. Col. March 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Hard of Head. E. W. Jan. 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her Boy. E. W. Oct. 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Her Countenance. Hear. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Love Is Love. E. W. March 12.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Chirikov, Evgeniy.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Past, The. Rus. R. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cleghorn, Sarah N(orcliffe)</span>. (1876- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***"Mr. Charles Raleigh Rawdon, Ma'am." Cen. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Clifford, Sir Hugh.</span> (1866- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_555" id="Page_555">[Pg 555]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**"Our Trusty and Well-Beloved." Sh. St. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Clifford, Mrs. W. K.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Quenching, The. Scr. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Closser, Myra Jo.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**At the Gate. Cen. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cloud, Virginia Woodward.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Boy Without a Name, The. Bel. June 30.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her Arabian Night. Bel. Aug. 11.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cobb, Irvin S(hrewsbury).</span> (1876- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Boys Will Be Boys. S. E. P. Oct. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Cinnamon Seed and Sandy Bottom. S. E. P. June 9.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Ex-Fightin' Billy. Pict. R. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Family Tree, The. S. E. P. March 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Garb of Men, The. S. E. P. Jan. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Hark! From the Tombs. S. E. P. April 14.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Kiss for Kindness, A. S. E. P. April 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Quality Folks. S. E. P. Nov. 24.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cocke, Sarah Johnson.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Men-Fokes' Doin's. S. E. P. Oct. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Rooster and the Washpot, The. S. E. P. June 2.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cody, Rosalie M.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Eaton, Jacquette H.</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Cody, Rosalie M.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cohen, Inez Lopez.</span> (<i>See</i> "<span class="smcap">Lopez, Inez.</span>")<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cohen, Octavus Roy.</span> (1891- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>) (<i>See also</i> <span class="smcap">Cohen, Octavus Roy</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Levison, Eric</span>.)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Fair Play. Col. Nov. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lot for a Life, A. E. W. Jan. 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oil and Miss Watters. I. S. M. July 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Partners. Col. May 5.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cohen, Octavus Roy</span> (1891- ), <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Levison, Eric</span>.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pro Patria. Ev. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Collamore, Edna A.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Those Twin Easter Hats. Del. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Collins, Dorothy.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Honest Mind, An. Pag. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Colton, John.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**On the Yellow Sea. E. W. Nov. 26.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Comfort, Will Levington.</span> (1878- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Lempke. S. E. P. Nov. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Lit Up. E. W. July 30.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pale Torrent, The. Touch. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Plain Woman, The. S. E. P. Nov. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Respectable House, A. Touch. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Shielding Wing, The. Hear. April.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_556" id="Page_556">[Pg 556]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Woman He Loved, The. Touch. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Condon, Frank.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Five, Six, Pick Up Sticks. S. E. P. Nov. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ne Coco Domo. S. E. P. April 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nothing But Some Bones. Col. Oct. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">This Way Out. S. E. P. March 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Water on the Side. Col. April 28.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Connolly, James Brendan.</span> (1868- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Breath o'Dawn. Scr. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Bullfight, The. Col. Feb. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Strategists, The. Scr. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Connor, Brevard Mays.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Desert Rose, The. Sun. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Connor, Buck.</span> (<i>See</i> Bower, B. M., <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Connor, Buck</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Connor, Torrey.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Si, Señor!" Sun. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +*"<span class="smcap">Conrad, Joseph.</span>" (<span class="smcap">Joseph Conrad Korzeniowski.</span>) (1857- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Warrior's Soul, The. Met. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Converse, Florence.</span> (1871- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Culprit, The. Atl. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Conway, Norman.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Cleansing, The. Masses. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cook, Mrs. George Cram.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Glaspell, Susan.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cooke, Marjorie Benton.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"It Might Have Happened." Scr. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Morals of Peter, The. Am. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cooper, Courtney Ryley.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Congo. Ev. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ship Comes In, The. Pict R. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Corbin, John.</span> (1870- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Father Comes Back. Col. June 23.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cornell, Hughes.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Holbrook Hollow. L. A. Times. June 23.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cornish, Reynelle G. E.</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Cornish, Evelyn N.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Letter of the Law, The. Outl. July 4.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Costello, Fanny Kemble.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Johnson, Fanny Kemble.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Couch, Sir Arthur T. Quiller-.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur T.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cowdery, Alice.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Robert. Harp. M. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Crabb, Arthur.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Decision, The. S. E. P. Sept. 8.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_557" id="Page_557">[Pg 557]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Third Woman, The. S. E. P. Sept. 15.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Crabbe, Bertha Helen.</span> (1887- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Lavender Satin. Y. C. Nov. 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Once in a Lifetime. Bel. April 21.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Cram, Mildred R.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Not Quite an Hour. S. S. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Statuette, The. S. S. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Crawford, Charlotte Holmes.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Daughter of Nish, A. Col. Jan. 20.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Crissey, Forrest.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pretender, The. Harp. M. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Curtiss, Philip Everett.</span> (1885- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Colonel Volunteers, The. Harp. M. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gods and Little Fishes, The. E. W. Oct. 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Overture and Beginners!" S. E. P. Oct. 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pioneers, The. Harp. M. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Curwood, James Oliver.</span> (1878- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Fiddling Man, The. E. W. April 16.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +D<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Daly, Alice F.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Aunt Virginia's Box. Y. C. Nov. 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Heirloom, The. Y. C. Dec. 6.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Davies, Marion.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Runaway Romany. I. S. M. Sept. 16.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Davis, J. Frank.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Almanzar's Perfect Day. E. W. Aug. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">White Folks' Talk. E. W. June 25.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Davis, Jacob.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Striker, The. Mir. July 27.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Davis, Rose B.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bremington's Job. Sun. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dawson, (Francis) Warrington.</span> (1878- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Man, The. Atl. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Delano, Edith Barnard.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Social Folks Next Door, The. L. H. J. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Delarue-Madrus, Lucie.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Death of the Dead, The. Strat. J. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Godmother, The. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 23.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Godmother, The. (II.) N. Y. Trib. Oct. 14.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Derieux, Samuel A.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_558" id="Page_558">[Pg 558]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Destiny of Dan VI, The. Am. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dickson, Harris.</span> (1868- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jigadier Brindle, The. Col. July 14.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Jigadier's Drum, The. Col. Sept. 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Left Hind Tail, The. Pict. R. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Redpate the Rookie. Col. July 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">War Trailer, The. Col. Sept. 15.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Divine, Charles.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Last Aristocrat, The. S. S. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mrs. Smythe's Artistic Crisis. S. S. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dix, Beulah Marie.</span> (<span class="smcap">Mrs. George H. Flebbe.</span>) (1876- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**One Who Stayed, The. Harp. B. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dobie, Charles Caldwell.</span> (1881- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Empty Pistol, The. Harp. M. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Gift, The. Harp. M. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Laughter. Harp. M. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Our Dog. Pict. R. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Sign Language, The. Harp. M. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Where the Road Forked. Harp. M. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dodge, Henry Irving.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Skinner's Big Idea. S. E. P. Dec. 15.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dodge, Louis.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Wilder's Ride. Scr. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dodge, Mabel.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Farmhands. Sev. A. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Doring, Winfield.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Boy's Night, A. L. H. J. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Doty, Madeleine Zabriskie.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mutter, Die. (<i>R.</i>) <i>C. O.</i> May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Douglas, David.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Casey Gets a Surprise. McC. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dounce, Harry Esty.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Garden of Proserpine, The. Cen. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan.</span> (1859- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**His Last Bow. Col. Sept. 22.</span><br /> +<br /> +*"<span class="smcap">Doyle, Lynn.</span>" (<span class="smcap">Lewis A. Montgomery.</span>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Compulsory Service in Ballygullion. Cen. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Draper, John W.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Guilleford Errant. Colon. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dreiser, Theodore.</span> (1871- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Married. Cos. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Driggs, Laurence La Tourette.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_559" id="Page_559">[Pg 559]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Battle Royal, The. Outl. Nov. 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bridge on the Oise, The. Outl. Oct. 31.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My First Submarine. Outl. Nov. 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Strafing Jack Johnson. Outl. Dec. 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Zeppelin Raid over Paris, A. Outl. Oct. 17.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Dudeney, Mrs. Henry.</span> (1866- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Feather-bed, The. Harp. M. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Duncan, Norman.</span> (1871-1916.) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Little Nipper o' Hide-an'-Seek Harbor, A. Pict. R. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mohammed of the Lion Heart. Del. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Dunsany, Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, 18th Baron.</span> (1878- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***East and West. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Jan. 19.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Gifts of the Gods, The. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Oct. 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***How the Gods Avenged Meoul Ki Ning. S. S. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">During, Stella M.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Top Floor Front, The. I. S. M. Feb. 18.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Dutton, Louise Elizabeth.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Paradise Alley. Met. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Poor Butterfly. S. E. P. Sept. 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the Half-Gods Go. S. E. P. July 14.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dwight, H(arry) Griswold.</span> (1875- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Emperor of Elam, The. Cen. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dwyer, James Francis.</span> (1874- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Land of the Pilgrims' Pride. Col. April 28.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dyer, Walter Alden.</span> (1878- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Annabel's Goose. Col. Dec. 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mission of McGregor, The. Col. Feb. 10.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dyke, Catherine Van.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Van Dyke, Catherine.</span>)<br /> +<span class="smcap"><br /> +Dyke, Henry van</span>. (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Van Dyke, Henry.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +E<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Eastman, Max.</span> (1883- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Lover of Animals, A. Masses. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Eaton, Jacquette H.</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Cody, Rosalie M.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Thankful. Y. C. Nov. 22.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Eaton, Walter Prichard.</span> (1878- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Altitude. E. W. Sept. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">White-Topped Boots, The. E. W. May 21.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Echegaray, José.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Birth of the Flowers, The. (<i>R.</i>) C. O. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Edgar, Randolph.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_560" id="Page_560">[Pg 560]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Iron. Bel. May 26.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Edgelow, Thomas.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whimsical Tenderness, A. Scr. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ellerbe, Alma Estabrook.</span> (<i>See 1915 under</i> <span class="smcap">Estabrook, Alma Martin.</span>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Brock. Touch. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ellerbe, Rose L.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Peasant's Revolt, A. Pear. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Evans, Ida May.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Brew of Ashes. McC. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">End of a Perfect Day, The. Col. Sept. 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great Little Old Understander, A. S. E. P. Oct. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ideal of His Dreams, The. S. E. P. March 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Kimonos and Pink Chiffon. McC. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Leaves of Graft. S. E. P. April 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whither Thou Goest. S. E. P. May 26.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You Never Can Tell What a Minister's Son Will Do. S. E. P. Aug. 25.</span><br /> +<br /> +*"<span class="smcap">Eye-witness.</span>" (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Swinton, Lieut.-Col. E. D.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +F<br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Farjeon, J. Jefferson.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Sixpence. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Dec. 14.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Farnol, Jeffery.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Absentee, The. Wom. W. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Fawcett, Margaret.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pursuit of Peter, The. Met. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ferber, Edna.</span> (1887- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Cheerful—By Request. Col. Nov. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Gay Old Dog, The. Met. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ferris, Eleanor.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Coup de Grâce. Cen. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ferris, Elmer Ellsworth.</span> (1861- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Helping Out Olaf. Am. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ferris, Walter.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Matter of Quality, A. Ev. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Finn, Mary M.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bentley's Adventure in New York. Am. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Flower, Elliott.</span> (1863- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Point of View, The. Harp. M. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Folsom, Elizabeth Irons.</span> (1876- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Kamerad. Touch. Oct.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_561" id="Page_561">[Pg 561]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**When the Devil Drives. Pag. July-Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ford, Sewell.</span> (1868- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All the Way with Anna. E. W. Nov. 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Wilt Thou, Torchy? E. W. Jan. 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At the Turn with Wilfred. E. W. Nov. 19.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Back with Clara Belle. E. W. July 9.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Carry-On for Clara, A. E. W. Oct. 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Even Break with Bradley, An. E. W. Jan. 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flicketty One Looks On, A. E. W. Jan. 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Little Sully's Double Play. E. W. June 11.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the Gate with Waldo. E. W. Aug. 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Qualifying Turn for Torchy, A. E. W. April 30.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Recruit for the Eight-Three, A. E. W. May 28.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ringer from Bedelia, A. E. W. Aug. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Showing Up Brick Hartley. E. W. Feb. 26.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Switching Arts on Leon. E. W. May 14.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Time Out for Joan. E. W. March 26.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Torchy and Vee on the Way. E. W. Feb. 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Torchy in the Gazinkus Class. E. W. June 25.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Vee Goes Over the Top. E. W. Dec. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Vee with Variations. E. W. March 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When Torchy Got the Call. E. W. July 23.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where Herm Belonged to Be. E. W. April 16.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Foster, Maximilian.</span> (1872- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dollar Bill, The. S. E. P. June 16.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fifi. S. E. P. July 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Last Throw, The. S. E. P. Feb. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Wraiths. S. E. P. April 7.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Fox, Edward Lyell.</span> (1887- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Man and the Other Man, The. I. S. M. March 18.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Fox, John (William), Jr.</span> (1863- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Angel from Viper, The. Scr. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Battle-Prayer of Parson Small, The. Scr. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Compact of Christopher, The. Scr. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Courtship of Allaphair, The. Scr. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Goddess of Happy Valley, The. Scr. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Lord's Own Level, The. Scr. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Marquise of Queensberry, The. Scr. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pope of the Big Sandy, The. Scr. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Fox, Paul Hervey.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Remembered Hour, The. Bel. June 2.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Frank, Waldo.</span> (1890- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Bread-Crumbs. Sev. A. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Candles of Romance, The. S. S. Feb.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_562" id="Page_562">[Pg 562]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Rudd. Sev. A. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins-.</span> (1862- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Boomerang, The. Pict. R. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Both Cheeks. S. E. P. Nov. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Cloak Also, The. Harp. M. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Cross Purposes. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. Nov. 25.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Liar, The. Harp. M. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Ring with the Green Stone, The. Harp. M. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Thanksgiving Crossroads. W. H. C. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Freksa, Friedrich.</span> (1882- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Le Châtelet de Madame." N. Y. Trib. Jan. 14.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Fuessle, Newton A.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Legal Mind, The. Mir. Nov. 23.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Fullerton, Hugh Stewart.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bingles and Black Magic. Met. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Old Ambish, The. Am. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Runarounds, The. Col. April 14.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Severe Attack of the Gerties, A. Am. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Taking a Reef in Tadpole. Am. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">World Series—Mex., A. Col. Oct. 13.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Futrelle, (L.) May (Peel). (Mrs. Jacques Futrelle.)</span> (1876- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Late Betsy Baker, The. Ev. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +G<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gale, Annie G.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Out of Tophet. Sun. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gale, Zona.</span> (1874- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Arpeggio Courts. Harp. M. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deal, The. E. W. Jan. 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*When They Knew the Real Each Other. L. H. J. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">*Galsworthy, John.</span> (1867- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Defeat. Scr. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Flotsam and Jetsam. Scr. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Juryman, The. G. H. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gambier, Kenyon.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Huge Black One-Eyed Man, The. S. E. P. June 23-30.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ganoe, William Addleman.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Ruggs—R. O. T. C. Atl. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Garrett, Garet.</span> (1878- .)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_563" id="Page_563">[Pg 563]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gold Token, The. S. E. P. Jan. 6.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gates, Eleanor.</span> (<span class="smcap">Mrs. Frederick Ferdinand Moore.</span>) (1875- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tomboy. S. E. P. Jan. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Waiting Soul, The. Harp. B. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gatlin, Dana.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>) (<i>See also</i> <span class="smcap">Gatlin, Dana</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Hately, Arthur.</span>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Full Measure of Devotion, The. McC. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In a Japanese Garden. McC. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let's See What Happens Next! McC. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lovers and Lovers. Col. March 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Orchids. McC. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rosemary's Great Wish. Am. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Spring Mischief. Met. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where Youth Is Also. Col. March 31.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wild Roses. McC. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gatlin, Dana,</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Hately, Arthur</span>.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Divided We Fall." McC. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gaunt, Mary.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cyclone, The. For. March-April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Geer, Cornelia Throop.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Pearls Before Swine. Atl. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">George, W. L.</span> (1882- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Interlude. Harp. M. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Water. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Dec. 7.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gerould, Katharine Fullerton.</span> (1879- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***East of Eden. Harp. M. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Hand of Jim Fane, The. Harp. M. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Knight's Move, The. Atl. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Wax Doll, The. Scr. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***What They Seem. Harp. M. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gerrish, Josette.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Would-Be Free Lance, The. Met. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gerry, Margarita Spalding.</span> (1870- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Berenice's First Dance. L. H. J. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flag Factory, The. L. H. J. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her Record. Pict. R. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Midwinter-Night's Dream, A. Harp. M. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Gibbon, Perceval.</span> (1879- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Plain German. S. E. P. Sept. 29.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***News, The. Poetry. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Giesy, J. U.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_564" id="Page_564">[Pg 564]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Strategy of Desperation, The. Del. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gifford, Franklin Kent.</span> (1861- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Along Came George. L. H. J. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gill, Austin.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Introducing the Auto to Adder Gulch. Col. Jan. 6.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gillmore, Inez Haynes.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Irwin, Inez Haynes.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Glasgow, Ellen (Anderson Gholson.</span>) (1874- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Dare's Gift. Harp. M. Feb.-March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Glaspell, Susan (Keating.) (Mrs. George Cram Cook.</span>) (1882- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Everything You Want to Plant. E. W. Aug. 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Hearing Ear, The. Harp. M. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Jury of Her Peers, A. E. W. March 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Matter of Gesture, A. McC. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gleason, Arthur Huntington.</span> (1878- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Irishman, The. Cen. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Goetschius, Marie Louise.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Van Saanen, Marie Louise.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Golden, Harry.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">End of the Argument, The. Sun. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Goldman, Raymond Leslie.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Smell of the Sawdust, The. Col. Sept. 15.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gordon, Armistead Churchill.</span> (1855- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***His Father's Flag. Scr. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Pharzy. Scr. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Graeve, Oscar.</span> (1884- ). (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Kamp. McC. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Granich, Irwin.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**God Is Love. Masses. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Grant, Ethel Watts-Mumford.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Mumford, Ethel Watts.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gray, David.</span> (1870- .) (<i>See</i> 1915.)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Felix. S. E. P. Feb. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Way a Man Marries, The. Pict. R. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Greene, Frederick Stuart.</span> (1870- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Bunker Mouse, The. Cen. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***"Molly McGuire, Fourteen." Cen. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Ticket to North Carolina, A. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. April 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**"Vengeance Is Mine!" McC. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Greenman, Frances.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Impossible Angela. L. H. J. June.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_565" id="Page_565">[Pg 565]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Impossible Angela Discovers That a Pretty Girl is Visiting the Jaspers. L. H. J. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Grimes, Katharine Atherton.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Return of Michael Voiret, The. So. Wo. M. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Grunberg, Alfred.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Maizie, the Magazine Eater. Met. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Guild, Alexa.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Farleigh's Farewell. I. S. M. April 15.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Gull, Cyril Arthur Edward Ranger.</span> (<i>See</i> "<span class="smcap">Thorne, Guy.</span>")<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gurlitz, Amy Landon.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Eagle's Nest, The. Ev. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +H<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Haines, Donal Hamilton.</span> (1886- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Heels of Achilles, The. Bel. March 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Old Man Who was Always There, The. Bel. Nov. 17.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hale, Louise Closser.</span> (1872- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Measure of a Man, The. Ev. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Parties of Maygie, The. Del. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Soldier of the Footlights, A. McC. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Hall, Holworthy.</span>" (<span class="smcap">Harold Everett Porter.</span>) (1887- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Between Friends. Ev. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Consolation." Cen. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Diplomat, The. E. W. Jan. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dormie One. Ev. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grim Visage, The. McC. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Iberia. S. E. P. March 31.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"If You Don't Mind My Telling You." Cen. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Last Round, The. Col. May 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Man-Killer, The. S. E. P. March 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mouse-Traps. McC. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not a Chance in a Thousand. E. W. Dec. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Out in the Open Air. Ev. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Persons of Rank. McC. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stingy! S. E. P. May 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Straight from Headquarters. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sunset. S. E. P. Oct. 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Turn About. E. W. Sept. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wild Bill from Texas, Pict. R. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hall, May Emery.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Countess' Reincarnation, The. Del. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hall, Wilbur Jay.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_566" id="Page_566">[Pg 566]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Elijah and the Widow's Cruiser. Col. Jan. 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Matter of Pressure, A. S. E. P. April 14.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Maxim—Caveat Emptor, The. S. E. P. Sept. 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pronounced Cwix-ot-ic. Ev. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Typical Westerner, A. Sun. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hallet, Richard Matthews.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Rainbow Pete. Pict. R. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Halsey, Frederick.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Up—Through the Garden. Am. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Hamilton, Cosmo.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Ladder Leaning on a Cloud, The. Del. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Steady" Hardy's Christmas Present. G. H. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hamilton, Gertrude Brooke.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Bonnie McGlint, Late of Broadway. Pict. R. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hot Coals. E. W. March 26.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Sons of God, The. G. H. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wax Beauty, The. E. W. Dec. 17.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Hannay, Canon James O.</span> (<i>See</i> "<span class="smcap">Birmingham, George A.</span>")<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Harger, Charles Moreau.</span> (1863- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Workman No. 5,484. Outl. Oct. 10.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Harker, L(izzie) Allen.</span> (1863- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Misfit, A. Scr. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Harper, Ralph M.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How the Rector Recovered. Outl. Aug. 8.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Harris, Corra (May White).</span> (<span class="smcap">Mrs. L. H. Harris.</span>) (1869- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her Last Affair. S. E. P. Sept. 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Other Soldiers in France, The. S. E. P. Nov. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Windmills of Love, The. Pict. R. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Harris, Kennett.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Crop Failure in Sullivan, A. S. E. P. April 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jai Alai. Pict. R. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Talismans. S. E. P. May 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Vendetta of Bogue Grenouille, The. S. E. P. July 7.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hartman, Lee Foster.</span> (1879- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Consul at Paraminta, The. E. W. April 2.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Frazee. Harp. M. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Haskell, Elizabeth Louise.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*On Duty. Harp. M. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hately, Arthur.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Gatlin, Dana,</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Hately, Arthur.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hawes, Charles Boardman.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Off Pernambuco. Bel. July 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**On a Spring Tide. Bel. Sept. 29.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_567" id="Page_567">[Pg 567]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Patriots. Bel. June 9.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Thanks to the Cape Cod Finn. B. C. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**"Within That Zone." B. E. T. Feb. 7.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hawkes, Clarence.</span> (1869- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Angela. (<i>R.</i>) C. O. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +*"<span class="smcap">Hay, Ian.</span>" (<span class="smcap">John Hay Beith.</span>) (1876- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Noncombatant, The. S. E. P. March 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Petit Jean. Ev. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hecht, Ben.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Sort of a Story, A. All. Dec. 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Unlovely Sin, The. S. S. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Woman with the Odd Neck, The. B. C. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Heine, Anselma.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Vision, The. Strat. J. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hemenway, Hetty Lawrence.</span> (<span class="smcap">Mrs. Auguste Richard.</span>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Adolescence. Cen. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Four Days. Atl. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hendryx, James B.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*In the Outland. Ev. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Henschen, Sigmund.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Christmas in the Trenches. I. S. M. Dec. 23.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hepburn, Elizabeth Newport.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Elm Tree Ghosts, The. McCall. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hergesheimer, Joseph.</span> (1880- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Asphodel. S. E. P. Aug. 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Epheimer. S. E. P. Feb. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Tol'able David. S. E. P. July 14.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Herrick, Elizabeth.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**After All. Scr. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Canker at the Root, The. Sn. St. Jan. 18.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hersey, Harold.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Dead Book, The. Le Dernier Cri. Feb.-March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Higgins, Aileen Cleveland.</span> (<span class="smcap">Mrs. John Archibald Sinclair.</span>) (1882- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*'Dopters, The. Bel. Sept. 8.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Higgins, John.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Man Who Was Ninety-Nine, The. Mir. Sept. 14.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hillhouse, A. K.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Sheba. Sn. St. Nov. 4.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hinkley, Laura L.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Magic of Dreams, The. W. H. C. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hollingsworth, Ceylon.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_568" id="Page_568">[Pg 568]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Strong Medicine. Col. Dec. 1.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hooper, Samuel Dike.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nemesis, The. Sun. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hopper, James Marie.</span> (1876- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Enter Charity. Col. July 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Last Make-Believe, The. Col. June 9.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Rice, The. Col. June 30.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Weight Above the Eyes. Col. Nov. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Within the Swirl. S. E. P. July 7.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Horne, Margaret Varney Van.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Van Horne, Margaret Varney.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hotchkiss, Chauncey Crafts.</span> (1852- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Taking of Spitzendorf. I. S. M. Nov. 11.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Test, The. I. S. M. Sept. 16.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unexpected, The. I. S. M. Oct. 14.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hough, Emerson.</span> (1857- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Claxton, O. C. Sun. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Housman, Laurence.</span> (1865- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Inside-out. Cen. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Houston, Margaret Belle.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">White Diane, The. Met. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Howe, Edgar Watson.</span> (1854- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Stubborn Woman, The. (<i>R.</i>) C. O. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Howells, William Dean.</span> (1837- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Tale Untold, A. Atl. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Howland, Arthur Hoag.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Governor and the Poet, The. For. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hoyt, Charles A.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Goddess of the Griddle, The. Y. C. Nov. 29.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hubbard, George</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Thompson, Lillian Bennet-.</span> (<i>See also</i> <span class="smcap">Thompson, Lillian Bennet-</span>.)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Coward, The. Sn. St. Nov. 4.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hubbard, Philip E.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">None But the Brave. S. E. P. Jan. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Very Temporary Captain McLean. S. E. P. Feb. 3-10.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hughes, Elizabeth Burgess.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Floods of Valpré. Sn. St. Jan. 18.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hughes, Rupert.</span> (1872- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Oompah Oompah, The. Hear. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hull, Alexander.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**New Generation Shall Rise, A. E. W. Nov. 19.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hull, George Charles.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Breathes There the Man—." Scr. July.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_569" id="Page_569">[Pg 569]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Through the Eyes of Mary Ellen. Scr. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hull, Helen R.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Blight. Touch. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Fire, The. Cen. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Groping. Sev. A. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**"Till Death—." Masses. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Huneker, James Gibbons.</span> (1860- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Modern Montsalvat, A. S. S. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hunt, Edward Eyre.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Flemish Tale, A. Outl. April 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Ghosts. N. Rep. Jan. 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**In the Street of the Spy. Outl. Oct. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Microcosm. Outl. Aug. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Pensioners, The. Outl. Feb. 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Saint Dympna's Miracle. Atl. May. C. O. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**White Island, The. Outl. Jan. 17.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hurst, Fannie.</span> (1889- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Get Ready the Wreaths. Cos. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Golden Fleece. Cos. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Oats for the Woman. Cos. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*On the Heights. Cos. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Sieve of Fulfilment. Cos. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Solitary Reaper. Cos. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Would You? Met. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Wrong Pew, The. S. E. P. Jan. 6.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hutchison, Percy Adams.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Journey's End. Harp. M. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +I<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Irwin, Inez Haynes (Gillmore).</span> (1873- .) (<i>See 1916</i>, and <i>also 1915 under</i> <span class="smcap">Gillmore, Inez Haynes.</span>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When Mother and Father Got Going. L. H. J. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Irwin, Wallace.</span> (1875- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah-Lee-Bung. Del. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All Front and No Back. S. E. P. Oct. 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Echo, The. S. E. P. Jan. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eternal Youth. S. E. P. July 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Hole-in-the-Ground. Col. Oct. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Monkey on a Stick. S. E. P. Dec. 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Old Red Rambler. S. E. P. June 16.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One of Ten Million. McC. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Peaches and Cream. S. E. P. Nov. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Silence. Harp. M. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Starch and Gasolene. Harp. M. Jan.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_570" id="Page_570">[Pg 570]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Wings. Col. April 7.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Irwin, Will(iam Henry).</span> (1873- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Evening in Society, An. S. E. P. April 28.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +J<br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Jacobs, W</span>(<span class="smcap">illiam</span>) W(<span class="smcap">ymark</span>). (1863- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Convert, The. Hear. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Substitute, The. Hear. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Jameson, Elaine Mary.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Return of Sanderson, The. Del. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Jenkins, Nathalie.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Winter's Tale, A. So. Wo. M. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Johnson, Alvin Saunders.</span> (1874- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Lynching in Bass County. N. Rep. Aug. 18.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Place in the Sun, A. N. Rep. Nov. 17.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Johnson, Burges.</span> (1877- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unmelancholy Dane, An. Pict. R. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Johnson, Fanny Kemble.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>) (<span class="smcap">Fanny Kemble Costello.</span>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Idyl of Uncle Paley, The. Harp. M. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Magic Casements. Cen. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*New Lamps for Old. Cen. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*On the Altar of Friendship. Cen. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Strange-Looking Man, The. Pag. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Johnson, Gladys E.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Two-Bit Seats. Am. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Johnston, Calvin.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Playgrounds Dim. S. E. P. Aug. 25.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Johnston, Charles.</span> (1867- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How Liberty Came to Ivan Ivanovitch. Col. Dec. 22.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Johnston, Erle.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Man with Eyes in His Back, The. Cen. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Square Edge and Sound. Cen. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Johnston, Hubert McBean.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Honest Value. Am. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Jones, (E.) Clement.</span> (1890- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Sea-Turn, The. Sev. A. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Jones, Frank Goewey.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Christmas "Bunk," The. L. H. J. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Divided Spoils. McC. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nine Points of the Law. Col. Oct. 13.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_571" id="Page_571">[Pg 571]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Suspense Account, The. E. W. Sept. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wall Street Puzzle, A. S. E. P. May 26.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Warm Dollars. S. E. P. Feb. 17.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Jones, Johnson.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great American Spoof Snake, The. Bel. Nov. 3.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Jones, Thane Miller.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Invaders of Sanctuary. S. E. P. Sept. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">N. Brown. S. E. P. Aug. 18.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Jordan, Elizabeth (Garver).</span> (1867- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mollycoddle, The. E. W. June 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What Everyone Else Knew. L. H. J. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Young Ellsworth's Hat Size. S. E. P. June 16.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Joy, Maurice.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Twenty-Four Hours. S. S. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Julius, Emanuel Haldiman-.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Young Man, You're Raving." Pag. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +K<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kahler, Hugh.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Unforbidden. S. S. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kauffman, Reginald Wright.</span> (1877- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Bounty-Jumper, The. Bel. Feb. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Lonely House, The. S. S. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kelland, Clarence Budington.</span> (1881- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Leak, The. E. W. July 9.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mountain Comes to Scattergood, The. S. E. P. Nov. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Omitted Question, The. E. W. Feb. 19.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Options. S. E. P. March 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Practice Makes Cock-Sure. E. W. Aug. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Saving It For Dad. S. E. P. Jan. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Scattergood Baines-Invader. S. E. P. June 30.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Scattergood Kicks Up the Dust. S. E. P. Oct. 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Speaking of Souls. E. W. Aug. 6.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Keller, Lucy Stone.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hail to the Conqueror. Del. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kelley, Leon.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All Under One Roof. McC. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Four Cylinders and Twelve. McC. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kelly, Kate.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emancipation of Galatea, The. S. E. P. March 3.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kenamore, Clair.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_572" id="Page_572">[Pg 572]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Sonora Nights' Entertainments. Bookman. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kennon, Harry B.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Back from the Border. Mir. May 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Crumbs of Conservation. Mir. Dec. 28.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fifty-Twelve. Mir. Sept. 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Girl Who Talked Out Loud, The. L. H. J. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gold Tooth. Mir. May 18.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Hell's Legacy. Mir. Aug. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mrs. Chichester's Confession. Mir. June 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Poppy Seed. Mir. March 16.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rice and Old Shoes. Mir. Nov. 16.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Scum. Mir. April 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Three Modern Musketeers. Mir. Dec. 14.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kent, Eileen.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Moon Madness. Masses. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kenton, Edna.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Black Flies. Sn. St. Dec. 18.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kenyon, Camilla E. L.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pocketville Bride, The. Sun. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Runaways, The. Sun. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Treasure from the Sea. Sun. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tuesday. Sun. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kerr, Sophie.</span> (1880- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bitterest Pill, The. McC. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Clock That Went Backward, The. W. H. C. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Governor Putty." McC. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">High Explosive. McC. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Marriage By Capture. E. W. May 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Monsieur Rienzi Takes a Hand. Am. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Orchard, The. Col. Dec. 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Over-Reached. McC. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kilbourne, Fannie.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Betty Bell and Love. Wom. W. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bluffer, The. Del. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kilty, Mack.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Taotaomona, The. Bel. Sept. 1.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Kipling, Rudyard.</span> (1865- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Regulus. Met. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kirk, R. G.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Glenmere White Monarch and the Gas-House Pup. S. E. P. March 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Zanoza. S. E. P. Oct. 27.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Klahr, Evelyn Gill.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She of the U. J. L. H. J. Sept.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_573" id="Page_573">[Pg 573]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Souvenirs of Letty Loomis. Harp. M. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kline, Burton.</span> (1877- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Caller in the Night, The. Strat. J. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Point of Collision, The. S. S. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Knight, Leavitt Ashley.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Village Orator, The. Am. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Knight, Reynolds.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Clay. Mid. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kobbé, Gustav.</span> (1857- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Clothes. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Jan. 12.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Korzeniowski, Joseph Conrad.</span> (<i>See</i> "<span class="smcap">Conrad, Joseph.</span>")<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Krysto, Christina.</span> (1887- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Babanchik. Atl. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kummer, Frederic Arnold.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Madman, The. Pict. R. Feb.-March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Kyne, Peter Bernard.</span> (1880- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cappy Ricks Takes On the Kaiser. S. E. P. Sept. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cappy Ricks, Wheat Baron. S. E. P. Feb. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Circumventing Wilhelm. S. E. P. April 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Floating the Dundee Lassie. Col. Feb. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For Revenue Only. S. E. P. June 9.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Over and Back. Col. March 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Saint Patrick's Day in the Morning. S. E. P. May 19.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Salt of the Earth. S. E. P. Feb. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Swanker, The. Sun. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +L<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lait, Jack.</span> (<span class="smcap">Jacquin L.</span>) (1882- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Clause for Santa Claus, A. Milestones. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If a Party Meet a Party. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Jan. 26.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Jersey Lil. Am. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Toilers in the Night. Am. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lane, George C.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Jones of the Iron Grip. Y. C. Dec. 20.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lardner, Ring W.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ball-a-Hole. S. E. P. May 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Facts, The. Met. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Friendly Game, A. S. E. P. May 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hold-Out, The. S. E. P. March 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Three Without, Doubled. S. E. P. Jan. 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tour Y-10. Met. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yellow Kid, The. S. E. P. June 23.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_574" id="Page_574">[Pg 574]</a></span>"<span class="smcap">La Rue, Edgar.</span>" (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Masters, Edgar Lee.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Lawrence, D. H.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***England My England. Met. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Mortal Coil, The. Sev. A. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Thimble, The. Sev. A. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lazar, Maurice.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Boarder, The. Masses. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Habit. Touch. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lea, Fannie Heaslip.</span> (<span class="smcap">Mrs. H. P. Agee.</span>) (1884- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Big Things. McC. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lone Wolf, The. Harp. M. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the Spring Idea. E. W. April 9.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Opened by Censor 1762. Del. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Le Braz, Anatole.</span> (1859- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Christmas Treasure, The. So. Wo. M. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Frame, The. Outl. Feb. 21.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lee, Jennette (Barbour Perry).</span> (1860- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***John Fairchild's Mirror. Cen. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Miss Somebody's Chair. L. H. J. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Three Boats that the Two Men Saw, The. L. H. J. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Two Doctors, The. L. H. J. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Le Gallienne, Richard.</span> (1866- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Bugler of the Immortals, The. Del. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lerner, Mary.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Forsaking All Others. Col. May 26.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Little Selves. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. May 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Sixteen. McCall. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Wages of Virtue. All. Feb. 3.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Lev, Bernard.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Bert, the Scamp. Strat. J. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Marfa's Assumption. Strat. J. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Level, Maurice.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*After the War. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*At the Movies. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 9.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Great Scene, The. B. Her. Dec. 2.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Leverage, Henry.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Last Link, The. Sh. St. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Passage for Archangel, A. Sh. St. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Salt of the Sea. Sh. St. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Levison, Eric.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Cohen, Octavus Roy</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Levison, Eric</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lewars, Elsie Singmaster.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Singmaster, Elsie</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lewis, Addison.</span> (1889- .)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_575" id="Page_575">[Pg 575]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Black Disc, The. Mir. Oct. 26.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Elevator Stops At All Floors." Mir. Dec. 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*End of the Lane, The. Mir. Feb. 2.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*New Silhouette, The. Mir. Nov. 2.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*9:15, The. Mir. Nov. 16.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Rejected, The. Mir. Oct. 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Sign Painter, The. Mir. Oct. 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Spite. Mir. Oct. 19.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***When Did You Write Your Mother Last? Mir. Nov. 9.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lewis, Austin.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Contra Bonos Mores. Masses. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lucky Sweasy! Masses. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lewis, Sinclair.</span> (1885- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Black Snow and Orange Sky. Met. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*For the Zelda Bunch. McC. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hobohemia. S. E. P. April 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Joy-Joy. S. E. P. Oct. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Poinsettia Widow, The. Met. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Scarlet Sign, The. Met. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Snappy Display. Met. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Twenty-Four Hours in June. S. E. P. Feb. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whisperer, The. S. E. P. Aug. 11.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Woman By Candlelight, A. S. E. P. July 28.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Young Man Axelbrod. Cen. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Liddell, Scotland.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Olitchka. (<i>R.</i>) C. O. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lighton, Louis Duryea.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Lighton, William Rheem</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Lighton, Louis Duryea</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lighton, William Rheem.</span> (1866- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(<i>See also</i> <span class="smcap">Lighton, William Rheem</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Lighton, Louis Duryea</span>.)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Billy Fortune and the Hard Proposition. E. W. May 14.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Judge Jerry and the Eternal Feminine. Pict. R. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lighton, William Rheem</span> (1866- .), <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Lighton, Louis Duryea</span>. (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Billy Fortune and That Dead Broke Feeling. Pict. R. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Billy Fortune and the Spice of Life. Pict. R. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Man Without a Character, The. Sun. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lindas, B. F.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Dago, The. Mir. Jan. 19.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Loan, Charles E. Van.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Van Loan, Charles E.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">London, Jack.</span> (1876-1916.) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Grit of Women, The. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. Jan. 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Like Argus of the Ancient Time. Hear. March.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_576" id="Page_576">[Pg 576]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Thousand Deaths, A. (<i>R.</i>) B. C. Jan</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Long, Lily Augusta.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"To Love, Honor, and Obey." Harp. M. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Loon, Hendrik Willem Van.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Van Loon, Hendrik Willem.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">"Lopez, Inez." (Mrs. Octavus Roy Cohen.)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Answer, The. B. E. T. May 5.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lowe, Corinne.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flavius Best, Pinxit. S. E. P. Sept 29-Oct. 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Slicker, The. S. E. P. Nov. 17.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ludwig, Frances A.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Square Pegs in Round Holes. Am. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lund, Adelaide.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pay-Roll Clerk, The. Atl. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lynch, J. Bernard.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Making Good on the Props. Hear. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lynn, Margaret.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Mr. Fannet and the Afterglow. Atl. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +M<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Mabie, Louise Kennedy.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Efficient Mrs. Broderick, The. L. H. J. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">McCasland, Vine.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Spring Rains. Mir. May 25.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">McClure, John.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**King of Sorrows, The. S. S. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">McConnell, Sarah Warder.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Influence, The. Ev. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">McCourt, Edna Wahlert.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*David's Birthright. Sev. A. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">McCoy, William M.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Little Red Decides. Am. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Rough Hands—But Gentle Hearts. Am. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Scum of the Earth. Col. Sept. 8.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Macfarlane, Peter Clark.</span> (1871- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Deacon Falls, The. S. E. P. Nov. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great Are Simple, The. S. E. P. Sept. 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Live and Let Live! S. E. P. Sept. 22.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">MacGowan, Alice.</span> (1858- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Golden Hope, The. E. W. June 4.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">MacGrath, Harold.</span> (1871- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_577" id="Page_577">[Pg 577]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Seas That Mourn, The. Col. Oct. 6.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Machard, Alfred.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Repatriation. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 16.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Machen, Arthur.</span> (1863- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Coming of the Terror, The. Cen. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Mackenzie, Cameron.</span> (1882- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Firm, The. S. E. P. Oct. 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Main-Chance Lady, The. S. E. P. Feb. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thing, The. McC. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">McLaurin, Kate L.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Sleep of the Spinning Top, The." (<i>R.</i>) C. O. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">MacManus, Seumas.</span> (1870- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Fluttering Wisp, The. Del. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Lord Mayor of Buffalo, The. Del. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Mad Man, the Dead Man, and the Devil, The. Pict. R. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">MacNichol, Kenneth.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Long Live Liberty! Col. June 2.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Madeiros e Albuquerque, José de.</span> (1867- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Vengeance of Felix, The. Strat. J. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Madrus, Lucie Delarue-.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Delarue-Madrus, Lucie</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Manning, Marie.</span> (<span class="smcap">Mrs. Herman E. Gasch.</span>) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No Clue. McC. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Seventeen-Year Locusts, The. Pict. R. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Marks, Jeannette.</span> (1875- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Golden Door, The. Bel. April 7.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Marquis, Don (Robert Perry).</span> (1878- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Being a Public Character. Am. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Marriott, Crittenden.</span> (1867- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">God's Messenger. E. W. July 16.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Marsh, George T.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**For the Great Father. Scr. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Out of the Mist. Cen. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Valley of the Windigo, The. Scr. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Marshall, Edison.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Chicago Charlie Lancelot. Am. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Man That Was in Him, The. Am. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Vagabond or Gentleman? Am. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Marshall, Rachael,</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Terrell, Maverick</span>.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Heroizing of Amos Chubby, The. Pict. R. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Martin, Katharine.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_578" id="Page_578">[Pg 578]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Celebrating Father. L. H. J. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Mason, Alfred Edward Woodley.</span> (1865- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Silver Ship, The. Met. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Mason, Grace Sartwell.</span> (1877- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For I'm To Be Queen of the May. E. W. April 30.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Jessie Passes. E. W. Feb. 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Potato Soldier, The. E. W. Nov. 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Summer Wives. Met. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Woman Who Was a Shadow, The. Met. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Masters, Edgar Lee.</span> ("<span class="smcap">Edgar La Rue.</span>") (1868- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Boyhood Friends. Yale. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Widow La Rue. Mir. Jan. 19.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Maxwell, William Babington.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Woman's Portion, The. Ev. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">May, Noble.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mabel Plays the Game. Am. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Meaker, S. D.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Man's Own Wife, A. Scr. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Mellett, Berthe Knatvold.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Kolinsky. Col. March 10.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Merchant, Abby.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Presentiment, The. Harp. M. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Metcalf, Thomas Newell.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Martin's Chickens. Cen. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Meyer, Ernest L.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Non Compos Mentis. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Feb. 16.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Miles, Emma Bell.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Destroying Angel, The. So. Wo. M. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Mille, Pierre.</span> (1864- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*How They Do It. N. Y. Trib. July 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Man Who Was Afraid, The. N. Y. Trib. June 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Soldier Who Conquered Sleep, The. N. Y. Trib. March 11.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Miller, Helen Topping.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From Wimbleton to Wambleton. Del. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Minnigerode, Meade.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Macaroons. S. E. P. Feb. 24.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Minuit, Peter.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Class of 19—, The. Sev. A. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Modern Accident, A. Sev. A. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Mitchell, Mary Esther.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Miss Barcy's Waterloo. Harp. M. Oct.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_579" id="Page_579">[Pg 579]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Smaller Craft, The. Harp. M. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Strike in the Mines, A. Harp. M. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Then Came David." Harp. M. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Mitchell, Ruth Comfort.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Call, The. Mir. March 30. N. Y. Trib. April 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Glory Girl, The. Cen. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Jane Meets an Extremely Civil Engineer. Cen. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jane Puts It Over. Cen. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Let Nothing You Dismay! Mir. Dec. 21.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Montgomery, Lewis A.</span> (<i>See</i> "<span class="smcap">Doyle, Lynn.</span>")<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Moore, Mrs. Frederick Ferdinand.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Gates, Eleanor</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Moore, James Merriam.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*On an Old Army Post. Atl. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Mordaunt, Elinor.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Gold Fish, The. Met. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Morley, Christopher.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Question of Plumage, A. Bel. Jan. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Revenge. B. E. T. Feb. 28.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Rhubarb. Col. Dec. 29.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Moroso, John Antonio.</span> (1874- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Dad. Am. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Light in the Window, The. Wom. W. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Maggie. I. S. M. Oct. 28.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mister Jones. I. S. M. March 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Poor 'Toinette. Del. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Shoes that Danced, The. Met. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Uncle Jules. Del. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Morris, Gouverneur.</span> (1876- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**"Death in Both Pockets." Harp. B. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Doing Her Bit. S. E. P. Sept. 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Honor Thy Father. Harp. B. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mary May and Miss Phyllis. Harp. B. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Senator in Pelham Bay Park, A. Col. Dec. 8.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Morton, Johnson.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Henrietta Intervenes. Harp. M. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Understudy, The. Harp. M. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Muenzer, Kurt.</span> (1879- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Weltfried." N. Y. Trib. Jan. 21.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Muilenburg, Walter J.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***At the End of the Road. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. May 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Thanksgiving Lost and Found. To-day. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Muir, Bliss.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wedding Dress, The. Met. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Muir, Ward.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_580" id="Page_580">[Pg 580]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Unflawed Friendship, The. S. S. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Mumford, Ethel Watts.</span> (<span class="smcap">Mrs. Ethel Watts-Mumford Grant.)</span> (1878- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Bounty. G. H. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Opal Morning, The. McC. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Second Sight of Hepsey McLean, The. Col. July 28.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +N<br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Nadir, A. A.</span>" (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Abdullah, Achmed</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Nafe, Gertrude.</span> (1883- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***One Hundred Dollars. Cen. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Neidig, William Jonathan.</span> (1870- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Camel from Home, The. Harp. M. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gunman, The. S. E. P. March 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Hair of the Dog, The. S. E. P. Dec. 15.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Netto, Coelho.</span> (1864- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Pigeons, The. Strat. J. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Nicholson, Meredith.</span> (1866- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Doubtful Dollars. S. E. P. Jan. 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Heart of Life, The. Scr. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Made in Mazooma. Met. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Norris, Kathleen.</span> (1880- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Children, The. Pict. R. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Norton, Roy.</span> (1869-1917.) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Aunt Seliny. Pict. R. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Fine Old Fool, The. L. H. J. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +O<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">O'Brien, Howard Vincent.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eight Minutes from the Station. L. H. J. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">O'Brien, Seumas.</span> (1880- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Bargain of Bargains, A. I. S. M. Feb. 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Murder? I. S. M. Dec. 9.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">O'Hara, Frank Hurburt.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Green Silk Dress, The. E. W. Jan. 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sham Girl, The. E. W. April 23.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">O'Higgins, Harvey J.</span> (1876- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Benjamin McNeil Murdock. S. E. P. Sept. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**From the Life: Sir Watson Tyler. Cen. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***From the Life: Thomas Wales Warren. Cen. April.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_581" id="Page_581">[Pg 581]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Jane Shore. Cen. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Okunev, J.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Flanking Movement, A. Rus. R. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Oliver, Jennie Harris.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Devil's Whirlpool, The. Del. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Rusty. Del. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">O'Neill, Eugene G.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Tomorrow. Sev. A. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Opotawshu, Joseph K.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Cabalist, The. Pag. April-May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**New-World Idyll. Pag. Oct.-Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Night in the Forest, A. Pag. April-May.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Oppenheim, Edward Phillips.</span> (1866- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bride's Necklace, The. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. Feb. 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Cunning of Harvey Grimm, The. Harp. B. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sad Faced Hermit, The. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. Sept. 30.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unlucky Rehearsal, An. I. S. M. Jan. 7.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">O'Reilly, Edward S.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Dead or Alive. Col. Sept. 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dominant Male, The. Pict. R. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Soothing the Savage Breast. Pict. R. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Two-Cylinder Lochinvar, A. Pict. R. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Osborne, (Samuel) Duffield.</span> (1858- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Dark Places. Art W. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Osborne, William Hamilton.</span> (1873- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Clandestine Career, A. S. E. P. April 14.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Knife, The. Bel. May 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Kotow de Luxe. S. E. P. Nov. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Signor. Sn. St. March 4.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Osbourne, Lloyd.</span> (1868- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Marrying Money. S. E. P. Oct. 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Out of the Mist. S. E. P. Dec. 1.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ostrander, Isabel.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eye for an Eye, An. I. S. M. April 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Followers of the Star. I. S. M. Dec. 23.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ransom, The. I. S. M. April 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Winged Clue, The. I. S. M. May 27.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">O'Sullivan, Vincent.</span> (1872- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Interval, The. B. E. T. Sept. 8.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Oxford, John Barton.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_582" id="Page_582">[Pg 582]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Importance of Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, The. Am. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +P<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pain, Wellesley.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beginner's Luck. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Sept. 7.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Paine, Albert Bigelow.</span> (1861- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Excursion in Memory, An. Harp. M. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Palmer, Helen.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Old Diggums. Bel. Jan. 6.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Palmer, Vance.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Island of the Dead, The. Bel. Oct. 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Love and the Lotus. Sun. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rajah and the Rolling Stone, The. Bel. Dec. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Will to Live, The. Bel. Jan. 13.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pangborn, Georgia Wood.</span> (1872- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Bixby's Bridge. Harp. M. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Twilight Gardener, The. Touch. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pattee, Loueen.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Muted Message, A. Outl. Feb. 14.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pattullo, George.</span> (1879- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Being Nice to Nellie. S. E. P. Jan. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">First Aid to M'sieu Hicks. S. E. P. Oct. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Going After the Inner Meaning. S. E. P. Aug. 11.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Half a Man. S. E. P. Feb. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Little Sunbeam. E. W. June 18.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Never Again! S. E. P. March 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Wrong Road, The. S. E. P. Jan. 6.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Payne, Will.</span> (1865- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Crime at Pribbles, The. S. E. P. Nov. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Natural Oversight, A. S. E. P. Oct. 13.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Peake, Elmore Elliott.</span> (1871- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Foreman of Talulla, The. Del. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">House of Hoblitzell, The. E. W. June 11.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wrath of Elihu, The. E. W. May 7.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pearl, Jeanette D.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pride. Masses. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Peattie, Elia Wilkinson.</span> (1862- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Lion Light, The. Y. C. Nov. 1.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Peck, Ward.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Forty-Niner, The. Sun. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Peeler, Clare P.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jewel Song, The. E. W. July 2.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_583" id="Page_583">[Pg 583]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Prince Enchanted, The. E. W. Jan. 29.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pelley, William Dudley.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Courtin' Calamity. S. E. P. April 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Four-Square Man, The. Am. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jerry Out-o'-My-Way. S. E. P. March 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One-Thing-at-a-Time O'Day. S. E. P. May 19.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Russet and Gold. Am. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*She's "Only a Woman." Am. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Their Mother. Am. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pendexter, Hugh.</span> (1875- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Brand from the Burning, A. I. S. M.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lost and Found. I. S. M. Sept. 2.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pennell, Elizabeth Robins.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Robins, Elizabeth.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Perry, Lawrence.</span> (1875- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***"Certain Rich Man ——, A." Scr. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Diffident Mr. Kyle, The. Harp. M. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Golf Cure, The. Scr. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">King's Cup, The. Met. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sea Call, The. Harp. M. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Pertwee, Roland.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Camouflage. Cen. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Page from a Notebook, A. S. E. P. Dec. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Red and White. Cen. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Third Encounter, The. S. E. P. Jan. 20.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Petrov, Stefan Gavrilovich.</span> (<i>See</i> "<span class="smcap">Skitalets.</span>")<br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Philippe, Charles-Louis.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Meeting, The. Mir. May 11.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Phillpotts, Eden.</span> (1862- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Christmas Day in the Morning. Del. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Key to the Church, The. Del. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Told to Parson. Bel. July 14. Mir. Aug. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Under Messines Ridge. Bel. Sept. 15.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Piper, Edwin Ford.</span> (1871- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Claim-Jumper, The. Mid. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**In a Public Place. Mid. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**In the Canyon. Mid. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Joe Taylor. Mid. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Man With the Key Once More, The. Mid. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Meanwhile. Mid. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Mister Dwiggins. Mid. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Nathan Briggs. Mid. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Ridge Farm, The. Mid. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Well Digger, The. Mid. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Piper, Margaret Rebecca.</span> (1879- .)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_584" id="Page_584">[Pg 584]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Boy's Will, A. Harp. M. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pitt, Chart.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Law of the Abalone, The. B. C. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Porter, Harold Everett.</span> (<i>See</i> "<span class="smcap">Hall, Holworthy.</span>")<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Porter, Laura Spencer.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Boy's Mother, The. Harp. M. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Idealist, The. Harp. M. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Post, Melville Davisson.</span> (1871- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Act of God, An. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. March 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Adopted Daughter, The. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. May 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Devil's Tools, The. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. Dec. 9.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Lord Winton's Adventure. Hear. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pacifist, The. S. E. P. Dec. 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Riddle, The. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. Jan. 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Straw Man, The. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. June 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Wage-Earners, The. S. E. P. Sept. 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Witch of the Lecca, The. Hear. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pottle, Emery.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Breach in the Wall, The. Harp. M. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mistake in the Horoscope, A. Harp. M. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Music Heavenly Maid. Col. Feb. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Portrait, The. Touch. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sophie's Great Moment. McC. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pratt, Lucy.</span> (1874- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">**Sunny Door, The. Pict. R. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Prouty, Olive Higgins.</span> (1882- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***New England War Bride, A. Ev. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pluck. Am. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Price of Catalogues, The. Ev. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unwanted. Am. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Pulver, Mary Brecht.</span> (1883- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Good Fight, The. S. E. P. May 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Inept Lover, The. S. E. P. Dec. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Long Carry, The. S. E. P. Oct. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Man-Hater, The. S. E. P. June 9.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Man Who Was Afraid, The. S. E. P. Feb. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Path of Glory, The. S. E. P. March 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pomegranate Coat, The. S. E. P. Jan. 13.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Putnam, Nina Wilcox.</span> (1888- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Spring Night, A. Ev. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Q<br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur Thomas.</span> (1863- .)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_585" id="Page_585">[Pg 585]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Fire at Rescrugga, The. Bel. March 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**"Not Here, O Apollo!" Bel. May 19.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Pilot Matthey's Christmas. Bel. Dec. 22.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +R<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">R., J.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wrestlers. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Feb. 9.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Raisin, Ovro'om.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Ascetic, The. Pag. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Raphael, John N.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*From Marie-Anne to Anne-Marie. Ev. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Reed, John (S).</span> (1887- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Buccaneer's Grandson, The. Met. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Reely, Mary Katharine.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Doctor Goes North, A. Mid. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Mothers' Day. Mid. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Reese, Lowell Otus.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Constable of Copper Sky, The. S. E. P. March 31.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grandpa Makes Him Sick. S. E. P. Feb. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Kentucky Turns. S. E. P. March 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pariah, The. S. E. P. Aug. 25.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Reighard, J. Gamble.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pedro. Bel. June 23.</span><br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Relonde, Maurice.</span>"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Delightful Legend, A. Sev. A. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Reyher, Ferdinand M.</span> (1891- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Astor Place. S. E. P. April 21.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rice, Margaret.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Harvest Home. Touch. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rich, Bertha A.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Goat Man and Nancy, The. Am. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Richard, Hetty Hemenway.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Hemenway, Hetty Lawrence</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Richards, Raymond.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Chink, The. B. C. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Richardson, Anna Steese.</span> (1865- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not a Cent in the House. McC. June-July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Richardson, Norval.</span> (1877- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Adelaide. Scr. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Miss Fothergill. Scr. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Mrs. Merryweather. Scr. Sept.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_586" id="Page_586">[Pg 586]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Sheila. Scr. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Richmond, Grace S.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Taking It Standing. (<i>R.</i>) C. O. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whistling Mother, The. L. H. J. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Richter, Conrad.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Girl That "Got" Colly, The. L. H. J. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sure Thing, The. S. E. P. Nov. 17.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rideout, Henry Milner.</span> (1877- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Hury Seke. S. E. P. Sept. 22.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Riggs, Kate Douglas Wiggin.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Wiggin, Kate Douglas.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Rinck, C. A.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Song, The. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 7.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rinehart, Mary Roberts.</span> (1876- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bab's Burglar. S. E. P. May 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Down Happy Valley. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. Nov. 25.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">G. A. C., The. S. E. P. June 2.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her Dairy. S. E. P. Feb. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tish Does Her Part. S. E. P. July 28.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Twenty-Two. Met. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rinehart, Robert E.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*And Tezla Laughed. Par. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ritchie, Robert Welles.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blue Bob Comes Home. Col. July 28.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dreadful Fleece, The. Sun. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Light That Burned All Night, The. Sun. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Road to Sundance, The. Col. June 16.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Rods of the Law. Harp. M. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Schoolma'am's Little Lamp, The. L. H. J. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shuttle, The. E. W. Oct. 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Trail from Desolation, The. S. E. P. Sept. 29.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rix, George.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Russet Bag, The. Sun. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Robbins, F. E. C.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Good Listener, A. Y. C. Nov. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Writer of Fiction, A. Y. C. Oct. 4.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Robbins, Royal.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*After Fifty Years. So. Wo. M. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Roberts, Charles George Douglas.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Eagle, The. Cos. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Roberts, Kenneth L.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Good Will and Almond Shells. S. E. P. Dec. 22.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Roberts, Morley.</span> (1857- .)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_587" id="Page_587">[Pg 587]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Man Who Lost His Likeness, The. Met. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Robertson, Edna.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Moon Maid, The. I. S. M. July 22.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Robins, Elizabeth.</span> (<span class="smcap">Mrs. Joseph Pennell.</span>) (1855- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Tortoise-shell Cat, The. Cos. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Robinson, Eloise.</span> (1889- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Bargain in a Baby, A. Harp. M. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Beautiful as the Morning. Harp. M. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Idols and Images. Harp. M. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Infant Tenderness, The. Harp. M. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Roche, Arthur Somers.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Scent of Apple Blossoms, The. S. E. P. Feb. 10.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Roe, Vingie E.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Broken Hilt, The. Col. Aug. 11.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Euphemia Miller. Col. Feb. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Little Boy Makes It Through, The. Sun. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Little Boy of Panther Mountain, The. Sun. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pocket Hunter, The. Sun. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Smoky Face. Col. June 9.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">True-Bred. Col. Nov. 17.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rogers, Howard O.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jenkins' Secret. Sun. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +*"<span class="smcap">Rohmer, Sax.</span>" (<span class="smcap">Arthur Sarsfield Ward.</span>) (1883- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Black Chapel, The. Col. June 2.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">House of Hashish. Col. Feb. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ki-Ming. Col. March 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Shrine of Seven Lamps. Col. April 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Valley of the Just, The. Pict. R. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Zagazig Cryptogram, The. Col. Jan. 6.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rosenblatt, Benjamin.</span> (1880- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Madonna, The. Mid. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Menorah, The. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. July 8.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rothery, Julian.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Idaho Thriller, An. Am. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Legend of 'Frisco Bar, The. Am. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rouse, William Merriam.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Dog Fight, The. Bel. May 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the Name of the Great Jehovah. For. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Light in the Valley, The. Bel. Dec. 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pete the Gump. Bel. Feb. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Strawberry Shortcake. Y. C. July 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Strength of Simeon Niles, The. Mid. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Russell, John.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_588" id="Page_588">[Pg 588]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Doubloon Gold. S. E. P. Jan. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*East of Eastward. Col. Oct. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Fourth Man, The. Col. Jan. 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jetsam. Col. Feb. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Jonah. S. E. P. Sept. 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Lost God, The. Col. Aug. 18.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Meaning—Chase Yourself. Col. March 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Practicing of Christopher, The. Col. Dec. 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Wicks of Macassar, The. Col. Jan. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wise Men, The. Del. Jan.-Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rutledge, Archibald (Hamilton).</span> (1883- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Terrible Brink, The. B. C. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Rutledge, Marice.</span>" (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Van Saanen, Marie Louise.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ryder, Charles T.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Rahim of the Hollow Tree. Bel. Sept. 22.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ryerson, Florence.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Apartment No. 3. E. W. Oct. 1.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +S<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Saanen, Marie Louise van.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Van Saanen, Marie Louise.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Sabin, Edwin L(egrand).</span> (1870- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Best Man. Sun. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*True Blood. Mun. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Saltykov, M. Y. ("N. Schedrin.")</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Hungry Officials and the Accommodating Muzhik, The. (<i>R.</i>) C. O. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +*"<span class="smcap">Sapper.</span>"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Awakening of John Walters, The. Col. Nov. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Point of Detail, A. Col. Aug. 4.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Sawhill, Myra.</span><br /> +Acid Test, The. Am. Feb.<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Sawyer, Ruth. (Mrs. Albert C. Durand.)</span> (1880- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Man Who Wouldn't Die, The. L. H. J. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Wee Lad on the Road to Arden, The. L. H. J. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Saxby, Charles.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Reginald Sydney and the Enemy Spy. Sh. St. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Scapinelli, Count Carl.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Russian Lead. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 11.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Schaick, George Van.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Van Schaick, George.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_589" id="Page_589">[Pg 589]</a></span>*<span class="smcap">"Schedrin, N."</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Saltykov, M. Y.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Schneider, Herman.</span> (1872- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Arthur McQuaid, American. Outl. May 23.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Shaft of Light, A. Outl. Aug. 22.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Schneider, Louis.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Their Piece of Art. B. C. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Scott, Harold H.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Checkmate. Sun. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Scott, Leroy.</span> (1875- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fate of Mary Regan, The. Met. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Golden Doors, The. Met. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Life Pulls the Strings. Met. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mary Goes Alone. Met. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Master of Dreams, The. Met. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Return of Mary Regan, The. Met. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Squire of Dames, The. Met. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Testing of Mary Regan, The. Met. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Scott, Mildred Wilkes.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"In Time." Del. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Scott, Rose Naomi.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Chasm of a Night, The. So. Wo. M. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Sears, Mary.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Expectations. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Aug. 31.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Seefeld, Hans.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"In the Woods Stands a Hillock." N. Y. Trib. Feb. 4.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Shawe, Victor.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Book and the Believers, The. S. E. P. June 2.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Sheldon, Mary Boardman.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Aunts Redundant. Harp. M. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Shepherd, William Gunn.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Bell, The. Bel. Feb. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Scar that Tripled, The. Met. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Shipp, Margaret Busbee.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Kitten in the Market, A. Ev. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Showerman, Grant.</span> (1870- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Country Christmas, A. Cen. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Old Neighbors. Mid. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Summertime. Mid. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Simpson, Horace J.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Epic of Old Cark, The. B. C. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Simpson, John Lowrey.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Holiday in France, A. N. Rep. Oct. 20.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Sinclair, May.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_590" id="Page_590">[Pg 590]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Portrait of My Uncle. Cen. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Singmaster, Elsie.</span> (<span class="smcap">Elsie Singmaster Lewars.</span>) (1879- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Christmas Angel, The. Pict. R. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Eye of Youth, The. B. E. T. Sept. 19.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Flag of Eliphalet, The. B. E. T. May 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*House of Dives, The. Bel. Nov. 10.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Skinner, Constance (Lindsay).</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Label, The. E. W. March 19.</span><br /> +<br /> +*"<span class="smcap">Skitalets.</span>" (<span class="smcap">Stepan Gavrilovich Petrov.</span>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***And the Forest Burned. Rus. R. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Slyke, Lucille Van.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Van Slyke, Lucille.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Smith, Elizabeth C. A.</span> (<i>See</i> "<span class="smcap">Breck, John.</span>")<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Smith, Gordon Arthur.</span> (1886- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***End of the Road, The. Scr. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Friend of the People, A. Pict. R. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Smith, Kate.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Near the Turn of the Road. For. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Sneddon, Robert W.</span> (1880- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Bright Star of Onésime. Sn. St. Oct. 18.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Doll, The. Sn. St. June 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"I Shew You a Mystery." Sn. St. Oct. 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Le Rabouin—Soldier of France. S. E. P. May 12.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***"Mirror! Mirror! Tell Me True!" Bel. Feb. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Mute, The. Bel. Dec. 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Nest for Ninette, A. Par. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Prosperity's Pinch. Par. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Two Who Waited, The. Sau. St. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Sothern, Edward Hugh.</span> (1859- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lost and Found. Scr. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Soutar, Andrew.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Behind the Veil. To-day. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Ingrate, The. I. S. M. June 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My Lady's Kiss. Pict. R. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Step on the Road, The. Pict. R. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Spadoni, Adriana.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Foreladies. Masses. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Spears, Raymond Smiley.</span> (1876- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Levee Holds! The." Col. Nov. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Miller of Fiddler's Run, The. Col. Aug. 11.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Springer, Fleta Campbell.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Campbell, Fleta</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Springer, Norman.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_591" id="Page_591">[Pg 591]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Recruit, A. S. E. P. Nov. 10.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">"Star, Mark."</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Garden of Sleep, The. Pag. April-May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Starrett, William Aiken.</span> (1877- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Marked "Shop." Atl. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Stearns, L. D.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Game, The. So. Wo. M. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Stearns, M. M.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">"Amid, John."</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Steele, Alice Garland.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Homing Bird, The. Wom. W. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Miracle of It, The. L. H. J. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mrs. Deering's Answer. Ev. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Steele, Rufus (Milas).</span> (1877- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Young Man's Game, A. S. E. P. Nov. 3.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Steele, Wilbur Daniel.</span> (1886- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Ching, Ching, Chinaman. Pict. R. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Devil of a Fellow, A. Sev. A. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Down on Their Knees. (<i>R.</i>) I. S. M. Aug. 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Free. Cen. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Half Ghost, The. Harp. M. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Ked's Hand. Harp. M. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Point of Honor, A. Harp. M. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***White Hands. Pict. R. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Woman at Seven Brothers, The, Harp. M. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Steffens, (Joseph) Lincoln.</span> (1866- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Bunk. Ev. Feb.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Great Lost Moment, The. Ev. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Stern, Elizabeth Gertrude.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**On Washington—Lincoln's Birthday. W. H. C. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Stewart, Alpheus.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Medal Winner, The. Mir. Jan. 12.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Stewart, Lucy Shelton.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Wolves of Bixby's Hollow, The. Am. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Stoddard, William Leavitt.</span> (1884- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Disciplined. Ev. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Stoker, Bram. (Abraham Stoker.)</span> ( -1912.)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Dracula's Guest. Sh. St. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Stores, Caryl B.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Teenie an' Aggie Take an Outing. (<i>R.</i>) C. O. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">"Storm, Ethel."</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Burned Hands. Harp. B. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Sullivan, Alan.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_592" id="Page_592">[Pg 592]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Only Time He Smiled, The. E. W. Dec. 31.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Sullivan, Francis William.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Godson of Jeannette Gontreau, The. L. H. J. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Swinton, Lt. Col. Ernest Dunlop. ("Eye-Witness.")</span> (1868- .) (<i>See 1915 under</i> <span class="smcap">"Eye-Witness."</span>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Private Riley. Sh. St. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Synon, Mary.</span> (1881- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Clay-Shattered Doors. Scr. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***End of the Underground, The. G. H. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***None So Blind. Harp. M. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*One of the Old Girls. Harp. B. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Wallaby Track, The. Scr. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +T<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Taber, Elizabeth Stead.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Scar, The. Sev. A. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tarkington, (Newton) Booth.</span> (1869- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Fairy Coronet, The. Met. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Only Child, The. Ev. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Sam's Beau. Cos. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Walter-John. Cos. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tassin, Algernon.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Winter Wheat. G. H. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Taylor, Arthur Russell.</span> ( -1918.)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mr. Smiley. Atl. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Mr. Squem. Atl. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mr. Thornton. Atl. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Taylor, John.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*U. S. Harem Association, Ltd., The. Scr. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Taylor, Mary Imlay.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Aunt Lavender's Meeting Bonnet. Y. C. Feb. 1.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Tchekov, Anton Pavlovitch.</span> (1860-1904.) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Dushitchka. Pag. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Old Age. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Feb. 2.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Trousseau, The. (<i>R.</i>) Touch. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">"Teffie."</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Teacher, The. Outl. Oct. 17.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Terhune, Albert Payson.</span> (1872- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Caritas. S. E. P. Dec. 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Night of the Dub, The. S. E. P. March 31.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_593" id="Page_593">[Pg 593]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Quiet." Pict. R. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Terrell, Maverick.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Marshall, Rachael</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Terrell, Maverick</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Terry, Katherine.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Leaf in the Wind, A. I. S. M. Oct. 14.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tharp, Vesta.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Connie Cuts a Wisdom-Tooth. Scr. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Thayer, Mabel Dunham.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">People and Things. Met. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Thomas, Edward.</span> ("<span class="smcap">Edward Eastaway.</span>") (1878-1917.)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Passing of Pan, The. (<i>R.</i>) Mir. Dec. 14.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Thomas, (Stanley Powers) Rowland.</span> (1879- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mistress. Pear. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Thompson, Lillian Bennet-.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>) (<i>See also</i> <span class="smcap">Hubbard, George</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Thompson, Lillian Bennet-</span>.)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*In Fifteen Minutes. L. St. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Prisoner, The. Sn. St. April 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Together. L. St. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +*"<span class="smcap">Thorne, Guy.</span>" (<span class="smcap">Cyril Arthur Edward Ranger Gull.</span>) (1876- .)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Guilt. I. S. M. Oct. 28.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Thurston, Ernest Temple.</span> (1879- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Over the Hills. Ain. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Thurston, Mabel Nelson.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Answer, The. E. W. July 2.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*771. Am. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ticknor, Caroline.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Skaters, The. Bel. Oct. 20.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tilden, Freeman.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Affections of Lucile, The. E. W. June 11.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Customary Two Weeks, The. S. E. P. Feb. 24-March 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jitney Tactics. E. W. Aug. 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Knowledge of Beans, A. E. W. Oct. 8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not for Ordinary Folks. S. E. P. Oct. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Peggitt Pays the Freight. S. E. P. April 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stannerton & Sons. S. E. P. Sept. 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thrift of Martha, The. S. E. P. July 21.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Titus, Harold.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Lars the Unthinking. Ev. May.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tolman, Albert W.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*After the Flash. Y. C. Jan. 11.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Painting Healthy Hal. Y. C. Sept. 27.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Tolstoi, Count Alexis N.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_594" id="Page_594">[Pg 594]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Under-Seas. Bookman. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Tolstoi, Count Lyof Nikolaevich.</span> (1828-1910.)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Young Tsar, The. Rus. R. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tooker, Lewis Frank.</span> (1855- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Home-Makers, The. Scr. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Immoral Reformation of Billy Lunt, The. Cen. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Torrey, Grace.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Enfranchised. Sun. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Train, Arthur (Cheney).</span> (1875- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Earthquake, The. S. E. P. Dec. 29.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Helenka. S. E. P. Jan. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pillikin. S. E. P. Dec. 1</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Train, Ethel. (Mrs. Arthur Train.)</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With Care; Fragile. S. E. P. May 26.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Trites, William Budd.</span> (1872- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bleecker Street Bleecker, A. McC. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Truitt, Charles.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Omelette Soufflé, The. Ev. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tsanoff, Corrinne</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Radoslav.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Shoulders of Atlas, The. Atl. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tupper, Edith Sessions.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Black Waters. So. Wo. M. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Turnbull, Archibald D.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*François' Journey. Scr. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*When Our Flag Came to Paris. Scr. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Turner, George Kibbe.</span> (1869- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bull on America, A. S. E. P. May 19.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Danger of Safety, The. S. E. P. March 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Little More Capital, A. S. E. P. April 14.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Miracle Peddlers, The. S. E. P. March 31.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Turner, Maude Sperry.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Adabee and Creation. Del. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +U<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Underhill, Ruth Murray.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*New Emilia, The. Del. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Underwood, Sophie Kerr.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Kerr, Sophie.</span>)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Uzzell, Thomas H.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>) (<i>See also</i> <span class="smcap">Uzzell, Thomas H.</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Abdullah, Achmed.</span>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">End of a Ribbon, The. Col. Aug. 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Switchboard to Berlin, A. Col. May 19.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Uzzell, Thomas H.</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Abdullah, Achmed.</span> (1881- .) (<i>See also</i> <span class="smcap">Abdullah, Achmed.</span>)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_595" id="Page_595">[Pg 595]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Diplomacy. Col. Dec. 8.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +V<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Vail, Laurence.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Selysette. For. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Van Campen, Helen (Green).</span> (1883- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Big-Game Hut on Kenai, The. S. E. P. Feb. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Chechako Wife, The. S. E. P. March 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">George Bell's New Teacher. S. E. P. March 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Luck of a Sourdough, The. S. E. P. Jan. 6.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Van Dyke, Catherine.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Chaperoning Mother. L. H. J. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Van Dyke, Henry.</span> (1852- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Remembered Dream, A. Scr. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Vane, Derek.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*As It Happened. I. S. M. Aug. 19.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Van Horne, Margaret Varney.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Curse, The. Mid. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Van Loan, Charles Emmett.</span> (1876- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Animal Stuff. S. E. P. May 5.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fifth Reel, The. S. E. P. Aug. 18.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fog. S. E. P. Feb. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gentlemen, You Can't Go Through! S. E. P. April 28.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Little Poison Ivy. S. E. P. Oct. 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Major, D. O. S., The. S. E. P. Aug. 4.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Man Who Quit, The. S. E. P. Nov. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not in the Script. Col. Sept. 1-8.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ooley-Cow, The. S. E. P. Nov. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Out of His Class. Col. Feb. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Scene Two-Fifty-Two. S. E. P. May 26.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stunt Man, The. S. E. P. April 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thrill Shooter, The. S. E. P. March 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tods. S. E. P. June 16.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Van Loon, Hendrik Willem.</span> (1882- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Logic of Tippoo Na Gai, The. N. Rep. May 12. Mir. June 8.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Van Saanen, Marie Louise. ("Marice Rutledge.")</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Between Trains. Bookman. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Little Blue Flower, The. Touch. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Rat, Le." Touch. Aug.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_596" id="Page_596">[Pg 596]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Soldier, The. Bookman. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Van Schaick, George.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Accounting, The. Sun. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Van Slyke, Lucille Baldwin.</span> (1880- .) (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Regular Sport, The. Col. March 24.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Venable, Edward Carrington.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Preface. Scr. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Six-Feet-Four. Scr. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Vorse, Mary (Marvin) Heaton. (Mary Heaton Vorse O'Brien.)</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Adventure in Respectability, An. Harp. M. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Great God, The. W. H. C. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Pavilion of Saint Merci, The. For. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pride. Harp. M. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +W<br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Wadsley, Olive.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Son of His. Sn. St. March 18.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Walcott, John.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On With the Dance. Col. Sept. 8.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wall, R. N.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ounce of Loyalty, An. Ev. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Usurper, The. S. E. P. June 23.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wallace, Edgar.</span> (1875- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Bones and a Lady. Col. Aug. 25.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Breaking Point, The. Col. Oct. 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Case of Lasky, The. Ev. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Coming of Müller, The. Ev. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eye to Eye. Col. April 7.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Puppies of the Pack. Ev. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Son of Sandi, The. Col. Dec. 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Strafing of Müller, The. Ev. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Tam o' the Scoots. Ev. Nov.-Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Waters of Madness, The. Col. July 7.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Warren, Maude Radford.</span> (1875- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ideals. Harp. M. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sit on a Cushion and Sew a Fine Seam. Del. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Washburn, Beatrice.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Until Six O'Clock. Bel. March 31.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wasson, David A.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Bête Noire, La. Bel. Jan. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Female of the Species, The. (<i>R.</i>) B. C. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wayne, Charles Stokes. ("Horace Hazeltine.")</span> (1858- .)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_597" id="Page_597">[Pg 597]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Delicate Matter, A. S. S. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Webster, Henry Kitchell.</span> (1875- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Accidental, The. Met. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dorothy for the Day. Met. Nov.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Webster, Malcolm B.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Kaiser's Masterpiece, The." Sn. St. March 4.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Weir, F(lorence) Roney.</span> (1861- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cavalry Charge, A. Pict. R. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Welles, Harriet.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Admiral's Birthday, The. Scr. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Anchors Aweigh. Scr. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Holding Mast. Scr. Oct.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wells, Carolyn.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Re-echo Club, The. Harp. M. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wells, Leila Burton.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*"Being Wicked." McC. Aug.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Weston, George.</span> (1880- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Madame Pharaoh's Daughter. S. E. P. Dec. 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Medal of M. Moulin, The. S. E. P. Aug. 25.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Perfect Gentleman, A. S. E. P. June 9.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Putting the Bee in Herbert. S. E. P. April 28.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wharton, Elna Harwood.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great American Game, The. Del. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Laura Intervenes. Del. April.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wheeler, Griswold.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Bread Upon the Waters, The. B. C. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">White, Stewart Edward.</span> (1873- .) (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Case of Mutual Respect, A. S. E. P. Oct. 27.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Edge of the Ripple, The. Harp. M. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Forced Labor. S. E. P. Sept. 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Gunbearer, The. S. E. P. Oct. 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Naming, The. S. E. P. July 21.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Trelawney Learns. S. E. P. Aug. 18.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">True Sportsmen. S. E. P. Sept. 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*White Magic. S. E. P. Aug. 4.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Whiteside, Mary Brent.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pour la Patrie. So. Wo. M. July.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Whitson, Beth Slater.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Beyond the Foot of the Hill. So. Wo. M. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Widdemer, Margaret.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Black Magic. Sev. A. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Fairyland Heart, The. Bel. Aug. 18.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wiggin, Kate Douglas.</span> (<span class="smcap">Kate Douglas Wiggin Riggs.</span>) (1859- .)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_598" id="Page_598">[Pg 598]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Quilt of Happiness, The. L. H. J. Dec.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wilcoxson, Elizabeth Gaines.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mrs. Martin's Daughter-in-Law. E. W. Sept. 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Substitute Courtship, A. Sun. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wiley, Hugh.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Here Froggy, Froggy. Scr. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*King of Two-By-Four, The. Col. Nov. 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mushroom Midas, A. Scr. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the Altar of Hunger. Scr. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Sooey Pig! Col. Sept. 15.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wilkins, Mary E.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins-</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Williams, Ben Ames.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Mate of the Susie Oakes, The. S. E. P. April 14.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Squealer, The. Col. Sept. 1.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Steve Scævola. S. E. P. Nov. 24.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Williams, Frances Foster.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His Mother. Sun. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Willie, Linda Buntyn.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Things We Hope For, The. Am. June.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wilson, John Fleming.</span> (1877- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Highroad, The. E. W. Aug. 20.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pain of Youth, The. E. W. April 23.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Phantom Circuit, The. S. E. P. March 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Plain Jane. E. W. Dec. 10.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sea Power. S. E. P. March 17.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">War for the Succession, The. Col. April 21.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wilson, Margaret Adelaide.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mr. Root. Bel. May 26.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Rain-Maker, The. Scr. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Res Aeternitatis. Bel. Aug. 25.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Winslow, Horatio.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Four on the Beach. Bel. Nov. 24.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Mrs. Beddens's Great Story. Col. Jan. 13.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Woman Sinister, The. Mir. April 13.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Winslow, Thyra Samter.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*End of Anna, The. S. S. Sept.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Pier Glass, The. S. S. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Witwer, H. C.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alex Comes Up Smiling. Am. Dec.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alex the Great. Am. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cup That Queers, The. Am. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cutey and the Beast. Am. May.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lend Me Your Ears. S. E. P. March 3.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Maiden's Prayer, The. Am. Jan.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_599" id="Page_599">[Pg 599]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pearls Before Klein. Am. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pleasure Island. McC. Jan.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Robinson's Trousseau. Am. March.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unhappy Medium, The. McC. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Warriors All. S. E. P. July 14.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Your Girl and Mine. Am. Sept.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Wodehouse, Pelham Grenville.</span> (1881- .) (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Jeeves and the Hard-Boiled Egg. S. E. P. March 3.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wolff, William Almon.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Efficient One, The. E. W. Jan. 15.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">*False Colors. Col. Dec. 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">High Cost of Peggy, The. Ev. April.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Luck. E. W. Aug. 6.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Man Who Found His Country, The. Ev. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Play for Miss Dane, A. Ev. Nov.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Prince's Tale, The. Del. June.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Slackers, The. Ev. Aug.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unknown Goddess, The. Am. March.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wonderly, W. Carey.</span> (<i>See 1915 and 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Johnny Marsh and His Meal Ticket. I. S. M. Jan. 21.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wood, Jr., Leonard.</span> (<i>See 1915.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">*Until To-morrow. Scr. Jan.</span><br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Wray, Roger.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Episode, An. Cen. Feb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Wyatt, Phyllis.</span> (<i>See</i> <span class="smcap">Brown, Phyllis Wyatt</span>.)<br /> +<br /> +*<span class="smcap">Wylie, I. A. R.</span> (<i>See 1916.</i>)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">**Candles for St. Nicholas. Col. Dec. 22.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Holy Fire. G. H. Oct.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***'Melia No-Good. G. H. July.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">***Return, The. G. H. Aug.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The order in which the stories in this volume are printed +is not intended as an indication of their comparative excellence; the +arrangement is alphabetical by authors.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Pictorial Review Company. +Copyright, 1918, by Edwina Stanton Babcock.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Century Company. Copyright, 1918, +by Thomas Beer.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Copyright, +1918, by Maxwell Struthers Burt.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Pictorial Review Company. +Copyright, 1918, by Francis Buzzell.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Curtis Publishing Company. +Copyright, 1918, by Irvin S. Cobb.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by Harper and Brothers. Copyright, 1918, +by Charles Caldwell Dobie.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Century Company. Copyright, 1918, +by H. G. Dwight.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Metropolitan Magazine Company. +Copyright, 1918, by Edna Ferber.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Atlantic Monthly Company. +Copyright, 1918, by Katharine Fullerton Gerould.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Crowell Publishing Company. +Copyright, 1918, by Susan Glaspell Cook.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Century Company. Copyright, 1918, +by Frederick Stuart Greene.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Pictorial Review Company. +Copyright, 1918, by Richard Matthews Hallet.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The International Magazine Company. +Copyright 1918, by Fannie Hurst.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Pagan Publishing Company. +Copyright, 1918, by Fanny Kemble Johnson.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Stratford Journal. Copyright, +1918, by Burton Kline.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> Copyright 1917, by The Boston Transcript Co. Copyright, +1918, by Vincent O' Sullivan.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Copyright, +1918, by Lawrence Perry.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> Copyright 1917, by The Curtis Publishing Company. +Copyright 1918, by Mary Brecht Pulver.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> Copyright, 1917, by The Pictorial Review Company. +Copyright, 1918, by Wilbur Daniel Steele.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> Copyright 1917, by Harper and Brothers. Copyright 1918, by +Mary Synon.</p></div> +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Best Short Stories of 1917, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1917 *** + +***** This file should be named 20872-h.htm or 20872-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/8/7/20872/ + +Produced by Suzanne Lybarger, Chuck Greif and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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